Fenwick’s regular meeting with Acting Chief Constable Alastair Harper-Brown was on the first Wednesday of the month at nine o’clock. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Today’s discussion would be dominated by Harlden’s lack of progress in tracking down the sex pest turned rapist, Flash Harry, and the need for MCS to assume responsibility for the investigation. Fenwick should have called Alison Whitby a week ago but he had been reluctant to trample on Nightingale’s patch. Her prickly response to his phone call made him uncomfortable whenever he thought about it.
Harper-Brown would argue that it was beyond Harlden’s ability, which might be true but if the case was going to be moved Fenwick would rather it were transferred to the specialist sex crimes unit. Harper-Brown was nothing if not a logical man and Fenwick was rehearsing his arguments as he packed his briefcase and left home, running to the car because it was starting to snow.
Fenwick had allowed time for a coffee and stopped at his favourite provider, a supposedly Italian café in Harlden. Run by two Polish brothers, one of whom had done time, it served the best espresso in town and he indulged in two each morning. Fenwick declined ‘Luigi’s’ offer of complimentary biscotti, pulling his coat collar up as he left.
It would take him an hour to reach HQ on roads made dangerous by fresh snow over ice. If he had wanted, Fenwick could have asked for a driver, but on Wednesdays he preferred to look after himself. It gave him complete privacy to think. How much room to negotiate would Harper-Brown give him? Not a lot but more than when he had first become head of MCS. Since taking over two years ago he and Harper-Brown had come to respect each other, despite their very different approaches to detective work.
Fenwick still believed in the hard graft of policing, with science and profiling as aids to, not substitutes for, brains, legwork and proper-sized teams. Harper-Brown was a modernist, eager to embrace each new management technique thrust onto the force by consultants, encouraged by civil servants who sought improved efficiency and reduced costs without their ministry appearing weak on crime. Their different philosophies led to conflicts and the men would never like each other but Fenwick’s detection rate was one of the highest in the south of England and the statistics he had to submit at tedious intervals helped Harper-Brown’s averages.
Fenwick was stuck in a traffic jam when his mobile rang. It was Dawn, Harper-Brown’s secretary.
‘Can you hold for the chief constable, please?’ she asked with a snap of authority that indicated she didn’t require a reply.
Acting
, he thought.
‘Fenwick?’
‘Good morning, sir.’
Fenwick just fitted his earpiece in time as the traffic in front of him eased forward.
‘Where abouts are you?’
‘On my way to see you for our nine o’clock.’
‘Turn around.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I need you in Guildford, at St Anne’s, as soon as you can get there. A girl’s missing and you’re assigned as senior advisor.’
‘That’s not our patch and what’s a senior advisor, for heaven’s sake … sir?’
‘Just that. This is a very sensitive case and I’m seconding you for as long as they want.’
‘Who’ll run MCS? We have a huge caseload and five vacancies …’
‘Richard Quinlan will step into your shoes while you’re gone.’
‘Quinlan; and he’s said yes?’
‘He will do when I tell him.’
Fenwick’s old boss was counting the months to retirement since being moved aside to make room for Alison Whitby at Harlden. Although he was a decent leader he wasn’t a detective.
‘Why are we involved?’
‘The missing girl is Isabelle Mattias.’
‘I still don’t understand, sir.’
There was a pause, and then Harper-Brown said in his most dismissive tone.
‘Do you live in another world, Andrew? Jane Mattias, née Simpson, is the daughter of Robert Simpson, the film director. And Robert Simpson …’
‘Is one of our best-loved exports to Hollywood. I still don’t see the connection.’
‘Have you turned around yet?’
‘Not quite.’ Fenwick had just moved up into fourth gear for the first time in half an hour and was accelerating to forty to take advantage of a stretch of gritted dual carriageway.
‘Then do so and call me back. If I have to waste time giving you a tutorial on Britain’s leading families I’d like to know that at least you’re heading in the right direction.’
