Stephen dumps his case on the floor and searches his shoulder bag for his painkillers, popping two out of the blister pack. He checks his phone as he climbs into bed.
Damn it.
Rachel.
He hadn’t messaged her when he’d arrived like he said he would. He’d completely forgotten about it. When his mind is busy like this, he often forgets simple things like keeping in contact with people and even eating and drinking. He has several missed calls from her and at least a dozen texts. Stephen is one of those people who will glance at a new text, make a mental note to respond soon, then forget about it and not reply until three working days later.
He reads through her texts, struggling to focus on the words, which blur together. The texts slowly get more and more concerned, then angry and annoyed. It’s too late to call her now. She’ll be asleep, so he sends her a text instead.
Stephen:Sorry. Not much signal here. I’m fine. Arrived safe. Love you x
She messages back within seconds.
Rachel:I’ve been so worried. Please take care. What time are you back tomorrow? Don’t forget about your hospital appointment. Love you too x
He goes to type but finds he doesn’t know what to say. There’s no way he’s returning to Cherry Hollow tomorrow. He’s going to have to reschedule his hospital appointment, but Rachel won’t like that, will she? She’ll start nagging and telling him his health is more important than an investigation. But she’s wrong.
He can’t afford any distractions. Hospital appointments are included in that heading.
Nothing is more important than this case. Nothing.
He can’t explain it to her. She won’t understand. She’s not like him. No one is.
Stephen turns his phone to silent and places it on the side table by the bed, face down. He’ll deal with her wrath another time.
Like the detective said, tomorrow is a new day.
The Hanging Tree is calling to him.
He dreams about it. He’s there, sitting beneath it, drawing a sunset, waiting for someone, but happy to be alone. The view is beautiful from up here. He looks down at his hands as they effortlessly sketch the view. Stephen’s never been good at drawing, never had an artistic bone in his body, except when it came to words, but the drawing on the paper is beautiful. He recognises it.
Then, a tickle.
Around his neck.
A rustle of leaves from above.
A noose slithers down from the tree by itself, wraps around his neck and strings him up like an animal carcass. He jolts upright in bed, gasping and grabbing at his neck. It’s sore – as if it really happened.
The tree is trying to tell him something.
For a moment, he was somewhere else,someoneelse.
John Hammel.
What happened to you, John? And why is your great, great, great grand-daughter now potentially missing a hundred years after youruntimely death?
Chapter 22
SOPHIA
Bethgelert, Wales, 2015
I spent ages looking through the sketchbooks, taking in every detail, every torn and rotten page. A lot of them were damaged. They must have spent all this time in the room, locked away in these drawers hidden from sunlight, but in a perfect place for dust and mould to settle. I’d rescued them. They called to me, drew me into their pages. Each told a story, sketches of various sights around the village, most of them I knew well. There were even drawings of people; farmers, shopkeepers, neighbours, but most of the portraits were of the same young woman.
The fact that my great, great, great grandfather drew them, told me the woman must have been Carys, my great, great, great grandmother. According to the family history, she was the person who found John hanging from the tree all those years ago.
Carys was never the same, and she died eight months later in childbirth.
