Chapter 15
GRAHAM
He peers past the curtains at his yard just as headlights sweep around the corner, blinding him. Pulling the curtains back across, Graham releases the tension in his shoulders by rolling them back and clicking his neck from side to side. That’s better.
It’s late, much later than he expected. Perhaps Mr Mallow had car trouble or got lost along the way.
If Graham remembers correctly, he drives a beat-up old banger that’s probably better off going to the scrapheap, so the fact it’s made it all the way to the darkest depths of Wales from the Lake District is a miracle in itself.
He flicks the kettle on as he walks past it to the back door.
He rarely uses the front door. It’s in an odd location, smack in the middle of the lounge, so whenever the door opens, the cold from outside comes rushing into the living area.
Therefore, it’s easier to use the back entrance located in the kitchen, so he can close the kitchen door; a barrier to keep the warmth trapped in the lounge.
Graham opens the door and watches as Mr Mallow’s old banger (still has it then) rolls to a stop. He stays where he is while the man, who he used to find infuriating, gets out of the car and waves at him, a dopey grin across his face.
‘Couldn’t have lived a bit closer to civilisation, no?’ calls out Mr Mallow. ‘On a few of those hills, I thought my car was going to stall halfway up and roll all the way back down.’
Graham spreads his arms wide at the open fields surrounding his cottage, despite it being too dark to see them. ‘It was the only place available.’
Mr Mallow smirks as he steps closer and extends his hand in greeting. ‘Good to see you again, Detective.’
Graham shakes his hand firmly. ‘And you, Mr Mallow.’ He’s about to offer a polite compliment, say that the man looks well, but truth be told, Mr Mallow looks anything, but well.
The hollow, gaunt expression in his eyes and the paleness of his face stand out even against the dark backdrop.
Perhaps he hasn’t been sleeping. Graham knows how that feels.
‘Wanted to get here before the darkness set in.’ Mr Mallow glances around. ‘But it looks like it beat me.’
‘You’ll find the darkness has ways of creeping up on you out here.’ As soon as he says it, they lock eyes; a mutual understanding of their past flitting between them. They don’t wish to speak about it, but they know it’s there.
‘Come on in. I’ve made the spare room up for you,’ says Graham. ‘You’re the first person to use it.’
‘Very kind of you.’ Mr Mallow opens the boot and brings out a small suitcase and a laptop bag.
Graham steps aside, allowing Mr Mallow to walk past, but he pauses at the entrance on the doormat. ‘Something wrong?’ asks Graham, noticing the man’s sweaty upper lip and twitching hands. He’s nervous. Maybe not nervous, but … agitated. Yes, agitated.
Mr Mallow crosses the threshold and closes his eyes for a moment.
Seventeen seconds to be precise. Graham allows him his space to do what he needs to do to come to terms with walking inside a new place.
When Mr Mallow opens his eyes, he smiles and walks all the way into the property, closing the door behind him.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he says, setting his bags on the floor. ‘A bit of a doer-upper.’
‘Thank you. Yes, it’s a work in progress.’
‘Aren’t we all these days.’
‘Indeed. May I offer you a cup of tea? Or something stronger?’
‘Something stronger wouldn’t go amiss after the journey I’ve just had.’
‘Whisky it is then.’
Graham turns and retrieves two glass tumblers from a nearby cupboard, then reaches down and pulls out a bottle of whisky from the bar area. While he pours, Mr Mallow wanders wordlessly around the kitchen, glancing at the various items on the sides and shelves.
Graham thinks back to when Mr Mallow made himself at home in his office back in Cherry Hollow.
The man stepped behind his desk while he’d been out of the room and rearranged all the pictures on the wall so they were straight.
Graham half expects him to do the same with the various knickknacks on the side, but he doesn't. He passes them with a quick glance and moves on.
‘Ice?’ Graham asks.
‘Please,’ replies Mr Mallow. ‘Two cubes.’
Graham fetches four ice cubes from the freezer tray and pops two in each glass. ‘I know what you’re about to say,’ says Graham, handing Mr Mallow a half-filled tumbler of amber liquid.
Mr Mallow takes it, smiling. ‘What’s that then?’
‘It needs a woman’s touch in here.’
‘Not at all. What I was going to say was that you’ve done well in your retirement. It seems like the perfect place to settle down away from people.’
