Her daughter.
At the woman’s invitation, Jennifer sat down in a large leather armchair. The first thing she noticed was how quiet it was, the uneasy silence disturbed by the regular ticking of a pre-war brown-cased clock with Roman numerals, located above the mantelpiece.
She crossed her legs, her posture replicating that of her hostess.
“I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me, Mrs Harrison. My producer is something of a stickler when it comes to preparation.”
Lighting up a cigarette, Harrison shrugged, but otherwise did not respond. She glanced at the researcher, her eyes saying ‘get to the point’.
“Tell me about the last year.”
Gillian Harrison took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled. “And where exactly would you like me to start?”
Jennifer placed her hand to her hair, brushing it behind her ear. “How about everything that has happened since 18th July?”
The woman looked back penetratingly. “You mean the day the cameras left Wootton?”
She meant the day of the memorial. Nevertheless, she nodded.
Gillian blew smoke. “I take it you weren’t part of the original circus when my daughter went missing.”
“No. Back then I worked for a different company. I only know what I saw on the news and read in the papers.”
Harrison puffed again on her cigarette, clearly in a gesture of disgust. It was evident from her time on air a year earlier that the woman hated the media.
“They stayed for a week, eight days if you include the packing up. Sky had been the first to arrive, then BBC.” She flicked ash into the nearest ashtray. “They all left the day of the service.”
Jennifer noticed emphasis on the word ‘service’. “I appreciate that there has been a lot of conjecture in the media over the last year. Can I confirm that your daughter has never been found?”
Gillian made prolonged eye contact for the first time, her eyes striking in the light. “At least not by me.”
The answer made Jennifer feel uncomfortable, though she appreciated in the same situation she might have reacted in a similar way.
“How have the police fared in their investigations?”
“Since the 18th?”
Jennifer nodded.
Gillian paused before answering. “They continued to search for three days after the service, apparently it continued as far away as Berwick and Harrogate.” She hesitated slightly. “On the 23rd they told my husband they’d ended it…I was out at the time.”
Jennifer watched her. “But you continue to search?”
The woman stared, now more fiercely. “I continue to believe.”
For several seconds nothing was said.
The ringing of Jennifer’s mobile phone interrupted the silence. She removed it from her handbag and looked at the screen.
She cursed herself for not turning it off.
“Aren’t you going to get that?”
“It’s my producer.” Jennifer frowned apologetically. She answered. “David, hi, I’m just at the…”
“Slight change of plan, Jen. The team have had a bit of a delay. The shooting will have to wait until Friday.”
Four days.
Jen was horrified. She looked up at Harrison, trying to conceal her concerns. The woman had a knack for looking at everything and nothing at once.
Jen lowered her voice. “That’s ridiculous; I’m speaking with Mrs Harrison right now.”
“Sorry, Jen, can’t be helped. Two of the crew are still in Iceland.”
She tried to control her frustration. “And just what am I supposed to do until Friday?” she asked, her tone a whisper.
“I don’t know, try research, book yourself a hotel. Use your initiative.”
“David…”
“I’ll be in touch later today. Cheerio.”
Moving the phone from her ear, she looked at the screen; the display returned to normal. She locked the keypad and looked up at an empty chair.
Harrison had moved into the kitchen.
Jen left her seat and ventured through the open doorway, revealing a traditional period layout with white walls, a large fridge-freezer and lots of cutlery in the dish rack. As Jen entered, the sound of washing up got louder, ironic since the woman had offered no tea or coffee.
“That was the producer; I’m afraid the team have had a delay.”
Harrison didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, her blank expression focused on the window that overlooked the garden.
“See that,” she said, pointing somewhere toward the shed. “That used to be her swing.”
Jen looked outside, noticing the unoccupied swing set. It could have belonged to any child in the world, including her own niece. The fact that it belonged to the missing girl affected her more than she would have expected.
“Mrs Harrison, I can come back in a few days. There’s very little we can do without the production team.”
The woman didn’t respond, which made Jen nervous.
“Mrs Harrison…”
The woman turned, grabbing Jen’s wrist. For several seconds she just looked into her eyes, her stare blank.
“Oh,” Harrison said, her tone noticeably weak. “I’m sorry…for a second I just…”
The woman looked away, placing her hand to her face.
The atmosphere was now horrendous.
“Mrs Harrison, I’ll see myself out.”
Jen hurried out of the kitchen and stopped halfway across the lounge.
“Are there any hotels in Wootton?”
A delay preceded the reply. “Try the White Boar.”
3
The disappearance of Debra Harrison had occurred on the evening of 10 July in the previous year, sometime between eight and ten. She had last been seen walking to a friend’s house: a girl named Stephanie Stanley, who lived in a 16th-century period mansion on the east side of the village. Both girls were sixteen and had recently finished their GCSEs. According to the news, Debra had only finished her last exam three days earlier.
