A Velvet Scream

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Before you say anything,’ she warned, ‘Kayleigh Harrison was fourteen years old.’ Pointer blew out a relieved breath and again Joanna read between the lines.

  A narrow escape.

  ‘Go on,’ she prompted. ‘At what time were you dancing with her?’

  Pointer swallowed. ‘Some time in the evening,’ he claimed. ‘Late-ish, perhaps around midnight I had a couple of dances with her but she was pissed. Well pissed. She was staggerin’ around, talking a load of crap. It wasn’t any fun any more. She didn’t look sexy. She just kept fallin’ around.’ He made an expression of disgust. ‘She was makin’ a right tit of herself. Chuckin’ herself at any bloke within twenty yards.’

  Joanna frowned. She was getting a picture and it was an unpleasant one.

  ‘What you’re saying,’ she said slowly, ‘is that she was making herself look,’ she chose the word delicately, ‘available?’

  Pointer nodded and looked away.

  ‘So did you rape her?’ Joanna asked the question very quietly, almost slipping it into the conversation. Pointer jerked. Their eyes locked. He was the first to look away.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No, I didn’t. I couldn’t – do that. I just didn’t fancy her. She could have stripped right off and lain on the floor. She wasn’t turning me on.’

  ‘She turned someone on.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  Joanna leaned back in her chair and regarded him from underneath lowered lids. By her side, Korpanski was sitting motionless. And although she wasn’t looking at him directly she knew he would be staring Gary Pointer out. She looked at Pointer’s regular features, ‘honest’ brown eyes. And even though all her police instincts were screaming at her not to be taken in by him she believed his story. This, she was convinced, was the truth.

  But she was aware that she needed to direct the conversation towards the girl who was now missing. ‘A few more questions,’ she said casually. ‘Do you ever go to a nightclub called Lymeys? It’s in Newcastle-under-Lyme.’

  ‘I’ve been there once or twice.’ Now Pointer looked uncomfortable. Something had happened there that he was not quite so sure about.

  ‘Were you there on the eleventh of May? It was a Tuesday,’ she added helpfully.

  Pointer stared. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said. ‘It’s ages ago.’

  ‘You might remember because a girl was raped and left to die outside the club that night,’ Joanna said quietly.

  Interestingly this made Pointer angry. He put his hands on the table, palms down, pressing on the wood. ‘No,’ he said firmly and deliberately. ‘I don’t think I was there that night and if I had been I wouldn’t have had anything to do with anything like that. All right?’

  Joanna smiled at him, trying to ignore the niggle of triumph that she had succeeded in rattling his cage. ‘Thank you, Gary. Now, then. You might have heard that a girl who was last seen at Patches on Friday night has vanished.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘Were you at Patches on Friday night, Gary?’

  Pointer looked from her to Korpanski. ‘Yeah,’ he admitted.

  Right next to the photograph of Kayleigh Harrison Joanna flipped down the picture of Molly Carraway, smiling into the camera lens. The photograph of Molly had an effect on Gary Pointer. He looked down at it almost sentimentally.

  ‘This is the girl, Gary. Her name is Molly Carraway. She’s fifteen years old. Do you know her?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well?’

  Pointer licked dry lips. ‘I’ve seen her around.’

  ‘Gone out with her, had a dance, had sex?’

  Pointer looked distinctly nervous now. ‘I’ve danced with her,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ve had a few drinks with her. I’ve not had sex with her. She’s just a schoolgirl.’

  ‘She’s been missing since some time after midnight Friday night,’ Korpanski put in deliberately. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Pointer shook his head.

  ‘Let me put it another way,’ Joanna said, resting her elbows on the desk so she could look straight into Pointer’s transparent eyes. ‘Do you know where she might be?’

  ‘Not a clue.’ Pointer shifted in his seat. ‘Sorry. I wish I could help. She looks like a nice kid.’

  ‘OK,’ Joanna said. ‘Thank you. You’re free to go.’

  Pointer hesitated as though he couldn’t believe his luck.

  ‘You can leave the station,’ Joanna said and he bolted.

