‘I don’t see that this will do any good, Superintendent. The girl’s been missing since sometime on Monday night. Your colleagues, inept as they might be, think she’s been abducted even if her useless teachers are too short-sighted to see it, and you sit here wanting her biography!’
‘Humour me, sir.’
‘I don’t mind, Bill. In fact I’d like to talk about her; please?’
She looked up at her husband and Fenwick observed a remarkable transformation. Saxby’s face softened, affection replacing its customary belligerence.
‘If it will help, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Would you like anything?’
‘Some tea, perhaps – and maybe the superintendent would like some – but will you make it, darling? Only you do it properly; I couldn’t bear to drink anything else.’
‘Of course.’ Saxby kissed the top of her head and left at once.
As soon as he was gone Jane Saxby let out a sigh and leant her head back.
‘He means well but his way of coping is to get angry and it’s wearing me down,’ she explained in a voice far stronger than before.
Despite the repeated remarks he had heard about her weakness, Fenwick had an insight of a clever and possibly manipulative woman, well in control of her environment.
‘I married him for Issie’s sake,’ she said suddenly, as if aware of Fenwick’s silent appraisal. ‘He loves me, of course, and I’m deeply fond of him. Behind his bluster he’s a really sweet man.’
‘Why for Issie’s sake?’
‘Two reasons: money and a father. My husband and I had made wills leaving everything to charity except a small legacy for Issie. We didn’t want money to corrupt her you see. When he died – well, I got a job and Issie had her scholarship so we were fine, but then,’ she shook her head at the memory, ‘with the financial crisis the income from Issie’s trust dried up. Then, even worse, we lost nearly all the capital. Our “investment advisor” put a lot of it into questionable investments.’
‘Couldn’t you sue him?’
‘Apparently not; I’d signed all these forms you see – I was half crazed with grief at the time but that’s no excuse. We may get something back – we’re part of some sort of law suit – and we’ve had a little compensation. We could still have got by if Issie had kept her scholarship but she went to pieces when her father died.’ She looked guilty. ‘We both did. Brian was such a wonderful man, you see.’ Her eyes filled.
‘So I was faced with the prospect of removing Issie from St Anne’s. It was her only point of stability. We’d had to leave the
family home, and although my parents are wonderful they are very controlling and I didn’t want to give up our independence.
‘Bill came to one of my exhibitions and bought half of it! He always says he fell in love with my art before he fell in love with me.’
Fenwick’s disbelief must have shown because Jane Saxby nodded for emphasis.
‘Don’t judge him by his public persona, Superintendent. He has to be tough in business but he has a warm, kind heart. When he met Issie he liked her at once. My daughter is a tomboy, Mr Fenwick: very good at games, an excellent rider, with a bright enquiring mind. I’m the opposite. The only thing Issie inherited from me is a love of art, though she is far more talented than me.
‘Bill worked hard to develop a relationship with her. He’s not a patient man, of course, and his normal style of persuasion is to bully but he’s clever and has good instincts. I thought it would work. In the early days it seemed to.’
‘What happened?’
‘The summer before the wedding – that would be almost eighteen months ago – we went on a cruise around the Greek islands. Bill has a yacht, an Oyster 625, and Issie had never sailed before. She took to it at once, as I’d known she would. The two of them forced the hired crew below decks so they could enjoy themselves. I could see that they started to respect each other, then it grew into liking and trust. Maybe even real affection.’ Her eyes drifted away into the past.
‘Sounds great,’ Fenwick said encouragingly.
Jane blinked and forced herself back.
‘It was, until Rod turned up. He was jealous of Issie from the beginning. For a man in his late forties, he behaved appallingly. He soured the rest of the trip. Bill tried to cajole him out of his sulks and of course Issie didn’t react well. She doesn’t give trust easily and she saw Bill’s acceptance of Rod’s behaviour as a betrayal. Three days before we were due to come home I think she and Rod must have had a terrible fight – though neither Bill nor I heard anything –
because the following morning she ran away. We were anchored off Cephalonia. Issie took one of the tenders and went to the island.’
‘Is running away typical of her?’
‘Not until then but since, yes. We organised a search and, as bad luck would have it, Rod found her. When they returned to the harbour, she was silent and he was triumphant. She’s never spoken to him or Bill again.’
