by D. S. Butler
They were halfway through the study week now, which meant only a few more days of relative freedom. She was determined to make the most of it. Though they weren’t supposed to leave Chidlow House, no one was monitoring their movements now, except the programme director, Graham Doyle, who felt it was beneath him to interact with students anyway. The other teachers went home at seven. They were supposed to be supervised overnight by two adults – Doyle and a young teacher called Alison King. But Miss King had fallen from the roof.
Natasha shivered. That had been awful. The police had been called and everyone was talking about it. Some of the students had treated the whole affair as an opportunity to gossip and spread rumours. Had she jumped or had the Drowned Lady of Chidlow House pushed her off the edge? It was childish. Only kids were scared of ghosts.
It was a shame; Natasha had liked Miss King. She had to admit her death meant . . . but no, she wouldn’t think about that now. Tonight she was supposed to be having fun.
The ghost rumours were daft, but inevitable really. According to some of the other students, Miss King had told Graham Doyle she’d heard dripping water and whispering in the hallways at night.
Of course, that set all the boys off. They made up more stories about the Drowned Lady, trying to frighten anyone who’d listen. Natasha and Cressida were far too mature to fall for that nonsense, but there was something about this old, creepy house that made her almost believe the stories could be true. She’d never admit that though. Cressida would think she was a baby.
She heard a noise outside the door and assumed it was Cressida. With a wide smile she flung it open, but there was nobody there.
She frowned and looked up and down the hall. Empty. Then she noticed the note. Her name was scrawled in blue biro on the piece of lined A4 paper, which was folded into quarters.
Someone must have shoved it under the door and run off. No doubt one of the immature boys on the course.
Natasha leaned down, snatched it up and skimmed the jerky writing. When she’d finished reading, she scrunched the paper up into a ball and then chucked it into the wastepaper bin under her desk.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ she muttered, and then realised she sounded exactly like her mother.
There was a knock at the door. This time it really was Cressida.
Her friend’s eyes were bright. Her long, shimmering blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She smiled, showing off dimples. ‘Well, are you ready?’
‘Of course. Can’t wait to get out of here.’ Natasha tossed her hair, wishing it shone as prettily as her friend’s.
After locking her door, she linked her arm through Cressida’s and they set off along the corridor.
When they reached the main staircase, they saw Ethan. He was a police officer’s son, and Natasha found him creepy. His eyes were close-set and he was . . . watchful. Every time she glanced his way, he was looking at her. And even when she didn’t look at him, she could feel his eyes on her.
‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.
‘None of your business,’ Cressida said, and shared a smirk with Natasha.
‘If you’re going to the pub, I could come,’ Ethan said. He constantly tried to tag along. Yesterday he’d sat, uninvited, at their table for lunch. Today he’d lingered behind them in the library, burying his head in a copy of The History of Chidlow House when they’d noticed him.
Cressida said he was sad and desperate. That didn’t stop her using him though. She’d copied his answers from the algebra assignment, made him run errands and given him little tasks. Cressida was right. He was desperate. Desperate to impress.
‘I really don’t think so,’ Cressida said, and pulled Natasha along.
Before they passed him, Natasha saw Ethan’s cheeks flush a deep red. For a split second Natasha felt bad but then pushed the guilt away. She shouldn’t care so much about other people. Cressida was always saying it was about time she put herself first. Natasha worried too much about what other people thought of her, especially her mother.
Cressida often told her to stop being such a boring goody-goody.
A secret smile played on Natasha’s lips as she hugged her arms to her chest. She turned away so Cressida wouldn’t see. She didn’t want her friend to suspect anything, and there were some things she couldn’t talk about. Especially with Cressida.
Cressida unlocked the French windows, then pushed them open before stepping out on to the patio. Natasha followed, trying not to look at the stone slabs beneath her feet. Miss King had landed on the patio. The area had been cleaned, but Natasha still didn’t want to look down.
The moon was huge in the sky, and in the distance, the surface of the lake – home to the Drowned Lady – shimmered through the trees. The grounds were beautiful and looked after by the gardener, Mike. He was a bit odd, but all the girls on the course had a crush on him. He was the dark and brooding type. An interesting man, not a silly little boy like Ethan.
Mike used a stick to get around and rumours swirled about how he’d injured his leg. Ethan said he’d heard the gardener had been wounded when he’d been in the army, but Cressida reckoned he’d been born with a twisted, deformed leg. Ella said she was positive he’d hurt his leg in a car accident. But none of them knew for sure. And he wasn’t the type of man you could just ask about that sort of thing. He wasn’t friendly. A shouted hello and a wave might get you a nod if you were lucky. He was secretive and silent, and the air of mystery around him only made him more interesting.
Even Cressida was fascinated by him, though she wouldn’t admit it. Natasha suspected it was because he’d ignored her when she’d tried to flirt with him. She hadn’t liked that at all.
The air was cold, making Natasha’s eyes water and her nose run. She sniffed as they headed across the lawns.
‘Are we still going to the pub?’ she asked, surprised at the route they were taking.
‘We’re going to meet someone first,’ Cressida said with a grin. Her face fell into shadow as a cloud drifted over the moon.
