‘Like the Moors murder lad who’s never been found?’
‘Exactly,’ Thackeray said.
Longley sighed.
‘You never get used to it, do you? The level of depravity. I can’t say I’m not looking forward to my retirement, you know, Michael, and a rest from all this blood and mayhem. Old Huddleston, your predecessor, seems to spend most of his time at Headingley watching cricket. That wouldn’t suit me. I’ve got my eye on a little place up the Dales, not too far from a good golf course, of course. And maybe I’ll take up fishing. They say that’s very soothing…’ Thackeray was surprised to see the dreamy look that came over Longley’s face as he contemplated this idyllic future. His own retirement was much further away than the superintendent’s, and he had to admit that it filled him with a sort of panic, particularly if, as seemed likely, he had to face it without Laura. He shuddered slightly.
‘If that’s all…?’ he suggested.
‘Aye, get on with it, Michael,’ Longley said, with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ll send you a copy of the press release when it’s finalised. Keep me up to speed on developments, though. I want no special favours for these beggars you brought in last night. They brought it on themselves. So play it by the book. But I want no cock-ups either, no excuses for complaints. One of them may be as guilty as hell, but the rest are likely innocent, legally any road, and we’ll have to live with them when it’s all over. So tread carefully.’
‘Sir,’ Thackeray said, and turned to go. ‘Though you can be sure the papers won’t find any of them innocent when they get a handle on them.’
‘Just don’t let the handle come from us,’ Longley said.
Laura Ackroyd sat at her computer feeling faintly nauseous. It was, she supposed, only what should be expected, although as far as she knew Vicky Mendelson had never suffered much in that way. She had seemed to sail through her pregnancies in an enviable glow of euphoria. But then she had wanted her babies, Laura thought, and she was doubting, in the sleepless watches of the night, that she really wanted hers, at least without Michael at her side. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on the first draft of her feature about Sutton Park School and she was faintly relieved when her mobile rang. But when she pulled it out of her bag and saw who the caller was she hesitated for a long time before finally answering.
‘What the hell do you want, Vince?’ she asked angrily before her former boyfriend, ex-colleague and more recent tormentor, had time to draw breath.
‘That’s not very friendly, doll,’ Vince Newsom said. ‘Especially as I’m halfway up the M1 to cover this lezzy headmistress you’ve outed up there. Bradfield doesn’t half pick ’em, don’t you reckon? And I suppose you’re all for her exercising her human rights with the little darlings in Year seven.’
‘If you’re just going to be vile, we may as well stop there,’ Laura said.
‘OK, OK,’ Vince said, laughing. ‘I know all about your liberal sensibilities. I just wondered if you knew whether darling Debbie’s been suspended or not. The school’s not taking calls from the press, and the council press office is playing dumb as well, so I don’t know whether to head for the school or this village where she lives. What do you reckon?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Laura said. ‘I don’t see any reason why she should have been. But Bob Baker broke the story and he’s following it up.’ She glanced across the newsroom at Baker’s desk, which stood empty, the computer screen blank. ‘He’s not here at the moment, so I can’t pass you over,’ she added with some satisfaction.
‘Do you have his mobile number?’
‘No,’ Laura said truthfully. ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
‘Huh,’ Newsom muttered, from which Laura gathered that he did not altogether believe her, and knew she would not make the slightest effort to find it for him, but she merely smiled at that. ‘I think I’ll head out to the love nest and then come back into town if she’s not there,’ Newsom concluded. ‘What about lunch, doll? For old times’ sake.’
‘No thanks,’ Laura said firmly. ‘I’ve not forgotten the last time you were up here. Or forgiven you.’
‘Water under the bridge, sunshine,’ Newsom said airily. ‘Lighten up, why don’t you? Go with the flow. How’s the love life, by the way? Still with your gloomy copper? You could do better than that, you know.’
