A Velvet Scream

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Thought you said you were going out tonight.’

  She glanced at her watch again. Six thirty. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said. ‘No more.’

  It was almost exactly ten minutes later that Sergeant Alderley stuck his head round the door. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said, handing her a large brown envelope. ‘I was going to leave it on your desk. I thought you’d be gone.’ Joanna looked enquiringly at him.

  ‘Chap called Ollerenshaw dropped it off.’

  For a minute Joanna couldn’t think who on earth Ollerenshaw was. Then she remembered. Peter Harrison’s fishing mate. So presumably this was a photograph of Peter Harrison, Kayleigh’s father. She drew it out. And stared. ‘Just look at this,’ she said, handing it to Mike.

  The photograph had been taken on the bank of a canal, probably the Caldon. Harrison was dressed in an olive-green mac and wellies. He was grinning into the camera lens. Tall, slim, brown hair, large teeth. Joanna and Mike stared at it and wondered.

  It was Korpanski who spoke first. ‘Gives me the creeps,’ he said. ‘She could have been describing her own father.’

  ‘But according to her mother they never met. She didn’t even have a picture of him.’

  ‘Mike,’ Joanna said slowly, ‘if you had never met your father do you think you’d be curious?’

  Korpanski nodded.

  ‘I think it might be worth talking to Peter Harrison,’ Joanna murmured.

  It was twenty to eight when she finally reached Waterfall Cottage. Matthew was peering out of the window. He hardly needed to say it but he did anyway, grumpily scolding as she walked in: ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I know.’ She could have pointed out that her job was hardly a nine-to-five career but she didn’t. He knew that already. Instead she smiled and apologized. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Matt. I’ll have a quick shower.’ She tried a smile. ‘I’ll be down and spruced up before you can say . . .’ She shrugged and tried again, harder. ‘Here comes the bride?’

  She didn’t wait to see the grimace.

  It was actually five past eight when they emerged from the cottage. Matthew had called the restaurant to warn them they would be late. He was silent all the way there. Not a good start.

  However, as they sat down over a glass of wine, he smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I get really twitchy about timing.’

  He was hard to resist: flashing an apologetic grin, his eyes warm, his hand reaching across the table for hers. ‘I know. I’m sorry too but you know, Matt, I can’t just down tools.’

  ‘It isn’t that,’ he said. He angled his face up towards the light. It caught the colour of his hair and gave it a rich golden look, rumpled and thick.

  She waited as he touched his lips with his fingers – the well-known gesture of editing your speech. ‘I think it’s a sort of jealousy, Jo. You’re so absorbed in your work that when you’re there I don’t exist. Sometimes when I ring you I think for a second you almost wonder who I am.’

  It was true but she felt she must defend herself. ‘But you are absorbed in your work too, Matthew,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘But not to the same extent. I don’t shut you out.’

  She couldn’t argue against this. So instead she diverted the conversation, knowing that if she confronted Matthew with a puzzle he wouldn’t be able to resist trying to help. It was inherent in his nature that he would always search for answers. Maybe it was these two characteristics that had led him first to study medicine and then to specialize in pathology. ‘The trouble is, Matt,’ she said, ‘this case is one of the worst I’ve had to deal with.’

  He accepted the change of subject with a rueful grin and rose to the bait. ‘How so?’

  ‘I simply don’t know whether to proceed or not. Whether there is a case to investigate. Should I throw everything at it and try and make some sense of the girl’s story, even though I’m convinced she is a very mixed up young lady and I’m not at all sure we shall ever find out the truth? Certainly not through her. Plus I know I’ll never get a conviction. And now this turn of events.’ She told him about the Newcastle-under-Lyme case.

  ‘I did the post mortem on that girl,’ he said. ‘Months ago.’

  ‘May.’

  ‘I remember quite well. Apart from a dose of a benzodiazepine – possibly Rohypnol, the so-called date rape drug, she was so way over the limit. Absolutely pickled in alcohol. The stomach contents were pure rum. The stink filled the mortuary for days.’ He grinned and couldn’t resist a black joke. ‘Everything was cleaned and sterilized in the alcohol. No need to clean up the morgue.’

