Young, Gifted and Dead

by Lucy Carver

  ‘We’re in a position to offer you protection if you would like – as a precaution.’

  ‘No, I’m cool thanks.’

  ‘Stop a moment. Take time to think before you reject it outright. I’m not saying your new theory necessarily holds water – yes, this is probably the work of a seriously deranged individual, but it still doesn’t mean he or she has any connection with what went on during the 1930s. Either way you mustn’t put yourself in any more danger – not after what happened to Paige.’

  Bang – another bullet enters my tattered heart. I wince and shut my eyes.

  ‘I made a connection between the kid who attacked Mistral and the kid on the stolen Toyota,’ I confessed, eyes still closed. ‘It turns out they’re the same person.’

  ‘Name?’ Cole asked.

  ‘I don’t have that yet, but he has grey eyes and dark lashes, about five eleven, six feet tall. He’s left-handed. I gave you all that before.’

  ‘You’d be able to pick him out in an identity parade?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Cole was fully focused and he spoke more seriously than before. ‘St Jude’s might not be the best environment for you, Alyssa. Why not take the principal’s advice?’

  It was like a chorus of monkeys jabbering the same words – Go home! Go home! – so I decided that lying was my best option. ‘Maybe I will,’ I murmured. ‘But first I want to ask you about a couple of other things.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Cole said, inspecting his nails again.

  ‘About Dr Webb and Mr D’Arblay – they said there was no CCTV footage of the guy who attacked Paige’s horse. Well, I think there was. In fact, I’m certain the camera was working fine right up until the point where he climbed the wall to escape. That was when he used his knife to cut through the cable. Can you check that out?’

  ‘Again, difficult to prove that evidence has been concealed.’

  ‘But you’ll try?’

  He nodded. ‘What else, Alyssa?’

  ‘Can you still do a DNA test on the baby to prove paternity?’ I tried to stay detached, but couldn’t stop myself from shuddering.

  ‘We can. Adam Earle asked the coroner the same question – I’ll check it out to see if it’s been done yet. What else?’

  ‘You know the first autopsy on Lily? Well, it said there were no signs of a struggle.’

  ‘No bruising, no broken bones, no signs of strangulation,’ Cole agreed. ‘And she was still alive when she went into the lake because she inhaled water.’

  ‘But she could have been unconscious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what if the killer drugged her somehow? Say the drug was slipped into a drink . . .’

  Cole nodded again. ‘An overdose of tamoxifen or Rohypnol, some date rape drug – yes we got the pathologist to test for the obvious ones. He didn’t find anything.’

  ‘But you could do more tests?’

  ‘We could and we will,’ he agreed.

  ‘It wouldn’t necessarily have been in the school grounds. Lily could have arranged to meet up with her killer in the village or in town, or else she ran into him by accident. He drugged her then afterwards drove her back here to put her in the lake to make it look like suicide. There was a four-day gap, remember.’

  ‘A wide window,’ Cole agreed. He was finally done with his fingernails, so he stood up and rubbed his nose instead. ‘Where’s home for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Richmond.’

  ‘So we can get in touch with you there if you do decide to leave early?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  It was another lie. In fact, I’d already fixed on what I was going to do next, and it did involve a train ticket to London, but not to stay with my aunt.

  chapter fourteen

  I didn’t discuss my plan with anyone – not even Jack. Maybe not a great move after what had happened to Lily and Paige, but I wasn’t thinking clearly and it was something that on the spur of the moment I decided to do alone.

  Hi, Jack, I texted. Am taking train to London. Don’t tell anyone and don’t worry about me – A xxx.

  I put the message into Drafts, ready to press Send when I was actually on the train so he couldn’t follow me.

  That was early Wednesday morning as I left my room and walked down the stone stairway, before Hooper cornered me in the quad.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ he challenged, noticing the overnight bag I was carrying, but choosing to ignore it for now.

  ‘I don’t know – am I?’ You rarely saw Hooper before ten in the morning so whatever he had to say must be something else important.

