Thud, thud, thud.
I blearily blink my eyes open. They flop shut again.
Thud, thud, thud.
I try again, using my fingers to prop them open. The dream is fading, the girls’ faces disintegrating, floating away like ash on the breeze. I glance at the clock: 8.30 a.m. A human-ish hour. But only just. I yawn and clamber out of bed.
‘Coming,’ I call, as I yank on some clothes and pad down the stairs.
I reach the front door, unlock it and pull it open.
Simon Harper stands on my doorstep. Red-faced, hair tousled, breath rank with stale alcohol. He jabs a calloused finger at me.
‘I hope you’re happy now!’
‘Well, when I’m actually awake I’ll let you know. Church hours are from 10 a.m.’
I move to shut the door. He sticks one muddy boot in it.
‘Could you please remove your foot from my door, Mr Harper?’
‘Not until you listen to what I have to say.’
I fold my arms. ‘Go on.’
‘The police came around to my house last night.’
‘Really?’
‘Your daughter accused Rosie of assaulting her.’
‘Someone put a bag over my daughter’s head, tied her wrists and pushed her friend down a well.’
‘It wasn’t Rosie.’
‘Really? It seems she and her cousin have form.’
‘What?’
‘The other day, someone shot at Flo with an airgun. Tom owns an airgun, doesn’t he?’
‘My daughter was home all last night, like I told the police.’
‘I see lying really is a family tradition.’
He leans in towards me. ‘Leave my family alone.’
‘With pleasure. Now get your foot out of my door before I call the police.’
He takes a step back. ‘The chapel won’t be seeing any more donations from me. See how long you last without my family propping this place up.’
‘I’m sure the discovery of the vault will prompt renewed interest and investment. Everyone loves a good historical scandal, don’t they?’
His face flames even redder and then he smiles nastily. ‘I know who your daughter was with last night. That twisted little freak Lucas Wrigley. Perhaps you should worry less about my daughter and more about him.’
‘If you have a point, could you lumber towards it?’
‘Lucas Wrigley was expelled from his last school.’
‘And?’
‘He tried to burn it down and almost killed a girl.’
It derails me. I try to keep my voice steady.
‘Why should I believe you?’
He sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. He thrusts it at me.
‘What’s that?’
‘The number of Inez Harrington. The former head of the school. She’ll tell you.’
I keep my arms folded.
‘Suit yourself.’ He smirks and lets the paper flutter to the ground. ‘But if it was me, I’d want to know who my daughter was screwing.’
He turns and strides back to his Range Rover. It takes all my self-control not to run after him, leap on his back and pound his head to a pulp with my fists. I watch as he revs his engine and pulls off down the road. Then I bend and pick up the piece of paper from the ground. My hands are shaking. I should really rip it up. Bin it. Burn it.
But I don’t. I slip it into my pocket and go and fetch my rolling tin.
I’m halfway down my second cigarette when Flo walks into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. She stares at me.
‘You’re smoking!’
‘Yep.’
‘In front of me.’
‘Yep.’ I regard her from eyes baggy with sleep. ‘You were going to have sex last night … oh, and you almost got yourself killed.’
She smiles over-brightly. ‘Coffee?’
‘Black.’
I take a final drag of the cigarette and stub it out on the wall of the cottage. Then I close the door and walk back inside. The piece of paper rustles in my pocket. I sit down at the kitchen table as Flo boils the kettle.
‘How are you feeling this morning?’ I ask.
‘Okay. It all feels like some kind of bad dream.’
‘Yeah.’
‘D’you think Wrigley’s okay?’
‘I’m sure he’s fine.’
‘I should text him.’
‘Maybe it might be wise to keep a little distance for a while.’
‘Why?’
‘You have to ask?’
She gives me a hurt look and picks up her coffee. ‘Fine. I’ll be in my room.’
She disappears upstairs and I flop back in my chair. I can feel the phone number burning a hole in my pocket. I’m itching to call Inez Harrington. To arrange a time to talk. But if she agrees to meet, I don’t want to leave Flo on her own. I hate to say I don’t trust my daughter but, especially after last night, I don’t trust my daughter. I take a sip of coffee. My mobile rings. Mike Sudduth.
‘Hello.’
The phone crackles.
‘Hi. It … om.’
‘Hang on.’
I take the phone upstairs, open the window and poke my head out.
‘Hi. Can you hear me?’
‘Much better – how are you?’
‘I’m okay. I’m sorry if I was rude the other day.’
‘It’s fine. I understand. It was a bad time.’
‘And not getting any better.’
‘Yeah.’ He pauses. ‘I heard about what happened last night.’
‘Already? That was fast.’
‘We might have rubbish broadband, but the village grapevine is like lightning.’
And he works at a newspaper.
‘Is Flo okay?’ he asks.
‘She’s fine. I suppose you heard about the discovery in the well too?’
‘The skeletons. Yeah.’
I freeze. ‘Skeletons, plural?’
‘Ah, you see, this is why I’m usually consigned to covering village fetes and hog roasts. Not exactly good at being discreet.’
‘So, they found more than one?’
‘Two.’
‘Do the police know who they are?’
‘They’re still testing, but you’d have to assume they’re the two girls who disappeared in the nineties. Merry and Joy.’
‘Right,’ I say slowly. ‘You probably would assume that.’
‘And this is really going to blow up, if so. The case will be reopened. National press will be all over it.’
I hadn’t thought about that. Journalists swarming over the village, raking up the past.
‘Jack. Are you still there?’ Mike asks.
‘Yes. Just thinking how awful it is.’
‘And even worse, if they were murdered, which looks likely, it means that someone here, in this village, knows what happened to them.’
‘I suppose it does.’
It also means that more than one person here is lying. And I feel like I’m running out of time to get to get to the truth. I glance towards the stairs.
‘Mike, could you do me a favour?’
‘Of course. I still owe you for the tyre.’
‘D’you have a couple of hours free?’