  Next in line was Andrew Downey, entering carefully, as though he was worried the room might be booby-trapped. He was blinking behind large spectacles, his upper lip beaded with sweat. The armpits of his shirt held rings of moisture. He seemed very uneasy, possibly even a little frightened or simply intimidated by a police interrogation.

  She’d get more out of him if he was at his ease; his guard and defences down. ‘Sit down,’ she invited and decided to open the interview with a friendly ‘chat’. Then she confirmed his name and address and launched in.

  ‘You married?’

  Downey snickered and shook his head.

  ‘A partner?’

  A jerky nod.

  ‘Male? Female?’

  The way she’d phrased the question succeeded. It put Downey at his ease. ‘Male,’ he muttered.

  Fine. They’d got that out the way. Joanna shot Korpanski a warning look which he pretended not to notice, gazing around him with an assumed look of innocence.

  Again Joanna produced the photos of Kayleigh – and then Molly.

  Now Downey was ‘outed’ he was much more at his ease. He settled back in his chair, legs splayed, stomach overhanging precariously as though about to drop to his knees. ‘I did notice Kayleigh,’ he said easily, ‘and guessed she was pretty young. She was also very drunk.’

  Joanna realized that, being gay, Downey would look at the girls more objectively than the straight men in the club. She would get more out of him. She leaned in. ‘Who was she with when you saw her?’

  ‘Just about everybody in the entire club,’ he said, ‘but I did see her talking and accepting a drink from a tall, thin guy that I didn’t know.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t think I’d seen him at the club before. He looked a lot older than her.’

  Downey was a boon. Not only objective but also observant.

  ‘What sort of age?’

  ‘Forties.’

  ‘Did you hear him speak?’

  Downey shook his head.

  ‘Did she call him a name?’

  ‘She called him something.’ Downey frowned. ‘I didn’t hear.’ He grinned. ‘Have you any idea how noisy these places are?’

  Joanna returned the grin and nodded. ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘They seemed to be pally enough.’

  ‘Was he buying her drinks?’

  ‘I think so. I saw him up at the bar, buying a couple of drinks. I guess they were for her. You know what it’s like in a club; disjointed. Lots going on. You don’t really watch anyone in particular.’

  ‘What sort of time was this?’

  ‘Early on in the evening – before she got really pissed and started flinging herself around the place. She was relatively sober, just –’ He fished around for the word. ‘Normal.’

  Joanna nodded. It was a fair description.

  Next she produced the photograph of Danielle. ‘This girl died outside a nightclub called Lymeys in Newcastle-under-Lyme, last May,’ she said. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  Downey shook his head. ‘I never go there,’ he said. ‘If I’m out in Newcastle I would avoid Lymeys. It’s not a good place for gays. If I go out in Newcastle I go to the gay bars.’

  ‘OK.’

  Finally she slapped the picture of Molly Carraway on the desk. ‘What about this girl, Andrew?’

  Downey looked up, his eyes troubled. ‘This is the girl who’s missing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wasn’t at the club on Frid
ay,’ he said. ‘My partner and I had a few mates round for dinner.’ He smiled: a fat, happy, contented smile. ‘We really like cooking. We did a fish pie and got some wine in. Had a great night.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  But Downey hadn’t finished. ‘I didn’t see her then,’ he said, fingering the picture, ‘but I’ve seen her at the club other times, with her friend, a blonde girl. They’re pretty popular.’

  ‘With anyone in particular?’

  ‘No. They just seem to be out to enjoy themselves: dancing, having fun, laughing.’ He hesitated. ‘I wonder what’s happened to her.’

  Korpanski answered for them both. ‘So do we,’ he said.

  Clint Jones swaggered in and dropped into the chair, eyeing them with a bold, full-on stare. Like Korpanski, Jones was someone who ‘worked out’. He pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, displaying bulging biceps decorated with Chinese writing tattoos, and met their eyes without flinching. His confident grin challenged them to a match. He’d had a dance – or two – with Kayleigh, early on in the evening, he admitted. He’d realized she was young – very young. Not his type. He liked women. The way he spoke the word accompanied by curving out a full shape with his hands together with the appraising look he gave her made Joanna feel nauseous. He was, she decided, probably the most boorish of the birthday boys.

