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, whenKieran 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 MrMallow, 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 hiseyes 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.