Furious, Laura cut the connection. When she was a very young and, she admitted to herself, impressionable reporter, she had been seduced by Newsom’s good looks and undoubted charm, and had lived with him for more than two years before throwing him out of her flat when she finally realised just how unscrupulous he was prepared to be to further his career. It was a judgement which was only confirmed in spades later when he helped himself to information she had been given to pass on to Michael Thackeray, putting them in a position that threatened both their careers. There were still unanswered questions in Laura’s mind about exactly what had happened that night, when she had stupidly drowned her sorrows to the extent that she had not really known what she was doing, and had allowed Newsom to take her home and rummage in her bag for her keys, and more. Dislike and distrust had turned, she realised now, into something very close to hatred, and it was not an emotion she had previously thought herself capable of. She sighed, and turned back to her computer screen. But she could not concentrate, and when the words on the screen misted over in front of her, she eventually went outside to her car to call Debbie Stapleton’s home number. The phone was answered quickly and a slightly relieved voice replied.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Debbie said. ‘I’ve had a dozen calls this morning already from newspapers and TV.’
‘Have they suspended you from the school or something?’ Laura asked.
‘Not formally. The governors are meeting as we speak. They really have no grounds for suspending me, though that doesn’t mean that Peter Maxwell won’t put pressure on them to try their best. In the meantime, the chair has advised me to stay at home, ostensibly so he can deal with the press. Fat chance. My phone number’s in the book and the phone’s never stopped ringing since the Gazette story appeared. Even my neighbours are looking at me a bit oddly. They’ve never seemed the least bit bothered by us before.’
‘Unplug the phone,’ Laura advised. ‘You’ll get no peace otherwise.’
‘I need to keep the line open for the school,’ Debbie objected.
‘Let them use your mobile.’
‘Of course, silly me. You can tell I’m a novice in this sort of crisis. And my head’s all over the place.’
‘Are you all right? I thought you might have taken my advice and gone away,’ Laura said.
‘My partner has, and to be honest I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll ever come back. She was even less prepared for this sort of campaign than I was. She’s appalled, terrified even, though no one’s even arrived on the doorstep yet.’
‘They will,’ Laura said. ‘I know for a fact that Vince Newsom of the Globe is heading in your direction. Take my advice. Don’t let him over the threshold. He’s all charm on the surface, can do sympathy like a born-again agony aunt, but he’s a snake. Don’t trust him an inch, or you’ll find yourself on the front page of every red top in the country tomorrow morning. Once one gets its teeth in, the rest will follow like night follows day.’
‘Oh God,’ Debbie said, and Laura could tell that she was on the verge of tears, but she knew she had to tell her the truth. Nothing less would prepare her for what might follow.
‘Do you know who outed you to these radical parents?’ Laura asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Debbie said. ‘Not many people knew I was gay – we were very discreet – and those who did have always seemed completely supportive. I knew we had a few Christian fundamentalists around as well as some Muslims, but they’ve never given us any trouble until now. I can only think that someone mentioned it innocently to someone who was shocked.’
‘Or someone who was looking for a weapon to use against you in the school row. Did Peter M
axwell know? He could easily have told David Murgatroyd. He certainly has issues with homosexuality, being the sort of born-again Christian he is.’
‘I don’t think Peter Maxwell knew. He was on the panel at my interview for the job, but your sexuality is not something decent employers ask about these days. It’s very much off limits.’
‘But it won’t be with Murgatroyd,’ Laura said. ‘One way or another, he’ll make sure it’s on the agenda. And the tabloids will go along with it given half a chance. They still enjoy a bit of queer-bashing if they think they can get away with it. And a real live row gives them the chance.’
‘With so many Muslims in the school it’s the perfect issue for Murgatroyd, isn’t it?’ Debbie said.
‘Perfect for anyone who wants to keep you out of the academy headship,’ Laura agreed. ‘This leak is no accident, Debbie. Someone has told Bob Baker deliberately to scupper your chances of the job.’
‘I didn’t know I had enemies like that,’ Debbie said, her voice forlorn.
But before she could respond, Laura heard a slight gasp at the other end of the phone.
‘There’s a car pulling up outside and a guy getting out, a blue BMW, I think,’ Debbie said.
‘What does he look like?’ Laura asked.
