Child's Play

by Alison Taylor

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Randall replied acidly. ‘I don’t get to know a smidgen more than I need to do my job. Dr Scott plays things so close to her chest that if there is trouble at the big house, it’s done and dusted before anybody hears a whisper.’ He made a face. ‘She won’t like having her hand forced into bringing you here,’ he added. ‘I’d bear that in mind, if I were you.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ Dewi said. ‘This girl,’ he went on, ‘Suzanne Melville. D’you know her?’

  ‘They call her Sukie,’ Randall told him. ‘I see her around on her horse, so I know what she looks like, but no more than that. We’re only allowed to speak to the girls if it’s a matter of life and death, as you might say.’

  ‘OK.’ Dewi fired the engine. ‘I’d better get up there and see what’s what. Nice talking to you.’

  Randall smiled. ‘And you.’

  While he trotted to the gates and pushed them wide, his dog continued to hang over the door of Dewi’s car. After giving the animal’s ears a final tweak, Dewi sent him away and went roaring up the drive, dwindling figures of man and dog, framed by those peculiar gates, in the rear-view mirror.

  The drive ran straight for some hundred yards before making a sharp ninety-degree turn to the left. Another straight stretch ended in a ninety-degree switch to the right and after several more such switchbacks he began to wonder if the drive were not a surreal reflection of the gates.

  He had passed the Hermitage on countless occasions, but never before seen behind its twelve-foot-high granite walls. In the early 1920s, some of the ancient woodland through which he twisted and turned so perplexingly was cleared to build a sanatorium where the rich, the aristocratic, and even the royal, were incarcerated for protection from their own excesses. During the Second World War, officers destroyed by exposure to war were hidden there by the government, but by late 1950 it was home only to a small batch of husk-like creatures whose reason had been lost in the PoW camps of the Far East. When they made their final exit the Hermitage was effectively abandoned and nature proceeded to reclaim her own. Wind-blown seeds took root in the landscaped gardens, bramble, nettle and creeper snaked across the lawns to embrace the once-white walls, rhododendron ran riot and killed everything within their shade, while the building itself quietly decayed inside and out from cellar to roof. Ten years later a consortium of businessmen bought land and buildings at a knockdown price, refurbished and repaired, and once again opened the doors to the rich, the aristocratic and, occasionally, the royal, but now for their education.

  The branches overhead seemed to sag under their burden of foliage. Birds clacked and twittered, and shook the leaves, sending down little flurries of pollen and seeds that settled on the passenger seat, his shoulders and the gleaming black bonnet. More than once he had to stamp hard on the brake to avoid the rabbits that sprang from nowhere and the grey squirrels that stared at him, immobile, before shinning up the trees. But for all the heat of the day, there was a chill in the woods that raised goose bumps on his bared skin. He concentrated on negotiating the crazy drive and tried not to look too intently at the trees rooted in their purple shadows, in case it was not simply a trick of the light that made them appear to move. A horse chestnut suddenly thrust a great swatch of withering blossoms and leaf fronds in his face and lovingly caressed his throat before dropping the faint, sweet scent of decay on his clothes.

  The next ninety-degree bend brought into sight the flirtatiously swishing tail and pretty rump of a chestnut horse walking through the dappled shadows. The girl in the saddle had an equally fetching rear view. She glanced round as he approached and pulled the horse aside to let him pass.

  He drifted to a stop. Smiling, he removed his sunglasses and said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, yourself.’ She smiled back. Her eyes were a deep violet and the hair coiled beneath her hard hat was like spun silk. Tight blue britches clung to her thighs.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ he offered.

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ Her thighs tensed and the horse walked on.

  He let the car roll alongside. ‘Shouldn’t you be in lessons instead of out riding?’

  ‘I guess, but this lady needs her exercise.’

  Dewi looked appraisingly at the horse, nodding sagely. ‘Nice animal.’

  ‘Isn’t she? I wouldn’t mind her myself.’

  ‘Oh? Don’t you have your own horse?’

  ‘Hell, yes, Mr Nosy! I’ve got a palomino gelding called Tonto.’

  ‘So why are you riding this one?’

  ‘Because there’s no one else to do it.’

