The Betrayal of Trust (12 page)

‘I’m terrified. But I was manager of a branch of Blackwell’s in Edinburgh for seven years. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t give it a serious try.’

‘Which premises?’

‘Where the expensive shoe and handbag shop used to be. I gather it didn’t last long. I’d have been open now but of course
the
floods have set everything back. Thank God I hadn’t moved
in any stock – just some shelving and that will be OK with fresh paint. The floor suffered though. I’ve had to replace that.’

‘Will you specialise?’

‘No. But I’m going to have a book club, some author events, children’s story mornings. And try to stock books you don’t find everywhere. I’d like to surprise people – challenge them even.’

She was very relaxed, with a confidence he found attractive.
And she was pretty. How old? Late forties?

He wondered about the banquet.

Judith called, ‘Are you staying for lunch?’

Was he?

He stood up. ‘Thanks, but I mustn’t. I’m short-handed and I’ve got six hours’ worth of files in the car.’

‘Are you on the inquiry into the bodies of those poor girls? Sorry, you probably can’t answer. I don’t know about police protocol.’

‘It’s fine. Yes, I am.’

‘It makes me want to weep. Some young woman disappears for years and no one notices she’s missing? That can’t be right. Surely to God there’s a parent, a partner? How old was she?’

‘Probably a bit older than Harriet Lowther.’

‘Is there a connection between them?’

Simon shrugged and put out his hand. Emma’s was very smooth, and cool.

Could he ask a woman he had barely met to a banquet?

He said,
‘I’ll come in and buy some books.’

‘Please do. I’m opening Tuesday week, assuming no further floods.’ She smiled. A nice smile.

As he kissed Judith at the door, she gave him a sharp look but said only, ‘Lovely to see you, darling. And I wish I could have come with you.’

‘I’ll find someone,’ Simon said.

DID THE HOUSE
smell of cat? Lenny went outside. It was drizzling a bit and she held onto the rail so as not to fall. Falling was one of the few things she feared, falling and lying there undiscovered, perhaps for days.

She filled her lungs with the damp air and went back into the cottage.

There was the faintest smell of cat. But female cats only smelled if you did not remember to let
them out. She must remember. She had read about cat flaps but disliked the thought of having an entrance to the house that she could not control.

And then the telephone started. She was on her way into the music room and had to go all the way back.

It stopped as she reached it.

She returned to the music room. It was still called the music room though no one played there now apart from herself.
But she played. So she would continue to call it the music room. Yes.

She closed the door and drew the velour curtain to keep out the draught, switched on the lamp.

There was a Beethoven sonata on the stand but she rummaged in the pile on the floor. The floor, the piano itself, the table, the window ledge. Satie. She wanted to play Satie. Where was Satie?

The phone was ringing again. Then stopped
again. She’d been told there was a way you could find out who had rung you, but what was it? Who knew?

It did not ring again but the doorbell did.

‘Leonora Wilcox? Packet to sign for.’

Miss Wilcox to you, she would have corrected once upon a time. But you gave up. She couldn’t be bothered.

The package was music but not Satie.

The phone rang.

‘Miss Wilcox?’

The cat was weaving round her
ankles.

‘This is Sister Moss from Babbacombe House.’

Sister Moss. They called themselves Matron this and Sister that, Nurse the other. But were they?

‘Yes?’

‘Is this a good time for us to have a word? It’s about Olive.’

What else would it be about?

‘Is she all right?’

Lenny knew there was trouble.

‘This is not very easy, I’m afraid.’

‘What’s she done?’

‘We need you to come down here.
To discuss everything.’

‘Everything? How can we do that?’

‘It isn’t really very suitable to talk about it on the telephone, but …’

Lenny listened. Just let the woman talk. She had known it was trouble.

Trouble.

The woman who called herself Sister finished at last and Lenny put the phone down. It was tiresome. They were paid enough and now they couldn’t cope. She knew what was coming. ‘We’re
very much afraid …’

She had said she would drive down there tomorrow. So that was what she would do.

She found Satie and started to play and could not stop playing and suddenly it was afternoon. That was what happened. But she felt calmer. Better. Satie did that. She wasn’t angry now.

Lenny ate a tin of pilchards and a tomato and went to sleep.

