Next she picked up the picture of Kayleigh. Even in her clean school uniform Kayleigh looked different to the other two. Her mouth was small and thin, already twisted into an expression which whispered, ‘victim’. But at least she was still alive. Not such a victim, then. She had a mother; admittedly no father but she had had a stepfather who had cared about her. Maybe, Joanna thought, Kayleigh was just one of those people who are born to be on the underbelly of life.
Lastly she picked up the picture of Molly Carraway. Molly, like Danielle, looked supremely confident – of her social standing, her beauty, her popularity, a lifetime of success ahead of her. It was all waiting for her: university, travel, a career, boyfriends, a husband who would adore her, children to whom she would be a wonderful mother. It was all written in the girls’ faces. What would be or what should have been. Joanna put the three pictures down side by side and gazed at them.
When she finally shook herself back to life she contacted the five birthday boys by mobile phone and arranged for them to call in to Leek police station in the afternoon. Fifteen minutes later she was back outside the nightclub.
Patches looked slightly less seedy this Monday morning, perhaps because a watery sun was doing its best to softly illuminate the scene. The wind had dropped and after the icy temperatures of the last few days it felt almost warm. Leek’s Christmas decorations, strung across the street, gave the area a festive look. They had been switched on to great celebration and excitement over the weekend by a local celebrity – the owner of Leek football club; the nearest thing the town had to home-grown glamour. Even Patches itself had put up a Christmas tree – patently artificial and slightly tacky – white with huge gold baubles and pale lights, but it was an improvement of sorts. A huge banner draped across the windows wished A Very Merry Christmas to you all, and gave even this rundown area a festive feel. But as Joanna drew into the car park the festive feel washed right over her. Instead she had a depressing sense of déjà vu. Two assaults in less than a week. And no arrest. No one even ‘helping the police with their enquiries’.
She sat in her car, studying the scene: the tall, square Victorian ex-mill with its overlarge size and numerous windows; the bleak, empty car park, scene of drama. Then she and Hesketh-Brown climbed out and knocked on the door. It was answered by a very glum-looking Chawncy Westheisen, who gave her a curt nod and said nothing. Behind him was a shorter, rat-faced man she took to be Marvin. She shook hands with them both while wondering whether they knew anything that would help them. Probably not, she thought, still in her depressed mood. Was there a connection with Patches or had they simply been unlucky?
‘Crispin should be here in a coupla minutes,’ Westheisen said, leading her back into her office. He indicated a chair and they sat down opposite, looking eager. ‘Now, Inspector, how can we help you? You know we’ll do anything to help you find the poor girl.’ They were making a real attempt to be helpful. And keep their club from closing.
Joanna took out her notepad. ‘Which one of you was here on Friday night?’
‘We both were,’ they answered in unison like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
‘OK. Take a look at these. She showed them the picture of Molly Carraway. ‘Did you see Molly here on Friday?’
They both looked hard at the photograph of the fresh-faced, confident schoolgirl. ‘Not looking like this. She looks around twelve years old. This is the girl that’s missing?’ Westheisen was spokesman for both of them.
‘Yes.’ Time to twist the thumbscrew. ‘Molly Carraway was fifteen years old,’ she said severely. ‘She shouldn’t even have been allowed in here.’
The two men squirmed.
‘She was last seen between midnight Friday and one a.m. Saturday. No one has seen her since. She and her friend became separated. Her friend couldn’t find her so went home, alone, hoping that Molly had gone straight home herself. She became alarmed when she heard nothing from Molly during the following day. She confided in her mother who finally spoke to Molly’s parents on Saturday evening who, in turn, alerted the police.’
Chawncy, in particular, was scrutinizing the picture. ‘I can’t say that I do remember her,’ he said. ‘But girls look so different when they’re all done up: make-up, clothes, everything,’ he finished lamely.
Joanna laid the photograph of Clara on the desk in front of them, next to the picture of Molly. ‘What about this girl?’
‘This is the friend?’
‘Yeah.’
Clara beamed over her shoulder coquettishly. It was a deliberate pose. ‘Quite a looker, ain’t she?’ It was Marvin who showed appreciation.
