The Devil's Chair

by Priscilla Masters

  She’d put a hand further up his arm and giggled. ‘A wicked stepmother,’ she’d said and he had put his face very close to hers and said nothing, but his brown eyes had been warm and friendly.

  Now, next morning, stone cold sober, she was wincing at the memories.

  She was tugged out of her reverie by a rat-a-tat-tat on the door. Jericho Palfreyman, coroner’s assistant, stuck his head round, shaking his grey locks disapprovingly and looking distinctly out of sorts. ‘That inspector,’ he said. ‘He’s here again.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Martha.’ Alex’s head appeared over Jericho’s. ‘I wanted to keep you up to date on developments.’ He had a large brown envelope under his arm. ‘And show you these.’

  ‘It’s OK, Jericho,’ she said, smiling at her disgruntled assistant, yet she felt awkward. She was going to find it difficult to fit in her workload if Alex was going to make a frequent habit of these visits. But she smiled. ‘There’s been a development?’

  He filled her in on the planting of the pyjamas and pulled the photographs out of the envelope. As Martha looked down her face changed, became careworn and sad. She looked up. ‘What sort of person would do this to a four-year-old, Alex?’

  ‘Someone who …’ But his ideas didn’t make any more sense in the coroner’s office than they had in front of the assembled officers earlier in the day.

  Martha watched his struggle for a moment and realized it was better not to ask him direct questions that he was patently finding difficulty with and instead asked him what evidence had been unearthed yesterday morning. ‘Tell me about the pyjamas,’ she said. ‘What can you glean from them so far? And most importantly, are they Daisy’s?

  ‘It appears so,’ he said very carefully, his hazel eyes meeting hers with sudden pain and frankness. He fingered the photographs one by one, close-ups of the blood staining, another very close up of the jagged tear in the pyjama leg, blood-stained and large, the way they had been folded so neatly and placed in the mouth of the litter bin.

  ‘So far all we know is that there is this bloodstaining and damage to the pyjamas consistent with a leg injury. A small fragment of bone has been found embedded in the material and initial DNA analysis indicates that the bone is – was – Daisy’s. It leads us to think she probably had a broken leg.’

  Martha winced, feeling the shooting agony of a broken limb. ‘Untreated she could easily have died from that alone, combined with the blood loss,’ she said. Her eyes dropped back to the sheaf of photos scattered across the surface of her desk. ‘Infection, shock.’

  ‘There was no chest wound, apparently,’ Alex put in quickly. ‘Or at least, what I mean to say,’ he corrected with a quick, connecting flash of a smile, ‘is that there is no blood and no sign of damage to the pyjama top.’ He paused before adding quietly, ‘But of course the dressing gown was bloodstained low down. It could have come from the same wound.’

  He looked down at the floor, not at the face across the desk. It took Martha’s soft question to persuade him to lift his gaze.

  ‘And is there any clue as to how or when the pyjamas were planted?’

  ‘Well, there we’ve been a bit lucky,’ Randall said, feeling the glow he often felt in the coroner’s presence. ‘It’s nothing definite yet, but the CCTV footage shows a car driving right up to the small bin.’ He gave a regretful but resigned smile. ‘The car being between the camera and the person you don’t see as much as we would hope. But we see enough. There is a small delay while the person presumably folds the pyjamas and places them on the top of the bin. And this is the breakthrough. The car has been identified as a ten-year-old Toyota four-wheel drive. The number is too mud spattered to read but we have a list of models in a thirty-mile perimeter and will be working through their owners. There aren’t too many,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Just forty.’ He paused. ‘No one really obvious springs to mind.’ He allowed himself a warm smile aimed in her direction. ‘By that I mean no one with a criminal record or a conviction for witchcraft.’ Her eyes warmed and for a split second they were again connected by a bridge of … friendship? Martha gave a little shake of her head. No – this was something else. Something much more intimate.