  ‘Matthew,’ she remonstrated and his face sobered.

  She sipped her wine, glanced around the restaurant to make sure no one was near enough to eavesdrop. ‘What did she actually die of?’

  ‘The cause of death was inhalation of her own vomit. The milkman found her around six a.m. They got her to hospital but couldn’t save her.’

  ‘Had she been raped?’

  ‘She’d had intercourse. It hadn’t been particularly violent. She was just a kid.’

  ‘So she died of natural causes. Not murder – if anything she died of neglect – just like Kayleigh would have done; only Kayleigh survived.’

  Matthew nodded. ‘It is a mirror image of your case.’

  ‘Yes. And now I have to decide whether to proceed with the investigation. I can’t afford to get it wrong as I’m persona non grata in the Leek police force.’

  ‘Maybe you should speak to Colclough about it. Ask his advice – for once.’ His eyes were gleaming with mischief. ‘Break the habit of a lifetime?’

  She nodded, smiling back at his good-humoured dig. ‘Not a bad idea that, Matt.’ As he had done before he had illuminated her case with a useful glimmer of light. ‘You know, I think I will speak to Colclough. That’s a good idea.’ She met his eyes over the rim of her glass. ‘I’ll drink to that, Matthew.’

  He smiled at her fondly, brushed her fingers with his lips and touched the black pearl which was her engagement ring. ‘And now can we talk about us and the wedding, please?’

  She leaned right across the table, smiling into his face. ‘What a good idea.’

  The evening passed pleasantly, a thaw gradually warming them both. As the main course arrived Matthew raised his glass to her.

  ‘You look nice tonight,’ he said. ‘Really nice. I love your clothes. I love that dress. I love you. I shall feel very proud knowing that you are my wife.’

  The words were so sincere that for a moment she could not match them with an answer. ‘Thank you,’ she said finally and aware that her words were far too banal for the occasion and the compliment. ‘I’m fond of this dress myself.’ She was wearing a claret coloured woollen dress, short, with knee-length black leather boots with tall, spiky heels. Both were local purchases from a small boutique in Stanley Street and were new.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘you look so very attractive tonight,’ he was grinning, ‘that I’m going to give you another clue as to where our honeymoon is going to be.’

  She would not rob him of his moment of fun. She waited.

  ‘It’ll be hot.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ she responded. ‘I know we could have gone skiing or something, Matt, but there’s been so much snow here and it’s been so cold. I’d much rather go somewhere hot and flake out in the sun.’

  ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘And your wish is my command. I thought you’d prefer somewhere warm.’ He hesitated. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it is good to have you to myself for once.’

  She smiled at him, loving the rumpled hair, the intelligent eyes that were sometimes a little too perceptive, that square chin, which was slightly too long and square and denoted extreme stubbornness. Their life together would not be calm. ‘Oh, Matthew,’ she said impulsively. ‘I do love you. I know I’m a pain sometimes and not that easy to live with; hesitant when I should stride forward, obsessed with my job, irritable and impatient, selfish and eve
rything else, but I do love you.’

  He grinned confidently back at her. ‘I know,’ he said, leaning back in his chair with an air of authority. ‘That’s why I think our marriage will work.’ He took her hand. ‘It won’t be any different, Jo, being married.’

  ‘So why all the fuss? Why have a wedding at all? Why not just have the honeymoon?’

  He didn’t answer her straight away. When he did his eyes locked into hers. ‘Because I don’t want our children to be bastards,’ he said steadily, his meaning unmistakable. ‘I want them to be legitimate.’

  She felt a pang of disappointment and moved away from him. ‘Is that what this is all about then – children?’ He continued regarding her and the cold feeling of doubt was back, settling in her stomach again like thick, sludgy porridge. She had lost her appetite. Matthew continued eating, doggedly forking in the food.

  Saturday, 4 December. 12.30 a.m.

  ‘That guy keeps staring at me. Watching me.’

  ‘You mean he’s stalking you?’ Clara couldn’t keep the thrill out of her voice. She looked around the crowded nightclub. ‘Which one do you mean?’ She scanned along the bar. Plenty of men in Patches were looking at her friend.

