Black valley farm, p.15
Black Valley Farm, page 15
There’s another scream. My heart leaps into my throat before I realise it’s a seagull. The sound reminds me of the time I spent with Jasper. The seagulls would wake me in the morning there too. Screeching on the flat roof of the block of flats next door, demanding to be noticed.
Sure enough, when I pull back the curtains to check, I see two big white birds sitting on top of the building opposite. One of them looks over at me, before opening his mouth and letting out another scream.
‘Stupid bird,’ I mutter, dropping the curtain and walking back to the bed. My head is fuzzy, my arms and legs ache with exhaustion. I barely slept last night, but I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep now. Outside, it’s a bright, sunny day and I decide to get dressed and go to the beach.
Jasper’s flat in Skegness was five minutes from the beach. There, the sea was wild and rough. Here in Hastings, it’s not like that at all. It’s calm and so still it’s more like glass than water. At the edge of the horizon, where the sea meets the start of the sky, there is a row of ships.
Out of nowhere, I start crying. The sea blurs behind the tears that run down my face. I rub them away, angry at myself for being so weak. A breeze rustles along the surface of the water and brushes against my skin.
I close my eyes, listening to the crunching sound the waves make against the shingle as I slowly breathe in and out. Gradually, the chaos inside my head clears. As it does, I realise something so obvious I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to see it.
With my eyes still closed, I make a list of the things I know are true.
Number 1: Nine people died that night – four women, one man and four children.
Number 2: One man and one woman were later identified, and so were two of the children. The other victims were never identified.
Number 3: One of the women was stabbed.
I open my eyes and scan the beach, although I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Maybe a reason why she lied. Because I know now, that’s what happened.
Number 4: The woman who was stabbed wasn’t Mother, which means Marianne lied when she told Nuala Fox what she’d seen that night.
It’s like I’ve been seeing everything through a fog that’s suddenly cleared. For the first time since leaving Sheffield, I know what needs to happen next.
Back in my room, I use my phone to create a fake Instagram account. Too angry to be cautious because I am one hundred per cent certain now that the woman on Nuala’s podcast who called herself Marianne was Mother. Or Andrea Leach, as she’s calling herself these days. I thought I knew exactly what happened that night, but I’d got it all wrong. I need to know the truth, no matter how painful it will be.
When the account is created, I take a selfie and send it to Nuala along with a short message.
This is Lydia, from the farm. I’m ready to speak to you. Please call me.
I add my phone number, check the selfie one last time, take a deep breath and hit ‘send’. There. It’s done.
Chapter 6
That afternoon, they’re in the East End of London. Not the ‘old’ East End, Andrea explains, which was traditionally home to generations of immigrants but these days is mainly populated by affluent, left-wing hipsters who don’t have any idea how difficult life is for those less well off than themselves. No, Andrea is taking Nuala to the ‘real’ East End, which, apparently, is Dagenham, where 44.9 per cent of the population identify as white and British.
They have another community hall booked and, as Nuala watches Andrea work her magic on the crowd, she’s amazed at how easy it is to see through the charm once you know it’s all a big act. Now that she sees Andrea for who she really is, Nuala’s embarrassed she let herself be taken in so easily.
They’re filming today and, after the event, Nuala spends some time speaking to anyone who’ll give her the time of day.
‘What is it about the Progress Party that appeals to you?’ she asks a tiny woman who could be any age between thirty and sixty.
‘It’s the only party that gives a damn about people like us,’ the woman says, gesturing to the other people who’ve come today to hear Andrea speak.
This sentiment is shared repeatedly with every person Nuala speaks to. The narrative here is simple but effective: immigrants are taking our jobs; because of this we struggle to make ends meet; get rid of the immigrants and our lives will be improved dramatically.
By the time they’ve finished, Nuala’s jaw hurts from the effort of keeping her mouth shut and not telling these people that Andrea Leach doesn’t give a damn about them, and all she’s doing is using their deprivation to further her political career.
