by JANICE FROST
“Good morning to you too.”
“Sorry. I’m getting impatient with this case. I was just hoping you’d come up with something.”
“Well, I haven’t. Not really. Still haven’t been able to track down any relatives. I contacted the head of the school where she did her GCSEs, and she confirmed that Caitlin’s parents died when she was seventeen. She remembers because it was such a tragic event. Caitlin was meant to stay on at her school to do A levels, but after her parent’s death, she quit and left her home town of Saffron Walden. The head did contact Social Services to try to find out what arrangements had been made for Caitlin, but was told she’d already gone. Her parents died in the summer holidays and by the time the head found out, Caitlin had just disappeared.”
“Great,” said Ava. “So there’s a whole, what, three years of her life unaccounted for before she moved to Stromford.”
“About that.”
“What happened to her parents?”
“They drowned. Trying to rescue her eight-year-old brother. He was swimming in the sea with Caitlin and got caught in a rip current.”
“Jesus, how unlucky can one family get?” Ava thought for a moment. “I’m assuming you’ve checked all the usual channels for the time after Caitlin left Saffron Walden?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said PJ. “No tax or insurance records for those three years. No nothing in fact. It’s like she was living off the grid during that time. Bet she went to London. That’s where most runaway kids make for.”
“Well, she wasn’t a runaway and she wasn’t exactly a kid, but you’re probably right. She might have got some sort of job off the books, lived with people she’d met there . . . Jeez, we’ve got hardly any chance of building up a back story for her. Might be worth speaking to Marcus and the others in her circle. Maybe she spoke to them about her pre-Stromford life.”
“D’you think she might have met Gray Mitchell in London and he learned something about her, or did something to her that would make her want to kill him?”
“Maybe,” Ava said. “That wouldn’t explain why she was killed though.”
“Revenge? For Mitchell’s death.”
Ava wondered who would want to avenge Mitchell’s death. Leon — maybe — but he’d been cheating on Mitchell. Ray Irons? To pay Leon back for his part in Tara Smythe’s death, or for humiliating him in front of his son, George? Or was it Marcus, the spurned lover?
It occurred to Ava that it was not simply motive and opportunity that made a murderer. These people all had reasons for killing, some more urgent than others. Ava was convinced that it was some element of the personality that predisposed a person to kill — a darkness inside that had to obtain release. Laurence Brand, with his mild-mannered, inept, almost bumbling character was an unlikely murderer. His alter ego, Caius, was a different character altogether, and one whose passions could cause him to lose control. But how far would Caius be prepared to go before Laurence reined him in? Too many unknowns, Ava thought.
Neal didn’t think Irons was capable of murder. Irons had lived his whole life denying his true nature. It seemed that his worst deeds were all in his past, as far as physical violence was concerned. But he was still a bigot.
* * *
“I’d like to drive down to Saffron Waldon,” Ava announced to Neal when he returned from his morning briefing. “I might be able to find some information on Caitlin from people who knew her when she lived there. I could speak with neighbours, old school friends. What do you think?”
Neal did not answer immediately.
“Are you okay, sir?”
“What? Yes. I was just wondering if I would have time to come with you. It’s probably over two hours’ drive away, isn’t it?”
“Thereabouts.”
Neal sighed, consulting his watch.
“I promised I’d take Archie to the Christmas market this evening. Doubt I’d make it back in time.”
“Bit risky, with the roads still being bad and the extra traffic at this time of year with all the Christmas shoppers.”
“Bloody Christmas market. Okay, you’d better go alone. Or take PC Jenkins with you, if you like. She’s taking her detective’s exam soon, isn’t she? Be good experience for her, working with you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir. Have a mince pie and a glass of mulled wine for me tonight,” she said cheerily as she left his room. She didn’t need to look back. There was a scowl on Neal’s face.
* * *
“This is nice. I don’t get out of the office that much,” PJ said, as they cruised down the A1. “D’you think we could stop at a service station or something for a pee? I’ll treat you to a coffee.”
