Playing with Bones

by Kate Ellis

‘Does he live at home?’ Emily asked.

  Barbara shook her head. ‘He shares a house with some other students.’ She looked at her husband, her eyes wide with panic. ‘We’ll have to tell him. Oh God, he doesn’t know … we’ll have to …’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him,’ said Emily. ‘And everyone Karen knew. Did she keep an address book here or …?’

  The answer was an absent-minded nod from Barbara. She stood up but Joe shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Strange. It can wait a few minutes. If you’re feeling up to it we’d like you to tell us all you can about Karen.’ Or the version she’d let her parents know, he thought to himself. Working in CID, he was only too aware that parents often don’t know half of what goes on in a teenage girl’s life. ‘Is that OK?’

  The couple both nodded meekly. ‘

  What did Karen do?’ he began. ‘

  She’s in the sixth form. She’s applying to university. She wants to study English.’

  Joe noted the use of the present tense but they made no attempt to correct it. The realisation that Karen wouldn’t be taking up any university place would sink in soon enough.

  It was Emily who asked the next question. ‘Which school’s she at?’

  ‘Hicklethorpe Manor.’

  ‘And where was she going last night? Did she tell you?’

  ‘Of course she told me. She tells me everything. She was going to The Devil’s Playground with her friend from school – Natalie. She didn’t have school next day so I said it’d be all right,’ Barbara said defensively, as though this plump, motherly woman in the big, comfortable raincoat was questioning her maternal capabilities.

  ‘So you know who she was with?’ Joe caught Emily’s eye. This sounded hopeful. If her friend saw her with her killer this one might be easier than they’d expected.

  ‘Do you think we let her just wander the streets?’ Vince said impatiently. ‘We always know who she’s with and where she’s going.’

  Joe looked into Vince’s eyes. ‘But you didn’t report her missing when she failed to arrive home last night?’

  The dead girl’s father opened and closed his mouth as though he couldn’t think of an explanation. His wife, however, was quick to supply one. ‘She told us she was going to stay the night with Natalie. That’s why we weren’t worried.’

  It seemed that their trust in Natalie was misplaced. And she had just become number one on their list of people to interview.

  ‘Was your daughter interested in dolls at all?’ Emily asked. ‘Victorian dolls … did she collect them or …’

  The Stranges looked at each other and both shook their heads, puzzled. ‘She used to like dolls when she was little,’ she said. ‘But …Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just that an antique doll was found near …’ Somehow Joe couldn’t bring himself to say the words ‘near her body’. It seemed too brutal. The couple looked as though they still expected their dead daughter to walk in any moment.

  ‘Do you have a recent photograph of your daughter?’ Emily asked.

  Barbara Strange stood up and walked over to the chest of drawers. She took out a school photograph and handed it to Emily who studied it for a few moments and then passed it to Joe. It seemed to bear little resemblance to their corpse, apart from the general build and colouring. But then they’d not really studied the dead girl very closely. That would come later at the post-mortem.

  Joe saw Emily sling her capacious handbag onto her shoulder and rise from her seat. ‘If we can have Natalie’s details … And it would help us if we could have a look through Karen’s things.’

  Vince looked flustered. ‘Yes, of course. Er …’ He looked at his wife. Joe thought he looked like a helpless child searching for a responsible adult.

  ‘Look, Natalie’s Karen’s friend,’ said Barbara. ‘She’d never just leave her like that. I know she wouldn’t.’

  Joe could have told her that he’d dealt with cases where teenage girls did lots of things they shouldn’t do when their parents’ backs are turned. But he didn’t.

  Once the Stranges had provided Natalie’s address and phone number, Joe told them that the family liaison officer would take them to the hospital as soon as they felt ready to conduct the formal identification of their daughter. The words sounded cold and he felt cruel. But they had to be said.

  It was time to have a look at Karen’s room. Joe knew they’d have to search their way through her possessions. They’d have to dig away until they knew Karen almost as well as her family did.

