Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (24 page)

‘I stopped at the vicarage to tell Reverend
Clemo. I thought he should know there’s a body up here. Only he wasn’t at home.
His wife’s not sure where he is, she’s trying to reach him on his mobile.’ Tris
looks from me to the inspector. ‘Why, has something else happened?’

I draw breath to tell him about the face in the
trees, then stop and realise I can’t tell him. Not this.

I don’t trust him enough. Not anymore.

The realization is terrifying.

I try to figure out the maths behind my
suspicion. Tris probably had just enough time to tell that young policeman
where I was, then double back along the road, climb over the low wall beside
the gate and slip into the field that way. It would have taken him only a few
minutes to sneak round behind the hedgerow and watch me at the graveside. Though
why would he do that? There’s something I’m not seeing. Something important.

The
sun disappears behind a cloud. I shiver again, though the breeze is not that cold.
I hear the sound of a car coming briskly up the hill from the church. My ride
home, probably.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

The smell of baking
assails us as we enter the cottage. Hannah has not left for work yet. She is bustling
about the kitchen in a cherry-red apron covered in flour when we walk in, her
hands powdery, a white smudge on her cheek. She stares in blank disbelief when Tris
explains what’s happened.

‘Another one? In the
cemetery
?’

I gaze out of the kitchen window while Tris
tries to explain. The lovely sunshine has vanished and the sky is cloudy now, glowering
down at us. It feels like it’s going to pour with rain at any minute. There’s a
kind of prickling sixth sense you get about weather when you grow up so near
the moor, where the weather can shift abruptly between rain and sunshine,
sometimes managing both at the same time.

‘What
exactly are you making here, Hannah?’ I turn to look at the floury mess on the
kitchen table.

‘Rock
cakes.’

‘They
smell nice,’ I tell her, glancing at the butter-smeared recipe book propped up
against the scales.

‘Hands off. They’re for the vicarage garden
party.’

I’m surprised, and stare at her. ‘I didn’t know
you were involved with that.’

Hannah
shrugs. There are specks of flour even on the lenses of her glasses, I realise.
It must be like seeing the world through a snow storm. ‘Mrs Clemo came round
the other day. It’s for a good cause. The shelter in town for battered women
may have to close. Spending cuts, you know.’ She wipes her floury hands on a
dishcloth. ‘They asked for donations of cakes, but I can’t bake anything worth
eating except for rock cakes. So I promised them two dozen.’

I
see Tris out of the corner of my eye, waiting silently by the door, his
impatience palpable. ‘So, you’re working tonight?’ I ask Hannah, keeping my
tone innocent.

‘On
my way out as soon as these little beauties in the oven are done. It’s my
second batch,’ she explains, and whisks a cloth off a baking tray to exhibit a
dozen perfect-looking rock cakes.

‘They
look amazing,’ I say truthfully.

Hannah
smiles, then gazes from me to Tris. At last the penny drops. I see a faint
flush come into her cheeks. ‘It won’t be long now,’ she says, checking the wall
clock in some confusion. ‘Ten minutes max. Then I’ll be out of your way.’

‘No
hurry,’ I say lightly, and nod Tris to follow me out of the kitchen. ‘Have a
good shift, Hannah. See you in the morning.’

My black leather shoes are pinching. I kick
them off in the hall and scoop up the phone handset in passing, just in case I
get a call on the landline later from DI Powell. I don’t fancy the idea of having
to stop and run downstairs for the phone when I might be more interestingly occupied.

Tris
crooks an eyebrow as we tramp upstairs. ‘
Rock
cakes?’ he says under his breath. ‘They don’t sound very promising.’

‘Don’t be rude. Can you bake a cake?’

‘I’ve
never tried,’ he admits.

‘Well,
then.’

‘I
can make a loaf of bread though.’

I
glance at him, impressed. ‘White bread?’

‘Wholemeal.’

‘Better
and better.’ I kick open my bedroom door. He’s been in there before, of course,
many times. But not recently. And not when we’re both in a horny mood. ‘Tired?’

‘No.’

‘Me
neither.’

The
bed is a mess. Nothing on the scale of his bedroom, though. ‘Sorry, hang on.’ I
throw my phone charger to one side, chuck my black and white-striped tracksuit
bottoms into the wardrobe, and shake out the duvet.

There’s a sudden rushing noise outside, like a
heavy vehicle passing. But it’s not traffic, it’s rain. Sudden, heavy,
thunderous rain.

I
straighten, listening.

Tris is standing by the window. Right where the
shadow man stands in my nightmares. I stay beside the bed and look at him for a
moment in silence, studying his profile. The sky behind him is almost black. To
the far right I can see the edge of the lane that leads to the village, and
beyond it the dark swelling crests of trees across the valley. The beginnings
of the woods.

