by D. S. Butler
It was only seven fifteen. Murray didn’t usually get in until eight during the week. The early start on a Sunday wasn’t a good sign.
Karen put her handbag in the desk drawer, draped her coat over the back of the chair and then headed upstairs. As it was Sunday, Pamela wasn’t at her desk, so Karen rapped on the office door.
‘Come in.’
Karen opened the door and entered. Superintendent Murray sat behind her desk. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips were pressed together, forming a thin line.
‘Good morning, ma’am,’ Karen said. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Not really, Karen,’ Murray said. ‘Take a seat.’
When Karen sat, Murray asked, ‘How do you think the investigation is going?’
‘Slower than I’d like, but I feel we’re close to a breakthrough. Lord Chidlow has been charged.’
‘Do you believe he killed Natasha Layton?’
Karen hesitated. ‘I don’t know. We have no evidence to prove his involvement.’
‘I see.’
‘But we are making progress, ma’am. What’s wrong? Is the chief constable making demands?’
‘No,’ Murray said. ‘On the contrary, he’s given us his full support and has been full of praise for the way you and DI Morgan have handled the investigation.’
Karen tried to hide her surprise. That was good news. She told the superintendent the information Harinder had passed on earlier, trying to convince her that they were making progress, albeit not as fast as they’d have liked.
‘We need results quickly, Karen.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
Murray took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘The Blakes have made a complaint through their lawyer. They’re not happy with how the investigation has been handled. They say the way the police have hounded their daughter is equivalent to harassment. You can see the optics don’t look good.’
‘Harassment? I can assure you, ma’am, we’ve not harassed Cressida. We simply want to talk to her about what happened. We need to interview witnesses and the Blakes are trying to prevent us talking to their daughter again. I know it’s difficult for the girl but—’
The superintendent put up a hand. ‘I know. But the Blakes are upset, and angry. The situation could develop into something serious if their legal representatives press ahead with this harassment claim.’
‘Well, they can’t prove it, ma’am, because it simply isn’t true.’
‘Even if it isn’t true, it will be a public relations nightmare.’
‘I know this has been awful for their family, but the Blakes got Cressida back. Natasha’s parents . . .’ Karen met Murray’s assessing gaze. ‘They deserve answers, ma’am. And if talking to Cressida is the only way to get those answers, then that’s what we have to do.’
‘I take it you have no objection to having their legal representative and both parents present every time you speak to Cressida?’
‘If that’s what you think is necessary, ma’am, that would be fine,’ Karen said stiffly, wondering why on earth the Blakes felt they were being harassed.
It was understandable the family wanted to be left alone to come to terms with what had happened, but when there was an ongoing investigation that wasn’t possible. With every hour that passed, the case grew colder and their leads faded away.
‘I’ll suggest that and hope it calms the waters. Now, I’ll let you get on,’ Murray said.
As Karen reached the door, the superintendent said, ‘I’m glad the chief constable has shown his support.’
‘Shown his support, ma’am?’
‘Yes. I had an internal memo yesterday. He’s putting together a new team to look into Freeman’s corruption and is planning weekly briefings.’
‘Really, ma’am? I hadn’t heard anything about it.’
‘No, well, like I said, I only got the memo yesterday. But there’s a good chance we’ll get somewhere now that the chief constable is putting the pressure on.’
‘That’s great news,’ Karen said. She refrained from adding, It’s about time.
When she got back downstairs, she spotted Morgan entering his office.
She followed him in, and as he shrugged off his coat, said, ‘Good result on Chidlow.’
‘Yes. Now we need to get someone in the frame for Natasha’s murder.’
‘Harinder’s working on her phone today, so we should find some communications on there if she didn’t delete them. That could generate new leads.’
Morgan nodded. ‘I hope it does. We could really do with them.’
