by Rob Roughley
‘I don’t go to Claremonts’.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I go to Wigan College; I’m a year older than Kelly.’
Lasser looked at her in surprise. ‘Then what were you doing at the school leaver’s prom?’
Zoe blushed slightly. ‘That was Kell’s idea; she had a spare ticket, at first she said she had no one to go with, which was, like, rubbish really...’
‘She’s a popular girl?’
Zoe shrugged. ‘Hard to say, I mean, I know she could be down sometimes and she did mention something about some kids at school...’
‘You think she was being bullied?’
‘I don’t know about bullied, but you know her mum works there, right?’
‘I had heard.’
She grimaced. ‘Well, I’d hate to think one of my parents was working at the school I went to.’
‘She was getting grief because of her mother?’
Zoe picked up a cushion, plumped it, and placed it on her knee, ‘Perhaps.’
Lasser didn’t push it. ‘And last night, did you see Kelly and Rachael arguing at all?’
She hesitated for a fraction of a second; a look of caution flickered in her eyes and then vanished. ‘Well, to be honest, no. I mean, I was with Kelly most of the night, mainly because I didn’t know anyone else but I didn’t really see much of Rachael.’
‘Can you remember the last time you saw Kelly?’
‘Well yeah, I’d gone to get us a drink and I saw her pushing through the crowd.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About eleven, when I came back with the drinks, she’d gone. So I waited but when she didn’t show I went to look for her.’
‘Did you go outside?’
Zoe licked her lips, ‘Only for a couple of minutes, I mean, it was dark and I didn’t fancy wandering off too far.’
‘And then eventually you went to the van?’
Zoe nodded and rearranged the cushion on her knee, clinging to it like a child in distress.
‘I thought maybe she’d made her way there, but then Rachael turned up and told the driver about Kelly getting a lift. I tried to ring her but her mobile was switched off.’
‘So it was about an hour and a half from last seeing Kelly to getting in the van?’
‘About that.’
‘And in that time did you see Rachael at all?’
She shook her head, blonde hair swaying. ‘No.’
A face suddenly appeared at the window, hair shaved short, nose twisted slightly to the left, the man frowned and then disappeared.
Zoe gave Lasser a crooked smile. ‘That’s my dad.’
He heard a key turn in the front door, then the sound of heavy work boots clattering along the hallway, a couple of seconds later he came into the living room, a big man in a check shirt and paint spattered jeans. ‘Aye, aye, what’s going on here?’
Zoe raised an eyebrow. ‘His name’s Lasser, Dad, he’s been asking about Kelly.’
‘Dave Metcalf,’ he thrust out a hand and Lasser gave it a shake.
‘We’re just trying to get a picture of last night’s events and Zoe’s been more than helpful.’
Metcalf fell back onto the sofa. ‘Still no news then?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘It’s a sad do. I mean, what’s the world coming to? I bet Jonathan and Suzanne are going bloody nuts.’
Lasser squinted as a ray of sun blasted through the window like some sci-fi death ray. ‘You know the family?’
‘God, aye.’
Zoe tossed the cushion at her dad; he caught it, and slid it behind his back. ‘Dad’s a builder and we’ve done quite a lot of work for the Ramseys.’
Lasser frowned, ‘We?’
She smiled shyly. ‘I help out during the holidays. Mixing cement, doing the pointing, that kind of thing.’
‘Very impressive.’
‘That’s how I met Kelly.’
‘I see.’
‘I was fourteen and Dad was building them a conservatory and we just sort of got along.’
It sounded bizarre, one kid forced into child labour while the other lived in the lap of luxury, hardly the recipe for a lasting friendship.
‘Right well, thanks for your help, Zoe...’
‘So, what happens now?’ She looked at him wide eyed. ‘You will find her won’t you?’
Lasser looked at the girl, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. ‘Believe me, Zoe, we’re doing all we can. If you think of anything else,’ he pulled out a card, ‘then don’t hesitate to give me a call, night or day.’
