The doors swung open and in strode the press officer, Dana Booth, followed by the local news crew and journalists. Wednesday saw Scarlett sashay in, her flame-red hair tumbling over her shoulders in pre-Raphaelite curls. They had an understanding not to acknowledge one another at the press meetings, Wednesday felt more comfortable that way.
Dana Booth walked up to Wednesday and gave her a faint smile. “I saw them earlier. Are they any better now?”
“As much as they can be,” she replied with a shrug of her shoulders.
The room filled with a low buzz of chatter. The melange of cheap aftershaves and perfumes helped mask the smell of fear and alcoholic fumes radiating from the Wrights sitting at the front of the room. Behind them on a blue board, was a photograph of Darren, and the hotline number for the public to call with claims of sightings or snippets of information.
Noticing Judith Wright’s increased tremors, she walked up to her and put a reassuring hand on her arm.
“I don’t need pity from the likes of you,” she said, whipping her arm away.
She was defensive and agitated, but there was no time to appease her as a hush fell over the room. Booth sat next to Judith Wright and opened proceedings by talking about the missing young person. She placed a gentle hand on Judith’s arm, making her forehead crease like parchment paper.
“Darren,” she began before glancing down at her note. “We want you to come home. You’re not in trouble.”
After the incessant clicking and flashes from the cameras, the room returned to stifling silence. Wednesday noticed there was no mention of loving or missing Darren by Judith. It was Hunter’s turn to speak, giving the hotline number for the public to use. The press then began hurling questions towards him, and he batted them back saying it was still early days in the investigation.
In truth, the police hoped Darren would reappear in a couple of days, which was a possibility in the case with teenage runaways.
“Is there a connection with Darren and the death of the graveyard boy?” said a voice.
“I’m sorry but I’m unable to comment on another investigation.” Booth stood up and led the Wrights away from the glare of the lights. Hunter followed closely behind.
Wednesday recognised Scarlett’s voice as the one asking the last question. She could see her sitting next to a rotund reporter, wrinkling up her nose at being rebuffed. Scarlett was used to getting her own way.
Following her gaze, Lennox moved closer to her side. “Something troubling you?”
“No, not really.”
The press were on their feet and shuffling out the door.
“That wouldn’t happen to be your sister asking that question?”
“Half-sister. And yes that was her.”
Lennox let out a low grunting sound and folded his arms. “She looks nothing like you.”
“I know.”
“I hope she’s not going to cause us any trouble.”
“No more than any other inquisitive reporter.”
“What about insider information?”
Wednesday turned to face him. “That’s a line we never cross,” she hissed. “I’m going for a cigarette. Join me if you wish.”
Lennox watched her strut out of the room with a subtle grin on his face. He liked working with her, even though he already hated her beautiful sister.
Wednesday felt a rush of cold air engulf her as she opened the door onto the courtyard. The harshness of the outdoor security light shone onto the barren space, making the area inhospitable. Igniting the lighter within her cupped hand, she welcomed the heat for the few seconds before her cigarette was lit.
When she heard the door opening behind her, she did not turn around. Instead, she walked over towards the bench and perched herself on the edge. Pulling her jacket tightly around her, she blew a cloud of dirty smoke into the icy air.
“Well, how do you think it went?” asked Lennox as he stood over her.
“Not sure that Judith looked genuinely concerned, and Des was a non-entity. We’ll know more after the papers have gone out.”
“Depends if the press write favourably.”
“If by that you’re inferring to what Scarlett may report, then I don’t know. She doesn’t consult me or ask for my permission before submitting an article.”
“Perhaps she should.”
“Oh that would go down well, wouldn’t it?” Wednesday took a drag of her cigarette before continuing. “You know you haven’t even met her yet. You might actually like her; most men do.”
“So you keep saying. But I don’t think I could ever like a journalist, I never trust them and neither should you. Living with her could compromise your cases.”
“In what way exactly?”
“Oh work it out,” he replied as he vigorously crushed his partially smoked cigarette under foot. “An alcohol-fuelled evening could loosen your lips, and hey presto . . .”
“You’re very quick to judge people. Perhaps we should just write our reports then go home.”
Sitting in her car, she pushed in the Vivaldi CD for the drive home; letting the images of the day slowly leach from her mind.
Pulling onto her drive, she saw lights glinting through the stained glass panel in the front door. Scarlett was in and most likely waiting to see her.
Opening the front door, she was greeted by the inviting smell of warming cookies. Scarlett’s speciality usually reserved for when she wanted a favour. Oh how Lennox would crow.
“Just in time,” said Scarlett, bending down to pull a tray of golden cookies from the Aga. “I’ll make a pot of Earl Grey to go with these.”
“This is a warm welcome. What’s the catch?”
“Oh the cynicism. Can’t I bake something just for my big sister?”
“No, as it either means you’ve got some relationship hiccup, or it’s something to do with work. Which is it?”
Scarlett was unfretted by the comments. She plated up the warm cookies and brought the pot of tea to the table. Sitting opposite her, she bit into the doughy cookie, leaving crumbs in the corner of her mouth. Wednesday looked at her over the rim of her teacup and admired her Cupid’s bow and high cheek bones.
