Head Wound Read online

  It was time to mingle, which I did, armed with a non-alcoholic cocktail, which was indeed really excellent. Would it be the dive into a tankful of piranhas that Elaine had predicted?

  Not immediately, at least. I actually recognised and had quite interesting conversations with some of the men because of my cricket connections: George (it turned out he was actually Sir George, with a Ladyship wife) was a fellow umpire, and Nicholas and Toby, presidents of some of the clubs that had hosted Wrayford CC. Sadly their wives didn’t share our passion for cricket, but occupied themselves with silently appraising my outfit, which I suspect they found wanting. Or perhaps it was my unvarnished fingernails. My attempts to turn the conversation to topics they might find more interesting ground to a halt when they told me how well their children were doing at private schools, to which they had to go because village schools were such rubbish.

  To misquote Hamlet, a woman may smile and smile and think villainous thoughts. I could, anyway.

  I mingled some more, ready to go home but for one thing – it would be horribly quiet. In any case, I’d not finished my circuit of the lovely room.

  Eventually Tony Carpenter and his wife – Alexia – appeared, and though they recognised me from my part in Joy’s removal here, were reluctant to acknowledge me until Joy bore down on them, dragging me with her. Alexia maintained a distant politeness I attributed to a recent acquaintance with Botox, so immobile were her features. The resemblance to Mrs Trump was more pronounced than ever.

  Actually, the young women serving drinks and canapes resembled her too – all razor-sharp cheekbones and huge eyes. Somehow, however, their black uniforms combined with very heavy matte make-up made them look more like funeral mourners than waiters – a fact I decided not mention to Joy when the circulation round the room brought us together again. I did praise their discreet efficiency, however.

  ‘Tony Carpenter found them for me. They’re excellent, aren’t they? So nice for Ken and me to be able to talk to our friends without worrying about who’s got a full glass and who hasn’t.’ She looked round, dropping her voice so that it was only just audible through all the cocktail-fuelled yapping. ‘So cheap, too. In fact, I don’t think we’re paying them enough. But Tony insisted we were.’

  ‘Isn’t there something called the national living wage?’ I asked, knowing full well there was.

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve never employed anyone, so I wouldn’t know. How much do you think it would be?’

  I pretended to guess, but in fact gave a pretty accurate figure.

  ‘But we’re only paying half that! And it could be less, because they’re supposed to pay for breakages. Oh, Jane – you know about these things: what should I do?’

  ‘Were you supposed to be paying them direct – or Tony?’

  ‘Tony.’ Her face slipped from cheerful to appalled. ‘Do you think I should pay them myself? And add a bit extra? Actually, it should be a lot more, shouldn’t it?’ She clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘I don’t think I’ve got that much cash. And Ken’ll say I shouldn’t interfere, so I can’t ask him.’

  ‘I’ve probably got some. You can borrow it, if you want.’

  ‘Let’s pop into my bedroom – I don’t want people to know, obviously.’

  I had fifty-five in cash, which wouldn’t really be enough. ‘I could go and find a cash machine—’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. Ken will have enough to pay Tony what he asked, and I’ve got some … That should give them £10 or £15 extra. Oh, Jane, I never thought.’

  ‘But you have now and you’ve done something about it. No one could do any more, could they?’ I gave her a quick hug and was ready to follow her back to what I could only think of as the salon.

  Instead she sat on the bed, saying, so quietly I could hardly hear: ‘There’s always more, isn’t there?’ Before I could even prompt her, she was on her feet again, saying ultra-brightly, as she steered us back into the melee, ‘Time for one more drinkie. Such a shame you’re driving, Jane: that blackberry gin cocktail is to die for.’

  It took only a glance at her face to know that I should talk about the problems of driving. ‘If I’d had the sense I was born with,’ I agreed brightly, ‘I should have come by cab. Thanks for that safety pin. What do celebs call it – “a wardrobe malfunction”?’

