by D. S. Butler
This was a part of the job that Karen didn’t enjoy. The young woman only wanted to go home. She wanted to feel safe with her parents and stop thinking about whatever had happened to her last night.
But Karen couldn’t let her do that. Because it was looking more and more likely that Cressida and Natasha had been abducted and held against their will. And if that was the case, then they needed to find the perpetrator, and more urgently they needed to find Natasha. The longer she was out there, the less chance they had of getting her back unharmed.
Tomorrow they’d dredge the lake, and the thought made Karen’s stomach churn.
She looked at the clock again. It had been nearly an hour since Cressida had arrived at the station. She’d been processed, her clothes taken, her body examined and photographed. Then she’d had to go through the indignity of a rape exam. After all the tests were finished, she would finally be allowed to shower and put on fresh clothes. By Karen’s estimation, she should be ready to be interviewed soon.
Karen pulled out her mobile to see if there was any news from Morgan and remembered the call from Alice. She had a voicemail.
‘DS Hart, this is Alice Price. I don’t know if you remember me. We spoke in the summer. Anyway, my husband is not very keen for me to revisit the past, as I’m sure you can understand, but I can’t let it go. A name keeps coming back to me. I think you should look into him. His name is DCI Churchill. I don’t know if he’s tied up in whatever it was Freeman was up to, but I think there could be a connection. If you ever want to talk, you can reach me on this number. I know what it’s like when no one else believes you.’
Karen lowered the phone and stared at the screen. DCI Churchill? The name rang a bell, but she hadn’t worked with him personally. Why hadn’t Alice mentioned him before?
She’d look back through her notes later. Karen had put together a file containing information on Freeman and his relationship with the Cooks. She was sure the corruption went deeper, much deeper than Freeman himself. But it wasn’t easy investigating on your own. Morgan had been helping, using his downtime to go through the files and trying to link officers to cases where the outcomes had been suspicious – focusing on cases where the Cook family had been investigated but charges were dropped, reports lost.
But it was hard to gather the evidence needed to untangle the web of corruption around Freeman. If Chief Constable Grayson lent his support to the inquiry, that could lead to a breakthrough.
If there was corruption, there had to be evidence somewhere. And if they kept looking, they would eventually find it. But if they threw in the towel at this stage, blamed everything on Freeman and then let him off with early retirement, then this would all be for nothing. Karen couldn’t live with that outcome.
The door opened and Karen put the mobile back in her pocket, trying to turn her focus back to the current case. But it wasn’t Cressida and her mother. It was the officer who’d taken the girl’s clothes for processing.
‘Is everything all right?’ Karen asked. ‘Did it go smoothly?’
‘She was compliant, poor thing. Absolutely terrified, but she did everything asked of her. We got fingernail scrapes, got her clothes all bagged up and sent to the lab. Hopefully it will give you something to go on.’
Karen nodded. ‘Did she say anything about Natasha?’
‘Is that the other young woman who’s missing?’
‘Yes.’
The officer shook her head. ‘No, she barely spoke. Not even giving a yes or no to some questions. I think she’s in shock.’
‘Any clues to indicate what happened to her?’
‘No, but she’ll be ready for her interview soon. She’s had a shower and I left her getting dressed with her mother.’
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Karen said, and the woman stepped out of the room only to step back in again. ‘In fact, they’re coming along now.’
She opened the door wider so Cressida and her mother could enter the room.
Karen stayed where she was. She didn’t want to crowd the young woman. ‘Come in and take a seat, Cressida. Mrs Blake.’ She nodded at Cressida’s mother.
Both women sat on the red sofa, and Karen sat on a bright blue chair. The primary colours were a bit OTT, but the decor was designed to appeal to children.
‘You’ve done very well so far, Cressida. Now, I know you want to go home, but I’ve just got to ask you a few questions first. Is that okay?’
Cressida didn’t say anything. Her mother reached over, squeezed her hand and said, ‘That’s okay, isn’t it, Cressida? The detective wants to help you.’
Karen leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, trying to make eye contact with Cressida, who seemed determined to stare down at her lap.
‘Just a few questions. You can have a drink first if you like. I’ve got some Coke or water here.’
Both Cressida and her mother shook their heads.
‘All right. Now, you know we’re very concerned about Natasha. Did you go out together last night?’
Cressida didn’t say anything, just stared unblinking down at her hands.
‘Ethan said he saw you leaving the house together at about nine o’clock last night.’
Cressida hugged her arms around her middle.
‘I don’t think she remembers,’ Jasmine said. ‘I think she’s blanked it all out.’
‘Anything you can remember, anything at all, Cressida, would help us. I’m sure you’re worried about Natasha too, aren’t you?’ Cressida lifted her head and her watery blue eyes met Karen’s. ‘We really need to find her as soon as possible. Did you go to the pub last night or meet up with friends?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Cressida said in a quiet voice.
‘All right, why don’t you just tell me what you do remember.’
There was a long pause and then Cressida spoke in a whisper. ‘I don’t remember anything, except being cold and wet and scared.’
‘Do you recall how you got the scratch on your cheek?’
