by D. S. Butler
‘Do you have any other angles from inside the restaurant that would give us a better view?’ Sophie asked.
Mr Clark shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid not. We’ve only got one camera inside. I set it up myself, trying to save money.’
‘What about when they entered or left the restaurant?’
‘No. I mean, we do have a CCTV camera outside, as you know, but unfortunately that gets overwritten every forty-eight hours. I didn’t think there’d be a reason to keep it any longer than that. And the more data you store, the more expensive it is on the cloud plan I’ve signed up to. That’s why I installed the internal one myself, to save a bit of money and use a hard drive to store the recordings.’
‘I understand. Do you remember how they paid? Can I see the card receipts for Monday night?’
He gave her a regretful look. ‘You can, but I remember he paid cash. It stuck in my mind because it was unusual. Most people pay by card these days.’
Sophie stabbed a piece of fusilli with her fork. ‘Shame,’ she said. ‘It’s not going to be very easy to identify him.’
Mr Clark looked sympathetic. ‘No, I don’t envy you that job. But could I tempt you with a bit of garlic bread to go with that pasta?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No, really. You’ve been kind enough.’ And as she stared at the footage, she forgot about Mr Clark lingering by her shoulder and instead focused on all the details of the man on the screen. Was there anything unusual about him? Any birthmarks? Tattoos? Nothing she could see.
Natasha looked normal, happy. Had this man hurt her? Was he the one who had taken Natasha and Cressida? Sophie rubbed her eyes and sighed. Even if they couldn’t identify him from the footage, it might help jog Cressida’s memory.
Sophie called Karen from the car when she’d finished viewing the footage.
‘So you can’t see his face at all?’ Karen asked.
‘No, it’s going to be very hard to identify him.’
‘Right. I think we need to go and see the Laytons. Did you take screenshots?’
‘I did, yes. None of them are very clear, although they are very good images of Natasha.’
‘All right. Well, it’s going to be difficult, but I think we need to see them in person. Let’s see if Natasha’s parents can identify him or if they know who she was going out with on Monday night.’
‘Do you want to meet me there?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yes, I’m going to leave Chidlow House now. They’ve stopped the search.’
Sophie couldn’t miss the sadness in Karen’s tone. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘It’s so difficult when everyone wants to keep searching, but there’s not much point when it’s this dark.’
‘No. They’ll start up again tomorrow at first light. We’re going to dredge the lake.’ Karen paused and then added, ‘I can meet you at the Laytons’ in about ten minutes. Do you have their address?’
Sophie confirmed she did before hanging up.
The heavy despondency in Karen’s tone really hit home. It wasn’t often Karen got that way. She was usually the one driving forward for answers, ever the optimist. Believing they were always just one step away from a breakthrough.
But now that they’d found Cressida so traumatised, it didn’t bode well for Natasha. Sophie didn’t have as much experience as Karen, but even she knew that.
Karen’s Honda Civic looked tiny in the enormous driveway. She was standing beside the fountain close to the entrance, gazing up at the Laytons’ property.
It was certainly a beautiful house. A large, red-brick, detached home with steps up to the entrance and a Virginia creeper winding its way over the walls, showing off its beautiful red leaves.
She parked her car beside Karen’s.
‘Have you been here long?’ Sophie asked, walking over to Karen.
‘No, I’ve only just got here myself. Ready?’
Sophie nodded. She had the screenshots on her phone. There hadn’t been time to print them out.
They knocked on the front door and waited. As the doorbell chimed inside, Karen said, ‘I spoke to the family liaison officer. It’s Siobhan. She knows we’re coming.’
Before Sophie could reply, Siobhan opened the door. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Mr and Mrs Layton are expecting you. They’re in the kitchen.’
Sophie walked behind Siobhan and Karen into a sleek, modern kitchen. Everything was white. The tiles on the floor, the units, the sink and even the taps. The effect was dazzling.
