Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (27 page)

We’re back to
glorious weather the next morning, though the Cornish fields are still sodden
from last night’s rain, the air fresh and damp. It’s Monday morning and I’m
going back into work, even though my head is still screwed up over what Connor
told me. There’s been no news about Jenny, and it’s hard to enjoy this beautiful
morning and not wonder if she is still breathing. It feels like my fault she
has disappeared, and guilt is making it hard for me to focus on work.

 
I’m standing beside my scooter, keys in
hand, when another police car arrives.

It’s a few minutes after eight o’clock.

PC Helen Flynn, who’s on bodyguard duty today
and was already waiting in her car, ready to follow me to work, climbs out and
stares in surprise at the approaching car.

‘It’s Detective Inspector Powell,’ she says. ‘And
that’s DS Carrick with him. I did hear something on my radio earlier, but … ’
She tails off as the inspector gets out of the car, perhaps deciding it is
better to let Powell do the explaining.

But what is he here to explain?

I turn, leaning against the car, half expecting
to be hit by the worst news imaginable. That Jenny has been found and is dead. But
DI Powell is smiling.

‘On your way to the school, Eleanor? I hope PC Flynn
was planning to accompany you.’

‘Of course, sir,’ she says, standing to
attention beside her vehicle, hands clasped behind her back.

‘Well, I don’t think that will be necessary.’
DI Powell pushes his hands into his trouser pockets, pleased with himself. ‘You’ll
be glad to hear we’ve got him.’

I stare. ‘Got him? You’ve caught the killer?’

‘We picked him up yesterday for questioning,
kept him overnight, and charged him first thing this morning.’ The inspector
glances at his watch. ‘Nearly two hours ago, actually, after he confessed.’

‘To what?’

‘To double murder.’ The inspector has an air of
grim satisfaction. ‘He’s confessed to the murders of both Sarah McGellan and
Dawn Trevian.’

My hands clench into fists. It’s hard to keep
my voice level. ‘Is it Tris Taylor?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss his identity. That’s
a police matter.’

‘This affects me. I’ve got a right to know.’

‘It’ll be made public soon enough,’ he says
soothingly. ‘Meanwhile, you’re safe, Eleanor. Think about that. The murderer is
in custody.’

‘Please,
Inspector.’

He
sighs, then shakes his head. ‘Strictly between the two of us, it’s
not
your friend Tristan.’

I
feel myself sag with relief. It’s not Tris. Not Tris.

‘Is
it the vicar, then?’

‘The vicar?’ Now it’s his turn to stare. ‘You
mean, Reverend Clemo?’

‘I’ve suspected him all along. He was there on
the anniversary of my mum’s death, the morning I found the first body in the
woods. I could swear he’s been watching the cottage too, creeping around at
night. Hannah even heard noises in the walls once; I think he’s got some way of
getting into the house unseen.’ I press on urgently, though DI Powell is
shaking his head. ‘Inspector, he knew my mother back in school. Knew her well.
Even went to my parents’ wedding, he admitted it himself. And he’s been acting
so suspiciously – ’

‘It’s not him.’

‘But the way he looks at me, he seems so angry
about something. And I saw a police car parked outside the vicarage a while
ago. So I thought maybe – ’

His brow clears. ‘I see what this is about. Reverend
Clemo’s mother-in-law has come to live at the vicarage with him and his wife.
Unfortunately the old lady has Alzheimer’s. Apparently she’s been getting very
upset about all the disturbances in the village, becoming confused and believing
the police are there to arrest her. I don’t think it would be indiscreet to say
there was an incident recently where she went missing for hours. Some officers
came out to search the village and woods for her. So I imagine the vicar isn’t
feeling too happy with you at the moment.’ He pauses a beat, watching me. ‘Not
your fault, of course. But perhaps he associates you with his mother-in-law
becoming upset and difficult to manage, which is why he’s been less than
friendly.’