  Lavender and Nosey cautiously descended from their high shelf to demand a return to the status quo, a satisfactorily dog-free environment, and watch me eat a cheese sandwich and sink a glass of Shiraz. They endured a series of rhetorical questions: why had Elaine been so keen for me to take Ian Cooper, of all people, to the party? He was young enough to be the son, if not the grandson, of some of my fellow guests. And though we might like each other, I would wager that he and Donna would become an item before too long. What had I missed, that he or, more to the point, the anonymous CID officer she’d mentioned in passing would have spotted? I’d certainly picked up on Joy’s anxieties about the women waiting staff. Anxieties in general. Had anything been obviously wrong? Long sleeves. High necks. Trousers not skirts. Waiters’ uniform, really. But very concealing. I’d somehow have expected Tony to make them wear something altogether skimpier. As I sluiced away my night’s warpaint, I thought about theirs: could that flawless make-up conceal more than the odd blemish?

  ‘There’s always more, isn’t there?’ What had she meant by that? Joy didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who would want to ponder universal truths: she had an eye for specific details. There was only one thing to do, I told the bears: I had to make room in my diary for a private conversation – one where Joy would feel safe to open up.

  Izzie West most certainly did not to want to open up to me, though she came and sat next to me for the next morning’s service, which I had cycled to like a Barbara Pym heroine. It was a very low-key affair, morning prayers from the Book of Common Prayer because, as the new priest, Graham needed to be properly launched – there was a proper term, but my 9.30 brain couldn’t recall it – and still awaited the special service where this would take place. Not to mention, of course, the house, which would constitute his payment for his work in the parish. He gave a short, workmanlike sermon delivered in a voice so clear even the old ladies at the back could distinguish every syllable. I said everything proper, both to Izzie and to Graham, as he shook hands with everyone after the service.

  ‘When our life is more settled I’d like to take our school assemblies. You’re not officially a Church school, of course, but—’

  I had to demur. After his predecessor’s activities I would be surprised if many parents would want a priest to come anywhere near their children, but I could hardly say that. After all, I was sure there were rotten apples in every profession, even mine. And the C of E required priests to have every background check going. But this wasn’t the place to mention such a large elephant. ‘Let’s talk about this at a more appropriate time. Here’s my card: just call me when you’ve a moment.’

  Taking it automatically he turned to the next member of the congregation without responding.

  The last thing I expected as I cycled past the school on my way home was to see a woman running away from it. A child, yes – having committed some petty act of vandalism. But a woman? She wasn’t making very good progress, either – tight skirts and high heels don’t make good running gear. I bowled past her – and then slowed to a halt, turning with a smile and a flap of the hand. She froze, ready, I thought, to bolt back up the hill. ‘Hi,’ I began, trying to project, not shout. ‘I’m Jane – I think we’re neighbours.’ Hands open, slightly raised – was I trying to prove I wasn’t armed, or something equally unlikely? – I turned the bike back towards to her, my best head-teacherly smile of reassurance on my face.

  ‘You live at number 39, don’t you?’ I said very clearly, ‘I live at number 14. I’m the head teacher at the school.’ Getting no response, I soldiered on: ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee? It’s nice to meet one’s neighbours.’

  She got
the gist of what I was saying – I was sure of that. But possibly not all. I tried the technique I’d used to Zunaid, another smile.

  She shook her head, touching her lips, and walked straight towards me, so I had to hug her or dodge out of her way. Hearing a car coming up behind me, I dodged and cycled back towards the school as if no interaction had taken place. When I turned, there was no sight of her, or of the car, which must have done a neat three-point turn to return whence it had come. Was she in it – by choice or by coercion? Striding down to number 39 and demanding to see her wasn’t an option. I consoled myself with the belief that she possibly had enough English to understand numerals – and since she appeared to have been running from the school, she might well understand that word too. There was also a rather etiolated shoot of hope, too – had she been able to read that school-related flyer I’d put through her door? Had she sought refuge there? Or had she been checking it out as a possible place of safety? Much though I’d like to know, would it put her in jeopardy if I forced the issue?