‘Tall, blond, that floppy hair public schoolboys have, good looking…’
‘Sounds like Vince Newsom,’ Laura said, realising that Newsom might have lied to her about how far up the M1 he had actually driven when he had called her. ‘Batten down the hatches, and unplug the phone,’ she said.
‘Give me your mobile number, quickly, in case I need some advice,’ Debbie said, and gave Laura her own number in exchange.
‘Good luck,’ Laura said before they cut off. ‘You’ll need it.’
Laura went back up to the newsroom feeling seriously depressed. She could not help feeling responsible in some way for Debbie Stapleton’s predicament although she had done nothing wrong. Bob Baker was still not at his desk and she realised that Debbie’s description of her visitor could have just as easily described Bob as Vince Newsom, and that made her feel slightly better. She disliked Bob and some of his methods, but he was not in the Globe’s league of intrusive unpleasantness yet, although she guessed he harboured serious ambitions in that direction.
She sat down at her desk again and called Councillor Peter Maxwell’s office.
‘What’s it about?’ his secretary asked with what Laura felt was unwarranted suspicion.
‘We’ve been talking about Sutton Park,’ she said. ‘I’ve a few questions about the latest developments.’
‘I’ll see if he’ll talk to you,’ the secretary said, and eventually put her through.
‘I wondered what your reaction was to this new parents’ campaign,’ Laura said. ‘It all seems to be getting pretty nasty.’
‘Oh, that,’ Maxwell said, and Laura wondered why there seemed to be a note of relief in his voice. ‘The governors are meeting this morning and my impression is that they’re not best pleased. It’s not my responsibility, but off the record, I should think the story in the Gazette has scuppered her chances with David Murgatroyd. He won’t go for a gay head teacher. No chance.’
‘Did you know she was gay before yesterday’s story, as a matter of interest?’ Laura asked, trying to keep her voice level.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Maxwell said flatly. ‘And don’t you or Bob go suggesting I did. To be honest, I’ve no idea where Bob got the story from, but it wasn’t from me or anyone in my office. You know what the council’s policies are on sexism, racism and all the other isms.’
‘And yet you’ll hand over a school lock, stock and barrel to a known homophobe?’
‘There’s no evidence that Sir David Murgatroyd has ever discriminated against anyone,’ Maxwell said. ‘The Government would not have allowed him to set up so many academies if there was. So as far as the council is concerned, that’s the end of it. So if that’s all you wanted to ask me, I’ll get on. I’ve a lot on my plate this morning, as it happens. Nice talking to you, Laura. Really nice.’
And with that Maxwell hung up, so quickly that Laura wondered what exactly he was trying to hide.
‘Well, you seem to have all the symptoms of a pregnancy, as you seem to know already, and you missed your pills. I’ll do the tests but I think you can take it that you definitely have a baby on the way,’ the doctor said, peeling off her plastic gloves. Laura swung her legs off the examination couch and rearranged her clothes. The doctor looked at her sharply as she waved her into the chair by her desk and consulted the notes on her computer screen.
‘You’re not married?’
Laura shook her head.
‘No, I’m not married. I have a partner – off and on.’
‘Is he the father?’
‘Oh yes,’ Laura said, but she knew the dullness in her voice was betraying her.
‘But there’s a problem?’ Dr Mariam Ali suggested. She was a comfortably plump middle-aged woman with her dark hair fastened back from a round face faintly lined by life, her dark eyes full of concern. Her consulting room was almost preternaturally tidy, and she dressed with elegant understatement in dark trouser suits and bright silk shirts, but Laura knew that she had faced difficulty in the practice because some patients still disliked a woman doctor and others took against anyone Asian, especially in the aftermath of terrorist outrages.
‘He doesn’t want the baby. He lost a child a long time ago and doesn’t think he can do it all again.’
‘And you? What do you want?’ the doctor asked.
Laura shrugged dispiritedly.
