A Velvet Scream (16 page)

But from the man's distraught face and immobility King knew that this would not be the case. He switched the engine off, opened the car door and walked towards the frozen man.

Sunday, 5 December. 8 a.m.

Joanna was dragged into consciousness by the telephone ringing. Her initial thought was, at least it can't be Eloise this time because she's already here.

She picked it up, listened to the desk sergeant's bald phrases and felt her heart drop. A girl was missing. There was a connection to Patches. She sat up in bed, ignoring Matthew's sleepy stare which, when he realized it was her work, changed quickly to petulant resentment. ‘For goodness' sake,' he muttered and buried his head in the pillow.

Joanna ignored him and continued speaking into the phone. ‘How old?'

‘Fifteen. She was out with a friend, Clara, at Patches. They got separated. Molly Carraway, the missing girl, was supposed to be staying the night with Clara. Her parents are strict and don't approve of nightclubs so she always stays with her friend and omits to tell her parents exactly how and where she's spent the evening. When Clara looked around for her friend at one a.m. she was nowhere to be found. She didn't go home; neither did she turn up at Clara's house. She's vanished.'

‘Mobile?'

‘Not even ringing. Straight through to answerphone.'

‘I take it this is out of character?'

‘Completely.'

‘So where are you up to?' She was already sitting on the side of the bed, eyeing her clothes from yesterday.

‘We've sealed off Patches but there's nothing there. Wherever she is she isn't lying freezing in the car park, like Kayleigh.'

‘Mobile records?'

‘It's switched off or out of range. We're getting the call records sent through. But you know what the coverage is like round here. Patchy to say the least.'

‘I'll be with you in half an hour.'

What she didn't like about telling Matthew as he emerged from underneath his pillow was his look of anger. She hadn't organized this deliberately to get out of wedding plans or to escape from Eloise. It had just happened. And this girl was somebody's daughter. Like the pain in the butt in the bedroom next door.

She showered and dressed, went downstairs and poured herself some orange juice and a bowl of cereal. Matthew and Eloise came down together, as though they were jointly criticizing her imminent exit. As she explained that she had to go into the station in connection with her current investigation she noted a conspiratorial look pass between father and daughter. A kind of,
I told you so
, combined with Eloise's ill-concealed glee that she would have her father to herself for the day.

‘Any idea when you
might
be back?' Matthew asked tightly.

‘I'll ring you,' she said, equally tightly and then anger got the better of her. ‘This is a fifteen-year-old girl, Matthew. Her family are distraught. It's bad enough that she's missing. But there's the added stress of what happened in the very same club less than a week ago.'

His response was a heavy sigh.

‘Just imagine if it was Eloise,' she shot at him, and as soon as she had finished her breakfast she left.

Although it was a Sunday morning the station was buzzing with the electric tension that surrounds an investigation when something new has developed and she was greeted quickly by a worn out DC Alan King, contrasting with Danny Hesketh-Brown who looked disgustingly alert and wide awake. They filled her in on the bare details.

‘Is Korpanski around?'

Hesketh-Brown answered. ‘Couldn't get hold of him. He's probably at his son's rugby match. I've left a message on his phone.'

‘Good. Right. Thanks, King. Are you on tonight?'

He nodded.

‘Go home and get some sleep, then. And,' she added kindly, ‘thanks. You've done well so far.'

‘Right.' She looked Hesketh-Brown square in the face. ‘It's you and me then, Danny boy. Let's get a plan of action. First I want you to dig out the pair of worms who run Patches and squeeze every last drop of information, every videotape, every description, everything out of them. I'll speak to Molly's parents and then to Clara and her parents.' She heaved a big sigh. ‘For now we'll assume that the two cases are connected.'

‘Right.' Not altogether displeased by the fact that they had been unable to track down DS Korpanski, Danny grinned across at her. He was more than ready to step into the sergeant's size eleven's.