Huge sliding glass doors lined one wall, looking out on to the garden. A large white sofa sat in front of the glass, and to its left was a seating area and a dining table for ten.
Imogen Layton stood beside the kitchen counter, leaning on it. ‘Detectives,’ she said in a strained voice. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, coffee?’
Todd Layton rose from the dining table, where he’d been sitting with his head in his hands. ‘Forget tea or coffee,’ he said. ‘Have you found her?’
‘We haven’t found her yet,’ Karen said quickly. ‘As you know, we’ve found Cressida, and we’re trying to find out if she knows where Natasha is.’
‘Why isn’t she talking?’ Imogen pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Surely she can just tell you where Natasha is.’
‘She says she doesn’t know.’
‘But that makes no sense,’ Mr Layton said. ‘She was with Natasha. They left together last night.’
‘I know, sir,’ Karen said, ‘but Cressida says she can’t remember what happened.’
‘She has to remember,’ he said, raking a hand through his thick auburn hair. ‘That’s just ridiculous. How can she not know what happened? She was with Natasha.’
The man’s pain was clear to see, and Sophie awkwardly clutched the files to her chest. From his point of view, they should have carried on questioning Cressida through the night until she remembered. That’s what anyone would want the police to do for their daughter, but they couldn’t.
If Cressida said she didn’t know what had happened to Natasha, they had to respect that. There was a chance that they’d left the house together and then separated, though it was unlikely. The most logical scenario, in Sophie’s opinion, was that the girls had gone somewhere together. Something terrible had happened, and in an attempt to protect herself, Cressida had blocked it out.
She understood Todd Layton’s pain. If it had been her, if someone in her family was missing, she’d want Cressida questioned over and over again until she remembered, as cruel as that might be.
‘They’ve got something to show you,’ Siobhan said. ‘Here.’ She put her hand on Imogen’s forearm. ‘Why don’t I make us all a cup of tea. You can sit at the table and the detectives can tell you what they’ve found.’
Imogen remained frozen to the spot. ‘You found something?’ She looked horrified, as though she expected them to say they’d found something of Natasha’s, something that might indicate that her daughter was dead.
‘It’s CCTV footage,’ Sophie said quickly. ‘We want you to have a look at it. It’s Natasha in the company of a man we would like to identify.’
‘With a man?’ Todd Layton said. ‘Who? She wouldn’t be with a man. You mean one of the teachers from the course?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sophie replied. ‘We can’t rule it out though. We hoped you could have a look at the images and see if you recognise him. It’s not the best angle, I’m afraid.’
She walked to the dining table, put her phone down and accessed the images as Todd and Imogen stood either side of her.
Karen pulled out a chair. ‘Why don’t we all sit down,’ she said.
Imogen picked up the phone first and flipped through the screenshots, shaking her head. ‘Is this all you’ve got? There’s no shots of his face at all.’
‘I know,’ Sophie said. ‘That’s down to the angle of the camera, unfortunately.’
‘When was this taken?’ Mr Layton asked, taking the phone from his wife.
‘Monday evening, s
even thirty p.m.’
‘This Monday just gone?’ Imogen asked.
Sophie nodded.
‘That makes no sense. I spoke to Natasha at six o’clock on Monday. She told me she was going to spend the evening studying. She said the place was a total bore because there was nothing to do, so she may as well study.’ She shook her head, pressing a hand to her forehead. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Is there an actual video of this?’ Mr Layton asked. ‘I want to see it.’
‘There is, but we haven’t got it with us at the moment, sir,’ Sophie said. ‘This is the best view of the man who was with Natasha that night.’
He frowned. ‘In this picture he’s got his hand on hers.’ He looked up angrily at Sophie. ‘Who is this man? Surely you must be able to use some kind of recognition software or something, in this day and age?’
‘We won’t be able to do that from this footage,’ Karen said. ‘We’d hoped you would know who Natasha was out with on Monday evening. Any names you can think of could be helpful.’
He shook his head. ‘Natasha wouldn’t, she couldn’t . . .’ He trailed off.