THE MAN CLIPPING
the hedge had died ten years earlier.

‘Don’t think he was going to give us anything new but it would have been tidy. Cadsdens?’

‘Found them. They divorced and she moved to Angus Road. No other occupant on the electoral roll.’

‘The bus driver?’

‘Retired to Scarborough to live near his daughter. Still there.’

‘Scarborough.’ They had not been far from there when he
had stood on a rock with a fierce tide coming in and he had clung to a child murderer for what had felt like days while the 202 Squadron Sea King helicopter had hovered overhead and the pilot tried to determine how dangerous it would be to winch them aboard. Simon could close his eyes and feel the spray on his face, hear the roar of the chopper engine above his head. Cliffs. Cliffs and caves and
fast incoming tides.

It was not a part of the country he was anxious to visit again.

‘Nice trip,’ Vanek said.

‘No money for seaside treats. Phone.’

‘Oh, guv …’

‘If the bus driver saw Harriet get into a blue Vauxhall Astra driven by a man in dark glasses we’ll go. Otherwise, phone.’

‘A blue Vauxhall As—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘Ah, I get you.’

‘For a bright-ish DS you can be very slow.’

Ben Vanek looked embarrassed. ‘Shall I go and talk to Mrs Cadsden?’

‘No,
we
will. But I’ll call the bus driver myself – what was his name? Johnson. Charlie Johnson.’

‘I’ve just emailed the number across to you.’

‘Thanks.’

Simon went back to his office. He hadn’t meant to come down so hard on the sergeant and he was annoyed with himself.

‘Good morning. My name is Simon Serrailler – Detective
Chief Superintendent Serrailler from Lafferton CID. I’d like to speak to Mr Charles Johnson if that’s possible.’

A woman had answered. Middle-aged. Yorkshire accent.

‘Where did you say?’

He told her again.

‘Well, Dad hasn’t lived down in Lafferton for seven going on eight years.’

‘Yes, I do know he retired and moved away. Who am I speaking to?’

‘Ann Sharp. Mrs Sharp. I’m Charlie Johnson’s
daughter.’

‘Mrs Sharp, I do need to speak to your father if I may. If he isn’t with you perhaps you could give me a contact number? I’m investigating the –’

‘No.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You can’t speak to him. Dad had a stroke four months back. He hasn’t left hospital. He can’t speak, he can’t move. He understands, and he knows us. He’s not – he’s all there. But he couldn’t answer any questions, and apart
from anything else, I wouldn’t let him. I wouldn’t let him be upset by anyone from the police.’

‘I see. I’m very sorry. But it just might be that we would need to talk to your father at some point, Mrs Sharp. It depends on the progress of our inquiries. If it were necessary, I might need to ask him just one or two questions … you say he can understand? Just a nod or a movement of his hand, for
yes or no —’

‘What’s Dad supposed to have done, for goodness’ sake?’

‘Nothing at all. But he was a witness some years ago now. A
young
girl was waiting at the stop for a bus he was driving and —’

‘But he hasn’t driven a bus for eight, nine years.’

‘I know. This was sixteen years ago. A young girl went missing – she was due to catch his bus but she didn’t.’

‘Well, that can’t have been Dad’s
fault, can it?’

‘No. There’s no suggestion of that.’

‘Was he not spoken to at the time? How come you’re ringing now?’

‘Yes, he was, he gave a full statement.’

‘Then he wouldn’t have anything else to say, would he? Dad’s an honest man and he’s very ill too and I wouldn’t give any sort of permission to you to come mithering him. You could kill him. Have you thought of that?’

Simon fished out
the original interviews with Charlie Johnson. They were simple, straightforward, without interest. He was sure that Harriet Lowther had not got on to his bus and he had continued his journey into Lafferton. Nothing had happened. No one had looked back. Why would they?

‘Guv? I’ve got a hospital appointment, check on the foot.’

Simon waved Ben away. He felt irritable and at a dead end with the
investigation. The sergeant couldn’t help.

There were three people left on his main list – Mrs Cadsden. Her daughter Katie who had been Harriet’s friend. And John Lowther. Serrailler did not want to have to interview him formally again but it was probably unavoidable.