Sad, Jen thought.
She never even had a chance to enjoy the freedom.
According to the locals who had been interviewed at the time, Debra Harrison was known to everyone in the village, and evidently well liked. Her parents had been raised within three hundred metres of one another, and the family were seen as part of the furniture.
No one in the family had any known enemies.
Everyone in the village knew the killer, assuming she was actually dead. According to hearsay, the culprit was a boy of eighteen named Luke Rankin, an awkward boy, possibly autistic.
The lad was dead; that much was confirmed. He’d been found hanged from a nearby bridge within a week of the disappearance.
It didn’t take long for people to start putting two and two together and make something that resembled an equal number.
Debra was the eldest of the three Harrison kids. She was tall, brunette and, based on the photographs, developed for her age. Her aspiration had been to be a journalist, and her GCSE grades reflected her talent. Her strongest grades, four A*s, were in English and the humanities, and even her weakest grades in science and maths were still B.
The girl was bright; that much seemed evident from the photos. There was not a person in the developed world that hadn’t seen at least one. There wasn’t a broadsheet, tabloid or news channel that hadn’t shown it.
The face confirmed the facts. The brightness of the eyes, the genuine smile, the playful persona…
Yes, Jen thought, the poor girl was a typical target for rape.
Jen walked back along the high street and returned to her Kia Picanto. According to the clock on the dashboard, it was now 10:20am.
It seemed incredible the interview had lasted only ten minutes.
She booted up the SatNav and typed in the name of the hotel. The White Boar, she thought to herself.
Sounded quaint.
The SatNav confirmed the hotel was only 0.4 of a mile away, con
venient, all things considered. She guessed it would be too early to check in, but she figured it was worth a try.
Jen started the car and drove slowly along the high street, taking in the sights as she passed. A small gathering of tourists frequented the ice cream shop on the corner of one of the side streets, while others checked out the boutiques. Outside the newsagent’s, a group of young adults, perhaps hikers, sat drinking at an outside bench, clearly enjoying the sunshine.
The village had apparently been something of a minor tourist hotspot, at least prior to the last year. Tudor, Jacobean and Georgian architecture abounded, the black and white exteriors reflecting the warm sun as it blazed down. Most of the shops were small, privately owned and open – impressive considering the financial climate. She liked the way the street was devoid of household names and big chains.
Visually, she guessed not much had changed in a hundred years.
She followed the SatNav’s instructions and turned left along a side street and immediately crossed over a bridge.
The setting left her speechless. The river flowed at speed, passing rocks and pebbles as it accelerated downstream. A large medieval church was located just up the road, surrounded by a well-maintained churchyard. Further afield, mile upon mile of rolling hillside soaked up the sunlight, the grass a radiant shade of untainted green.
She smiled to herself.
The North York Moors at their finest.
The White Boar Inn was located on the left side of the road, almost immediately after the bridge. Like most buildings in the village, it was black and white, and obviously historic. The inn’s logo hung from a freestanding post: a white pig with a slightly comical expression and dating the inn’s establishment to 1471.
Jen locked her car and entered the inn through the main doors, carrying her suitcase. She was used to staying in a campervan from her time at Discovery, so potentially this was a step up.
The inn was quiet, if not deserted. She explored the area near the entrance before heading along the nearest corridor. Somewhere nearby she heard the sound of quiet chatter and furniture being moved.
She continued along the corridor, taking in her surroundings. The interior was in keeping with the outside. The walls were white, decorated by artwork, prints and memorabilia, most of which dated from the previous two centuries. As usual in such places, the main theme was history.
Which as a history graduate, she liked.
The bar was located at the end of the corridor: a two-sectioned layout with lots of ale on tap, plenty of wooden tables and chairs, and an original fireplace. A list of specials was written on the chalkboard, including everything from scampi to pies, priced at anything between £4.25 and £13.99.
The bar gave off a relaxed, airy feel and was deserted apart from a large burly man with a strong forehead and lots of dark hair. She placed him in his late forties.
The man smiled. “Ey up.”
Jen smiled back. “Hi, are you the manager?”
“You’re not the ’ealth inspector, are you?”
She shook her head, confused.
“In that case, yes, I’m the manager.”
Jen laughed, annoyed with herself for not getting the joke.
“Harvey Mitchell. Owner and proprietor. How can I help?”
“Well, I was hoping you might have a room. I appreciate it’s early.”
“Not at all, I’ve got a nice room overlooking the river, or another overlooking the church.”
The river appealed, but her love of history swayed her. “The church sounds perfect. I just love old churches.”
“In that case I’ll see right to it. Tara.”
Almost immediately a young woman came in, aged somewhere around the mid-twenties. She was brunette and very attractive, despite wearing little make-up. She smiled warmly at Jen.
“Take Miss…” He turned. “Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Jennifer, Jennifer Farrelly.”
