A Velvet Scream

by Priscilla Masters

  Her mother pressed the mute button on the remote. ‘Go on,’ she said steadily.

  Clara dropped into the armchair, legs in the tightest of jeans, splayed out in front of her and large, fluffy lilac slippers on her feet, looking almost animal. She spilled out the whole story: the lies, the strict parents, the times when they – she and Molly – had omitted telling Molly’s mother and father exactly where they were headed.

  ‘I lost her in the club last night,’ Clara said. ‘And I’ve heard nothing from her all day. Not a single text. I’ve left messages but she hasn’t got back. It isn’t like her. I’m worried, Mum. And then there was that girl who was raped.’

  Clara’s mother took a minute or two to digest the story before coming to a decision. ‘I’ll try ringing her mother.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ve got the number?’

  Her daughter read it out and Mrs Williams dialled.

  Clara made a wish. I wish that Molly herself would pick up the telephone.

  But that didn’t happen. Her mother was eyeing her even as she spoke in her best telephone voice. ‘Mrs Carraway . . . It’s Rosa Williams here . . . Clara’s mother . . . I wonder. Is it possible to have a word with Molly?’

  Clara’s heart sank as her mother spoke the sentence in an ominously quiet voice. ‘She isn’t?’

  ELEVEN

  Clara could hardly bear to listen to her mother’s halting explanation. ‘I’m afraid, Mrs Carraway, that the girls went to a nightclub together last night.’ Without waiting for Molly’s mother’s response Rosa Williams hurried on. ‘It was with our knowledge and permission. I assumed that Molly had told you where she would be.’

  Clever that, Clara thought. It shifted the blame right away from them and on to Molly’s shoulders.

  But maybe it wasn’t quite clever enough. Angry voices shouted down the phone. Apparently Molly’s father had joined in.

  Rosa Williams kept her calm, shrugged her shoulders and gave Clara a small, apologetic smile. ‘That is between you and your daughter,’ she responded calmly.

  More angry noises down the phone then, even from the other side of the room, Clara could hear the question quite clearly. ‘So where is Molly now?’

  Rosa Williams gripped the phone very tightly, whitening her knuckles. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Apparently the girls were separated some time during the evening. When it was time to go home Clara couldn’t find her. She assumed Molly had gone straight home, back to you. She didn’t stay here last night.’

  The next sound was a horrified, explosive, incredulous, ‘What?!’

  Rosa Williams repeated her last sentence very slowly. They were all beginning to see the implications.

  ‘Let’s get this straight.’ Molly’s father came on the line and he sounded livid. ‘Are you saying not only that my daughter was at a nightclub last night but also that you haven’t seen her since yesterday evening?’

  Still Rosa Williams remained calm. ‘Yes. Clara has been trying to get in touch with her all day but hasn’t received a response. We wondered if you’d heard . . .’ Her voice trailed away in the silence. A silence that was so thick and menacing that Clara scuttled across the room and went to sit by her mother. Rosa put her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  ‘So where is she now?’ Philip Carraway’s voice was ice cold.

  ‘That’s what we’re telling you, Mr Carraway. We don’t know.’

  In the background Molly’s mother gave a sob. It made Clara feel much worse than Mr Carraway’s bluster.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ he ranted on, ‘that I hold you and your daughter responsible for anything that has happened to our girl.’

  ‘I think that’s a little unfair, Mr Carraway.’ Clara could not but admire the way her mother was keeping her cool. ‘Your daughter has obviously been deceiving you and last night she let my daughter down, too, leaving her alone in the club.’

  Philip Carraway cleared his throat noisily but the words had their effect on him.

  ‘Leave this with me, Mrs Williams.’ Molly’s father was now calm and a little worry was beginning to edge into his tone. ‘I’ll try and ring her. In the meantime if you do hear from her please, please get in touch.’ Clara winced at the note of desperation in the man’s voice.

  He continued. ‘If I can’t contact her I shall be calling the police.’

  ‘I shall wait for your call, Mr Carraway,’ Rosa said.