She plucked it from his fingers. ‘Don’t worry, I will.’
10
Stan parked the van in the courtyard of the old stable block; they’d spent the rest of the afternoon fixing the fencing at the bottom end of the park.
Bobby winced and blew onto his blistered hands.
‘I told you to wear some gloves,’ Stan muttered.
‘Nah, it’ll be fine.’
‘You won’t be saying that when your fingers are hanging off.’ Turning off the engine, he picked up his flask, gave it a shake and grimaced. ‘I’m gonna have to start bringing two of these buggers.’
Bobby looked at him in confusion. ‘Why don’t you just buy a bigger flask?’
Stan looked astonished at the suggestion. ‘They don’t pay me enough to be splashing out on a bigger flask. Besides I’ve got a spare one at home.’
Climbing from the van, the old man dragged his donkey jacket from the back of the seat and slipped it on.
‘Burrows!’
‘Bloody great, what does he want?’ Stan mumbled and spat onto the ground as Jansen strode across the cobbled yard wearing a flash grey suit and Hunter wellies, his face like a dying bonfire all mottled and blotchy-red with anger.
Bobby closed the van door quietly and slid his hands into the pockets of his overalls.
‘Where’ve you been all day?’ Jansen spat.
‘You know where we’ve been, you told me you wanted the perimeter fence on Green Lane sorting.’
‘And have you done it?’
‘Some of it...’
‘What do you mean, ‘some of it,’ there was half a day’s work at the most and you stand there and tell me it’s not finished!’
‘Hang on...’
‘It’s not good enough, you said you needed help to get these jobs done and I provided that help,’ he pointed at Bobby as if he were a chunk of lifeless machinery. ‘Now, why isn’t it finished?’
‘These jobs always take longer than...’
‘Well they certainly do when you’re in charge...’
Stan bristled at the accusation. ‘Are you calling me a lazy bugger?’
From the corner of his eye, Bobby could see the old man’s face changing colour, his thread veined cheeks puffed out in anger.
‘And why can I never get you on the two-way?’ Jansen snapped ignoring the old man’s question.
‘Hang on, go back a step, are you saying I don’t get the job done?’ Stan’s chest was now matching his cheeks, jutting out like an old strutting cock.
Jansen leaned in close. ‘I’m saying that maybe you’re getting too old to do the jobs I pay you for.’
‘Too bloody old!’
Bobby winced, Stan looked as if he was about to pitch a fit.
‘It might have escaped your notice, Burrows, but we have a large police presence on the estate...’
‘Course I’ve noticed, I’m not blind.’
Jansen held up a hand. ‘Tomorrow we have a very important wedding taking place, which, quite frankly, hangs in the balance. Now I realise that you don’t care about things like that, and you’re not interested in how this place makes money. But let me tell you, if this wedding has to be cancelled then I’ll be looking to streamline the workforce...’
‘I...’
‘And in view of your work record and your general attitude, then you are top of the list.’
Stan yanked the cap f
rom his head and began to twist it between his gnarled hands as if he had them wrapped around Jansen’s throat. ‘Last in first out, they’re the rules.’
Bobby looked at Stan in surprise.
Jansen tic-tocked his head from side to side, ‘We’re not living in the nineteen sixties, Burrows. I decide who’s hired and fired and unless I see a marked improvement in both your attitude and work rate then you are out and Finch here will more than fill your boots. Don’t think I haven’t seen you standing around smoking those revolting cigarettes while he does all the work.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ For the first time, Stan looked cautious; his tongue flicked out and licked a dewdrop of sweat from his top lip.
Jansen took a step closer. ‘Last week when you moved those cobbles from the old ice house, I was watching and you didn’t lift one finger. Not one, in almost two hours, I could see you sitting under the old oak tree feeding your face, at one point I was convinced you’d fallen asleep!’
‘Everyone’s entitled to their lunch break, it clearly states in the company handbook...’
