Maureen shakes her head.
‘What was Helen like?’ I ask.
She smiles. ‘Adorable.’
‘I need a little more than that.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Colour is returned to her cheeks. She glances at her colleague, who still hasn’t stirred in his chair.
‘Helen was the sensible one. She was the last one of us to have a boyfriend. Sylvie spent years trying to hook her up with different guys, but Helen didn’t feel any pressure. Sometimes I felt sorry for her.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘She always said her father wanted a son and she could never quite match up to his expectations. She did have a brother, but he died when Helen was young. Some sort of accident with a tractor.’
Maureen turns in a worn swivel chair and crosses her legs. I ask her again how she and Helen lost touch. Her lips tighten and jerk at the corners.
‘It just seemed to happen. I don’t think her husband liked us very much. Sylvia thought he was jealous of how close we all were.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
‘Gideon.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘Once. Helen and Gideon came back from Northern Ireland for her father’s sixtieth birthday party. People were invited for the whole weekend, but Helen and Gideon left on Saturday at lunchtime. Something happened. I don’t know what.
‘Gideon was quite strange. Very secretive. Apparently he only invited one person to their wedding- his father- who got hideously drunk and embarrassed him.’
‘What does this Gideon do?’
‘He’s something or other in the military, but none of us ever saw him in uniform. We used to joke that he was some sort of spy, like in Spooks, you know the TV programme? Helen sent this one letter to Christine that had red ink stamped across the flap saying it had been scanned and opened for security reasons.’
‘Where was the letter posted?’
‘Germany. After Helen married they were stationed in Northern Ireland and later they went to Germany.’
Another teacher has turned up at the staffroom. She nods to us, curious about our presence, and collects a mobile phone from a desk drawer, taking it outside to make a call.
Maureen gives her head a clearing shake. ‘Poor Mr and Mrs Chambers.’
‘Did you know them well?’
‘Not really. Mr Chambers was big and loud. I remember this one particular day when he tried to squeeze into a pair of breeches and boots to go hunting. God, he looked a sight. I felt more sorry for the horse than I did for the fox.’ She smiles. ‘How are they?’
‘Sad.’
‘They also seem frightened,’ adds Ruiz, who is gazing out the window at the playground. ‘Can you think of a reason?’
Maureen shakes her head and her brown eyes gaze hard into mine. Another question is hovering on her lips.
‘Do you know why? I mean, whoever did this to Chris and Sylvie, what did he want?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will he stop now, do you think?’
Ruiz turns away from the window. ‘Do you have any children, Maureen?’
‘A son.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Sixteen. Why?’
She knows the answer but anxiety makes her ask the question anyway.
‘Is there anywhere you could stay for a few days?’ I ask.
Fear catches alight in her eyes. ‘I could ask Bruno if he could put us up.’
‘That might be a good idea.’
My mobile is vibrating in my pocket. It’s Veronica Cray.
‘I tried you at home, Professor. Your wife didn’t know where you were.’
‘How can I help you, DI?’
‘I’m looking for Darcy Wheeler.’
‘She’s with her aunt.’
‘Not any more- she ran away last night. Packed a bag and took some of her mother’s jewellery. I thought she might try to reach you? She seems to like you.’
Saliva turns to dust in my mouth.
‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’
Veronica Cray doesn’t ask why. I’m not going to tell her.
‘You talked to her yesterday after the funeral. How did she seem?’
‘She was upset. Her aunt wants her to live in Spain.’
‘Worse things in life.’
‘Not to Darcy.’
‘So she didn’t say anything… confide?’
‘No.’ Guilt seems to thicken the word until I can barely spit it out. ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.
‘Figured I might leave it a day or two. See what happens.’
‘She’s only sixteen.’
‘Old enough to find her way home.’
I’m about to argue. She’s not about to listen. For DI Cray this is an added complication, one that she doesn’t need. Darcy hasn’t been kidnapped and she’s not a threat to herself or a danger to the public. Missing Persons won’t break any records looking for a teenage runaway. In the meantime, there’s a press briefing organised for three o’clock this afternoon. I’m supposed to make a statement and appeal directly to the killer.
The call ends and I relay the news to Ruiz, who is driving. ‘She’ll turn up,’ he says, sounding like he’s seen it a dozen times before. Maybe he has. It doesn’t make me feel any better. I call Darcy’s mobile and get a recorded message:
‘Hi, this is me. I’m unavailable. Leave me a message after the beep. Make it short and sweet- just like me…’
It beeps.
‘Hey, it’s Joe. Call me…’ What else am I going to say? ‘I just want to know if you’re OK. People are worried. I’m worried. So call me, OK? Please.’
Ruiz is listening.
I punch another number. Julianne answers.
‘The police are trying to find you,’ she says.
‘I know. Darcy has run away.’
The silence is meant to be neutral but she’s caught between concern and exasperation.
‘Do they know where she’s gone?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Darcy may call or come to the house. Keep your eye out for her.’
‘I’ll ask around the village.’
‘Good idea.’
‘When are you coming home?’
‘Soon. I have to go to a press briefing.’
‘Will it be over then?’
‘Soon.’
Julianne wants me to say yes. ‘I found a nanny. She’s Australian.’
‘Well, I won’t hold that against her.’
‘She starts tomorrow.’
‘That’s good.’
She hangs on, expecting me to say something more. The silence says otherwise.
‘Have you taken your pills?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have to go.’
‘OK.’
She hangs up.
37
The conference room at Trinity Road police station is a stark, windowless place, with vinyl chairs and strip lighting. Every seat is taken and most of the side walls are supporting shoulders.
The national newspapers have rolled out their gun reporters rather than rely on West-Country stringers. I recognise some of them- Luckett from the Telegraph, Montgomery from The Times and Pearson from the Daily Mail. Some of them know me.
I watch from a side door. Monk is directing the camera crews, trying to stop any arguments. He gives me a nod. DI Cray goes first, wearing a charcoal jacket and white shirt. I follow her onto a slightly raised platform where a long table faces the media. Microphones and recording equipment have been taped to the front edge, showing station bandwidths and logos.
The TV lights are turned on and flashguns fire. The DI pours a glass of water for herself, giving the reporters time to settle.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ she says, addressing the audience rather than the cameras. ‘This is a briefing, not a press conference. I will be reading a statement of the facts and then handing over to Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. There will be a limited opportunity to ask questions at the end of the briefing.
‘As you’re aware, a task force has been set up to investigate the murder of Sylvia Furness. A second suspicious death has been added to this investigation- that of Christine Wheeler, who jumped from the Clifton Suspension Bridge a week ago last Friday.’
An image of Christine Wheeler is projected onto a screen behind the DI’s head. It’s a holiday snap, taken at a water park. Christine’s hair is wet and she’s posing in a sarong and T-shirt.