  ‘Just a minute.’ Molly’s mother was back on the line. ‘Was the nightclub the same one where that girl was raped on Tuesday?’

  Rosa Williams was nodding as she answered.

  ‘Oh.’ Molly’s mother sobbed into the phone.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Rosa said and pressed the end call button. Then she looked at her daughter. ‘I have to confess,’ she said. ‘I’m very worried.’

  Clara merely nodded. She felt numb, dumb, responsible and terribly guilty. And then within a second her guilt was replaced by anger. Molly had dropped her right in it, hadn’t she? She’d abandoned her, leaving her to sort out this mess. She wouldn’t be in her shoes when she was reunited with her father. But she couldn’t ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  At Waterfall Cottage Matthew and Eloise stopped their work for a supper Joanna had cooked: lamb chops, mashed potatoes, et cetera. Matthew opened a bottle of red wine, poured out three glasses and held his up to the light, admiring its colour. Then he proposed his toast with a wide and happy grin. ‘To the two women in my life,’ he announced. ‘My clever daughter, who in spite of her cleverness will soon be another Doctor Levin. And . . .’ He turned towards Joanna, ‘to my almost-wife. I love you both so much.’ They clinked glasses. Joanna took a swallow and felt almost mellow. She glanced across at Eloise and tried to smile. Matthew kept the conversation going throughout the meal, perhaps not noticing that ‘the two women in his life’ were not actually exchanging any conversation.

  Once they’d loaded the dishwasher they passed the evening watching a film and finishing the bottle of wine, then opening another.

  At nine o’clock Philip Carraway called back to the Williams’ household, this time getting hold of Clara’s father, Mark. Luckily his wife and daughter had filled him in on the events and he had naturally taken his daughter’s side. ‘I can’t see how it’s your fault,’ he’d said during the family consultation. ‘Molly lied to her parents and then gave you the slip. She’s a big girl, darling – not your responsibility at all.’

  Clara had nodded. ‘But Molly,’ she said, ‘is really naïve, Dad – not streetwise at all. I should have kept a better eye on her.’

  Again her father had been defensive. ‘She isn’t your little sister, you know. She’s your friend. You don’t need to feel responsible, Clara.’

  The girl had simply bitten her lip.

  ‘Did you see her with anyone?’

  ‘She looked really nice last night,’ Clara said. ‘I saw her with lots of guys. Practically everyone in the club seemed to want to dance with her.’ There was a note of jealousy in her voice which didn’t escape either parent.

  Mark Williams was silent for a moment before he continued. ‘You’ve read the description of the person who attacked that young girl at the beginning of the week, Clara. Was Molly with anyone who looked like him?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Not that I noticed,’ she said. ‘Not particularly. She wasn’t with anyone special. Just about everyone.’

  So when Mark Williams listened to Molly’s father he was sympathetic but also defensive about his daughter’s role in the matter.

  ‘Any news, Phil?’ The two men knew each other very vaguely from being taxi drivers to their daughters – to and from school functions, mainly.

  Molly’s father sounded subdued, worried and upset. ‘I can’t get hold of her, Mark,’ he said desperately. ‘I’m going to call the police. I just wanted to let you know before I did.’

  ‘If there’s anything we can do to help.’

  ‘No.�
�� He sounded broken. ‘Not at the moment. The police will want to talk to Clara, I’m sure.’ Then the appeal came: ‘What can have happened to her, Mark? Where is she? Has Clara said anything that might help?’

  ‘Not really.’ He felt he had to give Molly’s father some ray of hope. ‘But she didn’t see her with anyone who looked like the person who . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  And now, needing someone to blame, Philip Carraway became hostile and angry. ‘What could have possessed the girls to go there? When they knew what had happened only this week?’

  Clara’s father tried to mollify him. ‘The rapist wouldn’t strike twice in such a short time, Phil. There’ll be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why Molly hasn’t been in touch. Her phone’s probably out of charge or run out of credit.’

  ‘We pay her phone bill,’ Carraway said tightly.

  ‘Itemized?’

  ‘No. It comes in on line. We never really look at it.’ He was beginning to sound defeated again. ‘What am I going to do, Mark?’

