by Jo Carnegie
The piece caused incredible uproar. In the House of Commons the next day, a Conservative MP for Millford-On-Sea attacked Gordon Brown, accusing him of ‘raping our country for unscrupulous financial gain’. In the papers, columnists had howling debates about the countryside, asking what place landowners had in society, and whether or not the power of the building contract industry had got out of hand.
‘I have no comment to make,’ said a smug, oily Sid Sykes on the six o’clock news that night, after reporters ambushed him coming out of a private golf club in Essex. ‘Apart from the fact that I am a victim of persecution by those lucky enough to have been born with a silver spoon in their mouths.’
Freddie, watching the bulletin, had been so incensed he’d taken off his deck shoe and flung it at the television screen. ‘Utter crap,’ he howled. ‘We just don’t want you ruining one of the most beautiful places in the country, you bloody scoundrel!’
Within twenty-four hours, the story had spread across the national press and Churchminster had become the most famous village in Great Britain. Brenda, ever with an eye for a deal, had had some commemorative ‘The charms of Churchminster’ tea towels printed, and was doing a roaring trade selling them at the local shop. Coach-loads of tourists were turning up every day to visit the Meadows, making a macabre stop at the rectory to see where the Revd Goody had met his untimely end, before popping into the Jolly Boot for lunch, ever hopeful that they might discover Devon Cornwall propping up the bar.
The village felt like it was under siege but everyone tried to remain stoic. ‘I’m sure when the ball is over, it will all return to normal,’ Angie said consolingly when Freddie came home fuming one day after a tourist had jumped out in front of his car, only to ask if he knew Liz Hurley.
‘That’s all very well to say, but what if they never bugger off?’ huffed Freddie. ‘Place is turning into bloody Disneyland!’
It was turning everyone’s lives upside down, but the added interest did wonders for ticket sales. Several more A-list stars had got their agents to ring and confirm they were coming, and the remaining few tickets were quickly sold. Some even ended up being touted on the black market for extortionate amounts of money.
Donations for the auction were also coming in thick and fast. Churchminster’s plight struck a cord with many in other parts of green-belt country. Angie Fox-Titt was so overwhelmed, she seriously wondered if they might actually have to start turning things down. The Daily Star even tracked down nineties green activist Swampy and offered him twenty grand to sit in one of the huge horse-chestnut trees in the Meadows for a month, wearing only an ‘Oo-ah Daily Star’ jock strap and a pair of hobbit ears.
One evening in early October Devon was in his study checking through his email when a new message popped up in his inbox. Devon didn’t recognize the sender, but opened it anyway. The message from Jagger’s people was short and sweet. He could do it!
Excited, Devon picked up the phone and called Frances’s mobile, knowing the number by heart now. After several rings she picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Frances, you sexy broad, guess what? I’ve got some bloody great news. I think Mick’s going to do a number at the ball!’
There was a slight hesitation before Frances spoke. ‘Oh, that’s simply marvellous!’ she said politely. ‘I shall inform the committee first thing tomorrow.’
Devon clocked on. ‘You with his nibs? Look, I’ll call you later.’
‘Yes, that is correct,’ she said formally.
‘What are you wearing?’ asked Devon mischievously.
‘Yes, I am sure they will all be thrilled,’ was the gracious answer.
‘Not that lace bodice with the silk ribbons?’ he asked and groaned theatrically down the phone.
Frances was clearly not in the mood for indulging him. ‘I hope your, er, cough gets better. Ambrose and I are just with the Duke and Duchess, we’re nearly at the opera. Thank you for letting me know, goodbye.’ She cut him off, leaving Devon chuckling. She was going to bend his ear for that!
Sure enough, a few minutes later a text arrived from Frances. ‘You shit! Am with Charles and Camilla. Make you pay for that!’ it read. Grinning, Devon texted back. ‘U better!’
At No. 5 The Green, Camilla was on her bed, rereading the article in Soirée, when there was a quiet knock on her bedroom door and Calypso peered round. ‘Hey, can I come in?’
Camilla moved up the bed to make room for her. ‘Of course, Muffin, come in.’ Calypso threw herself down and sighed dolefully.
