Cherringham--A Lesson in Murder

by Neil Richards

  10. Secrets and Lies

  Sarah slipped through the doors of Florence House then waited, not moving, in the hall.

  Silence. Not a sound.

  Everyone’s watching the hockey. I hope …

  She knocked on the office door. No response. Tried the handle. Locked.

  Now she walked over to Emily Braithwaite’s room. Turned the handle. Still locked. She swallowed, then took her make-up case from her handbag, opened it up, and removed a small nail-file.

  Then she crouched down and inserted the file into the lock on Emily’s door.

  Back in the summer, over a few beers on the Grey Goose, Jack had given her a 101 in lock-breaking, sharing the skills he’d ‘acquired’ while serving as one of New York’s finest.

  “You’re a natural,” he’d told her as she opened every lock on the boat inside five minutes and won herself another beer in a friendly wager.

  So far she hadn’t had to use those skills.

  Funny, she thought. I don’t have a problem hacking into people’s computers — but breaking into their homes is different.

  With a satisfying click she felt the tumblers fall inside the lock. She pulled out the file and tried the door. It opened.

  She slipped inside and shut the door quickly behind her.

  She looked around. She stood in a small carpeted hallway — to one side an expensive-looking gilt mirror, on the other, a classic hallway table flanked by wall pictures.

  More like being in a smart town apartment.

  One door faced her — she pushed it open and entered a big living room, with wide windows that gave onto dense woods at the side of the school.

  Nobody’s going to see me from there, she thought.

  She looked around the room, trying to get a sense of the woman who had lived here.

  Wooden floors, expensive carpets, two big sofas, a coffee table with stacks of magazines. A desk with a state of the art Mac. A wall of photos, mostly it seemed taken at the school, happy groups of staff and pupils of all ages.

  The tall smiling woman at the centre of most of them must be Emily Braithwaite, thought Sarah.

  Sarah walked the room slowly, taking in everything: on the walls — lots of modern art — big, colourful, bold. But also small watercolours, portraits. Tall shelves of books. A wall of records — vinyl.

  A Bose sound system.

  She opened a pair of folding doors to reveal an elegant kitchen. Sarah could see tasteful wood, lots of cookbooks, more paintings, low designer lights hanging over a dining table.

  She took it all in. Style, broad interests, good taste — but also warm with the comfort that only money brings.

  Confident. Relaxed. An apartment made for socialising, for guests, for conversation.

  Emily Braithwaite knew how to live.

  So what had gone wrong in her life?

  And was her death in some way connected to the mysterious events that had been going on in the school?

  Somewhere in here Sarah knew she had to find the answer …

  *

  Jack sat quietly in the main entrance hall. He heard a door shut somewhere further down the office corridor, then footsteps receding.

  He stood up and went to the window.

  He could see Ms. Groves, coat on, heading out of the building towards the sports fields.

  He went back to his chair, but didn’t sit. Instead, he stood silently, listening to the building, breathing slow, tuning in to whoever was nearby.

  He heard voices from down the corridor.

  Raised voices.

  Interesting.

  What was it Gavin had said? Such a friendly school …

  He went to the door, pulled it open, then listened.

  Male voices — raised. He recognised Weiss.

  Then another voice he didn’t know — American.

  They were arguing. Jack strained to catch all the words.

  “… you promised me, Weiss … cast-iron guarantee …”

  “… not possible, I can’t control … ”

  “… small fortune … in this together or …”

  He thought about moving down the corridor, listening outside the office door …

  But before he could, Jack saw Weiss’s office door burst open. He stepped back into the hall and watched as a tall, tanned man in blazer and chinos emerged from Weiss’s office and strode down the corridor towards him.

  Jack could see him cursing under his breath: the guy was clearly furious.

  Jack moved to one side as he marched past and headed out through the main doors.

  “Brennan? What are you doing here?”

  Jack turned: Weiss now stood in the doorway to the offices.

  “Mr. Weiss,” said Jack. “Another satisfied parent?”

  Jack watched Weiss stare blankly at him.

  Guess he doesn’t appreciate my sense of humour, he thought.

  “As I recall you agreed to let me know before you came back here?”

  “I had a couple of questions for you, which couldn’t wait,” said Jack. “Not after what happened last night.”

  “Hmm. Oh … that. Well you’d better come through to my office.”

  Jack watched him turn and head back down the corridor.

  He doubted whether he was going to get straight answers.

  But the questions had to be asked.

  *

  Sarah sat back at the desk and waited while the hard drive on the Mac copied to the portable drive she’d brought with her. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of minutes to bypass the security and access Emily’s computer.

  The transfer though was taking longer.

  She felt uneasy. Maybe she was kidding herself that she’d got used to hacking a computer when a case really needed it.

  Was it because Emily was dead? And in such a violent manner?

  The Mac pinged that the transfer was done. She turned it off and pocketed the drive. Back home she would have time to go through the contents.

  Right now she needed to see if there was anything here that might explain Emily’s death.

