Miss Brett barely glanced at the cards before shifting herself forward, preparatory to standing up. "I'm sorry but I can't help you. It was a devastating event ... if I'd known anything useful I would have told the police."
It was a clear dismissal but Jonathan ignored it. "Georgina and I are approaching this from a very different angle," he told her. "We're more interested in why Priscilla became a statistic rather than where she is now. If her parents are to be believed from the press coverage, most of her problems stemmed from the fact that she was brighter than her peers ... and that's not an unreasonable assumption. The links between truancy and delinquent behavior are well documented, and boredom is a trigger for both. Do you agree-indeed did you agree at the time-with Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan's assessment of their daughter? Would Priscilla have been a less disturbed juvenile if she'd won a place at grammar school?"
It was a question that was pitched at the educationalist in her, and it worked. She remained sitting. "Truancy is commonly a symptom of underachievement, Dr.-" she consulted Jonathan's card again-"Hughes, while disruptive behavior in class can be a symptom of an above-average IQ that is not being thoroughly tested. Priscilla certainly fell into the latter category ... so in that respect I did agree with Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan. But although her brightness made her a difficult and unruly child, I don't believe it was the cause of her truancy ... or, more importantly, her disappearance."
"What was?"
Miss Brett tapped her forefingers together. "You must put that question to her father."
Jonathan glanced at George, who stepped seamlessly into the conversation. "William Burton told me she was knowledgeable about sex," she said matter-of-factly. "I know it was less understood in those days but-looking back-do you think she was sexually abused?"
"Yes."
"By her father?"
"Yes."
George reached for a notepad and pen. "Is that something you told the police?"
There was a short silence. "No," said the old woman, then, "it's a conclusion I've come to in the last ten years. For a long time I blamed myself-it's a devastating event in a teacher's career to feel responsible for a child's disappearance. I liked to think I was approachable-I should have been approachable..." She broke off abruptly.
George's inclination was to stretch out a sympathetic hand, but Jonathan spoke before she could do it. "A student of mine was murdered in New York recently after I sponsored him to a scholarship out there," he said evenly, "and I'm left with 'if onlys': if only he hadn't been black ... if only America and the U.K. hadn't whipped up hysteria against world terrorism ... if only the man in the street could recognize that Muslim and terrorist are not synonymous." He smiled. "I'm guessing your 'if only' was to do with the rape? If only Priscilla had told you about it, you wouldn't have punished her for fighting with Louise, her father wouldn't have had an excuse to hit her ... or worse ... and she wouldn't have run away."
Miss Brett nodded. "That and more. She had a precocious, sexual vocabulary and didn't think twice about using it, particularly around the male teachers, but it never occurred to any of us that that might be a symptom of abuse." She gave another sigh. "I'm afraid it just made her unpopular in the staff room and her punishments were always more severe because of it. I regret that deeply. One wonders where the poor child found kindness if she wasn't getting it at home."
"There was so much ignorance then," said George. "It seems incredible now, but it wasn't until the Maria Colwell inquiry in '74 that the issue of child abuse really surfaced." She caught Jonathan's eye. "It wasn't until poor little Maria was dumped at hospital by her stepfather that the authorities recognized they should have protected her. He was her murderer, for goodness sake ... he'd beaten a starving seven-year-old to death and he didn't think anyone would object."
"Things haven't improved much," said Jonathan, thinking of his own upbringing. "The trouble is, there's a thin dividing line between child protection and eugenic experimentation. We object to children being forcibly removed from inadequate parents, but complain when the same children die of neglect and brutality. It's a catch-22 for the authorities."
Miss Brett looked interested. "First define inadequacy," she said dryly. "There were many other parents I came into contact with who would have fitted the description better than the Trevelyans. Who's to say which father is harming his child?"
