‘We were told that Caitlin had been identified by her dental records,’ Serena said, hesitantly. The thought filled her with nausea but she knew she had to understand the process in order to explain it to her family. ‘Is that common practice in cases like this?’
Inspector Litton’s gaze rested on her face with forensic sharpness. ‘Generally, dental evidence is used in cases where other means of identification, such as fingerprints, are destroyed,’ she said precisely. ‘Teeth are the strongest part of the human body and survive when other features are too damaged to be of help.’
Caitlin, Serena thought. Too damaged to be identified by other means…
Her stomach gave another sickening lurch. It was almost unbearable to think about. Had her sister been hit by a car, or involved in an explosion of some sort? Yet she knew that Caitlin had been found in a grave, and at the church in Minster Lovell, according to Zoe Lovell. That suggested that someone had buried her. Darker, more disturbing thoughts, started to spill through her mind. Foul play…
She sat forward urgently. ‘I understand that Caitlin was found at Minster Lovell,’ she said, ‘buried in or near the church? Is that correct?’
Inspector Litton’s brows snapped down. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I’m staying in the village,’ Serena said. ‘I saw the police tape – and heard a few rumours.’ She hesitated, remembering her conversation with Lizzie. It had been horrible to discover the news from Zoe, but it wouldn’t achieve anything to get her into trouble. There were more important things going on. ‘You know how it is,’ she said vaguely. ‘People talk.’
Inspector Litton looked annoyed. ‘There has clearly been a breach of protocol here,’ she said stiffly. ‘I apologise. We wanted to wait until we had all the information before we told next of kin the details of Caitlin’s death. However, as you already have some of the information…’ She opened the brown file.
Serena felt a pang of shock to see a big, bright photograph of her sister’s face on the top; Caitlin, with her wide smile and her green eyes and her flyaway blonde hair, so vibrant, so vividly alive. She gave a violent shudder. What had happened to take her sister from that shining image to a corpse that had needed to be identified from dental records? It felt obscene, horrific. Tears sprang to her eyes, surprising her in their suddenness and intensity.
The police sergeant placed a glass of water in front of her; she focussed on the ripple in the surface until it had stilled. She didn’t think she could drink anything although she appreciated the gesture.
‘Caitlin’s bones were found in St Kenelm’s Church in Minster Lovell in a burial plot from the eighteenth century,’ Inspector Litton said, shuffling the photograph to one side and pulling out a folder of clear blue plastic. A pile of papers spilled out from it, a mixture of photographs of the church, notices about fundraising efforts to reroof it and restore the tower, some diagrams of the renovation work and a few pictures of what looked like archaeological trenches.
‘They’re doing some renovation work on St Kenelm’s at the moment,’ the inspector said. ‘You may have noticed that there is an archaeological dig going on there as part of a conservation project.’
‘I’d heard about it,’ Serena said carefully.
Inspector Litton nodded. ‘The restoration work on the church necessitated the removal and reinternment of a couple of burials,’ she said. ‘As part of the project, Minster Archaeology were analysing some of the graves and their contents. One was of particular interest; it was an early eighteenth-century burial marked in the church records as being of an unidentified skeleton found in the ruins of Minster Lovell Hall during building repair work.’
‘The archaeologists thought it might be Francis Lovell,’ Sergeant Ratcliffe put in unexpectedly. ‘Right-hand man to King Richard III. There’s a story that he fled to Minster Lovell after the Battle of Stoke Field in 1487 when they tried to put the Pretender Lambert Simnel on the throne of England in place of Henry VII. The story goes that Francis Lovell starved to death at the hall when the faithful retainer who was hiding him died. Then, when the workmen opened up a sealed room in 1708, they saw his figure sitting at the table and the moment the air got it, he crumbled to dust.’
‘In which case,’ Inspector Litton said, ‘there would have been no need to bury his body, would there?’ She glared at Ratcliffe. ‘Really, sergeant, I don’t think we need a history lesson, do we?’
