A column of light flashed at the chink in the curtains. Engine noise outside signalled a vehicle pulling up. Fiona joined Partial Sue at the window, where they saw the unmistakable silhouette of Daisy emerging from her car. The second she noticed the Wicker Man, squirming beside the front doorstep, she rushed over to his aid, kneeling beside him. Fiona gasped, fearing the worst. She had half-expected him to make a miraculous recovery and do something awful to her. Instead, he was lying flat on his back, like someone who’d fallen over and done themselves a mischief.
Partial Sue made for the front door followed by Fiona. She unlocked it, but before she could open it wide, a furry shadow whizzed past her legs and darted out of the house.
“No!” shrieked Fiona, worrying that Simon Le Bon was about to sink his teeth into the Wicker Man, adding injury to injury. Simon Le Bon did no such thing. He ignored both him and Daisy and went straight for the faux custard creams scattered everywhere, sucking them down one after the other. Before Fiona could protest, he’d snaffled them all, even the crushed-up broken ones. She couldn’t worry about his eating habits at that particular moment or his laissez-faire approach to guard-dog duty.
“Why wouldn’t you open the door?” the Wicker Man protested, grimacing as he did so. The fake Dickensian dialogue had fled since the fall, replaced by his native Essex twang. “I’m in pain.”
“We didn’t know who you were,” Partial Sue said. “We thought you were a prowler.”
“We were scared,” Fiona added. “What are you doing here?”
“That would be my fault,” Daisy answered. “I tried phoning you to see if you were both okay, but I couldn’t get through. I was worried so I called him to ask if he would check on you. I didn’t want to come on my own in case . . .” Daisy trailed off, realising she’d already said too much.
“We’ve been in all night,” Partial Sue said. “The phone didn’t ring.”
“We were on the phone to my nephew for a bit,” Fiona pointed out. “What time did you call?”
“About eight-ish.”
“That was when DI Fincher was here.”
“We would have still heard the phone. Are you sure you called us?” Fiona asked.
“Positive,” Daisy replied. “Maybe I called the wrong number. You know what I’m like with technology.”
Fiona disagreed. Out of the three of them, Daisy was the most proficient with technology. “Did you try calling after that?”
Daisy shook her head. “I was driving. On my way here.”
“Try calling again,” Partial Sue suggested. “Make sure your phone is working.”
One by one, Daisy called their mobiles and Partial Sue’s landline. All three worked perfectly, ringing loudly and efficiently.
“Sorry to interrupt your telecoms tittle-tattle,” said the Wicker Man, who had regained some of his dramatic delivery, “but I’m still lying here on terra firma. Could the three of you possibly assist? If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Are we sure we should move him?” Partial Sue asked.
“I think that’s just for dead bodies,” Fiona replied.
“Or motorbike accidents,” Daisy added. “You’re supposed to leave their helmets on, I’ve been told.”
“Have you broken anything?” asked Fiona. “Should we call an ambulance?”
“No and no,” replied the Wicker Man. “I slipped on something dastardly and crunchy.”
“That would be a custard-inspired cream,” Partial Sue said.
“What the hell’s that? And what were they doing all over the place?”
“We dropped them earlier,” Fiona quickly replied. “With the shopping.” She wasn’t sure how much Daisy had told him about their current predicament. Nothing, she hoped, in which case, she didn’t want to let it slip out that they’d scattered dodgy biscuits everywhere to alert themselves to any domino-wielding murderers. Even if she did tell the Wicker Man, she doubted he would believe them because it sounded so utterly bizarre.
“We meant to clear them up, but it completely slipped our minds,” Partial Sue said.
From down on the ground the Wicker Man craned his neck. “Looks like Simon Le Bon’s done that for you.”
Hearing his name, Simon Le Bon trotted back, looking extremely pleased with himself, ears pert, tail wagging and tongue licking his muzzle.
“How did you slip on a custard cream?” asked Daisy.
“Custard-inspired cream,” Partial Sue corrected.
“Maybe one broke open and he slipped on the filling,” Daisy suggested.
“I would have thought the filling would be sticky,” Fiona said.
“Look,” said the Wicker Man, still flat on his back. “Could we discuss the adhesive qualities of sandwich-style biscuits some other time? Just grab me by the hands and hoist me up.”
The three ladies obeyed, gripping him by his wrists and heaving him up. When his body reached a forty-five-degree angle, he cried out in pain, then gasped with relief once he got upright.
Daisy held him by the elbow, reluctant to relinquish her grip. “Can you walk?”
