A break in the rain and Dora took Joanna – back from her piano lesson – out into the dripping garden to feed the horses. The invitation wasn’t extended to Caroline, and it spoke volumes. Caroline stomped upstairs, making the most of every tread; knowing she was being impossible, not that the realisation stopped her from doing it. She had lost the ability to be reasonable since she caught Dean and Amy smooching. And ambushed by the weather that hadn’t let up since they found Ellie’s body, trapped within the oppressive interior of her aunt’s holiday home only frustrated her further.
Pillowell Cottage, with its treasures and dainty-legged furniture, had seemed idyllic at first, but on closer inspection, it revealed woodworm-riddled skirting boards, blooms of mushrooms behind the bath, dripping taps and draughty windows. The grubbiness and dust, decay and rot, was rather like life, she thought despondently – it looked all shiny from far away, until you started delving into what was really going on. Witchwood was the same, in that it was a place that began by answering her prayers, but since Dean’s betrayal, it had spiralled into a nightmare.
Watching the dramatic sunset from the bedroom window, it surprised her how the dull afternoon had suddenly ripened into a glorious evening. Not that it tempered her mood to see the sky – a crumpled piece of silk – turn from blue to yellow to pink. ‘ … When other helpers fail and comforts flee; help of the helpless, O abide with me … ’ Fortified by the line of a favourite hymn from school assembly, she strode across the landing, bold as the bullfinch seen outside the kitchen window, and into Dora’s bedroom, determined to do some damage. Marching up to the dressing table, spying her aunt’s favourite lipstick in its expensive gold case, she untwisted it until it was fully extended and pressed it forcefully against her mouth. So hard it snapped clean off. Seeing its ugly artificial pinkness, she squashed it into the carpet with the toe of her sandal and proceeded to walk around the room, dragging the ravaged stump over the backs of furniture and Dora’s bedcovers. Delighting in seeing the candy pink on the frilly white pillow cases, she scrawled JO in baby-big letters on the floral headboard. Serves her aunt right for not believing her about Dean, she thought as she tilted her head to the call of the telephone.
Chirruping from the hall, sunny as a canary. Caroline dashed downstairs to answer it. Brown and shiny as a cockroach she found behind the toilet on her first morning there, the phone, a leftover from the seventies, was congested with grime. Caroline, careful not to let the handset make contact with her face, heard a male voice introduce itself as Detective Sergeant Scott Gallagher.
‘Is Dora Muller there, please?’
‘Sorry, she’s not in at the moment, but this is her great-niece speaking – can I help?’ Impressed with how grown-up she sounded, the detective’s reluctance to share whatever he was calling for surprised her.
‘Not sure.’ Caroline didn’t tell him Dora was only in the garden. ‘But you can tell me what it’s about, can’t you?’
‘No, sorry, miss; if you could ask her to call me back on—’ DS Gallagher began to reel off a number Caroline wasn’t ready for.
‘Is it about the dagger Dean Fry stole from my aunt’s cottage?’ She cut him off. ‘Did you find Ellie’s blood on it?’ The question, callous, as she appreciated the blobs of alarming pink lipstick that, stuck to the sole of her jelly sandal, she’d trailed down the stairs, along the hall. ‘That was my great-grandfather’s dagger; I’ve a right to know if Dean used it to kill Ellie,’ she insisted, recalling the conversation between Dora and members of DS Gallagher’s team.
‘Well, um … ’
She could tell she’d flummoxed him, that he toyed with whether to share what he’d called about.
‘It’s okay,’ she assured. ‘I know all about it. We knew Dean took it, like he took all those other things that belonged to my family.’
‘It is about the dagger, yes,’ Gallagher relented. ‘If you could please ask your aunt to call me the moment she comes back.’
‘I knew it, I knew it!’ Caroline, joyous, noticed stubborn traces of Dora’s lipstick on her hand and wiped it against the plush velvet cloth covering the telephone table. ‘He really is a very bad person, isn’t he? I hope you’re going to punish him for all the horrible things he’s done.’
‘You’ve got to talk to the police, tell them that bitch lied.’ Amy, waiting by the front door, was ready to waylay her father as soon as he put his key into the lock. ‘They’ll listen to you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Timothy Mortmain, standing in the subfusc of the rectory’s hall, looked tired.