‘I remember hearing a version of that legend when I was a child,’ Serena said. ‘It’s part of the folklore of Minster Lovell, like the story of the Mistletoe Bride. The Lovell family owned the hall for centuries.’ She turned back to Inspector Litton. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Are you saying that Caitlin’s body was found in the same grave as this skeleton?’
‘There was only one burial in the grave,’ Inspector Litton said. She looked up. ‘The only body in the coffin was that of your sister, Miss Warren.’
There was a silence in the room. Serena could hear the sounds from outside in the street, the dull muffled constant of the traffic, the faint rise and fall of voices. It was odd to hear the sounds of the world passing by when there were no windows onto the outside. She felt doubly numb, isolated from life and adrift from Caitlin.
‘Do you mean that someone removed the original burial and put Caitlin in its place?’ Serena felt a rush of irritation that Inspector Litton seemed to be making this so difficult for her. It wasn’t a game; why did she have to guess? Could they not simply tell her the facts? She glanced at Sergeant Ratcliffe, who had resumed his pacing across the floor. There was something watchful in his face that chilled her.
They think it was you… They are waiting for you to give yourself away…
She wasn’t sure where that taunting whisper had come from and it terrified her because, with the gaps in her memory, how could she be sure it wasn’t true? She was certain she had not hurt Caitlin – she felt it in her very core – but she had nothing to put in place of a theory that suggested she had.
‘That would be the logical explanation,’ Inspector Litton agreed. ‘However, there are one or two anomalies.’ She paused and Serena, nerves tightened to screaming point, wondered if she was meant to start guessing again. Then Inspector Litton carried on.
‘Firstly, it’s unlikely that someone disposing of a body would go to the trouble of removing the original one when there was plenty of room in the coffin,’ she said. ‘And if they did, where is that original body now?’ For once it was a rhetorical question. ‘There is also the curious circumstance,’ the inspector added, ‘that there is no evidence to suggest that the grave had been disturbed since it was sealed in 1708.’
Serena rubbed her forehead, which was tight with tension. ‘Are you suggesting then that this isn’t actually Caitlin’s body after all?’
‘No,’ Inspector Litton said. ‘This is Caitlin Warren on the basis of her dental records. Naturally when they opened up the tomb, the archaeologists assumed the body dated from the eighteenth century. The general state of the decay suggested it had been interred for roughly three hundred years and that she had been dead for longer than that. However, the radiocarbon dating suggested that this was of a young woman who had died in the early twenty-first century.’
‘Then there must be some mistake,’ Serena said. ‘The forensic tests must be wrong. Otherwise what you are telling me is that Caitlin died some time during the past eleven years but was buried in 1708, which simply isn’t possible.’
‘I am aware,’ Inspector Litton said tartly, ‘that it makes no sense.’ She tapped her fingers crossly on the brown file. It was obvious she was a woman who detested a mystery and worse, Serena thought, she felt this whole conundrum was making fools of the police. ‘I agree there can only be two solutions,’ the inspector said. ‘Either this is not Caitlin and the forensic tests results are wrong, or it is your sister and someone found a way to tamper with the tomb whilst making it look as though it hadn’t been disturbed.’
‘Both scena
rios raise further questions,’ Sergeant Ratcliffe said, ‘which we are keen to answer.’
I bet you are, Serena thought. She could see now why the police had been slow to discuss the details of Caitlin’s death. They made no sense.
‘Further to the identification of Caitlin,’ Inspector Litton said, ‘there were some fractures to the body, old breaks, pre-dating death, that is. Can you confirm whether your sister ever broke any of her bones, Miss Warren?’
Serena felt another uprush of nausea. This all felt horribly procedural with no room for sentiment. Perhaps it was the inspector’s determinedly dispassionate manner, stripping all sense of personality from Caitlin. Or perhaps it was the sergeant’s pacing, which was giving her a headache. Sweat prickled her skin. She grabbed the glass of water and gulped down a mouthful.