He staggered forward, taking baby steps, wincing with each one. “Well, there’s no way I’m driving or walking home tonight.”
“Do you think you can make it inside?” Daisy asked.
“Let’s hope so, otherwise I’m going to be sleeping on the doorstep.”
Fiona took hold of his other elbow. Together, they shuffled him over the threshold and into the house. Partial Sue went ahead, shoving books and other obstacles out of the way to clear a path. Manoeuvring him around the corner, they managed to get him into the lounge and seated on the sofa. The sitting position not doing him any favours, he shrieked in agony. “It’s no good, this body’s not meant for bending at the moment. I’m going to have to go horizontal.” Painfully and with much complaining, they managed to get his legs up at one end of the sofa and his head on the arm at the other. They removed his shoes, revealing two odd socks. “Do you have any painkillers?” he asked.
Partial Sue nodded and returned with a small box of paracetamol, the graphics of which put it at circa 1990s. Fiona was horrified at the ancient packet. “How old are those?”
“They’re fine. They work long after their sell-by dates, they’re just not as strong.”
Daisy turned her nose up. “I won’t touch chicken if its use-by date is today. Just isn’t worth the risk.”
“I’ll take anything at the moment,” the Wicker Man said, desperate for relief.
Pushing a couple of pills out of the cracked and faded blister pack, Partial Sue handed them to him with a glass of water.
“Thank you.”
“Shall we all have a nice cup of tea?” Fiona suggested.
“Splendid. That would be most agreeable.” The Wicker Man was edging back to his full-fat Dickensian spiel, a good indicator that he was feeling better.
“Would you like something to eat?” Partial Sue asked. “Some cheese and crackers perhaps?”
“No, thanks. Never seen the point in crackers. A frivolous and fiddly food. They fall apart as soon as you bite into them. What’s the point in that?”
“Don’t biscuits do that too?” Daisy asked.
“Sort of,” the Wicker Man replied. “But I’d wager that their structural integrity is far superior. You can dunk them for a start. Can’t do that with a cracker.”
“Digestives can be biscuits or crackers,” Partial Sue stated. “They’re the intersection of the baked provisions Venn diagram.”
Fiona wanted to cut the crackers-versus-biscuits debate short before it got out of hand. “Ladies, let’s pop into the kitchen and get the kettle on.”
“Does it take all three of you?” the Wicker Man asked.
“I’ll stay here,” Daisy said.
Fiona glared at her and nodded her head in the direction of the door.
Daisy changed her mind. “Oh, er, on second thoughts, I might come and give you a hand.”
The Wicker Man harrumphed as the three women rose to their feet and made their way into the kitchen followed by Simon Le Bon, hoping to snag a few more stray treats. Fiona closed the door behind them. Partial Sue put the kettle on.
“Does he know about the murders?” Fiona asked Daisy.
Daisy shook her head. “Not a jot. I just said I was worried about you both, as I couldn’t get hold of you. He didn’t want to come at first, said he’d got to a juicy bit in Outlander, which I didn’t think would be his sort of thing. You know, romantic drama.”
Partial Sue set about putting teabags in each mug. “It’s set in the eighteenth century. He probably likes the way they talk.”
“Or the how’s-your-father,” added Daisy. “There’s quite a bit of it.”
“Then what happened?” Fiona asked.
“I persuaded him to come here, to check on you. I was really worried about you both. Did I do the wrong thing?”
“No,” Fiona replied. “That was very thoughtful of you, but we were fine.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know that. I couldn’t get hold of you. Feared the worst had happened.”
It all made sense, but a tiny part of Fiona wasn’t convinced, despite all evidence to the contrary. She knew that Daisy had instigated the Wicker Man’s visitation, but fear and paranoia overwhelmed her common sense. She had an uncomfortable and unfounded sliver of a suspicion that the Wicker Man was the killer and was biding his time.
They quickly brought Daisy up to speed, regarding the dominoes and how Dan had deciphered them with a simple code, revealing that they could be a countdown.
“A countdown to what?” asked Daisy.
Fiona shuddered. “Something like this. He’s got all three of us here at once. Maybe it’s a murdering job lot.”
Daisy balked at this. “The Wicker Man? The killer? Don’t be daft. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
She was right. The Wicker Man was as gentle as they came. But Fiona’s logic was currently offline thanks to her overwhelming paranoia and fear. “Did you arrange to meet him here?”
“No,” Daisy replied. “But after I called him, I thought I’d better come too. Just in case.”