  ‘Lion Films,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Have you heard of them?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘Lion Films is owned by Comco. I came across it in a list of companies set up and run by the Earles. They have offices in London, New York, Chicago and Tel Aviv.’

  ‘Making blockbuster movies and raking in mega-buck profits?’

  ‘Actually no. Lion specializes in documentary programmes with a high political content – films about the situation in Afghanistan, Israel, Palestine . . .’

  ‘We’re talking propaganda movies?’

  ‘Yeah – some of them with a pro-Israeli bias. Comco also prints free newspapers and What’s On magazines throughout the Middle East. They also own a TV station broadcasting out of Tel Aviv, but available in Egypt, Palestine and Syria.’

  ‘So Lion Films is the branch of Comco that’s setting out to investigate the neo-Nazi groups?’

  Hooper nodded. ‘They include it in their list of current projects. The website says they’ve already looked at cells in America and the UK. The documentary’s due for release in July next year.’

  ‘You definitely did your homework,’ I told him. ‘Thanks, Hooper – it could be a big help.’ Genuinely, because it gave me good information for my up-and-coming, secret talk.

  ‘So what’s with the bag?’ he asked.

  I hitched it higher on my shoulder. ‘To make Saint Sam assume I’m heading for Richmond. I want him and D’Arblay to think I’m taking their advice.’

  ‘But you’re not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I need some space.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m feeling claustrophobic hanging around here all the time.’ I told Hooper that I’d spent another night alone in the room I’d shared with Lily and Paige, going round and round in circles like a hamster trapped inside its wheel.

  ‘So you’re not going to tell me where you’re going? No – I can see that.’ He looked unhappy. ‘Alyssa – you won’t do anything stupid?’

  I gave him my best patronizing smile and patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. If anything bad is going to happen to me, it’ll happen here at St Jude’s or in the Bottoms, not in the place where I’m going.’

  Who did I think I was kidding?

  Hooper watched me set off towards the lake, his imagination working overtime. After thirty seconds he ran after me. ‘I really don’t think you should be doing this without Jack – whatever it is.’

  I walked steadily on, skirting the frozen reed bed and flat expanse of grey water. ‘It’s OK, Jack and I are not joined at the hip. Anyway, I’ll send him a text.’

  ‘You know that’s the identical bag that Lily had.’

  His observation skills caught me off guard and I broke my stride. ‘I know. We bought them together – from the same shop on the same day.’

  ‘That creeps me out, Alyssa. It’s like an action replay – you and Lily both sneaking off like this. Honestly, I don’t like it.’

  We passed the lake and entered the woods. ‘Hooper, what do you want me to do? Lily and Paige are both dead and no one can work out why. I can’t sit around and do nothing – it’s driving me crazy!’ I picked up pace and began to jog along the bridle path, past the spot where Harry and Franklin had given me my Jane Eyre moment. Pretty soon I’d be crossing the stream then coming out at the far
side of the woods on to the back lane that led to the Bottoms. If I hurried, I could get from there to Ainslee in time for the 10.05 Paddington train.

  With his long legs Hooper had no problem keeping up. ‘What am I going to tell Jack?’

  ‘Tell him not to worry – I’ll be safe. Honestly, you have to stop following me. Go back and cover for me with Saint Sam, do some more research – whatever.’

  I suppose I sounded snotty because Hooper suddenly stopped and let me run on. I’d obviously hurt his feelings.

  ‘Sorry,’ I called over my shoulder. And I was. But not sorry enough to change my plan or even to give Hooper the explanation he deserved.

  I came out of the woods on to the lane, which was free of early-morning traffic except for a farmer trundling past on a muddy tractor and a woman swishing by in a white Porsche. I was slightly out of breath after jogging away from Hooper so I stopped a while on the grass verge to watch a kestrel hover over unseen prey on the far side of the high hedge. After a few seconds it swooped out of sight and I continued past the Old Mill – an expensive conversion – and on again to the first straggle of tarted-up ex-farm-workers’ cottages leading into the Bottoms.

  I hit the village proper just as Tom drove out of the Vicarage on to Main Street.