"Or how?" said George thoughtfully. "There's evidence that David Trevelyan hit Priscilla-even the mother seemed to admit it by talking about his strictness-but I'm less sure about the sexual abuse. William Burton's account of the rape suggests Cill was still a virgin. He said there was so much blood on her legs that Louise had to go home to find a pair of trousers to hide it. It may have been a period, of course, but I'm more inclined to think her hymen was broken ... and that would make the rape the first time she was penetrated."
"It doesn't mean she hadn't been introduced to sexual activity," said Jonathan.
"I agree. And if her father was responsible it would explain why she didn't want him to know about the assault. He'd certainly believe she provoked it. It's how molesters and rapists excuse their behavior-it's not their fault, it's the fault of the victim for arousing them." She tapped her pen on her notepad. "The same arguments would apply to her mother. I came across a case study that showed that as many as twenty-five percent of sex-abuse offenses are committed by women. Any number of dynamics might have been operating within the family."
"Or outside it," said Jonathan. "A neighbor or relative might have been grooming her-perhaps her father was as troubled by her sexual precocity as her teachers, and didn't know how to deal with it. He may have been guilty only of heavy-handed discipline." He looked inquiringly at the headmistress. "What sort of man was he? Did you know him well?"
"Not really. I spoke to him once about Priscilla's truanting and once after she disappeared. On both occasions he was very angry. There was no meeting of minds. On the first occasion he told me it was the school's responsibility to ensure his daughter's attendance, and on the second he took me to task for suspending Priscilla and not Louise. He said that had he realized that Louise Burton was the other girl in the fight, he wouldn't have upheld my punishment."
"Why would he say that?"
She considered for a moment. "Each set of parents thought the other child was to blame for the truanting, but I believed then-and still believe-that Mr. Trevelyan was trying to shift the blame onto me. If he could place on record that all he'd done was reinforce a school punishment, then he could excuse whatever it was that caused Priscilla to run away."
"You didn't like him?" said George.
"Indeed I did not," said the old woman firmly. "He was an overweight bully who shook his fist under my nose and expected me to agree with him. I made it clear both times that I had no responsibility for Priscilla when she was off the premises-other than to report the fact to her parents and the relevant authorities-so he promptly blamed the school for her difficulties." She shook her head. "We'd held her back ... she was bored ... we weren't challenging her enough ... she was too bright to be at Highdown. It was very depressing."
"And all reported in the press?"
"Indeed." Another sigh. "And there was nothing we could say in rebuttal. It would have been shabby to contradict their assessment of Priscilla, shabbier still to suggest the Trevelyans were-" she canted her head toward Jonathan-"inadequate. It was very much a case of: de mortuis nil nisi bonum."
Jonathan eyed her curiously. "Is that a figure of speech or did you believe she was dead?"
"Both. A missing child inspires intense emotion ... we all grieved for her. Everyone expected a shallow grave to be found somewhere, and when it wasn't..." She broke off with an unhappy shrug. "Her parents continued to hope, but no one else believed she could survive on her own."
He nodded. "So why did the police abandon the investigation?"
"I don't think they did. They kept the case open for years, but they were really just waiting for a skeleto
n to turn up. As one of the inspectors said, she vanished into thin air after she left her parents' house, almost certainly abducted by one of these monsters who prey on children. She could be buried anywhere:"
"Her father was questioned and ruled out," said George. "Do you know why? He seems the most obvious suspect."
"He was working a night shift that week and her mother said Priscilla was still at home after he left for work. He reported her missing when he came home at six o'clock in the morning and found her bed hadn't been slept in, but his work colleagues said he hadn't left the factory all night."
"What was his job?" asked Jonathan.
"He was a foreman at Brackham & Wright's tool factory. It closed a few years later and they used the site for the new comprehensive school."
There was a long and thoughtful silence.
"What was that you said about linkage and synchronicity?" asked George, leveling her pen at Jonathan. "'Don't be tempted by it ... coincidences happen.' Well, I am tempted." She switched her attention back to Miss Brett. "Do you remember Grace Jefferies's murder? Her body was discovered a week after Priscilla went missing."
