A Velvet Scream

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Who is he?’

  A swift glance at her mother. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Honest, I don’t.’

  Joanna pulled out the picture of Molly Carraway. ‘This is the missing girl,’ she said. ‘Do you know her? Have you ever seen her at Patches?’

  Kayleigh’s perusal of the photograph was wary, puzzled and cursory. ‘I think I have seen her at the club,’ she said. ‘She’s quite a good dancer.’

  Which would have drawn attention to her.

  Kayleigh kept her gaze on the picture then swivelled her gaze up to meet Joanna’s. ‘Pretty, ain’t she?’ There was a note of regret in her voice now.

  ‘Yes, she is.’ Or was.

  Next Joanna showed her the photograph of Clara, which again provoked admiration from the less sophisticated Kayleigh. ‘She’s just gorgeous, ain’t she?’

  Again Joanna agreed. She watched the emotions cross the girl’s face: grey clouds across a clear sky, and decided to change tactics. Impulsively she put her hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Kayleigh,’ she appealed, ‘please help us find her.’

  The look of alarm on Kayleigh’s face was obvious. Even her mother, who had sat, zombie-like, watching the interchange, was bound to say something, but being Christine Bretby it was neither comforting nor reassuring but aggressive. ‘What ’ave you been up to, my girl,’ she said. ‘What hole ’ave you dug for yourself?’

  Kayleigh practically cowered into the corner of the sofa. ‘Nothin’, Mum. I ain’t done nothin’.’

  Christine leaned forward. Slid a cigarette out of the packet and lit it before she responded to this. ‘And if I believe that, my girl,’ she said, ‘I’ll believe anythin’.’ She wagged her finger at her daughter. ‘You’re up to somethin’, Kayleigh Harrison.’ She sucked in a long drag then wagged the burning tip in Kayleigh’s direction. ‘I don’t know what it is but you’re definitely up to somethin’. Probably lyin’ through your teeth again.’

  Wisely her daughter did not respond to this but lowered her eyes and muttered, ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Kayleigh.’ Joanna appealed again. ‘Please. Anything. A car, a smell, a sound. Something. Please. I want to find Molly.’ In the doorway Hesketh-Brown shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  Kayleigh stared straight in front of her. ‘All I can remember,’ she insisted, ‘is that he weren’t local. He was tall and skinny. He smoked. I can’t tell you anythin’ more because I don’t know it. It was cold. It was dark. There weren’t much light in that ’orrible car park. I was frightened and that is it. There’s no point you keepin’ squeezing me for stuff I can’t tell you ’cos I don’t know.’ Her eyes were begging to be believed but Joanna knew she was lying. It was the way she had just spoken: rehearsed, remembered lines. But not the truth. Which bit of her story was she hiding behind? She could not bully it out of the girl. There was a core of steel in Kayleigh Harrison, probably forged by years of dislike and contempt from her mother and complete neglect from her father. If Kayleigh did not want to tell she would not.

  Well.

  She stood up, ready to go, and fired her last question. ‘Tell me, Kayleigh,’ she said, in a sweet voice, ‘do you think Molly Carraway is alive or dead?’

  The girl looked straight at her. ‘Alive,’ she said. ‘She’s alive.’

  Joanna said her goodbyes and, feeling confounded and frustrated, she and detective Constable Danny Hesketh-Brown returned to the station.

  Afterwards Joanna would regret that she had not pressed Kayleigh harder but it would probably have got her nowhere, except perhaps in front of the Independent Police Complaints Commission. And she couldn’t afford another brush with Police Complaints.