Molly Carraway's house was on one of the more recent and upmarket estates, like Colclough's, on the Buxton road out of town. Worth five hundred grand, at a guess, Joanna thought as she drew up in front of the mock Tudor house. Five bedrooms, two to three bathrooms, study, conservatory – it would have the lot. Added to that, Roachside View wasn't really an estate at all but a ‘select development'. Ten or so houses, each one individually architecturally designed; each one slightly different. This was the sort of house Matthew would have liked. What was generally termed ‘a family home'. This early on a wintry morning the ‘development' appeared deserted; its curtains drawn and cars frosted up, stationary in the drive. There was no sign of life except for at number eight from where two white faces peered out of a downstairs window.

The moment Joanna had stepped out of the car the front door was thrown open and a man came out, closely followed by a woman. The strain was visible in both their faces and neither looked as though they had slept. The woman, presumably Molly's mother, was finding it hard to keep her emotions in check.

Joanna spoke first. ‘Mr and Mrs Carraway?'

They both nodded. She held out her hand. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, Leek Police and this is DC Hesketh-Brown.' Mr Carraway gave them both a nod and a tight-lipped smile. He responded shortly. ‘Philip and Beth. Look – it's freezing. Let's go inside.'

Joanna followed them into a smart sitting room, cream-carpeted with a soft-looking pale green sofa and an upright piano at the back. Through patio doors Joanna glimpsed a neat grey garden with furniture shrouded for the winter. It was all tidy and orderly. She returned her gaze to the room and Molly's parents.

Over the fireplace – a faux gas fire with a shelf over – hung a large photograph of a smiling girl in smart school uniform: grey skirt, a white blouse and maroon tie with a school crest on it.

Joanna recognized the uniform. Newcastle-under-Lyme Independent School. Her eyes lingered on the girl's bright, eager, sparkling eyes as she wondered what had happened to her. Where she was now? Was she dead or alive? Molly looked a cheerful girl; happy, with clear skin and clear eyes, long dark hair, neatly tied back and straight white teeth. Her face was scrubbed; innocent, beguiling. There looked to be no deceit in her. And yet  . . . Her parents followed Joanna's gaze to the picture and said nothing. But their shoulders drooped a little, hopelessly. Joanna sat down, both parents eyeing her expectantly.

‘We had no idea she was going out,' Carraway began.

Joanna responded carefully. ‘We've all done it,' she said, with tact. ‘Been places we shouldn't. Played “economical” with the truth.'

‘We certainly didn't know she was going to Patches,' Beth Carraway said, looking stricken. ‘Especially after—' She stopped. Her husband took hold of her hand and held it tightly. His wife returned a sickly smile.

Mr Carraway drew in a deep and angry breath.

‘That isn't the point,' Joanna said. She could not deal with this anger. Grief and worry, yes. That was to be expected. But not anger too. Not right now. It was too much. She was aware that they didn't even know about the Danielle Brixton case. She was also aware that if Molly didn't turn up, at some point she was going to have to tell them. Witness the change in their faces; watch their anger morph into terror.

‘I am headmaster at Westwood School,' Carraway said, very carefully, ‘and my wife teaches at Rudyard Special School. Molly is our only child.' His voice very nearly broke but he recovered himself with a quick shake of his shoulders and a mammoth effort, staring ahead of him as though challenging his eyes to let him down with the tears that threatened to spill down his face.

‘Tell me about your daughter,' Joanna began gently. ‘What is she like?'

Carraway bowed his head. ‘She is taking her GCSEs this summer,' he began. Joanna shook her head impatiently. She had asked about their daughter as a person. Not about her academic achievement. Then she realized that to a pair of teachers academic achievement was all.

‘As a young woman,' she prompted gently.

It was Beth Carraway who spoke. ‘She was fun, a high achiever, full of adventure. And  . . .' Here she eyed her husband and added, ‘patently she is not above the odd deception.'

‘You didn't know that she'd
ever
been to Patches nightclub with her friend, Clara?'

Beth Carraway shook her head and dropped her gaze. Her husband merely looked fierce.

‘Do you know whether she has a boyfriend?'

A pause, then another shake of the head. ‘Not as far as we knew,' Beth said with great and sombre dignity. ‘But then we obviously didn't really know her, did we?' She looked up, puzzled. ‘We thought she was concentrating on her studies, on getting a place at Uni. We thought—'

‘Come on,' Joanna said, glancing at Hesketh-Brown. ‘Just because she was a bit fun-loving it doesn't mean she wouldn't have worked to get into university. Was she allowed out at all?'

