15 – STAMP OF CERTAINTY

Preparing a salad for lunch and I can't shake the feeling that something is up. It's been a day and a half since I last saw Max, which mightn't seem a lot, but you don't know Max. When he says he's going to visit, he visits, no questions, no dramas, no getting held up in spirit traffic.

As I hold the tomatoes and carrots under the cold tap, I can't quite wash away the feeling that Max's absence has something to do with getting Genie's message wrong. I don't really know what goes on his side of the mortality boundary, but he often mentions the 'wisers'. I've always just assumed they are some sort of spirit judiciary board who oversee the messages that I receive and deliver. Max has said on a couple of occasions recently that the wisers won't approve of certain actions he's taken like blowing up the light bulb in Jonathan's bathroom and following him on that bus. Maybe he's in more trouble than either of us thought?

I bite my lip in regret. I hope he doesn't stay away too long. Apart from my peace of mind, I need him back to brainstorm ideas about Holly's case. Despite two nights to sleep on it, I still haven't figured out a way of verifying Eyra's alibi.

I pause over my salad, then grab another plate and do a second helping.

I knock on Dad's study door and push it open, my hands full of salad plates. Dad is sat at his desk, working. He looks at me over the gold rims of his spectacles.

'Hey, sweetheart.'

'Hey,' I reply. 'I made you some lunch.'

He takes off his glasses and puts down his pen. His chair squeaks in protest as he leans back and beams at me. I give him his salad and sit down on the couch, legs folded beneath me.

'How's the Ackerman case going?' I ask.

Dad shrugs over a mouthful. 'I think we can safely assume it was arson. There were traces of lighter fluid found at the scene. But who exactly is responsible is anyone's guess. Apart from financial gain there's nothing to tie Farmer Ackerman to the fire, and even then he must surely have realised he would come under suspicion.'

'Will the insurance people pay out?'

Dad takes another big mouthful of ham and cucumber and chews thoughtfully. 'Who knows?' comes his muffled response. 'Probably not if they can help it.'

I toy with my food, my appetite playing second fiddle to my curiosity, and I give it a couple of moments before probing further. 'I heard that new PI guy here the other day,' I say casually, chasing a cherry tomato around my plate. 'Do you know how he's getting on?'

'Nah, they're not bothered about keeping us in the loop anymore.'

I pause again, wondering how I might broach the subject without raising Dad's suspicions. 'You know, I was watching TV last night – two programmes, one after the other, and they made me think.'

'Oh?' Dad says, raising an eyebrow.

'Yeah. The first was a magic show and it reminded me how magicians use distraction to take your attention away from the moment the trick is done. Like those pretty female assistants in leotards not actually doing anything.'

'Okay,' Dad says, waiting for the point.

Thankful that he didn't ask what it was called or what channel it was on, I hurry on. 'And the second was a Crimes of Passion programme about two best friends and one killed the other because they were both in love with the same man. And she was not your typical murderer. Far from it.'

Dad nods, but doesn't look terribly intrigued. 'Okay, so where are you going with this?'

'Well, it just made me think about Holly's case. All the attention is immediately drawn to that boyfriend of hers – what's his name?' I ask just to compound my distance from the case.

'Jonathan Kilpin.'

'Yeah, Jonathan. I mean he looks the obvious guy, doesn't he? But then what if he's nothing more than a distraction? What if the person responsible is her best friend? The person you'd least expect?'

Dad laughs and covers his mouth. 'I appreciate your thoughts on the matter, Noa, but no. It wasn't her best friend.'

I glare at Dad. He's not taking me seriously. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

He says it so matter of course that naturally I'm sceptical. 'How can you be so sure?'

Dad stops laughing when he catches onto my doubt. 'Because, Noa,' he says, sounding offended, 'her alibi checks out. Eyra Styne was at home the whole time.'

'But it's easy enough to sneak out, isn't it?'

'I don't like it when you say it's that easy,' says Dad, narrowing his eyes at me, 'but no, it definitely wasn't her.'

Frustrated, I put my plate aside and glare at the opposite wall. I need Eyra to not have an alibi for my theory to be correct. 'What was she doing at home? If it's her family backing up her alibi, then I wouldn't trust them. They're her family, invested interests and all that –'

'Noa,' says Dad, his tone sharp, 'I made sure, all right? Eyra didn't have anything to do with it.'

I frown at him. He still hasn't said why he's so sure. My frown deepens when I notice Dad looking shifty. 'What?' I say warily.

'I hacked into her phone and laptop, okay?' he rushes, holding up his hands in defeat.

I gasp in delight and lean forward in my seat. 'You never!'

Dad looks decidedly guilty. 'I did, but don't let that be an example for you to follow,' he says, wagging a finger at me. 'I only did it as a last resort to clear her name.'