Cressida pressed a hand to her cheek and shook her head.
Despite Karen’s patient questioning, they got nowhere. In response to every question about last night, Cressida said she couldn’t remember.
‘Okay, I know this is really difficult for you. When we were leaving to come to the station, you had to get in the police car, and you got very upset. Can you tell me what upset you?’
Cressida began to tremble again.
‘We came outside, walked towards the car and there were police officers around,’ Karen said, watching Cressida’s reaction carefully. ‘Behind us, Edward Chidlow’s office was lit up. Have you spoken to him before, Cressida?’
Cressida tightened her arms around her stomach but still didn’t say anything.
‘And I noticed the groundsman’s stick outside. Mike Harrington was there.’
Cressida’s breath hitched and tears began to trickle down her face. She brushed her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
‘Please, she’s distressed. That’s enough. She’s told you she doesn’t know. She can’t remember. I want to take her home. If she remembers something, you’ll be the first to know,’ Jasmine Blake insisted, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders.
It was late and this was hard on Cressida, but could Karen really let her go home when Natasha was still out there?
Questioning Cressida was their best hope. Without her, the chances of finding Natasha were fading fast.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was eight p.m. and Sophie was considering calling it a night. Nothing untoward had come up on any of the background searches for the staff working at Chidlow House. It was all very boring and normal, apart from the groundsman. Now he did have an interesting past.
Sophie stretched and then flicked back through the files on her desk. Mike Harrington was an ex-copper and dog handler and had left the force in a hurry more than three years ago. As far as she could tell from the records, there was no scand
al attached to his departure and nothing to indicate he should be a suspect.
She had also followed up with his old boss, who had told her Harrington was one of the best handlers he’d ever worked with, but that he’d fallen apart after the death of his son, jacked in his job and cut off contact with his old friends and colleagues after his divorce. A sad story, but again, no reason to think Harrington would be important to their investigation.
CCTV from business and private residences in the surrounding villages had been a disappointment too. At one stage, Sophie had had her hopes lifted when Mrs Claire Jackson from Harmston reported seeing the girls. Sophie had raced to the woman’s large property, thrilled to finally have something to go on. Her excitement started to ebb when she realised the woman had poor eyesight.
Mrs Jackson was eighty-two. On Monday afternoon, she’d gone outside to rake some leaves in her driveway and had taken a tumble. Two girls, who were walking up the hill, stopped to help her back inside and made her a cup of tea.
‘They were angels. I could have been on the ground for hours if they hadn’t stopped to help.’ Mrs Jackson had looked down at her bandaged ankle. ‘Twisted, not broken, but I didn’t know that at the time.’
‘You’re sure it was the students we’re looking for?’ Sophie had asked, pushing two photographs across the table.
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. They made me a cup of tea at two p.m. I know because I asked them the time. Wondered how long I’d been out there.’
But the way she’d leaned over the photographs and squinted hadn’t given Sophie much cause to share the woman’s confidence.
Mrs Jackson had reached for a custard cream and asked Sophie to pour more tea. She was enjoying the company, poor thing, Sophie had thought. Had to be lonely in that huge house.
‘Is there anyone helping you get around?’ Sophie had asked.
‘My sister pops in every day. It’s a shame it happened now really. My son is normally in the annexe, but he’s currently on a six-month sabbatical in Australia.’
‘Oh, you have an annexe?’
‘Yes, in the back garden. It gives him some privacy and it’s nice for me to have him so close.’
Sophie had stood and peered out of the kitchen window. A small square building, a tiny bungalow, was nestled under the trees. A good idea, really. House prices were going up and up and things weren’t easy for first-time buyers. If her parents had the space, Sophie might have ended up doing something like that.
‘Could I take a look inside?’ It was a long shot, but they were checking outbuildings, so why not an annexe?
‘Well, you could but I seem to have misplaced the key. I’m sure it must be around here somewhere.’
She’d started to get to her feet, but Sophie stopped her. ‘Don’t worry. Do you know where the girls had been going when they found you on Monday?’
‘They said they were going back to Chidlow House. Asked me not to tell anyone I’d seen them because they were supposed to be studying.’ Her smile faded. ‘I said I wouldn’t, but if it helps find them . . .’
‘You’ve done the right thing.’
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she’d said, wincing as she got to her feet. ‘I’ve got one of those daft doorbell thingybobs.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know, they record people when they come to the door. My son fitted it a few months back.’
‘You have video footage of the girls?’
‘Pass me my phone, dear.’
Sophie had done as she’d asked and waited impatiently for Mrs Jackson to access the video.
Finally, Mrs Jackson had passed the phone to Sophie. ‘Here, you do it. I can never work the blasted thing.’
Sophie had quickly accessed the footage from Monday afternoon at two p.m. and held her breath as Natasha and Cressida appeared on the screen. They walked either side of Mrs Jackson, gently supporting the old woman as they helped her into the house. There was sound too. Sophie found it sad to hear them talking with no idea what would happen later in the week. Mrs Jackson had been telling them about her son and how she was looking forward to him coming home because she felt so much safer when he was living in the annexe in the garden.