‘There’s one piece of evidence I want to follow up on today. The CCTV. We haven’t identified the man who was in the restaurant with Natasha on Monday night. I’m going to take a file of photos to the restaurant. Pictures of all the teachers who were on the course, Doyle, Harrington, Ethan and even Chidlow, though he doesn’t have dark hair. I want to see if the owner recognises any of them as the man who had dinner with Natasha.’
‘Yes, I think that’s a priority,’ Morgan said.
‘I’ll show the restaurant owner a photograph of Ryan Blake too. His hair is dark.’
‘Ryan Blake. Cressida’s father?’ Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Yes, why not? He’s got dark hair, and the young women were friends, so it’s likely he came into contact with her.’
‘His wife said he was with her on Monday evening.’
‘Yes, and we all know that wives sometimes cover up for their husbands,’ Karen said. ‘Besides, his behaviour is suspicious. Did Superintendent Murray tell you the Blakes have claimed we’re harassing them?’
Morgan sat behind his desk and frowned. ‘No, I haven’t spoken to the superintendent today.’
‘They’re not happy with the way we’ve been trying to get Cressida to open up. According to the Blakes, I’ve been calling too many times, making demands on their time.’
Morgan switched on his computer, his frown deepening. ‘I suppose they have been through a very traumatic event.’
‘Even so,’ Karen said. ‘It feels . . . like he’s trying to keep us at arm’s length, like he has something to hide.’
‘Perhaps he’s just trying to protect his daughter,’ Morgan suggested.
‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s trying to protect himself. It can’t hurt to include him among the photos.’
‘I agree. Let me know how you get on.’
Karen left Morgan and sat at her desk, sorting through the photographs. After she sent the files to the printer, she focused on a headshot of Ryan Blake. It was from the DVLA, his driver’s licence photo.
Blue eyes, dark hair and a smug look on his face. He had every reason to be smug. No money worries, a happy home and multiple exotic holidays every year, which kept his tan topped up.
What was he afraid of? Could he be trying to protect Cressida, as Morgan had suggested? It was possible. Naturally a father would want to put his daughter first, but to go as far as to stop them questioning Cressida when the man who’d killed her friend and quite possibly abducted Cressida was still out there?
Material evidence in a case like this was crucial, but thanks to the weather conditions, it had been hard to come by. Karen liked behavioural evidence. It didn’t hold up so well in court, but she had found it was often the key to a case.
She liked to focus on suspects whose actions didn’t add up. Most behaviour could be explained when the full story was revealed.
Mike Harrington’s surliness made sense when you considered the loss of his child.
Chidlow’s attitude and pure creepiness was a tip-off to the fact he was a voyeuristic predator.
And Doyle’s selfish, snobbish tendencies explained why he didn’t care about anything but himself and how the incident would affect his business.
The reason for Ethan’s odd behaviour had become clear once she’d realised he was a lonely kid who had a crush on Natasha and was trying to impress her. He had tried to scare people so that he would feel he
mattered. That he wasn’t being ignored. Though Karen still wasn’t completely sure he’d been working alone. He struck her as the easily led type.
Jasmine Blake wasn’t as reluctant as her husband to let Cressida talk to the police. Karen believed she genuinely wanted what was best for her daughter.
Then they had the Laytons, Natasha’s parents, and their behaviour. The mother, a history professor with an idealised view of her daughter, and a workaholic father – both devastated, shocked and horrified. All reactions she would expect.
But back to the Blakes, on the other hand . . . Jasmine Blake was concerned for her daughter, but also eager to cover up for her husband. Karen hadn’t missed the way she’d been quick to say she and Ryan had been at home on Monday night.
It might be time to look at Mr Blake more closely. She could check his credit card receipts, track his vehicle over the past week.
Ryan Blake thought his family was being harassed when the police were actually treating them with kid gloves. They’d seen him as a victim. First as a father with a missing child, then as the parent of a traumatised victim.