  Vince and Barbara had just led them out into the hall, their hands touching for support, when all of a sudden the silent hallway was filled with the sound of a key turning in the front-door lock. Joe and Emily exchanged looks. This was probably the student son, Chris, home on a Saturday to dump his washing in the parental machine. Joe saw that the Stranges had frozen like the victims of some fairy tale curse and all eyes were focussed on the front door as it opened slowly.

  As the girl stepped over the threshold, Barbara Strange uttered a strangled cry.

  But Vince hurried forward, barging Emily out of the way. ‘Karen,’ he said, taking the shocked girl in his arms. He held her there as she began to push him away. Barbara, tears streaming down her face leaving black trails of mascara, grabbed at her daughter’s arm, holding it tightly, unwilling to let go.

  Joe watched them, feeling their relief, almost rejoicing with them inside but careful to keep up a mask of professional neutrality. He looked at Emily and saw a smile playing on her lips.

  But there was an expression of strong distaste on Karen’s face as she slipped from her father’s grasp with a roughly whispered ‘Give over. Can’t you fucking leave me alone?’ She scowled at Emily and Joe. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ she asked, suddenly on her guard.

  ‘We thought you were dead,’ Barbara sobbed accusingly, clawing at her daughter’s sleeve, trying to hold onto her child but being denied that basic need.

  ‘I think we need a word, Karen,’ said Emily in her best headmistress voice.

  Joe should have known that nothing is ever straightforward.

  The car was flash. Black BMW four by four. Just what you’d expect from the head of a modelling agency. The only trouble was that, sitting in the plump leather back seat, Michele Carden couldn’t see out of the heavily tinted windows and the feeling of having no idea where she was going was rather disconcerting … like being abducted in a particularly sumptuous van.

  Ms Palmer had become quite friendly, chatting about the agency and the assignments her girls had done. But she made it absolutely clear that she expected hard work and dedication. And punctuality. Never mind all the stories about supermodels turning up when they felt like it, the reality was quite different. And you started at the bottom, doing the menial tasks and learning the job. The work was tough and often unglamorous but there were rewards for those who saw it as a career rather than an opportunity to have a good time. Ms Palmer didn’t tolerate slackness. Professionalism led to success.

  This all sounded fine to Michele. When she was a top model she’d go back home and gloat over all her sad friends in their sad little lives and their university courses that led to boring jobs. Michele Carden was going places.

  As they drove Michele caught tantalising glimpses of the passing landscape through the front window and they seemed to be out in the middle of the country. They were on their way to the scene of the photo shoot. The very words held glamour. Photo shoot.

  Suddenly the car swung off the narrow road and onto a rough track. Michele could see a building ahead through the front windscreen. A house surrounded by high trees and green fields.

  ‘Is this it?’ she asked. It didn’t exactly look like the scene of a photo shoot but, from the pictures she’d seen in magazines, she knew they used some strange and unglamorous places.

  Sylvia Palmer kept her eyes on the track as the BMW rocked this way and that. ‘This is it. Nobody’s here yet but Barry will be coming up soon. He’s the p
hotographer. I expect you’d fancy some coffee?’

  ‘Yes. That would be nice. Thank you,’ Michele replied, remembering her manners. This woman held her future in her well-manicured hands.

  The back door was opened and Michele climbed out, looking around. She was indeed in the middle of nowhere, not another house to be seen in any direction amongst the rolling dales. Only sheep – lots of them. The scenery was breathtaking but Michele preferred the shops any day. Scenery was boring. She followed Sylvia Palmer up the drive towards the house.

  It wasn’t the sort of place she would have associated with a woman like Sylvia. It obviously used to be a farmhouse but the farmer and his family had probably moved to pastures new long since. The double-fronted building looked rather dilapidated with flaking green paintwork and a drooping gutter.

  Sylvia turned to her. ‘Bit of a dump, isn’t it? The story the client wants is edgy rural chic.’

  Michele nodded earnestly.

  Sylvia unlocked the door and stood aside to let Michele enter first. Then she ushered her through a narrow hallway into a square room that generations gone by would have called the front parlour. Michele took in her new surroundings. The furnishings had seen better days and everything seemed to be covered in a thin layer of dust. But she said nothing. It wasn’t any of her business.

