The Plantagenet Vendetta (2 page)

Westminster, Present day

From high above, the blond man watched the procession as it made its way through the streets.

Everything about the occasion was gloomy. In the distance, heavy rain battered down from Greenwich to Tower Hamlets, its water causing ripples as it landed on the Thames. The sky above the city, clear blue as the sun rose that morning, was now covered by heavy cloud, threatening anything from a prolonged shower to thunder. If the forecast was correct, the thunder was still to come. The wind had also picked up, at times practically a gale. Being situated atop a large building, he was susceptible to the full effects. The flagpole behind him moved from side to side, the flag blowing wildly before becoming wrapped around the pole.

Like every flag in the city, today it flew at half-mast.

On the streets below, the event was in keeping with the weather. Though the rain was imminent, thousands upon thousands lined the streets, watching the hearse as it made its way toward Westminster Abbey.

Even from a distance he could sense the silence. Aided by his high-powered binoculars, he could make out the faces of the bystanders. Not a single mouth was open. He liked the way the passers-by seemed to lower their heads as the coffin approached. Some threw flowers into the road, landing before the horse, softening the sound of its feet.

For the first time he wished he was nearer. Through his binoculars, he could see but not hear crying from among the bystanders, some cuddling up to the person next to them. He wanted to witness the sounds, hear every personal remark.

He turned his observation to the man walking behind the hearse, the deceased’s eldest son. As usual for such an occasion, he was dressed in military regalia. The watcher at the top of the tower was quietly impressed. The man chose to walk, exposed to the elements, as opposed to being driven in the comfort of the Roller, like the rest of his family. Like most among the procession, his expression was sombre, but more natural than the rest. Had the circumstances been different, he might have found it possible to find sympathy for the man.

The blond man changed his position as the procession reached the abbey. For the first time the silence gave way to applause, evolving into loud cheers as the body of the late king approached.

Soon the deceased would enter the abbey, his coffin resting temporarily at the side of the main altar. Soon he would be laid to rest in the grand company of the kings and queens of old.

And a new king would emerge.

2

The North York Moors, 10am, one week later

The sandy-haired woman pulled up about midway along the high street and stopped to take in the sights.

Visually, the village of Wootton-on-the-Moor was just like many others in the North York Moors. Like most, it was located in the middle of nowhere and offered breathtaking views of the rugged landscape. In the height of the tourist season, the medieval high street was a famed haven for ramblers, tourists and nature lovers enjoying a summer’s day frequenting its quaint boutiques, teashops, and art galleries or a walk or horse ride on the designated pathways and bridleways.

But these days the village had another claim to fame. A year earlier it rose from isolation to infamy in the blink of an eye. The woman remembered it well – it was impossible not to. A young girl went missing.

A year later her whereabouts remained a mystery.

Jennifer Farrelly was less than two years out of university when the story broke, though back then she worked elsewhere. Like most researchers in the TV productions industry, she was technically self-employed and in less than three years had already worked on everything from soaps to documentaries, BBC to Discovery and news broadcasts to shower commercials. Officially this was her first job for the current company, but it felt more or less the same. She knew the people, and more importantly she knew what to expect. It was the same for every researcher in the industry.

Do everything for as little pay possible.

She made her way across the deserted high street and headed along a narrow side alley up the hill, in between two shops.

The alleyway led her to a small forecourt, surrounded by over twenty houses, all bathed in sunlight. One in particular caught her eye: a small Elizabethan-style house painted in the usual black and white and leaning forward slightly above the ground, one of seven in a terrace.

She recognised it immediately. Even though this was her first visit to the village, the house was as famous as the story. Its exposure to the news channels was almost unrivalled.

She crossed the forecourt and stopped in front of the house. A small sign was located on the side of the door, displaying the number 4 and the name of the house, Swallow’s Nest.

She rang the bell, and seconds later a woman answered, blonde, green-eyed, probably in her early forties. Again, she recognised her – though she didn’t know her personally.

“Mrs Harrison?”

The woman’s expression was unwelcoming. “Come in.”

The mother of Debra Harrison was an unwilling celebrity: a self-opinionated fireball who loved too much and fought too quickly. She had developed a reputation as being a loose talker…

Some claimed loose other things as well.

Today they were alone. Mr Harrison was at work overseas, while little Marcus and David were both at school. It was obvious to Jennifer that the last thing Mrs Harrison wanted was to expose the boys to a second media circus.

At least being mid-July, school still had a week to run.

Gillian Harrison smoked like a chimney; that much was obvious from the smell alone. Other things were also giveaways. The numerous ashtrays, marks on the furniture, the yellowing of her teeth…

But mostly it was the way she breathed. The woman had a permanent cough; Jennifer had become aware of that from watching the news footage a year earlier. Barely a minute passed before she needed to clear her throat.

Jennifer surveyed the living room as she followed Mrs Harrison inside. The room suited the persona of a maverick. The large wooden beams were heavily decorated, their ornamentation ranging from photographs to gimmicks to souvenirs from far and wide, mostly Asia. A large mirror covered much of the main wall above the fireplace, a traditional feature that was now just for show. Several crosses, crucifixes and other small religious artefacts adorned the mantelpiece, while others were scattered around the room, apparently at random. Several photographs accompanied them, all of the same person:

Her daughter.

At the woman’s invitation, Jennifer sat down in a large leather armchair. The first thing she noticed was how quiet it was, the uneasy silence disturbed by the regular ticking of a pre-war brown-cased clock with Roman numerals, located above the mantelpiece.

She crossed her legs, her posture replicating that of her hostess.

“I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me, Mrs Harrison. My producer is something of a stickler when it comes to preparation.”

