by D. S. Butler
Karen shrugged off her wet raincoat as she stepped into the room. Morgan stood beside the sofa where Cressida was sitting, huddled in a blanket. She was wearing the same clothes described by Ethan – a white shirt and jeans. But there was no sign of her coat. She still wore her jewellery – an expensive-looking charm bracelet, made from white gold or silver, shone on her wrist as she lifted her arm.
Her jeans were soaked, and through a gap in the blanket Karen could see her shirt was also wet. Cressida sat trembling, looking down at her lap.
DI Morgan was explaining in a calm voice that they would need to take her clothes for forensics, and she would be seen by a doctor shortly.
As Karen approached them, he shot her a thankful look.
‘This is Karen, one of my fellow detectives,’ Morgan said. Then, in a lower voice, he said to Karen, ‘She’s not talking. In shock, I think.’
‘Any news on Natasha?’ Karen asked.
Morgan shook his head.
Karen put her coat and bag on the floor beside the sofa and sat next to the terrified young woman.
‘Cressida, my name’s Karen. I’m a detective with Lincolnshire Police, and I’m one of the officers who’s been looking for you and Natasha. We’re going to get you checked out by a doctor and then take you back to the station where you’ll be safe. We’ve contacted your parents so they’ll be here soon. Do you think you could answer a couple of questions for me now?’
Cressida said nothing, just continued to stare down at her lap, shivering.
‘Do you know where Natasha is?’
No answer.
‘What happened to you?’
Karen wanted to ask if she’d got lost, if she’d been picked up or hurt by someone, but she knew better than to use leading questions at this stage.
Still Cressida didn’t answer. She lifted her head, and Karen saw a long scratch on her cheek.
‘Can you tell me where you’ve been, Cressida?’
No response.
‘I want you to know that you’re safe now. We’re here to help you, but as Natasha is still missing, we really need your help to find her. So, is there anything you can tell me?’
Cressida clutched at the blanket over her shoulders, took a shaky breath and turned, looking at Karen for the first time. Her eyes were bright blue and watery, and her flaxen blonde hair hung in wet strands over the blanket. ‘N . . . Natasha,’ she managed to say.
‘Yes, that’s right. Do you know where Natasha is?’ Karen asked again.
Cressida opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
‘We really need to find her. Were you with her last night?’
Cressida took another breath. ‘I d . . . don’t know. I can’t remember.’ And then she clutched at her throat. ‘I can’t breathe.’
Karen felt a jolt of adrenaline as she loosened the collar of the girl’s shirt, but Cressida clawed at her throat as though there was something constricting her neck.
‘It’s okay. You’re safe,’ Karen said again.
Was this some kind of panic attack, or was there something really wrong with the girl’s throat? She was wheezing now.
Morgan was beside her. ‘Okay, Cressida. Try to breathe out.’ Then, to Karen: ‘I think she’s hyperventilating.’
After a worrying few moments, Cressida’s breathing became less erratic. She put her head forward, resting it on her knees, and Karen stroked her back, speaking softly.
‘It’s going to be all right. Your mum and dad are coming. They’ll be here really soon. Try to relax.’
Eventually Cressida got her breathing under control. When she straightened, Karen looked into her eyes. They seemed empty. No fear, no panic, just nothingness.
Ryan Blake exploded into the room first, closely followed by his wife, Jasmine.
‘Cressida!’ He rushed to her, kneeling and wrapping his arms around her, but she was unresponsive.
Her mother flew to her other side, kissing her daughter’s cheek, pushing back the damp strands of hair from her forehead. ‘Darling, we’ve been so worried. You’re okay, aren’t you? Tell me you’re okay.’
But Cressida was silent.
‘Cressida’s going to be examined by a doctor,’ Morgan explained. ‘We’re going to need her clothes too.’
Ryan gave him an angry look. ‘Hasn’t she been through enough without you fussing over her? Give her some space,’ he snapped, waving a hand to make Morgan step back.
