Chapter Thirty

So that was the second time that Gareth had been itching to get away from Stella, and she could hardly blame him.

Stella looks around at the terrible mess of the place and goes round, banging all the windows open, trying to get rid of the stink. She’s more glad than not glad that Gareth’s gone: he’s not a calming influence with the way he stands in judgement – probably saying the opposite of what’s going on in his head, and the annoying way he trots out platitudes. Marcia had warned Stella about social-work speak, which she knew from her own training. The difference with Marcia was she could see behind the slogans. Marcia, unlike Gareth seemingly, could see the person as separate from the crime. Anyway, Gareth’s gone now and Stella’s glad because she needs to think and she can’t think when he’s there. He takes up too much space.

Nothing’s working out like it was supposed to. Marcia did warn Stella about that also – the precariousness of plans. But, as with many bits of Marcia’s good advice, Stella has failed to take much notice. She’s never been very good at taking things in when terror blurs the edges.

Learning curve, Stella. Blundering forth into the unknown is not a strategy that works in all, or even any, circumstances.

Mistakes and challenges aside, Stella feels strangely light-hearted now she’s away from the Boarding House, now Gareth’s gone, now she’s alone in the Beach Hut. She feels strangely unburdened, even though it’s the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere and winter is setting in. Muriel and her weird obsessions with preserving things are more present than they ever were when she was alive, but Stella doesn’t even mind that: in fact, all that is an odd kind of comfort, even as Stella knows she is facing difficulties. Nothing can be as bad as those things she has already survived. She’s scarred, yes, but her spirit is not broken.

That hole in the floor, and the fact that it’s been filled in – evidently recently, judging by the dampness of the sandy earth round the edges of the kitchen – what does all that mean? The hole was there the day Muriel died, Stella remembers it.

The day Muriel died. Which was the last time Stella – or anyone? – was at the Beach Hut. Which means, not Grandma Willoughby, surely. She’d have found the climb up the dune path impossible now. So that only leaves Frank Fanshaw, with whatever agenda he’s pursuing. It’s Frank who must have been here and, for whatever reason, he’s filled the hole in. Which means, if he’s been here so recently, he could still be close by.

Stella looks about for some sign of Frank, but sees nothing immediately. Certainly he hasn’t cleared up anything on the main room floor. Then Stella notices the newspapers, a small pile of them by the stove. She picks one up. And another. They are dated the day before. So he was here yesterday. So possibly still here today. The papers are all folded in such a way that the pictures of Stella are showing. For a moment her heart drops into the pit of her stomach, then it starts to thump with a hard, irregular thump. Stella feels heat and nausea spreading through her body.

She sits down beside the paraffin lamp and tries to see what the papers are saying. There are various versions of her photograph and various versions of her story, all a bit different but all quoting the same source, the intrepid reporter, Daniel Macalinden.

Macalinden. Yes, Stella remembers him. She remembers him trying to get to the bottom of the abduction of Baby Keating. Then it was him again, when Muriel died – he took up Muriel’s story. He knew nothing about Muriel, but he saw fit to write her story, like she was some unfortunate victim of a vicious, evil, devil daughter. Macalinden knew nothing about Stella, but he saw fit to comment on every aspect of her life. So all that was about to start again.

Stella poured over the papers until the paraffin light flickered too dim to see anything. She didn’t know how long she’d sat there, trying to make sense of what she was reading, trying to remember, trying to fit the pieces together. And there, in the loneliness of the Beach Hut, as the orange ball of autumn sun appeared on the eastern horizon, the full horror of her situation began to dawn on Stella.

The whole sad business that had been her life, the horrible reality of the killings, it all returns to Stella, it rises up and punches her in the gut.

Stella has killed before.

The baby. Hedy Keating’s baby.

Stella killed Hedy Keating’s baby.

Stella has killed not once, but twice.

And Frank Fanshaw knows. And he knows the newspaper man is, right this moment, determined to dig out the truth. Macalinden must be searching right now for Stella, and for Frank, for Grandma Willoughby and Hedy Keating.

Stella resolves there and then to turn herself in. She has no choice. She’d thought she’d paid her dues, she’d believed she could put the past behind her and restart her life. But no, she sees now, that’s not possible. Instead, a closely-guarded family secret has caught Stella up. What a fool she was to think all that was past and gone. It’s cracked open the world as Stella knew it, and revealed a reality, a darker and more horrible one than she ever could have thought possible. No wonder she’d buried the memory all this time.

Stella will turn herself in. It’s the only way. She’ll face up once and for all to the crimes she has committed.

But Frank won’t want her to do that, Stella realises. Because he buried the baby’s body. Which makes him an accessory. That’s why he wants to stop her. Self protection will be Frank Fanshaw’s priority, as it always was. Frank will stop at nothing. Stella is in danger. Frank could walk through that door at any moment, determined to silence her.