Fenwick mouthed obscenities as he negotiated the next roundabout and retraced his route north-west. He was joining the end of the tailback from the roadworks that ran in the opposite direction as he pressed Harper-Brown’s preset number.
‘It’s me,’ he said unceremoniously, drumming his fingers as Dawn put him through.
‘Where were we?’
‘You were about to explain to me why my life’s going to be turned upside down because some spoilt teenage brat has gone absent without leave from school.’
‘Now, now!’ He could hear the amusement in H-B’s voice. ‘You’d better be in an improved mood before you reach St Anne’s. While it might be a matter of truancy the local team don’t think so. Isabelle hasn’t been seen since Monday night; which means she could have been missing almost thirty-six hours. They are very concerned for her safety.’
‘So, tell me again, please; why are we being dragged in?’
‘The Home Office have asked for help. They want to be seen to be doing absolutely everything they can to find the girl. Of course Surrey tried to persuade them that external input was inadvisable but they failed. So when I received the call I was in no position to disagree.’
‘And you decided to send me why, sir?’
‘Good question, Fenwick. Heaven knows there are better police officers than you. However, you have been commended more than once and are therefore “known”. And you still live in Harlden, which is conveniently closer to Guildford than Lewes. It makes sense. It’s an inconvenience we’ll both have to put up with.
‘Look, I haven’t got all day. This is what you need to know. First, about the school: St Anne’s has one of the best reputations in the country.’
‘That I am aware of. The daughter of the deputy leader of the opposition goes there, so do countless offspring of diplomats posted abroad.’
‘Exactly; it has an excellent academic record plus the best arts department in the south-east. It’s an all-girls school. Not only does the aspiring pupil have to have the right aptitude, the family is quietly vetted as well. They give five scholarships a year. Isabelle entered on one but lost it when her grades started to suffer.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘No, but I’m sure you’ll find out. About the Mattiases – well, the Simpsons really. Jane Simpson is the middle daughter of Robert and Mary Simpson. The other sisters are both actresses. Jane wanted
nothing to do with acting and became an artist of some sort, before she married Brian Mattias …’
‘Of course, the Stone Dead lead guitarist. I’ve got all their albums.’
‘Showing your age, Andrew, but yes, you’re right. Unlike the rest of the band, Brian took himself off drugs and accumulated a small fortune. By the time he died it’s estimated he had over ten million in trust for his wife and daughter.’
‘It was a road crash, wasn’t it, about five years ago?’
‘Yes, in Africa where he was doing a charitable tour. A year ago Jane remarried William Saxby, Isabelle’s stepfather.’
‘Of Saxby Entertainment?’
‘The same. Barrow boy made good. He and his brother Rodney hold over fifty per cent of Saxby Holdings, owners of the
Daily Enquirer
, multiple property interests as well as some sort of import-export company. The
Enquirer
has a readership of millions and currently supports the government on immigration and European policy.’
‘So an early success is expected; but Surrey won’t want an outsider hanging around such a high-profile case.’
‘True, but they weren’t given a choice. You can imagine the sort of reception you’re going to get in Guildford.’
Again a laugh that suggested his boss was enjoying the prospect of his discomfort. Was it jealousy, he wondered, or simply their mutual dislike? There was a brief pause as Fenwick finally eased his way through single-file traffic control and changed up.
He shook his head in despair as he skirted Harlden on his way north to Guildford.
‘I suppose I’ll also have Saxby breathing down my neck.’ He suppressed a sigh. ‘OK – how do you want to be kept involved, sir?’
‘Oh, not at all, Andrew; this one is down to you entirely.’
And that was when Fenwick knew that he really was in deep doo-doo.
‘That’s simply not good enough! My daughter’s disappeared and this excuse for a school still won’t tell me anything.’
As he walked into a small office to the left of the entrance hall, a florid man Fenwick took to be Saxby was confronting a skeletal gentleman in his early sixties who towered over him but nevertheless contrived to shrink into subservience. As the school head was a woman, Fenwick surmised that the cringing victim must be either her deputy or the bursar.
