Cherringham--A Lesson in Murder (7 page)

“Anyway — Chloe has plans today with friends, Daniel too. So they’re both going to be busy, and I can head out as soon as we’re done with breakfast.”

“Great. Not the same without you.”

And at that moment Daniel shuffled in, wearing a dressing gown, tufts of hair pointing to the ceiling.

“Jack … hi!”

“Hope you’re hungry,” Sarah said. “I’m doing Jack a real American breakfast — pancakes …”

“Brilliant!” her son said.

Then Chloe walked in.

Would she still be rattled?
Jack wondered.

But Chloe had a smile on her face upon seeing Jack. She seemed to like it whenever he came to visit.

And, for far from his home, that always made him feel good.

“Miss Chloe, good morning.” “Hi, Jack!”

And without any sign that she was still brooding about last night, Chloe sat down.

Must have been some good talk the two of them had.

The right words, the right time. What a difference that could make.

Then the pancakes started landing on the table, the smell just about the most wonderful thing ever.

And they all dug in.

*

As Jack drove down the long drive towards Cherringham Hall the rain finally stopped. He turned off the windscreen wipers.

“You sure a surprise visit is a good idea?” said Sarah.

Jack laughed. “In this line of business, a surprise visit is
always
a good idea.”

“Certainly a lot busier today,” said Sarah, nodding towards the playing fields that lay beyond the big Sports Hall.

He looked across. There were three, maybe four hockey games under way. Groups of girls and adults stood on the sidelines watching.

As they drew closer to the house, a movement at one of the windows over the main doors caught Jack’s eye. A tall figure peering at them, curtain pulled aside.

“Looks like the Head,” said Jack, nodding to Sarah, “Noting our arrival. Surprise over.”

As Jack watched, the curtain was swiftly drawn back again and the figure disappeared.

He parked the little Sprite in the visitors’ car park at the side of the main building next to a line of mini-buses and coaches.

As he and Sarah climbed out a group of young girls ran by in sports gear, carrying hockey sticks, and laughing together.

“Life goes on,” said Sarah. “See the coaches? Looks like they’re playing one of the Oxford schools.”

“You think maybe the police haven’t told them about Emily?”

“Ward will know, for sure. And the staff. But I suspect the pupils won’t find out until this evening … maybe tomorrow in class.”

“Don’t want to spoil the team performance, huh?”

As they walked towards the main doors, Jack noticed a sleek black Porsche 4WD with black windows.

“I’m in the wrong business.”

“Car like that just wouldn’t look right on you, Jack,” said Sarah.

She opened the doors and they went into the hall.

“Oh, I’d give it a try,” said Jack.

The door to the offices opened immediately and Jack saw Fliss Groves emerge and walk briskly towards them.

“Ms. Edwards, Mr. Brennan, we weren’t expecting you.”

“We had some questions we needed to ask,” said Sarah.

“It’s Sunday,” said Ms. Groves.

“Appreciate that, Fliss, but you know, what with the events of last night, we figured perhaps things were getting a little urgent …” said Jack.

Ms. Groves looked alarmed and stepped closer.

Someone else whose default position is to keep things secret,
thought Jack.

“If you are referring to the passing of Ms. Braithwaite then I must insist that you breathe not a word to any members of the school,” she said. “The students must be told properly, with appropriate counselling available.”

“So you know?” said Sarah.

“The police telephoned last night.”

“They’ve not been up here yet?” said Jack.

“Tomorrow morning, I believe.”

“But the children don’t know?” said Sarah.

“Mr. Ward took the decision to defer making the news public until this evening.”

“We won’t say anything, I can promise you that,” said Sarah. “But I really do need to talk to one of your Sixth Formers — Freya DeLong.”

“Freya?” said Fliss. “What about?”

Jack could see she was concerned. “Just a couple of questions, probably nothing important.”

“Well, it’s not possible. Not today.”

“Oh?” said Sarah.

