Mr Carraway drew in a deep and angry breath.
‘That isn’t the point,’ Joanna said. She could not deal with this anger. Grief and worry, yes. That was to be expected. But not anger too. Not right now. It was too much. She was aware that they didn’t even know about the Danielle Brixton case. She was also aware that if Molly didn’t turn up, at some point she was going to have to tell them. Witness the change in their faces; watch their anger morph into terror.
‘I am headmaster at Westwood School,’ Carraway said, very carefully, ‘and my wife teaches at Rudyard Special School. Molly is our only child.’ His voice very nearly broke but he recovered himself with a quick shake of his shoulders and a mammoth effort, staring ahead of him as though challenging his eyes to let him down with the tears that threatened to spill down his face.
‘Tell me about your daughter,’ Joanna began gently. ‘What is she like?’
Carraway bowed his head. ‘She is taking her GCSEs this summer,’ he began. Joanna shook her head impatiently. She had asked about their daughter as a person. Not about her academic achievement. Then she realized that to a pair of teachers academic achievement was all.
‘As a young woman,’ she prompted gently.
It was Beth Carraway who spoke. ‘She was fun, a high achiever, full of adventure. And . . .’ Here she eyed her husband and added, ‘patently she is not above the odd deception.’
‘You didn’t know that she’d ever been to Patches nightclub with her friend, Clara?’
Beth Carraway shook her head and dropped her gaze. Her husband merely looked fierce.
‘Do you know whether she has a boyfriend?’
A pause, then another shake of the head. ‘Not as far as we knew,’ Beth said with great and sombre dignity. ‘But then we obviously didn’t really know her, did we?’ She looked up, puzzled. ‘We thought she was concentrating on her studies, on getting a place at Uni. We thought—’
‘Come on,’ Joanna said, glancing at Hesketh-Brown. ‘Just because she was a bit fun-loving it doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have worked to get into university. Was she allowed out at all?’
‘Yes.’ Both parents spoke together. ‘She only had to ask.’
‘What was she wearing last night?’
Beth Carraway smiled. ‘Jeans,’ she said. ‘So tight she could hardly breathe, with a floating top over them. Then a ski jacket.’
Joanna nodded. From what she’d heard so far that was not the description of what Molly Carraway had been wearing when last seen. ‘I’d like a list of friends,’ she said. ‘Her mobile?’
‘We pay the bill,’ Molly’s father supplied.
‘The number?’
Beth Carraway produced her own phone, flipped through the numbers, selected one and handed it to Joanna, who promptly tried it. As before the number went straight through to answerphone. She brought out a pad and copied the number down. ‘And a photograph, please,’ she added, ‘as recent as possible.’ She glanced up at the large photograph over the fireplace. ‘Preferably not in her school uniform. Is there anyone else she might have stayed with? Another friend, possibly?’
‘We’ve tried them all.’
Beth Carraway stood up, agitated, and left the room, returning a few minutes later with some paperwork and a photograph. She gave a long look at the picture before handing it, without a word, to Joanna.
Joanna looked at it. Ah, this was more like it. The true Molly Carraway: laughing into the camera and beautiful enough to have been a model. Shining, long dark hair; an inviting expression in luminous, large dark eyes, heavily made-up.
‘She’s lovely,’ she said. Both parents nodded, the comment increasing their pain. In the hall the telephone rang and Beth Carraway jumped to her feet and was out of the door in the blink of an eye. In almost as short a time she was back, dropping into the sofa.
‘It was Clara,’ she said.
Joanna pressed on. ‘Has Molly ever done anything like this before? Gone missing?’
Both parents shook their heads in unison.
‘And you say she doesn’t have a boyfriend?’
‘There are a couple of lads she’s friendly with at school,’ Beth Carraway said, ‘not what you’d call a serious boyfriend but we’ve already rung them. They haven’t seen or heard from her.’
Joanna made an attempted to reassure them. ‘In all probability she’s just worried she’s in trouble,’ she said, ‘and is reluctant to come home.’
The Carraways looked at her almost pityingly.
She tried again. ‘It isn’t likely that our attacker . . .’ she couldn’t say the word rapist, ‘would strike again in the same place in such a short time.’