‘I know it’s a bit of a shock,’ Karen said, ‘but if you do have any ideas . . . If anything comes to you later, then please tell Siobhan and she’ll pass it on to us. We’ll keep you updated. Siobhan’s staying here tonight – is that right?’
Siobhan nodded. ‘Right.’
‘If there are any developments overnight, Siobhan will wake you.’
‘I don’t think I’ll get any sleep tonight,’ Imogen said.
Mr Layton grabbed the phone again and stared at the image of his daughter. ‘I’d like to get my hands on this man.’
‘We need to identify the man and talk to him, but we don’t yet know if this man took Natasha, or even if Natasha is with him now,’ Karen said.
‘I’m not an idiot, Detective,’ Todd Layton snarled. ‘I’m well aware that it’s very likely I’m looking at the man who’s taken my daughter.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Karen got into her car and checked the time. Quarter to ten, and she felt bone-weary. She craved a glass of wine, but the Co-op in Branston would be shut by the time she got there, and she didn’t have any wine at home.
She drove away from the Laytons’ huge house and a short distance away pulled into a lay-by, where she sent text messages to Morgan and Rick letting them know the Laytons hadn’t been able to identify the man with Natasha on Monday night.
It was too late to phone Alice and ask for more information on DCI Churchill. She’d have to return her call tomorrow.
Despite the fact that she felt tired enough to drop off while she was standing up, she knew she wouldn’t sleep well tonight. She needed someone to talk to.
The logical choice was to call in on Anthony, her old boss. She could ask him what he knew about DCI Churchill, but it was too late to visit him. Anthony was retired, happy with his slippers and his crossword. He’d probably be tucked up in bed by now.
So Karen called the person she’d come to rely on over the past few months.
It took a while for Morgan to answer. ‘Karen, everything all right?’
‘Yes, it’s not about the case,’ she said hurriedly, knowing he’d assume she was calling about Cressida or Natasha. She told him about Alice’s voicemail. ‘Do you know DCI Churchill?’
‘No, but then I haven’t been in Lincolnshire as long as you have. I take it he’s an officer from the Lincolnshire force?’
‘I think so,’ Karen said. ‘I’ve heard of him, but I haven’t worked with him. I was going to head home, maybe check through some of the old files to see if I could find any mention of him in the cases Freeman worked, try to work out if there’s any connection between the two men.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Morgan said, but he didn’t volunteer to join her, which surprised Karen.
‘I could bring the files to you if you fancy going over them with me for an hour. I mean, unless you’re busy . . .’ She trailed off.
He didn’t answer straightaway.
Morgan was a night owl, usually not going to bed before midnight, but he sounded preoccupied tonight. She wondered if he’d dozed off and her call had woken him.
‘You could come to my house, but I haven’t got any wine,’ Karen said, ‘and I could really do with a glass of red.’
‘I’m sorry, Karen,’ Morgan said. ‘I’m actually busy at the moment. Jill’s here. We’ve just had dinner.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Karen said, sitting up straighter in the driver’s seat and pressing her hand to her forehead. She hadn’t even considered the possibility he’d be seeing someone tonight. Jill was new on the scene.
‘So it’s still going well between you two? That’s good,’ Karen said. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘It’s fine. You didn’t disturb us. It’s just that’s why I can’t go through the files tonight,’ Morgan explained.
‘Of course, yes. It was stupid of me to call anyway. It’s late. I’ll let you go. Give my regards to Jill.’ Then Karen hung up.
She’d completely forgotten about Jill. How had that happened? Was she really so focused on herself and her own problems she didn’t consider anyone else actually having a personal life? Just because her life began and ended with work didn’t mean that was the case for everyone else.
He’d told Karen about his date with Jill a few weeks ago, but had Morgan mentioned her again since? She couldn’t remember. No, he couldn’t have done. She would have remembered if he had. She wasn’t that self-involved, was she?
