Good Girl, Bad Blood

Pip tried not to look. She averted her eyes, but there was something about the house that dragged them right back. It could never be just a normal house, not after everything it had seen. It felt almost otherworldly, as though death clung to the air around it, making it shimmer in a way a house shouldn’t, with its crooked roofline and stippled bricks swallowed by ivy.

The Bells’ house. The place where Andie had died.

And through the window into the living room, Pip could see the back of Jason Bell’s head, the TV flickering at the other end. He must have heard their footsteps on the pavement outside because just then he snapped his head around and stared. He and Pip made eye contact for just a moment, and Jason’s gaze soured when he recognized her. Pip recoiled and dropped her eyes as they carried on, leaving the house behind. But she still felt marked in some way by Jason’s eyes.

‘So,’ Ravi said, unaware; clearly he hadn’t felt the same need to look at the house. ‘You got this idea from someone on Reddit?’ he asked as they walked up the road where it wound up to the church on top of the hill.

‘Yeah, and it’s a good theory,’ Pip said. ‘I should’ve thought of it.’

‘Any other good tips since the ep went out?’

‘Nah,’ she said, the effort of the steep hill breaking up her voice as they wound around a corner and the old church appeared in the distance, nestled among the tree tops. ‘Not unless you count the “I saw Jamie in a McDonalds in Aberdeen” tip. Or the one who saw him in the Louvre in Paris, apparently.’

They crossed the pedestrian bridge over the fast-moving road below, the sound of the cars like a rushing inside her ears.

‘OK,’ she said, as they neared and the churchyard split into two on either side of the building, the wide path separating them. ‘The Redditor thinks the “left” in the note might refer to left-hand side. So let’s check this way.’ She led Ravi off the path and on to the long stretch of grass to the left that wrapped around the hill. Everywhere you looked were flat marble plaques and standing gravestones in wavering rows.

‘What’s the name, Hillary . . . ?’ asked Ravi.

‘Hillary F. Weiseman, died 2006.’ Pip narrowed her eyes, studying the graves, Ravi beside her.

‘So, you think Nat da Silva lied to you?’ he asked between reading names.

‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘But they can’t both be telling the truth; their accounts totally contradict each other. So either Nat da Silva or Tom Nowak is lying. And I can’t help but think that Nat would have more reason to. Maybe Jamie did go to her house for a bit that night, and she just didn’t want to say so in front of her boyfriend. He seems quite scary.’

‘What’s his name again? Luke?’

‘Eaton, yeah. Or maybe she just didn’t want to tell me she saw Jamie because she doesn’t want to be involved. I didn’t exactly treat her well last time. Or she could be lying because she’s involved somehow. I got this weird feeling when I spoke to them about where they were Friday night, like I wasn’t getting the full story.’

‘But Jamie was seen alive and well on Wyvil Road almost an hour after that. So if he did go to Nat’s, he was fine when he left.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘So then why lie about it? What is there to hide?’

‘Or Tom could be lying,’ Ravi said, bending down to get a closer look at the faded letters on a plaque.

‘He could be,’ she sighed. ‘But why? And how could he have known that that house belonged to someone who’s . . . well, a person of interest?’

‘You going to talk to Nat again?’

‘Not sure.’ Pip wound down another row of graves. ‘I should, but I’m not sure she’ll talk to me again. She really hates me. And this week is hard enough for her anyway.’

‘I could go?’ Ravi said. ‘Maybe when Max’s trial is over.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Pip replied, but the thought that Jamie might still be missing by then made something in her sink. She quickened her pace. ‘We’re going too slowly. Let’s split up.’

‘No but I really really like you.’

And Pip could feel his smirk, even though she wasn’t looking at him.

‘We are in a graveyard. Behave.’

‘They can’t hear,’ he said, ducking from her frown. ‘OK fine, I’ll check this way.’ He traipsed up and over to the far side of the yard, starting at the other end to work back to her.

Pip lost him after a few minutes, behind an unkempt hedgerow, and it was like she was alone. Standing here in this field of names. There was no one else around; it was dead-of-night quiet, even though it was only six o’clock.

She reached the end of another row, no sign of Hillary, when she heard a shout. Ravi’s voice was faint as the wind carried it away from her, but she could see his waving hand above the hedges and hurried over to him.

‘You found it?’ she said, breathless now.

‘In loving memory of Hillary F. Weiseman,’ he read out, standing over a black marble plaque with gold lettering. ‘Died 4th October 2006. Beloved mother and grandmother. You will be missed dearly.’

