A Velvet Scream

by Priscilla Masters

  Philip Carraway set his mouth tightly against any display of grief. ‘Is there anything we can do, Inspector?’

  ‘Not really. Sit tight. Let me know if you remember anything that might have some significance.’

  She didn’t even bother adding, And let me know if you hear from your daughter.

  ‘What sort of thing?’ He was still being polite.

  ‘Any hint of a relationship you recall, any ideas you might have. Have you checked all her friends and family?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Carraway said impatiently. ‘Of course we have. But even if we hadn’t they would have rung.’

  ‘Her mobile?’

  ‘Off. Straight to answerphone.’ He was sounding angrier now. Joanna looked at him in surprise. She had assumed the emotion they had been reining in so tightly was grief, anxiety, desperation, even. But now she looked at them closer she understood that there was another component. They were still angry with their daughter for her deception.

  Molly’s parents looked at each other. This time it was Beth Carraway who spoke. She cleared her throat first. ‘Inspector,’ she said, in her soft voice, ‘we don’t know that we can help you.’

  She dabbed her eyes with a tissue while Joanna waited for her to explain. ‘You see –’ She shot a look at her husband. ‘We’ve been wondering,’ she almost whispered, ‘whether we really knew Molly at all.’ She made an attempt to explain and Joanna wondered what on earth was coming next. But even she was unprepared for the bombshell. ‘We thought she was serious,’ Beth continued, ‘about going to university, concentrating on her studies and work. Now we find that she was lying to us all the time. Clara tells me that they were going out a couple of times a week, to that horrible club. We thought she was spending time with Clara, studying. Her grades at school were nothing like as good as she told us. And she didn’t give us the letter about the latest parent-teacher meeting in the middle of November. We’re finding out, Inspector, that Molly, our daughter, was deceitful. We’re finding that almost as hard to come to terms with as her disappearance.’ Beth’s eyes were pale blue and met Joanna’s with a look of complete confusion and hurt. ‘We gave her everything,’ she said, echoing the cries of so many middle-class parents. ‘Every advantage. She had a stable and comfortable home life, a private education. Everything.’

  Joanna could hardly believe her ears. Was this another, new manifestation of grief? So she found herself in the bizarre situation of defending the missing girl. ‘Molly’s just a normal, average teenager,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t think too badly of her. She’s not the first to lead her parents up the garden path.’

  Besides, she thought, feeling the unreality of the situation, she’s probably dead. No university. No swotting, no parent/teachers’ meeting; just a bloody funeral.

  That was when Philip Carraway lost it and Joanna saw inside the life Molly Carraway must have led. ‘Up the garden path?’ he exclaimed furiously. ‘Up the garden path? What you mean, Inspector, is that our daughter was a liar. A liar,’ he almost screamed. Out of the corner of her eye Joanna marvelled that Beth Carraway’s hand was stealing into her husband’s. She obviously condoned his outburst of righteous indignation. Carraway’s eyes were bulging. ‘Had my daughter been honest,’ he said, ‘she would be here, with us. And you, Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, would not.’ There was real venom in his voice.

  Aghast, Joanna sat very still, now pondering a new angle. Was this an extreme manifestation of Philip Carraway’s grief and worry? Or was it something else? Had Molly Carraway so disappointed her parents that . . .?

  It seemed incredible. And yet.

  Joanna left with a heavy heart and a sick misgiving after giving them her mobile phone number. Her mind was frantically disturbed, tracking outwards furiously, in a new and terrible direction. Had she been barking up the wrong tree? Should she have looked a little closer to home for the missing girl? Were the three cases all part of the same picture – or not?

  She looked at her watch. It was seven o’clock. Korpanski would be back home. She was tempted to drop by his house and talk this over with him but Fran Korpanski would not welcome her. She had resented Joanna from the first and now had a new reason for hating her. Joanna had put her husband’s life in danger.

