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

benches, reaches carefully down behind it, and pulls
out a sealed pouch of tobacco. Concealed inside is a pack of extra-thin rolling
paper and a lighter.
    He
sits on the bench and gestures me to join him. The stone is warm from the sun,
surprisingly comfortable. ‘Ciggie?’
    ‘I’ve
given up.’
    ‘Quitter.’
He lays the tobacco pouch open on his lap and expertly starts to roll himself a
cigarette. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.’
    ‘I
thought you didn’t know I’d called.’
    ‘Well
…’ He does not elaborate on that, but licks the sticky crease of the paper,
then rolls it over, sealing the thin cigarette. ‘You’re no fool, Ellie. You
know I don’t like to feel tied down.’
    ‘I
wasn’t offering.’
    ‘Understood.
I’m glad you came to see me, anyway. How are you?’
    ‘Not brilliant.’
    Briefly, I fill him in on what has happened. The
woods, the dead body, the number three on her forehead. Being Denzil, he does
not push the issue or ask further questions, but simply grunts again. That’s
another reason why I like him so much. There’s never any hassle with Denzil and
no need for long-winded explanations.
    He
lights his roll-up, blows a soft smoke-ring up into the air, and then asks
casually, ‘Up for a Saturday night out, then? Something to take your mind off
all that shit?’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Newquay. There’s a beach barbecue tonight.
Some of my surfer friends are going. Then we could hit the clubs, go dancing.’
    ‘All
of them?’
    He
grins. ‘We don’t have to if you don’t fancy that scene. We could float the
coast instead. See what else is happening.’
    ‘Sounds good to me.’
    ‘Pick you up at six, then. At the cottage.’
    ‘I’ll
be there.’
    Denzil
takes another drag on his roll-up, then offers it to me.
    ‘I
told you, no thanks.’
    He
blows out the smoke, looking at me through narrowed eyes, then bends his head
to kiss me.
    His
lips are warm, his skin rough and stubbly. I hook a hand round the back of his
neck, pull him closer. His tongue plays lazily against mine, exploring my mouth.
He tastes of smoke but I find that sexy, just like I find his casual attitude
to dating attractive. Denzil is elusive, yes, but at least that means he’s
never going to trap me into a long-term commitment.
    I
close my eyes, enjoying the hot sunshine on my back as we kiss. His hand gently
caresses my breast, and I wonder what tonight’s date will be like.
    We
are interrupted a few minutes later by loud, abrasive coughing. An old man in a
flat cap is browsing through the shed selection, and has seen us kissing. Frowning,
the old man stops to stare at us through the narrow gap between a wooden pagoda
and a tool store, then wags his finger as though we have been caught
misbehaving.
    ‘Christ,’
I say, startled.
    I
think at first that I know him from the village, but when I study him more
carefully, I don’t. The old man must be at least seventy-five, maybe older. His
hair is white and he’s wearing a thick woollen scarf pulled up to his chin,
though it’s quite warm today. He’s tall but stooping in an exaggerated way, as
though he needs a stick for walking but has forgotten to bring it with him. And
he has huge bushy eyebrows under his flat cap; they look unlikely and
theatrical, like they’ve been stuck on with glue.
    ‘Nosy
old sod,’ Denzil mutters, drawing back. Reluctantly, he drops his roll-up into
the pot of earth, then stands up. ‘Break’s over though. Thanks for coming to
see me.’
    ‘Six
o’clock,’ I remind him, a little embarrassed, tidying my clothes.
    He
nods, and trudges off past the sheds, presumably to fetch another trolley load
of manure for the display pallets.
    I leave him and the old man in the sunshine, and
wander back through the garden centre aisles and past the office. It’s empty, neither
Jago nor his dad anywhere to be seen. Probably on the shop floor, dealing with
customers. The garden centre is always busy on Saturdays at this time of