House of Lies (Detective Karen Hart)

by D. S. Butler

  Chidlow sat back down at his desk and tapped his long, tapered fingers on the old-fashioned blotter. ‘Are we done?’

  Karen was about to tell him that no, they weren’t done, and they would have more questions for him in due course, but there was a knock and Graham Doyle poked his head around the door.

  He no longer looked angry, but nervous.

  ‘What is it?’ Chidlow snapped.

  But Doyle was so preoccupied he forgot to be deferential and polite to Chidlow and ignored him. Instead, he looked at Morgan and Karen. ‘Detective, the parents are here.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Doyle led them to the library, where the missing girls’ parents were waiting. It was larger than Chidlow’s study. Three walls were lined with bookcases, containing the same expensive-looking leather-bound books. French windows led out on to a terrace. A log fire in the large grate gave out welcome heat. The bottoms of Karen’s trousers were still damp, and she hadn’t been able to shake off the chill that seemed to pervade Chidlow House.

  There were three narrow sofas in the room as well as a number of armchairs. Despite all the available seating, the three adults in the room remained standing, tense. All three looked up expectantly as Doyle and the police officers entered the room.

  ‘This is Mrs Layton and Mr and Mrs Blake,’ Doyle said. He turned, nodding at the parents. ‘DI Morgan and DS Hart are the detectives I told you about.’

  Mr Blake stepped forward. He had a youthful appearance and tanned skin, dark hair and bright eyes. He was only a couple of inches taller than Karen. He’d loosened his tie and taken off his suit jacket. He’d probably been heading to work when he got the news.

  He thrust out his hand and said, ‘Ryan Blake. I’m Cressida’s father, and this is my wife, Jasmine.’ He gestured to the tall woman beside him. She had long, dark hair and an oddly blank expression. She wore a dark red shift dress and black cardigan, probably cashmere and expensive.

  Unlike Ryan, whose face was animated and clearly showed his distress at the situation, his wife’s face appeared impassive. Her skin was smooth and unlined, and it occurred to Karen that could be due to cosmetic surgery rather than a true lack of emotion.

  ‘And I’m Imogen Layton.’ The other woman who had been standing by the fire strode over to them.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Layton is an historian at the university,’ Doyle said, gazing at her with admiration.

  Imogen barely spared him a glance. She was tall with chin-length brown hair. A silk scarf in muted colours was tied around her neck. ‘Elegant’ was the first word that came to Karen’s mind as she assessed the woman.

  ‘Can you tell us what’s going on?’ Imogen asked, looking directly at Morgan. ‘All we know is that Mr Doyle here somehow seems to have lost our daughters.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Mrs Layton,’ Doyle said with a nervous, spluttering cough. ‘They’re teenagers. They probably went out last night, forgot the time and couldn’t get a taxi back. The weather has been awful.’

  All three parents glanced at the French windows, which were being lashed with rain – probably imagining their daughters out there alone, unsheltered.

  Graham Doyle could be right. In most of these cases the youngsters did turn up unharmed within a few hours. Though Karen had been a police officer too long to rule out other possibilities.

  ‘I can tell you what we know so far,’ Morgan said. ‘Cressida and Natasha went out together last night at nine p.m. Mr Doyle raised the alarm when they didn’t show up for breakfast at seven a.m. this morning.’

  ‘Yes, we got a call,’ Imogen said. ‘He told us to stay at home, but of course we couldn’t.’

  ‘And Natasha’s father? Has he been informed?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘He’s on his way. He was needed in surgery this morning.’

  ‘Would you like us to wait until he gets here?’

  ‘No, you can ask me any questions you have. Then I’d like you to get on with finding our daughters.’

  There was a click. Graham Doyle had left the room and shut the door behind him.

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ Morgan said.

  Jasmine was the first to gracefully sit on one of the sofas, and then Ryan, who’d been running his hand repeatedly through his dark hair, sat beside her. Imogen sat opposite them and Morgan and Karen sat in the wing-backed armchairs closest to the fire.