Philip Carraway shrugged. ‘I suppose there’s something in that,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Can I take a look at her room?’
It was Molly’s mother who led the way up stairs.
‘I wonder if you’d mind if I took a superficial look through her things?’
Beth Carraway nodded. ‘Whatever will help you find her,’ she said.
‘Anything. Please.’ She stood back to let Joanna enter the room.
As she had expected it was tidy and very modern, with an en suite bathroom. One Barbie-doll pink wall, the others white. It was stark, with one wall entirely taken up with pale ash fitted cupboards. She pulled open the doors. On the inside were a few pin-ups of stars: Robert Pattinson, Robbie Williams, Brad Pitt, Daniel Craig. The clothes were mainly jeans, trousers, school uniform; the shoes Doc Martens, wedges, boots. No miniskirts, no skyscraper heels. Joanna pulled open a drawer. It was full of underwear: M&S, but smart. At the back of the wardrobe was a suitcase. Joanna pulled it out, laid it on the bed then opened it.
Inside was the other Molly. All the fashionable clothes her parents would have forbidden. La Senza underwear; the high heels. And. most revealing of all, a few packets of the contraceptive pill, Loestrin 20. It was obvious that Molly had been taking them. Beth Carraway sank down on the bed.
‘We didn’t know our own daughter,’ she said, dazed. Then, looking up at Joanna: ‘This girl,’ she wafted her hand towards the contents of the suitcase, ‘is a stranger.’
There wasn’t much Joanna could say. Which one was the real Molly? The almost saint-like, studious schoolgirl or this sophisticated and fashionable woman-about-town? Answer: both. Like most teenage girls there were two distinct sides to Molly Carraway. Light and shade, night and day, innocent and guilty. Joanna scanned the room. Which aspect of the girl had led to her disappearance?
Underneath the window was a desk on which sat an open laptop. Involuntarily both women looked at it. ‘I could do with taking this away,’ Joanna said.
Beth Carraway held her hands up. ‘Do what you like with it,’ she said, her voice holding a touch of revulsion. She watched wordlessly as Joanna removed a hairbrush from the bathroom then followed her downstairs, still silent; part disapproving, part stunned at the revelations the scrutiny of her daughter’s room had unearthed. Her husband was waiting at the foot of the stairs. Joanna looked at the pair of them as she and Danny faced them in the hall and she struggled to find the words to reassure them without sounding patronizing. ‘Look,’ she finally said, hearing the awkwardness in her voice. ‘We will do all we can to find your daughter.’ Molly’s father’s face was taut as a violin E string. It would have been insulting to trot out, ‘I’m sure we’ll find her’ or ‘believe me – she’s all right’. Instead she handed them a card with her mobile number on as well as contact details at the station. ‘As soon as we know anything we will be in touch.’
This was one of the most important aspects of the police investigation – keeping in touch, letting the family know that they were still beavering away with the police investigation.
Both parents managed to squeeze out a smile as Joanna and Danny left.
TWELVE
Sunday, 5 December. 2 p.m.
Clara was frightened. She was putting a brave face on it but it wasn’t hard to read the girl’s fe
ar as she faced Joanna Piercy. To Joanna she simply looked young and vulnerable. And presumably her friend, Molly, stripped of her fashionable and seductive clothes and make-up would look very much the same. Joanna had tried to put Clara at ease but it was proving hard work. ‘Were there any other friends of yours at Patches on Friday night? Could Molly have gone home with another friend?’
Clara shook her head and explained. ‘Molly and I go to school in Newcastle-under-Lyme,’ she said. ‘There aren’t many girls our age and from Leek at Newcastle.’ She gave a hint of a smile. ‘That’s why Mol and I got so close.’
The girl was well spoken, articulate and, in the circumstances, quite self-possessed. Joanna tried the next question conversationally. ‘Did you know many people who went to Patches?’
It sparked something in Clara. She looked worried and guilty. And her parents noticed too. Rosa Williams stood up quickly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Inspector?’ She turned to Hesketh-Brown. ‘Constable?’