  But the thought that she might find a suicide note suddenly sent a ghostly chill through her. She tried to shrug the feeling away and get to work.

  She pulled open the desk drawers and scanned the contents carefully.

  Funny — there were no personal papers. She looked around the room: no other likely drawers or cupboards.

  Time to search the bedroom …

  Back in the corridor, she opened the bedroom door. The room was dark, curtains drawn tight. She switched on the main light and saw a small writing desk in a corner.

  She went over, opened the top and pulled out the small rods to support it. The desk had lots of drawers.

  Drawers could hold things, she thought. Important things.

  Heart racing now …

  She opened one.

  Inside she saw a wedge of letters secured with a piece of braid.

  She took them out, untied the braid and separated the letters. A fading photo fell out. Sarah picked it up and looked at it closely: Emily Braithwaite and a girl in her late teens smiled into the camera. Their arms were draped around each other, their faces close.

  Sarah picked up one of the envelopes and checked the postmark: 2008. She took out the letter and started to read. It was long: six pages of densely written script.

  Six pages of passionate feelings, recollections of moments shared, heartfelt wishes for a never-ending future together …

  Then chilling words …

  ‘Our special friendship …’

  Sarah put the letter back in the pile and picked up the photo again. The girl looked older than Chloe. But not much.

  She paused, then slipped the photo back among the letters and tied them all up in braid again. She opened up another drawer.

  Again, a bound batch of letters and photos.

  And more photos. All with Emily — but now with a different girl.

  Sarah opened the other drawers on
e by one — each contained a bundle of letters. The postmark on each set, a different year.

  Six, seven drawers? Seven different girls.

  Seven different sets of letters.

  But not just ordinary letters, thought Sarah.

  The last bundle was the most recent, bearing a postmark just a month ago. Sarah untied the braid and carefully laid out the contents on the desk top. She looked at the photo. The same pose as the others. Perhaps even the same location? This girl had frizzy blonde hair and a nose stud.

  She looked at the envelopes. Some were marked US Mail. She opened the top one in the batch and started reading.

  Dear, dear Emily …

  This is so unfair. Why haven’t you written? You know I’m going crazy here. Please — you must write me!!

  Sarah heard the bang of a door shutting. It was the door to Florence House. She stopped reading and waited, holding her breath, listening.

  Now the sound of a key in the lock.

  Damn, somebody’s coming in.

  She grabbed the bundle of letters and shut the desk, then went over to the light switch, turned it off, and stood behind the half-open bedroom door in the darkness.

  She heard the door open, and shut.

  Then the sound of someone walking down the corridor and into the main sitting room.

  What am I doing here? Sarah thought. What an idiot! If it’s a member of staff — or even the police, I’m in big trouble …

  Whoever was in the flat now walked back down the corridor. Sarah pressed flat against the wall as the intruder came in.

  Sarah watched the figure walk over towards the bed and turn the bedside light on, then turn —

  In an instant, Sarah knew who it was.

  “Freya DeLong,” she said as the girl saw her and flung her hand to her mouth to suppress a scream of shock.

  “What? Who the hell are you?” said Freya.

  Sarah had to admire the girl’s speed of recovery. Her own heart was still racing.

  “I’m the person who’s got the letters,” she said, slowly holding them up. “Your letters. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

  Sarah watched the girl take out a mobile.

  “You’re a thief,” said Freya. “And I’m going to call the police.”

  What is it they teach these girls, thought Sarah. How can they be so cool?

  “I really wouldn’t do that, Freya.”

  “You know my name. How do you know my name? We’ve never met.”

  Sarah watched her put her phone to her ear, about to speak, about to summon the police …

  “I’ve seen your photo, Freya. With Ms. Braithwaite. And I’ve seen your work too — on Sophie White’s door. And I know what’s in these letters. Your feelings, then … your threats.”

  Sarah stared at the girl, silently willing her to put the phone away, not wanting to show weakness now, this moment too important.

  Freya snapped her phone back into its holder. “Well?” she said, her voice a challenge.

  “I think we ought to talk — don’t you?” said Sarah.

  “Talk? What about?”

  “About Emily. And you. And what’s been going on in the school this last month.”

  Sarah watched Freya’s shoulders slump.

  “All right,” she said. “But not in here.”

  She walked out of the bedroom and Sarah followed her.

  11. Uncovering the Past

  Sarah sat at Emily Braithwaite’s kitchen table facing Freya DeLong. The girl was almost impossible to read. When Sarah had told her — as gently as she could — about Emily’s death she’d hardly reacted.

  Just shrugged.

  Such a tough shell these kids develop, thought Sarah.

  Or is it just the icy student?

  So Sarah had asked her about her friendship with her House Mistress.

  Freya had given her a matter of fact account of the relationship.

  Right from the beginning of her first year in Sixth Form, Freya had said, Emily had given her extra tuition, helped her with her university applications, given her personal advice. Yes, they’d been close friends, closer perhaps than was usual between a pupil and a teacher. But so what?