‘Is everything all right?’ Camilla asked, putting the magazine down.
Calypso propped herself up on her elbows. ‘I just finished with Sam.’
‘Oh!’ said Camilla, not really knowing how to respond. ‘But I thought you two had been getting on so well . . .’
‘We had, until recently,’ Calypso replied. ‘I don’t know. I’m just like, soooo busy with all the ball stuff, and she was always on at me to spend more time with her. I suppose if I’d really wanted to, I would have, but I didn’t, like, want to. It made me realize how different we are. She thinks this ball is really stupid, and I should just move down to Brighton with her, but, Bills, it’s really important to me!’
‘It is to all of us, darling,’ said Camilla.
‘Exactly! You know, it’s made me think about a lot of things, like how lucky I am to live in a place like Churchminster and have a family like you. But Sam didn’t see it that way. It was totally doing my head in.’
‘Have you just spoken to her now?’ asked Camilla.
‘Yah, she went, like, mental,’ said Calypso. ‘Said I’d be back sucking some toff boy’s knob before I knew it. Sorry, you probably didn’t want to know that. It made me realize I’ve deffo done the right thing, though.’
‘If you’re happier now, then it is the right thing,’ Camilla told her. She gave her a hug. ‘At least I won’t have to go out with Lola now,’ she joked. ‘I can’t believe I gave her my number!’
‘Nah, she’s cool,’ said Calypso. ‘She did think you were pretty fit, though!’
‘Can you imagine if Angus had seen us?’ gasped Camilla. ‘Oh, I am naughty.’
‘He’d probably have started beating Lola off with his shooting stick and thrown her out to the Labradors!’ said Calypso and the sisters collapsed into uncontrollable giggles.
The next morning, Frances phoned Clementine to tell her the good news about Mick Jagger. She was understandably thrilled. They had a short conversation about all the media attention, ruefully agreeing the publicity had done them wonders.
Then Frances phoned Gate Cottage to tell Harriet. Harriet had stuck pictures of the Rolling Stones on her bedroom wall when she was younger; she’d be over the moon to hear they’d got Mick.
There was no answer at the cottage. No answer on her mobile, either. Frances guessed Harriet must have gone out and accidentally left her mobile at home. She left messages on both phones, telling her daughter she had some extremely exciting news and Harriet should call her immediately.
By that evening Frances still hadn’t heard from Harriet. It was so unlike her. Slightly irritated, Frances picked up the phone in her private sitting room and called down to her husband’s study extension.
‘Yes?’ he barked, picking it up after the second ring.
‘Did Harriet tell you she was going out anywhere today?’ she asked Ambrose.
‘Don’t think so, she’s probably still in a bit of a sulk with me,’ he said gruffly. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, I can’t get hold of her,’ said Frances, suddenly feeling a bit shaky. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll see you at eight for dinner.’
But by then, she could barely touch the light lemon sole prepared by Cook, who hadn’t seen Harriet either. Despite Ambrose’s assurances that Harriet was probably with friends somewhere, Frances took his golf buggy and drove down the lane to Gate Cottage. The place was in darkness. She tried Harriet’s home phone again: nothing. Frances returned to the house and called Cami
lla. ‘I am trying to get hold of Harriet. Have you spoken to her today?’
Camilla’s answer only worried her all the more. ‘No, we were meant to meet for lunch at the pub and she didn’t turn up. I’ve been trying to call her all afternoon. I thought maybe she’d forgotten, but it’s—’
‘So unlike her,’ they both chorused together.
Camilla sounded very small and frightened at the end of the line. ‘Oh, Lady Fraser, do you think she’s all right? It’s just, after what happened to the Reverend . . .’
Frances took a moment to answer, and when she did, her voice wavered slightly. ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘If you hear from her, will you let me know?’
She rang off and stared into the darkness outside her window. Her mother’s instinct had kicked in properly now. Something was definitely wrong.
After an unbearable sleepless night, at six in the morning she tried both phones again: no answer. She pulled on a wax jacket and wellies over her silk pyjamas and walked down to Gate Cottage. It was exactly as she had left it. Frances tried the back door. It was open. Inside, the air was still and oppressive. As if on autopilot, Frances made her way upstairs to her only child’s bedroom. Mouth dry, she pushed open the door, flicked on the light switch and . . .