  She looked at Molly enviously. Apart from the reindeer headdress she was wearing a red dress with shoestring straps which suited her olive skin. Her teeth gleamed bright white and, now the braces were off, were perfectly straight. Her hair, glossy, very dark and thick, hung almost to her waist and she tossed it periodically, sending out a waft of musky perfume. It wasn’t surprising that someone was keen to be with her. Clara knew that she might wear the shorter skirts, the thicker make-up, the more fashionable and revealing outfits but it would always be Molly who attracted the gazes.

  Saturday, 4 December. 8 a.m.

  They were aroused by a fierce knocking on the door. The evening had been spoiled and Joanna had had trouble dropping off to sleep, worrying and fretting halfway through the night. This morning was one of those mornings when she wouldn’t have minded sleeping in until 8.30 a.m. – at least. She groaned and rolled over. Matthew was still fast asleep; his breathing deep and regular. She heard the knocking again and sat up.

  Then, to her blasting fury, she heard Eloise’s voice calling. ‘Dad, Dad – are you there? Hi, it’s Eloise. Dad.’

  Matthew sat up straightaway without there being anything between the states of deep sleep and wide awake. He was out of bed and across the room, fumbling with the window catch and sticking his head out before Joanna could even say the curse, Eloise. ‘Eloise,’ he shouted. ‘Darling. Whatever are you doing here so early? Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’ve run into a problem and wanted you to help me, Dad. Something I don’t understand. I’m stuck.’ Eloise had two voices: one a normal adult voice; the other raised by two pitches when she wanted to wheedle something out of her father.

  Matthew chuckled. ‘Is that all? I thought there was at least a fire or a death in the family. Hang on a minute. I’ll be right down.’ Quite unnecessarily as he shuffled into his dressing gown and slippers he explained to Joanna: ‘It’s only Eloise. She wants some help with her work.’

  ‘Great.’ As usual, Matthew chose to ignore her sarcasm.

  So she lay in bed, alone; stared up at the ceiling and pondered. Last night had ended frostily. There were two things in her imminent marriage that she felt would never be solved. One had been mentioned last night and the other was downstairs. When the chill came, usually as the result of one of these two taboo subjects, there seemed nothing either of them could do to thaw it. They could have done with finishing the conversation this morning but hey, it wasn’t to be. Joanna sat up and not for the first time in her life heartily cursed Matthew’s daughter, soon to be her very own stepdaughter.

  He was in a dressing gown and scuttling down the stairs two at a time before she’d had a chance to speak a word. She heard them talking in the hall, gave up on sleep, stood underneath the shower and sulked. By the time she joined them downstairs they were sitting at the breakfast table, books scattered all over the place. Matthew was drawing a diagram of something. Joanna couldn’t have guessed what. Both were drinking from large glasses of orange juice and talking nineteen to the dozen about ‘radiological evidence for interstitial lung disease’. Neither acknowledged her entrance.

  She was just about to make up a story and tell Matthew that she had to go down to the station to interview someone about the Kayleigh Harrison case when the telephone rang. She picked it up and was greeted by the stiff and hostile tones of Matthew’s father. Great. Bonus number three. Last night which should have been a celebration ending in a cold war, Eloise’s unexpected and ill-timed arrival. And now Matthew’s father on the phone.

  ‘Good morning, Joanna. Is my son there?’ Without a word she handed the phone to Matthew.

  Matthew’s parents blamed her for the break-up of their son’s marriage to Eloise’s mother, Jane. In spite of the fact that Jane now lived in York, near her parents, had remarried a wealthy accountant and had recently given birth to twin sons, Matthew’s parents still held her responsible and had not forgiven her. Everyone, it seemed, had ‘moved on’ except Mr and Mrs Peter Levin and, of course, Eloise.

  Matthew was very fond of his parents and appeared blind to their rejection of Joanna.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ He greeted his father enthusiastically, listened for a while then sucked in a deep breath. ‘Great.’ Next he suggested hotels in and around Leek, commenting on each one and finishing with, ‘I think that would be the best and Rudyard Lake’s a lovely place. It’ll be a good break. OK, Dad, you book there.’

  He listened again then told his father that Eloise was with them. Joanna listened with half an ear to a loud ‘Harrumph’ and Matthew answered what must have been a question.