The old woman nodded. "It was very shocking. You mentioned her killer earlier."
"Howard Stamp," said George. "His mother, Wynne-Grace's daughter-also worked at Brackham & Wright. It stretches the imagination to think a single workforce should be hit by an abduction and a murder within seven days of each other. Surely the two events must have been connected in some way? Did the police ever suggest that to you?"
"Not to me, although I do remember being surprised during the trial to learn that Mrs. Stamp worked there ... but that was a year after Priscilla vanished, of course." Miss Brett fell into a brief reverie, staring toward her window as she sifted through memories. "It seems an obvious connection to make with hindsight," she said, "but it wasn't obvious at the time. Brackham & Wright was a major employer in Highdown in the 1960s-at a rough estimate there were two thousand on the payroll-and a large number of my parents worked there. I believe Louise Burton's father was also a foreman, and many of our pupils went into their training schemes."
"What sort of people were the Burtons?" Jonathan asked before George could speak.
"I don't believe I ever met the husband-there wasn't a great deal of contact with parents in those days-but I spoke to Mrs. Burton about Louise's truanting. She was rather more amenable than Mr. Trevelyan, accepting some responsibility for her daughter's behavior, but she blamed Priscilla for it. She wanted me to separate the girls but, as I pointed out, it would achieve nothing while they continued living so close to each other."
"How close were they? We know the Burtons lived in Mullin Street but we haven't been able to find an address for the Trevelyans."
"If memory serves me right, they were in Lacey Street."
"Two on," said George, making a note. "Do you know which number in Lacey Street?" she asked Miss Brett.
She shook her head regretfully. "It was a long time ago."
"Was Mrs. Burton right?" Jonathan prompted. "Was Priscilla the leader in the friendship?"
"Oh, yes. She was by far the stronger character. Also, it was she who started the truanting-afternoons at first, then whole days."
"Every day? How long did it go on?"
Miss Brett considered for a moment. "I can't be precise ... perhaps once or twice a week during the spring term. Both sets of parents were given warnings when we broke up for Easter, but I do remember the girls were absent for much of the first two weeks of the summer term. It ceased abruptly after the rape, although we only learned afterward that that was the cause. I'm afraid I assumed the sudden improvement was because of a letter I wrote to their fathers, threatening immediate expulsion if the behavior persisted."
"When were the letters sent?"
"As far as I could judge from what the police told me, it was the same day as the rape. They failed to register again that morning, which is why I decided to take action."
"And Louise just went along for the ride? She wasn't an instigator?"
Another pause for reflection. "She was a strange child ... rather deceitful. I felt she maligned Priscilla to the police. It was a damning picture she painted. A violent, promiscuous, out-of-control teen who hated her parents, truanted to have sex with boys and used threats to make other children do what she wanted. There may have been elements of truth in it-Priscilla was big for her age and she could retaliate strongly when she was teased-but she wasn't a bully, not by my understanding of the word, anyway. She was a magnet to smaller, shyer children, but I don't recall her being unkind to them ... rather the reverse, in fact; she tended to protect them."
"William Burton said the police questioning frightened Louise. Perhaps she was trying to win sympathy?"
"Indeed," said Miss Brett with an ascerbic edge to her voice. "It was certainly her character. She was prone to tears and fainting and wouldn't look you in the eye when she spoke to you-quite the opposite of Priscilla, who squared up and tried to battle her way out of it. It didn't mean Louise had no hand in the mischief, merely that her friend took the punishment for both of them."
"As in the rape?"
"I would think so."
"And the fight that caused Priscilla's suspension?"
"Yes. That was very typical of Louise. I was told by their teacher that she'd been whispering in Priscilla's ear all morning, but Louise insisted it was the other way round-that Priscilla had been trying to persuade her to truant again and attacked her when she refused."
"What did Priscilla say?"
"Nothing," said the woman regretfully. "I warned her she'd be suspended if she didn't give me an explanation, I even suggested it was Louise who'd provoked her-" she sighed again-"but she wasn't prepared to lie."