‘She blamed Lord Saxby for his brother’s behaviour? That seems excessive.’
‘She’s a strong-willed young woman, Mr Fenwick; once she makes up her mind, it’s very hard to change.’
‘Hence her attempted boycott of your wedding.’
‘You heard about that?’ Jane Saxby flushed, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I’m afraid we didn’t handle that well. Rod was adamant that Bill needed to be firm with her; “no amount of coaxing will do it”, he said, and I was overruled. Of course it was a disaster. Breaking Issie’s will was the worst thing Bill could have done. I told him so, that he might have won his little battle by having her physically present at our wedding but he’d lost the war. He just couldn’t see it.’
‘Is Rod Saxby a frequent visitor?’
‘A constant one unless I put my foot down but I can only do that so often.’
‘Would he have been at Issie’s birthday party?’
Something in his tone made her look up. ‘Is that relevant?’
‘One theory is that she’s run away to avoid the party. Apparently she hated the idea.’
Without warning Jane Saxby’s eyes filled with tears. She struggled to find a handkerchief in time to stop them falling but failed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, swallowing a sob, ‘this is stupid and unhelpful. It’s just that the party was my idea, a way of saying sorry to Issie. I’d hoped it would bring us back together as a family, not drive her away.’
‘The way the party was described to me, it was very unlikely to find favour with her.’
Jane Saxby looked at him in surprise.
‘That can’t be right. I told the party planner to do exactly what Issie wanted within budget. It was to be
Issie’s
event, a means of her feeling in control of her life again, of us acknowledging that she was a young woman.’
Fenwick repeated Elaine Horlick’s description of the event. As he did so Jane Saxby’s mouth set in a thin line.
‘The bastard!’ she exclaimed when he’d finished, ‘the
bloody-minded
, stupid bastard!’
She jumped out of her chair, scattering cushions, a look of fury on her face, and grabbed the phone on the desk. As she punched in a number the door opened and her husband entered with a tray of tea and cake.
‘What’s going on? Have you been upsetting my wife, Fenwick?’
‘Not him, that damned brother of yours!’
‘What?’ Saxby put the tray down and hurried over.
‘Give me the phone, darling,’ he said reaching out for it.
‘Get off! That bastard has got to the party planner, I know he has.’
Saxby’s face flushed and Jane saw it at once.
‘What did you do?’
‘I only gave him the number. He was going to arrange for her favourite rock band to be there, that’s all; he said he wanted to surprise Issie, make up for his teasing.’
‘Teasing? He’s a sadistic bully and he’s wrecked the party. Tell him, Superintendent,’ she ordered.
While Lady Saxby tracked down the party planner Fenwick repeated what he knew to her husband. By the time he’d finished Saxby was sitting with his head in his hands and his wife had finished her call.
‘It’s all true,’ she said, defeat in her voice, ‘he told them that we’d changed our minds, that we wanted something traditional after all. He said you’d approved it and that I wasn’t to be bothered because my health was delicate. How could you, Bill? You should’ve known better than to trust him where Issie’s concerned.’
‘That’s why she’s run away?’ Saxby asked Fenwick, the colour in his face changing from white to bright red so quickly that Fenwick worried for his heart.
‘
If
she’s run away, yes, it could be but …’ he said.
‘I’ll kill him!’ Saxby said, his fists clenching and unclenching as he leapt up and strode about the room. ‘This is the last straw. I should have listened to you, Jane. You were right about him all along but he’s my brother, I can’t believe he’d do something like this just to spite Issie.’
‘Not only Issie, Bill. She’s the weapon he’s using to get at me. He had you to himself for forty-five years until I came along. It’s me he wants to damage; poor Issie is a casualty of his hatred.’
Her words shocked Saxby and concerned Fenwick.
‘If you’re that certain of his feelings, Lady Saxby, I have to ask something, and forgive me if this question is distasteful to you, sir. Could your brother be involved in Issie’s disappearance?’
‘But you said she’d run away?’ Saxby stared at him, confused.
‘I said that was the most popular theory at the school. What I haven’t yet had a chance to tell you is that I’m not so certain their theory is right. If you recall, my colleague mentioned to you that there were suggestions Issie had been taken against her will.’