In the car, on the way back to Blackheath, Andrea is all smiles and lightness. Her mood has lifted significantly since this morning and Nuala decides to take advantage of this to ask Andrea the question she’s been dying to ask all day.
‘Do you remember that woman who was hanging around outside the house yesterday?’
Andrea frowns, as she pretends to think. ‘Oh yes.’ Her face clears, as if she’s just remembered. ‘What about her?’
‘When I ran after her,’ Nuala says, ‘I thought there was something familiar about her. I couldn’t work it out at first, but I have now. She’s the spitting image of Lydia, the woman you were asking me about earlier today.’
‘Is she?’ Andrea’s eyebrows shoot up.
Nuala takes her phone out, scrolls through her photos until she finds one of Lydia.
‘See for yourself,’ she says, holding out the phone.
But Andrea shakes her head and waves the phone away. ‘I didn’t even see the girl the other day. How on earth would I know who she does or doesn’t resemble?’
‘It’s definitely her,’ Nuala says.
‘So what?’ The lightness and charm is gone now as Andrea doesn’t bother to hide her irritation. ‘If you think I care about some nobody who has nothing better to do than turn up outside my house causing trouble, then you’re very much mistaken, Nuala.’
Bullshit, Nuala thinks. You’re a liar and you don’t fool me for a second.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ Nuala says, ignoring the way Andrea’s staring at her as if she wants to kill her. She’s not about to be intimidated by this right-wing phoney. ‘First, I make a podcast about the killings on the farm. Then, because of that podcast, you decide to hire me. Shortly after that, Lydia herself turns up outside your house. Why?’
‘How the hell would I know?’ Something cold and hard flashes across Andrea’s face. For a moment, Nuala thinks Andrea might hit her. But she doesn’t. She laughs instead.
‘You got me there for a second, Nuala. You know, I actually believed you really thought the woman yesterday was the same one the police have spent all these years looking for.’
‘I’m not kidding around,’ Nuala says. ‘It was her. No doubt about it.’
‘How could it be?’ Andrea asks. ‘Even if, by some outside chance, Lydia is still alive and she’s listened to your podcast, wouldn’t you be the one person she’d be doing her best to avoid?’
‘What if she wasn’t there for me?’
It’s the wrong thing to say. Or the right thing, depending on what Nuala wants from this exchange.
Andrea leans forward and taps the driver on the shoulder.
‘Pull over as soon as you can,’ she says. Then, to Nuala: ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing, lady. But we’re done. Roger was right. We should never have hired you. We should have chosen a professional, someone who actually knows what they’re doing.’
‘I am a professional,’ Nuala says. ‘If I wasn’t, I might have let this go. But I’m not going to do that. What’s your connection with Lydia, and why are you so scared of her?’
‘Get out.’
The car has pulled into the side of the road and Andrea waits for Nuala to do as she’s been told.
‘Now,’ Andrea says, when Nuala doesn’t move. ‘And don’t bother coming back to work. You’re fired.’
‘You didn’t hire me because you loved the podcast,’ Nuala says. ‘You wanted information from me. Come on then, now’s your chance. What is it you want to know? I’ll tell you anything because, unlike you, I’ve got nothing to hide.’
Andrea’s lips curl into something that, under other circumstances, might be classed as a smile.
‘I think we both know that’s not true.’
Nuala has her hand on the door, ready to open it. Part of her knows she should leave it there. But there’s a bigger part of her that needs to hear Andrea say it.
‘What do you mean?’
Andrea leans forward, her blue eyes boring right inside Nuala’s head.
‘Marianne,’ she whispers, before sitting back in her seat and turning her face away from Nuala.
‘Excuse me?’
But Andrea doesn’t answer.
‘It’s you then,’ Nuala says. ‘You’re truthfinder, aren’t you?’