“There’s a Little Chef coming up on this side in a couple of miles. I’ll pull in there. I’ll have a large Americano, no milk, one sweetener.” Ava thought of the journeys she’d made with Neal. She would have risked damaging her bladder rather than suggest they stop.
They pulled in to the roadside restaurant about ten minutes later.
“Well, hello ladies!” called out the driver of a carload of young lads as Ava and PJ stepped out of their car.
“Is there anything we can help you with today?”
“You tell me,” Ava said, flashing her badge. “You can start by showing me your licence. I’d like to check you’re old enough to drive.”
“Aw. Serious? You’re cops?” The driver lifted his rear to retrieve his wallet from the pocket of his jeans.
“Seriously, you’re nineteen?” Ava said, glancing at his licence.
“I know. It’s my baby-face good looks.” He grinned.
“Get on your way before I decide I need to run a check on that car you’re driving.”
“Don’t worry, we’re going. Nice to meet you ma’ams.”
As he drove off, all four lads blew kisses in Ava and PJ’s direction. Ava whipped out her notebook and pretended to write down their registration number.
“He was kinda cute,” PJ said, watching the departing car.
Ava rolled her eyes, but she had to admit that the driver, at least, was not bad.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they were back on the road.
“I really didn’t need that Danish,” PJ sighed. “I’ve got Weight Watchers tonight. It’s not fair. You never put weight on, Ava.”
Ava was about to ask how many lengths PJ had swum before work that morning, but decided to say nothing. PJ was the sort of person who would always believe that some people were just naturally thin. Maybe sometime Ava would show her pictures of what she had looked like at school, before she began to exercise. Losing weight had been a by-product of achieving peak fitness, which, for private reasons, Ava considered a survival strategy. That’s why she ran and swam and trained — so that she would never have to go down without putting up a fight. She said none of this to PJ. She just pointed out that she wasn’t skinny. She had plenty of muscle.
The medieval market town of Saffron Walden was in the north-west of Essex.
“Pretty town,” PJ commented as they drove through the busy main street past the market square, empty of stalls today.
They had called ahead and arranged to meet Mrs Jane Raeburn. She was the former head of the school that Caitlin Forest had attended until she left Saffron Walden for who knew where. Mrs Raeburn’s detached mock-Tudor bungalow was located in a quiet residential street on the outskirts of town. She came out onto the drive to greet Ava and PJ.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked. She ushered them into a pleasant sitting room with William Morris wallpaper and a sagging sofa on which lay a giant bloodhound with a velvety, wrinkled forehead and lugubrious brown eyes. He raised his weary eyebrows as they entered the room, but didn’t move.
“Get up and let our visitors sit down, Sherlock,” said Mrs Raeburn.
He gave a snort and grudgingly got off the sofa.
“Now entertain our guests while I make some tea,” she told him.
Sherlock was alr
eady settling into an armchair by an exquisitely decorated Christmas tree and looked too weary to provide much in the way of conversation. He did, however, perk up when Jane Raeburn returned with a tray with tea and a plate of cakes.
“Lucky you didn’t arrive a few days ago. We were practically snowed in,” she remarked.
They looked out at the front garden where mounds of packed snow still lingered under the darkest corners. There followed a few pleasantries but it was obvious that Mrs Raeburn was keen to get to the point.
“I’m retired but I’m busier than ever,” she explained. “I’m on the board of governors at a school near Braintree and there’s a meeting this afternoon. You wanted to know about Caitlin Forest, didn’t you?”
Ava nodded, her mouth full of Victoria sponge.
“I was so sorry to hear what happened to her. I always hoped she’d managed to get over the terrible tragedy of losing her family, and find some way to get on with her life.”
“She did,” Ava said. “She was working as a stained-glass restorer at Stromford Cathedral. Did you know that?”
