The air was still hot and sticky as they walked through the huge kitchen and out onto the patio. The sky had turned a beautiful shade of pink and gold but, despite the humidity, Stace shivered. What had Derreck and John-Paul been talking about? And what happened in Goa? She suddenly realized John-Paul and Derreck had a whole past that she knew nothing about.
13
Jenna
I fire up my laptop and type ‘DS Dale Crawford’ into Google. Thankfully, there is Wi-Fi in the cabin even if it is a little sketchy at times. As soon as I enter his name a photo comes up of an attractive guy in his thirties with hooded hazel eyes and messy light brown hair. It’s from a piece in the Guardian about how he helped crack a decades-old cold case involving an elderly couple who had been found suffocated at their cottage in Devizes. Another article describes him as a ‘rising star at Wiltshire CID’， then goes on to detail all the recent investigations he’s worked on, mainly from years ago and involving murdered or missing people. I’m impressed. I check the time. It’s almost 3.30 p.m. I’d better get a move on if I want to visit Ralph Middleton. I should do it now before it gets dark.
I’m wearing more practical clothing this time: my bright yellow wellies and a raincoat over jeans and a warm jumper. Brenda had said Ralph’s caravan wasn’t far from this cabin. Let’s just hope I don’t get lost trying to find it.
When I open the front door I’m half expecting to see the dead animal remains back on my porch, but fortunately there’s nothing. The rain has stopped but a mist is suspended between the trees and there is dampness in the air. I inhale the smell of soil and scented pine as I hover on the porch, not sure which way to head. There is a path that snakes through the forest, past the cabin diagonally in front of mine – the same path the person with the German Shepherd took yesterday. I decide to go that way, pull my bag strap across my body and hunch my shoulders against the wind. I have my mace in my pocket, just in case. Mud squelches under my rubber soles as I make my way past the other cabin. Now I’m closer to it I can see it is named Foxglove. There are no signs of life from inside. I follow the footsteps that are already formed in the mud as the pathway curves to the right. Over to the left I see two more cabins poking out of the trees.
As I head deeper into the forest my heart starts to beat that little bit faster. I keep to the path but the terrain is rougher in here, the treetops like a green canopy above my head so that, when the rain begins again, I barely feel it. I can just hear the tap of it as it hits the trees. It’s as though I’m walking into another world and I can smell smoke, like a dying bonfire. I trudge on. I hope I don’t get lost and that this main path leads me to Ralph Middleton’s caravan.
I walk for another ten minutes, feeling less and less sure of myself until eventually I stumble into a clearing and find the source of the smoke I could smell. A bonfire is smouldering half-heartedly, and next to it stands a small beaten-up caravan that can’t be bigger than a four-berth. It has rust around the window and a pair of ugly orange curtains hanging limply. This must be it. I hear the tinkle of a windchime I can see swinging from a nearby tree. The sound is eerie. The rain is heavier here without the protection of the canopy of leaves. I walk around the fire. There are no flames, which isn’t surprising, given the rain, just wood, black and charred. In front of it is an old camping chair, the fabric coming away from its metal frame.
I stop, holding my breath. I can hear raised voices inside the caravan. I hesitate, wondering whether to knock, but before I’ve had the chance, the door is flung open and I have to jump back to avoid being hit in the face.
Olivia steps down onto the grass, a black beanie pulled over dark blonde hair. She turns to me, her face white and pinched, her eyes puffy. I take a step towards her but she cowers away from me. She turns without speaking and strides past me in the direction I’ve just come. I notice she’s limping slightly.
Ralph appears in the doorway, confusion written on his face. His hair is thin on top and gathered at the base of his neck in a ponytail. He looks like an ageing rocker. He’s wearing a baggy black jumper and khaki cargo trousers with heavy biker boots. He looks from me to Olivia’s retreating back. By his side is his three-legged dog, which fixes me with huge dark eyes.
‘Hi,’ I begin. ‘I don’t know if you remember me from yesterday?’
He frowns and strokes his greying beard but he doesn’t take his eyes off Olivia’s yellow coat, which flickers through the trees until she’s out of sight.
When she’s gone he turns to me. ‘She’s upset,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘Why?’
He touches the top of his head where the hair is thinning, looking agitated. ‘She’s upset,’ he repeats. ‘I’ve upset her.’
‘What did you do?’
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t say. I’m not allowed to say.’
‘Did … did you hurt her, Ralph?’
His dark eyes are sad. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt her. I’d never hurt her.’ His shoulders droop and he pats the dog’s head.
‘Can I …’ I clear my throat, not sure how to ask ‘… I was wondering if I might come in and have a chat?’
He looks at me suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘My name is Jenna Halliday.’ I smile encouragingly at him and, hating myself for it, I pull my long hair over my shoulder. The red hair that Gavin used to say was like the colour of russet autumn leaves. ‘I’m making a podcast about Olivia’s accident and her friends’ disappearance and was wondering if I could interview you.’
‘Why? I don’t know anything.’
‘Just because you found her that night. You saved her life, Ralph.’
He assesses me as though he’s not sure whether to believe me. But then, to my relief, he stands aside to let me in. ‘I … It ain’t much, mind.’
I tell him I don’t care about that as I step up into the caravan. Straight away I’m hit by the smell of wet dog mixed with beef soup, but his caravan is tidy yet sparse. I can see it has a small bedroom off the main area and, next to it, a toilet. He indicates the table at the opposite end and I inch past the kitchenette to get to it. The brown sofa is ripped in places, foam oozing from the cracks, and a tabby cat is curled up in the corner.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asks. ‘I ain’t got no milk, mind. Olivia used the last of it.’
I spot two green plastic camping mugs on the melamine worktop. ‘I’d love a coffee if you have any. I have it black anyway.’
He nods and opens a little cupboard above his head and takes out two clean plastic mugs. I notice how his hands shake as he switches the little kettle on and my eye goes to a bin in the corner piled high with empty lager cans.
‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask, as he scoops some Nescafé into my mug.
‘Years and years,’ he says. His accent is thick West Country. ‘My stepdad threw me out when I was seventeen. I’ve been here ever since. The caravan was my ma’s, like. She took pity on me, I think. Not pity enough to kick out that scumbag of a husband, mind.’
I watch as he pours the hot water into the mugs, then ambles towards me. He seems too big for this small space. He sits opposite me, sliding my mug across the table. The tabby cat stretches and resumes its sleeping position. I stroke its soft head. Out of the corner of my eye I see something scurry out from under the table and towards the bedroom. I squeal with surprise.