  ‘I see.’ Still keeping pace, Dewi asked, ‘Is this Sukie Melville’s horse, then? I hear she’s gone missing.’

  She snagged the reins and the mare halted. ‘How d’you know about that?’ She frowned down at him.

  ‘Your headmistress reported it. I’m a policeman. A detective, to be precise.’

  ‘Is that a fact? And what do they call you?’

  He grinned. ‘Apart from “Mr Nosy”, you mean? My name’s Dewi Prys.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Dewi Prys,’ he repeated. ‘D-E-W-I P-R-Y-S.’

  She mouthed the words, then shook her head. ‘I don’t understand your dialect.’

  ‘Welsh isn’t a dialect, it’s a language. But never mind. You can call me David instead.’

  She urged on the mare. ‘So is D-E-W-I short for David?’

  ‘Yep, but that’s my dad’s name. I got stuck with Dewi so people knew who they were talking about.’

  ‘David’s much nicer, don’t you think?’ She looked him over. ‘Suits you better, I guess.’

  Infuriatingly, he blushed. ‘And what’s your name?’

  She laughed. ‘T-O-R-R-A-N-C-E F-U-S-E-L-I.’ With that, she turned into the woods and was lost from sight within seconds.

  He let the car coast along under its own momentum for several yards, then shook off his bemusement and touched the accelerator. Soon he was catching glimpses of the school, while sounds of human activity reached him lazily, as if all their energy had been absorbed by the heat and the trees. There were occasional shouts from girls at play, muted blasts from an umpire’s whistle, the chug of a motor mower somewhere ahead. As the drive opened up on to a forecourt, the mower passed across his field of vision, belching diesel fumes from the exhaust. The young man at the wheel was stripped to the waist. His muscles rippled, his tanned skin glistened with sweat and his coal-black hair was plastered to his skull, and he, too, disappeared into the trees while Dewi was still struggling to put a name to his face.

  Sitting on a slight rise, the school was a stark, flat-faced structure in dull white stucco, its three storeys defined by regimented rows of windows, its roof hidden by a parapet, its forecourt partially embraced by angular ornamental walls. Concrete fire escapes leaned against each end, like flying buttresses carrying the building’s weight to the ground. He parked the car, picked up his briefcase and walked towards the centrally placed double doors that provided the only visible access.

  Inside, the building smelt of stale cooking, mingled with the odour of freshly dried paint. He was in a white-painted central lobby and, looking down the corridors to right and left, saw that they too were white. The parquet floor in the right-hand corridor was dull and scuffed, that in the left polished almost to a mirror finish, while the walls along both were punctuated by heavy wooden door frames and plain wooden doors with iron knobs. Round, wrought-iron chandeliers hung from chains at intervals along the white ceilings, eight candle-shaped bulbs in each.

  A wide, shallow staircase with backless wooden treads and more angular ironwork overhung the lobby, and set in the large triangle the stairs made against the wall were the gates to a lift, their design another repetition of those at the end of the drive.

  Stepping rather gingerly on the shining parquet, he made his way along the left-hand corridor, reading the plates on the doors as he went: Miss G. Knight, Deputy Headmistress; Miss B. Grant, Senior Secretary; Dr Frey
a Scott, Headmistress; Miss E. Hardie, Matron. Flimsy-looking basket chairs sat outside every door, each precisely aligned with its neighbour. He passed the Bursar’s office and had just reached that of the Admissions Secretary when a sharp English voice cut the air behind him.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  He turned to see a lipsticked and befrocked figure outside the Senior Secretary’s door. She looked garish in that grimly minimalist setting.

  He walked towards her. ‘I’m here to see Dr Scott.’

  ‘And you are?’ she sniffed.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Prys from Bangor.’

  She pointed to one of the chairs. ‘You may wait there. Dr Scott is teaching until mid-morning break.’ The door shut in his face.

  He eased himself into the chair and, staring at his blurred reflection in the parquet, contemplated the school’s apparent lack of interest in the absentee. Even the gorgeous Torrance, with her charming smile and quaintly refined American accent, seemed little concerned. But then, he thought, perhaps this particular missing girl was only the latest in a long line. He rose and wandered back to the lobby.