  There was a briefing at lunchtime, partly to find out if anyone had any news and partly to hand out more flyers of Molly Carraway and revise the facts of her disappearance. Joanna looked at the map they’d pinned on the wall. There was not one pin stuck in, even to indicate a false sighting. There was no proof that she had been abducted – apart from the torn-out earring. She could have gone of her own free will. Joanna was well aware that teenage girls were capable of many things. There had been a disappearance a few years ago of a thirteen-year-old who had simply pinched some money out of her mother’s purse and gone on a jaunt to Blackpool for a couple of weeks. There was another who had gone with a boyfriend to his home country of Morocco and could not find her way back. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Molly had been conniving. The four uniformed guys who had been scanning the CCTV footage had spotted Molly and Clara plenty of times but not noted any particular male interest – dances with various lads but no one fitting Kayleigh’s description. There were other possibilities. Lured by promises of celebrity Molly could have gone to London to be a supermodel. There were victims of abuse who surfaced dead or alive but Molly was not one of these. No more than a high-spirited teenager. The real frustration of this case was her conviction that Kayleigh held the key, or at least could point them in the right direction.

  Korpanski had enjoyed his morning at Newcastle-under-Lyme and was ready to report back to Joanna. She returned to their office to find him sitting at his desk, looking smug. She caved in. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, ‘shoot.’

  ‘Well.’ Korpanski put his hands on his meaty thighs, grinned at her and took a giant bite out of his sandwich. ‘They were pretty thorough. They took lots of statements, interviewed lots of people.’ He shot a sneaky look at Joanna which she interpreted correctly. ‘Sandra Johnson was really helpful,’ he said. ‘She went through them all with me,’ he said. ‘There are similarities to Kayleigh’s case but you can’t really say they’re unique. There was a birthday party the night Danielle disappeared but it was a hen party; sixteen girls all dressed up with Playbunny ears, black frocks, high-heeled boots.’ He grinned at her. ‘I enjoyed looking at those.’

  ‘Get on with it, Korpanski,’ she said, knowing it was silly to rise to his bait but she was twitchy. Molly Carraway was missing and her wedding was looming, like a cross channel ferry, slicing through fog.

  After a satisfied grin, Korpanski continued. ‘It was a Tuesday night at the club so it was quieter than at the weekends. Danielle was doing a course at college, learning hairdressing. She was a real looker, into beauty therapies and stuff like that. Anyway, that night six of them had gone to Lymeys as it was one of her friend’s birthday parties. She’d really tarted up in a gold sequinned dress.’

  ‘Really?’ Joanna felt a quickening of her pulse.

  Korpanski looked smug. ‘Apparently metallics are the in thing at the moment so she was well up to the minute.’

  Joanna resisted a smirk. ‘So glad you’ve swotted up on current fashion, Mike. Go on.’

  ‘All night she’d been shimmying around, quite drunk, everyone noticing her and then – all of a sudden, her friends said – she just wasn’t there any more.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Joanna said, downing a mug of tea. ‘Go on, Mike.’

  ‘According to her friends’ statements Danielle wasn’t a virgin but she didn’t have a steady boyfriend. She didn’t want one. She’d told her friends she wanted to “play the field”, which she did.’

  ‘Do I sense a jealous boyfriend somewhere in the background?’

  Korpanski’s grin grew even broader. ‘She’d been going out with a married man. There was a suspicion that it was a teacher at her college. One of her tutors.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Joanna crossed to the board. ‘One of Shand’s buddies is a teacher, isn’t he?’

  ‘Hennessey. But he teaches eight year olds,’ Korpanski pointed out. ‘Anyway, DI Sandra Johnson tells me the person who had sex with Danielle could have been just about anyone. He’d worn a condom. It was a rainy night; there was precious little good forensic evidence and plenty of forensic evidence – most of which would have had nothing to do with her. In the end, as Danielle died of natural causes the CPS and the local force decided not to pursue investigations. They could never know whether the sex was consensual or force
ful.’

  Joanna nodded. It all made sense. ‘And how were her parents about this?’

  ‘As you can imagine: not happy. In fact, they were furious. They made a complaint against Sandra, spoke to their local MP and took their story to the national tabloids, but to no avail. The case was closed and they’ve never learned anything more.’

  They were both silent for a while. Joanna was picturing Danielle’s parents coming to terms with their daughter’s death and the sharp blow that the last person who had been with her alive had simply abandoned their daughter to her fate. Such an ignominious fate too.