  I walked on into the village itself, to the pub. Because the Wrayford has no shop, Diane arranged with the shop in the nearest village to deliver pre-ordered newspapers. You paid in advance. There weren’t many Observer readers in the area, so usually my chosen read stood out like a liberal beacon. Today it was dimmed. Extinct. Or more precisely, taken by someone else. Without paying. Logically I knew I could turn to the online version, but I felt – yes, robbed, stomping off home as if hurting my feet would make the rest of me feel better.

  It didn’t.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  If I’d had Geoffrey handy I’d have gone for a good long walk on what had become a lovely early spring day: sun, birdsong, some greening on both ground and branches. A solitary stroll really didn’t appeal, however – but a proper bike ride, as opposed to nipping from A to B, just might. But I didn’t really have time for a pointless jaunt. Maybe I could go to Wray Episcopi to see how Donna did, maybe catch sight of Pam and Zunaid, and come the long way home. Why not?

  The warmth had brought out other cyclists too, like an unnervingly unpredictable rash. Everyone has to learn to ride; everyone needs places to practise. My own preference was for dedicated cycle areas before I moved up to very quiet lanes. Very well, I once had a spectacular accident on just such a lane, but it wasn’t my fault I ended base over apex in a very prickly hedge. The idea may be funny, but the reality isn’t great, believe me. Hence my new best friend, the helmet camera.

  Other people were taking learning very seriously, but very dangerously. What possessed that family of five to string themselves like wobbly fairy lights across both sides of a road? And, coming towards me, the parents, rightly proud of their twins’ cycling efforts as they pedalled so desperately behind their parents that they kept veering into the middle of the road? Not even the most foolhardy driver was risking overtaking.

  And what a good job too.

  A horse shot from nowhere across the road. White. Riderless. The car that had been hoping to overtake me screamed to a halt, the driver leaving the door open as he leapt out. I abandoned my bike and ran helpfully forward – to do what, for goodness’ sake? I knew nothing of horses, just that they were big with teeth in their mouths and iron on their feet. Even so I could see that this one was scared – terrified. It kept rearing up, rolling its eyes.

  ‘Go to its head and grab the bridle. Not like that, you’ll spook it and likely get yourself killed.’

  ‘Over to you. It’s called Snowflake. I’ll look for the rider,’ I yelled, running up the path that had so terrified me the other day. I knew that horse. I knew the rider. Lulabelle Petrie. Small child. Big horse. Worried father. Right to worry if she could be thrown like that. Lose a wife to a horse. Lose a child to a horse. My God.

  Somewhere I found breath to call her name. Again and again. But when I stopped to catch my breath, all I could hear was my breath and the pounding of blood in my ears.

  More running. More calling. And then I heard a shrill keening – not a shout, not a yell – as if an animal were in pain. But human, surely.

  ‘Lulabelle. I’m here! Where are you? Just call me. Just call, “I’m here”.’ If she had to frame words, maybe it would somehow calm her down. ‘It’s Ms Cowan, Lulabelle – come to help you.’

  ‘Please, miss, please, miss – I’m here. I mean Ms Cowan.’

  ‘“Miss” will do. I can’t see you. Can you wave?’

  Movement in the bracken. Lulabelle was struggling to her feet. I ran again.

  ‘No. Don’t come. It’s so horrible. Oh, please!’

  She fell into my arms.

  The book said I should lay her down in the recovery position and wait for professional help. My head, my heart – even my legs – told me otherwise. First, I was sick. Very sick. As sick as she had been.

  A child shouldn’t have seen what she saw. No one should have seen what she saw. And yet its horror was hypnotic. Tearing my eyes from it, I gathered her up and ran.

  ‘Don’t you know anything about first aid? Bloody hell, you could have killed the pair of you slipping and sliding down that path.’ The man who knew about horses was either furious or genuinely alarmed. ‘Here, take the horse: I’ll carry her.’

  She clung more tightly than ever.

  ‘We need the police. 999. Now.’ I said.

  He was the sort to argue. ‘Ambulance, I’d have thought. Vomit means concussion.’

  ‘I said police. Now. And they can organise a paramedic when they’re on their way. Just do it.’ It’s hard to sound fierce and cradle someone protectively. ‘I’m just going to set you down gently, Lulabelle. No, I’m not letting you go. I shall stay here. Anyone got any water?’

