“Hello, Features desk …,”
“Chris!” says Rowan, brightly. “Rowan Blake, all grown up. My God, mate, it’s been far too long. What was it? Pete’s funeral, I suppose. How’s it going? You good?”
There is a pause before Chris answers. Rowan pictures him. He’s probably 50 now. Glasses, like in the old days, but with thicker lenses. Maybe his hair has continued its retreat across his scalp. He’s no doubt his clothes will be presentable: he was always a neatly attired chap.
“Well, of all the voices I expected to hear, you’re way down the list,” says Chris, quietly. “Where you at now? Did I hear you were at some website? Or was it telly research? I read your book, by the way. You do let your pen run away with you but you can still sprinkle the glitter.”
“I’m back up here, actually,” says Rowan, getting comfy. “My sister – I don’t think you’ll know her – she’s got a place near Boot. Old farm. They’ve done up one of the old outbuildings as a holiday cottage. I’m trying it out. I’m sure she’d be grateful of any publicity when it’s a holiday let, if you were able to pull any strings.”
“Sounds great,” says Chris, enthusiastically. “Bet you’re going cold turkey, aren’t you? Sucking on exhaust pipes, trying to get a dose of smog.”
“As long as I keep smoking my heart won’t stop,” says Rowan, flicking the computer screen to bring up the text. “I’m actually looking into something local. Bit of telly interest, definite book deal on the cards. A kind of follow-up to the Gary King book but with a bigger scope. An exploration of the cases that don’t resonate with the collective consciousness. What happens to the families of the people whose deaths never trouble the tabloids.” He pokes out his lower lip as he considers what he’s said. He might actually be telling the truth.
“That’s got legs,” muses Chris. “You know better than anybody that if it’s outside London or the victim’s not a pretty girl from a nice white family, too often it sinks without a trace.”
“It’s a disgrace,” says Rowan, and means it. “But to do it properly I need some case studies and thankfully I’ve got a belter right on my doorstep. I mentioned it in the book but only in passing. I’ve been going through the online archive and apart from a couple of paltry snippets and a picture, it’s barely had any coverage.”
“You mean the coven,” says Chris, flatly.
“Sorry?”
“The three girls from the hippy school. Lovely old house on Wast Water. One of those places with about nine kids to each year. Closed in the mid-nineties, I think. It was one of those hippy-trippy places, holistic approaches to learning and mornings spent saluting the sun. It was part of a group that was supposed to revolutionise education but I guess that went the same way as most of the best ideas. Silver Birch, I think it was called.”
Rowan chooses to say nothing. Lets Chris fill the silence. He can hear him settling back – perhaps picking up a mug with ‘Shit Happens’ written on it in big letters and slopping a gulp down his front.
“I was on the Gazette then,” says Chris. “You know me, I was never much of a one for reporting. Give me a desk and a design job any day. But I served my time. We thought we’d got a big one when it came in. It was Damian who got the tip off from one of his police contacts. Did you ever meet?”
“Damian Crow? Tall lad? Too grey for his age? Aye, he was chief reporter when I started. Didn’t like me very much.”
“Retired now, but he was a good operator back in his day. He had good links with the coppers so they’ll have gone straight to him. Newsdesk asked me to be on standby in case it came to something. It didn’t take us long to get names.”
“Remind me,” says Rowan, fingers poised.
“I know there was a Catherine Marlish. Daughter of the vicar, if I recall. Lovely couple, her mum and dad. Couldn’t do enough to help. I think they’d have given me the whole family album if I’d asked.”
“Freya and Violet were the others weren’t they…?”
Chris pauses, the silence stretching out like chewing gum. “Freya was a redhead,” he says, locating the memory. “I think the surname was ‘Grey’. With an ‘e’. That’s about as much as we ever got. Related to one of the pastoral staff at the school, as far as memory serves, but we never got the chance to print much. Initial appeal and a request for information. I had a pad full of notes from Rev Marlish about his daughter but the cops requested we hold off on publishing for ‘operational reasons’ and we weren’t in a position to argue. You lose your contacts in this job, what are you? Anyways, it came to nought in the end. Wasdale Mountain Rescue found Violet and Catherine somewhere over Patterdale way.”
“But not Freya?” asks Rowan. “So what, they just thought ‘two out of three aint bad’? That’s a bit hard to swallow, mate.”
Chris gives a snuffle of laughter, though it sounds fake to Rowan’s ears. “I’m probably remembering it wrong, Rowan. Maybe they found her somewhere nearby and it wasn’t mentioned in the first press release that came out. We might have printed an amendment, or just left well alone. We’re a local paper and the nationals never took any notice because it was all over so quickly. If something had gone amiss, if she’d never been found or there was a suspicion of foul play, somebody would have kicked up a fuss by now, surely.”
Rowan glares into his drink and tries to keep his temper. He knows from bitter experience how many people fall between the cracks – how many girls, boys, women and men fade from reality like the colours in a sun-bleached photograph. He knows how many killers have preyed upon society’s disposable people. How many lives have been snatched because their murderer didn’t expect anybody to notice?
“You still there Rowan?” asks Chris, forced jollity entering his voice. “Look, if you’re really interested you should have a look on the Mountain Rescue’s online archive, it’s pretty good. I think it was Jason – he passed away a few years back – who brought them home. He was always good with us but apparently he wasn’t allowed to talk about the incident, so draw your own conclusions there.”
Rowan chews his lip and considers the screen before him. “Who’s this guy in the photo I’m looking at? Dark hair, fifty-ish …,”
“Come on Rowan, it was thirty years back,” protests Chris. “Hang on, let me see what you’re looking at…,”
Rowan listens to the sound of fingertips moving swiftly over keys. He looks at his own, useless digits and swallows down a surge of jealousy.
“Oh right, right,” says Chris, up to speed. “That’s Derrick Millward. Local lad, though we’re probably talking pre-war. Spent his life catching the worst of the worst. You might have heard of him, to be honest. Bit of a legend in some circles – old school copper. He had some connection to the case, as far as I can recall. I think he was introduced as a ‘liaison’ – somebody to make sure the family were kept up to date. He’d retired from policing but I think he had some connection to a private detective firm. Blackpool, I think? Was it Blackpool? Honestly Rowan, you should have emailed me and I could have found my old notebooks.”
“You always were horribly efficient,” smiles Rowan. He narrows his eyes. “Three girls missing,” he muses. “You’ve told me one didn’t come back. I’ve heard that before. What’s the story?”