Before he saw him, though, he needed to hold a press conference. Harriet’s disappearance was still recent enough to be remembered.
He wanted memories jogged, wanted people to start talking to one another, looking back, checking over things they might suddenly realise could be relevant after all.

When Vanek returned they went through the plans together.

‘What about a reconstruction? I know it’s a long time ago but it’s amazing how they jolt people’s memories. I had two in my old force and they both led to convictions.’

‘If it were even just a couple of years ago I’d have organised
one
, but I doubt if I can balance cost against the very slight chance of success. Not at the moment. We’ll have to explore other avenues first. Did the hospital sign you off by the way?’

‘No. Got to go back for another X-ray in two weeks.’

Simon smiled. ‘So you can’t possibly be expected to hang around underpasses, let alone chase
after pushers.’

Ben shook his head, drawing his breath in sharply.

‘Good stuff. Come on – let’s call on Mrs Cadsden.’

But the phone rang first.

‘Gordon Lyman. About this second skeleton.’

‘Have you found something?’

‘Not on the skeleton itself, but I’ve got a bit of time owing me and I’d quite like to do some work on this. You know about computer-aided facial reconstruction? I’m rather keen
to get more practice. A colleague at UCH, Declan Devey, is something of an expert. He’s going to help, teach me a few tricks – via computer. Should be interesting and we’ll end up with a likeness you can put out there.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘Depends. But we’ll get something.’

Angus Road was a cul-de-sac of 1920s semi-detached houses with bow windows. Number 52 was almost at the end. The
street was quiet when they got out of the car, but the sound of children in a school playground nearby gave it some life.

‘Most people are at work,’ Simon said. ‘Can’t you tell? Our Mrs Cadsden will be too.’

But she was not.

Frances Cadsden was now a smart, young-looking sixty.

‘I was made redundant eighteen months ago,’ she said, showing them into a kitchen/dining room at the back. ‘I was
a PA – do you know Dramboys Estate Agents? I quite liked the job. I’d never worked – well, not after I married and had the girls. Would you like some coffee?’

‘Thank you.’ Serrailler believed in letting people make hot drinks. It was friendly, it made them relaxed – and once they relaxed, they usually talked.

‘I imagine this is all about poor Harriet. I read the news of
course
. I can’t get my
head round it. Poor little girl. Do you know how she died or anything like that?’

‘Not really, I’m afraid. Though obviously it was unlikely to have been accidental, given the circumstances in which she was found.’

‘She was a nice child. Goodness, listen to me – they weren’t children, were they? She and Katie were fifteen. But I think of them as being children then.’

‘What’s Katie doing now?’

‘She’s a sister on the cardiac ward at Bevham General, married to a haematologist. No children. Louise has – that’s Katie’s younger sister. Two boys, so I’m a granny.’

She set down a cafetière.

It was a tidy, slightly bleak kitchen, used by someone who lived alone. There were photos on the shelves. Two young women. Two weddings. Two small boys.

The coffee was excellent.

‘I’ve read through
the statement you gave when Harriet disappeared, obviously, and it’s very helpful. I know it’s a long time ago …’

‘It could be yesterday, Superintendent. That day is etched on my memory. From the second we heard that Harriet was missing, somehow everything seemed to be – I don’t know – as if it was underlined. That sounds silly.’

‘Not at all. It’s surprisingly common.’

‘Little things – the
music the girls were playing, something Katie said, a nasty scratch Harriet had on her arm, all that. I can hear them shouting as they played tennis … we had a court at the side of the house. I can hear the sound of the ball pinging off their rackets. It was a day like any other day – Katie often had friends round to play, and it was often Harriet, too.’

Frances Cadsden looked down into her cup.
Her eyes had filled with sudden tears. ‘I remember feeling so awful – so guilty. If I’d have walked with her to the bus stop …’

‘But she was fifteen, as you said. Not a small child. You wouldn’t usually have done that, would you?’

‘No. No, of course not.’

‘It’s entirely understandable that you feel somehow
to
blame – if you’d seen Harriet onto the bus, she might not have vanished. But we don’t
know when she disappeared – we only know she almost certainly didn’t catch the bus, though she’d been waiting at the stop. You’re not to blame and I think you know that.’