‘No, thank you.’ The distraction hadn’t worked. Joanna repeated the question. ‘So do you?’
Clara gave another swift glance at her parents. ‘A few,’ she said. ‘Not many.’
Joanna sensed something. ‘Clara; did you and Molly have a row on Friday night?’
Clara shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. ‘No,’ she said simply.
‘Were you there on Tuesday night, the first of December, the night that Kayleigh Harrison was assaulted?’
Again the girl looked worried; her parents enquiring, but saying nothing.
Clara dropped her head and nodded slowly, then looked at her parents, ‘Sorry, Mum; sorry, Dad.’
They merely nodded and gave her the look every teenager can translate into, We’ll talk about this later.
‘Did you know Kayleigh?’
Clara looked at them; frowned.
‘She was wearing a silver miniskirt that night,’ Hesketh-Brown put in helpfully. ‘You might have noticed that.’
Clara blinked and thought for a moment; her frown deepening and then she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do remember someone dressed like that but I don’t know her.’
Joanna leaned forward. ‘Think,’ she said. ‘Can you remember anything about her? Who she was dancing with; who she was talking to. Did you see the same person talking to Molly?’
‘She was assaulted and just left in the snow to freeze?’ Her tone was shocked; disbelieving that anyone could treat a young woman like that.
Joanna nodded.
‘When I saw her she was sitting at the bar, talking to a man,’ Clara said slowly.
Joanna waited.
Clara had guileless baby-blue eyes. It was difficult to imagine that she would ever tell anything but the truth. She fixed these truthful eyes on Hesketh-Brown. ‘He was tall and skinny,’ she said, ‘wearing a plain shirt, no tie. That’s all I remember. Oh, jeans, I think.’
‘What sort of age was he?’
She took in a deep breath. ‘Not young,’ she said, ‘that’s for sure. He was no eye-popper so I didn’t really take a lot of notice.’ Her confidence told Joanna that she was on safer ground here.
Joanna smiled and pursued the question. ‘Thirties?’ she prompted. ‘Forties?’
‘Somewhere round there,’ the girl said. ‘I couldn’t be sure. I just thought he seemed a bit old for such a young girl.’
‘Had you seen that man there before?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Was he at Patches last night?’
Joanna had tried to ask the question casually but it didn’t fool Clara. The baby-blues opened, flickered from Hesketh-Brown to Joanna and back to Danny. ‘Oh, no,’ she gasped. ‘Not Molly. Please not Molly.’
Joanna repeated the question and this time Clara shook her head firmly. ‘I didn’t see him,’ she said. ‘If he was there I didn’t see him but it was really crowded.’ She was silent for a moment then she met Joanna’s eyes. ‘What do you think has happened to Molly?’ Her voice held real fear.
It was a question impossible to answer. Joanna, too, feared the worst but she could hardly share that with this girl, this child. Instead she glanced across the room at Clara’s parents and by the expression in both pairs of eyes she knew that they too feared the worst and dreaded their daughter’s involvement. We all see things from our own perspective. At the back of their eyes, hidden right behind the concern, as they exchanged a fleeting glance with each other, Joanna read relief; that their own daughter was here, safe and sound.
‘You’re helping us very much, Clara,’ Joanna encouraged. ‘Now, can you remember any of the men Molly was with on Friday night? Was there anyone you particularly remember?’
Clara drew in a long sigh. ‘She was with lots of blokes. In her get-up she attracted a lot of attention.’ There was a hint of jealousy in her voice which did not escape Joanna.
‘There was a guy: tall and slim – we’ve met before.’ She screwed up her face. ‘I think he was there the night that girl was assaulted but I can’t be sure. I remember his hair. It was a little bit curly.’
‘What sort of age?’
‘Twenties, I think.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him at Patches a few times.’ She bit her lip. ‘Inspector,’ she said slowly, ‘Molly had met someone over the Internet.’ Her eyes sought out her mother’s, who looked stunned. ‘After all our warnings, Clara?’
‘It wasn’t me, Mum – it was Mol. I don’t think she was as open with her mum and dad. In a way, Mum, she was naive.’
Joanna listened and began to understand. ‘Do you know anything about this man, Clara?’