I give him a knowing smile. 'Sure. I believe you.'

'I did! I –'

'Okay, okay. So, what did you find out?'

There's no harm in knowing is there? For all we know Eyra might be involved in some other way. If what Max and I witnessed the other afternoon is to be believed, she certainly has motive to be involved.

'She was in a chatroom the whole time,' says Dad. 'I didn't pry further. That was enough for me to know.'

I huff in disappointment and pick up my plate again. I bite into a cherry tomato and Dad gives me a curious look.

'Sorry if I ruined your theory,' he says.

'S'okay. It was just an idea,' I say with a shrug. What else am I supposed to say? Sure, I'm disappointed and annoyed and pretty much back at square one again, but Dad can't know any of that.

My healthy lunch looks even less appetising now and I get up to leave the room. I can't help it but my eye is drawn to Dad's corkboard and the photo of the blackened Celtic knot.

'What's that?' I say, trying to appear nonchalant.

'That?' Dad looks over his shoulder to where I'm pointing. 'Oh, that. It's a Celtic knot symbolising sisterhood. It was found in the burnt out barn. Weird, eh?'

I frown. Why would Holly be wearing a necklace symbolising sisterhood? She was an only child. Unless, of course, she and Emilie were so close they considered each other to be sisters. Not impossible. Then again, my whole theory about Holly's disappearance seems to swirling down the plughole now Eyra's alibi has checked out.

I'm about to give up and go to my room when I notice a flash card near the Celtic knot picture and the words 'ANNE QUARRY' written on it.

My stomach flips at the familiar name. 'Who's that?' I say, stepping closer.

'Who?'

'Anne Quarry?'

Dad gives me a heavy-lidded look. 'Noa, you realise I shouldn't be discussing any of this with you. We've had this conversation before.'

'Yeah, I know, and I said "Who am I going to tell?" Who is she?'

'Frank Ackerman's sister. Lives locally, seems to help him out quite a bit.'

I nod thoughtfully, trying to appear calm and uninterested.

'Why?' says Dad.

'Oh, no reason,' I say, batting my hand and moving to the door. Inside, my brain is racing. 'I just thought it was an unusual name. I'll see you later.'

I leave Dad to his work and stop outside the door to catch my breath. It is an unusual name; could it be coincidence that Holly's friend Dylan has the same surname or are they related?

I log onto my laptop and look around restlessly. 'Come on, Max. Where are you?' I mutter. 'Things are happening.'

I do a census search and find the households of Douglas and Anne Quarry in Cambridge and their four children Donald, Allison, Amber… and Dylan.

'Holy crap,' I murmur, looking up. Spock, sitting at the foot of the bed, whines, one ear cocked. 'Farmer Ackerman is Dylan's uncle.'

I know Dylan doesn't have an alibi for the night Holly disappeared. Could it all be down to him?

I swing over the side of my bed and delve underneath for my file on Holly. I find the photo of the Sharp Shooters club and examine Dylan's face, his expression, his body language, anything that might hint at something new now that I know a bit more about him. He has very ordinary, quite forgettable features; he looks completely harmless. Yet I know he's strong, the arm he has around Holly is muscular, protective.

I recall how he claimed not to know Holly, blushed when I'd started asking questions, avoided my eyes when I'd asked about his relationship with Holly.

Had he killed Holly in a fit of jealousy? Tried to make a move, been turned down and killed her as punishment? Were the burns on Jonathan's arms pure coincidence?

I look at Holly's photo of the cows drinking by the river with the water tower in the background. Max was right – it is very similar to the one taken by Dylan. Could he have been stalking Holly, been caught so had killed her to keep his secret?

Were those Farmer Ackerman's cows? I'm sure Dad said he was a dairy farmer. Had Holly been on Farmer Ackerman's property? With his consent? Or had she been trespassing? It would be the perfect location to carry out the murder – a remote area that Dylan was already familiar with, knowledge of his uncle's derelict barn. He could have taken her body there until he'd found a more permanent place to dump her body. Then he would just have to burn the barn down to destroy the evidence, just like I'd thought Jonathan had done.

I look again at the Sharp Shooters club photo. Could Dylan be capable of such violence? He looks so friendly, so approachable. Having said that he's already proved what a quick temper he has when manhandling me out of the studio. The irony was that he'd been wearing a leather Peace bracelet, I remember, not something one would imagine a murderer would wear. He'd been strong, had no problem chucking me out, strong muscular arms, no visible tattoos, although…

I hesitate as a tiny memory flashes through my mind: a stamp on the inside of his arm; the design: two crossed cue sticks over a number 8 ball – the same stamp used to get into Crazy 8s Snooker Hall.

Copyright © H.R. Aidan