“How do, Miss Farrelly.” The man offered his hand. “Tara’ll show you to the blue room.”
“Follow me, Miss Farrelly.”
Tara Simpson was as pleasant as she appeared, and naturally chatty. Unlike the Harrison mother, it was obvious to Jen that Tara and Harvey had not been traumatised by the events of a year ago. If the press were to be believed, life in Wootton would never be the same again.
In reality, Jen guessed not much had changed.
She followed the barmaid up two flights of stairs and along the corridor to the penultimate room on the right. Tara opened the door with the key, and showed Jen inside.
The room surpassed her expectations. The walls were an appealing mixture of white plaster and wood, illuminated by natural light that entered through two large windows. Most of the furniture was antique, including the bed, a four-poster but without the accompanying railing and curtains.
Jen pressed her hand down on the mattress as she passed. “It’s perfect.”
Tara smiled. “I’m glad you like it. If you need anything, just give us a bell.”
“Thank you.”
Tara closed the door behind her, leaving Jen to examine her surroundings in peace.
The room suited her mood and personality. As in the bar area, a varied selection of local and historical pictures and artwork was displayed on the walls. A 19th-century print of what appeared to be religious ruins, either an abbey or a priory, included a signature, while a similar scene depicted a castle, not quite a motte-and-bailey, but not full-scale Norman either.
The third picture of note was a large manor house, apparently named Wootton Court, evidently a house of some prestige.
She walked across the room, stopping on reaching the windows. The manager was as good as his word. The view was stunning. A large house was situated about two hundred metres away from the church, separated from the churchyard by a red wall.
She guessed it was the presbytery.
She looked across the churchyard, her attention briefly on the graves. Jen assumed the church was the same one where Debra Harrison’s memorial service had taken place. She’d heard a rumour that something had been placed there to honour her.
Even if Debra Harrison wasn’t buried there, she guessed it was the perfect place to start her investigation.
4
Royal College of Physicians, London
The results had come in earlier that morning. Though he was still to check them himself, he knew from his colleague that the outcome was not what they had hoped for.
Unexpected was the term he had used.
The experienced physician double-clicked on the mouse and read the email for the first time. The content was brief; the body of the text itself told him nothing new. Attached was a large pdf, which he scanned quickly.
His colleague was not lying.
The result was unexpected.
The Royal College of Physicians is one of the oldest societies of its type. Originally named the College of Physicians, it was granted a royal charter by Henry VIII in 1518, affirmed by an Act of Parliament five years later.
Its purpose was straightforward: it had been established to grant licences to qualified professionals.
And to punish those who practiced unqualified.
Ten minutes later the physician opened the door of a large room, airy and ornate, one of the finest at the institution. Four large windows overlooked Regent’s Park, while the other walls were decorated with original works of art, mostly concerned with the society’s past. Even those that weren’t were of the same era.
In the centre of the room, four people, all men of prestige, were seated around a large antique table.
The physician entered quickly. “Sorry to have kept you.”
The first man rose to his feet. He wore a dark suit, his expression befitting the occasion.
He was the Home Secretary.
“Time is of the essence, Dr Grant,” he said, pointing to his watch. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.”
The man next t
o him was less impressed with the Home Secretary than the physician. He was in his late fifties and had brown hair with hints of grey and a handsome face.
“Come now,” he said, looking reassuringly at the physician. “We all appreciate your time, Maurice. Particularly at such short notice.”
The physician smiled, almost a frown. He knew the man well, in his position it was impossible not to.
The man he addressed was the Duke of York.
And he, the Royal Physician.
The physician carried a printout of the pdf attachment. “I have the results.”
The final two were yet to speak, but their concern was evident from their expressions. One was noticeably younger than the other three. He was thirty-one, lean, with a full head of wavy dark hair that on this occasion appeared slightly rugged.
The second man was of similar features, but thirty years older and dressed far more smartly. A clean-shaven face revealed strong cheekbones and an uncanny resemblance to the young man next to him. He wore a kind expression, but his eyes were piercing and alert. His once brown hair, slowly thinning and partially grey, was neatly combed to a side parting.
His demeanour was royal in every sense of the word.
He was the King of England, Stephen II. Alongside him was another Stephen. Prince Stephen Winchester, now Duke of Cornwall.
Eldest son of the king and future Prince of Wales.
The King leaned forward. “Well, Maurice, let’s hear the worst.”
The physician removed his glasses from his top pocket and immediately began reading the printout. “In accordance with Your Majesty’s orders, the post-mortem was carried out in two stages–”
“Get on with it, man,” the Home Secretary said.
“Don’t interrupt, Heston,” said York.
The Duke of Cornwall smiled at the physician. “What killed him, Dr Grant?”
The physician removed his glasses. “It is still too early to ascertain the exact cause of death, Your Grace,” he replied, this time more tentatively. “However, the autopsy did confirm one thing. The King’s death was not of natural causes.”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 2