  ‘I think it’s the same person,’ Joanna said, ‘that left Kayleigh. Little doubt about it in my mind; the same careful wearing of a condom but careless abandonment of life. It’s like a modus operandi. Someone who preys on extroverted, intoxicated, attractive girls at a club: has sex with them and abandons them. This is our man. This is his psyche.’ She paused. ‘And then we have Molly, which is a different case altogether. He took her.’ She was silent. ‘What if it isn’t the same person?’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence then. Same area, nightclub, young girls.’

  ‘It’s too soon after the assault on Kayleigh.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the clever bit.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s six months since Danielle died. The assault on both her and Kayleigh are similar. They have the same stamp on them. An arrogance. No attempt to hide either the crime or the victim. No threats. The man just faded away, leaving them to their fate. Danielle died; Kayleigh lived. Our perp didn’t care. He simply walks away. But not with Molly. She’s nowhere to be found, Mike. We’ve made a cursory search of the surrounding area. We’ve spread out to a five-mile radius and been quite thorough, thanks to the help of the general public. She’s been abducted; taken away and that makes it a different crime and I think it’s been committed by a different person. Perhaps even a copycat.’

  ‘Well, I don’t agree and I’ll tell you why,’ Korpanski responded. ‘DI Johnson was really helpful and let me look at all the files on Danielle. That night she was wearing a tiny little dress. Shining gold. According to her friends she was flinging herself all over the place, pissed out of her brains, wearing practically nothing.’

  Joanna frowned. ‘How long is it since you were inside a nightclub, Mike? All the girls wear practically nothing these days.’

  ‘Yes, but – look at this.’ With a flourish Korpanski produced a picture. ‘This,’ he said grandly, ‘is a picture of Danielle ready to go out.’

  It took Joanna aback because it could so easily have been Molly Carraway. The same shining brown hair, bold eyes, tiny dress which displayed to perfection a very slim figure. ‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘I can see the resemblance but you know, Mike, the girls these days could be cloned. They all look the same. They have the same hair, the same make-up, the same clothes.’

  Korpanski looked so crestfallen Joanna almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, looking up, ‘what you’re saying is that he goes for the same type?’

  Korpanski nodded. ‘Most men do,’ he said, giving her a cocky grin. ‘I’ve always liked brunettes with blue eyes myself. Don’t ask me why.’ Joanna laughed at his cheek, tempted to aim a punch at his torso but she didn’t. The truth was that since the ‘incident’ she had not quite taken Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski so much for granted. They were not quite as relaxed together as they had once been. The shooting had left a scar not only on Korpanski’s shoulder but also on their relationship.

  ‘Was there anything else? Did DI Johnson have any suspects? Any clues? Any idea at all?’

  Korpanski shook his head. ‘Not a sausage,’ he said. ‘She was stumped. She was getting nowhere.’ He hesitated. ‘She would love to have given the bloke a warning at the very least. If Danielle’s parents had known who it was they might have taken things further but she didn’t have a clue. She wasn’t even sure that the guy Danielle had sex with was even in the club that night.’

  Joanna ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Oh, don’t,’ she groaned. ‘Don’t start that; widening the circle to someone who maybe wasn’t even there that night.’

  ‘Well, it’s a possibility,’ Korpanski pointed out sensibly.

  ‘Mike,’ she said, turning around, ‘do you mind if I bounce a few ideas around?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ The phrase was ungracious but she knew he was pleased.

  ‘It’s Kayleigh,’ she said.

  ‘Thought it might be.’

  ‘When I spoke to her this morning her mother sat in. They are keeping something back. I can’t work out why they would. I even got the feeling that she was protecting someone, but why would she? She doesn’t appear to have any particular relationship with any male at the club. The person was so callous towards her. Why would she protect them? She’s given us a description of her dancing partners and the guy who maybe raped or had sex with her but she’s still hiding something.’

  Korpanski shrugged. ‘No more than most girls of that age and wanting to go out for the night. If they were honest with their parents they’d all be locked up with chastity belts.’ He gave a crooked grin that looked threatening. ‘Wait till Jossie gets a bit older.’

  ‘But I don’t get the impression that Christine was exactly strict with her daughter. She couldn’t have cared less.’

