Echoes

PROLOGUE

His gut told him something was wrong. Eleven years of experience screamed at him to call for back up, the ambulance service and the coroner but something stopped him and he looked again at the small house, trying to find the reason for his hesitation.

The terraced home reeked of death; everything from the closed curtains of the front room to the hint of a light he could see through the thin fabric said something was wrong. He suspected that light wouldn’t still be on if everything were okay inside. He glanced across at his waiting partner and could see that Darren sensed it too. Their insistent knocking on the front door had elicited no response from the occupants he knew were inside.

He shook himself slightly and turned back to the woman who stood next to him. She was watching him closely, waiting. Clearing his throat, he continued asking for details: “So, when was the last time you saw Mr Gillespie and his daughter?”

She didn’t answer him because her attention had shifted to the house. He saw her shudder and draw her coat closer around her neck; he knew it wasn’t because of the cool March breeze that ruffled her skirt. She sensed it too — something bad had happened.

“Mrs Williams?” He spoke a little more harshly than he intended, but it got her attention.

“Oh yes ... I told the officer on the phone the walls are very thin and I should have telephoned sooner, but I didn’t, you know how it is…?” Sadly, he did but kept his expression as passive as possible and waited. “Anyway, I haven’t seen the girl for the last two mornings. She leaves the house at the same time as my son. D’ya know it was her thirteenth birthday the other day? No party, no friends called round ... poor girl. Not since her mother died a few years back, terrible that.” She slowly shook her head and her eyes glazed over as she stared into space. He tried to wait patiently; he could see how this was affecting her and felt a stab of remorse for the woman, but time was ticking away.

“She’s a strange girl.” She continued, “Quiet, never speaks to anyone, and always keeps herself to herself. I asked my son, Robert — he’s in the year above her — if he’d seen her today, but no one has seen or heard anything since early yesterday morning. Oh dear I’m rambling ...Well, I heard a lot of shouting, not unusual with teenagers I know, but, this was ... Different.” “Different?” He glanced towards the silent house. Darren was knocking loudly on the front window; he began to lose his patience as she tried to find the right words. “Yes. I can’t explain it, it ... just ... was. I heard a lot of banging and a loud crash, like something breaking. I heard a scream, and then I’m positive I heard her begging, you know, ‘please don’t’ and all that ... turned my stomach I can tell you. Then a strange noise, like … whimpering. I thought I heard moaning and I think it was Bronwen crying and then silence. At first I thought nothing of it, just another argument between them. I hear a lot of shouting ... from him anyway. But, I began to think about it and I couldn’t sleep thinking about it; perhaps she’d had an accident or something ... I don’t like to gossip but, there has been talk of bruises ... And the silence, I’m sure they’re in the house ... But it’s too quiet ... Ya’ know?”

He looked across at Darren who had walked into the small garden. Their eyes met and he nodded. It was time to investigate, to find what they both knew they’d find. He turned to thank the neighbour; he was anxious to leave, to get it over with, but he could see her urge to tell him more as she licked her lips and stepped closer to him.

Seeing she had his attention again, she quickly continued. “My son and others have mentioned bruising on her arms and legs which she’s usually covered up; she was in the park a few weeks ago on her own as usual. Well, some boys started teasing her and lifted her skirt, in a playful way you understand, but, well ... you hear so many bad things these days, I just …”

“Yes, yes I see. So no-one has seen or heard Mr Gillespie or his daughter, Bronwen, since yesterday morning?” He put his notebook away and nodded to his partner who slowly walked towards the back of the house. He turned back to the waiting neighbour and tried to keep his voice as calm as possible.

“Right; well thanks, we’ll check it out. If you would like to wait at your house …” Taking a deep breath to calm his growing nerves he followed his friend. He didn’t want to finish the sentence by saying that he would probably need to take a statement later on after they found what he suspected. She was a witness, possibly the only witness to a death. He steadied himself as he peered through the window and the letterbox; the letters delivered that morning were strewn on the floor. He noticed the general neglect of the house: peeled paint, dirty windows, and rubbish piled in the front garden that was overgrown with weeds. He was focusing on anything to get his mind ready; a child involved in crime was always a heartbreaker. If it was true, it sounded as if this one had been abused for a while and he felt a surge of fury towards the neighbours. Why did they always wait?