‘I understand you’d like Cressida to be given some space, sir, but Natasha is still missing. We need to examine her clothes.’
Jasmine gasped as the significance of what Morgan was saying sank in. Her eyes were wide. ‘You think she was . . . Oh no. You think someone did something to her.’ Jasmine paled and put her hand up to her mouth. ‘I’m going to be sick,’ she said, and rushed out of the room.
Ryan turned to look at Karen, his eyes red. ‘You suspect she’s been . . . interfered with?’
‘We need to consider all possibilities,’ Karen said.
Ryan put a fist to his mouth, choking back a sob. Then he hugged his daughter. ‘You’re all right, darling. Daddy’s here now. You’re safe. I promise.’
With her chin resting on her father’s shoulder, Cressida’s blue eyes stared straight ahead. It reminded Karen of the portraits on the stairs of the haunted young women. She suspected it would be quite some time before Cressida felt safe again.
At Nettleham station, DC Sophie Jones was focusing on her computer screen, trying to fight the niggling worry she was being left out. She would much prefer to be on the scene at Chidlow House but had to be satisfied with background research.
She’d volunteered to be one of the family liaison officers but they’d given the roles to Siobhan and Lydia – not surprising really as Sophie had only just finished her training.
Rick sat at the desk opposite chatting animatedly on the phone. He was looking into the teachers who’d been working at the study course. No one they’d looked into had come up in a criminal record search, which was hardly unusual, because to work at these institutions you needed a criminal record check.
They’d not found much about Edward Chidlow at all yet, which was a disappointment considering Karen had said there were rumours about him.
Sophie stared at the blue-tinted screen, trying to tune out the buzz of the open office, chattering voices and clacking keys. She reached for her mug and breathed in the scent of the green tea and lemon. She’d been using herbal teas to try to cut down on caffeine, but Rick had cheerfully informed her this morning that it was in green tea. Maybe she’d move on to raspberry and cranberry next week.
She took a sip of the hot tea and put it down on her desk, then scrolled back through the data she’d gathered so far, but there were no red flags for Chidlow. And Doyle had a very strait-laced, boring background.
Doyle had never married. He had been a teacher for over twenty-five years at various private schools around the country before setting up his own study programme. There had been no complaints recorded against him. She’d spoken to two of his previous employers, and they’d sung his praises.
She was about to log off her search and go and get something to eat when she had an idea. She closed down the database and opened up the internet browser, logging on to The Hilt magazine. It wasn’t really her type of reading material these days, but she was familiar with it. She’d gone through a phase in her teenage years of not being able to get enough of magazines. Now it seemed a bit silly to care what colour lip gloss the latest B-list celebrity wore.
The Hilt was slightly different to the normal gossip rags. Instead of celebrities and TV stars, it was full of minor royals, lords and ladies – a kind of gossip magazine for the upper classes.
There weren’t many articles on the actual website, but there was a search bar for past issues, so she searched for the name ‘Lord Edward Chidlow’ and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she scanned the results.
There were three hits. The first tw
o were quite boring, describing Chidlow attending society weddings. But the third one looked like it could be juicy. A Chidlow scandal. Unfortunately, when Sophie tried to click the link it went to a screen that said the article she’d requested was unavailable. She made a note of the date of the article and the title, then entered it into the internet search bar and clicked on ‘Image search’.
A few headshots appeared – some of Chidlow himself, and a couple of him with a woman about his age. His first wife, Sophie suspected. Then, she had some good luck. Someone had uploaded a scan of the magazine article.
She clicked on the image to open it up and started to read. The article was full of salacious gossip. Quite how much was true, Sophie wasn’t sure, but it certainly was interesting. Apparently, Chidlow had run off and left his wife for a much younger woman. Sophie sipped her tea. Maybe this was the reason for the rumours.
