Haunted Page 5

  I wait for a reply, but evidently my attempt at a joke fell flat and she still seems unsure.

  “Or we can come to yours,” I add finally, “and -”

  “No, we can come to you!” she stammers, almost as if the idea is overwhelming her. “Absolutely! We'd love to! I mean, we'd like to see inside, or... I mean...”

  Again, her voice trails off.

  “So Friday it is, then,” I continue. “We'll be looking forward to it, and I can even give you a grand tour of the place. It's really just a house, there's no blood on the walls or scratches or anything like that.”

  I wait, hoping she'll laugh, but I guess I really should just stop trying to be funny.

  “Friday,” she says finally, before taking a step back. “Absolutely. We'll come to dinner on Friday. I'm sure... Well, I'm sure it'll be lovely. I'm so sorry for disturbing you, I hope you don't think I was intruding, I just saw you out here and thought I should...”

  She pauses, and I can't help noticing that she's once again looking me up and down.

  “Introduce myself,” she whispers finally.

  “It's fine,” I reply. “Thank you for coming over. And I'll try to keep the fuchsia alive.”

  “The what?”

  “The fuchsia.” I pick up the plant. “The one you brought over.”

  “Oh, right.” She forces an embarrassed smile. “Of course.”

  She mumbles something, but I can't quite make out the words and then I'm left alone on the porch as she walks back toward her house. Once she reaches her own garden, she noticeably picks up the pace as if she's desperate to get inside, and finally I turn and look down at the plant in my hands.

  “Welcome to your new home,” I mutter, as I slip my phone from my pocket and start checking to see how to take care of fuchsias. “Don't worry, little dude. It's not remotely as scary as you might have heard.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sheriff Michael Blaine

  20 years ago

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Standing in the forest, staring down at the spot where Mo Garvey's body was found, it takes me a moment to even notice that I'm not alone. I turn and see that Tom Milford is traipsing this way between the trees, and frankly he looks exhausted.

  “It's so quiet,” I point out. “There's no sign she was even here.”

  He stops next to me and sets his briefcase down. All around us, the forest is utterly silent, save for occasional little crackling sounds in the distance and the caws of birds. He seems poised to say something, but instead his attention seems drawn to the patch of dirt where Mo's body lay earlier.

  “I had to come out this way anyway,” he mutters finally. “I want to take some samples.”

  “See that magpie?” I ask, looking past him.

  He turns, and for a moment we both watch as a magpie hops along a tree branch.

  “If I could come back one day, I'd come as a magpie,” I continue. “I used to watch them in the garden when I was young. They always make me feel calmer, somehow. I've been watching that little guy for a few minutes now, wondering what he makes of what happened here.” I turn to Tom. “Do you think other animals ever wonder what's wrong with humanity? Do you think they watch us butchering each other and feel complete, utter despair?”

  “I think you didn't call me out here so you could talk about magpies,” he replies sourly. “Humans aren't the only animals that kill their own, Michael. They aren't even the only animals that sometimes kill their young.”

  “Killing's one thing,” I reply, stepping around the spot where Mo was found, looking down at the mulchy leaves. “Mo Garvey wasn't just killed. She was -”

  “I know what happened to her,” Tom says firmly, interrupting me. “For God's sake, I've spent all morning examining the poor girl's body.”

  “Was it a crazed attack,” I ask, “or was it planned?”

  “A little of both. Planned first, then crazed later. Almost like two people, or one person with two aspects.”

  “I need to know if this was some opportunist who saw Mo Garvey out alone and decided to pounce,” I continue, “or if it was someone who planned her abduction and murder in advance. Her parents say she was allowed to play near the house, so she wasn't always being watched. That's not something all parents are fine with, so it's possible her killer noticed her playing and planned to take advantage. Also, given Mo's different personality, she might have been seen as an especially easy target.”

  “Her clothes were torn,” he replies. “If you ask me, that's a sign of someone who took his chance when he found it. Someone who couldn't wait to get to her. There's also the mud under the girl's fingernails. Did you read my latest email?”

  I turn to him. “What does the mud tell you?”

  “When she was found, her left hand had its fingers dug deep into the soil. I don't see why the killer would arrange her that way, so I'm running on the assumption that she died here and then her body was left more or less untouched. In which case, the killer must have brought her out here before he started doing what he did to her, or he started doing things to her elsewhere and finished her off here. Still, we're a long way from the road and it wouldn't be possible to drive a car through the forest. It would've been easier to kill her somewhere else and then just bring the body here to dump it. Also, there were those rainstorms when she first went missing, but her clothes don't seem to have been wet at any point. She must have been inside for at least a while.”

  “So something about bringing her here alive gave him an advantage,” I point out. “Either that, or he enjoyed bringing her here. Maybe there's -”

  “Can I give you some advice, Michael?” he adds suddenly.

  “I'll take anything you have right now.”

  “I don't mean in my professional capacity. I mean as a fellow resident of this town. As a friend and neighbor.”

