Recovered now, Lizzie stood and, checking all was clear, went back inside the shed. She grabbed the head. Polly’s eyes stared at her accusingly. Poking her fingers inside, Lizzie retrieved what she’d seen tucked within it. Obviously Anna had missed it, taken out the paper and thought that was it. But lining the head was a small piece of material. Lizzie quickly shoved it into the top of her jeans and returned to the garden.

Not only was someone messing with her, they were also leaving clues only Lizzie could know about. And the only conclusion she could reach was that her own flesh and blood, Billy Cawley, was behind it all. Who else would know about Polly, let alone keep her for all these years? And Lizzie had allowed him to talk to her, had given him a chance to explain, clear his name.

Lying. Fucking. Bastard.

He must be laughing hard right now, thinking he’d won her over. Believing she believed him. What a gullible fool she was.

Again.

He wouldn’t get away with it this time.

She had a friend now.

Chapter Sixty

1989

The Plough, Mapledon

Friday 16th June – 33 days before

Reverend Christopher Farnley was sitting at the bar nursing a warm pint of bitter while listening to the group of men discussing everything from their wives and children to work and golf … and Billy Cawley. It seemed everyone always got back to the topic of Billy, however the conversation initially started. He sighed as he took a sip of the insipid liquid, wishing he’d asked for a whisky instead. If he could bear sitting there listening further, he might ask for that next.

Chris tended to keep himself to himself outside of church. There were few men he wished to converse with; not many of them had anything interesting to talk about in his opinion. He missed the city life: the diversity and stimulating discussions, although it’d been over ten years now since he’d moved back to Mapledon to head the church. He sometimes also craved the anonymity a large town had offered him. His father had been instrumental in the posting – having lived in Mapledon and serving as the local vicar for most of his adult life. Now Chris was literally walking in his footsteps after years of trying to escape them to walk in a different direction. His path, it appeared, was preordained. He’d probably die here too, as his father had.

He made the best of it – his life in Mapledon hadn’t been a bad one. Boring, but not unbearable – he’d become accustomed to the small-mindedness, the power-hungry, the gossipmongers, the top dogs, the underdogs. And Billy Cawley was most certainly the latter. He’d never really stood a chance. The only reason Chris had been accepted was because he’d lived there once, his roots firmly established – he came from a long line of Farnleys, so was classed as an insider despite his time away from the village.