  The lobby bisected the building, with another set of double doors at its far end. He pushed through on to a paved terrace overlooking banks of rhododendron, magnolia and azalea, huge formal flowerbeds, and an enormous expanse of lawn that carried the eye to the ever-moving waters of Menai Strait and the shores of Anglesey. Looking up, he saw that this side of the building was gracefully softened by curved, full-height bays, inset with curved windows, and whereas the face of the building he had first seen was dulled by the green-grey reflection of the trees, these walls glistened in the sunshine.

  Imagining that the building, chameleon-like, must change its face and mood according to the time of day, the weather, the seasons, he strolled back to his seat, to find he had company. The chairs outside Matron’s door were occupied by two girls he thought must be fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed alike in green and white striped shirts and navy-blue skirts. There the similarities ceased. One looked as if she had been taken in off the streets as an act of charity: lank black hair framed a pasty face marked with lines of pain, her limbs were like sticks and her breasts a mere grudging admission beneath the shirt. Her bony kneecaps were almost deformed and, glancing at the hands clenched fiercely in her lap, he saw equally prominent and raw-looking knuckles. The other girl was what he could only describe as voluptuous, with thick, curly brown hair, bee-stung lips, and the bloom of health and wealth from top to toe. ‘Chalk and cheese,’ he said to himself, as she looked across at him and smiled boldly.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  He nodded.

  ‘My name’th Daithy Podmore,’ she added. ‘And thith ith my betht fwiend Alith Dewwinger. What’th your name?’

  Involuntarily, he flinched, then felt a rush of real pity. Meeting her eyes, he saw they were strangely opaque, as if she sensed the pity and despised him for it.

  ‘I’m called Dewi Prys,’ he replied quietly. ‘I’m waiting for Dr Scott.’

  ‘We’re waiting for Matron,’ Daisy told him, before launching into a speech riddled with traps. If nothing else, he thought, it showed her mettle. ‘Alice has got one of her awful headaches,’ she went on. ‘She could have meningitis, you know, or even a brain tumour. She gets asthma, too, especially when she’s been near the horses. That’s because of the dander on their coats.’

  ‘I don’t!’ Alice raised red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ve always had asthma! It’s nothing to do with horses!’ She looked close to tears, but there was temper in the set of her mouth.

  ‘How many horses are there?’ Dewi asked hurriedly. ‘Seven,’ replied Daisy. ‘Five dim-witted geldings and two vicious mares.’ Her voice was scathing.

  ‘Don’t you like horses?’ he asked.

  Before she could respond, Alice broke in, a sweet smile transforming her dreary face. ‘She doesn’t appreciate them. Horses are just gorgeous!’

  Dewi gazed at her. ‘Have you got one of your own?’

  ‘Dr Scott only lets the sixth formers have horses on campus, so I’ve got to wait another two years.’

  Daisy prodded her and giggled nastily. ‘Don’t bet on it. You could be dead by then.’

  ‘Don’t be so horrible!’ Alice wailed, her voice rising.

  A voice boomed from the far end of the corridor. ‘What’s all this noise about?’ A stout, middle-aged woman stiffly dressed in traditional nurse’s garb squeaked towards them in rubber-soled shoes that left smudges on the gleaming parquet. She favoured Daisy with an indulgent smile, then loomed over Alice. ‘What’s the matter with you this time?’ she demanded, taking hold of Alice’s chin in one huge red hand and pulling down her lower lids with the fingers of the other, while Alice squirmed. ‘Dearie me! Another headache, I suppose?’ Rubbing the small of her back as she straightened, she hefted the keys hanging from her belt and unlocked the door to her room, then turned to Dewi. Uniform rustling, she took a few steps towards him.

  ‘I’m waiting for Dr Scott,’ he said, pre-empting interrogation.

  She consulted the fob watch pinned to her apron. ‘She won’t he long.’ She stood over him, breathing heavily, her gaze dour and steely. There were broken veins on her ruddy cheeks, grey hairs bristling stubbornly and spitefully round her mouth and on her chin, and the puffs of breath issuing from her smelt of chloroform, as if in her quiet, lonely moments, she drank from the brown glass bottles he imagined must fill the cupboards in her room. ‘You shouldn’t have been talking to the girls,’ she chided. ‘Dr Scott doesn’t allow strangers to have truck with them.

