Child's Play Read online

  ‘How did you leave things?’

  ‘I stopped the search when you called in case we accidentally mucked up a crime scene. We’ve bagged what personal property was lying about — sports gear and so forth — and sealed her room after taking some of her clothing for the dogs. I’ve also fixed a hasp and padlock to the door as the lock doesn’t work.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘On the top floor, where the sixth-form bedrooms are, the fire door alarms don’t work either. I’m having them checked to see if it’s just down to poor maintenance or if they’ve been disabled.’

  ‘Have the dogs turned up anything?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Not even Bryn?’

  ‘It was gone three before he arrived. He was out late last night on exercise with Mountain Rescue.’ Jack smiled briefly. ‘And unless he gets his statutory rest period his nose goes on strike.’

  ‘If he’s operational when you get back, tell his handler we need to know as soon as possible exactly where Sukie entered the water.’ After a moment’s thought, McKenna continued, ‘And it might be better for the other dogs to be stood down temporarily, so they don’t interfere with him.’ Again he fell silent, before saying, ‘We’ll have to play this by ear for the time being, I’m afraid, and use our instincts. What’s your impression of the school? So far, that is?’

  ‘Let’s say it seems to conform to most of the expectations I took with me. It’s certainly a world apart, but I’d say dislocated, rather than distinguished, by privilege. It’s also extremely claustrophobic, but that’s probably because it’s surrounded by acres of dense woodland. Then again,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘the main building was obviously designed as a virtual prison and you can still see where grilles were cemented into the window openings. The sixth-form bedrooms used to be cells for the most disturbed patients. The doors are over three inches thick, with massive external locks and peepholes. The holes are covered with plywood now.’

  ‘And the girls?’ McKenna asked.

  ‘The few I’ve seen in passing look the same as most other teenagers: lost and miserable. I felt sorry for them. And yes, I know,’ he added, as McKenna was about to speak, ‘my view of teenagers relates directly to the way my own are behaving. At the moment they’re swotting for A levels night and day. I just hope,’ he said with feeling, ‘in fact, I’m praying, that both of them get exactly the same passes and grades.’

  ‘They’re identical twins,’ McKenna said. ‘Isn’t that kind of thing a foregone conclusion? Well, probably not,’ he mused, answering his own question. ‘I wonder if there are any twins at the Hermitage?’

  ‘There aren’t. I’ve already checked the registers. And I’ve requested a PNC check on all current staff and those who’ve left in the last five years.’ He grinned rather wolfishly. ‘The school secretary initially refused, allegedly on the grounds of confidentiality, when I asked for the information, so I pointed out that obstructing the police is a criminal offence. Even then, she argued about getting Dr Scott’s permission, but I get the impression they need “Dr Scott’s permission” for anything and everything. Initiative isn’t encouraged.’

  ‘Perhaps she can’t forget being in the army,’ McKenna suggested. ‘What about the groundsman? Is it Sean O’Connor, as Dewi thought?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Yes, but apart from the incident we already know about, he’s clean as a whistle. Similarly, the lodge keeper, Ken Randall. He’s sixty-two and a widower. His wife died from cancer five years ago.’

  ‘Children? Previous employment?’

  ‘Two sons, both married, both in full-time employment, both living along the coast,’ Jack answered. ‘Randall used to be a Department of Transport driving examiner. He took early retirement when his wife was dying, then probably found afterwards he couldn’t cope without something to do. He’s been at the Hermitage going on four years and, although his old job must have honed his powers of observation, I wouldn’t lay odds he knows much more than Dewi’s already wormed out of him. Dewi reckons he’s exceedingly disaffected and therefore quite likely to shoot off his mouth at the first opportunity.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ McKenna commented. ‘Disaffected or not, he’ll temper whatever he says with the security of his job and housing in the forefront of his mind. Anyway, he’ll be formally interviewed, once we’re fully organised. For now, the girls and staff take priority. The security guards,’ he went on, ‘are very much part of your logistical nightmare and not only because they live all over north Wales. The company operates a rolling system where no guard works the same site for any length of time so, for the sake of efficiency, I asked headquarters to handle the initial interviews.’ With a wry look, he continued, ‘And, for a change, none of the guards has a criminal record. I expect we’ll find they alibi each other.’