Joanna nodded. ‘They both are.’
Westheisen spoke for both of them once more. ‘Sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘We kind of stay in the background. We don’t see a lot of the kids in the club. Maybe Andrew will be a little more helpful.’
‘We’ll have to take some more of your tapes.’
They shrugged. ‘OK by us.’ Chawncy spoke for both of them.
He hesitated. ‘It probably isn’t fair to even ask you this,’ he said slowly.
Joanna already knew what was coming next: a plea for mercy. ‘The girls were underage,’ she said severely. ‘You know the rules. You’re supposed to ask for ID at the door. Not let them in. But . . .’ She looked from one to the other. ‘You’ve cooperated well enough. It isn’t your fault what’s happened to the girls. I can’t really blame the club for that.’ She took pleasure in the fact that the two Americans were rattled. To herself she admitted that it would seem poor consolation if the only conviction to come out of this case was a prosecution of the owners of Patches for allowing in underage girls. In her low mood she reflected that if it hadn’t been this girl and this club it might well have been another girl in another club.
As Chawncy and Marvin filed out she felt the visit had been a waste of time, right up until Andrew Crispin arrived.
He was a hefty man of medium height with a bullet head and the long-armed walk of an ape. He rolled in and sat opposite Joanna, fingering a recent bruise on his chin. Hesketh-Brown stood at the back of the room, legs apart, watching the proceedings but saying nothing. Joanna looked at him and smothered a smirk. He’d copied the stance from Mike Korpanski, she was sure.
‘Sit down, Mr Crispin.’ Again Joanna produced the photos, laying them down on the desk. Crispin pursed his lips and studied them. Then he nodded his head slowly. ‘I know these girls,’ he said, looking up. ‘They’re regulars.’
‘Really?’ Joanna already knew this but she’d decided to play dumb. ‘How often do they come here?’
‘Couple of times a week,’ he said, meeting her eyes with a sudden frankness that both impressed and convinced her. He was a good witness.
‘Always together?’
Crispin nodded.
‘Do they leave together?’
‘Whenever I’ve seen them leave. Most of the time I wouldn’t notice.’
‘Have you ever seen them leave with guys?’
He shook his head.
‘Have you ever seen them with boyfriends inside the club?’
Crispin shrugged. ‘I’ve seen them dancing with guys,’ he said easily, ‘having drinks. Girls like that attract the blokes like bees to a honey pot, but no one in particular. A couple of dances; a bit of flirting. Nothing heavy.’ He shrugged. ‘You know.’
Joanna nodded. ‘What about Friday?’
‘Oh . . .’ He drew in a deep, sucking breath. ‘It’s difficult. Friday night was packed. They were like sardines in a tin. Christmas comin’ up and a Friday night.’ He counted on his two fingers. ‘All adds up to standin’ room only.’ He made an attempt at a smile but Joanna wasn’t smiling back. He raised his eyebrows. ‘By eleven thirty I was turnin’ them away.’
‘But not these two.’ Joanna had a thought. ‘Was there anyone you turned away that was of special interest? Anyone seem particularly put out?’
‘A bunch of guys,’ Crispin said lazily, ‘drunk as skunks; been at the
pub all night. I couldn’t let them in. They looked like trouble.’
‘Do you know their names?’
‘I know one of them. He was in here the night Kayleigh was attacked.’
‘His name?’
‘Gary. I don’t know his second name.’
But Joanna did. It was Pointer. Gary Pointer.
‘Did he seem angry?’
‘Yeah. Kicked around a bit then finally left.’
‘Any idea of the time?’
‘Round about half twelve, I suppose.’
It was in the time frame. ‘Did anyone else stand out in your mind on either the night Kayleigh was assaulted or on Friday?’
Crispin pursed his lips and frowned. ‘There was a guy,’ he said. ‘I think I might have seen him once or twice before. Late thirties; maybe even older – early forties. He was on his own. Dressed quite smart, really.’
‘What night are you talking about?’
‘Friday.’
