Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (5 page)

I’ve had years to get used to this sick notoriety. All the whispers
and stares they think I don’t notice. The gossip I catch at the tail end of
someone’s conversation as I enter the staff room. The bloody ridiculous assumptions.
That I’m going to be quiet and withdrawn, emotionally scarred, not fit to work
with kids. If anything, the opposite has always been true. I can identify with
their problems because I’ve been there myself, down in the dark.

‘It was on the television and in all the newspapers. They did one of
those crime reconstructions, but never caught the murderer.’

That was one reason I came back to Cornwall after university. Not to
lay my mother’s ghost to rest, but because my old school was one of the few
places where I could make a fresh start. When your past is already known, no
one can blow your life wide open with some grim revelation.

‘So the killer is still out
there somewhere?’

I burst out of the track at the top of the hill. I haven’t run so
hard in years. My legs are shaking. There’s the church ahead of me, I can see
the squat bell tower above the trees, its clock face precisely three minutes
fast.

The bell is tolling the hour.

Detective Sergeant
John Carrick stops writing, checks through what he’s written, nods once, then
flips his notebook shut. I can tell nothing from his expression, which is still
calm and professional.

He stands up and pushes his chair under the
table. ‘I’ll have a quick chat with the officers in the woods, see how they’re
getting on. The signal’s stronger outside. If you don’t mind.’ He jerks his
head at PC Flynn to follow him outside. ‘Thanks for the tea. Back in a tick.’

I know what that means; Carrick wants to talk about
me to his colleagues behind my back.

Hannah disappeared while I was speaking to the
police; I remember her muttering something about putting the water heater on,
then slipping unobtrusively out of the kitchen door. But I know she’s headed
back to bed, still recovering from her night shift.

That’s
another thing I like about living with Hannah. She’s unfazed by all this,
totally focused on her own life, and I love her for it. There are plenty of
people in my life to look concerned and take statements. What I need is someone
who will just shrug and go back to bed, make me feel like all this insanity is
somehow ordinary.

The police come back in.
They know something.
The detective sergeant charges in with arms
swinging, looking for me. The police woman is fumbling with her phone, her
expression grave.

‘Are those the training shoes you were wearing
earlier?’ Carrick asks, studying my Mizuno trainers. They are still a little
damp from where I splashed through the stream, toes tinged green from the
undergrowth. ‘In the woods?’

‘Yes.’

Everyone looks at my trainers. I resist the
urge to do up my right lace, which is trailing again.

With a bright smile, PC Flynn says, ‘They look
new.’

‘That’s because they
are
new,’ I say, not smiling back at her. I can’t stand being
patronised. ‘I only bought them recently, because my others were getting worn.’
Then I add, by way of explanation, ‘I teach PE. We get through a lot of
trainers during the school year.’

‘We need a photograph of the soles,’ Carrick
announces, then nods to the policewoman. ‘Both feet, please.’

I don’t move, mystified.

‘Don’t
worry, this will only take a minute.’ PC Flynn peers at her mobile phone screen
as she fiddles with the settings, then adds, ‘Probably be easiest if you take
them off.’

I know this routine.
Good cop, bad cop
.

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Okay.’ Her voice has hardened. The patronising
smile has gone. ‘Could you stand then, please, and hold your foot up behind
you? Left foot first. Then we’ll do the right.’

Connor is frowning. ‘Why do you need a
photograph of her trainers?’

‘For elimination purposes,’ the sergeant tells him
flatly, and I can tell that is the most we will get out of them for now.

Last time I went through this, at the tender
age of six, my father was always there, one step ahead the whole way, his arm
round my shoulder, protecting me from the police and the journalists, making
sure I was not put under pressure, that the horrors of the past could be
forgotten as easily as possible.

This time, I’m on my own. I’m not even sure my
dad registered what I told him this morning, still locked in the misery of the
past.

Today, of all days.

Tris moves his kitchen chair out of the way.
‘Come on, Ellie,’ he says, his smile cajoling, ‘let’s get this over with. You
can lean on me.’

Not quite on my own, I concede.

I stand rigidly, holding onto Tristan’s shoulder
for balance, my left leg thrust back like a flamingo’s, then the right leg,
while the constable shuffles about behind me. She takes several shots of both
soles of my Mizuno trainers, muttering under her breath about the dim lighting
in the kitchen.

‘Thanks, we’ll be back later,’ Detective Sergeant
Carrick tells us as his constable finishes her work, ‘when there’s something to
report.’

Connor shows the police to the front door of
the cottage, then hurries back into the kitchen, looking furious. ‘Unfeeling bastards.
Anyone would think you were the bloody suspect, not the victim.’

‘I’m
a witness, not a victim,’ I remind him.

‘All
the same.’

Connor
is another one who’s always been there for me. Hannah, Tris, Connor, Denzil,
even my father until the night of the fire. And Jenny is a good friend now too.
I have a network in place, and one of which even the exacting Dr Quick would
approve. But perhaps it’s time I shouldered the burden on my own for a while. I
still need a shower, after all, and some time alone in my room sounds very
welcome. I’ve never been one for crowds.

‘Look,’
I tell the Taylor brothers, ‘you two have been great, but this could take hours
and I don’t need anyone to babysit me. I need to shower and change my clothes. Besides,
Hannah is in the house if I do need anything.’

Connor
hesitates, then nods. ‘Of course.’ He nudges Tris. ‘Come on, let’s give the
woman some space. We’ve got to shift the sheep down from the top field anyway.’

Tris,
who has never done this before, looks at me with an uncertain expression. ‘Are
you sure, Ellie? Because we can stay if you want.’

‘Go,
both of you.’

Connor kisses me on the cheek and heads back
outside to the quad bike, whistling an old Cornish tune. He’s probably already
thinking about his sheep.