  ‘Only up to a point,’ Jack remarked. ‘They must be very thinly spread. There are four on duty between six in the morning and ten at night, and two overnighters, which is wholly inadequate by any standard in a place as big as that, teeming with the offspring of the mega-rich. Still, I’m sure we’ll find a lot more to criticise before we’ve finished.’

  ‘As long as no one gets sidetracked by prejudice,’ McKenna commented quietly. ‘Nonetheless, everyone needs to be aware of the fact that the Hermitage is effectively a closed institution and no doubt riddled with institutional neuroses. The school’s norms of behaviour and thought will probably seem dysfunctional, if not actually disordered.’

  ‘If my experiences so far are any indication, the school’s norms are dictated by the headmistress.’ Getting to his feet, Jack shrugged on his jacket. ‘I’d better be off. By the way,’ he added, face betraying his feelings, ‘who’s breaking the news to Sukie’s parents? Poor devils! This is every parent’s worst nightmare come true.’

  ‘Berkshire police. They’ve also been asked to pass on anything known about the family’s background and to find out if there was a boyfriend on the scene.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if there weren’t,’ remarked Jack. ‘Sukie was a very pretty girl.’

  *

  The first stupendous shock hit Freya when she looked on Sukie through the window of the mortuary viewing room and in the minute or so she remained there more shocks buffeted her from every direction. When Jack led her from the cool, gloomy building into the heat of the car park, she groped and stumbled like a soldier blinded by mortar fire.

  Instead of taking her back to the school, he drove her to the police station and left her in a cluttered but tidy office with a young policewoman whose name Freya immediately forgot. Offered a hot drink, she asked for tea, hoping the errand would force the policewoman to disappear for a while, but she returned, it seemed, within minutes.

  Freya tried to ignore her. Beyond the initial civilities, the young woman made no attempt to impose herself, but her presence alone was sufficient distraction. Desperate for time and peace to retrench, Freya began to feel angry. When she could no longer contain her tears she was furious, even though she had no idea why she should weep. Little by little, she had been steeling herself for the worst since yesterday and in a bizarre way its arrival brought relief. Now the mystery of Sukie’s disappearance was resolved, she could concentrate on the practicalities of containing whatever had led the girl to her death.

  The waiting became an eternity. Because no one had told her why she must wait, she began to feel intimidated and even afraid, and the bland young policewoman acquired the threatening aura of a gaoler. Freya judged her to be in her mid-twenties and, on the evidence of dress and general demeanour, not the product of a common background. She spoke well, too, without a trace of the raucous local accent. Freya was considering how to reassert herself in this wholly alien situation when the inspector returned.

  With barely time to collect her wits, she found herself whisked along a corridor and into a large, airy room where a thin, good-looking man about her own age sat behind a desk. The inspector put her in a chair and left.

  ‘Sukie’s family has be
en informed of her death,’ the other man told her. ‘I understand her parents are now on their way here.’

  ‘What?’ She blinked rapidly.

  ‘I said—’ he began, but she cut him short, inhaling threadily.

  ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  He gestured to the nameplate on the desk. ‘I am Superintendent Michael McKenna, and I’ll be supervising the investigation into Sukie’s death.’

  Trying to push away the thought of that secret, superior piece of knowledge nestling like a grenade in the hand of someone at the Hermitage, Freya said, ‘I assume she drowned herself.’ Clasping and unclasping her hands, she added, ‘And I can only conclude that, tragically, some private misery drove her to commit suicide rather than seek help. Girls of her age are, unfortunately, often prone to hysterical behaviour that has drastic consequences.’

  ‘We don’t know if she drowned.’

  She screwed up her face into a parody of bemusement. ‘But she must have done! She was pulled out of Menai Strait.’

  ‘She could have been dead when she entered the water.’

  ‘I do not believe,’ Freya said, putting all the authority she could muster into her voice, ‘that a killer is lurking behind the walls of my school.’