‘Caitlin broke her arm when we were about seven,’ she said. ‘She fell off a swing. I was pushing her. It was…’ She paused, remembering. A sudden gust of wind, Caitlin teetering on the edge of the seat, the wild swinging of the chain… It had been horrible at the time, the type of random childhood accident that years later when the fuss had died down, Caitlin had teased her, would scar them both for life. Little had she known what other scars would be dealt them.
‘Left, or right?’ Sergeant Ratcliffe asked.
‘What?’ Serena said. ‘Oh, I think it was her left – yes it was, because she couldn’t write for a while. We’re both left-handed,’ she added.
Inspector Litton nodded, her expression giving nothing away. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not as far as I recall,’ Serena said.
The inspector opened a drawer in the desk and took out a small, clear plastic bag. She laid it on the desk in front of Serena. ‘Just one more thing: we wondered whether you might be able to identify this. Have you seen it before?’
It was a relief for Serena to have something tangible to focus on. She rubbed her eyes and leaned closer. The bag contained a broken gold chain, its remaining links dented, and a little gold pendant with the half-moon letter ‘C’ and some sort of pattern engraved on it.
‘Yes,’ Serena said. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s Caitlin’s. She had a necklace with the letter “C” on it. I have a matching one with an “S”.’
Inspector Litton was leaning over to look more closely at the design. The harsh light shone on her impeccably highlighted hair. Serena felt scruffy in contrast; some people were always so well groomed, regardless of circumstances. Right now, she felt as though she had been dragged through hell, which in a way she supposed she had.
‘There’s a figure engraved on it,’ the inspector said. ‘Is that a Tudor rose?’ She glanced at Sergeant Ratcliffe, who bent over to take a look.
‘It’s the rose en soleil,’ Ratcliffe said. ‘The white rose of York is superimposed on the sun in splendour. You can see the rays shining out from behind it. It was the emblem of King Edward IV.’
‘Does that have any significance for you, Miss Warren?’ Inspector Litton asked. ‘You’re a historical consultant, I believe?’
‘I run a travel company offering bespoke historical tours,’ Serena said, noting that Inspector Litton had evidently looked into her background, no doubt as part of the investigation. ‘I studied the fifteenth century a little but I’m not that knowledgeable on the period. The matching necklaces were a gift from our grandparents when Caitlin and I were about twelve,’ she added, ‘so perhaps the symbol meant something particular to them. I don’t think they ever mentioned it, though.’
Inspector Litton nodded. ‘The chain was found buried with Caitlin’s remains,’ she said. ‘You may remember that the missing charm was found in the ruins of Minster Old Hall on the night your sister disappeared. The links had broken.’
‘Yes,’ Serena said. ‘I do vaguely remember that. Or rather,’ she corrected herself, ‘I remember someone telling me that part of Caitlin’s necklace had been found that night. I have no memory of the actual night itself.’
Inspector Litton gave her a tight smile. ‘So I understand,’ she said. ‘Apparently you were suffering from dissociative amnesia.’ She drew another coloured folder from the pile. This one was a rather garish pink and full of photocopies of what looked like hospital reports. Serena recognised them, the dog-eared record of all the tests and treatments she had been through, as dry as dust when described on paper, but so frustrating and painful in real life. She could feel her heart rate increase and tried hard to keep her voice steady.
‘I still am,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Inspector Litton said politely. She checked the notes. ‘The police psychologist who treated you at the time believed that you had witnessed a trauma but that your mind had blocked it out in order to protect you,’ she said. She looked at Serena with her cool blue gaze. ‘Do you think that was the case, Miss Warren?’
‘I have no idea,’ Serena said. ‘I’m not a doctor.’ She tried not to sound too snappy. It was difficult; she might not remember the actual events of the night but the sight of the notes conjured up an acute sense of loss and grief – as acute as it had been when Caitlin had first gone missing.
‘That is the medical diagnosis,’ she amended. ‘I’ve no reason to doubt it.’
