gone? What about other family?’
And she’d run through the family tree with them again: Matthew, her husband, dead. Her brother Charles and his wife. ‘So it was just you and the other little girl at the
party?’ the sergeant had asked.
‘That’s right, Rachel, my niece.’
‘And she doesn’t know where Jessica is?’
‘Jessamy. No.’
He’d looked displeased at the correction. ‘No quarrel between Rachel and Jessamy?’
‘Jessamy was a little annoyed that a baton had been dropped in a relay race at the party, but that was as much her fault as Rachel’s.’ Evie knew Jessamy had felt anger only for
herself. ‘They’ve always got on well.’
The sergeant didn’t even bother to write this in his notepad.
‘Nothing going on at home?’
‘Nothing.’ She thought of the TB. ‘We had some cattle slaughtered earlier in the week. Jessamy was upset about that but she’s grown up on the farm, she’s used to
things going through hard patches.’
The sergeant’s pencil remained motionless in his fingers.
‘Did she have her own passport or was she still on yours?’
‘On mine.’
‘Good.’ He wrote something. ‘Any other family?’
‘Only my brother now. He’s divides his time between the south of France and Surrey. He came to collect Rachel at lunchtime.’
‘We’ll need to speak to him.’
She gave him Charlie’s number in Weybridge.
‘No trouble with the gypsies?’
She shook her head.
‘Nothing stolen?’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘That’s not what your neighbours say.’
‘Sometimes eggs go, the odd hen, too. A saddle disappeared from the stables a week or so back. But that could be anyone.’ There were occasional whispers in the village of stolen
dogs, too, sometimes. Evie had no doubt that some of the rumours were justified, the Jacksons were no saints, but stealing a child? The small surviving part of her still governed by logic knew it
would be insane for them to do that. And why would they? They had no particular reason to dislike the Winters and Jessamy and Rosie played together at school.
‘Maybe.’ He closed his notepad and stood, muttering something about detectives coming to talk to her later. She watched him tramp up the lane. He’d be going to speak to
Martha.
When his footsteps had faded Evie had let herself slide off the chair on to the quarry stoned floor, where she’d pulled her knees up under her and huddled like an infant, trying to hide
away from it all. She’d stayed there, motionless, until darkness had fallen and the range had gone out and the dog came to sniff her, begging to be fed. Thank God Rachel hadn’t still
been here to see her like this. Charlie had begged Evie to let him stay at Winter’s Copse with her but she’d almost pushed him out of the door, superstitiously believing that Jessamy
would return to her in the dark and quiet, when her mother sat alone with the dog at the kitchen table.
But she hadn’t.
‘You all right?’ Freya Barnes’s dark eyes were focused in a look of deep concern. ‘You don’t have to do this, Evie, if it’s all too much. I’ll go back
to the farm with you if this is all too much.’
‘I’m fine.’ Thank God for Freya. People had muttered about the West Indian woman when she’d first arrived a year ago. Freya was ignoring all the whisperings and had even
managed to get a part-time job in the school. She would have been teaching Jessamy this term.
Evie watched Jonathan Fernham insert the sapling into its hole and remembered a time, years back, when she had planted trees – pear and damson – in the garden. Jessamy had still been
in a pushchair then, her cheeks creamy and smooth as the flesh of a hazelnut against her brown hair. A hazelnut, safe in its shell. Never so safe again. Matthew had still been alive then, too, a
quiet, comfortable presence around the farm.
Freya gave her a complicit grin and winked. Freya had never shown any embarrassment on the subject of Jessamy and
And she’d run through the family tree with them again: Matthew, her husband, dead. Her brother Charles and his wife. ‘So it was just you and the other little girl at the
party?’ the sergeant had asked.
‘That’s right, Rachel, my niece.’
‘And she doesn’t know where Jessica is?’
‘Jessamy. No.’
He’d looked displeased at the correction. ‘No quarrel between Rachel and Jessamy?’
‘Jessamy was a little annoyed that a baton had been dropped in a relay race at the party, but that was as much her fault as Rachel’s.’ Evie knew Jessamy had felt anger only for
herself. ‘They’ve always got on well.’
The sergeant didn’t even bother to write this in his notepad.
‘Nothing going on at home?’
‘Nothing.’ She thought of the TB. ‘We had some cattle slaughtered earlier in the week. Jessamy was upset about that but she’s grown up on the farm, she’s used to
things going through hard patches.’
The sergeant’s pencil remained motionless in his fingers.
‘Did she have her own passport or was she still on yours?’
‘On mine.’
‘Good.’ He wrote something. ‘Any other family?’
‘Only my brother now. He’s divides his time between the south of France and Surrey. He came to collect Rachel at lunchtime.’
‘We’ll need to speak to him.’
She gave him Charlie’s number in Weybridge.
‘No trouble with the gypsies?’
She shook her head.
‘Nothing stolen?’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘That’s not what your neighbours say.’
‘Sometimes eggs go, the odd hen, too. A saddle disappeared from the stables a week or so back. But that could be anyone.’ There were occasional whispers in the village of stolen
dogs, too, sometimes. Evie had no doubt that some of the rumours were justified, the Jacksons were no saints, but stealing a child? The small surviving part of her still governed by logic knew it
would be insane for them to do that. And why would they? They had no particular reason to dislike the Winters and Jessamy and Rosie played together at school.
‘Maybe.’ He closed his notepad and stood, muttering something about detectives coming to talk to her later. She watched him tramp up the lane. He’d be going to speak to
Martha.
When his footsteps had faded Evie had let herself slide off the chair on to the quarry stoned floor, where she’d pulled her knees up under her and huddled like an infant, trying to hide
away from it all. She’d stayed there, motionless, until darkness had fallen and the range had gone out and the dog came to sniff her, begging to be fed. Thank God Rachel hadn’t still
been here to see her like this. Charlie had begged Evie to let him stay at Winter’s Copse with her but she’d almost pushed him out of the door, superstitiously believing that Jessamy
would return to her in the dark and quiet, when her mother sat alone with the dog at the kitchen table.
But she hadn’t.
‘You all right?’ Freya Barnes’s dark eyes were focused in a look of deep concern. ‘You don’t have to do this, Evie, if it’s all too much. I’ll go back
to the farm with you if this is all too much.’
‘I’m fine.’ Thank God for Freya. People had muttered about the West Indian woman when she’d first arrived a year ago. Freya was ignoring all the whisperings and had even
managed to get a part-time job in the school. She would have been teaching Jessamy this term.
Evie watched Jonathan Fernham insert the sapling into its hole and remembered a time, years back, when she had planted trees – pear and damson – in the garden. Jessamy had still been
in a pushchair then, her cheeks creamy and smooth as the flesh of a hazelnut against her brown hair. A hazelnut, safe in its shell. Never so safe again. Matthew had still been alive then, too, a
quiet, comfortable presence around the farm.
Freya gave her a complicit grin and winked. Freya had never shown any embarrassment on the subject of Jessamy and
Similar Books
