Cherringham--Trail of Lies Read online

  “Not Holly’s fault,” said Amy, looking ahead up the track past Jasmine. They’d already been trekking for the best part of half-an-hour through this dark wood, the trail constantly disappearing in the undergrowth and mud so they’d had to keep stopping and checking the map.

  The only constant, the dark waters of the lake just visible through the trees below them as they circled it.

  Sometimes having to go deeper into the wood to avoid sharp drops and cliff edges.

  Now though, the woods up ahead seemed to be lighter, the sky at last visible through the tree tops.

  “Nearly there,” she said, putting her hand on Holly’s shoulder. “Go on.”

  Holly smiled and pushed on up the track past her towards Jasmine.

  Amy watched her go — and then her eye caught a movement, something in the darkness of the trees to one side.

  Then — a tiny flash of light — like sunlight caught on glass …

  She spun round, staring into the dense mass of oaks and pine.

  There! Yes! Something there! An animal?

  Or … Someone …?

  A dark shape — visible for a moment only as a pattern of darkness different from the darkness around it. The shape seemed to slide behind the fat trunk of a distant oak.

  A distant rustle, the crack of a twig.

  Then it was gone.

  Amy stayed still, listened. The only sound — her own breath.

  Her chest suddenly tight — her heart pounding.

  Her brain coming to the obvious conclusion.

  The shape had looked like …

  A person.

  She looked up the slope ahead — Jasmine now out of sight, Holly just reaching the top of the hill.

  Don’t want to be down here alone, she thought.

  And she stepped back onto the path, her boots slipping on the mud even more as she hurried, and pushed on up the hill.

  *

  Holly tested the last guy rope anchoring Amy’s tent, and then moved onto Jasmine’s. Getting hard to see now in the gathering darkness.

  As usual, all of Jasmine’s ropes were loose.

  No surprise there, she thought.

  She looked across at the other two girls sitting at the flickering campfire, both huddled over a little pan, making hot chocolate.

  “Don’t drink it all without me,” she said, pulling one of Jasmine’s pegs farther from her tent, and hammering it in.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Amy.

  “Do hurry up though,” said Jasmine.

  Holly stepped back from the tent and looked around the camp.

  Not bad.

  The three little one-person tents, perfectly symmetrical, on three points of the compass, entrance flaps pointing inwards so they could all see each other when they finally went to sleep.

  Bit of reassurance there.

  Nicely sheltered here in this grassy glade, and no danger of any big branches coming down on them in the night if it got windy.

  Gas lights hanging on the front of each tent — like something out of a kids’ adventure book, she thought.

  She loved it.

  So comfy these last few nights, wrapped up in her sleeping bag, knowing that Amy was just there, within reach, within earshot.

  And even Jasmine too — though Holly didn’t have much to say to Jasmine.

  She knew Jasmine didn’t like her — maybe despised her — but she’d been determined all week not to let that get to her.

  And it hadn’t.

  She felt proud of what she’d achieved. Navigating fifty miles on foot, two hostel nights, three nights camping, a few panic attacks, sure …

  But no giving up, no tears.

  She couldn’t wait to tell mum.

  Time for cocoa.

  But then …

  A rustle in the trees behind her.

  She spun round — but she couldn’t see anything.

  “Feel that? Bit of a wind coming up,” said Amy, getting up from the campfire and coming over to her with a steaming mug. “Here — no sugar — right?”

  Holly nodded and took the drink. “Thanks. Can I show you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “This way,” she said, crossing by the campfire and walking ahead of Amy outside the circle of lights. “Can you see okay?”

  “Fine,” said Amy catching up, and Holly felt her arm go through hers.

  After a minute, she stopped, then pointed through a gap in the trees that she’d noticed earlier.

  Far away in the valley below, she could see a warm cluster of lights … and the ribbon of street lights that headed out of the village past the school.

  “Cherringham,” she said.

  “Wow,” said Amy. “It looks so close! Like you could reach out and touch it!”

  “Just a couple of hours’ walk tomorrow. Easy, downhill.”

  “Like you promised,” said Amy.

  “Like I promised,” said Holly.

  At that moment the clouds drifted open and a half-moon appeared, lighting the valley.

  Holly could see the Thames now, silver as it looped across the plain between them and the village.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” said Holly, feeling the warmth of Amy’s arm still through hers.

  “Amazing. To think we’ve spent all our lives together down there,” said Amy, “and then — in September — we’ll all just … fly away … and live different lives completely.”

  “Like butterflies,” said Holly, feeling she was going to remember this moment with Amy for ever and ever.

  “Eugh,” said Amy. “Butterflies — that means that now … we’re caterpillars?”

  Holly laughed. “Sometimes I think I am,” said Holly. “Hoping things may change for me. That … I will change. So, a caterpillar … maybe. I’m sure that’s what Jasmine thinks.”

  “Listen — who cares what Jasmine thinks,” said Amy. “I don’t.”

  Then Holly shivered. “Come on, let’s get back to that fire, I’m freezing!”

