Dead of Winter (7 page)

He paused expectantly, hoping that somewhere inside the porcelain doll in front of him there was a real girl and that he had reached her. After a long pause Octavia dropped the strand of hair and yawned.

‘Can I go now?’

Fenwick swallowed a curse and nodded. She left without a backward glance.

‘Failed to crack Little Miss Cool?’

Bernstein was standing less than ten feet away, a self-satisfied grin on her face.

‘Not so much as a thaw,’ he conceded. ‘Did you fare any better?’

‘Worse. I tried to tough her out and she complained to her mother. I’m not good at dealing with their sort. So what did you make of the art teacher?’

‘I agree with you, she’s holding something back.’

‘Any idea what?’

‘My guess is she has a theory why Issie left college on Monday night.’

‘Hmm, possibly. We’re looking into her background just in case it’s something else. What are you going to do next?’

‘Interview Puff, though I have no expectation of coaxing anything from her. Then I want to look at Issie’s room before I interview the headmistress, assuming she’s arrived by then.’

‘Call me when you’re done with the girl and I’ll take you if you like,’ Bernstein offered and Fenwick wondered whether this was a genuine olive branch. ‘I hear you got lost last time.’

Obviously not.

He proceeded to waste the next five minutes in an attempt to make Puff talk. As soon as she left he and Bernstein returned to MacArthur House, careful not to lose their sense of direction in the enveloping mist.

Issie’s room was smaller than Octavia’s. As he walked in Fenwick was struck by a sense of the girl’s absence. His breath misted in the air and he noticed that the windows were open above a large desk, in the centre of which was a laptop connected to a printer with a neat pile of text books and essays to one side. Everything was tidy: the edges of the papers perfectly aligned with the corners of the desk; pens and pencils in a pot by the printer, spare paper in a wire basket under a new print cartridge that might never be used. Smudges of fingerprint powder were the only imperfections.

‘Was it like this when you searched?’

‘Yes; unnatural isn’t it?’ Bernstein went to close the windows.

‘Leave it for a moment; I want to see things exactly as they were left.’

‘You reckon the girl lived like this?’

‘No, but somebody wants us to think she did. Let’s appreciate the scene they’ve set.’

He pulled his coat tight as he sat down by the desk and opened the top drawer: more paper and pens, a geometry set, scalpel and glue. In the second drawer he found an iPod.

‘What teenager do you know who would leave without their music?’

‘I don’t know any teenagers,’ Bernstein replied.

‘Lucky you. Why is the computer here? I’d have thought it would be with Tech.’

‘It’s been there and come back.’

‘Within twenty-four hours?’ Fenwick couldn’t believe it.

‘Yes. Apparently this PC is new, hasn’t been used. Her mother told us it was a recent birthday present. She doesn’t know what happened to the old one and neither does anyone we’ve spoken to.’

‘Computers don’t just disappear. It’s probably been taken as part of a cover-up and that means whoever did this knew enough to leave the new PC behind.’

‘Probably.’

‘Hmm.’ Fenwick stood up and went over to Issie’s bed. The duvet was smooth, the pillows plump.

‘Searched,’ Bernstein said, ‘nothing under the mattress, nothing in the mattress, nothing hidden in the pillows. Trust me, the bed’s clean; so is the room. There’s
nothing
here.’

‘Exactly.’

Bernstein started drumming her fingers on the door frame, an impatient presence willing him to accept that he was wasting his time.‘Issie is fanatical about her art. Why is none of her work here?’ He pointed to pin holes in the walls.

‘No idea.’ Bernstein yawned, baring the telltale yellow of nicotine teeth, but she moved a step into the room, hesitated and then took another. ‘Do you think it might be relevant?’

‘Maybe.’

Fenwick bent and sniffed the pillowcase. Bernstein regarded him in astonishment.

‘Do you get off on young girls?’

‘Don’t be crude. This bedding’s clean. What’s the rota for changing linen?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then if you want to do something useful why don’t you find out.’

Bernstein opened her mouth, shut it abruptly and left. Fenwick sat down on the desk chair and lowered his head into his hands.
The feeling of sadness was suddenly overwhelming.
Someone’s cleared her away,
he thought,
but she may not even be dead.

‘What are you doing? Get out or I’ll call the police.’

Fenwick looked up to see a woman in a tracksuit standing by the door brandishing a hockey stick.

‘I am the police,’ he was suddenly struggling to maintain a straight face, ‘and who might you be?’

‘Elaine Horlick,’ the woman replied and wiped her lips as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. She could have been in her late fifties, except that the moustache above her pursed mouth was dark, not grey.