Hearing a shout he ran around to the back where he found Darren pushing up a window that was unlocked; another bad sign. The smell hit them immediately and they turned away gagging and tried to breathe deeply to fill their lungs with fresh air. They stopped abruptly as the sounds of a child’s whimpering reached them and they turned as one towards the open window

CHAPTER ONE

Bronwen fidgeted in her seat. Her legs felt hot and itchy; she managed to reach her thigh and scratched nervously. Desperate to stretch her cramped legs she tried to manoeuvre them over her large bags, but gave up as it became too much of an effort. The last thing she wanted was to get the attention of the driver.

She recalled the two hours on the train, where she had been crammed into a window seat; she was aware of the people standing along the aisle. Some were glaring at her and she’d quickly looked away, knowing they resented her and her three large bags that took up precious space in the overhead and on the table; her shoulder bag rested on her knees.

The train journey had been stressful. Her nerves were at full pelt; she’d sweat profusely, and was desperately trying to ignore the need to retch as the acid in her stomach erupted. Her breath stunk and when she thought no one was looking, she slipped a mint into her mouth, hoping it would help; it did. Soon afterwards, the crowded carriage began to thin and more people were able to sit down; she felt the atmosphere change as people relaxed into their seats.

She’d been determined whilst standing at the station to try very hard to enjoy the journey, to unwind with a magazine or have a go and do a crossword, even if she could never finish them. In fact, anything to distract her from the increasing nervous bubbles that made her stomach flip over. The magazine and crosswords remained untouched as the passing scenery got her full attention. Green, miles of it and hills and distant mountains; her chest felt heavy with emotion.

Now here she was in the back of a taxi, her luggage taking up the small space. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t been so finicky when the driver had suggested he put her bags in the boot. She sighed deeply; she just couldn’t help herself. Her desire to be Miss Independent didn’t always help her to make the right decisions.

Shrewsbury bustled with midday shoppers as the taxi slowly edged its way through the town. Bronwen shuffled her bottom to ease her cramp, but now her nerves had reached a breaking point; her excitement made every muscle in her body ache to hurry up and arrive at her destination. She opened the window slightly, looked down at her cheap watch and grinned; only three hours ago she had been standing on a cold, damp station in Liverpool or Hell — both meant the same to her. Now she was in Heaven — well, Shropshire — and soon she could be completely free. She had made it! She was really here.

Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and tried to stem her growing anticipation. She could smell the difference in the air already. This air was fresh compared to the city. Even here, with all the other cars and buses, it still smelt cleaner. “Now that’s amazing!” She muttered to herself.

Opening her eyes she realised they were heading out of the town and green fields swept for miles. She felt as giddy as a schoolgirl on a day trip. One of her favourites was a trip to Chester; a beautiful Roman city on the North Wales border. It had only taken an hour on the bus, which had, as always, been a nightmare. Children were jumping around, some were fighting, and others drew rude pictures on the back of the seats.

She had sat quietly looking out at the beauty, needing to take it all in so that she could take the memory home and use it. She hadn’t wanted to miss a thing, even when Rachel Lockwood had started pulling her hair every few minutes for a joke urged on by her gang of five, the bullies of her class. She’d remained silent as always, detaching herself from the mayhem.

As they’d walked along the river, she’d marvelled at its swans and ducks, the greedy pigeons that came close, expectantly waiting for food, before being chased away by the shouting boys trying to get attention. Not from her of course. No one ever tried to get her attention, but some of the other girls would allow a kiss or even a grope if given the right incentive. Her eyes had briefly glanced at the foolishness but had quickly turned back to the water. It was spanned by two bridges: one for cars and the other for pedestrians. The water was brown, fast in places, powerful and deep. She’d yearned to go out on a boat, to row as far as she could away from everyone; but the teachers wouldn’t allow it and she’d slowly followed the class towards the city.

She’d felt like skipping along the old Roman wall. The very idea that she was walking where Romans had walked was mind blowing. What had they been thinking or doing? She had made the mistake of voicing these questions. Mr Rawlings had looked surprised at first that she had asked. She could hardly have blamed him really as she never asked questions.

His hesitation though gave the boys in the group to give their own versions of what the Romans had been doing. She’d turned away from the lewd suggestions and demonstrations on the nearest girls who giggled and playfully pushed them away. Any explanation he had been about to give was lost as Mr Rawlings had had to go and find two boys that had sidled off for a sneaky cigarette. She hadn’t cared too much, her own imagination as to what life had been like over the years was sufficient, for now.