  There was the briefest of pauses then Randall hurried on with his story. ‘We’ll initially focus on women as the caller was a woman. Then if we’ve had no joy we’ll move on to men.’ He stopped. What he wasn’t saying was that in his heart of hearts he believed this would be a futile search, its end result a mound of earth and underneath that mound of earth a little girl’s body.

  Coleman and Roberts had reached the Long Mynd Hotel and as before PC Gethin Roberts allowed himself a brief daydream that was currently slipping away from him: that he was bringing Flora here post-wedding for two nights before they set off to the Caribbean for their honeymoon. Coleman watched him indulgently.

  Roberto Agostino had practically crossed himself as Coleman and Roberts’ squad car pulled on to the forecourt of the Long Mynd Hotel. A police presence was the very last thing they needed after the expensive refurbishment of the large hotel.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said, crossing himself. ‘Now what has happened?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, sir.’

  Agostino didn’t look at all reassured by Coleman’s bluff sentence.

  They ushered him into his office and filled him in on the finding of some ‘garments of clothing’.

  He looked bemused. ‘But how can I help you in this?’

  ‘You said that Tracy seemed to get on well with one particular social worker at your convention in November – Sheila Weston.’

  Agostino looked wary. He held his palms out wide in the well-known gesture of disclosure. ‘So what?’

  Roberts glanced down at his notepad. ‘And did you also say that Tracy brought Daisy in a day or two during November?’

  ‘She said she had no one to leave her with.’

  ‘What about her partner, Neil Mansfield?’

  Agostino shrugged.

  Roberts had a flash of inspiration. ‘The social worker who kept an eye on Daisy.’

  Agostino still looked bemused. He shrugged again. ‘So?’

  ‘Can you give us her name and address?’

  He caved in. ‘But of course. Just a minute.’

  He vanished from the room and they heard a swift chatter of instructions. Then Agostino returned and with a flourish worthy of Valentino he produced a neatly written card. Pink, the size of a postcard. ‘Here.’

  Written neatly in thin-tipped black felt pen was an address in Slough, Bucks, for Sheila Weston.

  For the first time that day Gary Coleman looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘Slough,’ he said, glancing at his colleague. ‘It’ll take us most of the day to get there and back and speak to her. We’d better clear it with the inspector. It could be a wasted journey, Geth,’ he said, trying to wipe the disappointed look from his pal’s face. ‘We might not get anything from her.’

  But DI Randall, now he had a positive lead to work on, was more than happy for his two officers to interview someone they thought might be able to help them find the child and give them a reason why these events had happened.

  As Coleman and Roberts were heading south down the M40 scores of police, specials and regulars, were engaged in house-to-house enquiries around Church Stretton, conducting interviews around the town, cross-checking vehicle numbers on the police computer and following up leads on the Toyota. And Lara Tinsley was wondering how her new information fitted in with the case.

  Still more personnel were peering down microscopes in the laboratory, searching for something in the fibres of the teddy bear pyjamas, hoping to find a thread of material or a strand of hair, a tiny fragment of paint or soil, dog or cat hair or traces of flora or fauna; anything that would bind their perpetrator to this little girl’s clothes and convict her of her crime. To the more fanciful of them Daisy Walsh was the princess imprisoned in a castle, sleeping in the centre of a forest of thorns. They would set her free with science.

/>   Coleman and Roberts were on the M6 toll, forking out the £6.50 for safe passage. ‘And what do we do when we get there?’

  Roberts’ Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. The truth was he wasn’t sure.

  Coleman chewed back a grin. ‘You don’t know, do you, Geth?’

  Roberts sulked.

  Coleman pushed on. ‘You’re a bloody idiot, you know.’

  ‘Yeah. Flora thinks so too.’

  ‘You haven’t had a row?’

  ‘Not exactly, but just … Put it like this.’ Roberts turned a pair of anxious dark eyes on his colleague. ‘Now is not exactly the moment to ask her to marry me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Coleman shut up then asked curiously in a mockney accent, ‘What ’ave you done to upset the adoring girlfriend?’