‘The trace of blood, yes, but she might just have fallen over.’ Jane Saxby was staring at him, willing him to agree with her.
‘Possibly, but she took no money, no clothes or other belongings with her. Even her iPod is still in her desk.’
‘She left her iPod behind?’ Jane’s hand covered her mouth in shock. ‘Issie would never do that! She even went to sleep with it on. It has all her father’s music on it, including the working material of the album he was recording when he died. It’s her lifeline.’ She collapsed back into her chair.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, fear for the first time audible in her voice. She turned to her husband, anguish ageing her face. ‘Bill, my baby’s gone!’
Fenwick hurried across the car park towards the yellow lights that blurred through the fog. There was a security code to enter the block and he had forgotten it, so he called Janice hoping she was still there and would be discreet when letting him in. She was both, laughing at him a little but in a nice way. He followed her rolling hips towards the incident room. Despite the central heating it was cold in the corridor, with snow blanketing the skylights that ran its length. The incident room reeked of the exhalations and odours of too many bodies in close proximity for too long. It was seven o’clock. He had been involved in the case only ten hours but already he felt the pressure for a result.
After seeing the Saxbys and asking Bernstein to track down brother Rod, Fenwick had gone to Surrey police HQ where he had been interrogated by the chief constable, Charles Norman, OBE, who was a close friend of Acting CC Harper-Brown and Fenwick suspected a negative briefing behind his back.
Norman’s parting words were echoing in Fenwick’s overactive brain as he rejoined the investigating team.
‘Keep me informed. This is a highly sensitive case and I’ve got the Home Office breathing down my neck. I need to know what you’re up to and I haven’t got ESP.’
Fenwick had nodded, muttering ‘But of course.’ Norman had looked at him shrewdly.
‘We’ll see; I’m told you’re difficult to work with but good – this is your chance to prove the latter and quieten the rumours about the former. If Isabelle Mattias is still alive and has been dumped somewhere she won’t last long in this weather.’
Fenwick needed no reminding of the urgency of the case and bit off a retort that regular updates would consume valuable time and wouldn’t help find Issie.
He had called his children on his mobile on the way back to St Anne’s to wish them goodnight. When Bess blew him a kiss he felt his throat constrict without warning, thoughts of another girl rushing in.
His search of Issie’s bedroom at Saxby Hall had revealed nothing other than an eclectic taste in music, some astonishing paintings and a wide collection of books. Next to her bed was a battered copy of
The Wind in the Willows
on top of an equally well-thumbed edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Despite her poor reputation he had started to like her.
He had asked her mother for a picture that would reveal more of her character than a standard school photo and been given a black and white shot of her hanging upside down from a tree branch, T-shirt slipping to reveal a flat stomach with a stud in the navel. It was a great picture, and would come in handy if they decided on publicity, but it wasn’t exactly what he needed. So she had found one of Issie after a local point-to-point. She was holding the winner’s trophy aloft with a hard grin of satisfaction on her mud-spattered face.
The idea of Issie alone, freezing and frightened, was constantly in his mind but he couldn’t let it distract him. Earlier that day he had skimmed reports that painted a picture of a once lovely girl who had ‘gone off the rails’ and was now considered a bad influence. He felt pity for Issie and he wasn’t the only one; she seemed to have the ability to make people love her, a misunderstood child in a young woman’s body, desperate for the uncomplicated father’s love that had
once been the centre of her world. Fenwick had no doubt that Issie was difficult and might have translated her feelings of abandonment into self-destructive behaviour but he couldn’t conjure up a picture of her leading someone like Octavia Henry astray.
Bernstein was waiting for him in the incident room, most of the team around her. There was a low buzz that immediately caught his attention.
‘Rod Saxby’s done a runner,’ Bernstein said with satisfaction. ‘We went to pick him up for questioning but he was gone.’
‘You’re sure?’ Fenwick felt a spurt of adrenaline.
‘Well, his housekeeper said she was expecting him but he never came home from the Hall. He hasn’t been seen at any of his clubs.’
Fenwick’s hopes sank.
‘Hardly conclusive.’
Bernstein looked disappointed but hurried on.
