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

year,
people buying new tools and young plants for summer bedding. I notice several shoppers
looking at me sideways, then whispering to each other. I can imagine what
they’re saying.
    And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am stark
staring mad. Because they never did find the dead woman. So if she existed,
what happened to her? Dead people do not get up and walk about on their own. Either
she was only pretending to be dead, or somebody moved her body after I had
left. Both of which are far-fetched scenarios, at best.
    I
have to concede that it’s possible I imagined her. But that is not going to
stop me trying to discover the truth.
    About to leave, my gaze falls on a framed
colour photograph on the wall of the office. It’s new. Or rather, the
photograph is old, but the frame looks brand-new and I have no memory of seeing
it there before.
    I lean close to the glass of the office window.
It appears to be a school photograph from several decades ago. The school kids
are gathered outdoors around a huge and lavishly decorated Christmas tree,
their haircuts and uniforms old-fashioned, their shirt lapels narrow and
pointed. It must have been taken in the seventies, by the look of it.
    I
glance around, but Jago is nowhere in sight. I slip through the office door,
which is ajar, and stand in front of the framed photograph.
    It’s the girl to the left that interests me. I
know that face. And her eyes, so familiar. There’s a boy beside her, taller,
his arm around her shoulder. It’s a possessive gesture. I frown, not
recognising him. His eyes are narrowed, he has lanky shoulder-length hair, and
he’s smiling. Somehow I don’t believe that smile though. It gives me the
creeps.
    ‘I found that a few weeks ago in an old chest up
at my house,’ a deep male voice says. ‘It’s a good photo of her.’
    I turn, startled.
    It’s the owner of the garden centre, Dick
Laney. I didn’t hear him come into the office. How long has he been standing
there in the doorway, watching me?
    ‘Hello, Mr Laney. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be in
here, I know.’
    He
smiles, coming closer. ‘Call me Dick. And it’s no problem, Eleanor, no problem
at all,’ he insists. ‘You go on now, take a good look. Only natural you should
want to look at a picture of your mother.’
    ‘I’ve
never seen this before. How did you get hold of it?’
    ‘It’s mine. My dad took it, so he’d have a
record of the Christmas tree.’ He studies the photograph, standing
shoulder-to-shoulder with me. ‘This place was only a small outfit back then,
but he sold Christmas trees to most of the village. That was the biggest tree
he had in stock that year, so he donated it to the school. We made the
decorations ourselves in class. Blue Peter stuff, you know, all tin foil and
glue and sparkly nonsense. Not bad though.’
    Realization hits me and I turn to stare at him.
‘You were at school with my mum.’
    ‘That’s right. I was in the year above.’
    I look again at the smiling boy with his arm
around my mum’s shoulder. Who was he? Her boyfriend at the time?
    I glance from the photograph to Dick Laney, and
then back again. ‘Is that you standing next to my mother?’
    ‘That it is.’
    ‘So you were going out with her in school?’
    He hesitates. ‘We were just friends.’
    I look again at the photograph, my mother’s
wary expression, the smile on Dick Laney’s face, his arm looped arrogantly
about her shoulders, and am not sure I believe him.
    ‘Well, the tree decorations look good,’ I tell
him, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, ‘even if they were
homemade. Very professional.’
    I study my mum’s expression while pretending to
look more closely at the Christmas tree and its tin foil decorations. She is
smiling too but the smile does not reach her eyes. Then my attention is caught
by another face, half-hidden in the crowd of other kids thronging beneath the
Christmas tree. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes. He’s not looking at