Mrs Raeburn shook her head. “I’m glad. She was good at art. Got an A star in her GCSE.”
“What sort of girl was she, Mrs Raeburn?”
“I thought you’d ask me that. It’s hard to say, really. Caitlin wasn’t particularly academic but she was a competent, if not gifted, artist. She wanted to do A levels in art and photography. But you don’t want to know all that, Sergeant.”
Ava was thinking that Jane Raeburn must have been a formidable head. She exuded confidence and calm and her eyes were intelligent and inquisitive behind her rimless glasses.
“I’m afraid I don’t really know what she was like.” Mrs Raeburn looked apologetic. “She was a bit of a loner, I think, and some of my teachers thought she lacked empathy. One or two expressed doubts about her. She was sometimes caught out in rather elaborate lies.”
“How about friends? Did she have many?”
“I think that was one of the concerns about her. Caitlin tended to be somewhat controlling, I believe. She was rather good at getting other students to take the blame for her transgressions, particularly the younger ones. I won’t go as far as to say she was a bully, but then again, it’s distinctly possible that she found some way of dissuading other students from speaking out about her behaviour. She was rather good at manipulating people.”
Mrs Raeburn thought for a moment. “One of my teachers hinted that Caitlin showed signs of psychopathy, but he was an English teacher and rather prone to flights of fancy. He left my staff to write books about serial killers, I believe.”
Ava nodded. Beside her on the sofa, PJ was scribbling away in her notebook. Ava had a sense that Mrs Raeburn was trying to think of the right words to use.
“There was one incident I remember. A girl Caitlin took under her wing. Her name was Beatrice Connor — everyone called her Bea. Bea was a lovely girl, but rather shy, not very confident or self-assured, unlike Caitlin who was bossy — or should I say assertive? Why is it that girls are always ‘bossy’ rather than ‘assertive?’”
Ava tilted her head.
“Bea had never been in trouble previously, then, all of a sudden she seemed to be forever in my office for some misdemeanour or other. It was usually to do with starting a malicious rumour about a classmate or member of staff. Then, one day, Bea came to my office all upset, saying that Caitlin Forest kept trying to persuade her to do things that she knew were wrong. Apparently Caitlin was able to convince Bea that she was right and Bea was wrong. Poor Bea was in a complete muddle over her morals.”
Ava stared at Mrs Raeburn. PJ was on her second slice of cake. She put her plate down and hastily picked up her notebook.
“How did you deal with that?” Ava asked.
“I called Caitlin’s parents in and we talked. They were nice people — not loud, like some Americans can be. They agreed to speak with Caitlin, and I made sure that Bea’s timetable was changed so that her lessons didn’t coincide with Caitlin’s.”
“Mrs Raeburn. Did you just say that Caitlin Forest’s parents were American?”
“I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Though thinking about it, Caitlin did try to disguise her accent. Children tend to mimic their peers, not their parents. They like to fit in.”
“Can you think of anyone else we could talk to who might remember Caitlin well, or who might be able to think where she could have gone after leaving Saffron Walden?”
Mrs Raeburn looked over at Sherlock as if for inspiration. He cocked an eyebrow and looked back. Ava doubted whether he would be as helpful as his namesake.
“A lot of her contemporaries are scattered across the country now,” said Mrs Raeburn. “I suppose you could speak with the people who lived next door to the Forests, Ian and Maria Scott. But I believe they’re at their house in Spain until January. I could find out their contact details for you, if you like. I don’t really know them but my cleaner also cleans their house and she’ll have been told how to get in touch with them in case of an emergency.”
“Thanks,” Ava said, I’d like to thank you for the information you’ve given us, Mrs Raeburn. It’s been really useful.”
“Perhaps you could do me a little favour in return, Sergeant Merry?”
Ava was sure she knew what Mrs Raeburn’s request was going to be. She was right.
“Get in touch with me again when you find out who murdered Caitlin. I’d be interested in hearing the outcome of your investigation.”