Nothing. Harriet’s bed hadn’t been slept in. Harriet was normally very tidy but there were papers and clothes strewn around the room. A vase that stood in the fireplace had been knocked over, dried flowers spilling out over the carpet. Had someone else been in here? Something metallic, half-sticking out from under the bed, caught her eye. Frances knelt down to pick it up. Harriet’s mobile phone, with dozens of missed calls on it from her and Camilla. Frances could feel the nausea rising in her stomach. Harriet never went anywhere without her phone. Frances couldn’t pretend any longer!
She ran out of Gate Cottage and up the drive, tears streaming down her face. Rushing into the Hall and up the stairs, she flew into her startled husband’s bedroom. He listened to her frantic story and immediately called 999. Exactly twenty-one minutes later, as the village was waking up, two police cars with blue lights on wailed up the drive to Clanfield Hall.
Chapter 45
THE FOLLOWING DAY dawned as if in mourning, dull, grey and wet. Down at the station, Ambrose and Frances were sitting in Chief Inspector Haddock’s office waiting to be interviewed by DI Rance. No sludgy brown liquid from the coffee machine for them: they were drinking Earl Grey out of bone china cups, the tea made by Chief Inspector Haddock’s secretary. He was on a day off, but had phoned through strict orders to Rance to bend over backwards to accommodate them. Now the daughter of Sir Ambrose Fraser had gone missing, things had taken on a whole new importance. Haddock was just waiting for the Super to call him, apoplectic. The new Police Commissioner Sir Rodney West was a personal friend of Sir Ambrose’s.
Rance sat across the desk in front of them. He had a headache, probably brought on by the front page of the Bedlington Bugle that morning. ‘Serial Killer In Our Midst?’ screamed the headline. That was all he bloody needed! The nationals were even worse, after all it wasn’t often the daughter of a baronet went missing. Rance hoped the parents hadn’t seen the papers. He looked across at them.
‘When did you last see your daughter?’ he asked carefully.
‘The day before yesterday,’ said Frances. Sitting perfectly upright in a rather grotty plastic chair, Frances was wearing a navy-blue Valentino suit. As ever, her blonde chignon and make-up were immaculate. Only her pale face and slightly reddened eyes hinted at the turmoil she was going through.
Ambrose, on the other hand, couldn’t keep still, and was jiggling his leg impatiently, his cheeks flushed red and raw-looking. He leaned forward. ‘I don’t care what it takes, man,’ he yelled. ‘Just find our daughter!’
Rance did not like being shouted at, but he could see the pressure the older man was under. ‘Sir, we are going to do everything in our power to get her back to you,’ he replied through gritted teeth. He surveyed the couple before asking his next question.
‘Any reason for your daughter to run off? Any fights or arguments we should know about?’
‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Frances. ‘I mean she did have a bit of a tiff with her father recently, but it was nothing, really.’ Rance raised his eyebrows at Sir Ambrose.
‘It was just about the blasted car park for this ball we’re having,’ he boomed. ‘We had words about the best location, and I put her straight. But my wife is right, it blew over. Storm in a teacup.’
All three of them studiously avoided the subject of anything more sinister having happened. After a few more questions, Rance decided to leave it for the time being. He offered to escort them out through the station.
‘It was just about the bloody car park,’ Sir Ambrose muttered again as the couple walked towards their shining Bentley. His voice had suddenly become quiet and subdued. ‘If she’ll just come back to us, she can put the blasted thing where she bloody well wants to.’
Everyone was in the incident room looking up at the large white board. A picture of Harriet, looking sunburnt at Ascot the previous year, had been stuck up next to a photo of the Revd Goody. Photos from both bedrooms had also been blown up and pinned there. DI Rance had given a press conference that morning, in which he had gravely informed the assorted press crammed into Bedlington town hall that they were investigating the disappearance of thirty-year-old Harriet Fraser. He emphasized the police were not currently linking it to the murder of the Revd Arthur Goody, even though everyone in there thought differently.
