As a journalist I’ve reported on this before, usually young women in nightclubs. ‘God, Olivia. Have you gone to the police?’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she wails. ‘I was in such a state when Dale found me.’
‘Dale found you?’ My voice comes out strangled.
She explains about him finding her at the stones and I grip the steering wheel, my mind racing.
And then, just when I think it can’t get any worse, she tells me about Wesley disappearing, then returning later with a cardboard box and another phone. ‘I just know,’ she says, with a sob, ‘that he’s up to no good. And I was hoping he’d go to work first so that I could find the box and see what was inside but he couldn’t get rid of me quickly enough this morning. When I suggested going into work late and letting myself out, he wouldn’t hear of it. It was obvious he didn’t want me alone in his flat.’
‘But he left you last night?’
‘Yeah, because he thought I’d be out for the count. But still … to leave me like that at night after what I’d been through.’
Is she beginning to see what I could all along? That the only person Wesley really cares about is himself?
I turn left off the high street, drive past The Raven and the buildings fall away, everything more countrified.
‘It was round about here,’ she says, pointing to a stretch of pavement. There are no houses along here, just hedgerows and fields on either side until you reach the riding stables. ‘The last thing I remember is walking along here and then I felt a hand, across my face, and that must have been when the person injected me. I remember …’ she frowns ‘… I remember stumbling into someone’s arms. But I can’t … I can’t catch the memory.’
Her voice sounds small and vulnerable, and my heart aches for her. Sometimes I forget she’s my age – she just seems so much younger. So na?ve and innocent. And then I remember the note. Maybe not that innocent, after all. Have I got her wrong? Is this just a manipulative game she plays to make everyone underestimate her?
‘It’s all so confusing,’ she says, as I manoeuvre into her driveway and pull up alongside her mother’s Land Rover. ‘And now,’ she lowers her voice, ‘my mum has suddenly announced – by text, no less – that we need to talk about my father.’
I turn to her in surprise. ‘What?’
‘She’s never told me much about him except to say she was going out with him for a while but they split up when she fell pregnant. Nobody ever talked about him. Like once I remember asking Sally’s mum – she was really good friends with my mum, at least she was until the accident – but she just told me he was a “bad egg” and that I was better off without him in my life. I began to wonder if maybe Mum was lying, that there had been no boyfriend and she’d been raped or something awful.’
‘Oh, my God, do you think that’s the case?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ She looks down at the bobble hat sitting in her lap. ‘I’m almost scared to find out.’ She doesn’t move from the passenger seat.
‘It’ll be okay,’ I say, trying to reassure her even though I have no idea if that’s true.
‘I just wonder why she wants to tell me all this now,’ she says, almost to herself. She sighs heavily. ‘Right. I’d better go and find out.’ She flashes me a pained smile and pulls on her hat. ‘I was supposed to feed the horses this morning so she’ll be pissed off at me about that.’
‘God, Olivia. You’ve been attacked. You should be going to the police. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. It’s okay. I’ll do it later.’
‘Take care,’ I say, as she gets out. ‘If you ever need to talk, and I mean confidentially, as a friend …’
‘Thanks.’
I watch her walk towards the stables, her shoulders slumped, dragging her feet. She looks like a condemned woman.
I’m thinking about Olivia and what happened to her, and how Dale was the one to find her, as I head to Madame Tovey’s place. Something really odd is going on around here. I don’t believe it’s mystical or supernatural, whatever some of the locals think. But I do believe it’s calculated and linked to the events surrounding Olivia’s three missing friends.
Madame Tovey’s is painted in a garish purple that stands out against the muted tones of the other buildings. A bell tinkles as I push open the door into the shop. It’s small and smells musty, of incense and ageing fabric and overly brewed tea. The shelves are lined with tarot cards and baroque jewellery. Tasselled bags in crushed velvet hang from a rack by the window. In the corner, at the end of the room, a table covered with a dark green satin fabric and a large crystal ball stands between two high-backed chairs. I stare at my surroundings, wondering how many customers Madame Tovey actually gets.
An internal door opens and a woman dressed in a long floaty garment, with a stack of bracelets halfway up her arms, waltzes through. She must be in her sixties at least, with thick dark hair piled on her head. She’s holding a tray with a teapot and two cups, which she sets down next to the crystal ball. I’m not sure whether she plans to use it to read my tea leaves or just to drink the contents.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says, smiling at me. She has on too-red lipstick that has settled in the lines around her mouth. ‘Can I help you?’
I explain who I am and why I’m here and she stares at me the whole time, her dark eyes unblinking. It’s actually quite unnerving.
‘I knew you were coming,’ she says, when I’ve finished. I resist rolling my eyes. Easy for her to say that when I’m standing in front of her. ‘Take a seat.’ She sits in the chair behind the table and I perch on the one opposite. ‘Tea?’ She places a bone-china cup and saucer in front of me and begins pouring from the pretty silver teapot before I’ve had the chance to say anything.
I stare at the brown liquid dubiously. She takes a sip and watches me over the rim. ‘So you want to interview me now?’
‘If you have time.’
‘Of course.’ She goes to the door, her skirts rustling as she walks, and turns the sign to CLOSED. ‘And now we have privacy.’ She flashes her teeth at me and returns to her seat opposite. I take out my phone and go to the app to record the interview. My mobile looks strange on its little stand next to her giant crystal ball.
I ask her a few warm-up questions, like how long she’s lived in Stafferbury – ‘Thirty years, my love’– and how long she’s been a ‘medium’： ‘Since I was a child and I heard my dead aunt talking to me.’
‘So you were living here at the time of the three girls’ disappearance?’
‘I certainly was.’ She blows on her tea. ‘I even gave a statement to the police.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I felt it was my moral duty. It came up in the cards, you see. Not that they took any notice of me.’
‘What did you tell the police?’
‘Oh, lots of things.’ She grins and moves her delicate china cup to her lips and sips gingerly.