‘That’s her,’ Pip said, looking around. This part of the graveyard was almost closed in, sheltered by a row of hedges on one side and a cluster of trees on the other. ‘It’s well covered here. You can’t really be seen from any side, apart from the path up there.’

He nodded. ‘Would make a good secret meeting spot, if that’s what it was.’

‘But with who? We know Jamie never met Layla in real life.’

‘What about those?’ Ravi pointed down to a small bouquet of flowers, laid beside Hillary’s grave.

They were dried out and dead, petals flaking away as Pip closed her fingers around the plastic packaging. ‘Clearly left here several weeks ago,’ she said, spotting a small white card in the middle of the flowers. Blue ink bled down the paper, from the rain, but the imprints of the words were still legible.

‘Dear Mum, Happy Birthday! Miss you every day. Love from Mary, Harry and Joe,’ she read out to Ravi.

‘Mary, Harry and Joe,’ Ravi said thoughtfully. ‘Do we know them?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I looked on the electoral register and couldn’t find anyone living in Kilton now with the surname Weiseman.’

‘They probably aren’t Weisemans then.’

They heard a scuffling set of footsteps on the gravel path above, drawing closer. Pip and Ravi spun on their heels to see who it was. Pip felt a tightening in her chest, like she’d been caught somewhere she shouldn’t, as she watched the man cross into view from behind the canopy of wind-shivering willow. It was Stanley Forbes, and he looked just as shocked to see them, flinching with a sharp intake of breath when he spotted them there, hiding in the shadows.

‘Crap, you scared me,’ he said, holding one hand to his chest.

‘Are you allowed to say “crap” near a church?’ Ravi smiled, immediately breaking the tension.

‘Sorry,’ Pip said, dead flowers still in her hand. ‘What are you doing here?’ A perfectly fair question, she thought; there was no one else in the graveyard except them, and they weren’t exactly here for ordinary reasons.

‘I’m er . . .’ Stanley looked taken aback. ‘I’m here to talk to the vicar about a story for next week’s paper. Why? Why are you here?’ He returned the question, squinting so he could read the grave they were standing at.

Well, he’d caught them, Pip might as well give it a go. ‘Hey Stanley,’ she said, ‘you know most people in town, right? Because of the newspaper. Do you know the family of a woman called Hillary Weiseman, daughter called Mary, and maybe two sons or grandsons called Harry and Joe?’

He narrowed his eyes, like this was one of the stranger things he’d ever been asked after bumping into two people lurking in a graveyard. ‘Well, yes, I do. So do you. That’s Mary Scythe. The Mary who volunteers at the paper with me. Those are her sons, Harry and Joe.’

And as he said that, something clicked in Pip’s head.

‘Harry Scythe. Does he work at The Book Cellar?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, I think he does,’ Stanley said, shuffling his feet. ‘Does this have something to do with that disappearance you’re looking into, Jamie Reynolds?’

‘It might.’ She shrugged, reading something like disappointment on his face when she didn’t elaborate. Well, sorry; she didn’t want a small-town volunteer journalist chasing the story too, getting in her way. But maybe that wasn’t entirely fair; Stanley had printed the missing poster in the Kilton Mail like she’d asked, and it had brought people to her with information. ‘Um,’ she added, ‘I just wanted to say thank you for printing that notice in the paper, Stanley. You didn’t have to, and it’s really helped. So, yeah. Thanks. For that.’

‘That’s OK,’ he smiled, looking between her and Ravi. ‘And I hope you find him. I mean, I’m sure you will.’ He rolled up one sleeve to look at the time. ‘I better go, don’t want to keep the vicar waiting. Um. Yeah. OK. Bye.’ He flashed them a small awkward wave, down by his waist, and walked off towards the church.

‘Harry Scythe was one of the witnesses on Wyvil Road,’ Pip told Ravi in a hushed tone, watching Stanley walk away.

‘Huh, really?’ Ravi said. ‘Small town.’

‘It is,’ Pip said, laying the dead flowers back by Hillary’s grave. ‘It is a small town.’ She wasn’t sure if this meant anything other than that. And she wasn’t sure that coming here had explained anything about that scrap of paper in Jamie’s bin, other than he possibly came here to meet someone, here under these same shadows. But it was too unclear, too vague to be a proper lead.

‘Come on. We should get the trial update done and out of the way,’ Ravi said, taking her hand, winding his fingers between hers. ‘Also, I can’t believe you actually said thank you to Stanley Forbes.’ He pulled a face at her, like he was frozen in shock, eyes crossing over each other.

‘Stop.’ She nudged him.

‘You actually being nice to someone.’ The stupid face continued. ‘Well done. Gold star for you, Pip.’

‘Shut up.’