I’m shocked to find that I’ve been basing my
conclusions on a totally false premise. So much for having an analytical mind. ‘I
didn’t know.’

‘How could you?’

‘But I still want to know who you’ve arrested,’
I insist.

Powell hesitates, looking from me to PC Flynn.
Then he makes a small, fatalistic gesture. ‘The man’s confessed and we’ve formally
charged him. It looks pretty watertight. I expect we’ll be making a formal
announcement to the press soon, so it can’t do any harm to tell you first.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The man we’ve arrested is Richard Laney.’

I stare, too stunned to react.

‘Dick Laney? From the Woods Valley Garden
Centre? I don’t believe it.’

‘Trust
me, he’s our man. We have his confession. Once he realised we had strong forensic
evidence, Laney crumbled. Told us everything.’

‘The sacking used to wrap the body in the cemetery,’
I say, thinking rapidly. I remember helping Dick with his delivery up at Hill
Farm. ‘Is that the forensic evidence? You mean it came from his garden centre?
But of course it would have his fingerprints on it. He and Jago deliver those
sacks all over north and mid-Cornwall.’

The inspector looks at me, frowning, and does
not comment.

 
‘What about Jenny?’ I ask. ‘Did Dick
Laney tell you where to find her? Has he hurt her? Is she safe?’

‘Unfortunately, Miss Crofter’s disappearance is
still unresolved,’ Powell admits.

DS Carrick, who has been leaning against the
police car, listening to us, now straightens up. ‘So far, Mr Laney is denying
any involvement in Jenny Crofter’s disappearance. But there is a possibility
that her case isn’t connected to these killings, so we’re pursuing that at the
moment.’

‘In other words, you don’t have a clue where
she is?’

Carrick glares at me. ‘One step at a time. That’s
how the police have to move. Mistakes get made when people try to rush things.
And this has been a good result for us.’

‘Why
would Dick Laney do it though? Kill those women and taunt me with their bodies?’

‘We’re not certain yet,’ Powell admits. ‘He may
have been harbouring some kind of grievance against you and your family. In
particular, there was an old photograph – ’

‘From when he was at school with my mum,’ I say
abruptly. ‘Dick Laney had a crush on her once, when they were teenagers. But I
don’t think she was ever interested in him.’

Powell looks at me sharply. ‘You knew about
this but didn’t tell us?’

‘I didn’t think it was important.’

‘Everything is important in a murder enquiry,
Eleanor. If there’s anything else you can tell us, anything that might
illuminate Mr Laney’s motives, let’s hear it now. ’

‘I saw an old photo on the wall in his office.
That’s it.’

Powell
nods. ‘Okay, leave it with us.’ He nods to PC Flynn. ‘You had better go back to
the station, constable. Miss Blackwood no longer needs round-the-clock
protection.’

‘Yes,
sir,’ Helen Flynn says, smiling, unable to disguise her relief, and climbs back
into her car.

‘You
will keep looking for Jenny Crofter though,’ I say as the two detectives turn
back to their car, ‘won’t you?’

‘Of
course,’ DI Powell agrees smoothly, opening his car door. ‘She’s our number one
priority.’

I
don’t think he grasps the irony of what he’s just said.

Down by the water,
the sandy, half-moon bay at Widemouth dazzles us with afternoon sunshine, the
beach busier than it looked from the car park. The narrow stretch of water
between the yellow and red-striped flags – the area deemed safe by the
lifeguards for swimming and body-boarding – is thronging with
body-boarders, come, like me, straight from a day job in search of big rollers.
Despite the sunshine, even the innocent-looking shallows will be freezing after
the recent rain. But I’ve been coming here since I was a small child, and I
know the sea in summer only feels icy for the first few minutes. After that the
body adjusts. Besides, a properly-fitted wet suit protects surfers from the
worst of it.

‘Here,
can you zip me up?’ I ask Hannah, and she puts her car keys between her teeth,
then zips up my wetsuit while I hold my hair up out of the way.

‘You’ve
lost weight,’ she comments, eyeing me disapprovingly.