‘He doesn’t have an alibi for Monday night. He sent his housekeeper out to the pictures and left a dinner party early. There’s no trace of where he went, though in his statement he said he was at home. What’s more his car’s missing from the garage at his house and he takes the train to London when he visits his club, so where is it? We should try for a search warrant.’
‘We don’t have enough.’
‘Jane Saxby as good as accused him of abducting her daughter!’
‘As good as isn’t good enough, you know that. Anyway, her husband flatly disagrees.’
‘So you’re backing off because of his connections?’
It was an accusation in public but Fenwick decided to treat it as a joke; there was already too much tension between them and all he cared about was finding Issie and bringing her home. Bernstein’s desire to score points at every opportunity struck him as childish.
‘Connections? If you’ve done any homework on me, and I’d be surprised if you lot haven’t, you’ll know that I believe in connections as much as I do in Father Christmas. And for those of you who still have doubts, I won’t be hanging up my stocking by the chimney in three weeks’ time. What else did his housekeeper say?’
‘Not a lot. She’s foreign, Philippine maybe. Hardly speaks any English; can’t have been much use.’
There was a rough chuckle from someone at Bernstein’s words and she rounded on them.
‘What is it, Cobb?’
The man coloured and shrugged.
‘Go on, I know that laugh. You were there, what did you make of her?’
‘Let’s just say I don’t think Saxby hired her for her cooking. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if most of the serving she did was between his sheets.’
Fenwick turned to Bernstein and raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s possible,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘Kid can’t be more than twenty; good-looking, docile. Maybe.’
‘Why don’t you bring her in for questioning,’ he suggested. ‘Get an interpreter and hold her in the worst interview room you’ve got for at least an hour to let her stew. Then start by asking if she’s got a valid work permit.’
‘Where will I find an interpreter tonight?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said with a smile that had apparently abandoned the idea that it should be humorous, ‘use your connections.’
The incident room was quieter after Bernstein and Cobb left. The remaining eight detectives, plus numerous civilian police workers, bent their heads over papers or towards computer screens in spinal curves that would wreck their backs long before they reached retirement. They would work whatever hours it took to find Issie. In the comfort of the tech block they counted themselves lucky not to be in the search parties, still out despite the weather, inching through the surrounding woods and fields.
Bazza Holland came over and hovered by his desk.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Do you think she’s still alive, sir?’
Fenwick took a deep breath.
‘I have to believe so, Bazza, even though the odds are against. It’s more than likely she was killed soon after being abducted, or
left injured somewhere, in which case she’ll be long dead from exposure by now but …’ He pulled out the photograph Jane Saxby had given him. ‘Look at her. She’s a great sportswoman so we know she’ll be fit …’
‘Was fit,’ Bazza corrected, ‘rumour has it she spent most of this term stoned or drunk.’
‘Yet there’s no trace of booze or drugs in her room – or is there?’ he asked, remembering the bedding they sent to the lab.
‘No results yet,’ Holland coloured, ‘I’ll let you know soon as.’
‘Her friends don’t know that we don’t know, do they? Why don’t you find a friendly teacher and go and interview them again? Take Jake with you.’
He pointed to a heavy-set constable stabbing at a keyboard as if it had done him personal injury. His face betrayed a boxing past and even if it hadn’t his ears were a real giveaway. Fenwick had never read fairy stories as a child – a useless waste of paper his mother had called them – but he did so with his children whenever he could. He was reading one now to Chris, and the concept of a troll had been confusing – until he’d seen Constable Jake Somerset that morning. If anybody could terrify these girls into something close to the truth, it would be him.
Holland turned to leave.
‘Before you go, what about Issie’s artwork?’
‘We found loads of her stuff in the loft of the art block. It’s still there if you want to see it. Janice’s got the keys.’
Fenwick thanked Holland and was about to ask for the keys when his mobile phone rang.
‘Fenwick?’
He recognised the voice.
‘Lord Saxby, how can I help you?’
‘Look, we want to hire a local private detective. My own security people are obviously all over this thing but they don’t have local insight.’ There was a murmur in the background and Fenwick recognised Jane Saxby’s voice. ‘Yes, er, that’s right, no criticism of you but we have to know that we’re doing everything we possibly can.’