  Waiting for him to respond, she studied his face. He had unusually fine features but, like the rather beautiful eyes, they were drawn with weariness and, perhaps, even disillusionment.

  ‘What you believe, Dr Scott,’ he commented, meeting her gaze, ‘has become an irrelevancy. We proceed on the assumption of suspicious death. Sukie died not long after last being seen on Tuesday night, so if someone did indeed push her into the Strait, that person has had ample opportunity to cover his or her tracks.’ For a moment he regarded her wordlessly, before saying, ‘While a suicide, from the school’s point of view, would no doubt be the preferred option, in that your liabilities would be significantly reduced, please refrain from speculation. I’ve no doubt that your word is taken very seriously and any theory you care to promote would quickly gain hold, to the detriment of our investigation.’

  A flush of anger staining her cheeks, Freya stared at him, realising that her so far limitless influence was now heavily circumscribed and hostage to circumstance. Then, with an enormous effort of will, she pulled herself under control. Dropping her gaze, summoning more tears, she said, with a catch in her voice, ‘Please forgive me. Sukie’s death has been a terrible shock and, of course, it creates a dreadful crisis for the school.’ Gathering up her bag, she rose. ‘At such a time my place is with my girls and staff, and naturally I must be ready to receive Lady Hester and her husband.’

  ‘Sit down, please. I haven’t finished.’ Stony-faced, he added, ‘You will remain here until someone has taken your statement and I shall be talking to the Melvilles.’ He punched a button on the telephone console to summon her escort. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘could Sukie swim?’

  ‘She could stay afloat in the pool, but she wasn’t a swimmer.’ Trying to regain lost ground, she went on, ‘Of course, the Strait and its shores are completely out of bounds and, in fact, fenced off for most of the length. The girls who go sailing are always accompanied by professional instructors and I don’t need to tell you no one swims in those treacherous waters.’

  He folded his arms and again regarded her steadily. ‘Dr Scott, if you seriously expect me to believe the girls stick to your rules, you’re taking me for a fool.’

  7

  Once Freya had been taken to an interview room to make a statement about Sukie’s disappearance and its aftermath, McKenna set off for the school. Even if the Melvilles had left home as soon as they were told of their daughter’s death they would not arrive before ten o’clock that night, for north Wales was a long way from Newbury. It was a long way from anywhere, he reflected, both physically and psychologically, but it was a distance fostering prejudice rather than mystery. The English had a perception of Ireland, where his forebears had lived; they had views on Scotland, albeit mostly engineered by the Scots; they held opinions about the England beyond their own small patch; but somehow Wales, and particularly her remote and mountainous north, was lost in between. People visited for holidays, huddled together for safety, and left more ignorant and biased than when they arrived.

  The high granite walls around the Hermitage with their topping of trees laid deep shadows along a substantial stretch of the road, and although the sun was still well above the horizon, the car’s automatic headlights blinked on as soon as he hit the shadow.

  A driverless white security van, parked close to the wall, partially obscured the school name board and the gates were barred by an area patrol car. Recognising him, the driver backed away with a roar and the policeman manning the gates jumped to attention. ‘Where are the security guards?’ McKenna asked.

  ‘In the patrol car, sir. I wasn’t sure if they’re allowed on site. Their boss has told them about the girl’s death, but said it would be better if they came on duty as arranged. They both did the evening shift on Tuesday and finished at two in the morning.’

  ‘And where’s Randall?’

  ‘He’s taken his dog to the vet’s for its booster jabs. Inspector Tuttle gave permission.’

  ‘Keep the guards where they are for the time being,’ McKenna decided. ‘I’ll send someone down to take statements from them.’

  The way through the woods was a dizzying affair and twice McKenna overshot the sharp bends, his car coming to rest the second time mere inches from the trunk of an old oak. When he finally cleared the trees and the school came into view on the crest of the rise he was disappointed, for the gates, the drive, the tantalising barrier of trees, created an expectation that was not fulfilled. The place resembled a barracks, and the litter of police cars, vans and personnel carriers on the forecourt looked quite at home there. The huge wagon housing the mobile incident room was parked to one side under the trees, dwarfing its canteen trailer.