‘The official line is that we’re keeping an open mind and still treating these as two separate inquiries,’ Rance told his team. ‘But behind closed doors, we could well have a double murder on our hands. We’ve just got to find the body.’ He turned to the wall. ‘Both cases have a lot of similarities. Only the master bedrooms of both properties seem to have been disturbed, indicating they may have been attacked in the night when they were asleep. We know Harriet Fraser was a neat person and we assume the Reverend kept his bedroom fairly tidy. Yet, as you will see, both rooms were left in a state of disarray, which does indicate a possible struggle with a person or people unknown. Forensics are dusting for fingerprints at Gate Cottage. As you know, two sets of prints have come back from the bedroom – the Reverend’s and another we haven’t been able to identify. Let’s see what we get back from Gate Cottage. If we get a match, we’ll know we’re definitely looking at the same guy. If we come up with zilch, it may mean our killer is getting clever and has started wearing gloves. If that is the case, then we have to get him—’
‘Or her,’ interrupted a female detective.
‘Or her,’ said Rance. He continued, ‘Then we’ll have to get the killer another way.’
He let the others digest his words. ‘All Harriet Fraser’s clothes are still in her wardrobe. Including a signet ring with the family crest that her parents had made for her eighteenth. According to them, she never left the house without it. This also applies to her mobile phone, which was found under the bed. Harriet’s wallet has gone missing, which means the perpetrator could have stolen it. I want one of you to get on to her bank – I think it’s the same one the Queen uses – and see if her cards have been used anywhere.’
Rance dished out further orders and the meeting broke up, but not before he had instructed DS Powers and PC Penny to do the house-to-house calls again. ‘Ooh, can I ask some more questions this time?’ squeaked Penny.
Powers looked less than impressed at the prospect. ‘Guv, do we have to?’ he grumbled. ‘We didn’t find diddly squat last time. Maybe send someone else, eh? A fresh pair of eyes?’
‘I want your eyes, so button it,’ said Rance crossly. ‘You’ve both got a head start, you know the patch. So get yourselves out there again.’ Powers stood up muttering, only slightly mollified at the thought of seeing Angie and Caro’s chests again. He left the room with PC Penny trotting at his heels like a faithful Yorkshi
re terrier.
Chapter 46
CAMILLA WAS UTTERLY distraught at her best friend’s disappearance. Like Frances and Ambrose, she couldn’t bring herself to think the worst had happened. The whole Standington-Fulthrope family, dreadfully upset themselves, all rallied round her. Her parents called twice a day from Barbados to check up on her and see if there was any progress on the case. Camilla started having dreadful nightmares and waking up screaming and drenched in sweat, so Calypso shared her bed on the nights she wasn’t with Angus.
Camilla also handed her notice in at work. ‘I was going to anyway, for the wedding.’ She spent hours walking Errol Flynn, working on the ball, and feverishly cleaning No. 5 The Green. Anything that would keep her busy and stop her thinking what could have happened to her dear, dear Harriet. Her absence was like an awful, yawning chasm. The pair had been in contact every day for most of their lives; if not seeing each other, then by phone and ‘Forever Friends’ cards and, later on, emails and text messages. Camilla didn’t know what to do without Harriet. She couldn’t face up to the fact she might be dead.
Ambrose was taking it badly as well. At night, Frances would hear him restlessly pacing the corridors of Clanfield Hall, then by day he would shut himself away in his study. A six-figure reward put up by the couple had gone unclaimed. There had been several false leads, including one from a deranged-sounding caller from Hull who said he’d seen Harriet working as a topless go-go dancer at the local working men’s club. DI Rance and PC Penny had endured a hellish four-hour drive up there to find out that ‘Harriet’ was actually a transvestite called Helena who looked no more like Harriet Fraser than Rance did Sylvester Stallone. He had cursed about wasting police time all the way back down the M62.
A week after Harriet had disappeared, Frances had been overcome with helplessness. Desperate to feel like she was doing something, she had worked long into the night making up posters of Harriet, and the next day she had asked Jed to drive her round so she could pin them up. It had ended up taking them three days, and Frances had had so many kind words from the well-wishers she came across, it had threatened to crack her famous poise on several occasions.