  ‘Well, she thought we were idiots not to find the little girl’s slipper in the first place. I said to her we didn’t find it because it wasn’t there, stating the obvious. And she just laughed and said, ‘“’Course it was.” I saw red then, Gary,’ he said. ‘Saw red. And we haven’t exactly made it up either.’ He waited for his colleague to support him and when he ventured no words of consolation Roberts added, piqued, ‘I’m waiting for her to apologize.’

  Slowly Gary Coleman turned his head. ‘Haven’t you learned anything in that short, eventful life you’ve had so far, Roberts? Waiting for her to apologize? You’ll wait for ever, my mate. You apologize.’

  Roberts protested. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong. She shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘You don’t have to have done anything wrong,’ Coleman advised. ‘Just apologize anyway.’

  Roberts sat back grumpily, folded his arms then glanced across at his colleague curiously. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yeah. Life’s too short Gezza, my old sport.’

  Roberts sat back and folded his arms. Apologize? When he’d done nothing wrong, only stated the truth? He needed to work this one out.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  They were silent until their satnav led them to a small, semi-detached house on the outskirts of Slough. It was neat and tidy, a small red Ford Ka sitting in the drive. It was in the middle of a long, straight row of almost identical houses, lawns and drives identical too; the only item that distinguished each house from its other was the make of the car that sat in the drive.

  The woman who opened the door to them looked pale, tired and very worried. She was wearing a loose top over denim jeans that looked pale and tired as well. Over-washed and sun bleached, the pair of them. She didn’t look in the least bit surprised to see them even when they flashed their ID cards in front of her weary eyes. ‘Come in,’ she said resignedly.

  The two officers glanced at each other. They hadn’t even said why they’d come. And she hadn’t asked … Interesting considering the conference at the Long Mynd Hotel had been six months ago and she had been there for a brief weekend course – hardly a powerful connection.

  Roberts blew out through his teeth while Coleman began the questions.

  ‘Mrs Weston, I don’t know if you’ve been following the case of the little girl who disappeared after a car accident?’

  She blinked.

  ‘It happened at the Long Mynd just outside Church Stretton?’

  She blinked again and looked as wary as a cat.

  ‘We understand you were at a conference at the hotel there last November.’

  It drew another blank look, which was then replaced by one of incredulity and a protestation. ‘What on earth can that possibly have to do with me?’

  ‘I believe you met the little girl’s mother there.’

  She put her head on one side in puzzlement. The two officers exchanged glances, lifted their eyebrows and wondered if this was a wild goose chase after all.

  Ms Weston cleared her throat and finally spoke. ‘I really don’t understand why you’ve come here,’ she said.

  ‘We understand you struck up a friendship with Tracy Walsh?’

  It drew another blank look.

  ‘She was one of the waitresses at the hotel where the conference was held,’ Coleman filled in, feeling some sympathy with Roberts who must, he was thinking, be feeling a bit foolish.

  Sheila Weston gave her head an imperceptible twitch. ‘I still don’t understand what you’re doing here,’ she said. ‘I might well have talked to …’ she hesitated, ‘… one of the waitresses six months ago. How can this possibly connect me with her daughter’s disappearance?’

  ‘So you have followed the case through the papers and the internet?’ Coleman put only gentle emphasis on the word.

  ‘As has probably the entire nation,’ Ms Weston said with a twitch of her lips.

  ‘Do you remember Daisy?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The little girl. Apparently Tracy brought her in …’ Roberts improvised, ‘… on the weekend of the conference.’

  Coleman gave him a swift look.

  It threw Sheila Weston. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That little girl.’

  Roberts couldn’t resist a swift grin. ‘Yes,’ he said, mimicking her tone. ‘That little girl.’

  ‘I, um, kept an eye on her,’ she said.