  ‘Get the police involved.’

  At that the phone was put down. And even that act seemed heavy and weighted down with foreboding.

  Saturday, 4 December. 9.20 p.m.

  The desk sergeant took the call and did his best to calm Philip Carraway down. ‘She’s a young lassie,’ he said. ‘Probably knows she’s in trouble. Don’t you worry, Mr Carraway. Girls will be girls.’

  But rather than being appeased at the attempt being made to comfort him the platitudes made Philip Carraway all the more livid. ‘This is my daughter we’re talking about,’ he said tightly, ‘who was last seen at the local nightclub where a girl was assaulted only this week and today appears to have vanished off the face of the earth. And you tell me not to worry?’ he exploded.

  ‘Leave it with us,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’ll send someone round to speak to you. In the meantime keep trying to get in touch with her. If you do hear anything I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know.’

  ‘I will.’ The phone was banged down.

  It fell to DC Alan King who was on night duty to speak to Molly Carraway’s distraught mother and father. It was eleven by the time he arrived and he could have picked out which house was the Carraway home by the lights which flooded from inside it and the man standing at the front door in spite of the freezing night which misted the car headlights as he swung into the drive. For a second DC King, a gangly man with long arms, sat in the car without switching the engine off and wished that Mr Carraway would come forward and say the words, ‘It’s OK, Officer. False alarm. Molly’s turned up. She’s fine – a little sheepish and in big trouble – but she’s OK.’

  But from the man’s distraught face and immobility King knew that this would not be the case. He switched the engine off, opened the car door and walked towards the frozen man.

  Sunday, 5 December. 8 a.m.

  Joanna was dragged into consciousness by the telephone ringing. Her initial thought was, at least it can’t be Eloise this time because she’s already here.

  She picked it up, listened to the desk sergeant’s bald phrases and felt her heart drop. A girl was missing. There was a connection to Patches. She sat up in bed, ignoring Matthew’s sleepy stare which, when he realized it was her work, changed quickly to petulant resentment. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ he muttered and buried his head in the pillow.

  Joanna ignored him and continued speaking into the phone. ‘How old?’

  ‘Fifteen. She was out with a friend, Clara, at Patches. They got separated. Molly Carraway, the missing girl, was supposed to be staying the night with Clara. Her parents are strict and don’t approve of nightclubs so she always stays with her friend and omits to tell her parents exactly how and where she’s spent the evening. When Clara looked around for her friend at one a.m. she was nowhere to be found. She didn’t go home; neither did she turn up at Clara’s house. She’s vanished.’

  ‘Mobile?’

  ‘Not even ringing. Straight through to answerphone.’

  ‘I take it this is out of character?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘So where are you up to?’ She was already sitting on the side of the bed, eyeing her clothes from yesterday.

  ‘We’ve sealed off Patches but there’s nothing there. Wherever she is she isn’t lying freezing in the car park, like Kayleigh.’

  ‘Mobile records?’

  ‘It’s switched off or out of range. We’re getting the call records sent through. But you know what the coverage is like round here. Patchy to say the least.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

  What she didn’t like about telling Matthew as he emerged from underneath his pillow was his look of anger. She hadn’t organized this deliberately to get out of wedding plans or to escape from Eloise. It had just happened. And this girl was somebody’s daughter. Like the pain in the butt in the bedroom next door.

  She showered and dressed, went downstairs and poured herself some orange juice and a bowl of cereal. Matthew and Eloise came down together, as though they were jointly criticizing her imminent exit. As she explained that she had to go into the station in connection with her current investigation she noted a conspiratorial look pass between father and daughter. A kind of, I told you so, combined with Eloise’s ill-concealed glee that she would have her father to herself for the day.

  ‘Any idea when you might be back?’ Matthew asked tightly.

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ she said, equally tightly and then anger got the better of her. ‘This is a fifteen-year-old girl, Matthew. Her family are distraught. It’s bad enough that she’s missing. But there’s the added stress of what happened in the very same club less than a week ago.’