He had no idea what harassment really was. Or maybe he did. This claim could be a ruse to stop them sniffing around him and his family. Was he worried about what they would find?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Karen turned up at the restaurant clutching a file containing the images of all the men with dark hair who were known to have come into contact with Natasha recently, as well as a few stock photographs.
The restaurant was closed, but after she’d rung the bell three times, the door was finally opened by a bleary-eyed man of about forty.
Karen held up her ID. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Clark.’
The man’s eyes widened. ‘Is this about the missing girls? I’ve spoken to one of your colleagues already.’
‘Yes, that was DC Sophie Jones,’ Karen said. ‘Can I come in? I have a few more questions.’
‘Of course. Sorry, it was a late night.’ He stepped back, opening the large glass door for Karen to enter. ‘I heard you found a body.’
News travelled fast in small villages.
‘Yes, we did. Sadly we found Natasha Layton.’
‘So young.’ He shook his head. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘That would be lovely, thanks.’
He made the drinks using the fancy chrome espresso machine near the bar area, and gestured for Karen to take a seat.
She sat at one of the dark wood tables.
He brought over two tiny cups of coffee and sat opposite her. ‘Now, how can I help?’
‘We want to identify the man who was dining with Natasha on Monday evening.’
‘Yes, I thought he might be important. I let DC Jones look at the internal camera footage, but unfortunately the external recordings were wiped.’ He put his elbows on the table, leaning forward. ‘You haven’t managed to identify him yet?’
‘No.’ Karen put the folder flat on the table. ‘I’ve brought some photographs that I want you to look at. I’d like you to tell me if you recognise any of the men.’
‘You think one of them was the chap with Natasha Layton on Monday?’
Karen laid the photos across the table. ‘It’s possible.’
She selected the first image and pushed it forward. It was Edward Chidlow.
‘Oh, I know who that is,’ he said, taking a sip of his espresso and nodding. ‘Yes, that’s Lord Chidlow. He’s the owner of the hall, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Has he been in here at all?’
Clark shook his head. ‘No, unfortunately not.’
‘Unfortunately?’ Karen asked.
‘Well, his presence might have generated some business. Things have been quiet since we opened. Word of mouth hasn’t quite taken off. Speaking of which, if you could recommend us to any of your friends or colleagues . . .’ He smiled at her hopefully.
‘Sure,’ Karen said, slightly thrown at the change of subject.
She pulled out another image, this time of Doyle.
Clark looked it over, his forehead creasing. ‘I don’t know. He kind of looks familiar, but I don’t think I know him.’
‘He wasn’t here on Monday?’ Karen asked.
‘Not with Natasha, no.’
‘Okay. And this gentleman?’ Karen slid forward an image of Mike Harrington.
Harrington stared out from the picture, his dark eyes angry. The photograph had caught his mood well.
‘I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night,’ Clark said, grimacing. He pulled the printout closer.
Karen held her breath as he stared at Harrington for a long time.
Finally, he said, ‘No, he hasn’t been here, and he definitely wasn’t here with Natasha on Monday. The man was a bit younger and more . . . well groomed.’
Karen glanced at Harrington’s photograph. Harrington was not the type to buff his nails or trim his eyebrows, unlike Chidlow and Doyle. She could picture Chidlow taking great care over his appearance, perhaps partaking in a weekly face mask, maybe a regular pedicure. And Doyle was a dapper chap. He was thinning on top, but she suspected he dyed his hair to hide the grey. He wore cravats, crisp white shirts and tailored trousers. Karen had never seen him in casual clothes.
‘Okay, and this one,’ she said, uncovering the image of Ryan Blake.
Clark grabbed on to it, pulled it towards him and then nodded. ‘Yep, it’s him. Definitely. I recognise the eyes and his hair. His hair was black, carefully styled. I asked him if he had Italian ancestry. He laughed and said not as far as he knew.’
‘You’re sure,’ Karen said, leaning forward.
She’d known Ryan was shifty and suspected he was trying to hide something, but she hadn’t anticipated this. Why would he be eating dinner with Natasha without his daughter?
