7

Wednesday 16 July 2014

Sarah unclipped Daisy’s harness from the seat belt. The dog immediately jumped down from the car and ran up the drive. Mrs Edwards, a plump woman in blue housecoat and slippers, was already standing at the doorway. The dog began jumping, and Mrs Edwards bent down and scooped her up, stroking her behind the ears.

Sarah took out the dog’s bed, treats, toys and food and walked up the drive with them in her arms. An envelope with cash in it was tucked into the dog bed. Mrs Edwards didn’t like to talk about money.

‘Thanks for taking her so early.’

‘Not to worry, dear. We love Daisy here.’ She nuzzled the dog. ‘You just text me and let me know when you’re picking her up. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume it’s the end of your on-call. Poor little thing, she’ll miss you.’

But looking at the dog in Mrs Edwards’ arms, that was hard to credit.

Sarah was at the office by eight. Her request to Tania’s old school had been forwarded to a Dr Gower who had emailed providing his mobile number. He had a fancy title, she noted – ‘Director Of External Relations’ – and signed his emails using all his initials: PhD, MA (Oxon), PGCE. She rang and explained her request. Gower apologized: he couldn’t meet before ten thirty.

Sarah hesitated. The appointment was later than she would have wished. Still she reckoned she could squeeze it in before her official tour of duty started. She had breakfast, booked out a car and headed west.

Set in a quiet neighbourhood of Victorian houses, the earliest of the school’s buildings was a Gothic whimsy: patterned brickwork, a steep slate roof with diminishing tiles and a little tower complete with lancet and rose windows. She’d googled the place. Hachett’s had been a direct-grant grammar that had gone independent in 1980. Ranked outstanding by Ofsted, the school was now competing right up there against the top girls’ schools.

The original building must surely have been listed, but somehow the governors had got permission for a modernist glass and steel extension that jutted out of the side and rested on two round pale stone pillars, sheltering an area of the playground from wind and rain. The addition spoke loudly of both privilege and ambition – a pretence at boldness that any fool would know was really super-smart and fantastically expensive.

Gower met her at the front door. He was about thirty-five, with prematurely silvered hair. There was a lot of smartness going on – polished shoes, crisp shirt, soft grey tie, a modest line of matching handkerchief showing in the jacket pocket. He insisted on a tour. ‘Give you an idea of the place.’

The school spelled out a haphazard map of decades of shifting architectural styles – a 1950s flat red-brick building with external stairways, a 1970s block with a cantilevered roof. Beyond the buildings, sports fields stretched away. Athletics was in progress: girls practising the relay, pelting up the track. ‘Fucking hell, Tabitha!’ carried on the warm breeze, followed by the blast of a whistle. It was only two days before the end of term and Sarah imagined the long summer holidays stretching out before these young women.

Gower turned back towards the school buildings. A group of girls passed, wearing good-quality blazers and with nicely cut hair and an affected lethargy in their demeanour. One wore trousers and a hijab. It was all reassuringly diverse and contemporary.

‘You had a chance to glance through Mr Stephenson’s records?’

‘I did, but there’s not much to tell you. He joined the school in 1985 and left in early 1988 with excellent references. Music thrived under him. They hosted events, went to Salzburg. There’s nothing to suggest any problem whatsoever.’

‘Can I take a copy of those records?’

‘I’ll have to talk to the head. There may be data protection issues.’

‘What about your records of the girls who attended the school at the time? Do you have an alumni society?’

‘Could you perhaps tell me more about your investigation? It might help us come to a decision about sharing information.’

Sarah observed that remark with some scepticism. Gower struck her as someone who would be very alive to the dangers of historic scandal for a school like Hatchett’s. But she checked herself. He did have a point – was she really going to start a firestorm of rumour on the sole basis that Mr Stephenson had once driven a green Jaguar?

‘Not at this stage,’ she said.

‘I’ll take you to our archive,’ Dr Gower offered. ‘It’s open to everyone. You’ll find some photos of the orchestra, that sort of thing.’

He led her through the entrance hall – geometric floor tiles, a cabinet with polished trophies, oil paintings of former heads on the walls – to a narrow wooden staircase that spiralled upwards. This was the old heart of the school and Sarah imagined it as it had been, before it was smartened up: the worn dusty treads, the banister spindles in need of a lick of paint, the creak of stairs. On the left were small music rooms with arched windows that showed sky and clouds. Through a glass panel she watched a plump girl in blue skirt and white cotton shirt scraping away at a violin. It was certainly possible to picture a hasty, furtive act here. Gower, perhaps anticipating Sarah’s imaginings, mentioned quietly that the practice rooms were a recent conversion. Twenty-seven years ago, this had been a classroom of girls seated in rows with heads bent over maths and Latin.

At the end of the passage was the old staffroom, which had been converted into the archive. There were leather-bound albums with dates on the spines.

She leafed through 1987: sports days, snaps of girls completing their Duke of Edinburgh awards in cagoules and waterproof trousers. The orchestra in a local hall: white blouses and dark skirts. She peered into the frame and spotted Tania, a small figure, playing first violin. Here, a few pages on, a local newspaper report: Hatchett’s pulls up its sleeves. Sarah fished out her glasses to read the small print. There were photos of storm damage, a description of a tree-planting initiative in Morville Park: sponsored by the local council and funded in part by performances by the Hatchett’s school orchestra. Smudged newsprint: a black-and-white image of a man sitting on an uprooted tree – Mr Stephenson, Hatchett’s head of music – girls standing in front of him holding bare-rooted trees and spades.