  She thought for a minute, stumbling her way through, trying various angles and approaches. ‘What about Danielle?’

  Korpanski puffed his chest out. He was enjoying every moment of this. ‘According to DI Sandra Johnson,’ he said, ‘Danielle’s mum and dad didn’t have a problem with her going out at night. They were very . . .’ He frowned. ‘What’s the word?’

  ‘Liberal?’

  ‘Ah, that’ll do.’

  ‘But Molly’s weren’t. They would have gone mad if they’d known what she was up to. Molly was another liar, Mike. She’d deceived her parents very successfully. They saw her as whiter than snow.’ She looked at him, wondering whether she was finding a way through; finally punching a hole through the blackness. ‘What if this is another deception?’

  ‘You mean she’s still alive, just gone off somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘I’m just trying out ideas, Mike. I can’t really imagine anyone being that careless or cavalier but it does happen.’

  ‘What have we got off the laptop, Jo?

  ‘She was having some sort of relationship with a guy but he’s from London. They were supposed to meet up next week. There’s no mention of Patches and no evidence that they ever met.’

  ‘So what are you going to do to flush out Kayleigh’s secret?’

  ‘Dig around in her past.’ She looked up. ‘That, Korpanski, is what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  FIFTEEN

  Monday, 6 December. 4 p.m.

  Though Steve Shand’s mates worked in different jobs, in different parts of both town and city, they arrived at the same time, trooping in together as though they were still at their birthday party. Joanna didn’t like it because it smacked of collusion. They’d have had plenty of time to practise their statements on the way here. They certainly looked confident enough as they filed in but that could have a simple explanation; that they were innocent and had nothing to hide. It was up to the Piercy–Korpanski team to find out what was really going on. She addressed them collectively, sizing the five of them up as she spoke. ‘You’re going to be here for some time,’ she said. ‘Detective Sergeant Korpanski and myself will want to interview you – one at a time. OK?’

  They nodded, shifting around on their feet, making a ragged line-up. She eyed them, one by one. ‘Your names, please?’

  One at a time they stepped out of line and she took stock, picking out the first one to move; the guy on the end, Gary Pointer. Her eye had landed him as he best fitted Kayleigh’s description – right up until he spoke in an accent as unmistakabl
y Staffordshire as a bacon-and-cheese oat cake. Tall and slim, he met her eyes without blinking, looking confident – if anything a little cocky. He was casually dressed in beige jeans and an open-necked checked shirt; his left hand anchored in his pocket.

  ‘Gary Pointer, at your service,’ he said with a frank and friendly grin and a mock bow. She would be starting with him.

  Standing next to Pointer, Andrew Downey was short and plump with an impressive and mobile beer belly, which wobbled as he stepped forward and introduced himself. He had greasy black hair and pale skin, and was sweating profusely. Nerves? He gave Joanna a tentative smile showing rather nice, even white teeth and Joanna watched him thoughtfully. Out of the gang he was probably the nicest, the smartest and the one who was the most observant. She smiled at him and he moved back.

  Next to him Clint Jones was powerfully built, stocky, around five foot eight. He gave a tight-lipped smile and a nod as he spoke his name then stepped backwards in line with his friends. Last of all, apart from Steve Shand, was Shaun Hennessey, the birthday boy, who was short and slim; much slighter than his friends, giving him an almost womanish air.

  She organized coffees for the chums, sat them down and invited Gary Pointer to the interview room. He sauntered in behind them, swaggering slightly, cocky and confident. She and Mike sat down and checked his name. ‘You are Gary Pointer?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the night of the thirtieth of November.’

  As she’d anticipated Pointer had his answers off pat, ready to trot out in response. She might have to wait a long time for him to make a mistake.

  She placed a picture of Kayleigh on the desk, taken on the night of her assault. The IT guys had enhanced the image from the CCTV and combined it with one of the photographs her mother had given them so her face was identifiable. In it she was wearing her silvery skirt.

  Pointer’s eyes lingered. Then he looked up. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I did notice her. I had a couple of dances with her. She looked – well –’ For the first time his gaze faltered but Joanna knew what he was about to say.