  They turned to go — then Holly heard Amy’s phone ping in her pocket. She waited while Amy dug it out and scanned the screen.

  “Um, just be a minute,” said Amy. “You go ahead, I’ll catch you up.”

  “Sure,” said Holly, and she walked back towards the campfire where she could see Jasmine sitting with her hot chocolate.

  Probably hadn’t even noticed the moon appearing.

  But behind her, she heard Amy talking quietly on her phone.

  Time to start cooking dinner, she thought.

  Jasmine isn’t going to, that’s for sure.

  *

  “Night, Amy. Night, Jasmine,” said Holly, turning off her torch and putting it next to her sleeping bag.

  The only light now the flickering, dying campfire embers — visible at the end of her sleeping bag through the closed flaps of the tent.

  “Night, Holly. Night, Amy,” came Jasmine’s voice.

  “Night, Jasmine. Night Holly!”

  Holly smiled to herself and snuggled up in her bag and waited as the other two tent lights went out.

  She shut her eyes and started to think back through the day — the high points, the low points …

  And then, this final, beautiful night by the campfire, the three of them chatting away about the past — and the future.

  Jasmine off to St Andrews. Amy to Cambridge.

  Holly thought of Amy in a gown and mortar board, riding on her bicycle to lectures, punting on the river with friends, bottles of champagne popping, being so clever in tutorials, acing her finals …

  That would be Amy’s life.

  Fun. And brilliant. Standing up to anyone who tried to put her down.

  And seconds later, those images in mind, she quickly fell fast asleep.

  *

  Sometime around two or maybe three — she couldn’t be sure of the time exactly — she thought she heard something in the distance.

  The sound startling her awake.

  Then — that
first chilling thought.

  Sounded like a scream.

  Then thinking. A fox’s screeching cry? Or maybe a bird? Some night owl she had never heard before?

  Yes. A bird, an animal, she thought.

  Had to be. But what if it was something bigger?

  And she was up, immediately scared, her heart beating fast.

  She listened carefully, staring into the darkness of her tent — but heard nothing more.

  Sounded a long way away. And anyway — it was probably just a dream.

  She lay back, pulled her sleeping bag tight … and soon drifted back to sleep.

  *

  A little while later, she woke again.

  No scream, no bird call this time … but sure she’d heard a sound just outside the tent flap.

  Movement. The crack of a twig being stepped on.

  She sat up, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark.

  She couldn’t see much through the fabric of the tent as the fire had now completely died down, the moon hidden behind clouds.

  She leaned forward in her sleeping bag and peered through a gap in the tent flap. Jasmine was climbing back into her tent.

  Must have gone for a pee, she thought.

  Holly watched silently as Jasmine clipped her tent flap shut — clip by clip.

  She looked at Amy’s tent. The flap shut tight.

  Nothing to worry about, she thought, and again drifted back to sleep, hopefully to dream of next day and the triumphant return of the three girls to school after their great adventure.

  *

  But next day, only two girls returned to Cherringham High.

  3. Rest in Peace

  Sarah Edwards slipped quietly into the back of St James’s Church, and squeezed into a small space on the last pew.

  She looked around the church. The place as full as she’d ever seen it.

  The heady scent of lilies, and the measured chords of Pachelbel’s Canon underscored the low murmur of conversations around the church.

  Here and there, sobbing.

  Ahead, in front of the altar, a coffin on trestles. Heaped high upon it — an enormous array of wreaths and bouquets of flowers.

  The altar itself was wrapped around with more flowers than Sarah had ever seen here — the colours rich and vibrant, oddly speaking of life at this sombre moment dealing with death.

  And though most of the congregation in front of her wore black, some souls had gone against convention by wearing bright colours — reds and pinks and greens.

  She looked through the rows. The first two or three were clearly for family — parents, elderly relatives, cousins and so on, she guessed.

  Then behind, row after crowded row: young people. Teenagers. Hardly boys and girls any more — these children, she knew, were nearly men and women.

  Full lives ahead of them; save for one.

  A lot of teachers as well, dotted among the pews; many she recognised. Some had taught her own kids, Daniel and Chloe.

  And among them, Louise James, the amazing head who had become something of a friend in recent years — though only as much of a friend as she could be, until Daniel finally left school this year.

  Daniel …

  She looked through the rows again, trying to spot him. The girls looking so alike — did they mean to? Same hair, same make-up, same voices even.

  And the boys. Awkward. Spilling over on the narrow seats — most looking serious, drawn, clearly affected — one or two fidgeting, giggling even, as if this dreadful and unexpected rite of passage was somehow too much for them.

  Ah — there was Daniel.

  Sitting upright, hands together in his lap. Not religious — Sarah knew that — but he had a definite spiritual side. Certainly here, now.

  Poor kid. The last weeks had been difficult for him. A lot of tears. And anger.

  Sarah and her older daughter Chloe had both had to tread carefully — being there for a hug and a talk, but only when the time was right — backing off when Daniel needed it.

  She knew that many of the other parents had faced the same challenge — and as she scanned the church she saw familiar faces, some nodding to her in recognition.