  I didn’t expect him to stop, but he did and wound down the window. ‘Hey, Alyssa – look who just passed his test!’

  ‘Cool, Tom. You’re sure you’re speaking to me again?’

  I hadn’t seen him since the day he’d savaged me for telling the police about Lily’s bag, but by now he’d had time to calm down and was back to his old, considerate self. ‘Yeah. Where are you going?’

  ‘Ainslee train station.’

  ‘I’m on my way to school, but I can drop you off.’ He leaned over and opened the passenger door, hardly giving me time to fasten my seat belt before he set off. ‘I heard the news about Paige,’ he said without any more small talk. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You don’t want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ As we passed the Bridge Inn and the turn off up Meredith Lane, Tom saw Jayden loping down the hill. ‘Do you mind if I give him a lift too?’

  I shrugged and we took on board another passenger.

  ‘Hey, Alyssa – how’s Harry?’ Jayden barked as he slammed his door shut and Tom set off again.

  I tensed up but made an effort to keep the conversation under control. ‘The swelling’s going down nicely, thank you, but he still can’t see out of his left eye. Tom, did you hear what Jayden did to Harry Embsay? Can I tell him, Jayden, or will you?’

  ‘He was asking for it,’ Jayden grunted as he cracked his knuckles. Cooped up in the back of Tom’s small car, he looked moodier than ever and totally out of his element. ‘Never mind me telling Tom what I did to dick-head Harry, what have you been up to lately, Alyssa? Have you found out who killed Lily?’

  Tom took a sharp intake of breath, gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead.

  ‘Jayden thinks it was Harry,’ I explained as Tom drove out of the Bottoms on the Ainslee road. ‘Hence the fight.’

  ‘Christ!’ Tom said.

  ‘I know. I told Jayden you can’t go round accusing people.’

  ‘Not “people”!’ Jayden said. ‘Just Embsay. And he’s not a person – he’s an animal.’

  ‘And was it?’ Tom asked me. ‘Was it Embsay?’

  ‘That’s a maybe,’ I said, nervous that Jayden’s temper would snap if I said anything too definite. ‘There’s a chance he was involved.’

  Our back-seat passenger snorted down his nose. ‘Meaning Embsay said he didn’t screw Lily but he did, meaning he said he didn’t kill her but he did.’

  ‘Christ,’ Tom said again, this time sotto voce. He seemed relieved when we came into the outskirts of town and he took the route to the station, arriving just in time to see a load of Ainslee Comp kids step off a local train.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I told him, getting out of the car as fast as I could, but having to step aside to avoid the tide of uniformed kids. I checked my watch and saw that I would easily make the Paddington train.

  Tom nodded and said goodbye. Jayden scowled. I turned towards the ticket machine, bought my ticket and glanced across the railway lines to the opposite platform.

  I saw Alex Driffield unwrap a chocolate bar and bite into it, talking with his mouth full to Micky Cooke and an older lad who I didn’t know. There seemed to be an argument. The older lad stabbed his forefinger into Micky’s chest then stood in his way when Micky tried to step off the platform on to the steps leading to the narrow metal bridge over the track. He pushed him back against the chocolate machine.

  ‘The next train to arrive at platform two is the 10.05 to Paddington,’ a voice announced over the intercom.

  Across the tracks on platform 3 Alex joined in the argument. He chucked away his chocolate wrapper and let it fly in the wind. Then he dodged round the older lad and tried to grab Micky by the arm. Micky resisted and decided to stay with the older lad after all so Alex went on alone, taking the metal steps two at a time.

  My supercharged memory cells kicked into action and I began to think I’d seen the older lad somewhere before. He was hidden by my train as it pulled into the station so I had to wait before I could board and peer through the window at platform 3. The older, mystery lad and Micky had disappeared behind a service trolley, then the lad reappeared without Micky, phone in left hand pressed to left ear.

  Where had I seen that before?

  Backtrack in time before the train leaves the station – really concentrate. Try to place the tall, finger-stabbing, left-handed lad with the phone.