When Sophie looked up, she noticed Mrs Jackson’s eyes had filled with tears.
‘I really do hope you find them.’
Sophie had gone back through all the recordings from the doorbell camera but hadn’t seen the young women again.
‘Why do the recordings stop on Monday?’ Sophie had asked, puzzled. ‘Were there no alerts?’ She found it hard to believe there had been nothing, not even false alarms triggering the camera.
‘Battery ran out. I’m not sure how to charge it.’
Sophie had to help the old woman put the battery on charge before she returned to the station, feeling frustrated at her lack of progress.
Now, Sophie had put down the files and picked up her mug, intending to wash it before going home, when the phone on her desk rang. She picked it up. ‘DC Jones.’
‘Oh, hello. This is Mr Clark. I spoke to you earlier. I’m the owner of the restaurant in Harmston.’
A flicker of hope. Sophie sat back down. ‘Yes, Mr Clark. Did you remember something?’
‘Actually, yes. Like I told you, I checked the CCTV camera from outside and there was no sign of either girl last night or in the early hours of the morning. But there was something about the photograph you showed me that rang a bell.’
‘Go on.’ Sophie picked up a pen and pulled the pad towards her.
‘I was sure I recognised one of them, you see, but I couldn’t remember from where or when. So I went back through the CCTV from inside the restaurant and I was right. One of the students had dinner here on Monday evening.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one with brown hair. Natasha, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Natasha. Was she alone?’
‘She was having dinner with a man. Anyway, I haven’t taken a really good look at the recording yet. I think they were here for an hour or so. I thought you’d want to know straightaway.’
‘Thank you. Are you open now if I come around? Can I take a copy of the video?’
‘Yes, pop around whenever you like. We don’t shut until ten and it’s as dead as a doornail in here unfortunately.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Sophie commiserated, but her mind was jumping ahead with the excitement of having a lead. She shut down her computer as she talked to him. ‘Was anyone else with them? Or just the two of them?’
‘I can’t remember if anyone else joined them. I haven’t watched all the footage yet.’
‘Okay, not a problem. I can do that. I should be with you in about twenty minutes.’
‘Right. See you then.’
Sophie quickly shrugged on her coat. Though she knew Rick was still at work because his mobile was sitting next to his computer and his computer was still switched on, he was nowhere to be seen.
Sophie scrawled him a quick note, grabbed her handbag and left the station.
It was wet and dark, and the roads were still flooded. She parked outside the restaurant, which was on Harmston High Street. It had only been open since the summer. Harmston was a quiet village with few amenities. So the restaurant, which served Italian food – pasta and pizza – was a welcome addition.
She walked into the restaurant and her mouth watered at the smell of cooking. There was only one couple in there, sitting near the window. Mr Clark had been right. It was very quiet. The man she guessed was the owner was standing miserably at the back of the restaurant, arms folded over his chest, but he brightened when he saw Sophie.
‘Ah, we can talk in the office,’ Mr Clark said quietly after the introductions were out of the way, and he asked another member of staff to keep an eye on the front of house.
He led Sophie through the kitchen and into a small room at the back of the restaurant. He pulled out a chair for her at the desk and nudged the mouse to make the computer screen come alive.
There she was – Natasha, smiling, almost glowing with happiness at the table by the window that Sophie had just walked past.
She was sitting opposite a man. Unfortunately he had his back to the camera, and the camera only caught about a third of his head. He wore a blue jumper with a blue checked shirt underneath and had dark hair, but apart from that it was hard to get any more information.
He was sitting down, but Sophie judged he was only an inch or two taller than Natasha.
She leaned forward. ‘This is great. Can I play it?’
‘Absolutely,’ Mr Clark said, and he showed Sophie the controls. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Maybe something to eat. Some pasta?’
‘Oh no, really. I don’t want to put you out,’ Sophie said. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You’ll be doing me a favour. I’ve just made a fresh batch of tomato and basil sauce and I’m not exactly run off my feet tonight. Go on. What do you say? Just a small bowl?’
‘Okay, that would be lovely, thanks,’ Sophie said, tempted by the smell of garlic.
After Mr Clark left, Sophie began to watch the footage. Natasha was animated and clearly not in distress. In fact, she seemed really happy. Sophie waited for the man to turn around, but he didn’t. At one point he reached over and filled up Natasha’s wine glass. Sophie raised an eyebrow. Natasha was only seventeen.
When Mr Clark came back with a bowl of pasta and a glass of water, Sophie thanked him.
‘I thought maybe it was her father with her at first,’ he said, looking at the screen. ‘He’s a bit older than her, don’t you think?’
Sophie nodded, but it was hard to tell how old the man was with only this view to go on, and she knew Mr Layton, Natasha’s father, had auburn hair.
The man sitting opposite Natasha most definitely wasn’t her father.
With her eyes fixed on the screen, Sophie sampled the pasta. It was delicious. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘You deserve to be much busier than you are.’
‘Well, spread the word,’ he said. ‘Let your friends know.’
Sophie smiled. ‘I will do.’ She was now twenty minutes through the footage, and the man still hadn’t turned around. There was no way she’d be able to identify him from this.