  She drove home through a space invaders’ display of swirling snowflakes which gave her the illusion she was travelling through time itself. Two teenage girls, both now labelled ‘liars’ by their parents. No, in the case of Kayleigh, only one parent. So what did her stepfather and natural father think of her? She hadn’t pursued this angle of enquiry perhaps as much as she should. She rang the station from her car phone and asked them to fix up an interview with Neil Bretby on the following day and made a note to ask Hesketh-Brown if he was any nearer tracking down Peter Harrison. While they had no leads on Molly she may as well put the heat on Kayleigh. And what about Danielle? she wondered. What would she have been able to contribute to the investigation had she lived?

  It was late when she finally drew up outside Waterfall Cottage, parked and walked up the path. Eloise’s car was, hooray, gone. Matthew had left the curtains open though she had warned him about this on numerous occasions. ‘You’re a sitting target,’ she’d said but he’d merely laughed. ‘Who on earth would want to target me, Jo? We’re in the Staffordshire moorlands, not the middle of Johannesburg. It’s safe enough out here.’

  The trouble was that in spite of his work as a forensic pathologist she and Matthew inhabited different worlds. Hers was populated by thieves and liars, cheats and people who believed the law did not apply to them so they could do what they liked: rape, torture, steal and kill. Most of Matthew’s post mortems were on people who had died in their beds of natural causes. Even he rarely met the victims of crime and never talked to their damaged families. Like most pathologists much of Matthew’s day was spent peering down a microscope at tissue samples.

  She peeped in through the window and smiled. While he might pretend to be watching BBC News 24, in reality he was lying stretched out across the sofa fast asleep, his breathing peaceful and regular. She let herself in quietly and woke him with a kiss. For just a moment he looked sleepy and confused, his blond hair tousled like a child’s. She felt overwhelming affection for him and relief that they were again alone. His face broke into a smile as he fed her the usual line. ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ he said, just as she’d guessed he would. ‘I was just dozing until you came home.’

  ‘I bet,’ she challenged, then gave him another kiss – on the mouth this time, feeling warm with affection when, without warning, a thunderbolt hit her and she spoke her truth without thinking. ‘I wish we didn’t have to go through all that stuff,’ she said, settling down beside him.

  Matthew sat up. ‘What do you mean, all that stuff?’ There was a razor edge to his voice which should have warned her.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she said. ‘The wedding. I wish we could just go on as we are. Why can’t we?’

  He was silent and still and she knew, too late, that she’d upset him – again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and clumsily tried to rectify the situation. ‘What I mean is – the actual wedding. Just that, Matthew.’ She reached out for his hand. ‘I don’t mean I don’t want to be married. It just seems such a lot of palaver for basically nothing different. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Not sure I do, Jo,’ he answered slowly. ‘Not – quite – sure.’

  She could think of nothing that would heal the situation, so kept quiet.

  Matthew sought neutral ground. ‘Any news about the missing girl?’

  She shook her head. ‘Though I had a rather unpleasant insight into Molly Carraway’s home life today.’ She related the conversation the Carraways had had with her.

  Matthew’s eyebrows rose a fraction.

  ‘Now I’m wondering whether she’s taken off, perhaps with a boyfriend.’

  ‘Surely her friend, whats-her-name, Clara, would know if Molly had had a boyfriend?’

  ‘Mmm. Not necessarily.
I’m beginning to realize that Molly could be quite cleverly secretive. A devious little thing, really. Maybe I should go into the school and speak to some of her classmates. What do you think, Matt?’

  ‘The school won’t like that. It’s not the best of publicity for an independent, having the police in.’

  ‘Maybe. But if it helps us find out what’s happened to her it’s worth ruffling a few feathers.’

  Matthew smiled. Then his face changed. ‘So what’s bothering you?’

  ‘The father,’ she said simply. ‘He was so – unforgiving. So – censorious, so prepared to reject his own daughter because she told a lie about where she was going. She’d have told her parents the truth if she could have, I’m sure.’

  ‘And?’

  Now she could voice her concern. ‘What if he found out about the lies, followed her to Patches, laid in wait outside and then . . . took her?’

  ‘That’s a terrible accusation, Jo.’