  He denied having been at Lymeys the night Danielle Brixton had been abducted, said he never went there but admitted he had been at Patches on Friday night. ‘Where else is there to go in Leek?’ He made a pretence of looking at Molly’s photograph then looked up, all innocence. ‘Sorry,’ he said shortly, ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘She was wearing a very short red dress with shoestring straps and reindeer antlers.’

  Jones simply pursed his lips and said again: ‘Sorry.’ Then he grinned. ‘I think I’d have remembered someone dressed like that.’

  She gave him another chance. ‘Maybe you’ve noticed her on other occasions?’

  Jones’s eyes scanned the picture. ‘No,’ he said, ‘can’t say that I have.’

  When he’d gone Joanna turned to Mike. ‘I can only think of one reason why Jones would lie about noticing Molly and it sure as hell isn’t because he doesn’t notice women.’

  Korpanski nodded.

  ‘She was pretty, with a good figure; extrovert, friendly. We’ll just have to delve a little deeper into our friend, Clint. See what’s so important that he can’t even admit to noticing Molly. Take another look at the CCTV. I could have sworn I saw him dancing with her.’

  ‘He doesn’t fit Kayleigh’s description,’ Korpanski pointed out.

  ‘True. But how reliable a witness is she? We have more than one witness who’s saying she wasn’t just drunk. She was blind drunk.’ She looked at Mike. ‘Blind drunk,’ she repeated.

  Korpanski shrugged. ‘But as you keep saying, Jo, she’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘Not all,’ Joanna said, studying the wood grain on the desk. ‘There’s Clara. I’m sure she could give us more than she has.’ She gathered up the photographs again. ‘And now all we have left is Shaun Hennessey, the birthday boy.’

  Korpanski gave a yawn and stretched his arms up. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is getting boring and I don’t think it’s getting us any nearer finding Molly.’

  Joanna scowled. ‘We don’t know yet, Mike. We’re learning things all the time. Anyway,’ she challenged, ‘you’re giving me an idea of another direction, Mike, and I’ll be happy to follow it. It’s OK saying we’re getting no closer finding Molly but how else do we go about it? I don’t need to remind you. We have no leads and a very unreliable witness.’

  Korpanski’s face clouded. ‘Maybe we never will find her.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be gloomy,’ she appealed. ‘If we don’t find her it won’t be for want of trying or giving up because we’re disheartened. My point is, Mike, that Kayleigh is our best and only lead.’

  ‘She was not only blind drunk but she’s a little liar,’ Korpanski protested. ‘You can’t believe a word she says.’

  Joanna smiled at him. She loved it when he got angry. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe Kayleigh. At least – her story is not entirely true. But neither is it entirely untrue. The trick is to spot which are the lies and which the truth. And if she’s lying, why?’

  ‘Force of habit,’ Korpanski responded grumpily.

  ‘Well, we may as well see what Hennessey’s got to say then pursue our other leads.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Kayleigh’s father; Kayleigh’s stepfather. I want to speak to Clara again and her parents.’ Her face changed. ‘Then I shall have to call on Molly’s parents. I’m not looking forward to that.’

  Hennessey looked nervous and almost stumbled as he entered the interview room. Apart from the fact that he confessed to having been at Patches on both the nights in question and even at Lymeys on the night that Danielle had died, he didn’t have a lot to add. When Joanna expressed surprise that he remembered a date so far back he’d looked uneasy. ‘Well, you remember something like that, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose you would.’ She studied Hennessey more carefully after that. The birthday he had recently celebrated had been his thirtieth. He looked much younger. Just a boy, really. She went through the same questions and got a mixture of the others’ answers. Yes, he’d noticed Kayleigh in her silver skirt; yes, he’d ‘fooled around’ with her; no, he hadn’t really noticed her with anyone in particular. Yes, he’d seen Molly Carraway on Friday and had noticed her before at the club and Clara, whom he’d had a bit of a crush on, and had asked out on one occasion. ‘So did you go out?’ Joanna asked curiously.