‘Not a two hour break at ten in the morning, I mean, good God, you’re meant to start at eight but you never come out of that shed of yours until at least nine!’
‘So you’ve been spying on me, have you?’ Stan blustered, his defences crumbling, he knew it and so did Jansen.
‘I prefer to call it gathering evidence. Now, tomorrow the wedding will take place under the dovecote arch, weather permitting, and I want you over there by eight fifteen in the morning, the place must be spotless. That doesn’t mean a quick flick around with a yard brush, take the leaf blower and make sure the red carpet is clean and laid out ready for the bride and groom...’
‘Is there any news on the missing girl, Mr Jansen?’ Bobby asked.
The estate manager glanced at Bobby annoyed by the sudden interruption. ‘Not yet, Finch, that’s why we have to pull out all the stops for this wedding. If news gets out that the day was ruined because of something like this then people will think twice before booking the Hall, and we can’t afford to lose business, not in today’s economical climate.’
Bobby nodded; Stan glared at the boy – arse licker.
‘I’ll come to the dovecote at eleven and I don’t want to find it half finished, is that understood?’
‘Yes, Mr Jansen.’ Bobby mumbled.
Stan didn’t bother with a reply, as far as he was concerned, Jansen could go fuck himself.
11
According to the plaque on the wall, Claremont school for girls had been open for business for over a hundred and fifty years. Lasser had never seen the place close up; it had always been glimpsed between huge beech trees as he drove past on his way to work. A large imposing building set in five acres of sweeping landscaped gardens, complete with three hockey pitches and four grass tennis courts.
Parking in front of main reception, he spotted Bannister’s car lodged at the side of Suzanne Ramsey’s black Range Rover, the rest of the spaces were taken up by gleaming BMWs and Jaguars, not a rust bucket in sight.
The building itself looked as if it had recently been sandblasted, the stone clean and russet coloured. Over to the right stood a large square building that looked brand new, all gleaming chrome and plate glass, at odds with its antiquated neighbour.
Crunching across the gravel, he climbed three stone steps to the entrance – worn thin by generations of plimsoll-encased feet, and pushed his way through the double doors. Reception was wide and spacious; a woman with hair tied in a fierce bun sat behind a large oak desk, looking up as Lasser squeaked towards her across the chequered tiles.
‘Can I help you?’
Up close, she was a lot younger than he’d first thought, the severe hairstyle and plain clothes seemed in harmony with the surroundings. However, in truth, she only looked to be in her late twenties, the kind of librarian look you saw on adverts where the hair would fall loose and the glasses would come off to reveal...
‘My name’s Sergeant Lasser.’
‘Ah yes, your colleague is in the new sports hall, back outside, the glass building to your left.’
Lasser nodded. ‘You know I’ve drove past this place hundreds of times and I’ve often wondered what it was like inside.’
Her smile grew wider. ‘So now you’ve seen it up close what do you think?’
Lasser looked around, the ceiling was tall and dome shaped, made of stained glass that allowed coloured sunlight to flood the space, the walls lined with mellow oak panelling. ‘Well, it’s certainly different from the school I went to,’ he smiled. ‘It almost makes me wish I’d been born a girl.’
The woman laughed, Lasser noticed her fingernails were long and painted a deep vibrant red, matching her lipstick. For God’s sake, man, get a grip.
‘I know, it is impressive,’ she looked around admiring the room.
‘Did you spend your schooldays here?’
‘Good Lord no,’ she leant forward. ‘My parents could never afford the tuition fees for a place like this,’ she whispered.
‘Pricey, is it?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Let’s just say that if I ever have children, then I’d need a win on the lottery before I could even consider putting them in Claremont.’
‘That much?’
She nodded. ‘Oh yes.’
Lasser moved forward. ‘Tell me, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?’
‘Medea Sullivan.’
‘Medea?’
She looked at the ceiling and shook her head. ‘I know it’s unusual but my father was interested in Greek myths and legends...’