  Realizing that he seems to be trying to change the topic, I hesitate before nodding.

  “You're not necessarily going to find whoever killed her,” he adds, “and you have to be prepared for that possibility.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “I'm just saying, don't measure your success in this case by whether or not you catch the killer. Measure your success by whether or not anything like this happens again. Catching the bad guy won't bring Mo Garvey back, and it won't undo the pain and trauma she experienced. The most important thing right now is that no other little girls get killed. If...”

  He hesitates for a moment, and I can tell that he's holding back, that he's trying to choose his words with great care. I just wish he'd get to the meat of whatever he's trying to say. I've known Tom Milford for a long time, and I've never seen him act so jumpy.

  “If you could be sure that nothing like this will happen again,” he continues finally, with a hint of desperation in his voice, “wouldn't that be enough? I mean, revenge isn't necessarily the most important thing here. Do we really want to catch this guy, only to string him up in the street and pelt him with rocks? For God's sake, we're not savages.”

  “Nobody's talking about mob justice,” I point out. “There's a system -”

  “Be careful who you go up against here,” he says suddenly.

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he's eyeing me with concern, as if he expects me to simply fold.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  He sighs.

  “What are you trying to say?” I continue. “Spit it out, Tom.”

  “Michael, don't make me...” He pauses, before sighing again. “This is a small town, but there are people here who have power.” He glances over his shoulder, as if he's worried that we might be overheard, and then he turns back to me. “What if I told you that this can all be taken care of behind the scenes?” he asks, lowering his voice. “You have to carry out your investigation, of course you do, you have to be seen to be doing something. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the situation is being taken care of and the end result is that nobody else has to suffer
. At the same time, the family of Mo Garvey will be discreetly approached with an offer.”

  “An offer?”

  “A reassurance that this won't happen again. That it has been dealt with discreetly.”

  “Like an old boy's network?”

  He sighs. “Michael -”

  “Do you know who did this?” I ask, feeling a sudden surge of anger. “Tom -”

  “I didn't say that at all.”

  “But you know something, don't you?”

  “Absolutely not.” Holding his leather-gloved hands up, as if in mock-surrender, he takes a step back. “I was just putting forward an idea, that's all. A possibility. The important thing to remember is that we're on the same side.” He pauses for a moment. “We're on the side of Railham, and the side of the good people who live here, and especially the side of the children. That's what matters, right? Keeping the town safe? And at the end of the day, everything's going to be okay, because the bad guys won't hurt anyone else.”

  I open my mouth to ask him exactly what he means, but I doubt I'd get a straight answer.

  “Are you trying to warn me away from this case?” I ask finally.

  “I'm trying to reassure you.”

  “You're not doing a very good job.”

  “Just do your thing,” he continues, before crouching down and opening his case, “and I'll do mine.”

  He takes out some sample jars and sets them down, and for a moment he seems focused on his work before eventually he glances up at me again.

  “Do your work,” he adds, “safe in the knowledge that others are also doing theirs.”

  “I have to be somewhere,” I say finally, stepping past him and setting off on the walk back to my car. “I have to go and talk to the parents of a murdered little girl. And I need to have more to tell them than simply that everything'll be alright in the end.”

  “You're a little late,” he mutters.

  I glance back at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that you might find someone has spoken to them already. Not me, I hasten to add, but...” He pauses, and this time I can see a hint of defeat in his eyes. “You're the goddamn sheriff, Michael,” he adds finally. “Come on, don't pretend you don't understand how things work around here. The wheels are already in motion. Higher powers than you or I are at work. Higher powers that keep this town and its inhabitants safe. We can trust them.”

  “Tell that to Mo Garvey,” I reply, before turning and walking away. “Where were these higher powers when she was being dragged into the forest?”

  As I head to my car, a magpie briefly hops along a nearby branch before suddenly flying away, startled, into the gray morning sky.

  ***

  “Later today,” I explain, “or by tomorrow morning at the latest, we'll have the results of a new set of lab tests. I'm confident that when those results are in, we'll have a lot more to go on, and we're already taking multiple approaches to the investigation. Somebody in town must have seen something suspicious, and we will find out what happened. As God is my witness, I swear we're going to get justice for your daughter.”

  I wait for either Maurice or Penelope Garvey to say something, but they're just watching me as we sit in their front room. Their eyes seem a little red, but apart from that they've been remarkably calm since I entered their home. I expected screaming and anger, but so far they've seemed to take everything in their stride. It's almost as if they're just humoring me by letting me say all these things.

  As if someone told them I'd come to visit, and that they had to listen to me.

  “I'm sure you must have a lot of questions,” I continue.

  “Not really,” Maurice replies.

  “You don't have to hold back,” I tell him. “I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through, but -”

  “We're sure you'll do your best,” he adds, interrupting me. “We have total faith in you, Sheriff Blaine, and in everyone here in Railham. We know you have the town's best interests at heart and -”

  Before he can finish, his wife suddenly mutters something under her breath and gets to her feet, quickly storming out of the room and slamming the door shut. Left alone with Maurice, I can't help but feel extremely uncomfortable. I don't want to believe the worst, but at the same time I'm starting to think that Tom Milford was right earlier. Maybe someone else has spoken to the family already. Told them things. Offered them things. Made promises.