So he had an interest in younger women. That didn’t mean he’d be interested in seventeen-year-old A-level students though, did it?
There was no mention of the name of the young woman he’d run off with, but maybe she could get more information from Edward Chidlow’s ex-wife.
If the split wasn’t amicable – as Sophie suspected was likely, since Chidlow had left his wife for a woman half her age – then the ex–Lady Chidlow might be prepared to give them some information.
After a quick search through the police database, she acquired a number for Chidlow’s former wife.
The call seemed to take forever to connect.
‘Yah,’ a posh female voice answered.
‘Hello. Is that Lady Chidlow?’
‘No, it isn’t. I’m her assistant. Who’s this?’
‘This is DC Sophie Jones of the Lincolnshire Police. I was hoping to speak to Lady Chidlow.’
‘Police.’ Suddenly the voice on the other end of the line sounded interested. The woman smacked her lips. It sounded like she was chewing gum. ‘Why do the police want to talk to her?’
‘I’m afraid that’s confidential,’ Sophie said. ‘Would you mind putting her on the line?’
‘Oh, I can’t, sorry. She’s out today. Spa day, and I’m under strict instructions she can’t be disturbed.’
‘I see. Could I have your name?’
‘Jessica, her PA. I’ll let her know you called.’
‘Thank you.’ Sophie gave Jessica her number.
‘Are you sure you can’t tell me what it’s about?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ Sophie said and hung up.
She glanced over at Rick. He was still chatting away on the phone. With any luck they’d be able to go out and speak to some of the teachers soon, rather than spending all their time in the office. It did get quite tedious sitting in front of the computer all day. She preferred in-person interviews.
Sophie looked back down at her notepad. There was one other person Karen wanted them to look into and that was the groundsman. Sophie checked through her notes. Mike Harrington.
She did the usual criminal record checks. Nothing. Then she flipped through the personnel files that Doyle and Chidlow had handed over to Karen. She skimmed the contents of Harrington’s file, then entered his name and date of birth into the database. When the results came back, she frowned.
As soon as Rick hung up the phone, she called him over. ‘I think you should have a look at this. It seems the groundsman has a surprising history.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At five thirty they were preparing to take Cressida back to the station for an interview. She’d told them nothing to indicate what had happened, where she’d been or, more importantly, where Natasha was. Karen thought they might get more out of her when they got her away from Chidlow House. She was traumatised, and a safe, neutral space would hopefully make her feel more secure.
The PC who’d been standing at the front door all day came into the parlour to let Karen know the car was ready to take Cressida back to the station. Farzana had taken over searching Chidlow House, and Morgan had almost finished questioning the students. Most had been allowed to go home.
Karen was about to tell Cressida and her parents they were due to leave for the station when Inspector Grant, the officer who’d been leading the search team, approached her. He was a large man with a bulbous nose.
‘DS Hart.’ As he spoke, his gaze flickered down to the bottom of Cressida’s jeans, which were coated in dark red mud.
‘Have you found anything?’ Karen asked.
‘I just wanted to mention something I’d noticed. The mud . . .’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘ . . . on her jeans. It’s quite distinctive.’
Karen nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘This red mud is around the shore of the lake. I haven’t seen it anywhere else on the grounds.’
Karen took a deep breath. She knew what he was getting at. He wanted to know if it was time to dredge the lake.
The mud was a definite sign that Cressida had been near the lake at some point. Had there been some kind of accident? Was that where they’d find Natasha?
‘It’s not going to be easy to search the lake in the dark,’ Karen said, and the inspector nodded, ‘but I think we should probably ready the aquatic team for a search tomorrow.’
Grant nodded. ‘How long do you want us to keep searching around the grounds?’
‘Keep going for now. I know once it gets dark it’s going to be nigh on impossible, but keep at it. Cressida managed to get back to the house, so the chances are Natasha could be close.’
Karen had already spoken to Morgan and they’d agreed that he would finish up at Chidlow House while Karen went to the station with Cressida.