  ‘I’m not making an accusation at all,’ she said. ‘I’m just going over things. Exploring possibilities.’

  ‘But what could Philip Carraway have had to do with the other girls?’

  ‘Mm,’ she said. ‘See what you mean. Nothing.’

  She sneaked a glance at him, realized she had all his attention, and risked it. ‘Matthew,’ she wheedled, ‘you did the post mortem on Danielle Brixton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I ask you something about it?’

  ‘Anything you like,’ he said indulgently, stretching his legs out in front of him and giving her a smile that warmed her right through.

  ‘Did she need to die?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If she had had medical treatment is it possible she would have lived?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Undoubtedly. Hospital, antibiotics, oxygen; all a few hours earlier. She could have made it. She was young and healthy.’

  ‘So, in a way, it was murder.’

  ‘Well, manslaughter – though you probably wouldn’t get it past the CPS.’

  ‘Mmm. Was she a virgin?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell these days; probably not.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the telephone’s intrusive and insistent ring. Joanna was tempted to leave it but Matthew always worried it might be Eloise. Besides, he ‘remembered’ when he was almost picking up the receiver that her mother had instructed him that Joanna call back ‘the very minute’ she got home. He handed her the phone with a rueful grin.

  It was her mother. A one-sided conversation followed: about Lara who was still vacillating about whether she wanted to be a bridesmaid at all, about long lost relatives, a ticking off for concentrating so hard on work when there was still so much to do before the wedding, being so late back when she had a fiancé waiting for her. Give her mother her due, Joanna thought, she could really talk. By the time she had rung off Joanna felt exhausted – and guilt ridden.

  Matthew held out his arms. ‘I can think of something that’ll cheer you up,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Close your eyes. Now think blue sky, white sand, hot, sunny, fabulous beaches, surf rolling, white as snow, sea so clear you can see your feet beneath you. Lovely, lovely food, sweet fruit and drinks, all fresh. Keep your eyes shut,’ he ordered. ‘Keep thinking. Swimming in a sparkling blue sea, underneath a perfect sky with no clouds, diving coral reefs and snorkelling, fish streaming through your fingers if you splay them out, birds of paradise screaming through the trees. Think paperbacks by the pool; think honeymoon. And now you can open your eyes.’ His eyes were bright and warm and his smile very broad. He was laughing. And now she was too.

  ‘Oh, Matt,’ she said. ‘Surely our honeymoon can’t hold all that?’

  ‘It had better,’ he said, ‘or I shall want my money back.’ He paused, before adding in a different tone, ‘and it’s less than four weeks away.’

  Tuesday, 7 December. 8.30 a.m.

  The day began awkwardly. As soon as she arrived at the station she was summoned by Chief Superintendent Arthur Colclough to ‘update’ him on the current case.

  ‘How are your investigations going?’

  ‘Slowly, sir.’

  ‘I take it you have some leads?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a lot, sir, I’m afraid. I’ve got ideas and there’s a lot that doesn’t fit together.’

  ‘You have a girl alive, though, Piercy.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but she’s not a very reliable witness.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s brought apparently spurious allegations against her stepfather and was very drunk at the time of the assault.’

  ‘Any other lines of enquiry?’

  ‘I’m a little uncomfortable about Molly Carraway’s parents’ attitude towards her frequenting nightclubs.’

  ‘A little uncomfortable doesn’t sound a lot to go on, Piercy.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The gang of men who were celebrating the thirtieth birthday would benefit from further scrutiny.’

  ‘Mmm. So what’s on the agenda today, then?’ he demanded.

  She explained that she had arranged to meet up with Kayleigh Harrison’s stepfather and they were hoping to track down Kayleigh’s natural father to try and ascertain how much her stories were to be believed. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Colclough frowned. ‘Why aren’t you concentrating on young Molly Carraway? She’s the one who’s missing – and getting all the headlines.’

  ‘Because I don’t have a lead and I believe that Kayleigh Harrison is capable of leading us to Molly’s abductor, sir.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ At one time Colclough would have simply asked for updates and not questioned her integrity. Perhaps, she thought, he had put too much faith in her abilities.

