Free Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller by Jane Holland

’
    ‘I’m
not gay, at any rate. I don’t know about Hannah. I’ve never asked her. But I
doubt it.’
    This
is not quite true. I know for a fact that Hannah is a serial one-night-stander
with men of a certain age, but I am not about to share that with the vicar.
He’s a man of a certain age himself, one of my dad’s generation, and I don’t
think I could handle a complication like that. Not that it is even remotely
likely.
    A
question suddenly occurs to me. ‘Do you remember when my mother died,
Reverend?’
    The
vicar looks taken aback by my directness, but answers without any obvious hesitation.
‘Indeed I do, yes. It was a terrible business. Truly appalling. I hadn’t been ordained
then, of course. Hadn’t got “The Call,” as we say. But I remember seeing news of
her murder on the television, and praying for you and your father.’
    ‘You
were living in the village then?’
    ‘Oh
no, I was … nearby. But not in the village itself. Though I had friends and family
here. Such a shock for our little community.’
    ‘Were
you still in touch with her?’
    ‘As
a friend, yes. In fact, I danced at your parents’ wedding.’ Mortimer Clemo
smiles at me sadly, his tone suddenly gentle, and I can see that he is deeply
pleased to be of service to me now, having missed his opportunity eighteen
years ago. ‘I can only imagine the impact her brutal death must have had on
your own life. That it is still having, I suspect.’
    ‘Meaning
what?’
    Thoughtfully,
the vicar steeples his long fingers together and leans his chin on them,
looking at me.
    ‘You
should feel free to unburden yourself to me. To unburden your heart, if it will
help. And you don’t need to fear more exposure. Trust me, Eleanor, nothing you
say will leave this room. The sanctity of the confessional, you know.’ His
voice drops. ‘You are clearly going through something very difficult at the
moment. Something that has destroyed your peace of mind. But it’s nothing to be
ashamed of.’
    Nothing to be ashamed of.
    The
vicar might as well call me a liar and a hysterical woman, and have done with
it. In an earlier century, I would probably have been hanged as a witch for
what I saw in the woods, by men just like him.
    Abruptly,
I rise from my chair. ‘Well, thanks for stopping by, Reverend. It was very kind
of you. But what I need right now is to be alone.’
    He
hesitates, staring. ‘Oh, I see.’
    I
open the kitchen door and stand waiting.
    With
obvious reluctance, the Reverend Clemo gets to his feet, tucks the pine chair
back under the table, and agrees to be shepherded from the cottage. His head
brushes the low beams on the way out. ‘If you ever feel the need to talk –
’
    ‘I
know where you are,’ I finish for him politely. ‘Thank you, vicar. Goodbye.’

 
    A few minutes
later, I happen to glance out of my bedroom window as I’m changing out of my
tracksuit, and I see Clemo again. He’s standing in the shadow of the trees a
little further down the lane. I can only see his shoes and trousers from that
angle, but it’s definitely him.
    I
freeze, wondering what on earth the vicar is still doing there, hiding in the
bushes. Is Clemo watching the cottage?
    There
was such a strange look in his face when I showed him the door, as though my asking him to leave had made him
angry. It unsettled me.
    Then
I spot thin tendrils of smoke snaking up through leafy branches towards the
sky.
    Get a grip.
    I
reach for my jeans and wriggle into them, ludicrously relieved and a bit
embarrassed by my own paranoia.
    The
man is having a crafty smoke, that’s all. Enjoying a secret cigarette on his
way home because his wife won’t let him smoke in the vicarage.

CHAPTER TEN

 
    ‘When I finish counting back from ten, you will wake up feeling
refreshed. There will be no more nightmares, no more daydreams, no more … unfortunate
episodes.’
    The voice is familiar. A soft feminine tone, soothing and
trustworthy, yet somehow sinister at the same