  ‘Were any of you aware that Cressida and Natasha had intended to go out last night?’

  ‘No,’ Imogen said. ‘Natasha was supposed to be studying. I would not have approved of an outing.’

  ‘No,’ Ryan agreed, his voice a little hoarse. ‘I don’t believe they’re supposed to be going out at all while they’re here. It’s a study week. They’re meant to remain on the premises.’

  ‘All right. And Cressida and Natasha were good friends?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Yes, they were close,’ Jasmine said, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Well, I don’t know how close they were,’ Ryan said. ‘But they were friends, certainly.’

  Imogen said nothing but Karen noted the way her facial features tightened, and she filed it away for later. Did she not approve of the friendship between Cressida and Natasha?

  ‘What about boyfriends? Was either girl seeing anyone?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Not Natasha,’ Imogen said without hesitation. ‘She knows she’s here to study. This is an important year for her, and there’s plenty of time for boys later.’

  Karen was surprised. Did Imogen really think that her seventeen-year-old daughter had no interest in romance and would be content to dedicate herself solely to academic study? That seemed unlikely from what Karen knew of teenagers. Still, they would talk to the young woman’s peers and get a fuller view of Natasha’s character.

  Morgan directed the next question to the Blakes. ‘How about Cressida?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Ryan said, running his fingers through his thick thatch of hair again.

  Jasmine looked down at her hands, clutched together in her lap. ‘She wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment.’

  ‘Do they have friends close by?’ DI Morgan asked.

  ‘Not very close. Most of Cressida’s friends are based in Grantham and Newark,’ Jasmine replied.

  ‘Same with Natasha,’ Imogen said. ‘She doesn’t know anyone in Harmston.’

  ‘And they both attend Markham?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Yes, both girls go to Markham School for Young Ladies,’ Imogen said. ‘It’s a private all-girls school near Grantham.’

  If they’d returned to the Grantham area, they would have needed a taxi or a lift from a friend, unless they were hitchhiking. The area wasn’t well served with public transport. ‘We’ll check locally, see if anyone has spotted them in the last twenty-four hours. If you could contact their friends . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’ve made a start on that already,’ Imogen said, impatiently tapping her foot.

  ‘We’ll talk to the other students on the course. With your permission, we’d like to search Cressida’s and Natasha’s rooms. We might find something that tells us where they’ve gone,’ Morgan said.

  ‘I really think you should be out there searching for them. That would be a better use of your time. You are planning a search, I take it?’ Imogen demanded, then turned to look out of the window.

  A search party in the pouring rain was not an inviting prospect. If a crime had been committed, it was likely some of the evidence had been washed away. But they weren’t at that stage yet. It was too early.

  ‘Right now, our priority is speaking to friends and family so we can build up a picture of Natasha and Cressida, understand their state of mind.’

  ‘State of mind? They’re teenagers. They were probably just trying to escape studying for a few hours, wanted to have some fun. They could be hurt, lying in a ditch somewhere. You should be searching for them,’ Ryan said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the window. ‘I have to agree with Imogen on that.’

 
‘I understand you’re worried, Mr Blake, but first we need to—’

  ‘You need to be out there looking for them,’ Ryan said, stabbing his finger at the window again and cutting Morgan off. ‘If you don’t go out there and start searching, then I will.’

  ‘We will organise a search, but we need to talk to the other students and teachers on the course to make sure we’re not missing something obvious first.’

  ‘But this is very out of character. Natasha wouldn’t just stay out all night. She knows I would be worried,’ Imogen insisted, gripping her hands together.

  ‘We will instigate a search in the next few hours if we haven’t found them before then, but on most occasions, missing teenagers do turn up. I know it’s a very worrying time,’ Karen said.

  Imogen pursed her lips together and turned her head towards the fire. Ryan Blake clenched his fists, and then folded his arms over his chest.

  ‘Do we have your permission to search their rooms?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘I really don’t see why—’ Ryan began, but Jasmine put a hand on her husband’s knee. ‘Of course you have our permission. We’re wasting time here arguing about it. Please do everything you need to do to find them.’