  Someone emerged from a red BMW, arms akimbo. ‘Will someone tell me when you can move that bloody car, not to mention that damned horse?’

  ‘It’s called Snowflake,’ I told Horse Man. ‘Bring it over here, please – it’ll help Lulabelle if she can see it’s all right. And some water. Anyone?’

  As if by magic a child’s water bottle appeared, and some baby-wipes. I tackled Lulabelle’s face and hands. My own too. There was still some vomit on her riding gear. I mopped hopefully. Presumably Snowflake didn’t mind the smell, or perhaps he was reassured by Lulabelle’s arms and face against his neck.

  ‘She’s Lulabelle Petrie – lives about a mile from here,’ I said, my voice little more than a croak. ‘She’ll need her dad, Rufus Petrie.’

  The onlookers murmured in response to the name but didn’t say anything helpful.

  ‘Lulabelle, have you got your phone, sweetheart? We’ll call your dad.’

  ‘No. No! He’ll be so cross. He’ll take Snowflake away and I couldn’t bear it.’ At least if you pieced all the disjointed words, picked out from between the sobs and half-muffled screams, that was the gist.

  I had to play the head teacher, didn’t I? If I had the energy, that is. ‘I’ll tell him that it was Snowflake who helped us find you,’ I said, with a vague approximation of the truth. ‘Let me phone him.’ I grasped at the crisp tone I used in school, though it sounded to me little more than a feeble plea.

  Something worked. She dug in her jacket and passed it over.

  I willed myself out of her immediate earshot. I had to think through every word I used to Rufus Petrie. I tried rehearsing them in my head. Useless. Perhaps they’d come when I actually spoke to him.

  ‘Mr Petrie? Jane Cowan.’ Yes, autopilot was working. Just. I’d have to override any interruptions if I was to deliver all the message. ‘Lulabelle’s OK – do you understand that? She’s hurt, but not badly. But she needs you: she’s witnessed a most horrible crime.’ At last I had his silent attention. If I thought about it, I’d throw up again. ‘We’re here by the lay-by where we met before. The police are on the way. And the paramedics. The only thing she can turn to at the moment is the horse,’ I added, overriding what I was sure would be threats against it. ‘It saved her life, effectively.’ I cut the call.

>   The man who knew about horses broke off his argument with the BMW driver to ask me what the hell I was saying.

  ‘Look at them. They need each other. She understands horses even if I don’t,’ I added. ‘And I take it you do?’ I wanted to sound dryly ironic. In fact, I was trembling uncontrollably, my voice cracking if I gave it half a chance. I dreaded anyone trying to be kind and understanding.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘Look, you ought to sit before you fall.’

  I managed to reach a ditch to be sick in. Just. I tried to push up from my hands and knees but couldn’t. Couldn’t even raise one hand to wipe the bile from my chin.

  The green lights swimming before my eyes were replaced by blue flashing ones. Real ones. And noise which stopped abruptly, though the lights continued.

  Police? Time for another effort. Another failure.

  Time for a mental bollocking. The sort I’d give myself when I’d thought I could no longer endure life. I was a grown woman. A child needed me. Even her horse needed me. I’d get to them even if I had to crawl.

  I suppose I got about halfway before anyone noticed me. Red car driver. He yanked me upright and put something to my lips, snatching it away before I’d had more than a sip. ‘Didn’t someone have some wet wipes? Here.’ He shoved a bunch roughly into my hand and backed away.

  More twos, and more blues.

  ‘This is the woman who brought her down. I told her she shouldn’t have moved her – God knows what damage she’s done. Just picked her up and carried her.’

  ‘Her?’ a male voice said. ‘She’s only a slip of wind.’ A hand touched my shoulder. ‘What’s your name, miss? Does anyone know her name?’

  ‘It’s Ms Cowan from school.’ Lulabelle’s voice.

  ‘OK, miss—’

  ‘It’s “Ms”, I told you. She’s very particular. She came to find me.’ She started to sob again. Somehow she ended in my arms.