  His face dropped then. ‘No. She acted like she was too good for me,’ he said. He dropped his eyes but not before Joanna had seen and interpreted the flash of anger that lit up his face and changed his features. She watched him, still curiously. When he was angry he looked like a completely different person. The only really surprising turn came when she asked him whether he had seen Kayleigh on the Tuesday night she had been assaulted. He leered back, ‘Who could miss her? Hardly any skirt. No knickers.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘She was on show, I can tell you.’

  ‘Did you have sex with her?’

  ‘Little slapper like that? I don’t think so.’

  Joanna got angry then. ‘I wasn’t asking you whether you thought so,’ she snapped, ‘I was asking you whether you did.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re engaged.’

  ‘I’ve already told you – I’m getting married in April.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said sarcastically.

  Joanna was glad to see the birthday boys go. She now needed to analyse their statements and work out whether or not they had contributed anything helpful. Surely one of them had said something useful?

  Korpanski was watching her, understanding both her moods and her thought processes and realizing that his irascible, unpredictable but always loyal colleague needed time to think . . .

  And think.

  But when she looked up he understood that she was still puzzling. ‘Where the hell is Molly?’ she asked, suddenly unbearably frustrated.

  Korpanski shrugged.

  ‘Is she dead or is she alive?’

  Again he shrugged.

  She dropped her face into her hands. ‘Mike,’ she appealed, ‘this is hopeless. I wouldn’t mind,’ she began, ‘if I had one single decent lead to go on. Things we can work with. A name, some DNA, some forensic evidence, a car number plate. A sighting. Not this big black piece of nothing.’ Her shoulders dropped and she looked up and caught the concern in his dark eyes. I know it’s not rational but I don’t want to walk up the aisle in a little over three weeks’ time with uncertainty over a girl’s life and an unsolved rape at my back. I don’t want to come back from my honeymoon –’ she almost managed a smile – ‘whatever part of the world it is in – to stare back
into that void, to see those parents’ empty, hollow grief. I couldn’t bear it. Not to know is the worst thing. And we haven’t got a fucking clue.’

  In a sudden squall of emotion she thumped her fist on the desk, causing a few of the marauding officers to turn around in surprise, wondering if they were about to witness ‘a scene’ between the two colleagues – however close their reputation was reputed to be. They collectively held their breath.

  But they were in for a disappointment. Korpanski’s hand rested on her shoulder. ‘Keep heart, Jo,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Don’t lose your fighting spirit.’

  She managed a segment more of a smile. ‘I’ll try not to. But it’s Kayleigh who holds the key and I strongly suspect she’s not going to swing the door open for us. She may have her reasons or she might simply find it as easy to lie as to tell the truth. We don’t know and even clever police work might not winkle the truth out of her.’

  When Korpanski merely fixed her with a stare she pursued the point, adding softly: ‘What we have to work out is what’s she got to gain by keeping mum?’

  SIXTEEN

  Monday, 6 December. 5.30 p.m.

  The visit to Molly’s parents was one of the hardest things Joanna had had to do. She could have requested a junior officer to call in but she knew it would have been cowardly. It wasn’t her way. She was the senior investigating officer. It would win her no respect and set a poor example to her team to have delegated this task. In the future they would have to learn how to deal with difficult situations; the grief of families and the anger against the police force who were failing to solve a crime, convict a criminal, obtain what they considered a fair sentence. But this was no learning exercise. She could only hope that the lull in the investigation would prove to be the calm before a squall; the motionless doldrums before the wind took their sails and they found out what had really happened to Molly Carraway.

  She found Beth and Philip Carraway quietly dignified with tightly reined in emotions. They sat together, motionless, on the sofa while she tried to convince them that the investigating team had had a productive day. It didn’t fool either of them; least of all her. And yet. And yet. She couldn’t tell them but those last interviews had unearthed something. They simply listened as she said her piece, their eyes numb.