The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

‘But … are they sure he killed her? Peter Grayling, I mean?’ Wendy tried not to allow the knowledge of the necklace in the attic to impinge on her expression.

‘Everyone in Hartlepool knows as he did it.’ Mrs Parsons spoke impatiently, as if she could not countenance the stupidity of someone in Bishop Barnard failing to comprehend a fact universally accepted in Hartlepool.

‘Well, that’s terrible,’ Wendy said, uncertain what exactly she meant by that and just wishing that Mrs Parsons and the man would move aside and let her pass.

‘So we’ve a dangerous killer in our midst,’ Mrs Parsons continued grimly, her tone implying that Wendy might be in some way responsible for this sorry state of affairs – which, Wendy guiltily reflected, was truer than Mrs Parsons could possibly have known.

At this the man who was probably Mr Parsons demurred, rumbling something to the effect that he’d heard Peter Grayling had been forced to leave the area because things were getting too hot for him in Hartlepool.

Wendy managed to stop herself from responding that she didn’t think it would ever be too hot for anyone in Hartlepool, because it had been pretty chilly on every occasion that she’d ever been there. Instead, she made some anodyne response about being sure they had nothing to worry about before sidestepping politely and continuing on her way. She would have to try to forget about the necklace. She ought never to have gone snooping about in the attic. It hadn’t been her own idea, something had made her do it. No … no … that was silly. She was only thinking like that because her head hurt.

It was a relief to turn into Green Lane, where the jamboree became so muted as to be barely noticeable. When she reached the gate she heard the sound of a hover mower starting up somewhere in the distance. Apart from herself and the lone gardener, it seemed that the entire village was down on the green, enjoying the party.

She let herself into the house, took some aspirin and went upstairs to lie on the bed. The duvet was pleasantly cool to her touch, the sun already far enough round to leave the room mostly in shadow. It was gloriously peaceful.

When she woke, the small patch of sunlight on the wall had moved much further across the room, and by turning her head to bring the digital alarm clock into range, she confirmed that it was half past four. Her headache seemed to have gone and there was still plenty of time to go and join the children at the party. She would have a cup of tea first. She indulged in a slow, luxuriant stretch, sat up and swung her feet towards the carpet, where her sandals were lying cock-eyed where she had kicked them off.

The first sound she heard was so faint that she thought for a moment it might have been her own movements. Even so she stayed still, listening, to see if it came again. There were lots of possibilities. The floorboards sometimes creaked of their own volition and the pipes emitted odd sounds from time to time. Butterflies and once even a small bird had been known to fly in through an open window and become trapped. She hoped it wasn’t a bird. They made such a mess and were terribly hard to catch.

It wasn’t a bird. Footsteps. Where? For some reason her mind flew immediately to the attic. She looked up automatically, as if she expected to be able to see through the bedroom ceiling. But the sounds were not coming from above her head. A distinctive creak helped her to locate their position: it was someone descending the stairs. Someone who had started from the landing, a couple of feet from her bedroom door. Not the children. They were still on the green – and anyway they never walked at that pace or with that heavy tread. A burglar then. A burglar taking advantage of the royal wedding bash on the green. Someone who had assumed that the house was empty. Someone – a man – who thought the occupants were all elsewhere, stuffing down jelly and sausages on sticks. The telephone was down in the hall. Why on earth had they never had an extension run upstairs?

The image of Peter Grayling entered her mind. Peter Grayling knew the layout. Could he possibly have got a key cut for himself, all those months ago, while working on the house? Had he returned to collect his trophy from the attic?

She waited, holding herself painfully rigid, but the sounds did not immediately come again. Perhaps she’d allowed enough time for him to get clear? Then a new thought struck her. Peter had nailed down the board which secured the hiding place, but she had wrenched the nails out of the wood, interfering with it in such a way that it would open too easily. He would know that someone had discovered the necklace, and that person’s life would be worth very little to a man who had already killed twice.

Minutes passed. She gradually relaxed her muscles and let out her breath. The idea of Peter Grayling entering the house, creeping up and down the stairs, making it his business to silence her for what she knew, seemed increasingly melodramatic. In the silent bedroom, she began to question whether she had really heard anything at all. Had she been properly awake? Might she have imagined it?

The soft, steady tread ascended the stairs again. For a moment she froze, half expecting the bedroom door to swing open, revealing Peter’s huge frame blocking the doorway, but the unseen feet bypassed her room. Wendy strained her ears, listening for their direction. Katie’s room. The softest of clicks registered the closure of Katie’s bedroom door. This wasn’t a burglar. To begin with, how could a burglar have accessed the house without breaking in? She’d carefully locked up before they all left