  PC Gethin Roberts gave it one last push, which was his downfall. ‘We understand you once worked in Dubai.’

  At this Ms Weston threw back her head and burst out laughing. ‘You mean you’ve come all the way from Shropshire to ask me that?’

  Please don’t add the comment: No wonder the police are overstretched and under resourced.

  Roberts had never felt so humiliated. PC Gary Coleman took pity on him. ‘You understand,’ he said with dignity, ‘that this is a major investigation.’

  Ms Weston fixed a stare on him.

  ‘And that means we follow up some very tenuous leads, Ms Weston.’ He’d noted the absence of a wedding ring. ‘Did you ever meet a lady called Charity Ignatio in Dubai?’

  Ms Weston looked bored. ‘I may have done,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I meet lots of people out there.’

  ‘She lives in Church Stretton,’ Coleman said.

  She practically yawned. ‘What a small world we live in.’

  ‘Indeed. Anyway.’ Coleman gave a bland smile as he stood up. ‘Thank you for your time. If we think of anything else to ask you we may well come again.’

  She returned a confident glance. ‘Next time you might try using the phone first,’ she said haughtily.

  ‘Oh, we will, Ms Weston. We will be in touch.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Coleman kindly waited until they were safely back on the M40 before making his comment to Gethin Roberts. ‘Well, that was a fat lot of good.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Roberts said defensively. ‘Considering she went on a weekend course six months ago and had a couple of chats with one of the waitresses, how come she never asked us what we were really doing there? How come we didn’t even have to remind her who Tracy Walsh was? Or Daisy,’ he added meaningfully.

  ‘It’s been in the papers.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s nothing to do with her, is it?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Besides, I thought there was definitely something there. We’ve rattled her all right.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Roberts continued, ‘I do feel a bit guilty dragging you all the way down here on a wild goose …’

  ‘I thought you said it wasn’t a wild goose chase.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I’m buying lunch.’

  Coleman grinned and patted his stomach. ‘I won’t argue with that, Gethin, my boy.’

  WPC Lara Tinsley was on the telephone to Charity Ignatio’s employers in Dubai. And they were being very helpful indeed.

  They confirmed the dates she had been at the resort. ‘Poor girl,’ the secretary said. ‘She spends such a lot of time out there setting up businesses and helping with supply chains. It must be awfully lonely, staying in the hotel all on her own. I’m always pleased when she takes a bit of a break.’
r />   ‘Perhaps she makes friends out there.’ Tinsley was floundering.

  ‘I think she does.’ The girl responded brightly. ‘Probably meets people in the hotel. She usually takes some time off when she’s there, goes down to the Palm Jumeirah for a couple of days or something.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And she took practically the whole week off in April.’ The girl was still trying to be helpful. ‘That’s unusual for her.’

  Tinsley’s ears pricked up. ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, she rang in from her two-day leave and said she didn’t feel very well. I’ve never known her to do that before. Had to reschedule her meetings.’

  Tinsley frowned. ‘I don’t suppose you can remember the dates?’

  ‘Oh, yes I can.’ The girl rose to the challenge. ‘It was my boyfriend’s grandma’s ninetieth at the beginning of the week. The week of Monday the eighth.’

  The week following the accident.

  Somehow it seemed significant. But for the life of her Lara Tinsley couldn’t work out how or why.

  Tuesday, 30 April, 3.30 p.m.

  Church Stretton Antiques Centre.

  The child stood quite still, as she’d been told to do and for a while no one noticed her. Everyone assumed her parents were just around the corner, on the other floor, looking at some other piece of furniture or ornament or picture – if they thought about her at all. Most people didn’t. They were wrapped up in their own lives, their own search for a bargain or something that would transform their homes.

  The child clutched the bunch of herbs as tightly as she’d been told to do, the letter in the other hand. And she waited, again as she’d been told to do.

  At some point someone will notice you and then you must tell them the words I said and hand them the letter. Do you understand, child?