‘I really advise against that, sir,’ Fenwick argued, ‘private investigators only complicate matters and in the worst instance they create havoc.’
‘I won’t be put off, Superintendent.’
Fenwick tried to argue but the man had made up his mind and wouldn’t be persuaded. When it became obvious that he was dealing with the inevitable Fenwick did the only thing he could think to limit the damage.
‘If you’re determined, then at least let me recommend someone I’ll be able to trust.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Saxby said with obvious satisfaction; a man used to winning. ‘Let’s have his name, then.’
‘Bob Cooper,’ Fenwick said, a half-smile of memory on his face for his one-time colleague who had retired that summer after thirty years of service, the last ten of which having been rather more exciting than he’d bargained for thanks to Fenwick. ‘Mention my name and he might take you on despite the season. His wife probably has a long list of things for him to do.’
Bob Cooper was up a ladder, paint-roller in hand, old cap on head, when his wife called.
‘Not now, Doris!’ he shouted back with more acerbity than normal because it was her daft idea that the spare bedroom needed tarting up in time for her sister and brother-in-law’s annual Yuletide visit. A dollop of paint landed on the exposed tip of his nose as he returned his attention to the ceiling. ‘Bugger.’
‘He says it’s urgent, Bob. Apparently Andrew Fenwick gave him our number.’
Cursing but curious, Cooper laid the roller carefully in the tray and climbed down the ladder. His back and shoulders thanked him for the break.
‘Cooper,’ he said abruptly.
He had no intention of taking on any work before mid January and only bothered to pick up the receiver because whoever it was had used Fenwick’s name. Doris was watching him intently and he
knew what she was thinking. After twenty-eight years of marriage they could read each other’s minds.
The sound of the caller’s name made Bob’s eyes open in surprise.
‘
Who is it?
’ his wife whispered and when he mouthed the answer the look of curiosity on her face mirrored his own. She sat down on the bottom stair, obviously curious to learn why the infamous Lord Saxby had called her husband.
‘I see,’ Bob said eventually. ‘Unfortunately I—’
There was a long silence in the Cooper hall, punctuated by Bob’s increasingly feeble attempts to argue.
‘Yes, terrible but … no, it’s not a question of other work … no, it’s not about money either … priorities … well, Gladys is coming with Bernie … yes, family are very important … Speak to your wife? No; that won’t help … No! … Ah, hello, Lady Saxby. I’m so sorry to hear about … yes, it’s terrible … indeed, very cold … impossible, I’m afraid … compassion? … Of course … but … well … a bit of advice, you say … just a chat? … Well, if you think? … Maybe, but no … er … yes, but I can’t promise … all right, then … in half an hour. Where exactly? … I’ll see you th—Oh, she’s gone.’
‘So you’re going,’ said without rancour but he searched Doris’s face.
‘Her daughter’s missing and in this weather, too.’
‘I know; it’s all over the evening news.’
‘Is it? I’ve been up the ladder; didn’t notice.’
‘Well you would’ve done if you’d have the radio on.’
‘I can’t concentrate with all that noise.’
‘If it was the cricket you’d manage. So, you’re going to help them?’ she said, reverting to the real the subject.
‘Only with some advice. I told them I couldn’t take on a new case before Christmas.’
‘I didn’t hear you say that exactly. Advice, is it? Hmm…’ She regarded him shrewdly over the top of her glasses. ‘I’d best call Robbie, see if I can’t persuade him to finish off the latest job his dad’s started.’
‘I’ll be back in no time, Dot!’ Cooper protested, taking off his
cap and undoing his overalls before making his way upstairs.
‘I’ll believe that when I see it, Robert Cooper.’
He rushed to their bedroom to change. Ten minutes later he was back in the hall, car keys in hand.
‘Wait!’ His wife called out as he undid the top bolt.
She ambled up to him waving a wad of kitchen roll.
‘I knew you’d miss it,’ she said with satisfaction.
The paper was thrust unceremoniously into his face and he smelt white spirit.
‘There,’ she said, giving a final wipe to the end of his nose as if he were a two-year-old, ‘can’t have you going off to Saxby Hall splattered with white emulsion.’
And with that she kissed a turps-free portion of his cheek and pushed him out of the door.