Natasha blinked in surprise. ‘Who?’
But Cressida just laughed and said, ‘It’s a surprise.’
They were heading in the general direction of the gardener’s cottage. Natasha’s mouth was dry. She felt a flutter in her stomach – a mixture of anticipation and fear. It was one thing to watch Mike roam the grounds during the day. Then he seemed fascinating, like an angry, misunderstood hero from a romance novel. But now, in the dark, as the shadows shifted around them, the gardener was less appealing. What was thrilling and exciting during daylight now felt dangerous and threatening.
Once they reached the cover of the trees to the right of the lawn, Cressida said, ‘Did you know Lord Chidlow’s staying at home this week?’
‘The owner?’ Natasha had seen a portrait of him somewhere in the house. She couldn’t remember where. Perhaps the dining hall. He looked intimidating, with piercing eyes and a long sharp nose, greying hair and jowly cheeks.
‘Yes. And he’s super rich. I thought I might try to seek him out tomorrow. Maybe accidentally stumble into his private quarters.’ She winked.
Natasha pulled a face. ‘But why? He’s ancient.’
Cressida shrugged. ‘I’m into older men.’
There was older and then there was older. Natasha stared after her friend, but Cressida was moving quickly along the tree line towards the lake. Natasha hurried after her. She was pretty sure Cressida was just trying to sound mature and impressive. But with Cressida, you never really knew.
CHAPTER TWO
At seven forty-five on Friday morning, Karen Hart got out of the shower after another sleepless night. She wrapped herself in a towel and ran a hand through her short, dark hair. Despite taking the same route from the bathroom to the bedroom every day for years, today she managed to stub her toe on the bathroom cabinet.
A string of curse words left her lips and she put a fist to her mouth to smother them. She limped down the hallway to the bedroom with gritted teeth.
<
br /> She had just finished buttoning her blouse when her mobile phone rang. She snatched it up from the nightstand.
‘DS Karen Hart.’
There was a pause and then, ‘Karen? Is everything all right?’
It was her boss, DI Scott Morgan. She wasn’t surprised at the concern in his voice. She knew she sounded angry, and her bad temper wasn’t only down to the pain in her foot.
It was now October, and despite efforts by Internal Affairs, DI Freeman still hadn’t been charged over his involvement with the Cooks, a local family who’d been trafficking vulnerable people. Every day, Karen tried and failed to put the matter behind her. The idea that Freeman might get away with everything he’d done was sickening, and Karen’s fury made it hard to concentrate on anything else.
‘I’m fine. I just stubbed my toe coming out of the bathroom. What is it?’
‘Two missing kids,’ he said, pausing to let his words sink in.
‘Again?’ Karen’s grip tightened on the phone. A previous investigation, when two schoolgirls went missing in Heighington, was still fresh in her mind. It had been the first important case they’d worked on together.
If there was one thing guaranteed to take her mind off her own problems, it was working on a time-sensitive case. She didn’t know where she’d be without her work and the rest of her team.
‘This one’s different. They’re seventeen-year-old, female A-level students. They attend Markham but have been taking part in an intensive study week at Chidlow House, in Harmston.’
Karen grabbed her suit jacket and left the bedroom with her phone tucked between her chin and shoulder. ‘How long have they been missing?’
‘No one’s sure. One of the other students saw them leaving at nine p.m. last night, and no one saw them return. Their absence was only noticed when they didn’t turn up for breakfast this morning.’
Karen frowned as she made her way downstairs. ‘And we’re already on the case?’
‘Yes, the superintendent called me directly. She wants us to act quickly on this one.’
‘I understand,’ Karen said. But she didn’t understand, not really.
Two teenagers sneaking out at night wasn’t unusual. The fact they hadn’t returned was worrying, but it wasn’t yet eight a.m. Not much time had passed since it was noticed the girls were missing. Karen liked to think her team was conscientious and quick to act in cases like this, but that was pretty fast even for them. What was behind this eager response? Were either of the girls known to be a high-risk target for abduction? Children of diplomats and heirs to foreign thrones were known to attend Markham School for Young Ladies.
Karen shook her head. The school sounded like a relic from a previous century!
‘They could have gone to a party, stayed out all night and crashed at a friend’s house,’ Morgan suggested. ‘With any luck they’ll turn up soon looking sheepish.’
‘But the super wants us to investigate straightaway? Talk to the parents, check local CCTV?’
‘Actually, she wants us to get to Chidlow House ASAP. There’s a lot of pressure on this case.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure yet, but I’m sure we’ll soon find out.’
Karen marched through the kitchen looking for her handbag and eyeing the coffee machine sadly. She wouldn’t have time to get her usual fix before leaving today.
‘I take it the parents have been informed and the youngsters haven’t just got sick of studying and gone back home?’
‘Correct. Both sets of parents are coming to Harmston. They live locally so they might be there before us.’
‘All right, I’ll meet you there.’
After she hung up, Karen grabbed her bag and car keys and headed for the door, hoping this was a case where she could really make a difference. She needed something to get her teeth into and to take her mind off the failing investigation into DI Freeman’s corruption.