Jack sensed that Ms. Groves was now looking for an excuse.

“Why, um … she’ll be watching the hockey. I doubt she’ll be back in House for at least an hour.”

“That’s okay, Fliss,” said Sarah. “I’m happy to wait. You don’t mind me waiting here?”

Nicely done,
thought Jack.
That put her on the spot …

“Oh — and I need to talk to Mr. Weiss too, this morning,” said Jack. “Is he here?”

“He’s in a meeting. For at least another hour.”

“How about the Head?”

Jack saw her pause.

“He’s not here.”

“Really?” said Jack pleasantly. “When’s he expected back?”

“Um … this evening, I believe.”

Not a good liar, this one.

“Shame. Ah well, I’m happy to wait to see Mr. Weiss.”

“This is most inconvenient,” said Ms. Groves.

Jack smiled at her, watching the wheels spin.

She shook her head, eyes rolling like pinballs.

“Very
well
,” said Ms. Groves. “Take a seat. I shall let you know when Mr. Weiss is free.”

“And Freya?” said Sarah.

“As I said — at least an hour.”

“I think I’ll wait in the car, Jack,” said Sarah.

Jack turned to her. That hadn’t been the plan. What was she up to?

“My back — you know? On these chairs.”

“Sure,” he said, seeing her half-smile and suddenly understanding. “You’ll be much more comfortable there.”

He watched Ms. Groves turn on her heels and return to her office, while Sarah headed out of the main doors.

And when his partner turned right towards Florence House, rather than left to the car park, he knew exactly what she was up to …

Sarah slipped through the doors of Florence House then waited, not moving, in the hall.

Silence. Not a sound.

Everyone’s watching the hockey. I hope …

She knocked on the office door. No response. Tried the handle. Locked.

Now she walked over to Emily Braithwaite’s room. Turned the handle. Still locked. She swallowed, then took her make-up case from her handbag, opened it up, and removed a small nail-file.

Then she crouched down and inserted the file into the lock on Emily’s door.

Back in the summer, over a few beers on the Grey Goose, Jack had given her a 101 in lock-breaking, sharing the skills he’d ‘acquired’ while serving as one of New York’s finest.

“You’re a natural,” he’d told her as she opened every lock on the boat inside five minutes and won herself another beer in a friendly wager.

So far she hadn’t had to use those skills.

Funny,
she thought.
I don’t have a problem hacking into people’s computers — but breaking into their homes is different.

With a satisfying click she felt the tumblers fall inside the lock. She pulled out the file and tried the door. It opened.

She slipped inside and shut the door quickly behind her.

She looked around. She stood in a small carpeted hallway — to one side an expensive-looking gilt mirror, on the other, a classic hallway table flanked by wall pictures.

More like being in a smart town apartment.

One door faced her — she pushed it open and entered a big living room, with wide windows that gave onto dense woods at the side of the school.

Nobody’s going to see me from there,
she thought.

She looked around the room, trying to get a sense of the woman who had lived here.

Wooden floors, expensive carpets, two big sofas, a coffee table with stacks of magazines. A desk with a state of the art Mac. A wall of photos, mostly it seemed taken at the school, happy groups of staff and pupils of all ages.

The tall smiling woman at the centre of most of them must be Emily Braithwaite, thought Sarah.

Sarah walked the room slowly, taking in everything: on the walls — lots of modern art — big, colourful, bold. But also small watercolours, portraits. Tall shelves of books. A wall of records — vinyl.

A Bose sound system.

She opened a pair of folding doors to reveal an elegant kitchen. Sarah could see tasteful wood, lots of cookbooks, more paintings, low designer lights hanging over a dining table.

She took it all in. Style, broad interests, good taste — but also warm with the comfort that only money brings.

Confident. Relaxed. An apartment made for socialising, for guests, for conversation.

Emily Braithwaite knew how to live.

So what had gone wrong in her life?

And was her death in some way connected to the mysterious events that had been going on in the school?