‘So what did you notice about him? Why are you mentioning him?’
‘I dunno,’ Crispin said. ‘He just seemed different. A loner.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Tall, skinny; wearing a leather jacket.’
Joanna leaned forward, frowning. ‘You heard the description of Kayleigh’s attacker.’
‘But—’
‘Did you see this man with Molly?’
‘Yeah. But only talking.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have seen what happened, would you?’ Hesketh-Brown put in truculently. Joanna gave him a swift, warning glance.
‘Hair?’ she rapped out.
‘Thinnish, light brown.’
Another swift glance at Hesketh-Brown. One thing would clinch it. ‘Was he local?’
Crispin shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Was he there the night Kayleigh was assaulted?’
‘I – I’m not sure if it was the same guy. He might have been. I can’t really remember. There’s so many people. Crowds.’
‘I want you to come down to the station and run through the CCTV,’ she said. ‘See if you can pick him out.’
Time to ease off a little. Joanna didn’t want to put words into Crispin’s mouth. ‘I suppose in a club like Patches,’ she said conversationally, ‘you have your regulars?’
Crispin nodded warily.
‘You know a good number of the people who come?’
Again he nodded.
‘Hazard a guess,’ she said. ‘It being a Tuesday there were fewer people at the club on the night Kayleigh was assaulted than the night that Molly went missing. Off the top of your head,’ she said airily, ‘can you think of anyone who was there on both nights?’
Crispin was on his guard. ‘I’d have to think about it,’ he said.
She tried a shot in the dark. ‘Did anything unusual happen on Friday night?’
The question appeared to rattle Crispin. ‘What do you mean?’
Joanna was silent. The truth was that she didn’t know what she had meant by the question. She was fishing around in the dark but to her surprise Crispin appeared angry. He was pressing his mouth together, breathing hard. ‘Mr Crispin,’ she prompted.
‘There’s always a couple of them,’ he said. ‘Kids trying to show off. Act big, like.’
‘What happened?’
‘They was just chinnin’ up to me, acting stupid.’ He fingered his bruise.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t call the police?’
Crispin looked uncomfortable. He put his finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt. ‘Didn’t need to,’ he muttered.
Hesketh-Brown shifted his weight between his feet. Joanna was thoughtful.
‘Anything else you can add?’
Crispin shook his head.
‘So you’ll come down to the station?’
He nodded. Minutes later they heard him roar away on a powerful motorbike.
Once she and Danny had checked the back entrance and fire escape Joanna left the club convinced that she was beginning to learn some but not all of its secrets. The videotapes were safely in her bag. She tapped them thoughtfully.
Next they drove round to Kayleigh Harrison’s house. All was eerily quiet in the street. A few cars were parked up but there was no one in the road or on the pavement. It was odd. They caught sight of Pauline Morrison watching them through the window before the curtain was dropped back. Joanna knocked on the door.
FOURTEEN
A grumpy Christine Bretby opened the door and without a word led Joanna and Danny into the small lounge where Kayleigh was sitting, watching television. The girl continued to stare fixedly into the TV screen but Joanna knew from the stiffening of her shoulders that she was perfectly aware they were there.
‘Hello, Kayleigh,’ she said easily enough, settling down on the sofa. ‘How are you today?’
Kayleigh was dressed casually in a loose-fitting white smock top and black leggings which emphasized her bony thighs. The room felt warm and was scented by a candle burning on the fireplace. It threw a strange light on to the Klimt, the flames catching the gold; the movement almost making it look alive. In this light it looked – not a cliché as Joanna had judged it – but beautiful.
‘I’m OK,’ Kayleigh replied, still staring pointedly into the screen. Her mother sat in the window seat, silhouetted against the glass and watching with scant interest.
The hatred between mother and daughter was palpable; visible and poisonous as mustard gas. The air between them was electric with tension, hostility and suspicion, yet as Joanna glanced from mother to daughter she realized that although Christine undoubtedly had her cross to bear, Kayleigh was the more vulnerable. Right up until she opened her mouth. ‘I don’t wanna see no friggin’ shrink,’ she said. ‘I ain’t nuts. I’m the victim here.’ She scanned the room of its three occupants and challenged them. ‘Don’t you lot realize?’