  Freya had shared a lot of personal ‘stuff’ with her — and that was why she wanted her letters back. What was the big deal?

  “So, what went wrong, Freya?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Why did it end — this special friendship? What happened?”

  Sarah watched Freya as she sat motionless, her face showing no feelings.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But it did end — yes?”

  Freya shrugged.

  “When was that exactly?”

  “God! Do we have to talk about this?”

  “I’m afraid we do.”

  “All right. End of the summer term she started to get distant. Then when I went back home to the States in the summer she didn’t write. And this term — she just blanked me.”

  “Talked to Sophie White instead.”

  “Ugh, you’ve been talking to that goodie-two-shoes have you? God, poor you, having little miss honeypie chucking up platitudes—”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “She makes me vomit. Next question.”

  “Did you put the rats in the pool?”

  Sarah watched the girl carefully.

  “No way!”

  Sarah knew she had to keep pressing.

  “The thing is, Freya, you’ve definitely got a motive — and as far as I can see you’re the only person who has.”

  “You are so wrong.”

  “What about the other things — the slashed tyres, the food. Was that you?”

  “You know what? This is just crazy. You’re crazy. I don’t have to listen to this. I don’t have to put up with the likes of you.”

  Freya pushed her chair back and got up. Sarah sat and watched her.

  “Why are you so angry, Freya?”

  “I am not angry! You do not tell me I am angry!”

  And with that she roughly pushed the table back and ran from the room.

  Sarah watched her go, then heard the door slam.

  Jack’s right, she thought. Sometimes if you push the right buttons people give you what you need.

  She took out her phone and texted him.

  Things were beginning to fall into place at last.

  *

  “So you think it’s all a tale of jealousy?” said Jack, winding down the window of the Sprite to let some cool air in and clear the mist.

  “Freya was lying, I’m sure of it,” said Sarah. “Too cool for school — you know that expression? And yet, she got dumped, even with her rich father.”“You really think she’s the one behind it all?”

  “There’s certainly a motive,” said Sarah. “Emily breaks Freya’s heart by making Sophie her new favourite — she goes straight into retaliation mode against the school.”

  Jack looked through the windscreen as the rain swept in dismal waves across the gravel of the visitors’ car park. A stream of hockey players and spectators were making their soggy way from the fields back to the school and the coaches.

  He watched them hunched against the weather.

  “Okay. I can buy the fire alarm maybe. Even the potato surprise. But rats …” said Jack. “You really see the kid killing the lights and throwing rats in the pool? I mean, how’d she get the rats?”

  “Maybe she had help?”

  “The other girls in her set? Possible. Still … that likely?”

  He looked at Sarah in the seat of the Sprite next to him: she shrugged a ‘don’t know’.

  “Okay, switch tack. How does Emily’s suicide fit into all this? You think somehow the split with Freya was enough to push her over the edge?”

  “Not sure ‘split’ is the right word,” said Sarah. “Sounds like Emily ended it. Ready for her next victim. These kind of relationships, they’re deep, but not like two lovers …�
��

  “I dunno. Maybe there’s no connection at all,” said Jack. “Could have been other issues in Emily’s life. Other reasons to commit suicide.”

  “Such as? You should see her place. Looks like she enjoyed her life quite a lot.”

  “One of the few things I got out of Weiss was that Emily went to London yesterday for a medical appointment.”

  “You think she got bad news — really bad news, and …?”

  “Yeah. It’s possible.”

  “What about the tyres though — why did Weiss and Gavin lie about that?”

  “Weiss says the other cars were repaired by the main dealer in Oxford. Of course, he didn’t tell me who that was. Only Emily needed her car urgently. Wasn’t much I could say to that.”

  “We can check with the dealer,” said Sarah.

  “We’ll need to track him down,” said Jack.

  He stared out of the window. A group of older girls in hats and coats stood under a tree, sheltering from the rain. As Jack watched, a familiar figure broke away from the huddle, jumped on a bicycle and pedalled away up the drive.

  Tahir.

  He nudged Sarah, motioned her to watch.

  “That allowed?” said Jack. “Guy his age chatting up the girls?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You think he lives here on campus?”

  “I saw a small house on the way in marked Caretaker. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking … maybe you’re right. If Freya’s the bad guy — she’d need help from a pal who knew the layout of the pool.”

  “Tahir?”

  “He’s certainly no stranger to the girls.”

  “So what now?”“Why don’t you see what impact Emily’s death has on with Sophie? She may open up about how these ‘relationships’ work …”

  “Right. While you have another go at Tahir?”

  Jack grinned. “Yup. Looking forward to it. He was all-evasion yesterday. Today — we’ll see about that.”

  Jack looked at the rain, unrelenting.

  “Meet you back here when done.”

  “Great. And now,” Sarah turned and looked out the window, “a mad dash.”

  And she popped open the door to the Sprite and raced back across the gravel to the doors of Florence House.

  While Jack started the Sprite; his destination … the Caretaker’s cottage.