Sarah could understand why Hatchett’s would be pleased to have an association with Morville Park. It was the hunting ground of Tudor princes, the website said, and so very different from the little neighbourhood suburban park from which Tania had disappeared. She googled the journey time and persuaded herself she could still make it. The on-call would last seven days and she might not have another chance for a while if they picked up a job. But the lanes filtered from three to one and the traffic slowed to virtually stationary. A woman wearing a long skirt and a colourful headscarf walked along the queue, a plastic bucket of roses tucked under her left arm.

Sarah took a side road and wove in the direction of an office and staff yard marked on the park’s website. She parked by a railing with a locked five-bar gate and an open pedestrian entrance on the side.

The path was wooded. A sudden fall of rain had moistened the air and sent drops splashing off the broad leaves, releasing the scent of the earth.

It was further than she had thought before she spotted the wardens’ green hut. By the side, a small locked area with a mini tractor and a couple of service vehicles. She knocked on the door, then tried it. It opened onto a rest area – a table and chairs, a small fridge, a toaster. There was a door through to another room, a toilet perhaps, or a changing area. A dreadlocked white man wearing headphones was sitting at the table, eating toast. He was tall and lean, in a green fleece and matching parachute trousers. Sarah showed her warrant card. He removed his headphones and offered his hand.

‘I’m Tom. Come in. Want a cuppa?’

‘No thanks. It’s just a quick enquiry – I wondered if you kept any records of the replanting after the 1987 storm?’

‘Harry’s the guy you need to talk to.’

‘Harry?’

‘Harry Medcalfe. Knows everything about this place, and I mean everything. Worked here more than thirty years. He’s retired now but we still see quite a lot of him.’

Tom leaned to one side, pulled a mobile phone with a cracked screen out of his back pocket. ‘Here’s his number,’ he said, offering her the phone. She fished her glasses out of her bag. ‘That’s really helpful, thank you.’ But as she unlocked her own phone to record the number, she saw that the screen was showing no bars. She ran outside and found a signal.

It wasn’t too bad – the boss had left a voicemail only two minutes earlier – but still she had to calm herself. They’d picked up a job.

Tom drove her down the track in one of the electric service vehicles, bumping recklessly over potholes and tooting his horn while she called Fedden and tried to sound as though she had everything under control. She put on her blues and twos and made the twelve miles across London in less than twenty minutes.

Emergency vehicles were parked haphazardly everywhere in the street. An ambulance, two paramedic response cars. Marked and unmarked police vehicles. The white forensics van. A crowd of civilians was clustering in groups outside the tape, talking in hushed voices and watching the movements of the officers and paramedics. A woman in a peaked cap was tying flowers to a lamp post with yellow ribbon. Flowers and teddy bears had already been laid around the base.

Glancing at the scene, Sarah worked out the logistics. The walkway leading to the flat was very public. The press hadn’t arrived yet, but it could only be a matter of time. It would be nice to get the body out before they arrived, but realistically that was probably not possible. It would be difficult to maintain privacy.

She walked towards the outer cordon. Lee was there, standing next to Joanne Robinson, the Crime Scene Examiner. Sarah knew Joanne from other jobs and was pleased to see her. The local detective inspector was there too with a couple of detective constables. He introduced himself with an extended hand – ‘Chan Kapoor’ – and nodded to his two officers. ‘Louise Marsh, Andreas Lippi.’

Sarah took them in quickly – Andreas mid twenties, a bit dishy, floppy hair; Louise late thirties, hard-faced. Murder scenes were always like this. For a few hours she’d be dependent on these officers she’d never met to make sure that early opportunities were seized. Then she might never work with them again.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Detective Inspector Sarah Collins.’ She gestured to her two colleagues. ‘Detective Constable Lee Coutts. Joanne Robinson, Forensics.’

There was a shaking of hands. Everyone knew it was a bad one, and it seemed, to Sarah at least, that there was a summoning of resolve in these extended courtesies. Kapoor had a day book in his hand, which he opened. ‘OK, everyone?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Yes thanks. Tell us what we’ve got.’

Chan gave a thorough briefing. He’d covered all the basics, controlled the scene, traced but not informed the next of kin, identified the suspect, seized the clothing of the first responders, begun a CCTV trawl. There were active arrest inquiries but the suspect had not been located.

Sarah said, ‘Have you been inside?’

Kapoor grimaced. He had the maturity not to disguise the fact that it was a scene he would not relish. He gestured to a plump woman in a green uniform sitting on the step of one of the ambulances smoking while a uniformed officer took her shoe prints.

‘That’s the duty station officer for the paramedics. Very professional. She declared life extinct. There didn’t seem any point contaminating the scene further while we were waiting for you guys to get here so no one’s been in except the first officers on scene who had a good look for the child.’

‘Good shout. Thank you for that. And it’s the DSO who’s told us what to expect inside?’

‘Yep.’

Sarah scribbled some notes in her decision log, then said, ‘Is there any update on the child?’

Kapoor shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’

‘OK, we need to inform the next of kin urgently. Could you ask some local DCs to do it?’ She handed Kapoor her card. ‘That’s my mobile number. The intelligence bureau need to do a risk assessment. Get the duty officer to give me a call and I’ll brief him. Or her, of course.’

She looked towards the walkway. At the front door of the flat, a uniformed officer stood impassively holding a crime scene log. ‘I’ll just suit up, then I’ll go in and take a quick look with Joanne.’