A turnip, still bearing the crude drawing of a child’s face, had smashed apart on the flagstones. The wicker construction of the figure was in pieces. It was the smallest of the bone men, brought inside and dressed up in Millie’s sweater. The shivering running through his body began to feel less about relief and more about outrage. The message couldn’t be clearer. This was intended to be Millie, to show Millie broken to pieces on the church floor, as she so nearly had been on the night of the harvest festival, as Lucy Pickup had been before her. What in the name of God was going on here?

Conscious that Gillian was still waiting for him in the car, Harry reached the figure and crouched down. He couldn’t just leave it there. He stretched out an arm to start gathering the pieces together and stopped himself just in time.

Evidence.

From the vestry he brought a large black bin-liner and the Marigold gloves left behind by one of the cleaning team. Wearing the gloves, he gathered the pieces together, including the pink and orange sweater, and put them all in the black bag. When he was done, he tied a knot in the top and stood up.

He had to let the police know. Teenage prank or not, Millie was two years old and had already been put in real danger once. And this really wasn’t funny. Plus, changed locks or not, someone was still getting in and out of the church whenever they wanted to.

Gillian didn’t ask what had taken him so long; she hardly seemed to have noticed. Harry turned the heater up to full blast and set off down the hill. It only took two minutes before he pulled up outside the town’s post office and convenience store. Gillian lived in a flat above it.

She hadn’t moved. In her lap she clutched a small, pink soft-toy. He switched off the engine and climbed out. His shoulders were starting to ache.

‘Gillian, pet.’ He was leaning in, not really wanting to touch her again but suspecting it was inevitable. ‘You’re home now. Come on, let’s get you inside.’

Still she didn’t move. Swallowing his irritation, Harry slid his arm around her shoulders. She came willingly enough then, leaning against him as she slipped clumsily out of the car. As they crossed the street, Harry noticed two women watching them.

The outside door wasn’t locked. He took Gillian’s hand and pulled her up the narrow stairway with its worn, dirty carpet. At the top, he turned to her. ‘Keys?’ he enquired. She shrugged.

He pushed the door and it swung open with a waft of unwashed laundry and stale air. Either the flat wasn’t much warmer than the day outside or he was well on his way to catching a chill.

He steered Gillian towards the sofa and crossed quickly to the electric fire. Switching it on to full, he turned back to the girl. She was sitting at the edge of the sofa, staring at the wall in front of her. The toy in her hands was a rabbit.

‘Gillian, you need a blanket. Where will I find one?’

She didn’t answer and he turned away from her. If she looked at his face, she’d see how annoyed he was. Angry with her, angry with himself, angry with the old folks of Goodshaw Bridge who, even now, would be glancing at their watches, and very angry with the sick bastard who thought he could scare him by dressing up a pile of bones and twigs.

Gillian’s flat wasn’t large. He soon found the kitchen and then the bedroom. He caught a quick glimpse of a floor covered in clothes, empty glasses scattered around and a greasy dinner plate on the bedside table. He pulled the duvet off the bed.

Back in the living room, Gillian had curled herself up on the sofa, still clutching the rabbit. He put the duvet over her and returned to the bedroom for a pillow. He tucked it under her head and crouched down until he could look her in the eyes.

‘Gillian, I need to call someone,’ he said. ‘Someone who can come and look after you.’

Silver-grey eyes gazed back at him. ‘You,’ she croaked. ‘I want you to look after me.’

He shook his head. ‘I have to be somewhere. I’m late already and you need someone who can look after you properly, not a man you hardly know.’

Gillian pushed herself up on to one elbow. She took one hand off the pink toy and reached up to her hair. ‘Stay,’ she said, stroking her hair to neaten it. She pushed herself up higher and held her hand out to Harry. ‘Stay,’ she repeated. ‘We could, you know…’

‘Do you want me to call Dr Oliver?’ he offered, leaning back on his heels so that he was just out of reach. ‘It might help you to talk to her.’

Gillian was upright on the sofa now, glaring at him. Make-up was smeared on her cheeks. Her nose was red from the cold. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ she demanded.

‘Of course not,’ he said, knowing it was true but feeling as if he was lying. ‘I’ve only met her a few times.’ No, that wasn’t good enough. It was unfair to all three of them. ‘But I do like her,’ he added.

‘I thought you liked me,’ she wailed.

‘I do,’ he answered. When had she taken hold of his hand? ‘But I’m too old for you and…’

‘I don’t care.’

‘… and you need to get well again before you start any sort of relationship.’ He had to get his hand back. He had to retreat to a safe distance.

‘I could get well quickly if I had you, I know I could.’

He had to tell her. She had to know it was never going to happen.

‘Gillian, I know how difficult today must have been for you, seeing people visiting graves, having others around to comfort them. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be alone.’

‘I’m not a slag, you know. There hasn’t been anyone since Pete.’

‘I don’t doubt that. But trust me, that is not the way to get over Hayley. What about your GP?’

It wasn’t going to work. She was taking a deep breath, getting ready to…

‘You have no idea!’ she screamed at him.

She was right. He had no idea. He was completely out of his depth.

‘What about a friend?’ he offered. ‘Is there anyone who lives nearby?’

‘She won’t leave me,’ said Gillian, speaking to a point somewhere in the middle of his chest.

‘Who won’t? Do you mean Hayley?’

She nodded. ‘She’s dead, I know that,’ she said. ‘I’ve known for a long time, but she won’t go away.’ She grabbed his hand again. ‘She’s haunting me.’

‘Gillian…’

Her head shot up. Her eyes looked terrified. ‘Please help me,’ she begged. ‘You can do something, I know you can. Make her go away. You can do a – what do you call it? – an exorcism.’

The girl was unbalanced. She needed serious help.

‘Gillian, I’m going to call someone. You can’t-’

‘Listen to me.’ She’d grabbed both his hands now, had fallen off the sofa and was kneeling in front of him. ‘This is the Day of the Dead, right? When lost souls who can’t find their way to heaven come back to where they used to live. I never used to believe in all that, but I do now. She was here today. She took the toy, Pink Rabbit, and put it in our old house. I found it just now, where the kitchen fireplace used to be.’

‘Gillian…’

‘She talks to me all the time. I hear her voice, calling “Mummy, Mummy, help me.” It doesn’t matter where I am. In here, asleep, out on the moors, she’s always there, always talking to me. “Mummy, Mummy,” she says, “find me.” She moves things around, here in the flat, leaves little presents for me. Every time I turn round, every time I wake up in the night, I think she’s going to be there, just as she was the last time I saw her, in her Beatrix Potter pyjamas.’

Harry realized he was shaking.

‘She’s with me every day. She’s driving me insane.’

‘Gillian, you know, don’t you, there are no such things as ghosts?’

There was a loud banging on the outside door.

‘Sit down,’ he told her. ‘I’ll go and see who that is.’ She was still holding his hand. She clung on, unwilling to let go, but Harry headed towards the door and she had little choice. Overcome with relief at being away from her, even for a few minutes, he jogged down the stairs and pulled open the door. The middle-aged woman with the dyed-red hair was standing outside.