The Girl in the Picture. Kerry Barrett
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her grandmother had always said. Years ago, that made her think she was worthless, but now she thought the fact that no one glanced at her twice could save her life.
Once she was on the train, she’d change again, in case anyone remembered her cloak or hat, simple as they were. And she’d travel as far as she could afford. North, of course – you couldn’t go south from Sussex and stay in England, and she couldn’t speak French. She hadn’t thought much further than that yet. All she cared about was getting away from here.
She went out on to the landing and looked down at the beach once more. Edwin was sitting closer to the girl now, and as she watched, he put his hand over hers. Frances allowed herself a brief fantasy where Edwin ran away with this girl and let her, Frances, be. But she knew that would never happen.
A shaft of sunlight lit up the girl’s face and Frances realized she was even younger than she’d thought. Eighteen perhaps. No older. The same age Frances had been when Edwin had pursued her. Perhaps it was the baby in her belly making her feel this way, but she suddenly felt a wave of fierce maternal protectiveness towards this girl with her loose skirts and messy red hair. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – let Edwin hurt her as well.
Present day
Ella
As it turned out, the mere whiff of a mystery was all it took to help me start feeling at home in Sussex. Even a whole twenty-four hours without furniture (‘satnav,’ said the removal men vaguely when Ben quizzed them about where they’d been) didn’t bother me too much, unless you counted the crick in my neck from sleeping on the floor.
While the removal guys unpacked everything, I played in the garden with the boys, mentally checking for hidden dangers. It didn’t take me long to find one. At the bottom of our garden was a gate, which led on to a sandy path. The path snaked along the top of the cliff a short way, then plunged steeply down to the beach. I stood and looked with an appraising eye. The fence at the end of our garden was sturdy enough but the wooden gate was shut with only a latch. A latch that could easily be opened by a small, curious boy.
‘Padlock,’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s go and explore the village.’
Heron Green wasn’t a large village, but it was well equipped. We passed one pub and I knew there was another, at the far end near the boys’ school. There was a small Tesco, a little bakery with a café area, a newsagent and – thankfully – a hardware shop. Outside there was a selection of brushes and brooms hanging up, and lots of different-sized dustbins.
‘Let’s try here,’ I said to the boys, taking Stan’s hand.
Inside it was bright and cheery with well-ordered shelves and several customers browsing. I looked round and decided I’d be much better off going straight to the counter, where an older man stood chatting to a slightly younger man who was buying a huge bag of nails. The older man had greying hair, and he wore a checked shirt with a pair of glasses in the top pocket – even though he had another pair perched on the end of his nose. He reminded me so much of my dad that my heart ached for a moment.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked Oscar, leaning over the counter.
I flashed him a smile and watched as my son put on his most serious face.
‘We need a padlock for the gate at the bottom of the garden,’ he said. ‘To stop me and Stan being monkeys and going to the beach without Mummy.’
The man nodded. ‘Very sensible,’ he said. He reached behind him and took a lock from the shelf. ‘This is what you need, young man. It’s £9.99.’
He held out his hand and Oscar looked alarmed. ‘Mummy does the paying,’ he said.
I laughed. ‘I certainly do.’
The man rang the purchase into the till, and the younger man, who was still choosing between bags of nails, looked at me.
‘Just moved into the cliff house?’ he asked.
I nodded, handing the shopkeeper a ten-pound note.
‘Think so,’ I said. ‘It’s the house on the cliff, anyway. We just call it number 10.’
He smiled. ‘How do you find it?’
‘It’s great,’ I said. ‘Perfect.’
The shopkeeper handed me my receipt and gave Oscar the penny change.
‘Me too,’ said Stan.
The man grinned, opened the till again, and gave him a penny too.
‘Fanks,’ said Stan in his best North London accent.
‘But?’ said the younger man, exchanging a look with the shopkeeper.
I turned my attention back to him, blinking in surprise. ‘But?’
‘It sounded like there was a but coming,’ he said. ‘Perfect, but …’
I wondered how long these men had lived in the village and if they knew anything about the history of our house.
Leaning in slightly, I said: ‘It’s a funny house. Odd.’
The younger man, who had a shock of messy dark hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, nodded. ‘You’ve heard the stories?’
Again I felt that flutter of interest and excitement. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What stories?’
The shopkeeper tutted. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he said. ‘Hal’s always been one for a spooky tale.’
‘Spooky?’ I said in glee. ‘Is it haunted? By someone who died tragically?’
Hal looked grave. ‘It’s not the dead you need to worry about. It’s the living.’
I chuckled. ‘Got that right.’
‘I heard there was a murder,’ Hal said. ‘You’ve heard those tales, right, Ken?’
The shopkeeper – Ken – nodded. ‘It’s not true, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived here since the Seventies and no one’s ever been killed since I was here.’
Hal looked thoughtful. ‘Could have been before then,’ he said. ‘Sixties, perhaps? Or in the war?’
‘Or it could all be codswallop,’ Ken said.
The word made me smile, but I was interested and I wasn’t going to let him change the subject.
‘Maybe it wasn’t a murder,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was another crime.’
‘Robbery,’ said Hal with relish. ‘Or kidnapping.’
‘Pirates,’ added Oscar, who was listening intently.
Hal ruffled his hair. ‘Definitely pirates,’ he said. ‘And smuggling.’
‘Ooh yes,’ I said, thinking of the Daphne du Maurier novels I’d read over and over when I was a teenager. ‘Wreckers.’
Ken chuckled, eyeing me with interest. ‘I remember now,’ he said, nodding. ‘My wife says you’re a writer.’ He looked at Hal. ‘She writes books,’ he said. ‘Crime.’
Astonished at this first-hand experience of village life after years in anonymous London, I could only mutter, ‘Well, more like thrillers, really.’
‘Good ones?’ Hal asked. ‘Have I read them?’
‘I hope they’re good,’ I said, embarrassed like I always was when people asked about my writing. ‘They sell a bit. Not sure if you’ll have read them. I’ll bring you a copy and leave it here for you if you like?’
Hal grinned. ‘I’ll read it, and then I’ll tell you if it’s good,’ he said.
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