  Sylvia told her to make herself at home while she arranged for the coffee to be brought. She flopped down on the sofa. It was surprisingly comfortable and for the first time, Michele realised that she felt tired.

  After a few minutes, Sylvia Palmer returned with two mugs of steaming coffee. Michele was hungry and she’d hoped for biscuits. But then if she was serious about a modelling career, she was going to have to learn strict dietary discipline. Biscuits would be out from now on.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sylvia. ‘I’ll have to get my laptop out of the car. I’m expecting an important e-mail from New York. A contract for one of my girls,’ she added casually.

  Michele nodded, impressed. Maybe one day she’d be in New York. Her heart lifted as the world of fashion beckoned. Sylvia told her to drink up and watched her as she took the first few sips. The coffee tasted bitter but Michele didn’t care. This was the start of the rest of her life.

  Even when her head began to spin just like it had when she’d smoked a joint at her mate’s house, her only thought was that she hoped she wouldn’t spoil her chances by being ill.

  And when she finally lost consciousness, she was unaware of being lifted off the sofa and carried upstairs.

  Karen Strange sat on the sofa scowling at nobody in particular. Emily had asked the Stranges if they could speak to their daughter in private for a few minutes. They hadn’t looked happy but they’d agreed.

  If Karen was worried by a visit from the police, she was hiding it well.

  Emily had brought the small bag found by the body with her in a plastic evidence bag. She pulled it out of her own large handbag and handed it to the girl. ‘Can you confirm that this bag belongs to you?’

  Karen examined it briefly and nodded. ‘Yeah. Why?’ ‘

  It was found by the body of a young woman. She was murdered in Singmass Close last night. Strangled. Do you know how your bag came to be there?’

  Karen took a deep breath. ‘Nat picked it up from where we’d been sitting … she must have thought it was hers. We found we’d bought identical ones in Topshop and we’d both brought them out last night.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I was pissed off cause she’s always copying me … asking me where I got things and turning up in the same thing a couple of days later. She was always doing it.’

  ‘Are you talking about your friend, Natalie Parkes?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ The girl looked wary.

  ‘Tell me what happened last night,’ said Emily. ‘When did you find out you had the wrong bag?’

  Karen glanced towards the door as though this was something she didn’t want her parents to hear. ‘When I got to Jon’s room I opened the bag and saw all Nat’s stuff in there. I was going to ring her this morning … get my bag back. Look, it can’t be Nat, can it? Someone must have pinched my bag from her.’

  ‘Who’s Jon?’ Joe asked. ‘

  Jon Firman. I met him last night. I went back to his place. He’s doing his PhD at the uni.’

  ‘You spent the night there?’

  She looked at Joe defiantly. ‘Yeah. At one of the halls of residence on the campus. He won’t want to get involved. He’s engaged.’

  Joe leaned forward. ‘We need to talk to him – he might have seen something.’ He saw the girl scowl. ‘We can be discreet if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Karen pouted and looked away, as if he and Emily were a pair of tiresome relatives out to spoil her fun, and Joe wondered whether the seriousness of the situation had sunk in yet. Her friend was probably dead. Murdered. But it seemed that Karen Strange was adopting the strategy of the ostrich and burying her head in the sands of her own self-absorption.

  ‘Have you got a photo of Natalie?’

  Karen hesitated for a moment before getting up and walking to the bureau in the corner of the room. She opened a drawer and took out a class photograph – the type taken at every school in the land. ‘That’s her,’ she said, pointing to a pretty blond girl in the back row. ‘That’s Nat.’

  Joe caught Emily’s eye. It was the dead girl. There was no mistaking it this time.

  ‘Tell us about Natalie,’ Joe said gently. ‘What’s she like?’ Karen shrugged her shoulders. ‘Cool. Clever. She went through some heavy stuff when her dad buggered off but …’

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘One brother. Will. But she never talked about him much. He’s quite a bit older and … He kept trying to order her about … kept asking her where she was going and all that. She told him to piss off and lighten up.’