‘Miss Horlick,’ he said, rising with an outstretched hand, ‘Superintendent Fe—’

‘
Mrs
Horlick.’ She ignored him and strode into the room. ‘Do you have a warrant?’

‘Fenwick,’ he continued. ‘I don’t need one. Isabelle’s parents and the bursar have given permission but I have to ask what you are doing here.’ He stepped forward.

‘How dare you! I’m one of Issie’s favourite teachers.’

He noted that she used the present tense.

‘Then perhaps you can tell me about her. Please, take a seat.’ He gestured towards the easy chair and, reluctantly, she obeyed. Like some other sports people he knew the energy that suffused Mrs Horlick in action seemed to drain from her once she sat down.

‘How well do you know Issie?’

‘Extremely well. She’s a gifted sportswoman. Her tennis is almost county standard.’

‘And you are the games mistress?’

‘Games, Superintendent? We don’t play
games
at St Anne’s – we train sportswomen of the future. Our regime is renowned across England.’

‘Indeed. And through your … ah … training regime you and Issie became close?’

Mrs Horlick looked down at her hands where they clasped the hockey stick. With an obvious effort of will she relaxed her fingers and laid it on the carpet.

‘I was her mother away from home,’ she said.

‘Another one.’

She looked up at him, affronted.

‘Who else claims to be?’ Her frown did little for her looks. ‘Oh, of course, that stupid woman Bullock. Just because Issie likes to daub from time to time she thinks there’s something special in their relationship.’ Mrs Horlick shivered. ‘Do you have to keep that window open? It’s well below freezing outside.’

‘Yet you were playing hockey,’ he ventured with a nod towards the stick.

‘A true sportswoman plays in all weathers. Unfortunately I had to abandon the match when visibility deteriorated and we could no longer see the goals. Most inconvenient; St Anne’s has reached the under-sixteen quarter-finals and I’m not satisfied with our defence.’ She sniffed in disgust at the temerity of weather.

‘What can you tell me about Issie?’

‘Wonderful girl; cursed with a dreadful mother and even worse stepfather.’

‘Why do you consider her mother dreadful?’

‘She’s a spineless wimp of a woman; terrible role model and an emotional parasite. After Issie’s father died it was the mother who called her daughter in floods of tears. She never once thought about what Issie might be going through. Then eventually her period of mourning came to an end and she married a man old enough to be Issie’s grandfather – and expects the poor girl to be a dutiful daughter to him!’

‘So you didn’t approve of the marriage to Lord Saxby.’

‘That’s immaterial. You asked me why I pitied Issie and I told you. Please can we close the windows so that it’s warm when Issie comes back?’

Fenwick stood up and obliged. It was only twenty-five to three but outside the day was growing dark as the invisible sun sank into mist that was thickening to fog.

‘Is her room always like this?’

‘Perishing cold, you mean? No.’

‘I was referring to the neatness, nothing left lying around, no posters or artwork.’

Mrs Horlick looked around for the first time and her eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘Her paintings and photographs have gone. She kept her best work here. Not the stuff she needed for her A level, of course, but her other studies. I’m certain they’re missing.’

Fenwick nodded to himself.

‘Her old computer; do you know where we might be able to find it?’

‘No. I wasn’t even aware she had a new one.’ The sports teacher looked distressed, as if she had failed an important test.

‘Have you any idea what’s happened to her?’

‘Run away, of course. This time of year is always hard for her.’ Seeing Fenwick’s confusion she added, ‘It’s the anniversary of her father’s death on the twenty-first. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s her official eighteenth birthday party to get through. She was dreading it. Her mother has organised a formal black-tie thing stuffed full of relatives, local dignitaries and girls she mistakenly thinks are close to Issie. Only two of her true friends are invited.’

‘Octavia and Puff?’

‘Yes. They thought it a real joke; the invitation was gilt-edged, the dress code stupidly old-fashioned. It had all the hallmarks of Saxby’s pretension and they teased her mercilessly. I expect she’ll be back once that’s over.’

‘Where do you think she might be staying?’

Elaine Horlick’s face collapsed into a worried frown.

‘If I knew do you think I’d be sitting here?’ She hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, recently I think Issie might have made some unsuitable friends. It’s only a suspicion but there have been times of late that she’s been ill in the morning. I think she was hungover.’

‘Did you report this?’

Mrs Horlick flushed and shook her head.

‘If it was a hangover bad enough to make her feel ill then she would have smelt of booze. Did she?’

‘Once or twice. I warned her about it, said it would wreck her game …’

‘To say nothing of her studies, which I understand have also suffered. Do you know why she should resort to drink?’

