The Missing Girls

by Carol Wyer

  ‘Don’t get used to it. I happened to be in the café grabbing a sandwich for lunch, and it crossed my mind that you’d put yourself out to be nice to me and go out for a drink. Thought I’d return the favour. But that’s it. We’re quits. I can go back to being caustic and impossible to work with.’

  ‘Ah, the Tom Shearer we all love to detest.’

  ‘I’m going away for a few days. Flint is sending me on secondment to Newcastle. They require my expertise. Thought I’d see how you were getting on before I disappeared.’

  ‘I’m pulling my hair out. I’ve got all my team out interviewing people and I don’t feel I’m making big enough steps. In fact, I was just on my way out to interview someone in Uttoxeter. It’s one of the most complicated cases I’ve tackled, and I’ve got DCI Flint breathing down my neck every two minutes wanting to know if we have anything.’

  ‘You’d better get that food down you. You’ll need all your brain power.’ He checked his watch. ‘Got to go. Good luck. And eat it all up.’ He lifted a hand and departed.

  Robyn stuffed a couple of mouthfuls of the salad in. She hadn’t thought about food until it had been presented to her. The lemon dressing on the salad was her favourite and for a minute she savoured the crisp, sweet lettuce and pieces of sweetcorn. Her phone buzzed. It was Mitz.

  ‘Found our stranger. I took the CCTV photo capture of him back to Towers Business Park and struck lucky this time. He’s called Luke Sanderson. He’s not one of Vitamed’s regular customers. He was served by one of the staff, a young lad, who’s normally out the back helping on the production line. When Matt passed the photo around, the kid wasn’t in. I’ve interviewed Luke. He’s not got anything new to add except he was called over by Frank Cummings to help manoeuvre the trunk, and Joanne Hutchinson kept yelling to keep it straight and level because of the valuables in it. He thought it was glass or something, because the trunk didn’t weigh too much. It was awkward to offload and manoeuvre it down the corridor into the unit. He didn’t pay much attention to the woman. He did, however, say she had a right posh accent and noticed when she waved her hands at them she was wearing leopard print gloves.’

  Robyn groaned. ‘No fingerprints in any van, even if we do locate it, then?’

  ‘It’d have been wiped clean anyhow. She’s meticulous.’

  ‘I can live in hope, Mitz. We’re not getting any lucky breaks.’

  ‘We’re eliminating suspects, and in the end that’ll narrow the field down.’

  ‘Unless we run out of suspects.’

  ‘This isn’t like you, boss. You’re always upbeat. You taught me to try every angle and never give up.’

  Robyn sighed. ‘You’re bang on with that. I put my mood down to lack of sleep and food, and an irritating pulled ligament.’

  ‘Want me to bring you back a sandwich?’

  ‘Tom Shearer’s already brought me in some food.’

  ‘DI Shearer? Really?’

  ‘I can tell by your voice that you’re reading too much into that statement.’

  ‘I’m a sentimentalist, guv.’

  ‘Concentrate on your own love life first.’

  ‘I am. Got a hot date later tonight.’

  ‘In that case, you can tell us all about it tomorrow. If you’re done there, call it a day, Mitz. Everyone here is out and I’m going to interview Amber’s houseparent. Go get ready for tonight.’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’

  Robyn ended the call. She shovelled some more salad into her mouth and put the yoghurt and flapjack in her bag for later. She turned to look at the whiteboard. It was a mess of names and suggestions. She drew a line through the word ‘Good Samaritan’ – another lead crossed off. It still left her with too many questions, and no closer to unveiling the woman who called herself Joanne Hutchinson.

  * * *

  Deborah Hampton was fresh-faced and appeared much younger than her thirty-six years. Chapel boarding house with its sixth-form extension, and home to seventy-five girls, was set in extensive gardens that exuded calm and contentment. Deborah welcomed Robyn into the house and their private kitchen, a happy, chaotic mess created by two young boys painting at the table. The boys, dressed in oversized shirts that appeared to have belonged to a grown-up at some stage, were so engrossed in splodging bright colours onto huge pieces of paper they didn’t notice the policewoman.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. Dan normally has the kids, but Fridays he helps out at the art centre.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long.’