She returned her neighbour’s wave before getting into her Honda Civic, but didn’t pause for a chat. She was growing tired of explaining to Christine that there were no new updates on the corruption investigation and of seeing her own disappointment mirrored on her friend’s face.
A few months ago, the team had come across a criminal network paying off members of Lincolnshire Police. Although two traffic officers had been kicked off the force for their role in bungling the investigation into the accident that had killed Karen’s husband and daughter, their informant had also named DI Freeman, an officer who Karen had been very close to and trusted, as the man behind the cover-up. He had been taken off active duty but hadn’t been punished in any other way. It was bad enough that he wasn’t behind bars; the idea of him returning to active duty made Karen furious.
Last month, Karen had made an appointment with the assistant chief constable, Kenneth Fry, to ask that he pay particular attention to the case. But he hadn’t seemed particularly responsive. Though his face was a mask of pity as they talked, Karen couldn’t help thinking he was putting it on. His sympathy was an act, and not a particularly good one. All he really wanted was to make the right noises, tick the correct boxes and get Karen out of his office.
During the meeting, Karen had calmly stated her case, but the ACC hadn’t seemed interested, and when she’d pushed him, asking for actions rather than words, his faux sympathy had slid away, revealing his irritation.
‘I can assure you, DS Hart, that procedures are in place and followed to the letter,’ Fry had said. ‘We can’t simply take the word of a criminal informant against one of our officers, who I might add has never made a single misstep in the past. How would you like it if an accusation was levelled at you and we acted before a thorough investigation?’
Karen had only just managed to keep her temper. ‘I’m not asking you to act without one. I’m asking you to make sure there is one.’
‘I realise you have suffered a terrible tragedy, but this is starting to feel like a witch hunt against DI Freeman, which I can’t condone. I know it’s extremely difficult for you, but I must ask you to be patient while we conduct the inquiry.’
Patient! It had been months and they seemed to be no further on.
The superintendent had been kind enough to keep Karen updated, but there weren’t many updates to be had. As time drew on, she began to feel that DI Freeman was going to get away with his part in covering up the story behind her husband and daughter’s deaths, and it made her blood boil.
The rain hammered down as Karen drove into Harmston. The small village sat on the Lincoln Cliff. Though Lincolnshire was well known as a flat county, it certainly had a few steep hills scattered here and there.
Wet brown and yellow leaves carpeted the sides of the road, impairing drainage, and the heavy rain made it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. The windscreen wipers clunked rhythmically from side to side. She was impatient to get there but knew in this weather she had to take it slowly.
Chidlow House was one of two grand houses in Harmston; the other was Harmston Hall. Both houses had been constructed along the cliff line, overlooking the countryside for miles and boasting a view of the Derbyshire Hills on a good day. Though she doubted anyone could have seen more than a few metres in this rain and visibility.
Finally locating the turnoff at the gatehouse for Chidlow House, Karen indicated and then stopped at the police barrier. Tape had been set up and a policeman in a waterproof coat and hat stood miserably beside the stone gatepost.
He shuffled over to the car as she lowered the window.
‘DS Karen Hart.’
The officer held up his notepad to make a note and then re-covered it with a waterproof top sheet. ‘Doesn’t look like there’s much chance of it clearing up.’ He nodded up at the heavy grey clouds.
‘No, forecast says it will be like this all day.’
He nodded again, looking even more despondent.
Karen thought of the evidence. If this was a crime scene, vital information could be washed away, making it much har
der for them to do their job.
The police officer hunched his shoulders and returned to his sentry position after lowering the police tape.
Karen drove along the winding lane leading up to the property. A flurry of leaves swirled around the car as she turned the final corner and got a proper view of the house.
It was an impressive sight. Perhaps even more impressive than Harmston Hall. She didn’t know too much about Chidlow House, and identifying the owners would be a top priority. Many of these old ancestral homes weren’t in private use anymore, but rather used for hotels or conference centres. The upkeep of such huge buildings took its toll on even the richest members of society. Karen imagined the heating bill alone would make her eyes water. The front was imposing. The building was constructed from local stone, and a parapet, decorated with gargoyles, gave the impression of a mostly flat roof, though some green slate was just visible.
Karen understood that Harmston Hall, which was less than a mile away, had once been used as a home for the ‘mentally defective’. A chilling term, and a reminder of how a lack of understanding had led to people being incarcerated for years with no hope of ever getting out. As far as she knew, however, Chidlow House had always been privately owned. Times must have been hard if the owners had taken to letting it out for a study week.
She pulled up at the front of the building, parking between a marked police vehicle and DI Morgan’s car. Then she took a moment to take in her surroundings. There was a grand portico entrance, with stone steps leading up to it. On the left she could make out a terraced area looking out on to fading flowerbeds and lush green lawns leading to a wooded area. The heavy rain made it difficult to see any further.
Glancing up at the house, she judged it to be three storeys, unless there were more rooms in the attic. In one of the upper-storey windows she saw a flash of movement. Someone was watching.
CHAPTER THREE
Karen lifted the hood of her raincoat and got out of the car. Within seconds, the bottoms of her trousers were soaked.