Olivia lowers her head, Jenna’s words hanging between them in the air. It’s only her now. Her words. Her story. Nobody can twist things, say things that aren’t true when the words are coming out of her mouth and recorded. Maybe she should agree to the interview. She’d have a voice at last, a way to control the narrative, to stop people speculating. People would be forced to listen to what she’s got to say. Yes, it would be her word on what happened that night. The final word.
‘Okay, then,’ Olivia finds herself saying. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do the interview.’
Jenna leans forward, her face shining with delight. ‘You will? Oh, that’s amazing, thank you, Olivia.’
‘But please don’t mention it to Wesley. Or to anyone for now. Is that okay?’
‘Of course. Do you want to come over to my cabin this evening? Around five-ish? It will be quiet there and private. I can pick you up.’
‘Um … I don’t really want anyone to see us.’
‘Okay. What about if I wait for you in the road opposite the farm? I’ll park down the lane a bit so I’m not seen.’ Jenna looks so keen that Olivia doesn’t want to disappoint her. Her obvious approval gives Olivia a rare, warm glow, like she’s given the right answer in class. And then she feels a flash of uncertainty. Can she really do this? Wesley will be furious with her. But he already is, a little voice inside her head says. So what difference does it make?
And doesn’t she owe it to her friends? And to Ralph? The hero who saved her life that night? Everyone should know what he did. Her heart lurches when she thinks of him. Oh, Ralph. He was the spectre of the forest. He knew things, saw things, kept secrets.
After all, he’d kept hers for all these years.
25
Jenna
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a lift home?’ I ask Olivia, as I stand up. She’d looked so pale when she first arrived, and even though the colour is back in her cheeks, I can see from how she winces every few minutes that her leg is giving her pain.
Olivia shakes her head. ‘It’s fine. Thank you, though. I’ll give my mum a call in a bit and she’ll pick me up. I’d like to stay awhile …’ She touches the petals of one of the pink roses, concentration on her face. ‘Did these flowers come with a card?’
‘Um … actually, I saw this note.’ I reach over and pluck it from the roses to show her. I’ve already taken a photo of it. ‘I was just being nosy and wondered who they were from.’ I don’t want her to think I’m being underhand. That she’s agreed to be interviewed for the podcast is a massive coup but I can see she’s a bit wobbly about it, and I imagine it wouldn’t take much for her to change her mind. I notice how her hand trembles when she reads the note. Does she recognize the handwriting? ‘Do you know who it’s from? The same person wrote a note on my car.’
Her eyes widen. ‘What kind of note?’
‘It said, “Leave town or you’ll be next.” Charming.’ I roll my eyes.
She shakes her head and composes herself. ‘It could be from anyone. I imagine everyone is sorry, and most around here don’t like journalists poking their noses in. It doesn’t imply guilt.’
I’m intrigued by her defensive tone. I watch her carefully: her composed expression and the fingers that still tremble as she folds the note and slips it back into the bouquet. But I don’t want to say anything that might upset her. I can ask her more about it after she’s done the interview.
When I’m halfway across the field I turn back to see Olivia has her head in her hands. I waver. Should I go back and insist that I drive her home? No. She’s a grown woman, for goodness’ sake. Just because she has vulnerability about her I shouldn’t treat her as a child. And time is getting on. I need to head to Jay Knapton’s place now.
But I do feel a surge of excitement as I get back into the car. The podcast will be so much better now that Olivia has agreed to an interview. I hope Wesley isn’t too hard on her when he finds out.
It’s about a seven-minute drive to Jay’s offices on the edge of town, behind the shops and back-streets of Stafferbury. It’s not as salubrious out here on the side of the town that the tourists don’t see: a winding maze of 1960s office blocks and industrial estates.
Jay’s office is in a typically unappealing industrial unit that shares a car park with a few other equally soulless buildings. It looks as though five different companies share this building with him. I press the buzzer for Knapton Developments and I’m buzzed through straight away.
It’s just gone 2 p.m. but the reception area is empty and surprisingly small, with just one desk crammed up against a tiny window and a dusty Swiss cheese plant in the corner next to a filing cabinet with a cheap plastic kettle on top. There is another door off the reception area, which is suddenly flung open. Jay rushes out, clasping an A4 leather-bound book to his chest.
‘Oh, hi,’ he says, staring at me as though he’s forgotten who I am even though he only saw me this morning. He looks around the small space. ‘Where’s Lydia?’
I shrug in response. ‘It was empty when I got here but someone buzzed me in.’
‘I bet she’s gone for a fag again. I keep telling her not to take so many breaks. Anyway, come in, come in,’ he says, ushering me through the door into his office. It’s even smaller than the ‘reception area’， with just enough room for a desk, two chairs, and a table in the corner on which sits a compact archaic coffee machine. He waves his notebook in its direction. ‘Would you like one?’
‘Yes, please, black. Decaf if possible,’ I say, pulling out the chair in front of his desk and sitting on it. It’s claustrophobic in here and smells of new carpets and old ashtrays.
He dumps the notebook on his desk and takes off his jacket. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt that shows off his tanned arms. I can see the edge of what looks like a tattoo on his left bicep. ‘Ah, yes, something stupid I did in my youth,’ he says, when he sees me looking. He pulls up the hem of his sleeve to show me. It’s some kind of symbol, in Chinese.
‘What does it mean?’ I ask.
‘Courage. It was to remind me to take chances in life. To take risks. Silly, really.’ And I try to imagine what type of man he was in his youth before he was a corporate businessman in an expensive suit. He goes to the coffee machine. We’re silent as the machine gurgles away and then he hands me a white mug with KNAPTON DEVELOPMENTS written on the side. He pushes his glasses onto his nose and smiles broadly. He has very tanned skin, as if he uses a sunbed. There is nothing personal on his desk, no family photos or homely trinkets, and his hands are bare of any rings.
‘Do you mind if I record you?’ I ask, as I get out my phone. ‘I might not necessarily use everything you say.’ I’m wondering whether I’ll need Jay’s interview now that I’ll have Olivia, Dale and Brenda. He wasn’t even living in Stafferbury at the time so I don’t know if he can tell me anything useful. I’m hoping he can just give me some local colour – rumours that have never faded about the case maybe. Or other eerie happenings.