Little Miss Harrison could stick up for herself, Joanna thought, her sympathy leaching away until she studied the girl and revised her opinion. Not always. There was a look in the girl’s eyes: fright, bewilderment, vulnerability and, above all, a question. Why me? Why do things always happen to me?
The girl’s vulnerability made Joanna alter her approach. She had come to the house quite prepared to bully Kayleigh Harrison into revealing whatever it was that she was holding back. Now she began more gently. ‘Kayleigh,’ she said, ‘you do realize that a girl’s gone missing from outside Patches?’
‘What’s it to do with me?’ Her look was pugnacious now. She was wary and on the defensive, which made Joanna even more convinced that she was concealing something she knew was important.
Joanna kept her temper with difficulty. ‘We don’t know,’ she said steadily. ‘Maybe you’re right and it is nothing to do with you. But look at it from our point of view. Same club; within a few days of the assault on you a girl goes missing. What would you think if you were me?’
It was a new police tactic; appealing to witnesses to look at crimes from the police point of view instead of their own. The approach took Kayleigh aback, as it was meant to do.
She tried, ‘’Spose I can see it’s a bit of a coincidence, like.’
Joanna continued smoothly. ‘Maybe Molly Carraway’s disappearance has nothing to do with the assault on you but we are naturally suspicious that the person who attacked you is the same person who has abducted Molly.’ She paused to give her next words their full effect. ‘She’s been missing since very early Saturday morning.’ She aimed her glance at the leaden sky outside the window. ‘It’s freezing out there, Kayleigh. You were found hours after the assault. Not days. It was lucky for you that Steve Shand came back to collect his car.’
The sentence stopped her in her tracks. Luck? Had it simply been luck? Or had Shand returned to the scene of the crime to make sure that she was dead? Then why sound the alarm? No. That wasn’t it.
‘This girl, Molly,’ she continued, ‘has been missing for six
ty hours.’
Now Kayleigh’s truculent expression was replaced with one of cunning. It was just as ugly as the pugnacity but when she spoke her voice was as quavering as an old lady’s. ‘Wha-at makes you think it’s the same person?’
‘It’s the same place.’ Joanna kept her voice steady, though it was as much of an effort as holding a ship’s wheel on course through a hurricane. Her emotions were surfacing.
She dropped the accusation as deftly as skimming a stone. ‘You’re holding something back, Kayleigh.’
The girl’s stare dropped away but not before Joanna had read consternation, fright – and, surprisingly, guilt. Guilt?
She waited for the girl to speak. And she did. With difficulty, her eyes, the colour of mud, lifted to meet Joanna’s. ‘What?’ she began then stopped. ‘What do you think’s happened to her?’ Now she sounded no more than her fourteen years old. If anything even younger. Eleven. Twelve.
‘We don’t know. We have no idea. She’s simply vanished.’
Kayleigh summoned up every inch of teenage bravado. ‘People don’t just vanish.’
‘I know that.’ Joanna knew she was using the voice of a teacher. An indulgent but firm teacher; the sort one always respects because they speak the absolute truth, never bending it for a story or altering the facts for expedience. ‘But after Clara, Molly’s friend, saw her around midnight, no one seems to have seen her. It’s Monday today. No one has seen her for almost forty-eight hours. Where is she? Is she freezing, like you were?’
Kayleigh went rigid.
Joanna ploughed on, relentless. ‘Or is she dead?’ She deliberately aimed her glance outside the window, to the freezing, grey day. ‘Is her body out there somewhere?’ Interestingly it was Kayleigh’s mother who flinched.
Joanna pursued her questions ruthlessly. ‘Where is she?’
It had been a rhetorical question – she had not expected it to be answered but bravely Kayleigh tried to. ‘She must be with him,’ she said, and now her expression had softened.
Who is he? Who do you mean?’
Kayleigh licked dry lips. ‘The bloke that went for me,’ she said quickly.
A Velvet Scream Page 15