“I bet I’m right that there’s a link between the missing boy and the dead boy.” Her eyes flashed with excitement.
“You know I can’t discuss cases with you. House rules, remember.”
“I know, but this is my first major case. This is my chance to showcase my talent. I won’t mention you.”
“You know that wouldn’t make a difference, lots of people know we live together; they’d figure it out instantly.”
Scarlett’s shoulders drooped but her emerald eyes retained a sparkle. “Perhaps I could take a different angle? I could do an article on you. I could shadow you, that way I’d be open about my source.”
“No, this case is complicated enough without you tagging along. Besides, my boss would never go for it.”
Wednesday hated to be harsh with Scarlett, and it hurt her to see the disappointment in her perfect face. But rules were rules for a reason; she wanted to keep her personal and work life as separate as possible. Too much could go wrong.
Chapter Eight
The doorbell rang as Wednesday bit into the last piece of toast with apricot conserve.
“I’ll get it,” Scarlett called out as she danced to the front door.
She found an immaculately dressed, tall man with sharp hazel eyes gazing at her from the doorstep.
“Detective Jacob Lennox, what a pleasure to meet you,” she said as she extended a willowy arm. “I saw you in the press room yesterday,” she added in response to his quizzical look.
“I’ve come to collect Eva, is she ready?”
Scarlett ushered him in and led him towards the kitchen. Wednesday recognised his voice and crammed the last morsel of toast in her mouth, rendering her unable to speak.
“Morning Eva, nice house.”
She mumbled a response, spraying a few crumbs onto the Vic
torian pine table. Wiping crumbs off her chin she turned to observe the ritual that always occurred when any man met Scarlett. They became like courting pigeons, bobbing about and cocking their heads as they chased the semi-reluctant female.
“I’m Scarlett, by the way,” she said.
“The journalist . . .” his voice was meaningfully derisory.
“Yes, and I understand you have an acute disliking of my profession. Perhaps I’ll be able to persuade you to reconsider.” She gazed at him from under her eyelashes then flicked her hair as she left, leaving him irritatingly wanting more.
“I didn’t know you were calling,” Wednesday said, interrupting his trance.
“I was driving near when the call came in about another body in the woods. I thought I’d save time and pick you up.”
They jumped into his car and sped towards the crime scene. Scarlett occupied their minds in different ways, but neither brought her up for discussion.
He parked on the edge of the woodland where they saw flickering flashes of blue lights through the array of established and sapling trees.
Beneath their feet, a thick covering of autumnal leaves stuck to their boots with the morning dew. The air smelt musty, like an attic in an old house, and once again, Wednesday could sense the grim odour of death cloying the atmosphere.
Drawing nearer to the scene, they saw a young male officer bend over next to a rotund tree trunk and vomit onto an earthy mound. His pallid face turned towards them as they approached; his watery eyes full of revulsion and horror.
Edmond Carter and Marcus Drake were already at work on the grim task. Within seconds, Wednesday’s and Lennox’s eyes were drawn to the wretched scene before them.
Hanging from a solid gnarly tree branch was the semi-naked body of a teenage girl; her body a mass of cuts and bruises in what looked like whip- and baton-like markings. A deep gash had been sliced across her abdomen so some of her intestines were hanging out like Christmas garlands. Her mouth was bulging, clearly stuffed with something then sealed with black masking tape. Her protruding eyes screeched a silent scream of terror.
They stepped onto the plastic stepping-stones to preserve the scene. A harrowing look was etched on Edmond’s grey face as he turned towards them.
“Nasty one, this,” he said as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow and the top of his bald head. “With luck forensics may get prints from the black tape.”
“Do we know who she is?” asked Wednesday, trying not to let the feeling of nausea take over her body.
“The dog walker who found her recognises her as Claudia Edwards. Poor girl attended the same school as her granddaughter; Markham Hall. Apparently her parents are in London for a couple of days, we’re trying to locate them through the Met.”
Wednesday could see the dog walker talking to a constable just beyond the cordon. She wore a green Barbour wax jacket and matching hat, from under which her grey hair sprouted out erratically. Her rich black Labrador lay at her side with its chin on her muddy boots. She had a ruddy complexion, watery pale blue eyes, and looked in her early sixties. As the detectives approached, the constable took a step back.
“This is Mrs Rhodes who discovered the body.”
Wednesday nodded and introduced herself and Lennox. “We understand you recognise the girl.”
“Yes, from functions at the school. She was on speaking terms with my granddaughter. I wouldn’t class them as close friends. I remember she always wore her school kilt rather too short. But you know the girls of today.”
The woman’s face had a frozen look of abhorrence etched on it as she answered the questions. She swayed from side to side and held her finger under her nose in an effort to filter out the stench.
“Do her parents go away often?” continued Wednesday.
“Yes, it’s common knowledge. I believe they go to London for a long weekend about once a month.” She shrugged her shoulders, until she caught sight of the pendulum body to the left of her once more, making her face turn ashen.