‘Resort? No, I assumed it was a teenage fad, not a way of coping with a problem. You think otherwise?’

‘Well, I don’t claim to be her “father away from home”, Mrs Horlick, but I would say that the girl that’s been described to me was in desperate need of help, not indulgence.’

Horlick dropped her eyes and he stood up to indicate the interview was over. She just sat there like a side of beef.

‘Mrs Horlick, it’s time for you to go,’ he said gently.

The woman nodded and rose to her feet. He followed her to the door and passed her the hockey stick. When she was in the corridor he said, ‘Can you tell me where the laundry room is?’

‘What? Oh, there are bins for dirty linen and clothes in the utility room next to the showers. They’re emptied twice a week, on Monday and Friday.’

Fenwick watched her leave before closing and locking the door to Issie’s room. He found the showers, made sure there were no girls around and went into the utility room adjacent to them.

The laundry hampers were lined up along one wall, helpfully labelled:
‘towels/bed linen’
and
‘clothing’
.

He went over to the hamper for linen and opened it. There was a rumpled duvet cover at the bottom. The container was so large that he was only just able to reach in and flick it carefully aside. Beneath were sheets and a pillowcase, four items in total. He was wheeling the whole bin towards the door when Bernstein walked in.

‘You beat me to it,’ she said begrudgingly.

‘We need large evidence bags. Have you got any?’

‘Not big enough. I’ll call for some. I’m going to have Bazza’s hide for this. He should have checked everything. What else have you found?’

‘That Issie’s artwork and photographs are missing from her room as well as her old PC.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s quarter to three. I should go to the Saxbys’. You searched the art rooms in the stables?’

‘It was part of the initial hunt for Isabelle.’

‘You were looking for the girl not her paintings. Tell Bazza to search them again for the missing artwork; it’ll be a chance to redeem himself.’

‘What good is that going to do?’

‘If we find her work we might learn more about Issie and why somebody did such a good job of cleaning up her life before we arrived. This lot needs to go straight to the lab, top priority. Make sure the chain of evidence isn’t broken.’

Bernstein looked irritated at being ordered about but nodded as if acknowledging that he had scored a point.

The fog had thickened so Fenwick could see nothing of the grounds of Saxby Hall as he drove up a red tarmacadam drive bordered by white fencing. The ‘Hall’ turned out to be a modern, ranch-style house with symmetrical wings of two-storeyed red brick and a marble colonnade at the front. It was one of the ugliest buildings he had seen.

He was greeted at the door by a butler who looked as if he wanted an excuse to send him round to the tradesmen’s entrance but let him in swiftly when he heard his rank. Apart from a standard lamp by the staircase the entrance hall was in darkness. Traces of light filtered under double doors to the right from behind which he could hear raised voices. The hall was overheated. As he was removing his coat the doors were flung open and a man stormed out.

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ The voice was identical to Lord Saxby’s; it had to be the younger brother.

‘Mr Rodney Saxby?’

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Superintendent Andrew Fenwick, Sussex Maj—’

‘I don’t need your bloody career history. It’s about time you got here. My brother’s worried sick. This’ll be the second day that girl’s missing and what have you lot done about it? Sweet fu—’

‘Thank you, Rod; we’re ready for the superintendent now,’ the elder brother interrupted. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’

‘I’m late already. Doubt there’s much you’re going to tell us anyway, is there?’ He dared Fenwick to contradict him with a stare
that might have worked on another man. Fenwick merely walked past him and asked, ‘Lord Saxby, is this a good time?’

‘No time’s a good time. Come on; Jane’s in here.’

After the darkness of the hall Fenwick had to blink as he walked through the double doors. The room ran the whole width of the house and was furnished with seating at one end and a library at the other. The books looked as if they had been bought by the yard. Lady Saxby was hunched in a dark leather armchair to one side of a log fire. A matching settee dominated the middle of the room, its austere upholstery relieved by a profusion of geometrically patterned cushions. Above the mantelpiece a full-length portrait of the mistress of the house dominated the room. It dwarfed its subject who huddled protectively behind a cushion, legs tucked up beneath her.

She didn’t get up when he walked in, nor did she ask, as most mothers would have done immediately, whether he had any news.

He told them quickly what he had discovered at the school, concluding with the fact that the prevalent belief among her teachers was that Issie had run away.

‘Can you think of any reason why she would have done so, Lady Saxby?’

‘No.’ She pushed a strand of lank brown hair behind her ear; her voice barely a whisper.

Her husband towered over her, contriving to look threatening rather than protective.

‘Tell me about your daughter,’ Fenwick asked gently, hoping to establish rapport before asking the tough questions he needed to.