I’ve always thought of the woods as a separate world,
a secret territory hidden away from the bustle of village life, the passing
tractors, the cyclists stopping to admire the church tower, the neighbours
mowing their lawns in summer or chatting over fences. The woods are a place
where dark things happen, where I’m never quite safe. Though I’ve challenged
that fantasy a thousand times, running along the woodland paths unaccompanied,
refusing to let the past devour me.

But today, when I saw that dead body lying across
my mother’s grave, I knew the two worlds had finally collided. The world of the
village and the world of the woods had smashed into each other at that instant with
a terrible, silent explosion. It was as though the underworld had opened its
dark gates, and someone had carried the dead woman through them and straight up
into the land of the living.

For me to find.

‘Eleanor?’

I don’t realise he’s moved until Tris reaches
out and strokes my cheek with a finger, breaking the spell of the underworld. The
caress is so unexpected, I almost flinch and catch myself just in time.

‘You still think I’ve got something to do with
these murders,’ he says broodingly, ‘don’t you?’

Silently, I shake my head. But we’ve been
friends a long time and he can read me better than that.

‘I
hate that you suspect me.’

‘Sorry,’
I whisper.

His
gaze searches my face. ‘No, you’re not. It gives you a perfect excuse to keep
me at arms’ length.’

‘Is
that what I’m doing?’

Deliberately,
I reach out and place a hand on his chest.

Tris catches his breath. I feel his chest rise
with the sudden influx of air into his lungs. His eyes widen, the dark pupils
dilating. The classic sign of sexual desire. Then he leans forward and I close
my eyes instinctively, not quite believing he intends to kiss me, and am shocked
when our lips meet.

It’s not like that time when he kissed me in
the club at Newquay. That was an abrupt, unhappy, three-second embrace, a rejection
of tenderness. This is a slow, tentative exploration for both of us, and I
sense he’s ready to draw back if I show even the slightest hesitation. But I
don’t. The gentle pressure deepens until we’re kissing open-mouthed, his tongue
sliding against mine.

I know he is strong. This is a man who works
out by lifting sheep over his shoulders and carrying them across three fields. His
body is built for strength and stamina, with his broad chest and muscular
thighs, the effortless power of his biceps. But I had not realized until this
moment how graceful Tristan is.

Midway
through the kiss he slips an arm about my waist, as though to draw me closer,
but instead wrong-foots me, supporting my weight over the crook of his arm, and
lowers me to the bed.

I
wrestle with his shirt buttons, and he focuses on mine, a look of fierce
concentration on his face. Then his bare chest is under my fingers, strong and
dark-haired. I stroke him, and then gasp when he drags my shirt off my
shoulders, reaches round the back to unclasp my bra and release my breasts, and
lowers his head to my nipple.

‘Yes,’
I say hoarsely.

I
arch my back, enjoying his ministrations, then decide to take the initiative.
In one smooth movement, I roll over to straddle him. I hug his hips tight with
both knees, smiling as I keep him pinned down and bend to taste his nipples
too, just as he tasted mine. He makes an incoherent sound in the back of his
throat.

‘What?’
I tease him, flicking his nipple with my tongue. God, he tastes good. ‘You like
this? You want more?’

He
bites his lower lip. I see a bead of blood there. ‘Lower,’ he says, daring me
to take it further.

The
hint of danger excites me. He could be a killer. And I’m about to have sex with
him. I’m not scared though. Adrenalin has already kicked in, pumping heat and
energy around my body like a shot of neat Russian vodka. Plus, there’s this
odd, familiarity-versus-alien territory thing going on with us. I know this man
so well, his face, his hands, his laugh, his quick, sharp breaths as I kiss his
throat. But I don’t know him at all really, because he is also this secret
Tris, the man I don’t know about, the one who keeps stolen photographs of me in
his room …

He
jerks me across him, trying to get back on top, and I retaliate at once,
flexing my muscles to resist him. We wrestle for a moment, sweaty and
breathless, then end up on the floor with a thud, face-to-face, our legs
tangled together, our arms about each other.

‘Ouch,’
he says, grimacing.

‘Sorry.
But I prefer being on top.’

‘So
do I.’

‘Looks
like we have a problem, then.’

‘Not
necessarily.’ He kisses my throat. ‘We’ll just keep changing ends. Like a
tennis match.’

I
laugh.

‘Come
here,’ he says breathlessly, and tugs me towards him. ‘I need to fuck you.’

‘Ditto.’
I take his mouth, my kiss deep and urgent. He groans, and his hands find my
skirt, drag it up, reach beneath, stroking me.

My
head feels like it is going to explode. ‘Baby, yes.’

It
takes us a few frustrating moments to get his trousers unzipped and off his
body; he has to help me, kicking his trousers away with growing impatience. To
my excitement, he is extremely well-equipped, though this is not surprising,
given his powerful build. Oh God, I keep thinking, touching him with my mouth
open. Oh God, oh God.