  ‘Take as long as you want. The girls are still in lessons, so I won’t be needed until they come in and we have tea.’

  ‘You eat with the girls?’

  ‘Yes, every house has its own dining room and chef. Poor Charles and Bianca. This is going to break them.’ She looked off into the distance, fighting back tears. ‘It’s dreadful. Just awful. Some of the girls have been in shock about her disappearance. When term began and Amber went missing, it was bad enough, but the staff were told about her death at lunchtime, and I don’t know what to expect from the girls. The headmaster intends breaking the news to the entire school later at a special service in the church. Poor Amber.’ She paused, drew in a breath, and continued. ‘As you know, she didn’t board here but she was very much part of this house, as are all day pupils. They have their own study accommodation so that they are able to make Chapel a “home from home”. Amber’s is untouched, although the police went through everything when she first disappeared.’

  One of the boys knocked over a jam jar of murky water, and a large mucky stain spread out on the tablecloth. Deborah moved at speed, mopped the mess up with paper towels and refilled the jar almost in one movement.

  ‘You’ve got quick reflexes.’

  ‘It’s practice.’ She stood over the paintings, making appreciative noises, then approached Robyn once more. ‘How rude of me. I ought to have asked you if I could get you anything. I’m a bit… numb, I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. It’s a very difficult time for you. Actually, I wanted to ask about Amber’s relationships with the other girls in the house. Did she get along with the other girls? I understand there was an incident after a music contest?’

  Deborah collected her thoughts. ‘It was some time ago. The inter-house music competition is a big event for us, and we were in with a good chance. We had some talented musicians and singers. Amber was one of those, and she was put in charge of the harmony section. Although the girls sang really well, they were beaten into second place. Amber took the result badly. She blamed Shannon and accused her of singing off key. She was extremely rude to her.’

  ‘I heard that was the case.’

  ‘Shannon wasn’t one of the most confident girls in the house and it had taken a lot of persuasion to get her to participate, so you can imagine the effect it had on her. She shut herself in her room and threatened to slash her wrists. We talked her out and she spent a few days in the sick bay with matron. Amber managed to turn the entire event around to make it seem Shannon was at fault. She fell out with a few of the girls after that. I think some of them sided with Shannon and decided Amber was becoming too self-absorbed. I spoke to her about it but she wouldn’t climb down. In her defence, many pupils take the contest seriously. If they’re ever up against another house, their house comes first, regardless of petty grievances between its inhabitants – like a fiercely loyal family.’

  ‘So this was a one-off incident?’

  ‘I’m finding it difficult to talk about a girl whose body has just been found,’ she whispered so her children couldn’t hear. The older boy was beginning to fidget about, prodding his brother. ‘Mummy, Leo spat paint at my picture.’

  ‘Okay, Kyle. Why don’t you put on a Peppa Pig DVD and watch it with Leo? I’ll only be a few minutes.’

  There was a scramble as the boys tumbled down from chairs and disappeared from sight. Deborah turned to Robyn. ‘By and large I liked Amber. She was a bright young lady. She was polite, energetic and keen to wo
rk. Her teachers always spoke highly of her academic performance and her parents are one of the nicest couples we have at the school. They’re supportive of all our events. I really don’t want to speak ill of her. However, there were a few occasions when she wasn’t as perfect as she made out. I have a feeling Amber was involved in some of our “incidents”.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘One of the girls smuggled in alcohol and several of them were caught in a bedsit, drunk. Amber wasn’t caught drinking, but she wore this smug expression when she was being questioned – a holier-than-thou look that I felt was hiding the truth. Then there was a more serious incident when a group of boys discovered a teacher’s password and got into his email account. Two of the boys were expelled over it, another suspended for confessing, but there were rumours two girls were also involved. We suspected Amber was one but she denied it.’ She shook her head at the memory.