  As he shut the car door he heard the throaty, unmistakable voice of a German Shepherd, then Bryn crashed out of the thickets to his right, his handler a few feet behind. The dog’s paws were covered in mud.

  McKenna leaned against the car. Bryn sat on his haunches, gazing up at him, eyes alight with fierce intelligence. ‘So, what have you found for me?’ McKenna asked, meeting the dog’s gaze. He was sorely tempted to stroke the animal’s beautiful head.

  The handler smiled wryly. ‘D’you really want to know, sir? Fag packets, used condoms, glue and aerosol containers, bottles and cans by the barrow load, shoes and trainers, various items of clothing plus male and female underwear, a mountain of paper litter and all the other weird things people chuck over the nearest wall, including a flea-infested mattress, two Tesco trolleys, a brand-new duvet cover still in its wrappers and a child’s pushchair, minus the child.’ Clipping the leash on Bryn’s collar, he added, ‘And most of it’s probably nothing to do with the school. The boundary wall’s crumbling in a lot of places, so the site’s as leaky as a sieve even without the wicket gates every hundred yards or so along the wall. You can’t see the wickets because they’re choked with ivy and undergrowth, but believe me, the locals will know about them.’ He paused for breath, gazing fondly at the dog. ‘Bryn picked up the girl’s trail immediately,’ he reported. ‘Starting in her bedroom, it goes through the top-floor fire escape on the east side of the building, into the stable block for some obscure reason, through the woods and down to the Strait.’

  ‘Can you show me without messing up the scent?’

  ‘We’ve marked out another way in.’ Tugging the leash, he moved off, Bryn at his heels.

  As they crossed the forecourt, McKenna asked, ‘Any footprints?’

  ‘Hundreds, I’m sorry to say. Except in the clearings, the ground won’t ever dry out properly and it’ll get so little sunshine there’s probably ice on the puddles all summer long. Where the trail ends, it’s just a sea of churned-up mud.’

  Entering the woods, McKenna glanced from side to
side, expecting to see the hazy glory of bluebells, the glow of anemones, but there was only brush and tangled undergrowth. Ribbons of fluorescent tape fluttered gaily from low-hanging branches every few yards, at least one always in sight. Engulfed by trees, he could hear but not see small animals scurrying in that undergrowth, but those sounds died away as they pushed deeper. Soon all he could hear were their own footfalls and Bryn’s panting breaths.

  ‘The place stinks like an open grave,’ the handler remarked, breaking the silence. ‘And it’s gone so bloody cold all of a sudden you’d think it was the middle of winter.’

  McKenna imagined Sukie, perhaps alone, perhaps not, flitting through these woods at dead of night and shivered. ‘That girl must have had a very powerful reason to come here in the darkness,’ he said, momentarily losing his footing as the path suddenly reached a steep slope. ‘It’s a nasty enough place in daylight.’

  ‘To us, maybe, sir, but if the trees could talk, they’d have more than a few tales to tell.’ He too skidded then, in the mud lying treacherously beneath a carpet of dead leaves. ‘That said,’ he added, grabbing a branch to steady himself, ‘this is definitely Hansel and Gretel and Three Bears territory rolled into one, and if I saw a goblin peering between the tree trunks I wouldn’t he at all surprised.’

  He unleashed Bryn. The dog bounded off, waving his feathery tail, while the two men, walking crabwise, covered the last thirty or so yards down to the water’s edge. There was no escape from the trees, McKenna thought; they crowded the banks of the Strait, some trailing their branches, others leaning out at impossible angles, all of them stealing the goodness from the air. As he followed the other man along the narrow, trench-like path along the shoreline, leaves slapped him insolently in the face and dropped water on his clothes, even though there had been no rain for days.

  When the path dropped once more, the banks on either side began to rise, until men and dog were not only overwhelmed by trees tangled together overhead but overhung by roots exposed by erosion: long, twisted, sodden tentacles that sprang out here and there to catch at clothes and flesh. Not wanting to feel their touch, McKenna pressed his arms to his side and his balance was immediately compromised, for the mud beneath his feet was the sort he had once heard described as cannibal mud and it was trying to suck him in with each laboured step.