Tris
hovers in the kitchen doorway, still unwilling to leave me alone, bless him. ‘But
what happens now?’

My head is still in the green space of the woods,
but I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s one of those fake antique
clocks with a large face and stiff black hands, the kind you might find in a
Victorian railway station. One of Hannah’s discoveries at the local garden
centre. The time is a little after half past nine. I’ve been awake less than
three hours.

‘Now we wait until they find her.’

Much as I have
always relied on my old friends to keep me sane, it’s good to be on my own for
a while. I ring the school and check with the cover supervisor that he does not
need me to email any instructions for the lessons I’m missing. He doesn’t,
which is a relief. I chuck my sticky running gear in the bathroom wash basket, one
of those tall wicker baskets with a lid that look like they’re concealing a
snake, then take a leisurely fifteen minutes to shower and wash my hair.

As
the warm water runs over me, I close my eyes. The darkness comes back and I push
it away with an effort.
Ten, nine, eight,
seven …

After
the shower, I drag a bath towel from the shelf and wrap it round myself, anchoring
it above my breasts. When I pad through barefoot into the bedroom, everything
is just as I left it this morning.

I
pick up my phone from the crumpled bed. Several concerned voice messages from
the school, a text from Connor –
We
love you, even if you do see dead people. Call us anytime
– and a
monthly notification about my bill, which I don’t bother to open.

Still
nothing from Denzil.

I
root for matching bra and knickers in my drawer, then change into jeans and a
strappy gold top. My weekend wear. It feels odd on a work day, but then I am
hardly likely to be going into work today.

Carefully,
I hang my work clothes back up in the wardrobe. A grey tracksuit with a pink
V-necked polo shirt underneath: typical PE teacher fare. My damp Mizuno trainers
are sitting on an old newspaper near the door. I study them a moment, then choose
a fresh pair from the box under the bed. Nike, with a pink stripe. A little
worn on the instep, but perfectly good for casual wear.

I
towel-dry my hair for speed, then fix it up in a ponytail again. I don’t bother
with make-up. I rarely do these days, unless I’m going out for the night.

There are two
vehicles parked in the turning area by the time I walk down the stairs after my
shower: a black Vauxhall Corsa, tinted windscreen glinting in the sunlight, and
a marked police transit van. A small group of men is standing beside the police
van, some in uniform, their heads bent together, deep in conversation.

One
of the men is Carrick. Another is my father.

I
stand in the hallway a moment, staring at them through the glass panel, then
open the front door. ‘Hello?’

Dad stops speaking. I can’t decipher the look
on his face as he glances in my direction. Guilt? Suspicion?

The
man in the light grey suit has turned as well, staring at me. His eyebrows rise
slowly.

Suddenly I recognise him.
DI Powell.

My
stomach pitches, rolling horribly. It’s like I’ve stepped straight back into
the past, into a time when our world was falling apart around us and there was
nothing to cling onto, no safety rope.

Just
when I thought things could get no worse, a vision right out of my childhood
nightmares has appeared to prove me wrong.

Detective
Inspector Powell. Tall, white-haired now, easily in his sixties. I thought he
would have retired by now. He was one of the officers who investigated the unsolved
murder of Angela Blackwood eighteen years ago.

This would be a bad moment to throw up again.

‘Dad, were you looking for me?’ My palms are
sweating; I wipe them on the back pockets of my jeans, trying for a calm tone.
‘You should have come straight in. I was in the shower, but Hannah’s around
somewhere.’

Asleep,
most probably. But I’m not thinking straight.

My father does not answer.

DI Powell steps away from the group. His gaze
is cool but sympathetic as he assesses my face, my hair, my appearance. No
doubt he remembers me as an hysterical six-year-old, sobbing her heart out and
barely coherent enough to give a description of the man who had attacked her
mummy. We had met a few times since that investigation, but the events of today
seem to have left my head stranded in the past.

‘Hello again, Ellie,’ he says, holding out his
hand.

The voice tugs at me. I remember the strong
West Country twang to his accent, a slow drawl that makes him sound like he’s
only one or two generations away from ancestors who were farmers and tin
miners. Far from parochial though, he had always seemed open to new approaches,
especially the idea of hypnotherapy.

There
is a faint smile on his face. A senior policeman attempting to be friendly, but
vaguely regretful at the same time, aware of an unbridgeable gap between us.
There’s no warmth there. Only a hint of the same suspicion I saw on my father’s
face. It leaves me uncomfortable.

We shake hands. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he
remarks calmly. ‘How have you been?’

‘Okay up until today.’

‘So your dad has been telling me. It sounds
like you’ve had a tough morning.’ He hesitates. ‘Do you mind if I call you Ellie?
Or would you prefer Eleanor?’

My throat is clogged up. ‘I’m Eleanor now.
Ellie was … a long time ago.’

Except
for my close friends. This man is not a friend.

‘Of
course.’

My
head is buzzing, but I force myself to smile and behave normally. It’s what
they expect. ‘Come into the kitchen, please. I’ll make coffee.’

‘Not
for me, thanks. But feel free to make one for yourself.’

We
walk through to the kitchen, my father following behind the police officers
without a word.

I
can’t wait any longer, impatient to hear their news. ‘So, did you find the body?’
I ask Carrick straight out. ‘Did you find her?’

‘No,’ Carrick says bluntly.

I
stare. ‘What?’

DI
Powell is shaking his head. There’s that regretful smile again. The smile I
remember. The smile that used to leave me feeling sick.

‘I’m
sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Eleanor. We looked where you told us to
look. We looked everywhere. We scoured the woods, in fact, from the stream
right up to the top car park. We even had the dogs out,’ he says. ‘But we
didn’t find a body.’