  “You'll have to forgive my wife,” Maurice says after a moment, and now the words seem to catch slightly in his throat, “she's...”

  His voice trails off, and I swear I can see a hint of desperation in his eyes. It's almost as if there's something he wants to say, but that he can't quite get out. I wait, hoping that he might manage to get past whatever's stopping him, but still he seems as if something's holding him back.

  “We're moving away,” he stammers finally. “I mean, Penny and me, we're moving. Far away.”

  “So soon?”

  “We don't want to be around here anymore,” he continues. “I mean, our daughter just died, so we figured we'd try to start fresh somewhere else. We won't be coming back. Not ever.”

  “What about work?”

  “I'll find something.”

  “But -”

  “I said I'll find something!” he hisses. “Did you come here to tell us about the investigation, or did you come to start making veiled hints that we had something to do with our daughter's death?”

  “I...”

  Pausing for a moment, I can't help thinking that something seems to have freaked Maurice out. I know there's no right or wrong way for someone to behave less than forty-eight hours after his daughter was brutally murdered, but this situation definitely doesn't feel right.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” I ask cautiously, leaning closer. “It'd be in total confidence, Maurice.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Has someone...”

  I pause again, trying to figure out whether the stir of concern in my gut my have any real foundation. I really don't want to start judging this guy, but I can't help thinking that he seems almost scared of me, as if he just wants me to say my bit and leave. It's almost as if, as far as he's concerned, nothing I tell him is particularly relevant or important. As if he's been told to humor me.

  “You know how to reach me, right?” I say finally. “After I've left, if there's anything you want to tell me, there are multiple ways to get in touch. You can even swing by my house, Maurice. You know where I live, right?”

  “I do.”

  “So just swing by anytime.”

  “I don't think that'll be necessary.”

  “Sure, but -”

  “Really.” He swallows hard, and I swear he seems like a man who thinks he's in somebody's cross-hairs right now. “I trust you and I have faith in you. I'm sure you'll get this bastard soon.”

  “And your wife -”

  “My wife thinks the same,” he adds quickly. Too quickly. “We both have faith in you.”

  A short while later, as I head back to my car, I can't help glancing over my shoulder and looking toward the house. To my surprise, I see that Maurice's wife Penelope is watching me from one of the windows, although she quickly steps out of sight as soon as we make eye contact. I don't want to jump to any conclusions, but at the same time I can't ignore my gut instinct.

  Tom Milford was right. Somebody else got to the Garvey family before I showed up.

  Chapter Nine

  Alex Roberts

  Today

  “We're having dinner with old people,” Brad mutters on Friday night, as he adjusts his collar. “Why are we having dinner with old people?”

  “They're not old,” I reply, running a lint roller down my dress. “I think they're in their forties.”

  “That's old!”

  “I'm twenty-seven and you're twenty-nine,” I point out.

  “Exactly. We're young.”

  “If Diane and Tom M
ilford are old, then I think that makes us firmly middle-aged.”

  “Bull. We're young. They're old.”

  “You'll be thirty soon.”

  “Not in my head.” He taps his forehead. “In here, I'm not even twenty yet.”

  “Well, that at least I can believe,” I reply, rolling my eyes. Stepping up behind him, I place a hand on his waist. “Come on, this is our first proper, adult dinner as hosts. It's not a big deal. We can do this.”

  “Oh, I know we can. I just don't see why we'd want to.” He sighs. “They're going to be boring.”

  “They're probably thinking the same thing about us.”

  “What if it's contagious? What if they make us boring?”

  “I think we'll be fine.” After kissing the side of his neck, I take a moment to fix his collar. “This is us being normal. I know it might not be quite as exciting as our days in New York, but we couldn't stay like that forever. We're just living normal lives, like other people. Normal doesn't have to be boring. There's something to be said for that, isn't there?”

  “There sure is.” He kisses my forehead, but then he pauses. “Maybe soon we can start thinking about the next logical step. I mean, I think it's quite probable that we would have the most stunning kids in the whole wide world.” He waits for me to say something, but this is not a conversation I want to go through right now. “Alex?” he continues finally. “When are we going to talk about having kids?”

  I hesitate to answer, and then as I open my mouth I'm suddenly, miraculously saved by the sound of the doorbell downstairs.

  “Okay,” I say with a forced smile. “Let's do this dinner party.”

  ***

  “You'd be surprised what turns up in the gardens around here,” Tom Milford explains, evidently warming to his theme as the rest of us pick through the chicken breast main course, which thankfully isn't pink at all. “Little pieces of pottery, sometimes old horseshoes. You go out to loosen the soil around your leeks, and suddenly a little chunk of some old bowl comes up to say hello. Just goes to show the past never stays buried for long.”