  ‘Every month, a different senior girl watches over the junior members while they do their prep. It reached my ears that Amber had threatened to hit them for not working quietly enough while she was trying to do research on the computer. Again, she denied it. When I talked to the junior girls about it, they clammed up. I always thought they’d been forced to keep quiet; the looks they threw Amber in the dining room, the quiet grumbles – it added up, but I couldn’t prove it. That’s all I can say. It’s mostly conjecture, and Amber is a shining example of what we can produce here at Sandwell – a truly gifted girl.’ Her eyes moistened. ‘It doesn’t matter if she made mistakes or was out of order sometimes. Most of them have their moments. She’d have changed, and grown and been a successful woman. Now…’

  Deborah pulled at her sleeve, regained control. ‘Now she’s been denied that. We’re a happy family here at Chapel House, DI Carter. Dan and I feel privileged to be the girls’ “parents”. We share in our family’s success, help them get over failures, and care for them. Today we’ve lost a dear member of it. It’ll take a long time to get over this.’

  ‘I understand. Would it be okay for me to take a quick look at her study before the girls return from lessons?’

  ‘Yes, actually that might be best. It’s going to be chaos. They’ll have been told by now about the meeting at six and rumours will be flying. It’d be better if they didn’t spot you here before then. Feel free to have a quick look about though.’ Deborah gave Robyn directions, then grabbed some tissues from a box on the kitchen worktop and blew her nose, before wiping her reddening eyes. ‘Can’t let the girls down,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to be there for them.’

  Robyn gave her a smile of encouragement. ‘They’ll be fine. They’ve got masses of support here, from you and each other.’

  Robyn left Deborah and wandered into the house itself. There was a clattering coming from the kitchen. She peered into the dining room – three rows of benches and tables. The walls were filled with wooden boards containing the names of girls who’d won scholarships dating back to 2002 when the house opened. Various gleaming trophies, including a large polished silver cup for the inter-house hockey competition, stood on a large shelf.

  She opened the door to the common room, where the juniors did their prep. The room was in fact a pleasant, light sitting room, filled with comfy chairs in various colours, large cushions and beanbags pushed to one side to make space for six desks and chairs. A modern pine bookcase containing numerous paperback novels and housing a workstation for an Apple Mac computer filled an entire wall. A large bay window overlooked the garden with its neat lawn and borders.

  Robyn headed to Amber’s landing. Paintings adorned the walls leading upstairs. Robyn thought fleetingly of Florence, who was artistically gifted, and even at thirteen, showed talent equal to that displayed on these walls. The house smelt of deodorant, perfume and shower gel. The communal showers were near Amber’s room, one of several along the carpeted corridor. Robyn peered into the first room where shoes, trainers and hockey boots were higgledy-piggledy on the floor, and A4 files were tossed onto the bed covered with a bright-yellow duvet. A photo taken outside the building of a group of friends beaming at the camera stood on the chest of drawers. A large fluffy bear sat on a chair, and pictures of various celebrities, cut from magazines, combined to form a collage on the wall. It clearly belonged to a boarder.

  Amber’s room was stark by comparison. Notes about deadlines and essay titles were attached to a corkboard with brightly coloured pins. Course books and A4 files stood to attention on shelves, and her desk was completely clear apart from a desk-tidy tub stuffed with pens and pencils.

  Robyn stared at the corkboard. Amber had listed her deadlines for coursework. Two essays were due to be handed in on the day term began again, the ninth of January. Her story about remaining at home to complete her work while her parents went abroad appeared to be true. Robyn picked up one of the files marked ‘English’ and read through the work. Amber’s handwriting was clear and neat, not scrawled like Robyn’s own. She flicked through the notes, marvelling at the girl’s insight into some of the poetry she was studying.

  She picked up a copy of The War Poems of Wilfred Owen. The book opened at one with which she was familiar, ‘Dulce et Decorum est’. The final line in the poem meant, ‘Sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country.’ For a second she again thought of Davies, who had died for his country. He’d given his life, and yet no one really knew what good he had accomplished over the years he’d been an intelligence officer, nor how much safer the country was because of him and others like him. She shut the book firmly. His death was not in vain. Without people like Davies, the world would be in worse turmoil.