‘Were they alone?’ Karen asked. ‘Was there another young woman with them?’
‘No, it was just the two of them.’
‘Did they look intimate?’
‘Well, they weren’t exactly all over each other or anything, but they looked – yes, I’d say they looked like a couple. At first I thought he might be her father, but thinking back, they were pretty cosy.’
Karen exhaled a long breath. ‘Thank you very much for your help,’ she said, stacking the images, shuffling them back together and then putting them in the file.
That had certainly been a twist she hadn’t seen coming.
‘Would you like another coffee?’ Clark offered as Karen stood up.
‘No, thank you. I have somewhere to be,’ she said, and then mentally added as she walked out of the restaurant, and an arrest to make.
An hour later, Karen and Morgan knocked on the Blakes’ front door. It was painted a shiny, cheerful red.
Ryan Blake opened it. His dark hair was neatly styled, combed back from his forehead. His youthful, expressive face was guarded, and he frowned when he saw them.
He tried to close the door. ‘As I’ve already told your senior officers, I’m sick and tired of you harassing us.’
‘We’re not harassing you, Mr Blake. We’re simply conducting an investigation, and we’d like your help with that. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated,’ DI Morgan said.
Ryan hesitated with the door half closed. ‘Well, it’s not a convenient time. My wife is out at the moment getting groceries, and Cressida is at a friend’s house, trying to put this awful situation behind her.’
‘So you’re home alone, sir?’ Karen asked.
He nodded stiffly. ‘Yes, and it’s a good job I am. If Cressida were here to witness you turning up on our doorstep, pestering us again, she’d be upset. Now, if you don’t mind, please leave and telephone before calling on us next time. If you need to speak to Cressida, you must make an appointment through our solicitor.’
Morgan put up his hand to stop the door closing. ‘It’s not Cressida we need to see this time. It’s you.’
Ryan Blake’s hands fell from the door. He pa
led. ‘Me? What do you want with me?’
Confusion played across his face. Half smiling, half frowning, as though he couldn’t quite work out what facial expression to use to look innocent.
Nice try, Karen thought. ‘Can we come in?’
He didn’t reply.
She turned, looked over her shoulder and then back at Ryan. ‘We could carry on this conversation on your doorstep, but it might give your neighbours something to gossip about.’
His face was now positively ashen. He gestured for them to come in.
‘Fine. Come through to the living room.’
He didn’t offer them a drink. Instead, he nervously paced in front of the marble mantelpiece. Karen and Morgan sat down on opposite ends of the huge cream sofa.
‘Now, perhaps we could start with a fresh slate, Mr Blake. The last thing we want is for you to feel we’re harassing you,’ Karen said.
‘Well, this isn’t a very good start,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘You’ve turned up without invitation yet again.’
He was trying to keep up the outraged-parent act, but they’d rattled him.
‘But surely you want us to catch the culprit. Whoever traumatised your daughter and killed Natasha is still out there.’
‘Of course I want them caught. That doesn’t mean I want my family disrupted and upset.’
‘Perhaps you could tell us where you were on Monday evening,’ Morgan said.
Ryan blinked. ‘You already know. My wife told you we were at home all evening.’
‘All evening, Mr Blake?’ Karen asked, keeping her face blank and unreadable.
He swallowed hard. ‘Yes, that’s right. All evening.’
Karen leaned forward, placed the image of Natasha in the restaurant on Monday night on the coffee table and then tapped the shoulder of the unidentified man. ‘We believe this is you, Mr Blake.’
‘What? That’s preposterous. It’s not me.’ He looked at Karen and then at Morgan, trying to judge how much they knew.
‘There’s no point lying anymore, Mr Blake,’ Morgan said.
Ryan didn’t say anything for some time. He scratched the back of his head, his eyes fixed on the pale cream carpet. Then he looked up. ‘I need my solicitor.’