‘If my partner will stay with me, then I want the baby,’ she said. ‘Without him, I’m not sure I can do it alone. It’s a huge responsibility.’ Laura wondered what Dr Ali’s position was on abortion. It was not a thought that had ever crossed her mind before, but now it might be crucial. But the doctor showed no sign of censoriousness.
‘It is a very big responsibility, bringing up a child on your own,’ she agreed. ‘Two parents are better. Do you have family locally who could help?’
Laura shook her head.
‘Only my grandmother who needs all the support she can get. My parents are abroad. I’m an only child.’
‘I can’t advise you, Laura,’ the doctor said. ‘If you decide to seek a termination, that has to be your decision and there will be some counselling we can offer. All I can say is that you need to come to a decision soon. Late terminations are not advisable, on health grounds.’
‘Right,’ Laura said, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Can you really not reconcile your partner to the idea of being a father again?’ the doctor asked. ‘Why don’t you talk to him again?’
‘I’ll try,’ Laura said.
‘Make an appointment to see me again in about a week,’ Dr Ali said. ‘We’ll need to arrange antenatal care at the maternity unit if you are going ahead with the pregnancy, and other things if you’re not.’ She looked at Laura for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. I like to see my expectant mothers happy, not depressed.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Laura said, regaining some of her normal sharpness. ‘But I’m not sure I can help you there. If I end up having to choose between the baby and my partner that will be the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, and happy’s not the likeliest outcome. Thanks for your time, Doctor. I’ll see you in a week.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘I need to go to London, guv,’ DS Kevin Mower announced later that day when he presented himself in DCI Thackeray’s office to report on progress. ‘My contact at Paddington Green has tracked down Leroy Green’s sister living in Archway and I reckon we need to see her face-to-face. He has to be our prime suspect, in spite of the other parties involved with Karen that night.’
‘Do you need to take anyone with you?’ Thackeray asked.
‘Nope. Doug Mackintosh is happy to come with me, and as he’s got all the background, that seems to make sense. If you could clear it
with the Met I could get down there this evening and arrange to see her in the morning. I’d be back tomorrow afternoon, unless she pins him down to a location in London. But that seems unlikely as he was up here so recently.’
‘Right, I’ll talk to the Met,’ Thackeray said. He sighed. ‘I’ve just been going through these statements from the people we picked up in the forest. What a sleazy lot they are, exhibitionists gone rancid. But so far not one of them’s admitting they had sex with Karen the night she went missing.’
‘There’s a lot of garbage in there,’ Mower said. ‘I wouldn’t think you can believe more than a fraction of what any of them say. Particularly the blokes. The women don’t seem to be so bothered about covering up. Most of them have less to lose, I guess. They seem to be living boring lives in pretty loveless relationships and just out for a bit of what they regard as fun. The blokes are a definite cut above that, and have a hell of a lot to lose if all this becomes public.’
Thackeray nodded.
‘Quite a gathering of the great and the good, looking for a free brothel, effectively,’ he said, not disguising his contempt. ‘The perfect scenario for a predator, as it turns out.’
‘Did you see where Sharif’s tried to analyse who told who, what and when?’ Mower asked. ‘As far as I can see the word-of-mouth trail leads back to Peter Maxwell about eighteen months ago, and he claims he found a site on the Internet, first of all and didn’t manage to get anything off the ground. I’ve got someone having a browse of sites for swingers and doggers, to see if we can track down what he claims he saw, but the chances of uncovering who’s behind anything like that are pretty remote. It could originate anywhere.’
‘We’ll have to get them all in again. And I intend to start with Maxwell personally, whatever the chief constable thinks,’ Thackeray said. ‘I didn’t believe half of what he was telling me last night. And this time we’ll ask them all to volunteer a DNA sample and fingerprints – for elimination. If they refuse, we’ll have to consider our options, but I don’t believe none of them had sex with Karen. According to most statements there were only four women there that night and about ten men. Are they really trying to convince us that Karen was just a spectator? Has anything come in about similar cases elsewhere?’ Since recent disasters concerning communication between police forces, big efforts had been made to ensure that similar cases could be tracked around the country through a national database, but both men knew that even now it was not foolproof.
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