She doesn’t expect a response and, when she doesn’t get one, she opens the door and steps out into the cold autumn afternoon. As she watches the car drive off, she thinks how strange it will be to not travel to Blackheath tomorrow and continue with the documentary.
She should feel gutted; this job was the opportunity of a lifetime. But all she feels is a giddy excitement. There’s a story here, possibly the biggest story of her life. Andrea might not realise it yet, but she made a big mistake this afternoon. Because now Nuala knows, beyond doubt, that Andrea Leach is connected to what happened at Black Valley Farm ten years ago.
Chapter 7
‘You’re sure it was her?’ This is the second time Leo has asked the question, because he still can’t believe what Harry has just told him.
‘As sure as I can be,’ Harry says. ‘Besides, why else would Nuala Fox go chasing after her? Lucky I was able to stall her. By the time she got away from me, the girl was long gone.’
Leo can’t help wondering if Harry had done the right thing. If Nuala had managed to catch the girl they’d know for sure who she was. Without that certainty, he has nothing.
‘And this was yesterday.’ Leo sighs, frustrated. ‘You shouldn’t have waited this long to tell me.’
He’s been travelling for work, got back earlier today. Harry had sent him a message saying they needed to talk, but refused to speak to Leo until he could see him face to face. Leo tried to explain that they could do face to face over Zoom, but Harry’s old-school. Told Leo that wasn’t going to happen, and the conversation would have to wait until Leo was back in London.
‘Would it have made any difference?’ Harry says. ‘She’s gone, Leo. Trying to find her again is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.’
‘You’ve really no idea where she went?’ Leo asks.
‘Sorry, mate. Like I said, when she showed up outside the house, Roger sent me outside to get rid of her. By the time I realised who she was, she’d already run off. I might have gone after her, tried to speak to her, but then Nuala appeared and I had to deal with her instead.’
Harry’s the only person who knows about Leo’s past. They’ve been friends for years, ever since Leo arrived in London. Back then, Leo had been homeless and utterly alone in the world. He’d seen a sign on the window of a pub in Bermondsey, looking for a barman. The landlord, Harry’s old man, had taken pity on the scrawny teenager who’d come in asking about the job. He’d told Leo he could have the job on a trial basis and, while he was there, he could live with the family in their apartment above the pub.
It was Bill, Harry’s father, who nurtured Leo’s interest in beer and funded Leo’s first ventures in brewing. As the business grew, no one could have been more proud or supportive of Leo’s efforts. Now, Bill and his wife are both dead and the pub has been converted into apartments. But the bond between Leo and Harry remains.
Harry was the first person Leo employed, and he’ll make sure Harry has a job with him for as long as he wants it. Whenever he’s asked what, specifically, Harry’s role is with the company, Leo always gives vague answers. Because the truth is, Harry’s job entails a bit of everything. Including, for now, being Leo’s eyes and ears inside the Progress Party’s headquarters.
This evening, they’re sitting on the terrace of Leo’s riverfront apartment. It’s dusk, the sun has set further west along the river and the sky is gradually darkening. Leo’s drinking beer, using the alcohol to smooth away the worst edges of his anxiety. Harry, a teetotaller, is holding a mug of green tea that looks ridiculously tiny in his enormous hands. A wind is blowing, rippling the surface of the Thames and chilling Leo’s face and hands. He doesn’t mind the cold, would rather sit out here than go inside. His apartment is light, spacious and airy, but he knows the moment he’s in there, he will feel trapped, claustrophobic, as if the walls are closing in on him. Better, for now, to be out here in the cold.
Leo drinks some more beer while he absorbs what Harry has told him this evening.
‘Okay,’ he says eventually. ‘We know she’s not in Sheffield any longer, which is good. It’s more than that idiot Robb was able to tell me.’