  ‘He’s probably concerned for her,’ said Joe, mentally adding the words ‘someone had to be.’

  ‘He gets on her nerves,’ was Karen’s reply.

  Joe gave the girl what he thought was an understanding smile. ‘So tell me exactly what happened last night.’

  Karen looked at him uncertainly before launching into her account. ‘We met outside The Devil’s Playground at nine-thirty,’ she began.

  Joe nodded. He knew of The Devil’s Playground, a club in the basement of a Victorian office building not far from the castle, popular with Eborby’s student population and not as grim as its name might suggest.

  Karen continued. They’d done the usual, taken advantage of the cheap drink offers and had a laugh. Then Karen had been chatted up by Jon and she had only caught glimpses of her friend for the rest of the evening.

  ‘Anyone else there you knew?’

  She shrugged again. ‘A few people. I saw Nat talking to Brett Bluit at one time.’

  ‘Who’s Brett Bluit?’

  ‘Boy from school.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just a friend.’ ‘Did you see her with anyone else?’ ‘A few people. Blokes. But I couldn’t describe them. I had better things to do than watch Nat all night.’

  ‘Did you see her leave?’

  ‘Yeah. She passed me and said she was off.’

  Emily shifted in her seat. ‘Was she on her own when she left?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so.’

  ‘Not with this Brett?’

  Karen gave a snort of derision. ‘Do me a favour. No way.’

  ‘You weren’t worried about her going off on her own?’ Karen didn’t answer. She’d probably been too preoccupied with her new pick-up to think of such things. And now she must be feeling bad … even though she was being careful not to show it.

  Emily looked the girl in the eye. ‘If Brett was talking to her, he might have noticed her leave.’

  Karen looked away. ‘You’ll have to ask him. But I saw him there after she’d gone. He started chatting to me while Jon was getting me a drink – had to tell him to fuck off. Three
’s a crowd and all that.’

  ‘We’ll need Brett’s contact details,’ said Emily.

  The girl hesitated. ‘His number’s in my mobile.’ ‘

  Got his address?’

  Karen stood up. ‘It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.’ Suddenly she looked worried, as though the gravity of the situation had just hit her. She hurried out of the room.

  ‘What do you think?’ Joe asked as soon as Karen was out of earshot.

  ‘I think we need to speak to Brett and anyone else who was at the club last night,’ Emily replied. ‘And while we’re about it, we need to discover all Lady Natalie’s little secrets.’

  Joe couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘So Karen Strange came back from the dead did she, ma’am?’

  Joe saw Emily give Sunny Porter a businesslike smile. The short, wiry Sunny – who had been rather ambitiously baptised Samson – looked rather pleased with himself. But then it was his birthday and he’d just been distributing cream cakes amongst his colleagues. Even Emily, who always claimed to be watching her waistline, had accepted; but then it would have been churlish to refuse his largesse.

  ‘She gave us a bit of a surprise,’ said Joe who’d been standing behind the DCI, deep in thought. ‘I suppose we should have known from the photos if we’d been paying attention, but the two girls are rather alike.’

  ‘Hope they don’t decide to sue for distress caused,’ said Sunny, ever the pessimist. ‘Cost a lot nowadays do hurt feelings.’

  Joe sighed. Sunny might have a point if the Stranges turned out to be the litigious type. But it was something he preferred not to think about just at that moment.

  ‘So what did she have to say for herself, this supposedly dead girl? How come some other girl had her bag? Was it nicked or what?’

  ‘Apparently her friend Natalie had an identical one and they must have got mixed up. When Karen looked in her bag she found she’d picked Natalie’s up by mistake.’

  ‘She’d kept her front door key with her though.’

  ‘She always keeps it in her jacket pocket, apparently,’ said Emily. ‘Any luck at Natalie’s address?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No reply and the neighbours claimed the family keep themselves to themselves. It’s just mum and the two kids. Older brother in his mid twenties and Natalie. No husband about.’