Chapter 17
Erica walked past the tall statue in the park again.
The man in stone gazed heroically into the middle distance, one hand resting on a book, the other folded neatly behind his back. His wig and flowing robes were carved in such loving detail that even the buttons on his cuffs showed crisp definition in the stonework.
He looked as though he might step down from his plinth at any moment and begin reciting something important.
Across the road, the witch-trial marker was barely visible beneath a drift of damp leaves.
A woman pushing a pram struggled past it, her wheels catching on the uneven pavement. She swore softly as she nearly slipped on the slick carpet of fallen leaves.
Erica slowed. The pavement was even more thickly carpeted with leaves than it had been the day before – soggy, slick, gathering in corners no one had cleared.
She pulled her coat tighter around her and turned away from the park, heading uphill.
The town was pretty in a restrained, respectable way.
Grey-stone buildings lined the wide high street, their windows framed with neat white paint and hanging baskets that were now past their best, straggly with autumn flowers clinging on out of stubbornness.
A clock tower rose from a squat old tolbooth at the centre of town, its weathered face ticking steadily, as though keeping time for generations of small, important decisions.
There was money here. Erica could see it in the polished shopfronts and the tasteful brass plaques, but it felt different from Rock Cove. More curated. Less lived-in. As if the town was always presenting its best side.
A bakery advertised heritage sourdough. A jeweller’s window glittered with silver thistles. A small banner flapped from a lamppost:
BEST SMALL TOWN – FIVE YEARS RUNNING
And yet the gutters overflowed with leaves, and a cracked paving slab near the park had been patched with tarmac that didn’t quite match.
She found the council offices tucked behind the high street, a long beige building with narrow windows and a flag that drooped limply in the damp air. Inside, everything smelled faintly of old carpet and furniture polish – the scent of things being preserved rather than cared for.
The reception desk was empty.
“Hello?” Erica called, peering down a corridor lined with framed certificates and photographs of smiling people shaking hands.
After a moment, a man appeared. He was in his late forties, perhaps, with thinning hair and a carefully ironed suit that had seen better days. His tie was too bright for the room. His smile came a fraction too quickly.
“Ms …” He glanced at a clipboard. “Ms Erica Hayes?”
“That’s me.”
His face lit up. “Of course. Of course it is. I’m Councillor Peters. Or Andrew, if you prefer. I know of your work.”
Erica blinked. “You do?”
“Oh yes.” He chuckled. “My daughter adores you. Watches all your old videos. And my wife” – he lowered his voice as though sharing something intimate – “has one of your T-shirts. Wears it every time she’s at the gym.”
“That’s … nice,” Erica said faintly. “I don’t really do the channel anymore.”
“No, no,” he said, waving a hand. “Apparently you’re into witches now. Very fashionable. My daughter too – all black nail polish and crystals.”
“It’s … more than that,” Erica said.
“Of course it is.” He gestured down the corridor. “Come in, come in.”
His office was exactly what Erica had expected and somehow worse.
Beige walls. Beige filing cabinets. Beige carpet.
A large desk sat in the middle, stacked with papers that looked as though they had been there since the early nineties.
A small plant drooped sadly in the corner, its leaves yellowed at the tips, quietly dying.
On the wall behind him hung a glossy poster of what she had seen earlier in the town:
WINNER: BEST SMALL TOWN – FIVE YEARS RUNNING
Beside it were several framed photographs of Councillor Peters himself – cutting ribbons, shaking hands with people in suits, standing beside smiling officials Erica didn’t recognise.
In one, he was posed beside a woman in a tailored coat who looked faintly familiar, the sort of face that appeared on the news.
In another, he was mid-laugh at a formal dinner, a name card just visible in front of him.
Whatever this job paid, it had bought him a seat at tables that mattered.
He sat down with a contented sigh. “Now. What can we do for you?”
Erica perched on the edge of a chair. “I wanted to talk about the witch-trial site. The plaque. I think it deserves … more. Something dignified. A sculpture. A proper memorial.”
He nodded slowly, steepling his fingers. “Yes, yes. Tragic business. Terrible time in history.”
“And yet,” Erica said quietly, “the only thing that really stands out is that statue in the park.”
“Oh, he’s very important,” Peters said. “Judicial reform. Big deal.”
“More important than them?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, you see, that was an investment in the future. Tourists love a good statue. It brings footfall. Cafés, gift shops, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve found money for that,” Erica said, before she could stop herself. “But you can’t even clear the leaves off the pavement. I nearly saw a woman go over in the park this morning.”
He blinked, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. “Well, that would be … a different department.”
Erica tried a different tack. “A memorial could bring people in too.”
He smiled apologetically. “People don’t come on holiday to feel sad, Ms Hayes. No one wants to be miserable, thinking about women burned hundreds of years ago. I understand feminism, of course,” he added quickly, “but that part of history really ought to be left alone.”
Erica stared at him.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, spreading his hands. “The budget just won’t allow it.”
Through the narrow office window, she could see the top of the statue in the park, bright and clean against the grey sky.
“Well,” Erica said, standing. “Thank you for your time.”
Peters beamed. “Any time.” Then, with a sudden ah, he pulled out his phone and held it up. “Would you mind? My daughter would be thrilled.”
Erica forced a smile that felt as stiff as the statue outside.
“Pleasure meeting you, Ms Hayes,” he said brightly. “I’m sure you know the way out.”
She did.
Outside, the wind rattled the bare branches. The clock tower chimed the hour – steady, indifferent.
Erica stood on the pavement, the sound of it echoing in her chest, and for the first time since arriving in Rock Cove, she didn’t know what to do next.
More leaves gathered at her feet, soft and slick underfoot.
She picked her way carefully back to her car, one cautious step at a time, suddenly aware of how easy it was to miss what was right there underfoot.