Black Flowers (18 page)

I was making love with Ally.

It was a couple of months ago, on the only holiday we’d ever taken together. Just one night away, to celebrate the anniversary of us getting together. It was worth marking, we’d figured, and so had splashed out on a hotel in a spa town in the Dales where we booked our own cabin. It had three rooms, all of them opulent, and there was even a log-burning stove in the front room. There was a sun-drenched swimming pool outside the cabin, and a fine restaurant in the main building. It was, without doubt, the single most luxurious place I’d ever stayed.

The weather had been bright and warm. We’d lounged by the pool, sitting on the edge with our feet dangling in the cool water. We’d drunk too much wine, eaten great food. And now it was the evening, and we were having sex in subdued light in the cabin’s large bedroom. The fan, whirring overhead, was the only sound apart from the two of us. It whispered round: blew soft, cool air down on my naked back, and then hers. And then, finally, the tops of our heads as she sat astride me, her heels in the pillows, one hand pushing down behind on the inside of my thigh, the other clutching the back of my neck, refusing to slow down, forcing me to stare right into her eyes as I came.

And then, afterwards, we laughed about it.

That was stupid, wasn’t it?

Well, it won’t happen to us
.

Ally’s head was thrown back – not in passion now, but the tortured, blood-flecked centre of a black flower.

I bolted awake.

My mobile was ringing on the bedside table.

I snatched for it too quickly, nearly knocking it to the floor. The number was unknown, and that set my heart going even faster. Was it him? Telling me I hadn’t found her quickly enough and so …

I felt my pulse in my head as I held the phone up to my ear.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Neil Dawson?’

It was a woman’s voice.

‘Yes.’ I wiped my face with my other hand. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘This is Barbara Phillips.’

The hotel room curtains were black with night, but the time was visible across the room: bright-green numbers glowing under the television screen. I peered across. Nearly midnight. As though reading my mind, she said:

‘I’m sorry for calling this late. I only just checked my messages. I’ve been very busy recently – my husband is ill.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘that’s fine. Thanks for getting back to me.’

‘Not at all. Whereabouts are you?’

I hesitated.

‘I’m in Whitkirk.’

‘Are you? I suppose that’s even easier then. But it’s late now, and I’m very tired. Could we meet tomorrow? Say at twelve?’

‘Can we meet any earlier?’

‘I’m sorry. I have other commitments.’ She didn’t wait for me to protest. ‘Let’s see. There’s a cafe on the seafront. The Fisherman’s Catch? It’s quite good. We should meet there.’

The Fisherman’s Catch
. There was no pen nearby; I was trying to remember it.

‘On the seafront,’ I said. ‘Okay.’

‘You should be able to find it. Where are you staying?’

Again, I paused.

‘I’m at The Southerton.’

‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘Of course you are. Well, it’s just a little way along from there. It’s not far.’

Of course you are
. Because somehow The Southerton was central to everything that was happening. And, from her tone of voice, Barbara knew that.

‘Twelve it is,’ I said.

‘Good. I’ll look forward to it. And Neil? You mentioned you wanted to talk about your father, so I’ll just give you some friendly advice in the meantime. Don’t talk to anyone else before we have a chance to speak.’

I didn’t reply.

She added, ‘Especially the police.’

And then she hung up.

Hannah stood in her father’s kitchen, sipping from a mug of coffee. The sash on the window was up, revealing a black square of night, overlaid by a ghostly amber reflection of herself and the room around her. Through that, somewhere at the back of the garden, she could just make out a texture of midnight leaves.

She was looking through the photograph album again, which was open on the kitchen counter. In her head, she justified it by thinking she was looking for some clue within its pages: some sign that her father had never been the man she thought, but the killer she now suspected. A flash in his eyes, maybe, or a stain on a shirt cuff. That was ridiculous, of course – but then, it felt equally ridiculous to believe there had been no sign at all, and that the two sides of Colin Price had been as distinct and separate as the faces on a coin.

That was the justification. In reality, she knew she was still searching desperately for that old feeling of safety and reassurance. Trying to reclaim the father she remembered, and wanted to remember, and herself along with him. Oddly, now that she’d discovered at least some of the truth, it was more comforting to look through the album than it had been over the last few days. Because in a way it helped to know. However monstrous something is, it always feels worse when it’s lurking out of sight behind you.

Hannah cupped the remains of the coffee in her hands.

One thing hadn’t changed: out of all the photographs, it was still the second that she kept returning to, the one that showed her cradled in her father’s arms just after she’d been born. The place and time it had been taken were lost in the past; it recorded a moment in which she had been present but could never remember. And yet the fact remained that an invisible line cut jaggedly across the world and the years, connecting the baby in the photo to all the other Hannahs in the album, and finally to her, standing here right now.

That was something, she thought. That line is important. There is comfort in being able to follow your life backwards like a rope, hand over hand, and know there’s some coherence to who you are.

More than that, the photo before her now was clear evidence of how much she had meant to her father. A few pages further on in the album, he would let go of her bicycle so she could pedal herself alone. It was those things she had to remember: that he had always loved her enough to push her out into the world, to tell her not to be afraid, to tell her that she could do anything. Which meant he
had
been a good man, whatever else he’d done – whatever the bodies in the water meant, and whatever she found out tonight or afterwards – and that knowledge was tight like a fist. Mentally, she clasped it fiercely against her now.