  As she turned to leave, she spotted a folded piece of paper on the floor. It had slipped from the book. She recognised Amber’s perfect handwriting. She’d written three names: Orion, Horus and Wōden, and encircled them with hearts, each with curling tails. It made no sense for the paper to be in the book. Robyn decided to take it with her. It was probably nothing important, but as Mitz had reminded her, she should explore all avenues.

  Thirty-Three

  Amélie was getting on Florence Hallows’s nerves. She was such a goody two-shoes. She’d come top in Friday’s spelling competition and hadn’t shut up about it all day. Ordinarily, Florence would have been pleased, but today she was feeling mean, and not at all impressed. Amélie was brilliant at everything. She had an amazing memory and she always got As in her schoolwork.

  Florence was extra annoyed because she’d tried hard to memorise all the spellings. She’d spent hours learning them and thought, for once, she’d do well. Mr Chambers had set the test and she’d wanted to impress him. He was one of the best teachers they had, the youngest and the most interesting. He often broke off from teaching to discuss the latest hot drama on television, or celebrity gossip, or just listen to the pupils gripe. He encouraged them to voice their opinions in debates or on paper, and she wanted to show how much she enjoyed being taught by him, by doing well. Ever since he’d shown an interest in her paintings, she’d worked harder in English, even though she found it difficult to remember what a verb, an adjective and a noun were, let alone understand the difference between colons and semicolons.

  Amélie liked him too and that served to irritate Florence further. She’d been wittering on about him since they’d left class and headed to the school library. ‘He’s got the dreamiest eyes, and he looks at you like you’re the most important pupil in the class.’

  Florence snorted. ‘You should write romance novels. You make him sound like some drippy hero in a book.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Maybe I should ask Mr Chambers about it.’

  ‘Pur-lease. I’m only joking. Will you shut up about him?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m up to here with you droning on about how wonderful you think Mr Chambers is. He’s a teacher. That’s it. He teaches us English. He’s no different to Mrs Donaldson or Mr Roberts.’

  ‘Yes he is. He isn’t as old as them. He’s into all sorts
of films and music and stuff we like. Mr Donaldson wouldn’t have a clue who Rag’n’Bone Man, or One Direction, or Ed Sheeran was.’ Amélie laughed. ‘Besides, I think you secretly like him too.’

  Florence’s shoulders hunched. ‘Shut up.’

  Amélie waved her hands in front of her face, fanning her cheeks and giggled. ‘Yes, you do. I can see it in your face. You do fancy him. Besides, I’ve seen you staring at him when he’s reading aloud. Florence fancies Mr Chambers!’ she sang.

  Florence’s neck went bright red. ‘Keep your voice down. You sound like a stupid little kid. I don’t fancy him. He’s ancient anyway.’

  Amélie giggled again. ‘No, he isn’t. He’s only in his early twenties.’

  ‘That makes him at least ten years older than us.’

  ‘That’s not too old. Plenty of older men go for younger women. When he’s in his thirties, we’ll be in our twenties. Loads of men and women that age get together.’

  ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Are you crazy? He’s a teacher. He’s not interested in thirteen-year-olds.’

  ‘You’re very grown up for thirteen. You’ve got boobs and you looked so much older when we went to the cinema, with your make-up and false nails. Oh, that’s it!’ She pulled a face, a round ‘oh’ of her lips. ‘You’re trying to look grown up for Mr Chambers. That’s why you’ve started wearing make-up to school. I know you’re wearing mascara, I can tell. And a bit of lip gloss.’ Amélie giggled.

  Florence thought about Hunter and flushed again. She was trying to pull off being older, but not for any teacher. She’d been practising her new look in case she ever had to talk on Skype or meet Hunter. Amélie was making her feel rotten now, mocking her, which only made her more bad-tempered.

  ‘Shut up, Amélie. I mean it.’

  At last Amélie picked up on her friend’s sour mood and dropped the silliness. She attempted to slip her arm through Florence’s and found it clamped to her side. ‘I’m only messing with you, Florence. It’s not serious. Everyone likes him. He’s a really nice teacher.’