‘Dean ,’ she shouted. ‘Tell them that Caroline girl retracted her story, that she changed her mind.’
‘But she hasn’t changed her mind,’ he said mildly.
‘Who cares, you know she’s lying; you’re the only one who can get him out.’
‘I don’t know anything of the sort, and anyway, I can’t go interfering with police procedures.’ Timothy flourished a white cotton handkerchief from a pocket and polished the tip of his nose. ‘This is a murder investigation, for goodness’ sake; Dean’s not been done for speeding.’
‘You interfered with police procedure on that cow’s say-so.’ Amy flapped her arms through the air. ‘You’ve made the biggest mistake of your life siding with that vicious little bitch … Dean’s got a record, you know – they’re bound to use everything they can against him. The tabloids are already having a field day – they’ve already got hold of his name somehow, and according to them he as good as did it. What happened to innocent until proven guilty ? He doesn’t stand a chance – his name’s mud whether he’s guilty or not. For god’s sake , Dad, you’ve got to do something – the police are going to throw the book at him.’
‘And if they do, there’s nothing you or I can do about it. Now, if you would please let me pass, I’ve had a busy day.’ He tried squeezing between Amy and wall, but she blocked his way with a kind of baulked ferocity.
‘What’s she got on you? What does she know?’ She challenged him in a way she never had before. ‘It must be something pretty big – how else has she got leverage? There’s no other possible reason why you would take the word of a thirteen-year-old. Why can’t you see that she’s invented these things about Dean being violent with Ellie because she’s obsessed with him?’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’ The vicar groaned as Cecilia’s cats, slinking down through their shadows on the stairs, circled his calves. ‘Now, come on, stop this silliness.’
‘Dean doesn’t stand a chance.’ Amy’s expression was one of grim determination; she was not letting her father dismiss her as he usually would. ‘They’re going to lock him up for something he didn’t do – he’s had a shit time of it. That stepmother of his, you may think she’s all sweetness and light, but since she got together with Ian she’s been desperate to get shot of Dean. Can’t you see what you’re doing, Dad? Please . You’re playing into their hands.’
‘Look, Amy, I’m sorry about Dean, really I am – but justice must run its course, I can’t be seen to interfere.’ Mortmain, unmoved, pressed his soft vicar’s hands together.
‘Justice ,’ she shrieked. ‘You make me sick. I’m never going to forgive you for this – you’ve no idea the damage you’re doing. Don’t you care? You’re supposed to be a man of God; you’re supposed to be a bloody Christian. You can’t let them do this to an innocent person just to save your own neck.’
‘Save my own neck ?’ The reverend looked uneasy for the first time during their exchange. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Dean takes the blame, they lock him away … the police won’t come after you then, will they?’
‘What ?’ Mortmain wrung his hands. ‘Come after me ? I had nothing to do with Ellie’s death.’
‘No ? Then how d’you explain this?’ Amy handed him the same Polaroid of Ellie she showed her mother. ‘Mum said she saw you heading off to the lake just before Ellie, the day she went missing.’
‘This is absurd.’ His turn to shout, kicking his wife’s cats away. ‘Where d’you find this? You’ve no business going through my private things.’
‘You admit it then?’ Amy, pleased to have provoked him.
‘I admit nothing.’ He gave her a black look. ‘Your mother has an overactive imagination, and not enough to occupy her mind.’
‘I think Mum knows exactly what she saw, and you know it too.’ Amy stuck to her argument and refused to be sidetracked by the unfair accusation made about her mother. ‘It makes sense to me. Why you were so keen to lead those searches, for one. Why you convinced the police you were the best man for the job, saying you knew the woods like the back of your hand. I heard you tell them, so don’t bother denying it,’ she said, watching him shake his head. ‘I reckon you deliberately took them the wrong way. It’s not that vast out there, and you and your parishioners were out looking for two solid days. What other reason could there be for you not finding her? I’ll tell you, shall I?’ she persisted, denying her father the opportunity to speak. ‘You didn’t find her because you knew exactly where she was.’