‘Yes.' Both parents spoke together. ‘She only had to ask.'

‘What was she wearing last night?'

Beth Carraway smiled. ‘Jeans,' she said. ‘So tight she could hardly breathe, with a floating top over them. Then a ski jacket.'

Joanna nodded. From what she'd heard so far that was not the description of what Molly Carraway had been wearing when last seen. ‘I'd like a list of friends,' she said. ‘Her mobile?'

‘We pay the bill,' Molly's father supplied.

‘The number?'

Beth Carraway produced her own phone, flipped through the numbers, selected one and handed it to Joanna, who promptly tried it. As before the number went straight through to answerphone. She brought out a pad and copied the number down. ‘And a photograph, please,' she added, ‘as recent as possible.' She glanced up at the large photograph over the fireplace. ‘Preferably not in her school uniform. Is there anyone else she might have stayed with? Another friend, possibly?'

‘We've tried them all.'

Beth Carraway stood up, agitated, and left the room, returning a few minutes later with some paperwork and a photograph. She gave a long look at the picture before handing it, without a word, to Joanna.

Joanna looked at it. Ah, this was more like it. The true Molly Carraway: laughing into the camera and beautiful enough to have been a model. Shining, long dark hair; an inviting expression in luminous, large dark eyes, heavily made-up.

‘She's lovely,' she said. Both parents nodded, the comment increasing their pain. In the hall the telephone rang and Beth Carraway jumped to her feet and was out of the door in the blink of an eye. In almost as short a time she was back, dropping into the sofa.

‘It was Clara,' she said.

Joanna pressed on. ‘Has Molly ever done anything like this before? Gone missing?'

Both parents shook their heads in unison.

‘And you say she doesn't have a boyfriend?'

‘There are a couple of lads she's friendly with at school,' Beth Carraway said, ‘not what you'd call a serious boyfriend but we've already rung them. They haven't seen or heard from her.'

Joanna made an attempted to reassure them. ‘In all probability she's just worried she's in trouble,' she said, ‘and is reluctant to come home.'

The Carraways looked at her almost pityingly.

She tried again. ‘It isn't likely that our attacker  . . .' she couldn't say the word rapist, ‘would strike again in the same place in such a short time.'

Philip Carraway shrugged. ‘I suppose there's something in that,' he said grudgingly.

‘Can I take a look at her room?'

It was Molly's mother who led the way up stairs.

‘I wonder if you'd mind if I took a superficial look through her things?'

Beth Carraway nodded. ‘Whatever will help you find her,' she said.

‘Anything. Please.' She stood back to let Joanna enter the room.

As she had expected it was tidy and very modern, with an en suite bathroom. One Barbie-doll pink wall, the others white. It was stark, with one wall entirely taken up with pale ash fitted cupboards. She pulled open the doors. On the inside were a few pin-ups of stars: Robert Pattinson, Robbie Williams, Brad Pitt, Daniel Craig. The clothes were mainly jeans, trousers, school uniform; the shoes Doc Martens, wedges, boots. No miniskirts, no skyscraper heels. Joanna pulled open a drawer. It was full of underwear: M&S, but smart. At the back of the wardrobe was a suitcase. Joanna pulled it out, laid it on the bed then opened it.

Inside was the other Molly. All the fashionable clothes her parents would have forbidden. La Senza underwear; the high heels. And. most revealing of all, a few packets of the contraceptive pill, Loestrin 20. It was obvious that Molly had been taking them. Beth Carraway sank down on the bed.

‘We didn't know our own daughter,' she said, dazed. Then, looking up at Joanna: ‘This girl,' she wafted her hand towards the contents of the suitcase, ‘is a stranger.'

There wasn't much Joanna could say. Which one was the real Molly? The almost saint-like, studious schoolgirl or this sophisticated and fashionable woman-about-town? Answer: both. Like most teenage girls there were two distinct sides to Molly Carraway. Light and shade, night and day, innocent and guilty. Joanna scanned the room. Which aspect of the girl had led to her disappearance?