  ‘I’ve managed to get a flight from Manchester on the Sunday so we’ll be around on Saturday until the evening.’

  Joanna didn’t catch Matthew’s father’s next remark but Matthew obviously did because he responded with a chuckle and said, ‘Can’t tell you that, Dad. It’s a secret. Even Joanna doesn’t know.’

  There was the sound of another throaty chuckle on the other end and Joanna wished that things had been different, that Matthew had been unmarried when she had met him. Then there would have been no blame – and no bloody Eloise.

  She glanced across at the girl with Matthew’s blonde hair and green eyes but her mother’s thin, spiteful face. She was talking to her grandfather now.

  ‘Hi, Gramps.’

  A few deep words followed, then: ‘Yes, he’s helping me. It’s the lungs. For some reason I just find them really hard.’

  Another comment down the line, then: ‘Well, it’s the CTs – interpreting them.’

  Without needing to decipher the words she knew what Matthew’s father would be saying. In my day . . .

  He was a retired GP. Another medic.

  She poured herself some apple juice and a bowl of cornflakes.

  Saturday, 4 December. 10 a.m.

  Clara had a big problem. Molly’s parents were strict. They were against her going to nightclubs, so she had simply told them she was staying the night with her friend. But last night, at some point, Clara narrowed her eyes. They’d both had quite a bit to drink. Patches had been very crowded with Christmas celebrations and the music had been loud. She had got a thumping headache and had gone to the ‘quiet room’ only for a bit. But when she had emerged, Molly had disappeared. Clara had looked for her everywhere but after half an hour and with no response to her text she concluded she must have gone off with the guy who had been eyeing her from the bar, whichever one he had been. Now she couldn’t find her anywhere. And so, disgruntled, she had taken a taxi home, having to pay the entire fare instead of only fifty per cent. She felt alone, sad and unattractive. And that made her angry with Molly so she railed against her. It wasn’t fair. Why should Molly have all the gifts? She’d arrived home where, again, there was no sign of Molly. She paid the taxi ma
n, slipped her shoes off and tiptoed upstairs. Her parents were lenient but even they didn’t like her coming in so late. Breaking her curfew could mean she’d be grounded – in December! Half awake, half asleep, she’d listened out for her friend in case she called up at the window or knocked on the door, but in the end Clara had dropped off to sleep and Molly was not here this morning. She must have stayed the night somewhere.

  In the past when they had been out together they had usually spent the following day together too, chatting, shopping, talking, playing with make-up, watching videos, washing hair, listening to their iPods, even doing some of their homework together.

  Clara looked out of the window and worried. She wished Molly would come back or at least phone her. This was just plain selfish.

  Then she had another thought. Maybe Molly had gone straight home last night. Unlikely but it was possible. What she could not do was ring Molly’s home and ask to speak to her. What if she wasn’t there? Her mother would assume they were together, as did her mother who looked surprised when she finally emerged from her bedroom on her own. ‘Molly not with you?’ Clara shook her head. ‘She went home.’ Saying this made her feel worse.

  It wasn’t her way to lie to her parents. She didn’t like doing it. Bloody Molly had got her into this. She felt cross – and then worried. Please, she thought, let her be at home safe and sound.

  TEN

  Saturday, 4 December, 11 a.m.

  It was obvious that Matthew and Eloise were holed up for the day. They were on the Internet now and she caught some of their unintelligible conversation. Matthew was running through something with his daughter; his finger tracing something on the screen. ‘Look at the markings, darling. And see that thickening on the line? There.’

  Eloise’s response was lively and enthusiastic. ‘I can see it now, Dad.’

  Joanna gave up. It might be Saturday but she may as well see if she could talk to Colclough. She’d done this before – spoken to him, unofficially, at his home – but not since she’d ‘fallen from grace’. She wasn’t sure how she’d be received. His wife hated and resented it but in the past, Joanna suspected, Superintendent Arthur Colclough rather enjoyed acting as police consultant. She dressed casually in tight black trousers and boots, picked up a red woollen jacket and then rang Colclough’s home number. To her relief it was Arthur himself who picked up the phone and she came straight out with it.