  Maybe this was more realistic.

  ‘How are you proposing to proceed, Piercy?’

  There was only one way to play this. ‘Do you have any suggestions, sir?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘Find some more of Molly’s friends,’ he said. ‘Don’t just rely on that Clara creature. She might not know everything, you know. Young girls can be very clever,’ he finished. ‘Clever, indeed. My little Catherine is small but by goodness she’s manipulative.’ He beamed proudly. ‘Typical female.’

  ‘Thank you for your advice.’ She responded with a smile. ‘I’ll work on it.’

  Only not today, she thought. I have other fish to fry.

  ‘How long until your wedding?’

  ‘A little over three weeks.’

  ‘Hmm. Not long. You don’t want to go on your honeymoon leaving loose ends, Piercy.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right. Well, it’s nice to have had this little chat. Keep me informed, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ He was practically pushing her out of the door.

  She and Mike Korpanski had tracked Neil Bretby down to Stafford where he was now working as a self-employed plumber. As his business premises were basically his home they had arranged to interview him there.

  As Mike drove her down through Stone, Joanna related the interview she had had with the Carraways the night before and shared her misgivings about Molly’s parents, in particular her father. Korpanski’s response was much the same as Matthew’s. It couldn’t link in with the other two nightclub assaults.

  It didn’t fit. She knew that – and yet she wasn’t quite ready to reject the idea before testing it.

  Much to her surprise she liked the look of Bretby. He was a strong-looking fellow with muscular sun-tanned arms, dark hair and a blunt-featured, honest-looking face lit by a ready grin. He was wearing a green sweater with its sleeves pushed up to the elbows, black jeans and Vans.

  Joanna revised her preconceptions and wondered even more about Kayleigh. What had really been her objection to this man as her stepfather? Was her mother possibly right? Had her allegations been sparked by jealousy?


  She introduced herself and Korpanski. ‘In your own words, Mr Bretby, tell me about Kayleigh.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ he groaned. Joanna could give only one answer. ‘It might help us,’ she said. ‘You know that Kayleigh was assaulted – alleged she was assaulted,’ she corrected quickly, ‘outside a nightclub in Leek two weeks ago?’

  ‘I’d heard,’ he said.

  ‘And now another girl has gone missing from the same nightclub?’

  ‘I heard that too,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve kept up with my friends in Leek – apart from Christine,’ he added bitterly. ‘Things got so bad between us.’

  Joanna waited.

  And Neil Bretby talked. ‘You’ve no idea how good it was to meet Christine,’ he said. ‘My first wife and I had divorced a few years back. She’d met someone else – at work and that was that. We’d no children. My first wife was a “career” woman.’ He sneered at the words. ‘When I met Christine – and Kayleigh – and realized we all got on so well, it sort of wiped the slate clean, made everything all right. It was great,’ he finished frankly. ‘Really great, at first. I know she drinks a bit now but she was really lovely. Good fun. She tried so hard to make us a happy family. You’ve no idea.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘It was when me and Christine got married,’ Bretby said. ‘Kayleigh changed towards me. I’d been like her friend.’ There appeared an honesty and simplicity about him that was appealing – would have been to Christine and should have been to Kayleigh. If Bretby was to be believed.

  Joanna turned to see how Mike was taking this story. He was holding his habitual expression – sceptical.

  Bretby was frowning. ‘I just don’t know why Kayleigh changed and said those things,’ he said. ‘I’ve never understood it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joanna continued, ‘but I have to ask you this. Is there any truth in the allegations she made?’

  Bretby shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If anything I was trying to be a dad to her. She was desperate for a dad. I thought I could be it but it backfired. And then Christine . . .’ He dropped his face into his hands. ‘I’d see her looking at me and wondering. I couldn’t stand it. She’s a lovely girl,’ he said. ‘She’s had a hard life but it hasn’t made her bitter. Christine’s really sweet-natured.’