"Unlike Louise."
"Mm."
"Do you think with hindsight she was teasing Priscilla about the rape?" George put in.
"Oh, yes."
"It would suggest a cruel streak, if she were ... either that or a complete lack of imagination."
Miss Brett thought for a moment. "As to being cruel ... well, possibly. She was certainly very pleased about Priscilla's suspension. But I've never met a deceitful child who lacked imagination," she finished with a small smile. "Telling stories against one's peers rather demands it, don't you think?"
*13*
SANDBANKS PENINSULA, BOURNEMOUTH
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, MORNING
Billy Burton had been sitting in his elderly Renault station wagon for over an hour watching the Fletchers' house for signs of life. It was getting on for two weeks since he'd passed the Bristol detective agency's address to Georgina Gardener, and he'd given up hope that she'd done anything about it. He wore a baseball cap over his thinning hair and a pair of cheap, black-rimmed reading glasses from Boots to break up his face. On the steering wheel in front of him was an open file of documents which he was pretending to study, but as time went by he became increasingly nervous that someone would mistake him for a thief and call the police.
The house was in a side street behind Panorama Road, where property prices were exorbitant because of the uninterrupted views of Poole Harbor and Brownsea Island but, even without a view, Billy would have been surprised if the Spanish-style, balconied villa he was watching was worth less than a million pounds. He'd read somewhere that the Sandbanks Peninsula commanded the fourth highest price per square foot of land in the world, with only Tokyo, Hong Kong and London's Belgravia coming in more expensive. But why this should be so was a complete mystery to him. Given the choice, he'd prefer a property on Malibu Beach in California, where the weather was temperate all the year round.
He hunkered down in his seat as a car cruised past, his heart beating fiercely. This was crazy. Celebrities bought weekend retreats here-half the houses were empty for months on end. He'd probably been under surveillance from a CCTV camera. Who the hell was this Fletcher guy and how could he afford to live cheek by jowl with pop stars and footballers? It d
idn't make sense. Every inquiry Billy had made had come up blank. "Never heard of him..." "Sorry..." "If he's on Sandbanks, he's out of my league, mate..." "What does he do?"
Billy had been tempted to visit the Crown and Feathers and put some questions to Roy Trent, but had thought better of it. There were a number of adages governing ill-conceived action against animals like Trent, but "beware of stirring up a hornets' nest" seemed appropriate. Trent had been a forgotten secret in Billy's brain for over thirty years and he cursed Georgina Gardener for resurrecting him.
Now he was trying to function on two hours' sleep in twenty-four, and driving his daughters mad by monitoring their every movement. He'd relived every minute of Cill's rape, but from the perspective of a grown man, not that of a naive, tipsy ten-year-old who hadn't a clue what was going on. He even knew what he was suffering from-post-traumatic stress disorder-because he'd been a firefighter long enough to recognize the symptoms. It was a disease of the job-the lingering trauma of dealing with car deaths and burn victims was devastating-although he could not account for the thirty-year delay in the onset-nor the intensity-of his guilt.
Why now? He'd dealt with detectives looking for Cill without blinking an eyelid, but a dumpy little stranger turns up, shows him a photograph and he promptly goes to pieces. The woman had told him too much, that was the trouble. "It's more likely she was teasing Cill about the rape ... It takes a lot of imagination to understand how devastating gang rape can be to the victim ... the poor child was probably scrubbing herself raw every day in order to wash off their filth..."
Thirty years on, he could work out what the blood on Cill's legs had signified, and it made him sick even to think about it. In the way of dreams, it was his twins who wandered in and out of his nightmares, hymenal blood pouring down their thighs and baby fat swelling their tiny breasts. Had Louise understood? She must have. He recalled her smirk when she came back with some trousers and dropped them on the ground. "Blokes can tell," she'd said. "You'll never get married now." And he remembered Cill's tearful answer: "At least I'm not a coward."
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