Chapter 23
GRAHAM
He’s awake, showered, dressed and nursing his second coffee of the morning before seven, having been tossing and turning, dreaming of scarecrows and bleeding hearts since six. No surprise there, he supposes.
He flicks the kettle back on when he hears the spare bedroom’s door open and Mr Mallows’ feet pad across the landing to the bathroom.
Graham has never had a guest stay with him before, so it’s an unusual situation.
He’s not sure whether to cook Stephen breakfast or allow him to fend for himself, so he settles for making a coffee, which he’s sure to appreciate.
He doubts Mr Mallow will have slept well if he’s anything like Graham.
Sleeping in a new place, a new bed, never goes well the first night.
A few minutes later, Mr Mallow appears at the doorway to the kitchen, his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Dear God, the man looks positively sickly, as if he’s about to keel over at any second.
‘Morning, Detective,’ he grunts.
‘Bore da, Mr Mallow.’
‘Have you checked to see if our little friend is still in the garage where we left him?’
Graham pauses with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Straight to business then. ‘I locked the garage door last night.’
‘That’s what you did last time too, but someone still managed to get it back up the tree again.’
They hold eye contact for a moment and then, without another word, get their boots and jackets on and trek across the yard to the garage.
The autumn sun is still waking up, so Graham holds his trusty torch aloft as he unlocks the garage.
Without stepping a foot inside, he directs the beam into the corner where they’d left the scarecrow last night.
The strange, ghostly figure lays haphazardly in a heap; the once-fresh blood now dried on the jacket.
Graham huffs and closes the door. ‘Still there,’ he says.
Mr Mallow shudders against the chill. ‘So it seems,’ he replies.
The men make their way slowly back to the cottage in silence.
Graham removes his boots and jacket. ‘The butcher’s shop opens early. Once we’re ready, let’s go there first and inquire about the heart.’
Mr Mallow closes the door behind him. ‘Yes, and then we should visit Frank Hammel and confirm whether his daughter is living here, living elsewhere or is, indeed, missing.’
‘If she is missing then something is definitely wrong in this village,’ replies Graham.
‘Back in Cherry Hollow, when Kieran Jones went missing, the village was in an uproar for years. It was all anyone could talk about. Parents wouldn’t let their children leave the house after dark.
Small villages are notorious for banding together when a tragedy strikes the community, so why not here?
Why wouldn’t the village be more concerned about a missing teenager? ’
‘Hmm, I have a feeling there’s a lot more to this than meets the eye. We have a lot of blanks to fill in today.’ Mr Mallow sits at the table and switches on his laptop, typing ferociously while Graham finishes making coffee.
A few minutes later, Graham places a steaming cup of coffee next to Mr Mallow’s laptop. Mr Mallow doesn’t look up. His eyes are laserbeams on the screen.
‘Can I get you any breakfast?’ he asks, watching as Mr Mallow’s eyes race back and forth, barely blinking or pausing.
There’s no response.
Graham clears his throat. ‘Mr Mallow?’
‘Yes?’
‘Breakfast?’
‘I’m not hungry. Thanks.’ A sheen of sweat beads on Mr Mallow’s forehead.
The cottage isn’t overly warm. Graham keeps the heating on low during the autumn rather than turning it on and off whenever he needs it.
Graham wonders if Mr Mallow is feeling okay.
He has always seemed a little odd to Graham, but the way he’s acting is rather out of character.
The long pauses in between some sentences is not like Mr Mallow, who usually speaks much faster than the average person.
Graham makes himself some toast and jam, eating whilst looking up at the tree that torments him.
If it is indeed almost a thousand years old, it must have seen some incredible things.
It may have been here before the village itself.
Had someone planted it all those years ago on top of the hill, or had it sprouted roots on its own from a random acorn that was dropped by wildlife?
It’s a mystery. Exactly like the curse and deaths surrounding it.
After breakfast, Graham gets ready to leave for the village.
‘Are you ready to leave, Mr Mallow?’ he asks.
Mr Mallow raises his head. ‘Yes, just finishing off some work emails.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘I believe so.’
‘I meant with your overall health,’ Graham adds, hoping he hasn’t overstepped the mark.