No matter how short her kilt was, she didn’t deserve this, Wednesday thought to herself.
“Please leave your contact details with the officer as we may need to speak with you again,” she said as she gently directed the woman further away from the scene.
“The common denominator appears to be the school, doesn’t it?” Lennox said as he arrived next to her.
“It appears that way at the moment, but it’s early days. The bodies, and lack of, seem to be mounting rapidly.”
“Have you finished seeing the body in situ?” an officer asked.
“Most definitely,” replied Lennox, rubbing his hand over the bristles on his head.
Wednesday turned her attention to Alex Green who was scrutinizing the ground.
“We’ve got some partial footprints in this mossy earth, but so far no evidence of tyre tracks. The victim either walked here or she was carried,” he said, preparing to take a plaster cast of the various partial footprints.
A reflective and intense atmosphere shrouded the macabre scene, as two officers brought the dead girl down and placed her in a body bag. It began drizzling, so the team moved fast to preserve the scene as much as possible by bagging and tagging findings. The body bag was placed in the black van and driven away, leaving the shadow of a ghost hanging from the tree.
“Door to door enquiries are being organised; and I suppose this means another visit to that bloody school,” Lennox said, rubbing his hands together to fight the cold.
Wednesday called the station to advise them that they were heading to Markham Hall. With a sinking feeling, she knew it was going to be another long day trying to piece together the story unfolding before them.
As Lennox pulled up outside the school, they were aware of a frisson of excitement coursing through the students who were hanging around the entrance. Their identity was no longer a secret so the students knew something else was going on.
The receptionist looked resigned and picked up the receiver as they approached.
“This really is bad timing, Detectives. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes,” said Cleveland, looking rather unkempt.
“We apologise, sir, but this is important.”
“Isn’t it always,” he mumbled as he led them to his office.
His desk was littered with papers, and peeking out from under a file was an electric shaver. Cleveland caught them looking at it.
“I got up a bit late this morning,” he said, shoving the shaver into his top drawer.
“Another one of your students has been found dead this morning. Her name is Claudia Edwards,” said Lennox.
Cleveland visibly shook and dropped into his leather chair, his sweaty palms gripping the arms.
“Now sir, we have two dead students and one missing, all from your school. There seems to be a disturbing pattern immerging, which all leads back to here. Do you have anything to say?”
He sat muted by his state of confusion and shock, his eyes focused on his hands. After a few minutes he replied. “This is a most unfortunate string of events. Any teenagers living locally will naturally attend this establishment. So it’s no coincidence, it’s just fact.”
He pushed himself upright in his chair, suddenly pumped up by defiance. “I can assure you that there is nothing sinister going on at this school.”
“Where were you last night?” asked Wednesday, undeterred.
“Me? I was at home all evening,” he replied as his gaze drifted towards the window.
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“No, I live alone. You can’t possibly think I have anything to do with all this?”
“We have to keep an open mind. Nothing is ruled out during an investigation.”
Cleveland ran his hand over his bristly chin, making a rasping noise.
Lennox spoke again. “Was Claudia in the same form as Tom and Darren?”
Cleveland checked his computer and nodded.
“So that would be Mr Po
llock,” said Wednesday, checking her notebook.
“I suppose you’ll want to see him now?”
“That would be useful. It will also give you time to shave before your meeting,” replied Lennox with an ill-hidden smirk on his face.
Walking out of the office, Wednesday dug her elbow into Lennox’s ribs. “No need to antagonize him. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be spending quite a bit of time here.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s as innocent as he proclaims to be.”
They arrived at Mr Pollock’s form room to find him once again hunched over his desk, sifting through a pile of papers. They tapped on the door.
“Is it important, I’ve got some marking to finish,” he called out as he glanced in their direction.
“Someone else who was too busy last night to get things done,” whispered Lennox, as he leant into her. He got a gentle waft of her vanilla and burnt sugar scent.
“I’m sorry, Mr Pollock. We’ve come with some more bad news. And we’d like to ask you a few questions,” Wednesday said calmly.
Pollock hurriedly pushed the papers together and looked at them from underneath his bushy eyebrows. The corners of his mouth twitched as they approached him.
“Claudia Edwards was found dead this morning.”
Pollock’s eyes blinked rapidly. “I somehow knew something bad would happen to her one day.”
They gazed at him and waited for him to expand on his statement.
“She was quite flirtatious with the boys, you know, wearing her kilt too short, flicking her hair over her shoulders and giggling at the stupid things boys said. I often thought she’d be the first in the class to get pregnant.”
No chance of that now, thought Wednesday.
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“She had a few on the go according to the gossip.”
“We’ll need their names and to talk to them.”
“You can interview them in the room next door. That class is on a museum trip today.”
Wednesday and Lennox watched the students file in and take their seats, still talking to one another and immune to their presence. As Colin Pollock called out the names Ralph, Tony, and James, the rest of the class jeered and whistled as the three red faced boys rose up to join the detectives. Lennox fetched Cleveland to join them.
In the Light of Madness Page 6