When Karen approached Cressida and her mother, Jasmine Blake looked up through tearful eyes. ‘I really do think she should get out of these wet things. She’s going to catch a cold.’
‘I know it seems cruel to keep Cressida in those clothes, but it’s what’s best for forensics. It won’t be long now. We’ll get her back to the station, and she’ll be able to change just as soon as a doctor’s seen her. Perhaps you could bring her some clean clothes to the station?’
Karen glanced at Ryan Blake, who had his head in his hands. He looked up and nodded once.
Karen’s mobile rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning around, pulling the phone out of her pocket and glancing at the screen.
It was Alice Price.
Karen wanted to talk to her again. A couple of years ago, Alice had accused senior officers of corruption and then been persuaded to leave the police service after she’d had a breakdown. Karen suspected she’d been bullied out, though it was hard to get the truth from Alice. She was in a manic state and suffering from anxiety and wasn’t a reliable source.
Karen hesitated, wanting to pick up the call, but now was not a good time. She pressed the red button to send Alice’s call to voicemail and then turned back to Cressida. ‘Are you ready to go? You can bring the blanket with you.’
Cressida said nothing but got stiffly to her feet, the blanket clasped around her shoulders. They walked slowly, Cressida shuffling beside Karen as they left the parlour and walked slowly down to the entrance hall.
‘The car is just outside,’ Karen said. ‘We’ll soon have you warm, changed and back at home, okay?’
Cressida didn’t even look at her.
Karen led the trembling young woman outside and down the stone steps towards the marked car.
The ground was covered with soggy red and yellow leaves. There was a rush of wind, cold against Karen’s cheeks, as they got closer to the car. Behind them, a glow of light came from Chidlow’s study. Karen turned. He was watching them through the windows. The groundsman and his dog were in there with him. She wondered what they were talking about.
Outside the French windows leading to Chidlow’s study, leaning against the wall, was the groundsman’s walking stick.
Sandy barked, a muffled sound from inside the study, and Cressida turned back, looking towards the house. Karen t
ried to guide her to the car but she was rigid. Karen looked at her, confused.
Suddenly Cressida recoiled, snatching her hand away from Karen and trying to pull back. Her mother grabbed her arms as Karen tried to reassure her.
‘Everything’s okay, Cressida. We’re just going to take you to the station. Your mum’s coming with us.’
Cressida let out a high-pitched scream and began to tremble violently. Tears rolled down her cheeks. It took minutes of gentle persuasion to calm her. They finally managed to get her to sit in the back of the squad car with her mother.
Karen had just opened the door on the front passenger side when Morgan put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I heard the scream,’ he said. ‘What was that about? The car? Do you think she got into a car last night?’
Karen shook her head. ‘I don’t think it was the car.’
She nodded to the window, where Chidlow stood, hands behind his back, looking directly at them.
‘You think she was reacting to Chidlow?’ Morgan asked.
‘Possibly.’
Morgan left to finish up the interviews, and Karen got into the car and nodded to the officer in the driver’s seat.
As they pulled away, Karen looked back at Chidlow’s study. Was Cressida reacting to him? The groundsman, Mike Harrington, had been in the study too. Not as easy to see him from the car, but his walking stick was propped up against the wall. Cressida could have seen that when she’d looked back at the house.
Maybe it wasn’t Chidlow she was scared of after all.
Karen glanced at the clock as the seconds ticked by. She was waiting for Cressida. She’d prepared one of the family rooms, which was different to the interview rooms. It had brightly coloured sofas and abstract prints on the wall. An attempt to make the surroundings appear less official.
When traumatised victims or witnesses were interviewed, it helped to have a more relaxed atmosphere, although Karen wasn’t sure how much of a difference comfy cushions and padded seats would make in Cressida’s case. During the journey to the station she’d whimpered and trembled in her mother’s arms.