‘So he named you after Jason’s wife?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘You’ve heard of her?’
‘Didn’t she kill her own children because of her husband’s philandering ways?’
Medea clapped her hands and smiled. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’
Lasser shrugged. ‘I suppose I’m a bit like your old man, I used to love all that stuff when I was a kid.’
‘I’m impressed, normally, I have to go into this long-winded explanation and to be honest it becomes tiresome after a while.’ She picked up a small pile of papers and tapped them straight on the desk.
‘So, have you worked here long?’
‘Almost four years now.’
‘Then you’ll know most of the students?’
Medea’s face grew serious. ‘If you’re asking if I know Kelly Ramsey then the answer is yes.’
‘What kind of girl is she?’
‘Kind of girl?’ She repeated, a frown plucked at her forehead.
‘Sorry, did that come out wrong?’
‘Not at all, she’s vivacious, popular with the other pupils and as far as I am aware she’s a straight ‘A’ student who shows great promise.’
Zoe Metcalf had said that Kelly could get down sometimes, but if she had been getting grief at school, it seemed as if it wasn’t affecting her to any great extent. Unless, of course, she was good at keeping things hidden, adept at keeping secrets.
‘So, she has plenty of friends?’ he asked.
Medea gave a slight shrug. ‘I wouldn’t say lots of friends but she’s close to a couple of the girls.’
‘Rachael Sinclair?’
‘Well yes, maybe in the last six months, but you see Rachael only joined Claremont at the end of last term, so she hasn’t been here long.’
‘I see,’ Lasser slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘Do you have any idea where she came from?’
‘Not off hand, but if you’d like to call in before you leave I could probably find out.’
Lasser smiled, ‘Above and beyond, Miss Sullivan.’
‘Please, call me Medea.’
‘Right then, Medea. I’d better show my face but I’ll call back…’
‘Leave it with me.’
He smiled before heading for the door, outside the sun was blasting down on the steps creating a natural sun trap, he closed his eyes and
sighed as he soaked up the rays for a few seconds before heading over to the sports hall.
Considering the building was a temple to physical activities, there was no sign of any gym equipment. In fact, the place seemed more like an arts theatre, revealing a small stage with seating rising up on three sides. The room was just over a quarter full with small groups of people scattered around the space, young girls with their parents in tow, the girls dressed in designer jeans and tops, the parents power dressed to the max.
Bannister stood on the stage, like an angry head teacher, his face grave, his hair standing on end as if he had been running his fingers through it in annoyance.
‘So, let me see if I’ve got this right. No one saw Kelly Ramsey leave the building; no one remembers what time they last saw her or who she was with?’
Silence, Lasser stood by the door; it was like watching a bad comedian dying on his arse in front of a hostile crowd.
‘Well, does anyone recollect what Kelly was wearing?’
No reply.
It was obvious Bannister was going about this the wrong way, no one liked to be the first to stand up and speak, they needed to be separated and made to feel comfortable. Problem was all that took time, and he could see from the look on Bannister’s face that time was something he didn’t have.
‘Look, this girl is missing and we need your help to try and find her, now anything, anything at all could be the clue we need to get her back. So can anyone tell me when they last saw Kelly Ramsey?’ he jabbed out a finger. ‘What about you?’
A girl in the front row looked mortified, her cheeks flushed with colour, a woman by her side placed a protective arm around her shoulder and glared at Bannister.
Lasser cringed and made his way to the stage, he could feel unfriendly eyes following his progress as he climbed the steps.
‘Can I have a word, boss?’
Bannister looked as if he were coming down with something, his skin was grey, his forehead slick with perspiration.
‘What is it, Sergeant?’ he snapped.
Lasser glanced at the crowd of faces all looking at the two actors on stage. ‘In private, if that’s OK?’
Bannister grunted and followed Lasser as he exited stage left.
‘Come on, Sergeant, I’m busy, whatever it is get on with it.’