‘We have given everything we know to the police, sir, and they have instructed us not to share information with anyone during their inquiry. Naturally I very much regret this but—’
‘Regret! It’s not your bloody daughter who’s gone missing, is it, Bursar?’
The bursar’s head disappeared between his shoulder blades like a terrified tortoise.
‘What further information were you requesting, Mr Saxby? Maybe I can help. I’m Superintendent Fenwick, Sussex Major Crimes.’
‘What I want to know is how my daughter was allowed to leave the grounds after lights out and wasn’t reported missing for twelve hours!’
‘Those are good questions,’ Fenwick replied calmly, ‘and ones to which my colleagues will be seeking answers. When we have them we will be sure to let you know, but that may be some time. My first priority is to receive as full a briefing as I can about your daughter and the circumstances surrounding her disappearance.’ The office door opened and closed behind him; Fenwick ignored the interruption. ‘You can be sure that I will give this case my very thorough attention.’
‘It’s about time somebody did.’
In the infinitesimal pause before he replied Fenwick debated whether he should defend the local force but then decided he knew nothing about the conduct of the case and would ignore the criticism.
‘I suggest you go home, sir. I’ll visit you and your wife later today.’
Saxby opened his mouth to argue but closed it again and left in bristling silence, brushing past a woman standing behind Fenwick without acknowledgement.
‘Thank you.’ The bursar extended his hand. ‘I’m Armitage; thought he’d never leave.’
‘Superintendent Fenwick. I’ll need to interview you later but right now I need to find Superintendent Bernstein.’
‘She’s behind you.’ The voice was thin, dry and decidedly unamused. ‘Bursar, if you could give us the use of your office for a minute?’ The tortoise retreated.
The woman who had entered the room during Saxby’s diatribe walked past Fenwick and sat down behind the bursar’s desk. She had a pinched face and the figure of a stick insect. She stared at Fenwick with undisguised hostility.
‘Thanks for the words of support there … I don’t think.’
‘There was nothing to be served by entering into an argument with the man.’
‘That’s not the point; you didn’t defend us and made yourself look like his white knight, all in three sentences.’
‘I don’t think I did, I merely persuaded him to leave.’
‘Assuring him of your devoted attention; implying that he wasn’t getting it from us.’
‘Not at all. Look, I really do think you’ve misunderstood my remarks. Can we—’
‘So I’m thick as well as a crap detective, am I?’
‘No.’ Fenwick ran his hand through his hair. ‘Can we start again? Andrew Fenwick.’ He extended his hand, which she ignored. ‘I know that I’m on your patch for some spurious reason neither of us fully understands. I don’t want to be here any more than you do. I have plenty of work to do in Sussex and frankly putting up with an overinflated, intrusive braggart with connections to the Home Office while advising on a sensitive case is not high up my list of must-do career opportunities.’
He gave her a grin implying mutual interest but she ignored the offer.
‘For reasons beyond your control or mine,’ he continued, ‘I’m here and I hope we can work effectively together. I’m sure you and your team are doing everything you can to find Isabelle already. I don’t intend to second-guess you unnecessarily—’
‘Good.’
‘But I’ve been asked to advise, so …’
‘You’re going to insist on interfering.’
It was obvious there was no way she was going to be persuaded out of her antagonism.
‘I understand you are to remain SIO but that my advice will help set the strategy for the investigation. I’m sure we’ll find a way of working together.’
Fenwick watched her raise a mental middle finger before stalking out. He followed. An incident room had been set up in one of the seven IT labs that St Anne’s boasted, one for each pupil year. It had cubicles with Wi-Fi Internet access, scanners and PCs with more internal processing power than most police stations. A space had been cleared in the centre and desks crammed together to provide a common working area. The police equipment looked shabby beside the sleek black processors and flat screens in the
study units. When Fenwick entered conversation stopped dead.