They hadn’t been seeing each other long. If she remembered correctly, Jill was a cousin of Lisa in admin, and Lisa had decided they’d make a great couple.
That was a few weeks ago now, so Karen guessed they must have hit it off. Good for him, she thought.
She meant it. She was glad he’d found someone. Morgan deserved to be happy, didn’t he? So why did she suddenly feel so alone?
She’d come to depend on Morgan. They hadn’t done much more than pore over the files together, but having someone there, trying to help, even if they hadn’t got very far, had made her feel better. Knowing someone was on her side, someone who wanted justice for her and her family, had been invaluable.
She shoved her mobile back in her bag and drove towards Branston. It was just after ten when she got home, and instead of going inside after she parked the car, she walked along the main road and then turned on to the long driveway leading to Branston Hall. The bar would still be open.
The trees rustled in the wind. Almost-bare branches reached up to the dark, cloudy sky. Thank goodness it wasn’t still raining. She headed inside, through the stone-pillared entrance, walking on the soft red carpet. She was lucky, having this place just across the road.
The bar and restaurant were mainly for residents of the hotel, but she knew a couple of locals who used the bar. Though they probably wouldn’t be here at this time. She scanned the bar to see if Paul, one of the regulars, was about, but there was no sign of him. Shame. She would have liked to see a friendly face and had a chat to pass the time, take her mind off the day.
The bar was quiet. They’d stopped serving food and the tables were empty. A couple sat huddled together on the sofa in front of the huge fire, but there were no other customers in the bar area.
The chap behind the bar looked up as Karen walked towards him. ‘Quiet tonight?’ she asked.
‘It is now; we were busy earlier and there’s a big group in the restaurant,’ he said. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I’ll have a glass of red, please,’ she said, and he poured her a glass of Shiraz. ‘I’ll pay now,’ she added, not wanting to be tempted into a second glass.
After she paid, she took a seat beside the palms at the window. It was cooler there than in the more comfortable seating area by the fire, but she wanted to give the couple some privacy. Besides, being around loved-up people wasn’t an attractive proposition at the moment.
>
She could see the tops of the flames from where she sat. She loved that fire, the huge cosiness of it, blasting out heat. The Hall had a very different feel to Chidlow House, she thought as she sipped her wine. Branston Hall felt comfortable, lived in and loved, even though it was a hotel now. She wondered whether the echoes of the past made a difference to how people viewed places. Not the house itself, because that was obviously just raw materials – bricks and mortar – but how the stories and history of a place might influence opinions. The portraits of the sad women on the staircase had probably influenced how Karen felt about Chidlow House.
There were many big old houses concentrated in this small area. Branston Hall, of course. Washingborough Hall wasn’t far away. Then there was Hainton House, which was near the pub in the village. Hainton, a former rectory, had been converted into flats; Washingborough Hall, like Branston, was a hotel; and some of the other larger family homes had been converted into nursing homes. Large houses weren’t often privately owned these days, for good reason. It cost a fortune to keep up with repairs.
As she sipped her wine, she scrolled through her phone looking back at the reports Sophie and Rick had filed that day. None of the teachers had backgrounds that would warrant suspicion. Even so, she’d ask Sophie or Rick to follow up with them in person tomorrow. It was easier to read people when they were sitting in front of you. Not so easy when you were talking on the phone and you couldn’t see their facial expressions.
She looked at her half-finished glass of wine and felt a pang of guilt. It seemed wrong to stop working, to relax, when Natasha was still missing. Logically Karen knew that she couldn’t work twenty-four hours a day, and there was no point continuing the search when darkness fell. And there were only so many times she could ask a traumatised teenager the same questions before having to let her go home.
Her phone pinged with an incoming email. It was from Farzana. She and Rick were working late tonight. She reported that the interior of the house had been searched except Chidlow’s study, the room beside the bathroom on the girls’ floor and the cupboard in the bathroom. Chidlow had told Farzana he’d been unable to find the keys for the locked room and cupboard. He’d insisted both were only used for storage.