Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

should not sentimentalise her legacy. After the podcast, after I’d shown her how she’d fooled herself for so many years, I’m sure she would have agreed with that statement.

“But as for the woman herself? I felt sorry for her. She was a child when this lie was sewn into the soil of her mind. In my opinion, that was a form of abuse. To deny an innocent the solid reality of her world, and then to misshape her thinking so that she believed herself capable of speaking to phantoms? It was wicked, and if there really is a God of the Old Testament, then surely that act is deserving of all his fury and vengeance. It certainly reinforced my own conviction that belief in the paranormal is an evil that must be expunged. That said…” He hesitated, picked again at his shirt cuff. “In hindsight, might I have treated her more gently?”

“Well?”

He sighed. “It wasn’t my proudest moment.”

And with that, he walked back to join his followers.

I’d just spotted a red Ford Mondeo parked not far from my own disintegrating Mercedes when Deepal appeared out of the forest road. She waved when she saw me and I walked over. It was difficult to make out from this distance, especially with the sun in my eyes, but I thought the couple in the car was probably Mr and Mrs Chambers. While Dr Gillespie was no doubt right concerning the existence of ghosts, the grounds of Purley Rectory were certainly being haunted by these grieving parents. I wondered again if Nick had really seen them coming out of Tilda’s tent last night or if his addiction had conjured that from thin air?

“Damn it,” Deepal muttered when I reached her. “Looks like I missed all the fun.”

“He put on quite a show,” I admitted.

She looked over to where the doctor was speaking to a vigorously nodding reporter. “Sick, isn’t it? Like a vulture picking over the bones of the dead.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But you didn’t seem particularly squeamish yourself last night.”

“Touché.” She held up her hands. “Would you think better of me if I said I’d had second thoughts about the whole ‘Darrel defies death threats’ angle? I’m not sure his manager would have gone for it anyway.”

“And it would be stretching the truth a bit too, wouldn’t it?” I said. “Because he hasn’t actually received any direct threats. No strange notes, no nasty phone calls, no weird wax dolls left on the doorstep?”

“Wax dolls?” Deepal frowned. “No, nothing like that. Calls, notes, emails, yes, but that’s pretty standard for a celeb.”

“Understood. By the way, I still need to speak to him. Has Nick sorted an interview for me yet?”

“He hasn’t,” she said. “And I won’t let him. I’m sorry, Scott, there’s no way Darrel would ever consent to talk to you about any of this. He’s paranoid as hell, remember. If you go in all guns blazing, firing off theories about your murdered aunt and how Darrel might be next, that could prompt a complete meltdown just days ahead of broadcast. Do you realise how much that would cost him, not just financially?”

“Strange attitude,” I observed. “Especially for someone who twelve hours ago was thinking of using the danger of his position as a publicity stunt.”

“I’ve told you—”

“I know.” I began walking away down the forest road. “You had second thoughts. But one way or another, Deepal, I will speak to Darrel Everwood.”

Coming onto the side ground, I found a large group of showpeople outside Tilda’s tent. Old and young, broad-backed and stooped, they stood proudly in their finest clothes, holding onto each other as a little girl stepped forward. Stretched around the tent, a length of blue-and-white crime scene tape snapped in the breeze and made Jodie jump. She recovered herself quickly and added her small bouquet to the mountain of flowers stacked outside the door. The fair would reopen today—had to, if these people were to survive the winter—but for now, they would pay their respects.

I took a sharp breath. Haz had emerged from the heart of the group. Dressed in his black suit with a pink carnation in the buttonhole—Tilda’s favourite flower—he knelt and wiped away Jodie’s tears. He seemed to ask a question before giving her an encouraging smile. Then, turning round to face the others, they linked hands and began to sing.

“Abide with me; fast falls the eventide…”

I listened for a while, giving way to my own tears, overwhelmed by the beauty of their harmony. I realised that my phone had been off for most of the morning, ever since I’d received the call from Garris. They’d probably tried calling to tell me about this tribute. But here wasn’t where I was needed. Sal and Haz could comfort Jodie better than I ever could. My role in Tilda’s death wasn’t to grieve but to seek out and to punish, and so I moved away before any of them could see me.

One other person was absent from the memorial. I found my dad in his trailer, on speakerphone to a man who sounded like he’d not only been born with a silver spoon in his mouth but had swallowed the entire canteen of cutlery.

“As I say, George, I’m terribly sorry about what happened. Awful. Just awful. But you’re sure the police have given you the green light to reopen tonight?” My dad said yes, and catching sight of me, waved me into a chair. “Jolly good. I’m old school chums with the chief constable, and if there had been any trouble… But there. This man Tallis sounds like a good egg, and I’ve been in touch with Mrs Manders, of course.”

“Mrs who?” my dad asked.

“I’m sorry, Miss Rowell. An absolute gem. Couldn’t do without her. Loyal as a dog, that one, and twice as trustworthy. Married to our old gamekeeper, many moons ago. Manders. Terrible villain. Led her a merry dance—booze, drugs, other women. He buggered off one night with one of our lesser-known Gainsboroughs and great-grandmama’s diamond