‘Stay the hell away from Wrigley.’
But she can’t. Sometimes, you don’t have any choice.
Finally finished, she trots downstairs into the kitchen. She’s thirsty. She grabs a glass and goes to the sink. She turns on the cold tap and then yelps, jumping backwards, heart pounding.
There’s a man standing outside the kitchen window, staring in.
Dishevelled, dirty-looking, baggy dark circles under his eyes. As soon as he sees her, he backs off, turns and starts to lope away.
Without even thinking, Flo puts down the glass, sprints to the door, unlocks it and races outside. She looks around, squinting in the sunshine. She spots him, disappearing around the back of the cottage, into the graveyard.
‘Hey!’
She follows, jogging around the corner. He’s halfway up the slope, limping between the headstones. He looks like he has an injured ankle and, she can’t be sure, but he also looks like he’s wearing a vicar’s tunic.
She starts up the hill after him, and she’s gaining when she catches her foot on something poking up from the ground. She trips, her arms windmill, but she has too much forward momentum and she crashes to the ground. Her breath whoomps out of her. Pain shoots up her bad leg.
‘Owww. Shit.’
She lies there for a moment, shaken, trying to catch her breath. Eventually, she pushes herself up, but the man has disappeared over the small stone wall and into the fields. She won’t catch him now. Even if she did, what exactly was she planning to do? She hasn’t even got her phone to call the police. Not her best-made plan. But something about him had angered her, staring in like that.
She sits up on the dry grass and turns to see what tripped her. It’s the same bloody toppled headstone she almost fell over the other day. The one she was about to photograph when she was distracted by the headless, armless girl.
She glares at the headstone, as if it has somehow booby-trapped her on purpose, and then spots something else, half hidden in the long grass. She reaches forward and picks it up. It’s a photo in a tarnished frame. A teenage girl and a young boy. Familiar, but she can’t quite place it. And then she remembers. It’s the same picture she stood on in the old, derelict house. She frowns. Did the homeless guy drop it? Did he steal it from the house? Perhaps that was what he was doing here – casing the cottage?
She stares at the picture. There’s something else. Something that didn’t really register before. It’s kind of weird but … she feels a shiver ripple over her skin.
The girl in the picture looks a lot like her.
FORTY-FOUR
Emma Harper doesn’t look happy to see me. I get the feeling she knows she said too much the other night in the pub, but she can’t remember what.
Of course, I shouldn’t really be here. It’s probably not what Rushton meant when he talked about all sticking together. But something struck me as I drove away from the Rushtons’ cottage. Fletcher spent a lot of time and effort looking into the history of the chapel and the girls who disappeared. And yet, one word from Simon Harper and he quietly agreed to say nothing and resign. I’m wondering exactly what Simon Harper said to him.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I say.
She holds the door half open, primed to shut it in my face. ‘It’s not a good time, I’m afraid. I’m rather busy –’
‘Actually, it was Simon I wanted to talk to.’
‘Simon? Oh, well, he’s out on the farm.’
‘Is it okay if I go and find him?’
‘Is it anything I can help you with?’
‘It’s to do with the chapel. The vault?’
She looks at me blankly. Obviously, Simon never mentioned the hidden vault to his wife.
‘Oh, well, if it’s church stuff, probably best to talk to Simon. Let me call him, find out where he is or if he’s on his way back.’ She looks around. ‘I think my phone is upstairs. Come on in.’
She trots up the staircase. I walk into the massive hallway. Through the doors to the left I can see Poppy playing with dolls on the floor of the conservatory. She doesn’t look up as I enter. Once again, I think how solemn she seems and, also, how oddly childish. At ten, dolls are normally replaced by iPads.
I walk over and crouch down beside her.
‘Hiya.’
She doesn’t look up.
‘What are you playing?’
A small shrug.
‘Are these your favourite dolls?’
A nod.
‘What are they called?’
‘Poppy and Tara.’
Tara. The little girl who died.
‘Are they friends?’
‘Best friends.’
‘That’s nice. Do they play together a lot?’
‘All the time.’
‘Do you have any other friends?’
‘No. No one wants to play with me.’
‘Why?’
‘In case they die, like Tara did.’
I stare at her, feeling a chill.
‘Reverend Brooks?’
I jump, and then straighten as Emma emerges in the hall. ‘Simon’s just in the sheep barn. You can either pop down or wait here.’
‘I’ll pop down. The barn’s just around the corner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks.’
I walk towards the door. And pause. An airgun is propped by the umbrella stand.
‘Is that an airgun?’
‘Oh yes. It’s Tom’s.’
‘Tom?’
‘Rosie’s cousin. They’re upstairs now, playing Xbox.’
‘Likes to shoot things, does he?’
‘Shooting is a way of life in the country.’
I smile thinly. ‘Apparently so.’
I walk down the muddy track, away from the farmhouse, quietly fuming. The airgun could be a coincidence. But I don’t think so. Not in this small village. Tom is the one who shot Flo. But was it really an accident? I wouldn’t put anything past this family. I think about Poppy again. She’s clearly still traumatized by the death of her best friend. But there’s something else, something wrong in this house. It’s a gut reaction. But, when it comes to dysfunctional families, I have some experience.
The barn draws into view. A corrugated, weathered structure. The scent of manure and rotting vegetables hangs in the air. I walk inside. Rows of sheep pens line either side of the barn. Simon Harper, clad in a Barbour jacket and wellies, is forking fresh straw into them.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
He chucks the straw into a pen, props the fork on the metal railing and brushes his hands off on his jacket.
‘Reverend Brooks? To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about the chapel.’
‘What about it?’
‘We’ve found the hidden burial vault.’
‘How remarkable.’ He turns and picks up the fork. ‘Seal it back up.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You heard me. Seal it back up again. I’ll pay for the new floor, whatever else the chapel needs.’
‘I can’t –’
‘Yes, you can. I own the vault. They’re my ancestors.’
‘And once they are interred, they become the property of the church.’