Graham shrugs and takes a sip of cool liquid. Anyone else would take Mr Mallow’s words as a small dig or jibe, but Graham knows he’s merely speaking the truth.
‘How is retirement going?’ Mr Mallow asks.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Bored already, huh?’
‘Why do you think I decided to climb a tree yesterday and investigate a potentially missing teenager?’
Mr Mallow nods. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got yourself a part-time job. To be honest, I’ve been looking for something similar to keep me occupied.’
‘Writing articles for the newspaper not doing it for you anymore?’
‘Not exactly. It pays the bills but doesn’t keep my mind active enough. I’m lucky that I get to write whatever I want for the papers, but …’
‘Nothing quite like a creepy small town mystery.’
‘You got it.’
The two men stare into their tumblers for a moment.
‘So … are we going to address the scarecrow in the room?’ asks Mr Mallow.
Graham squeezes his lips together to force down a chuckle, impressed at Mr Mallow’s attempt at a little humour. ‘Actually, it’s still in the tree. Fancy a nighttime trek? Dinner can wait.’
‘Can’t it wait until morning? I just got here.’
‘We could, but the question is: will your curiosity last until then?’ Graham knocks back the rest of the whisky in one big gulp and places the glass on the side. Then he grabs a torch from the hook on the wall next to his umbrella. ‘Shall we? I’m afraid my own curiosity is running away with me.’
Mr Mallow sighs heavily before also draining his glass. He walks out the back door and follows Graham, the beam of the torch crisscrossing the yard.
‘The hill’s rather steep,’ says Graham. Mr Mallow doesn’t reply.
They fall into step beside each other as they climb the grassy hill. Graham pulls the collar of his jacket tighter against his neck as a strong wind whips around them.
‘How’ve you been?’ Graham asks. ‘You know, in general …’ He admits he hasn’t kept in touch like he promised he would.
The fact Mr Mallow now resides in Cherry Hollow, the one place on this earth that still gives him nightmares, is probably part of the reason he’s failed to keep contact.
Couldn’t the man have lived anywhere else? Why there, of all places?
Mr Mallow doesn't reply straight away. He seems to be struggling to keep up. Graham slows; not aware he’s been walking fast enough for a fitter, younger man to struggle. And there he was thinking he was unfit.
‘Good,’ comes the late response from Mr Mallow.
‘Still living in Cherry Hollow?’
‘You know I am.’
‘I can’t believe after everything that happened last year, you’re living there. You couldn’t have found some other hellhole to call home?’
‘Perhaps your idea of hell and my idea of hell are very different.’
‘Indeed.’
Another silence stretches between them. It’s not awkward, not like it used to be.
‘Have you heard from Olivia?’ asks Mr Mallow.
‘Yes, I visit her as often as I can. Usually, once a month or so.’
‘How is she?’
‘Surprisingly, she’s okay. Her family visit her often.’
‘Crazy about what happened to Mary, right?’
Graham sighs. ‘I’d rather not talk about her, Mr Mallow. I hope you understand.’
‘I understand perfectly, Detective. Say no more.’
The way Mr Mallow speaks the words sends a shiver down Graham’s spine, which has nothing to do with the chill factor. Mary is a topic of conversation he never discusses and luckily, Mr Mallow, after being told, honours his wish. He’s a good man.
Graham slows as they near the top where the hill gets steeper. He stops under the canopy and shines the light up into the tree. ‘Welcome to The Hanging Tree, Mr Mallow.’
Mr Mallow glances at him. ‘You failed to mention that snippet of information in your previous phone conversation.’
‘I thought it would be a nice surprise for you.’
‘Indeed it is. The Hanging Tree. Nothing to do with The Hunger Games, I’m assuming?’
‘You’ve lost me.’
Mr Mallow shakes his head. ‘Never mind. I should have known you wouldn’t get that book reference. I’m assuming there’s a story behind the name?’
‘You assume correct.’ He directs the beam into the branches again, highlighting the outline of the scarecrow above. ‘There it is,’ he says matter-of-factly. He watches Mr Mallows’ eyes travel upwards, but then they freeze when they reach the object swinging above.
‘What the hell?’
‘I told you … it’s weird and …’
‘Detective, are you seeing what I’m seeing?’
Graham frowns, returning his gaze to the tree. He studies the scarecrow, but this time, something is there that hadn’t been there before.
‘Holy shit,’ he says.
The scarecrow is bleeding.