Mr Mallow coughs, using a tissue from his pocket to cover his mouth. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with, Detective. I …’ He stops mid-sentence and stares ahead, straight out the window and up at the tree in the distance.
The early morning sun is rising behind it, giving off a pinkish, orange glow and Mr Mallow can't seem to take his eyes off it. Graham follows his line of sight, frowning as he does so, wondering what Mr Mallow is staring so intently at if it’s not the tree.
Then, in a blink of an eye, Mr Mallow snaps out of his stupor, shrugs into his jacket and heads out the door.
It’s odd behaviour, but then Mr Mallow is renowned for being somewhat peculiar on occasion.
‘I thought we’d walk as it’s due to be a nice day,’ says Graham, joining Mr Mallow in the yard. He prefers to walk when he can. Due to the narrow roads, parking is often a nightmare and there is no official carpark to use, so residents park wherever they can find a space, which causes chaos.
‘Yes, yes, very good.’ But Mr Mallow’s gaze is elsewhere again. This time, looking at the cottage. Graham’s not sure if he’s looking at anything in particular, but doesn’t question him.
Mr Mallow points at an area of the roof that’s boarded up.
Apparently, so Graham was told when he bought the place, there used to be a window there, but it was boarded over decades ago.
Graham hadn’t bothered looking at the plans or questioning it further.
Things like that didn’t concern him and, at the time, he’d wanted to complete the purchase of the house quickly so he could get the heck out of Cherry Hollow.
‘Was there a window there previously?’ asks Mr Mallow.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘In that case … there’s something strange about its orientation.’
Graham looks up. Other than the boards looking a little out of place against the roof, he’s not sure what Mr Mallow means.
‘Which room would the window have belonged to?’ continues Mr Mallow.
Graham opens his mouth to provide the answer but finds there is no answer to give.
‘You know,’ he says, scratching the back of his head.
‘I’m not too sure. It must be the spare bedroom at the far end where you’re sleeping.
It only has a tiny window, so perhaps a second one was blocked off at one time or another. ’
‘No. That’s not right. The spare bedroom doesn’t look out over the yard. It’s on the other side of the building.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know then.’
‘You never noticed there’s a random blocked out window in your cottage that supposedly doesn’t belong to any of the rooms inside?’
‘No.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Almost a year.’
‘Hmm. Let’s take a look when we get back.’
‘What for?’
‘To quell my curiosity.’
Graham can’t argue with him there. He’s curious now too, but now there are more important mysteries to solve than a misplaced window.
It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the village and arrive at the butcher's shop, by which time, a line is already forming by the door and down the street. People, it seems, like to buy their meat early in the day to purchase the best cuts. Graham has also noticed they do the opposite and arrive as the shop is closing to grab some cheap ones; the cuts that don’t sell during the day and would otherwise go to waste.
The butcher’s shop is also the most popular place to buy meat, bone and offal for farm dogs.
Most farmers around here seem to feed their dogs raw meat, so he’s gathered.
‘Mr Williams, good to see you,’ says a man around Graham’s age, who he recognises as the bank manager, but he can't remember his name. Graham often knows people by their faces, but is useless at remembering names. The bank is tiny and he’s surprised it’s still in business, considering most banking is done online these days.
‘Hello,’ says Graham, tipping his hat. Mr Mallow is standing quietly beside him. Graham recalls him not being very confident with general chit chat, something he can sympathise with.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in line this early for the butcher’s shop,’ says the bank manager.
Graham merely smiles, not giving anything away.
The line moves again and, this time, Graham and Mr Mallow squeeze into the small shop where a pungent odour of raw meat tickles Graham’s nostrils.
‘Uh, Detective, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m going to wait outside. I’m afraid the smell in here is making me feel a little queasy.’
Graham nods. ‘Very well. I’ll see you in a moment.’
Mr Mallow sidesteps the other customers and heads outside, taking up a position a little way down the pavement, as far away from the door as possible. There’s no doubt about it. Something is wrong with Mr Mallow. Something quite serious.
But Graham doesn’t have time to worry about that now. He needs to find out as much information as he can about pig hearts from the butcher.