Danny Robb was the private detective Leo had hired to track down both Arnie Cummins and the girl in the video. Earlier this week, Danny had contacted Leo to tell him he’d found Arnie. Apparently, he’d rented an apartment in Sheffield and was volunteering at a shelter for homeless people. The idea of Arnie doing anything to help anyone other than himself was so laughable, Leo had thought at first the detective was bullshitting him. It was only after Robb sent photos of Arnie at the shelter that Leo had believed him. So far, Robb’s had no luck finding the girl from the video. Now, at least, Leo knows why.
‘Why was she there?’ he wonders aloud.
‘Same reason you’ve got me working there,’ Harry says. ‘She’s seen Andrea somewhere – maybe in a news article or something – and she’s recognised her, exactly like you did.’
Leo frowns. ‘Unless she was there for Nuala.’
Harry shrugs. ‘It’s possible, I guess. Either way, it doesn’t matter, does it?’
‘What if Nuala got to her somehow?’ Leo asks.
‘How?’ Harry says. ‘We both know how difficult it’s been to find her. Why would Nuala Fox have more luck with that than you’ve had? She’s a single mother, living in an ex-council flat in Wapping. No way does she have the resources to hire a PI like you’ve been able to.’
‘She’s a journalist,’ Leo says. ‘I’m sure she’s got her own methods for finding people who don’t want to be found.’
‘Nah.’ Harry shook his head. ‘If the girl showed up for Nuala, why would she run away from her? It doesn’t make any sense, mate.’
Leo thinks about this for a moment, and realises Harry is right.
‘So what do I do now, Harry?’
‘You wait,’ Harry says. ‘Andrea’s rattled because of this. And people who are rattled make mistakes. Sooner or later, she’s going to mess up.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
‘Listen to me, Leo. A few months from now, the Progress Party will register with the Electoral Commission. Once that happens, there’ll be a lot more people digging into Andrea Leach’s background. It’s only a matter of time before someone works it all out.’
‘You think?’
‘Yes, I really do.’
Leo takes a sip of his beer, and refrains from telling Harry what he’s really thinking. That he’s not come this far to sit back and relinquish control to fate or some journalist with a bit more talent and integrity than Nuala Fox. He has never been a patient man and he’s already waited far too long for the world to know the truth about Andrea Leach.
Chapter 8
I spend the afternoon on the seafront, walking to Bexhill and back again while I wait to hear from Nuala. By the evening, she still hasn’t been in touch and I’m starting to worry I’ve done the wrong thing by contacting her. For all I know, the podcast wasn’t even her idea. It could have been Mother, manipulating Nuala from the start, getting her to lie and say she was dead so no one would know she’d made it out of there. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. In the podcast, Marianne described the farm as a haven. There can only be one person who really believed that’s what it was.
As I turn the corner onto the road where the pub is, I freeze. There’s a man coming out of the pub and, even though I’m quite far away, I recognise him straight away. It’s Arnie, walking down the street towards me. I duck down the nearest side street, moving quickly, too scared to look behind me in case I see him coming after me.
Up ahead, I see another pub. I go inside and hurry towards the toilets. The barman shouts something at me as I pass, but I ignore him. The toilets stink, but they’re empty and there’s a sash window that lifts easily when I give it a shove.
I clamber through this, drop down and find myself in some sort of alley that runs along the back of the row of buildings. I move cautiously towards the end, pausing to check the street in both directions. I can’t see Arnie, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there somewhere, waiting for me.
I pull my head back, so I can’t be seen from the street, and lean against the wall while I try to make sense of what I’ve seen. Arnie is here. In Hastings. This morning, I sent a message to Nuala Fox. Then this afternoon, Arnie turns up. That cannot be a coincidence. My stomach has twisted into a tight knot and there’s a bitter taste in my mouth and throat that won’t go away no matter how many times I swallow.
They’re working together. Arnie. Nuala. Mother. I don’t know why, what hold Mother has over the other two, and maybe that doesn’t matter. What’s important is I can’t trust anyone. Contacting Nuala was a mistake.