So, Fiona thought, he could’ve still been playing the injured man and might have capitalised on the situation had Daisy not shown up. Fiona conveniently ignored the fact that Daisy had called him in the first place. Instead, she focused on something else Daisy had said earlier. How do you slip on a biscuit, of all things? They weren’t exactly a trip hazard. She wasn’t buying it. If he was the killer, then he’d got what he wanted — to get in Partial Sue’s house without a struggle. Unless you counted him struggling through the door, but that could’ve all been part of the act. Faking it. Should she flag up her concerns to the other two? They might not believe her. Unless she could catch him out.
The three women regrouped in the lounge with a tray of tea and biscuits, not custard-inspired ones, but reliable and dependable Rich Teas. With a few hisses of pain, Daisy helped the Wicker Man up to an angle where he could sip his tea and dunk a biscuit or two without spilling them all down himself.
“Sorry for the imposition and all,” he said. “But I don’t believe this mortal coil shall be shuffling off anywhere soon.”
Partial Sue plumped up a cushion behind his head. “That’s okay. I’ll get you some blankets. You can stay on the sofa until you feel up to moving.”
Fiona bit the inside of her lip. This was not what she wanted, not by a long chalk. Not only had he got in the house, he was also staying the night. Locked in with them. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she said. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your own bed?”
The Wicker Man took a slurp of tea. “I dare say I would. It’s just getting there that’s the conundrum.”
Half an hour later, Daisy left. Fiona wanted to go to bed so Partial Sue showed her to the spare room. Similar to the rooms downstairs, it had become a makeshift storeroom, stacked with books and piles of household objects she never used but would never throw away. Partial Sue’s obsessive hoarding had started soon after she’d lost her partner Kate to cancer. The two of them had been inseparable, and she still couldn’t really talk about Kate. Partial Sue had lost the most precious person in her life and now couldn’t dispose of anything because she didn’t want to risk losing something else. Though she would never admit it, she clung to objects to give herself comfort.
Fiona helped her clear a space to allow her access to the bed, which also needed to be unearthed. “Do you buy it?” she asked.
“Buy what?” Partial Sue replied, her arms full of old issues of Heavy Horse Times. She also had an affection for shire horses and odd corners of her home were littered with horse brasses, giving the place the feel of a small country pub. Although a spot of Brasso wouldn’t have gone amiss now and again.
“The Wicker Man. His backstory, excuse the pun. He’s got in your house without raising a finger.”
Partial Sue straightened up and laughed. “Oh, Fiona. You don’t seriously think he’s the killer? Daisy told us she phoned him and asked him to come over, remember?”
“What if it was a coincidence? What if he was already coming over? To kill me and possibly you too. The climax to his domino countdown.”
“That’s one hell of a coincidence, and this is the Wicker Man we’re talking about. We’ve known Trevor for years. Sells furniture nobody wants, talks like a Lannister and comes round to scrounge cake. You know what I think? That brain of yours is on high alert. Imagination running wild. Completely understandable given the circumstances. Fear will do that to you. I’d get some sleep, and if you’re worried, lock your door.”
“You lock yours too,” Fiona said.
“If it makes you feel better, I will.”
“Please make sure you do.”
“I will. I promise. But the Wicker Man is not the killer. You have nothing to worry about.”
Partial Sue reassured her again and wished her good night. As soon as she was gone, Fiona locked the door and shoved a chair up against it for good measure.
She climbed into the bed. It was narrow and sagged in the middle, far too soft for her liking. Simon Le Bon jumped up and slept next to her. In one hand she gripped her phone and the GPS alarm, the other hand wrapped around a tarnished trophy that Partial Sue had been awarded for cricket in her school days, in case she needed to defend herself from a knife-wielding furniture salesman.
While she lay there, sleep eluding her, Fiona started to regret not taking up DI Fincher’s offer of the safe house. Fear had her well and truly in its frigid embrace. But fear was not alone and had brought along a friend, a plus-one for the evening. Fiona shouldn’t have been surprised, the two of them complemented each other perfectly. It was back and stronger than ever.
Fiona rolled over on her other side, hoping to shrug off the hold It currently had over her mind. A futile exercise. As she lay there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, she realised that the dynamics of the situation had now changed. Before, she’d been the one on the hunt tracking down the killer. Now she was the victim, and that gave her depression the leverage it needed to bring her down and drive out all her self-worth.
Fragile and frightened, she gripped the trophy tightly in her shaking hand, keeping her eyes on the darkened bedroom door, willing the salvation of the morning to come.