  His response was a heavy sigh.

  ‘Just imagine if it was Eloise,’ she shot at him, and as soon as she had finished her breakfast she left.

  Although it was a Sunday morning the station was buzzing with the electric tension that surrounds an investigation when something new has developed and she was greeted quickly by a worn out DC Alan King, contrasting with Danny Hesketh-Brown who looked disgustingly alert and wide awake. They filled her in on the bare details.

  ‘Is Korpanski around?’

  Hesketh-Brown answered. ‘Couldn’t get hold of him. He’s probably at his son’s rugby match. I’ve left a message on his phone.’

  ‘Good. Right. Thanks, King. Are you on tonight?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Go home and get some sleep, then. And,’ she added kindly, ‘thanks. You’ve done well so far.’

  ‘Right.’ She looked Hesketh-Brown square in the face. ‘It’s you and me then, Danny boy. Let’s get a plan of action. First I want you to dig out the pair of worms who run Patches and squeeze every last drop of information, every videotape, every description, everything out of them. I’ll speak to Molly’s parents and then to Clara and her parents.’ She heaved a big sigh. ‘For now we’ll assume that the two cases are connected.’

  ‘Right.’ Not altogether displeased by the fact that they had been unable to track down DS Korpanski, Danny grinned across at her. He was more than ready to step into the sergeant’s size eleven’s.

  Molly Carraway’s house was on one of the more recent and upmarket estates, like Colclough’s, on the Buxton road out of town. Worth five hundred grand, at a guess, Joanna thought as she drew up in front of the mock Tudor house. Five bedrooms, two to three bathrooms, study, conservatory – it would have the lot. Added to that, Roachside View wasn’t really an estate at all but a ‘select development’. Ten or so houses, each one individually architecturally designed; each one slightly different. This was the sort of house Matthew would have liked. What was generally termed ‘a family home’. This early on a wintry morning the ‘development’ appeared deserted; its curtains drawn and cars frosted up, stationary in the drive. There was no sign of life except for at number eight from where two white faces peered out of a downstairs window.

  The moment Joanna had stepped o
ut of the car the front door was thrown open and a man came out, closely followed by a woman. The strain was visible in both their faces and neither looked as though they had slept. The woman, presumably Molly’s mother, was finding it hard to keep her emotions in check.

  Joanna spoke first. ‘Mr and Mrs Carraway?’

  They both nodded. She held out her hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, Leek Police and this is DC Hesketh-Brown.’ Mr Carraway gave them both a nod and a tight-lipped smile. He responded shortly. ‘Philip and Beth. Look – it’s freezing. Let’s go inside.’

  Joanna followed them into a smart sitting room, cream-carpeted with a soft-looking pale green sofa and an upright piano at the back. Through patio doors Joanna glimpsed a neat grey garden with furniture shrouded for the winter. It was all tidy and orderly. She returned her gaze to the room and Molly’s parents.

  Over the fireplace – a faux gas fire with a shelf over – hung a large photograph of a smiling girl in smart school uniform: grey skirt, a white blouse and maroon tie with a school crest on it.

  Joanna recognized the uniform. Newcastle-under-Lyme Independent School. Her eyes lingered on the girl’s bright, eager, sparkling eyes as she wondered what had happened to her. Where she was now? Was she dead or alive? Molly looked a cheerful girl; happy, with clear skin and clear eyes, long dark hair, neatly tied back and straight white teeth. Her face was scrubbed; innocent, beguiling. There looked to be no deceit in her. And yet . . . Her parents followed Joanna’s gaze to the picture and said nothing. But their shoulders drooped a little, hopelessly. Joanna sat down, both parents eyeing her expectantly.

  ‘We had no idea she was going out,’ Carraway began.

  Joanna responded carefully. ‘We’ve all done it,’ she said, with tact. ‘Been places we shouldn’t. Played “economical” with the truth.’

  ‘We certainly didn’t know she was going to Patches,’ Beth Carraway said, looking stricken. ‘Especially after—’ She stopped. Her husband took hold of her hand and held it tightly. His wife returned a sickly smile.