  This loss had hit the village hard.

  Between the Cherringham parents, too, there’d been so many late-night phone conversations, and unexpected meetings and suppers these last few weeks.

  The unexpected death had drawn them together for support. Sarah had reconnected with old friends from the village that she had hardly seen since Daniel was at primary school.

  Then, Sarah saw the door to the vestry open, and the choir emerged, to take their places either side of the altar.

  Behind them, Reverend Hewitt walked slowly to the centre of the church, to stand in front of the coffin.

  The congregation now utterly silent.

  A long pause.

  This is too heartbreaking to bear, thought Sarah, wondering how any parent could possibly ever deal with it.

  And praying that it should never happen to her.

  Then the Reverend Hewitt’s calm, warm tones filled the church.

  “Dear family … friends … we are gathered here today, to mourn a great loss, but also to celebrate a life. Our Amy Roberts — taken from us so suddenly and so tragically, just weeks ago …”

  *

  Sarah stood at the edge of the churchyard and pulled her coat tight against the cold wind.

  The grim service at the graveside was clearly nearly over, and she could see the students from school, Daniel among them, line up to take a handful of earth and drop it into the grave.

  So sad.

  “Dreadful thing, to lose a child,” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Tony Standish — lawyer and such a good old family friend — approaching.

  He leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks.

  And Tony, always one to feel things, showed the tell-tale signs that he too had shed tears.

  “I-I couldn’t bear to stand by the grave, Tony.”

  “I know.”

  “She had such an amazing life ahead of her, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve lost count of the number of funerals I’ve attended over the years, but you know, Sarah, when it’s folks of my age, well, I can bear it. Sometimes even enjoy the chance to catch up with old friends! Celebrating a full life, well lived. But this? A child …”

  “Do you know the family?” said Sarah.

  “Peter and Christine — yes — professionally. Can’t say I know them, if you know what I mean. I assume your Daniel was her classmate, hmm?”

  She nodded. “He has a good friend who was one of Amy’s friends.”

  “How’s he coping?”

  “In some ways, better than I could have hoped,” said Sarah. “In others … oh, look here they come anyway. You can say hi.”

  Sarah could see the mourners now leaving the grave and heading down the main path towards them, past ancient headstones and drooping trees.

  She waited with Tony as they passed, mostly silent, reflective.

  Then in the crowd, she saw Daniel walking with his friend Holly, one arm around her shoulder, comforting her.

  That’s my Daniel, she thought.

  He paused as they passed, then guided Holly over. “Mum.”

  “Holly — I’m so sorry,” said Sarah.

  Sarah could see the girl was barely able to speak — her face tear-streaked, her hands shaking.

  “I’m going to get Holly home, Mum,” said Daniel.

  “Course, love. Take care now. I’ll see you later.”

  She watched the two of them head down the path into the village.

  Then she turned as the parents — Peter and Christine Roberts — approached and shook hands with Tony.

  She took in the mother and father. Peter — tall, immaculate in a black wool coat and hat, face betraying nothing, eyes so cold. And Christine — elegant, also perfectly dressed, but face drawn, grey, any expression absent as if she was on drugs, tranquilisers.
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  Which she probably is, thought Sarah. Who wouldn’t be?

  She waited as they both exchanged hushed words with Tony. Then surprisingly, the father turned to her.

  “Sarah Edwards — isn’t it?”

  The voice so low, hollow.

  “Yes,” said Sarah, wondering how he knew.

  “I saw Daniel with you, just now,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Hmm, yes. Thank you.”

  How many times had the poor man heard those words?

  “Well, there’s something … that I want to talk to you about.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Sarah, not at all sure where this conversation was heading.

  The man looked around; again, the voice so low. Just a conversation for the two of them.

  “I’m not satisfied with how things have been handled.” A quick look to his wife. “Correction — we’re not satisfied.”

  “I don’t understand …”

  “Well it’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it?” he said, his voice suddenly rising. “I mean the police have totally mishandled the investigation into Amy’s death.”

  Sarah waited, feeling uncomfortable having this conversation as mourners and children were still filing past.

  People might hear.

  “Mr Roberts — perhaps this isn’t the place …?”

  She watched him take this in, then look around as if he genuinely had forgotten where they were.

  “Oh, yes well. You’re coming to the house now, I assume?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Sarah. “I have to get back to work.”

  Even if she had planned to go — Sarah knew she would have declined the invitation in these circumstances. Such events, for family and the closest of friends.

  “Ah,” said Peter. “That’s — er — very inconvenient, you know.”

  Sarah stayed quiet. Stress affected people in different ways and in the case of Peter Roberts tact was clearly one of the first casualties.

  Sarah reached into her handbag and produced a card, which she handed to him.

  “Why don’t you call my office, and we’ll arrange to meet?”

  She watched him stare at the card, then back at her, as if this was all too difficult to process.

  “Then you — and your wife — can explain what it is that concerns you. And I’ll get my colleague Jack Brennan to join us. See if there is anything we might do to help.”