  Karen nodded. ‘We will.’

  Morgan was asking a few more background questions when the door to the library creaked open and Graham Doyle appeared, looking very smug.

  ‘Detectives, I’m sorry to interrupt, but your boss is here.’

  Their boss? Who did he mean? Superintendent Murray?

  This was proceeding much faster than any missing persons case Karen had worked on. Why was the disappearance of these particular students being prioritised? Karen couldn’t understand why the superintendent needed to be on site. This was certainly unusual.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Ryan said, standing up at the same time as Morgan and Karen. ‘I hope your boss will get the search underway. We’re all wasting time sitting around here chatting.’

  With a broad and, in Karen’s opinion, inappropriate smile, Graham Doyle led them from the library back to the entrance hall.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At first Karen didn’t recognise the bulky man standing near the front door. He wore a brown raincoat and water dripped from the hem. His short, grey hair was bristly and damp. He was talking to a teenage boy whose hunched shoulders and bowed head made his discomfort clear.

  At the sound of their footsteps the man turned around. Karen recognised him. It was the chief constable. Why was he here? What was it about this case that needed the presence of the chief constable?

  Karen wondered if she might get a chance to talk to him about the Freeman case. She’d been unable to get a meeting with him; Assistant Chief Constable Fry was the best she’d managed, and he’d been as much help as a chocolate teapot. If she could just get the chief constable on her side, it would make a huge difference. If he pushed the investigation, elevated its importance, they’d have a much better chance of tracking down the individuals involved in the corruption. But then, how could she be sure she could trust him?

  Was he here because he was connected to Lord Chidlow in some way? The thought made Karen’s stomach clench.

  The chief constable smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. ‘Detectives.’ He held out his hand to Morgan first.

  ‘Chief Constable John Grayson,’ he said, shaking Morgan’s hand.

  ‘DI Morgan, sir. And this is DS Hart,’ Morgan said as Karen held out her own hand.

  The chief constable shook it heartily and said, ‘Good, good. I asked the superintendent to put her two best detectives on this case, so I’m expecting good things.’

  He’d asked the superintendent?

  Things were slowly sliding into place. The chief constable definitely had a personal interest in this case. Was he going to order them to go easy on Chidlow?

  ‘And this is my son Ethan,’ Grayson said, slapping the boy on the shoulder.

  The final piece of the puzzle. Now the quick response time made sense. Ethan had been attending the study week, and Grayson was eager to get the situation resolved. Perhaps a little underhanded to use his position, but two kids were missing, the same age as his own son. He’d want the matter cleared up as soon as possible.

  She held out her hand. ‘Hi, Ethan. You’ve been studying here this week, have you?’

  Ethan, who’d been staring at the floor, managed to raise his gaze to meet Karen’s. ‘Uh, yeah.’

  ‘Did you know Natasha and Cressida?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Not well. I mean . . . I knew them from this study programme, but we didn’t go to the same school or anything like that.’

  ‘You hadn’t met them before this week?’ Morgan asked.

  The boy risked a quick glance at his father and then shook his head.

  ‘Did they tell you where they were going last night?’ Karen asked.

  Ethan’s gaze slid to the floor again. ‘No. I was the one who saw them when they left, and I thought they might be going to the local pub. I asked them, but they didn’t want to tell me.’

  ‘They didn’t invite you to join them?’ DI Morgan asked.

  Ethan gave a wry smile. ‘No. They were popular, you know. They didn’t want to be seen hanging around with someone like me. It was different if Cressida wanted me to do something for her.’

  Chief Constable Grayson frowned. ‘What do you mean, Ethan? You’re popular. You’re on the rugby team at school. You’ve got plenty of friends.’

  Ethan’s cheeks coloured. ‘Not like them. They thought a lot of themselves, at least Cressida did. Reckoned I was immature. Said she wouldn’t be seen dead with someone her own age.’

  ‘She said that last night?’ Karen asked.

