Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

around the side of the brick building. ‘Let’s try there and see if the name rings any bells inside.’

Rick leads the way and rings the rusty bell hanging from the wall outside the paint-chipped wooden door. It is opened a minute or so later by a woman in a black collared shirt with glasses perched on the end of her nose. She considers Rick and me before closing the small book she’s carrying. The salt-and-pepper streaks in her otherwise dark bob put her older than me, but younger than my mother.

‘Hello, can I help you?’ she asks.

‘Hi,’ I say, ‘we’ve travelled from Weymouth because we’re looking for someone who might know a man called Chesney Byrne, or a Cormack Fitzpatrick. He went missing when he was an adolescent several years ago, but we have reason to believe he has links to this postal code. I don’t suppose you recognise the name?’

Her blank expression doesn’t change. ‘I’m sorry, no, I don’t recognise the name.’

Pulling out my phone, I share the image that Maddie sent down. ‘Does his face seem familiar in any way? I’d estimate he would look older than this now.’

She accepts my phone and studies the screen. ‘I’m ever so sorry, but no, I can’t say it rings any bells. I’ve been the reverend here for three years and I certainly don’t recognise him. Could he be the relative of one of the parishioners perhaps? Is there anything else you can tell me about him? What does he do for a living, for example?’

I don’t doubt that she is keen to help us, but coming here is another dead end.

‘I don’t suppose you can tell me the name of your predecessor, can you?’ I ask next.

‘I replaced the late Reverend Peter Saltzing, and he was the vicar here for’—she puffs out her cheeks—‘at least twenty years before he retired. It’s possible he might have heard of this… sorry, what was his name again?’

‘Chesney Byrne, but he may also have been known as Cormack Fitzpatrick.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, but that name certainly doesn’t remind me of anyone specific within the parish.’

We thank her, and step away from the door as she closes it.

‘I guess we can go door-to-door next then,’ Rick suggests, leading us back along the path and through the cemetery back to the car.

‘Hold on,’ I say to him. ‘What if we’re looking at this all wrong, and the reason the postcode was etched into the image is because this was his final resting place? What if there’s a Chesney Byrne buried in the cemetery?’

Rick shrugs. ‘Well, as we’re here, there’s no harm in checking the gravestones. The cemetery isn’t very big, so it shouldn’t take too long.’

We split up, moving systematically from one gravestone to the next, reading the names, but there isn’t a plaque to a Chesney or anyone with the surname Byrne anywhere. We meet again in the middle, but it does seem this trip to Hayling Island has been a waste of our time.

But then a thought fires in the back of the mind, and I quickly begin scanning gravestones again, with Rick following clueless behind me.

‘What are you looking for?’ he exclaims. ‘I’ve checked all of these, and there is no Chesney Byrne.’

I can’t explain it, but when I find what I’m looking for, the breath catches in my throat. Even more so when I see the fresh bunch of flowers that has been laid on the grass beside the eroded stone.

‘What’s so special about this one?’ Rick asks, unable to read the weathered name on the tombstone.

I don’t respond at first, taking tentative steps towards the flowers, and instantly recoiling as I read the inscription on the card.

‘What is it?’ Rick asks, dumbfounded.

‘We need to call the local police immediately,’ I whisper. ‘I believe we may have found Chesney Byrne’s final resting place.’

I point at the date on the tombstone, which is a match to the one on the back of the photograph, and then I show Rick the card attached to the flowers, which reads:

Rest in peace, Chez.

Chapter Thirty Now

Hayling Island, Hampshire

My mind is working overtime as I bang my hand against the door of the vicarage. Whoever left those flowers at the graveside could very well be the same person who sent me the image of Chesney/Cormack. Whether they intended to leave the postcode imprinted on the image remains unclear, but if their plan was to steer me towards this particular grave, why not write the postcode in ink like the name and date?

‘Hello again,’ the vicar says as she opens the door and recognises Rick and me from a few minutes earlier. ‘Was there something else I can help you with?’

‘Does the cemetery have any CCTV cameras that we could take a look at?’

She eyes the two of us suspiciously and grips the door tighter.

‘Some flowers have been left beside one of the gravestones,’ I continue, attempting to put her at ease, ‘and I really need to know who left them.’

Her eyes don’t leave Rick’s as she responds, ‘There isn’t any CCTV on the cemetery; we like to allow mourners their privacy.’

‘Would you have records of who is buried in a particular plot?’ I persevere. ‘Or when they were put there?’

She shelters behind the door. ‘What is this all about really? Who are the two of you?’

‘I’m a writer and investigative journalist,’ I tell her. ‘I have reason to believe that the young man we are looking for may have been buried in that grave, so that’s why I want to know when it was dug.’

The vicar narrows her eyes, studying my face. ‘Would you mind waiting for one moment?’ she asks, closing the door.

I look over to Rick who is moving from one foot to the other. ‘Am I being crazy?’ I ask. ‘The date on the gravestone is the same as the date on the image sent to me, and the flowers reference “Chez”, but could this just as easily be someone’s idea of