‘Condom,’
he mutters.

‘Don’t
you have one?’

He
stares at me. ‘At a memorial service?’

I
shift onto hands and knees, and turn, scrabbling in the top drawer of my
bedside cabinet. To my relief, the packet is still there, pushed right to the
back. I haven’t exactly been enjoying a great sex life since university.

‘Here.’

Tris
sits on the edge of the unmade bed, flushed and intent. I peel off my black skirt
and thong, then kneel beside him. We kiss frantically, collapsing against the
pillows. I’m half out of my mind with need before he’s inside me.

The
rain keeps falling hard, a dark curtain beating against my window in grim counterpoint
to our rhythm. I think about Sarah McGellan’s memorial service, the wreaths and
lilies below her photograph, how the proximity of death seems to make us crave
sex more keenly.

I
clutch at his broad shoulders, wrap my legs greedily about his hips, pressing
down on his buttocks, dragging him closer. The bed creaks noisily, shifting
back and forth on the old floorboards, and I find myself hoping that Hannah has
left for work by now, that she’s not staring wide-eyed at the kitchen ceiling.

Then
he kisses me, his naked body large and strong, thrusting hard against me, and I
lose all coherent thought.

We make love twice
more over the next few hours, hungry to taste more of each other’s flesh, and
are lying together sated and exhausted in the semi-darkness of a late dusk when
the landline handset rings. Its screen lights up, illuminating the room with an
eerie green light, as it buzzes on top of the bedside cabinet.

Not
quite awake, I stretch an arm out of bed to retrieve the phone, and then grope
for the right button to answer the call.

‘Hello?’

It’s
DI Powell. He sounds urgent. ‘Eleanor? I’ve been trying to reach your mobile
for ages. I’ve left messages …’

Tris
is lying next to me in bed, listening. I see the gleam of his eyes in the dark.
‘What?’ I sit up against the pillows, frowning. It takes a few seconds for the
inspector’s words to sink in. ‘My mobile’s still in my bag downstairs. I’m in
my bedroom, I didn’t hear it ringing. Is this about the witness statement?’

‘Sorry,
were you sleeping? Did I wake you? Look, we can take your statement tomorrow,
Eleanor. That’s not important right now. I just wanted to make sure you were safe
at home and everything was okay.’

There’s
something in his tone. Like he’s withholding information.

‘Why?
What’s happened?’

‘Nothing
you can help us with. You get a good night’s sleep, okay? I’m going to send
over an officer to sit outside your cottage overnight, if that’s agreeable.’

‘It’s
fine,’ I say, though I am immediately uneasy about the idea of being watched in
my own home. ‘What about the woman in the cemetery? Do we know who she is yet?’
I try not to think of her as victim Number Three, though the number on her
forehead is hard to forget.

‘We’ve
spoken to her next of kin, so I suppose I can tell you her name. It turns out
she was on our list of missing persons. From Bodmin, so quite local. Dawn
Trevian.’ He pauses. ‘Does that name ring a bell?’

‘Sorry,
no.’

He
sounds disappointed. ‘Well, it was worth asking. I’ll send that police car
round straightaway.’

‘I
thought you said it would be a last resort, sending an officer to watch the
house.’

The
inspector hesitates, and I hear hesitation in his voice again. ‘We may be getting
there, I’m afraid. This new missing person report … It’s not looking good. Another
local woman. Though I don’t want you to worry about it. In most cases of
missing persons, there’s a perfectly simple explanation. She’ll probably turn
up tomorrow and be embarrassed about all the fuss.’

Some
sixth sense prickles at me. I stare into the glimmering darkness uneasily. I
remember being surprised not to see Jenny at the memorial service, though her
parents were there and she had told me herself that she would make the effort.

Beside
me, Tris struggles up onto one elbow. He leans across me to check the LED
display on my digital clock. I glance that way too, automatically. It’s just
after ten o’clock. His hand brushes my breast, and I meet his gaze.

‘Is
it Jenny Crofter?’ I ask.

DI
Powell does not bother to deny it. ‘How did you know?’

‘A
hunch.’

‘Another
one of your hunches.’ He sighs, sounding deflated. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, it’s
Jenny Crofter
. She went out early yesterday
evening but didn’t come home again, and didn’t call to explain why. Which is
highly unusual behaviour, according to her parents.’

I
remember what Jenny told me about her girlfriend, that they rarely get a chance
to be together. ‘Maybe she went to a friend’s house for the night.’

‘Eleanor,
I know Jenny is a good friend of yours as well as a colleague. But I think you
need to prepare yourself for the worst.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘Her
Renault was found in the upper car park at Eastlyn Woods late this morning. The
ticket on her windscreen showed she had paid for an hour’s parking yesterday
afternoon, at just before five o’clock.’

‘She
went for a run in the woods,’ I whisper.

‘It
looks like it, yes.’