After they go out to their car, Niamh stands at the kitchen window watching them leave, then, without saying anything, turns and goes upstairs to her room. Left alone, I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s hard for her, and even harder for Hollie’s parents. Hollie’s death will affect all of us.

Chapter Thirteen

Elise

With Hollie’s body being held until a post-mortem has been carried out, no date for her funeral has been set and so a week and a day after she was found, instead of the handful of regulars, most of the villagers make their way down the frozen footpaths to gather in the church, while parishioners from outside the village join us and I’m relieved when Mia, one of Niamh’s school friends, squeezes into the pew next to her. The church is packed and the service poignant, a reminder of how transient life is, after which the vicar delivers a more personal message.

‘More than ever, we need to look out for one another. Small communities like ours are rare places. At times like this, we must stand united. We should all feel safe enough to let our children roam the footpaths. Our children should, in turn, feel safe doing so. We have to find a way to not let this tragic accident destroy the sense of security that’s always existed here.’

It’s a naïvely optimistic message – and inappropriate, I can’t help thinking. We don’t yet know if Hollie’s death was an accident. Whether or not it was, it will be time, rather than faith, that will lead people to feeling safe around here again.

As we file outside, Della catches my arm. ‘Andrew not here?’ Raising a questioning eyebrow, she seems to lack her usual sparkle.

‘He’s playing golf.’ He’s the only person I know who hasn’t felt the impact of Hollie’s death. I watch surprise register on Della’s face.

Now and then I’ve come close to confiding in her, but it’s impossible to explain, even to her, why I tolerate Andrew. My heart twists in sympathy as I see James across the churchyard, his face shadowed with grief. But it seems that even here, there is no escape from the press and as he stands there, a man walks towards him, raising a camera. James turns away in the nick of time but then another man I vaguely recognise, smartly dressed in a dark coat, steps in and after what looks like a confrontation, the cameraman leaves.

‘Bloody press.’ As the man in the coat turns back towards James, I’m curious. ‘Who is that talking to James?’

‘Phil Mason.’ Della’s silent for a moment. ‘You’d think the press would have the decency to stay away, wouldn’t you?’