Somewhere in here Sarah knew she had to find the answer …

*

Jack sat quietly in the main entrance hall. He heard a door shut somewhere further down the office corridor, then footsteps receding.

He stood up and went to the window.

He could see Ms. Groves, coat on, heading out of the building towards the sports fields.

He went back to his chair, but didn’t sit. Instead, he stood silently, listening to the building, breathing slow, tuning in to whoever was nearby.

He heard voices from down the corridor.

Raised voices.

Interesting.

What was it Gavin had said?
Such a friendly school …

He went to the door, pulled it open, then listened.

Male voices — raised. He recognised Weiss.

Then another voice he didn’t know — American.

They were arguing. Jack strained to catch all the words.

“… you promised me, Weiss … cast-iron guarantee …”

“… not possible, I can’t control … ”

“… small fortune … in this together or …”

He thought about moving down the corridor, listening outside the office door …

But before he could, Jack saw Weiss’s office door burst open. He stepped back into the hall and watched as a tall, tanned man in blazer and chinos emerged from Weiss’s office and strode down the corridor towards him.

Jack could see him cursing under his breath: the guy was clearly furious.

Jack moved to one side as he marched past and headed out through the main doors.

“Brennan? What are you doing here?”

Jack turned: Weiss now stood in the doorway to the offices.

“Mr. Weiss,” said Jack. “Another satisfied parent?”

Jack watched Weiss stare blankly at him.

Guess he doesn’t appreciate my sense of humour,
he thought.

“As I recall you
agreed
to let me know before you came back here?”

“I had a couple of questions for you, which couldn’t wait,” said Jack. “Not after what happened last night.”

“Hmm. Oh … that. Well you’d better come through to my office.”

Jack watched him turn and head back down the corridor.

He doubted whether he was going to get straight answers.

But the questions had to be asked.

*

Sarah sat back at the desk and waited while the hard drive on the Mac copied to the portable drive she’d brought with her. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of minutes to bypass the security and access Emily’s computer.

The transfer though was taking longer.

She felt uneasy. Maybe she was kidding herself that she’d got used to hacking a computer when a case really needed it.

Was it because Emily was dead? And in such a violent manner?

The Mac pinged that the transfer was done. She turned it off and pocketed the drive. Back home she would have time to go through the contents.

Right now she needed to see if there was anything here that might explain Emily’s death.

But the thought that she might find a suicide note suddenly sent a ghostly chill through her. She tried to shrug the feeling away and get to work.

She pulled open the desk drawers and scanned the contents carefully.

Funny — there were no personal papers. She looked around the room: no other likely drawers or cupboards.

Time to search the bedroom …

Back in the corridor, she opened the bedroom door. The room was dark, curtains drawn tight. She switched on the main light and saw a small writing desk in a corner.

She went over, opened the top and pulled out the small rods to support it. The desk had lots of drawers.

Drawers could hold things,
she thought.
Important things.

Heart racing now …

She opened one.

Inside she saw a wedge of letters secured with a piece of braid.

She took them out, untied the braid and separated the letters. A fading photo fell out. Sarah picked it up and looked at it closely: Emily Braithwaite and a girl in her late teens smiled into the camera. Their arms were draped around each other, their faces close.

Sarah picked up one of the envelopes and checked the postmark: 2008. She took out the letter and started to read. It was long: six pages of densely written script.

Six pages of passionate feelings, recollections of moments shared, heartfelt wishes for a never-ending future together …

Then chilling words …

‘Our special friendship …’

Sarah put the letter back in the pile and picked up the photo again. The girl looked older than Chloe. But not much.

She paused, then slipped the photo back among the letters and tied them all up in braid again. She opened up another drawer.

Again, a bound batch of letters and photos.

And more photos. All with Emily — but now with a different girl.

Sarah opened the other drawers one by one — each contained a bundle of letters. The postmark on each set, a different year.

Six, seven drawers? Seven different girls.

Seven different sets of letters.