You were a good man
.

The cup in her hands was only lukewarm. She half considered making a fresh one, but it was nearly midnight, and another would just be putting this off out of fear.
You wouldn’t approve of that, would you Dad?
So she splashed the dregs into the sink, set the cup on the side, and made her way through to the lounge.

It was warm in here tonight. Earlier on, she’d brought logs in from the storehouse in the back garden, brushing away the spiders that tickled across, then laid them carefully on top of the old ashes in the grate. Now, the fire burned brightly behind the
grille, flicking and cracking, casting checked light across the hearth and shadows on her father’s empty chair. Standing in front of the fireplace, the heat was a gentle, comforting pressure on her face.

Deep in the grate, the map had already burned away to nothing. When it caught, the evidence bag around the hammer had
puffed
briefly with green flame then melted, folding into itself. The hammer inside was now scorched down to bare, blackened metal. Whatever evidence might have been clinging to it had fizzed and curled and vanished.

There you go, Dad
.

He had almost certainly done something criminal – maybe even something genuinely evil – but after deliberating all afternoon, she had decided there was no reason anyone else needed to know that. Not unless they absolutely had to. If the official investigation into the two bodies turned up a connection to Colin Price, she would deal with it as it happened, but she wasn’t going to volunteer that connection. As of now, there was nothing physical that linked him to the viaduct, and, beyond some ashes in a grate, the world was no different from how it was before, back when it had felt safe and secure, and she’d known who she was.

Nothing
physical
– but of course, she still knew. The question now was whether she would be able to live with that knowledge, given time, or whether the memories she cherished of her father were ruined forever. She could tell herself over and over he was a good man, but would she ever really believe it again? It was a question that couldn’t be answered until she found out the full truth of what he’d done.

Hannah warmed her hands against the fire and looked down at the items she’d assembled. It was impossible to know for sure what she was going to need, because she had no idea what she was going to find, or what she was willing to do in search of it. So she’d prepared for insanity. In addition to the rubber bulk of her father’s heavy-duty torch, she’d scoured the garden, garage
and pantry, coming out with a large bucket, lengths of tow rope, rubbish bags. Several coat hangers, simply for their strong, metal hooks.

The spade was already in the back seat of her car. In addition to the black jeans and sweatshirt she was already wearing, there were dark gloves and a pair of wellington boots waiting to be put on when she’d reached her destination.

An extendable baton hanging from her belt.

Anything else?

There was nothing she could think of. But still, she stared down at the flames. In the furnace of the hearth, a log split, and a dusting of fire ribboned up into the chimney breast.

Now or never
.

One by one, Hannah began piling things into the bucket.

Half an hour later, she reversed into the gravel passing place opposite the derelict Wetherby Cottage.

Behind her, an expanse of night-black fields criss-crossed their way to the horizon. The stars prickling the sky above were blurred in the rear-view mirror. In front, half revealed by the headlights, the ruin of the old cottage was visible between the trees. In the surrounding darkness, the walls seemed more brightly fish-white than before. Looking at it, the car engine still idling, Hannah could feel the atmosphere of the place. It reminded her of the house at the end of that Blair Witch film: the broken down, abandoned one, deep in the woods. She thought of motes of dust illuminated by torchlight and cracked-plaster walls covered with children’s handprints.

She killed the engine. The world fell silent and the remains of the structure blinked out of view.

Hannah got out of the car, went round to the boot, and removed what she needed. Just the torch and the gloves. She didn’t bother with the boots, tools or rope for the moment, partly because she didn’t know what she might be faced with, but also because she’d convinced herself she would be faced
with nothing at all. Just another variation on the park or Mulberry Avenue, where the mark would remain a mystery.

She clicked the torch on. The beam was anaemic after the headlights, as though half the light was missing, but it would be good enough.

A few insects drifted lazily through.

Let’s see what’s here then
.

There would be nothing.

Hannah began tramping through the overgrown grass and brambles in front of the farmhouse. She approached the ruined building at an angle, and the black windows seemed to follow her, the vines and grass wrapped over the broken sills like streaming tears. Aside from the soft
cracking
beneath her shoes, it was profoundly quiet, and yet she could still feel a presence. The air felt tinged with sadness and regret, as though something awful had happened here and the place could never forget it.

Just your imagination
, she told herself.

Nothing happened here
.

She peered through the nearest window, shining the torch around slowly. The internal walls were all gone, but she could tell where they’d been: jawbones of stone half buried in the forest floor. Everything else had been taken. The back of the farmhouse had tumbled down entirely. Beyond a mosaic of tiles and timber in the undergrowth, there was little behind the front wall. No inside left. It was a face without a skull.

Hannah shone the torch as far as she could, moving the beam slowly, searching. What she was looking for, she had no idea.

The cool breeze kissed the side of her neck, blew softly into her ear. She remained intent.

Nothing obvious.

But there wouldn’t be, would there? It wasn’t enough. So she made her way down what remained of the side wall, turning the torch on the undergrowth instead. It was so thick here, so tangled, that she had to lift her knees high in order to traipse
through it; every step felt like putting her foot down through coils of barbed wire onto nests of twigs.
Click. Crack
.

She stopped at a molar of rock in the ground, where the building would have finished, and the abandoned farm fell silent.

That was when she saw it.

A moment later, her ears began ringing gently.