  ‘No, a couple of days ago. Last night she didn’t say much. Just something like “I don’t think so” when I asked if I could tag along.’

  ‘Cressida was seeing older men?’ Morgan asked.

  Ethan nodded. ‘I think so. I don’t know names or anything, but Cressida said she didn’t waste time with boys.’

  ‘What did you mean when you said it was different if Cressida wanted you to do something for her?’ Karen asked.

  He shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Oh, nothing really. Just if she needed help with a maths problem or something, then she’d pay attention to me.’

  Karen looked at John Grayson. His concern for his son was obvious. She’d been wrong. He was here for Ethan, not as a corrupt favour to Lord Chidlow.

  She needed to keep her mind on the case but couldn’t help wondering when she’d get a chance to speak to the chief constable alone. She couldn’t pass up this opportunity. But perhaps it was better to wait until after they’d spoken to Ethan and the other students.

  Morgan continued to talk to Ethan using questions that weren’t pressing or accusatory, but the kid looked uncomfortable. Every now and again he raised his hand to cover his mouth, shooting a nervous glance at his father. Was he seeking reassurance? Or worrying he might say too much?

  ‘Would you prefer to go somewhere quiet to talk, Ethan?’ Karen asked, aware of the PC standing in the doorway and Doyle sitting at the reception desk, holding a phone to his ear but not talking. She was pretty sure he was trying to listen in.

  Without waiting for his son’s reply, Grayson slapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder again. ‘Good idea. Yes, let’s do that.’

  Karen walked over to the desk where Doyle was sitting pretending to be on the phone. ‘Is there somewhere we could talk to the chief constable and Ethan in private?’

  Doyle put a hand over the mouthpiece and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m actually in the middle of a phone call, Detective.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  Doyle’s jaw dropped, but he kept the headset clamped to the side of his head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re not on the phone to anyone,’ Karen said, pointing at the display on the telephone, which showed the date and time and nothing else. She had a similar handset, and if a ca
ll was active, the telephone number was displayed on the small screen. The date and time were only visible when a call wasn’t connected.

  Doyle slowly replaced the handset. ‘Well, I was on the phone. It’s just been disconnected.’ He stood up and huffed, ‘Follow me.’

  He led them along the right of the entrance hall and then into another corridor, very similar to the one on the left that led to Chidlow’s study and the library.

  He opened the door to a small office. ‘This is the room I’ve been using. You can use it . . . for now.’

  He left, closing the door behind him.

  Grayson sat on a padded computer chair, and Ethan removed a cream-coloured paperback with a red title from the back pocket of his jeans and put it face down on the floor, before sitting on a stool. There were no other chairs. Karen considered going to look for some but decided they couldn’t afford to waste time. She leaned against the large windowsill, and Morgan remained standing. It wasn’t the ideal way to question Ethan. He was already nervous, and having Morgan tower over him while asking questions wasn’t going to put him at ease.

  ‘Can you tell me in your own words exactly what happened last night when you saw Cressida and Natasha?’ Karen asked.

  ‘I was bored. I was hanging around the house, looking for something to do, and I heard them coming downstairs. They were talking and laughing. I didn’t hear what they were talking about, but I noticed they were dressed up and wondered where they were going.’

  ‘Can you recall exactly what they were wearing? That could be helpful,’ Karen said, getting ready to make a note on her phone.

  ‘Um . . .’ Ethan looked up at the ceiling and chewed on his lip for a moment before answering. ‘Cressida was wearing blue jeans and a coat. It was black or maybe brown, a dark colour anyway. I think she was wearing a white top underneath.’

  ‘And how did she have her hair?’

  ‘It was, um, I don’t really remember.’ His forehead creased in concentration. ‘I don’t think she had it tied up . . .’

  ‘Okay. And Natasha?’

  ‘She wore her hair loose. It’s curly and comes to about here.’ Ethan pointed at a spot below his shoulders. ‘She had on a green fitted top and a black wool coat over the top. Black jeans and black boots with a low heel. She had pink lipstick on, silver earrings and a silver chain. She didn’t have a bag with her.’