‘He was from London, he said. He was going to come up on Thursday and meet her. He said he had a business trip.’
Joanna met Hesketh-Brown’s eyes. They’d better get on and search the laptop.
‘His name?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘OK, Clara. We have Molly’s laptop. We’ll find out something from that if her Internet man is connected with her disappearance. Now can you remember any of the other guys Molly was with on Friday night?’
‘No one special,’ she said grumpily. ‘When I last saw her – around ten – she was just flirting around.’
‘We may want you to come in and look at some of the CCTV images,’ Joanna said, taking pity on the girl. It wasn’t her fault, after all.
Clara asked the next question timidly. ‘What do you think’s happened to her, Inspector?’
‘We don’t know – yet. Let’s wait and see, shall we, Clara?’
The girl managed a brave smile.
Joanna stood up then. ‘If you’ll excuse me we have work to do.’
Rosa Williams saw her to the door. ‘This is a dreadful business,’ she muttered. ‘Quite dreadful. I do hope you find Molly soon.’ Their eyes met. ‘And that she’s all right,’ Rosa finished.
Joanna was tempted to say much more to Clara’s mother but she was an intelligent woman; she would have worked at least half of it out for herself.
Joanna and Danny drove round then to Patches where a methodical search was in progress; officers walking in formation across the area, combing it for any sign of the missing girl or a clue as to her whereabouts. Joanna and Hesketh-Brown crossed the car park and found Sergeant Barraclough directing the operation, keeping his ancient eyes trained on the proceedings. ‘Found anything, Barra?’
‘Not so far.’
She looked around her. It was a flat, grey scene; a typical winter’s morning. Apart from the snow, not unlike the morning Kayleigh had turned up. She jerked her head towards the corner. ‘The area by the bins?’
‘We started there. And found nothing,’ he said, then tried to make a joke of it. ‘Hardly any rubbish, even.’
She could barely raise a smile.
Then there was a shout from the far end and everything froze, except Sergeant Barraclough, who had appeared at the lad’s side.
One of the ‘specials’ was holding up his hand, excitem
ent lighting his face. In a Hiviz jacket and uniform Jason Spark looked the part but he wasn’t a police officer. He was a ‘special’ who was dying to join the force. But entry was difficult and Jason hadn’t quite passed the required exams. Joanna watched him, amused and thinking that it was a shame that it was all down to exams. Young Jason, nineteen years old, was a born copper. He lived, ate, breathed the force, to the extreme annoyance of anyone who was a bona-fide officer. They found him too bouncy and enthusiastic. It would be Jason who found something. However and whoever tried to dampen his enthusiasm, it wouldn’t work.
She wandered across.
Barra was holding a gold earring in his gloved hand. He slipped it into a specimen bag and handed the bag to Joanna. It was a large gypsy double hoop. Unusual, with the bit that pierced the ear still threaded and locked at the back and the catch still firmly fastened. Ergo it could not have dropped out of an ear so either it had been removed from the ear and then re-fastened or it had been torn out. Still holding it up to the light she fumbled in her pocket for her mobile phone and dialled the Williams’s number. Rosa Williams picked up the phone on the first ring. Her ‘Hello’ was subdued and worried but the note of hope which lightened the tone didn’t escape Joanna’s notice. It was heartbreaking.
Joanna decided to ask the question to her, rather than speak directly to Clara. She didn’t want to upset the girl any more than was necessary. ‘Would you mind asking your daughter if Molly was wearing earrings on Friday night?’
Rosa was no fool. She didn’t ask the obvious and was back in seconds. ‘Gold double-hooped gypsy earrings,’ she said. ‘Apparently they were a present from her godmother.’
‘And can you ask Clara if Molly was still wearing them later on in the night?’
Again Rosa Williams returned with the answer almost instantly. Her daughter must have been near the phone. ‘When Clara last saw Molly she was still wearing them. Apparently they were quite expensive, nine-carat gold.’ She paused. ‘They were very precious to her. If she’d have dropped one she would have really tried to find it.’ There was a pause. ‘That’s what my daughter says.’
A Velvet Scream Page 13