‘I’ll
gain it back.’

Hannah
faces away from me. ‘My turn.’

I
fasten her wetsuit at the back, fixing the Velcro strip across the top of the
zip.

‘Done.’

As always, we head straight for the surfing
zone marked by black and white flags to one side of the main sweep of the bay. The
surf board feels long and awkward under my arm, but that’s only because it’s
been months since I last went surfing. Muscle memory will kick in soon, and
I’ll feel at home here again. I look to our left, the wind whipping at my hair.
There’s a line of jagged rocks there, exposed by the receding tide and jutting
out of the sand, where we used to go netting for crabs and sea anemones when we
were younger. Me and Hannah and Tris and Connor, with our dads looking on. That
seems an awfully long time ago now, we have all changed so much since those
days.

Guilt
nags at me. ‘You don’t think this is disrespectful? Coming out to the beach, going
surfing while Jenny is still missing?’

‘You
came here to speak to Denzil too though, didn’t you?’

‘True.’

‘So
this isn’t just for leisure. Well, it is for me. But you need to learn to relax,
Ellie, enjoy the moment.’ Hannah looks at me sternly. ‘You’re always taking
responsibility for things that go wrong, even when it’s nothing to do with you.
It doesn’t always have to be your fault, you know.’

Perhaps
I do often think it’s my fault when things don’t go to plan. But where Jenny’s
concerned, I’m probably justified in thinking her continuing disappearance is
down to me.

I
was in work today, and there were worried looks and questions from staff and
students alike. She’s a popular teacher and her absence is deeply felt.
Where’s Miss Crofter? What’s happened to
her? When will she come back?
As if I magically know the answers to such
questions. As though I’m the one who’s to blame, the one who’s spirited her
away from them.

‘I
just hope Denzil can help,’ I mutter.

There’s a surf school in training on the sand: new
surfers lying face-down on their boards on dry land, pretending to paddle with
their arms. The surf instructor is a fit-looking young man with fair hair flopping
into his eyes as he demonstrates the correct arm movement for the newbies. His
wetsuit is folded down to his waist and his bare chest is smooth and tanned.

He
looks up and grins as we pass. ‘Hey, Hannah, how are you?’

She
squints at him, unsure for a moment without her glasses, then smiles. ‘I’m
good, Alex,’ she says warmly, as though she knows him well. She glances at his
students. ‘Surf school still keeping you busy, I see.’

‘Damn
newbies,’ he agrees, and they both laugh.

I
look at her sideways as we reach the water. ‘Okay, who was that?’

‘Oh,
just Alex. We learned to surf together when we were kids. Now he teaches surf.
We still hook up now and then for a drink.’

‘Only
a drink?’ I glance back over my shoulder at Alex. ‘He looks very … athletic.’

‘You
have a filthy mind, Miss Blackwood,’ she says, but laughs. ‘Don’t judge me by
your own standards.’

I
laugh too, but only mechanically. I’m sure Hannah means nothing by it, but it’s
obvious she was thinking about Tris spending the night when she said that.

A
sliver of fear works its way under my skin, despite the sunshine and the
pleasure of being in the open air like this. I haven’t spoken to Tris since
that night, and his silence is beginning to worry me. He must know about Dick
Laney’s arrest. Why hasn’t he been in touch?

Perhaps
Connor is putting pressure on him to stay away from me. A two-pronged approach
to keep us apart. It would not surprise me. But if Tris genuinely wants to see
me again, even to come over for the night, I have no intention of saying no. I’m
sorry for Connor, he’s a good friend and I know he only wants to protect his
brother. But I don’t believe Tris is as ‘damaged’ as Connor seems to think. Or
if he is, I have yet to see how and why.

Because
his mother walked out on them when Tris was still very young, perhaps.

I
guess that would mess up most people’s heads, to know their mum loved them so
little she chose to leave them behind after a family split. But Tristan has always
struck me as someone who copes with the blows, and keeps going.