The museum she had found fascinating and the archaeology dotted everywhere had mesmerised her; digging for things people had perhaps so casually discarded or lost and to find them again after hundreds of years was something she could actually see her doing and enjoying. She had decided on that day that she would be an archaeologist. She would dig for all those things long forgotten, and those poor people sacrificed and dumped in bogs or buried in those stone bumpy things. After all, she had always loved history; other people’s history anyway.

The memory of that day had never left her. She’d fought back tears when it had been time to leave Chester and return to the bus. For a fleeting moment she had considered hiding, running away so she wouldn’t have to return home. But, she had returned home and Chester had become nothing more than a good memory. Archaeology had remained a good dream.

Today it was different. Today, she never had to leave and who knew what her future held? Maybe, archaeology could be on the cards again? Why not? Perhaps now was the right time to take chances? Maybe she could explore Shrewsbury, she had chosen the area for its history, perhaps there were history classes or … taking a deep breath she stopped herself and smiled, ‘one thing at a time, Bronwen’, she scolded herself.

The cottage was hers for at least a year, paid in full. She had a year to decide whether to stay, get a job, go to college; she had time and then, who knew? One thing she knew for sure, she would never go back to live in a city again, ever. Her butterflies grew worse and she gently rubbed her tummy. Nothing had remained in her stomach for long lately with her nerves so on edge; she looked forward to a feast of whatever she fancied, because she could … now.

The car had picked up speed as they headed out onto a dual carriageway and it wasn’t long before the small turning for the village of Derwen appeared and they left the busy roads behind. The hedges on either side of the narrow lane were too high to catch any more than a fleeting glance at what lay on the other side, but it didn’t bother her too much; she had all the time in the world to explore her new surroundings. She could hardly wait.

Reaching for her old battered shoulder bag she fumbled around for the keys and a worn piece of paper that had the directions to her new home. She had memorised every word, saying the address over and over, forming the words slowly and liking the sounds but now she couldn’t remember a single word. Her mind had gone blank with excitement and nerves. Gripping the keys tightly she asked too loudly, “Are we near the village yet?”

Without turning the driver nodded, “Just coming to it now love.”

She cringed. There was nothing worse than being called ‘love’; it had annoyed her for as long as she could remember, but the moment passed as they rounded a sharp bend and entered the village. Passing two small cottages she stared at them fascinated; she hadn’t seen thatched roofs so close up before. She looked at them through the back window and thought they looked like old dolls houses and wondered if they were as snug and warm as they looked. They were the first houses she had seen since leaving the main road.

The taxi stopped to allow another car going the opposite way to pass. She found herself staring at the driver as though she had never seen another person before; this was the first sign of traffic since the dual carriageway; perfect. The elderly driver stared back with obvious interest, and then was gone. The lane opened up and joined a junction. The village of Derwen stood within a clearing. Looking quickly around, she wondered if ‘village’ was the right word. A small shop, a few small cottages, a couple of detached houses, a tiny pub and a run-down old chapel hardly felt like a village; or did it? What the hell would she know anyway?

The taxi slowly drove around a large circular patch of green grass that looked as if it was the centre of the ‘village’. She had heard of village carnivals and fairs and wondered if they had them here? She could picture the brightly coloured stalls heaving with homemade jams, cakes and whatever else they might sell. She hoped they did have one.

On one side of the green was a basic playground with two swings, a slide, a roundabout and three benches, all in immaculate condition; there was not a sign of vandalism anywhere. Around the edges of the green, brightly coloured flowers filled the narrow trenches of soil. Oranges, reds, blues and purples moved gently in the wind, but beyond that there was no sign of life.

The taxi stopped at another T-junction. To the right stood a line of ten little whitewashed cottages with slate roofs and quirky gardens filled to bursting with flowers, plants and various statues. Each had a quaint front door that was reached by two steps; each door was a different colour with a matching gate that led out onto the narrow road. Adjoining these was the pub. She could tell that at one time it had been an eleventh cottage, but had been converted with a small extension at the side. Even so, it still looked small and cosy; she hoped it was friendly too. The old sign swinging slightly over the entrance was too faded and far away for her to make out the picture but it looked like a building of some sort.