  It had been weird, that time in the hospital car park – Harry had brought Paige flowers. He sat beside D’Arblay waiting to visit while Jack and I were leaving.

  Jack swore under his breath.

  ‘What?’ We were on our bikes. I didn’t see the old red Mondeo reversing out of a space and I had to jam on my brakes.

  Inside the car were Micky Cooke and presumably his morgue-worker dad. Jack and I were concentrating on Micky, watching him speak into his phone – right hand, right ear.

  Jack swore again because it was Micky who had ambushed me along with Ursula and Alex, and because Micky was on the list of suspects who’d met at Tom’s house the night Lily disappeared.

  ‘Leave it,’ I’d told Jack. There was another person in the back of the car, also talking on his phone.

  Remember more – every tiny detail. Make it fast!

  The Mondeo spewed out a plume of black exhaust smoke, the man in the back glanced out and met my gaze. He was left-handed and his eyes were grey with thick dark lashes.

  Good! That’s what I’d missed before. But now . . . good – very good!

  Now I was back in the present, looking out of the train at the lad on the platform. The same eyes and lashes, the same hostile stare when he saw me watching him. He backed behind the service trolley and I lost him again.

  Alex came off the bridge and ran past my carriage, heading for the ticket barrier. I leaned out of the door. ‘Who was that?’ I yelled.

  He didn’t stop to answer, just threw a name in my direction – ‘Micky Cooke!’

  ‘No, not Micky – the other one!’

  ‘Chris – Micky’s brother. He’s a wanker.’

  The words faded, doors slammed, the station manager blew a whistle and my train pulled out.

  Chris Cooke – Micky’s brother, alias the guy on the stolen Toyota, alias the man in the stable yard in the grey Adidas hoodie. Things rolled and glided into place like the chilled drawers containing corpses in a hospital morgue. They closed with a soft thud on the lives of the two people who had died.

  Lately we’d been through what felt like an age of freezing rain and heavy skies, but today was sunny – forgive the weather report, but it was a decent distraction while staring out of the window. My train sped smoothly through the coun
tryside, in and out of tunnels.

  We were thirty minutes from Paddington and I’d turned off my phone. I hadn’t sent the text to Jack.

  Chris Cooke – Chris Cooke – Chris Cooke. The name clicked rhythmically through my head. Sunlight to shade, sunlight to shade.

  It turned out that the figure at the centre of all the bad things that had happened since Lily’s body was dragged from the lake was Micky’s brother. I was stuck on this fact, not getting any further until I changed focus – the guy at the centre of all the bad things was the son of the man who worked at the morgue!

  All workers at the hospital would need ID; they would know codes to get them into certain high-security areas, including the morgue. Maybe Chris’s dad was careless with his badge or pass, maybe he jotted down security-code reminders at home in case his memory let him down – in which case it was plain sailing for Chris to pick up confidential information and access his dad’s workplace.

  I was thinking – yes, Chris Cooke could definitely find a way to get inside the hospital morgue and perform that mind-blowingly nasty mutilation on Lily’s corpse.

  Chris Cooke – Chris Cooke – Chris Cooke. The tempo slowed as the train approached the suburbs. I looked out of the window at graffiti sprayed on to concrete walls, at the backs of big terraced houses, row after endless row.

  From Paddington I took the tube to Euston and came up the escalators on to the wide concourse leading out on to Euston Road. From there it was a twenty-minute, traffic-swamped walk to the Comco offices.

  Yeah – Comco. This was the secret plan that had grown in my brain and was just about to bear fruit.

  I passed office blocks belonging to banks and building societies, walked across paved plazas with Costas and Starbuckses, then a grassed area with contemporary sculptures then more shiny office blocks.

  Outside the Comco tower were two cold, coatless women and a man in shirtsleeves smoking and drinking coffee. Inside was a reception area with white leather sofas and acres of travertine on floors and walls. Two receptionists, a man and a woman, sat behind a vast glass-and-steel desk and viewed me with cool disdain.

  ‘I’m here to see Adam Earle,’ I told the one nearest to the revolving glass door.