  He reddened. ‘I’m sorry. We were just chatting about the horses.’ Feeling like a small child caught out in mischief, he added defensively, ‘It would have been churlish to ignore them.’

  Frowning, she pursed her lips. ‘Don’t answer back, young man, if you please.’ With that she wheeled away to usher the girls into her room. Before the door closed Daisy, her shoulders shaking with mirth, turned to make an obscene gesture.

  Dewi was furious: with the woman, with Daisy, but mostly with himself, for letting reserve fall prey to curiosity. The murmur of voices came from Matron’s room, punctuated by yelps from Alice. A telephone rang in the secretary’s office and was answered within seconds. Still smarting from Matron’s rebuke, he once more wandered into the lobby, to stand at the front doors lost in thought.

  A light step, a drift of perfume, jolted him back to awareness. Turning quickly, he saw a tall, fair-haired woman in the shadow of the staircase. She wore a dark-grey suit in some silky fabric and a pristine ivory shirt. ‘May I help you?’ Her voice was warm and cultured, the words accompanied by an enquiring smile.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Prys,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to see Dr Scott.’

  ‘I’m Freya Scott.’ With a couple of long strides she moved near enough to shake his hand, then gestured for him to follow. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she added, unlocking her door. ‘I teach most mornings.’

  Her study was a large white room with a wide, curved window offering a tranquil view of the gardens and Strait. Carpet, cabinets, chairs, the massive chrome and leather desk were surely artefacts from the building’s heyday, he thought. Behind the desk was a large fireplace, a simple hole in the wall, its empty mouth filled with a wrought-iron screen. Above the mantel hung photographs and an impressive array of certificates, with pride of place given to a reproduction of Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen. The desk top was clear except for a gold fountain pen, a telephone console and a closed manila file with the name ‘Suzanne (Sukie) Melville’ printed on the cover in black letters.

  ‘Do sit down,’ Freya said, sliding into a leather chair. She pressed a button on the telephone, ordered coffee and biscuits for two, then gave him her full attention.

  She was probably in her early forties, he decided, with streaky blonde hair rolled neatly into a French pleat and a beautifully made-up face. Her features were well defined and even at
tractive, but her eyes commanded attention. Heavy-lidded and of a deep blue-grey, they were startlingly sensual. Her perfectly manicured nails were varnished a brilliant red and she wore sparkling diamond rings on each hand, yet something about her bearing or manner brought military metaphor to mind, and he could easily envisage her dressed in uniform and even armed.

  ‘Thank you for responding so promptly to my call,’ she said. ‘Tell me, where are you based?’

  ‘Bangor. The Hermitage is on our patch, so to speak.’ She raised her eyebrows a fraction. ‘But I contacted the divisional headquarters.’

  ‘And they routed it to us.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘Now, I understand you’ve already searched the grounds,’ he said. ‘What other steps have you taken?’

  ‘Thus far, we’ve questioned all the sixth form as well as the few juniors Sukie’s friendly with, but no one has the faintest idea where she might have gone. Or, indeed, why.’

  ‘Has she disappeared before?’

  Freya shook her head.

  ‘How often do girls abscond?’

  ‘Very, very infrequently. Our aim is to identify and manage any difficulties the girls may have before they become problematic.’

  ‘Who’s in charge of pastoral care?’

  ‘It’s a team effort.’ Lacing her fingers together, she leaned forward. ‘Let me explain how the Hermitage is organised. All but a few of the teaching staff are resident, as is Matron. On entry to school, a girl is assigned to one of the four houses, each with a captain from the sixth form as well as a housemistress. There are also prefects and a head girl. The system is designed to ensure that each girl is monitored at every stage of her school career.’

  ‘What about security arrangements?’

  Amusement flickered briefly in her eyes. ‘I see you noticed the absence of electrified fencing, armed guards and snarling Rottweilers. However,’ she went on soberly, ‘we propose to install closed-circuit television during the summer holidays, to augment existing facilities. We already have internal and external building alarms, staff on waking duty every night, the lodge keeper and his dog, and twenty-four hour mobile patrols throughout the grounds. That you failed to see them is testament to their effectiveness, I think.’