Bernstein walked to a desk in the far corner without introducing him.
‘Superintendent Andrew Fenwick,’ he said to the silent faces around him. ‘I’m head of Sussex Major Crimes and I’ve been seconded here as senior advisor on this investigation. I look forward to working with you.’
Most of the officers just stared at him but one stood up to shake his hand as he passed.
‘Inspector Basil Holland, Bazza to my mates.’
‘Good to meet you, Bazza.’
‘I’m leading the team here at the school. If you need anything, just shout.’ Bazza grinned and Fenwick saw Bernstein scowl.
Fenwick nodded his thanks and wondered what had motivated the olive branch. He put the question to one side and scanned the room for a coffee machine. As if reading his mind a woman in her late thirties and carrying twenty pounds she didn’t need stood up and came over.
‘I’m Janice Bolt, sir,’ she said in a deep Sussex accent, ‘the team administrative assistant. I’ve sorted out a desk for you over by the window and if you want anything at all, computer, printer, typing – just let me know.’
‘Thanks, Janice. Right now I’m dying for a large black coffee, as strong as you like.’
‘No problem.’
Bernstein had logged on to her computer and was clicking through messages, her back angled away from the room. Fenwick pulled out the chair opposite her desk and sat down. Aware of every ear in the room straining towards them he affected an easy tone.
‘So, you were saying, about the night Isabelle disappeared. Can you take me through it?’
In an equally improbable tone, she said, ‘Sure, why don’t we go over the crime-board together. It’s through here away from prying eyes.’
She led him into a classroom opposite the computer lab, at one end of which the police had set up the whiteboards that were essential in any serious crime investigation. The classy glass version from TV police dramas was too expensive for general use. He pushed the door closed and said quietly.
‘Look, I really do want to start this right. Can we at least call a truce until we’re surer of each other? I estimate I’ve got less than three hours before your boss calls me because Saxby’s grown impatient. The last thing either of us needs is unnecessary aggro.’
Bernstein considered the suggestion and then nodded slowly.
‘OK. I’ll ignore how you belittled me in front of Saxby and give you another chance. But that’s it,’ she said, emphatically, and glared at him.
‘So, begin at the beginning and tell me why you don’t think Isabelle’s a runaway.’
‘Three reasons: first, she’s taken no money or clothes. Her passport is still in the school safe, along with her cash and credit card – the girls put them there while they’re in college. Second, we found blood on a wall beyond the school gates and it matches her type. DNA is being rushed through. There wasn’t a lot but enough to make us concerned. Third, she’s vanished. We’ve had more than forty officers searching around the school for almost twenty-four hours and apart from the blood we can’t find a trace of her.
‘When the school eventually thought to alert us just after midday yesterday, I called out tracker dogs. We were fortunate that it hadn’t snowed again. The dogs picked up her trail through the gardens; past a stable block that’s now part of the art department and out of one of the staff entrances. We lifted her prints from the security pad by the gate – she must have had to remove her gloves. Once outside the dogs tracked her going south towards the river. She crossed the bridge and walked a few hundred metres north-east along the B632, where her trail vanished.’
‘Picked up by car?’
‘We think so. There’s no trace of her within a mile of the spot where the dogs lost her.’
‘Any chance of witnesses?’
‘Not yet but I haven’t given up hope. The B632 has only three houses and a farm along a two-mile stretch. Nobody who lives there saw or heard anything and our request for drivers to come forward has produced nothing. Part of the problem is that we don’t know exactly when she left the school. She was in her bedroom before lights-out because the housemistress saw her. A friend heard music until midnight but that’s not proof she was still there.’
‘When exactly was it noticed she was gone?’
Bernstein shrugged.
‘Good question. No one realised until she failed to show up for her art class at eleven on Tuesday. Given her prints on the security pad, we’re working on the assumption that she left the college voluntarily on Monday night, perhaps shortly after lights-out with the music playing as cover. Why would she risk leaving in daylight with people about? Given that she took nothing with her, we think she expected to be back in time for breakfast.’