Again Inspector Litton gave her a long, thoughtful stare. Serena willed herself to say nothing. The silence stretched out. Then the inspector smiled.
‘Perhaps the tragic discovery of Caitlin’s remains will jog your memory,’ she said.
Serena bit her lip. Inspector Litton made it sound as though she had left her keys in the door by accident rather than blocked out the hideous trauma of her sister’s death.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘If I recall anything useful, I will of course let you know.’
Inspector Litton snapped the folder shut. ‘I’m afraid that we will need to go over your statement from the time of Caitlin’s disappearance,’ she said, ‘now that we are reopening the case.’ She checked the small, jewelled watch on her wrist. ‘We’ll be in touch to make another appointment.’ She stood up. ‘We will also need to interview all the other witnesses,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you could pass that to your family and let them know we will be contacting them?’
‘Of course,’ Serena said, numbly.
‘Excellent.’ Inspector Litton nodded her thanks.
‘I’d like to be present if you decide to interview my grandfather,’ Serena added, feeling inordinately protective. ‘I’d rather you didn’t – he’s very frail and confused these days. No doubt you are aware that he suffers from dementia?’ Her worst nightmare was that Dick, in his confusion, might say something that was misinterpreted.
‘We are aware of that,’ Inspector Litton confirmed. ‘Whilst I realise Mr Warren was ruled out of any direct involvement during the first enquiry, the discovery of your sister’s body changes matters somewhat. We’ll be reviewing the DNA evidence amongst other things.’ She made a slight gesture. ‘We do have to consider all possibilities, Miss Warren,’ she said, with the inexorable logic that Serena was starting to detest. ‘One of those possibilities is that there was some sort of accident and that someone Caitlin knew hid her body, fearing the consequences of what might happen…’ She let the sentence hang and Serena thought again:
She means me. They think I was responsible. The headache tightened in her temples and she blinked and rubbed her eyes hard, feeling how gritty and tired they were. It was intolerable not to remember, to search her mind and come up with nothing other than the clinging cobwebs of lost memory. Instinct told her that she would never, ever hurt her twin but doubt was insidious, sliding into all those misty corners of her mind.
The silence stretched out until it felt as though it might snap then Inspector Litton sighed. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Warren,’ she said. ‘If you think of anything that might be helpful…’
Serena stood up too and gathered up her jacket and bag. She realised her hands were shaking and felt an almost panicked desire to get out into the fresh air. Sergeant Ratcliffe
escorted her politely through the maze of dark corridors and up the steps into the wide concourse of the police station.
‘Interesting symbol on the necklace,’ he said chattily as they crossed the foyer towards the door. ‘Is your grandfather a history buff?’
Serena forced herself to concentrate rather than to bolt for the door. ‘I suppose he was in the past,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t an academic but he always loved to read about all sorts of historical periods. He was the one who instilled in me a love of history. He never talked to me about the fifteenth century, though, or at least not as far as I remember.’
‘I’m interested in genealogy myself,’ Sergeant Ratcliffe said. ‘I’ve traced both sides of my family tree back to the early eighteenth century. There’s not a single famous ancestor anywhere,’ he added mournfully. ‘Coal miners and agricultural labourers on both sides.’
‘Ironically, I’ve no idea about our family history,’ Serena said. ‘My grandfather was adopted and he never talked about his background.’
‘Shame it’s too late to ask him,’ Ratcliffe said, then blushed rather endearingly. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was insensitive of me. I only mean that we often miss the chance to find out family stuff from our elderly relatives before they die… Not that he is dead, of course, just…’ He broke off, sounding even more awkward.
‘Just unable to communicate properly,’ Serena said, feeling like smiling, despite herself. ‘Quite.’
‘Sorry,’ Sergeant Ratcliffe said again. ‘Dementia is a very cruel illness.’ He held out a hand to shake hers. ‘Thank you for coming in, Miss Warren,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
The Last Daughter Page 11