Ava thanked Mrs Raeburn again and she and PJ drove back into the centre of town. They parked next to the common and walked to the market square looking for somewhere to have lunch, choosing the first pub they came to that looked like it would be warm inside.
PJ ordered fish and chips, Ava chose a vegetable curry. The bartender gave them a wooden spoon with the number thirteen on it, saying he hoped they weren’t superstitious.
“That was a good morning’s work,” Ava declared as they settled in at a table with a view of the street. “Neal’s always harping on about the need to uncover as much detail as possible about the victim’s past life — you never know what might be relevant.”
“D’you think it’s significant that Caitlin Forest was American?” PJ said. “Given that Gray Mitchell was also from the States?”
“Food for thought, isn’t it? Could be a piece of the puzzle, or it could just be coincidence. It certainly gives us a new slant to consider, as well as a possible connection between them. I think Gray grew up somewhere on the East Coast before he moved to Los Angeles. Be interesting to see what part of the US Caitlin’s family lived in.”
“Want me to email ahead and get someone checking out the neighbours’ contact details in Spain?”
While PJ took out her smartphone and composed an email, Ava checked her inbox. She was hoping to see a text from Joel but there was nothing. Admittedly, they both had busy working lives, but if neither of them had time to text each other, what chance did they have of getting it together to form a relationship? With a sigh, Ava returned her phone to her pocket. The waiter brought their meals over and the women chatted about other things as they ate.
“Do you mind if I have a glass of wine?” PJ asked. Ava had half-hoped that PJ would offer to drive back to Stromford, but she told PJ to go ahead. Somewhat to her surprise, PJ came back from the bar with a large glass of white wine.
“You planning on knocking yourself out for the boring journey home?” Ava was only half joking.
PJ shrugged. “It’s cheaper to go large.”
It was late afternoon by the time they arrived back in Stromford. PJ had been heavy-lidded before they left the pub and Ava had endured her snoring for most of the journey. It was a tedious drive and she’d listened to the radio to amuse herself, switching between channels in search of something interesting. At one point, she tuned in absent-mindedly to a phone-in discussion about victims of serious crime. It made for depressing listening.
Ava sighed.
Discussions like this only reaffirmed her belief that she had made the right choice in pursuing a career in the police. Her decision had been precipitated by an incident in her fresher’s week at university that had resulted many months later in a tragedy that still haunted Ava. It was the reason why she dropped out of her degree course.
* * *
“Wake up, sleeping beauty.” Ava and PJ pulled into the car park behind the station.
“Wha . . . we back already?” asked a startled PJ. “I feel crap.”
“Drinking in the afternoon will do that do you,” Ava said smugly.
Jim Neal looked up when they came into his office. Ava filled him in on what they had found out. He congratulated them on doing good work.
“Follow up on this Mrs Raeburn’s info immediately,” he said.
As if Ava needed to be told.
“I’m taking Archie to the market and the fair this evening, as I told you, so I’ll be leaving a bit earlier than usual.”
Ava smiled. “Should be fun.”
“You’re not going? Is Dr Agard working?”
“Fraid so, and Ollie’s not bothered — he’s not fond of crowds. I might go tomorrow if Joel’s finished in time.”
As she closed the door behind her, Ava had the distinct impression that Neal had been fishing. She broke into a smile, which she immediately pretended was aimed at PJ.
“I’ve tracked down the Forest’s neighbours and they’re willing to speak with you on Skype. Do you want me to set it up for you in one of the side rooms?”
“Just let me grab a coffee.”
Five minutes later, Ava was sitting in front of a tanned and healthy-looking couple in their mid-fifties. They were sitting on a balcony with a sea view in the background.
“Mr and Mrs Scott, I’m Detective Sergeant Ava Merry. I understand my colleague has already briefed you on the reason for our call?”
The Scotts nodded in unison. “I’d like to begin by asking you how long you knew the Forests?”