‘Talking of which, why wasn’t she missed before eleven?’
Bernstein walked over to the timeline on the board, annotated in neat black writing.
‘Tuesday morning: sixth-formers can have breakfast in their common room if they wish; they only need to go to the main dining room for a full English. The fact that she didn’t appear for a fry-up wasn’t unusual.’
‘But it says here the school curriculum starts at eight; why wasn’t she missed earlier?’
She tapped the board.
‘The first period was revision. The girls are meant to spend it in the library or in one of the computer labs. In reality they hang out together in their common room. The second period was Classics. She didn’t show up but the teacher in charge merely noted the fact in his attendance record to report in due course.’
‘Is it normal for girls not to bother to show up for their classes?’
‘For girls, no; for Isabelle, yes.’
‘So she really could have been missing for over twelve hours before it was reported, as Saxby said.’
‘Exactly, and you can imagine what her parents think of that. Our investigation is being hampered by a certain lack of cooperation from the staff.’
‘Are they hiding something?’
‘More likely they’re trying to preserve their reputation and avoid being sued.’
‘So what I heard from the bursar, about not telling Isabelle’s parents anything on your instructions …?’
‘Was a load of bollocks. Of course we’ve said not to talk to the press or anyone outside the investigation but that doesn’t include the girl’s parents!’
‘Discipline here is meant to be strict, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know who told you that but it’s not true. According to the blurb on their website the teaching style demands a lot from pupils but it’s balanced by giving them responsibility for their own conduct. By sixth form, provided the girls maintain their grades, they’re trusted to behave as adults. I didn’t really believe it – thought it was PR baloney – so I talked to a friend of mine at Oxford University about the girls they admit from St Anne’s and she told me they’re among the most mature they see.’
‘It’s a system ripe for exploitation if you’re bright, though.’
‘Exactly, and I think the headmistress has just woken up to the fact.’
‘When can I see her?’
‘She isn’t here. She was at a conference in Edinburgh and started back yesterday but her flight was cancelled because of snow. Then her train broke down north of Leeds. She spent the night in a village hall and is on her way back now, which is why the bursar was despatched to deal with Saxby. A couple of Isabelle’s teachers are interesting, though. After you’re briefed you might want to talk to the art mistress. She seems to understand Isabelle better than most. You’ll find her in the stable block.’
Fenwick spent the next hour with Bazza Holland and then read
the key witness statements. It was clear that Bernstein was running the investigation by the book and what she might lack in personal warmth she more than made up for in efficiency. Fenwick’s only suggestion was to check out every railway station around St Anne’s in case Isabelle had disappeared to somewhere like London or Brighton and had avoided the local stop. Bernstein saw the logic and added the task to her list.
On his way to find the art teacher Fenwick paused to drink the coffee that had been left on his desk. It was cold and bitter, undrinkable even for him. Despite his body protesting he left without his fix.
The air outside was so cold it hurt to breathe. A chill mist blanketed the school grounds, reducing trees and shrubs to shadows that loomed like a besieging army. His ears started to hurt in the short time it took him to walk from the main entrance towards where he had been told the stable block was located. As he stepped away from the gravel path and onto frozen lawn he looked back.
St Anne’s had been established in a Victorian house bequeathed to a trust on the death of its childless owner. She had left the house, grounds and enough money to fund the foundation of a school on condition that,
‘The facility herein shall be for the sole purpose of the provision of a Proper Education to girls between the ages of ten and eighteen who possess exceptional Intellectual Capacity, Curiosity, a Precocious Talent for the Arts, Manners and Moral rectitude.’
Since the 1970s the school had grown in reputation and scale, so that the original house was now used only for sixth-form tutorials, common rooms and staff facilities. Further classrooms – a multi-faith centre (alongside the chapel), a new drama building, computer rooms and a science wing – had been added thanks to private fund-raising.