Lighting up a cigarette, Harrison shrugged, but otherwise did not respond. She glanced at the researcher, her eyes saying ‘get to the point’.

“Tell me about the last year.”

Gillian Harrison took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled. “And where exactly would you like me to start?”

Jennifer placed her hand to her hair, brushing it behind her ear. “How about everything that has happened since 18th July?”

The woman looked back penetratingly. “You mean the day the cameras left Wootton?”

She meant the day of the memorial. Nevertheless, she nodded.

Gillian blew smoke. “I take it you weren’t part of the original circus when my daughter went missing.”

“No. Back then I worked for a different company. I only know what I saw on the news and read in the papers.”

Harrison puffed again on her cigarette, clearly in a gesture of disgust. It was evident from her time on air a year earlier that the woman hated the media.

“They stayed for a week, eight days if you include the packing up. Sky had been the first to arrive, then BBC.” She flicked ash into the nearest ashtray. “They all left the day of the service.”

Jennifer noticed emphasis on the word ‘service’. “I appreciate that there has been a lot of conjecture in the media over the last year. Can I confirm that your daughter has never been found?”

Gillian made prolonged eye contact for the first time, her eyes striking in the light. “At least not by me.”

The answer made Jennifer feel uncomfortable, though she appreciated in the same situation she might have reacted in a similar way.

“How have the police fared in their investigations?”

“Since the 18th?”

Jennifer nodded.

Gillian paused before answering. “They continued to search for three days after the service, apparently it continued as far away as Berwick and Harrogate.” She hesitated slightly. “On the 23rd they told my husband they’d ended it…I was out at the time.”

Jennifer watched her. “But you continue to search?”

The woman stared, now more fiercely. “I continue to believe.”

For several seconds nothing was said.

The ringing of Jennifer’s mobile phone interrupted the silence. She removed it from her handbag and looked at the screen.

She cursed herself for not turning it off.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“It’s my producer.” Jennifer frowned apologetically. She answered. “David, hi, I’m just at the…”

“Slight change of plan, Jen. The team have had a bit of a delay. The shooting will have to wait until Friday.”

Four days.

Jen was horrified. She looked up at Harrison, trying to conceal her concerns. The woman had a knack for looking at everything and nothing at once.

Jen lowered her voice. “That’s ridiculous; I’m speaking with Mrs Harrison right now.”

“Sorry, Jen, can’t be helped. Two of the crew are still in Iceland.”

She tried to control her frustration. “And just what am I supposed to do until Friday?” she asked, her tone a whisper.

“I don’t know, try research, book yourself a hotel. Use your initiative.”

“David…”

“I’ll be in touch later today. Cheerio.”

Moving the phone from her ear, she looked at the screen; the display returned to normal. She locked the keypad and looked up at an empty chair.

Harrison had moved into the kitchen.

Jen left her seat and ventured through the open doorway, revealing a traditional period layout with white walls, a large fridge-freezer and lots of cutlery in the dish rack. As Jen entered, the sound of washing up got louder, ironic since the woman had offered no tea or coffee.

“That was the producer; I’m afraid the team have had a delay.”

Harrison didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, her blank expression focused on the window that overlooked the garden.

“See that,” she said, pointing somewhere toward the shed. “That used to be her swing.”

Jen looked outside, noticing the unoccupied swing set. It could have belonged to any child in the world, including her own niece. The fact that it belonged to the missing girl affected her more than she would have expected.

“Mrs Harrison, I can come back in a few days. There’s very little we can do without the production team.”

The woman didn’t respond, which made Jen nervous.

“Mrs Harrison…”

The woman turned, grabbing Jen’s wrist. For several seconds she just looked into her eyes, her stare blank.

“Oh,” Harrison said, her tone noticeably weak. “I’m sorry…for a second I just…”

The woman looked away, placing her hand to her face.

The atmosphere was now horrendous.

“Mrs Harrison, I’ll see myself out.”

Jen hurried out of the kitchen and stopped halfway across the lounge.

“Are there any hotels in Wootton?”

A delay preceded the reply. “Try the White Boar.”

3

The disappearance of Debra Harrison had occurred on the evening of 10 July in the previous year, sometime between eight and ten. She had last been seen walking to a friend’s house: a girl named Stephanie Stanley, who lived in a 16th-century period mansion on the east side of the village. Both girls were sixteen and had recently finished their GCSEs. According to the news, Debra had only finished her last exam three days earlier.

Sad, Jen thought.

She never even had a chance to enjoy the freedom.

According to the locals who had been interviewed at the time, Debra Harrison was known to everyone in the village, and evidently well liked. Her parents had been raised within three hundred metres of one another, and the family were seen as part of the furniture.

No one in the family had any known enemies.

Everyone in the village knew the killer, assuming she was actually dead. According to hearsay, the culprit was a boy of eighteen named Luke Rankin, an awkward boy, possibly autistic.

The lad was dead; that much was confirmed. He’d been found hanged from a nearby bridge within a week of the disappearance.

It didn’t take long for people to start putting two and two together and make something that resembled an equal number.

Debra was the eldest of the three Harrison kids. She was tall, brunette and, based on the photographs, developed for her age. Her aspiration had been to be a journalist, and her GCSE grades reflected her talent. Her strongest grades, four A*s, were in English and the humanities, and even her weakest grades in science and maths were still B.

The girl was bright; that much seemed evident from the photos. There was not a person in the developed world that hadn’t seen at least one. There wasn’t a broadsheet, tabloid or news channel that hadn’t shown it.

The face confirmed the facts. The brightness of the eyes, the genuine smile, the playful persona…

Yes, Jen thought, the poor girl was a typical target for rape.