I felt in my bones we would never see Angel alive.
And that near certainty only intensified as I looked across the creek. Until a few days ago this had been a warm and tranquil wooded inlet, but now was overcast, chilled by a west wind that upset the river as it fought with the ebb tide.
“A fifteen-year-old girl has been missing almost three days, Sangster,” boomed the voice of Sir John Granville, textile magnate, philanthropist, hedonistic bon viveur of the highest order, my employer, and right now perhaps the most anxious multi-millionaire in the country. “Three days, man, so odds are our school’ll be closed down. Here she is, look.”
He thrust a black and white portrait into my hand, a head and shoulders shot of a blonde-haired young woman.
“Yes, I know who she is.”
“She’s all over the news, Sangster, that’s who she is. Beautiful face like that and everyone’s looking.” He puffed his enormous chest outwards with some force. “Pah, pah, pah,” he expelled his breath in a cascade. “Academy’ll be finished unless the girl’s found soon, I tell you, and the rozzers haven’t a clue. Bloody incompetent, bumbling yokel force down here, I mean—”
“Excuse me, Detective Chief Superintendent Pentreath would like to speak with you both.” I looked round to see a uniformed officer standing behind us. “He’s in the principal’s study, if you’d like to follow me.”
“Hmph, very well, lead on, constable,” muttered Sir John, who winked at me and mouthed the word ‘yokel’. We then turned to follow the officer as he strode across the level lawn that stretched from a seawall at the creekside all the way up to the main school building, a fine yellow rendered Cornish manor house. This was the principal facility of the rather grandly titled (at least I always thought so when I saw it written or heard it said out loud), ‘Granville Institute Everyman Academy for Gifted Children’, a residential school for excessively gifted teenagers from all walks of life and known to us all as simply ‘the Academy’.
“I’ll leave you both here,” said the officer, stopping by the entrance. “As I say, the chief super is in the principal’s study.” We walked through into the Academy’s oak-lined hallway and towards an open door on the left, from which heated voices could be heard, amplified somehow by the wood panelling.
“Ahem…” said Sir John, knocking and entering, I following in his wake. “Officer said you wanted to talk to us, I—”
“Is it you?” screamed a woman, in what sounded like a strong West Country accent (which I found out later was actually from Brightlingsea, in rural east Essex). She was of early middle age, with short blonde hair and what would have been a handsome face, had her cheeks not been streaked with tears and mascara and her eyes not been red with despair.
“You that opened this place,” she screamed again. “Took our Angel away. Brought her all the way across the country then lost her, didn’t you?”
“Madam, I—”
“You bastard,” she shouted, lunging at Sir John, who jumped back, surprisingly nimbly I thought, given his enormous bulk (he was about six foot four and I guessed weighed in at well over twenty stone). “You lost my Angel, I’ll—”
“Now, Mrs Blackwood,” said a uniformed policewoman, intercepting the lunge. “I understand this is difficult for you but please, try to remain calm. We’re certainly doing everything we can, and Sir John has come here from London today to help personally. Isn’t that right, Sir John?”
“Of course, madam. I take it you are the mother of the unfortunate, I mean the missing, well, what I wanted to say was…”
“Angel,” glared the woman, now sitting down, the man next to her (Mr Blackwood I assumed), placing his arm over her shoulders. “Her name’s Angel.”
“Now then,” came the soothingly even voice of principal Cyrus Flimwell. “We’re here to make sure Angel is found as soon as possible.”
“That’s right, Mrs Blackwood,” said the woman at his side, Cyrus’s wife, and joint principal Velinda (nicknamed ‘Prinny’ by the pupils, with her husband known to them as ‘Prin’, while they called each other ‘Vi’ and ‘Cy’). “And the Devon and Cornwall police have assigned Detective Chief Superintendent Pentreath here,” she added, gesturing to a thin man in a grey suit who had thus far remained silent. “And this man with Sir John is one of the Granville Institute’s special investigators. He also oversaw the establishment of the academy here at St Anthony.”
“Jack Sangster,” I said, offering my hand.
“And what do you investigate for the Granville Institute that’s so ‘special’, Jack Sangster?” Mrs Blackwood asked me, ignoring the offer.
“I look into problem cases, missing children, long-term truants, that sort of thing,” I answered as confidently as I could, while inwardly feeling anything but confident.
“Yes, Mr Sangster is the best we have,” said Mrs Flimwell. “He’s helped with cases like this before, found missing children when nobody else could, and he and others from the institute will now work with the police, help anywhere they can.”
Sir John nodded, as did Pentreath, although the latter with a sideways look at me that hinted resentment of outside interference in his investigation. The detective then paced to the centre of the room and spoke in a surprisingly deep register given his rather spare frame and face.
“Now, in typical cases like this, in care homes and the like—”
“We are not a care home,” thundered Sir John.
“Quite so,” said Pentreath. “And what I was going to say was that we typically tend to be, how shall I say, a little careful about jumping to conclusions with missing teenagers.” He stopped to (rather theatrically I thought), clear his throat, presumably buying the time to choose his words carefully. “Especially repeat offenders, and especially those from certain, er… institutions like care homes. We have different protocols for that kind of child. Ahem…” He coughed again, and as he did so, the Blackwoods’ faces turned almost purple. “However,” Pentreath continued, “in this case I am assured Angel Blackwood is a stable girl who has never absented herself without permission before, from this school or any other.”
“Yes, so how are you going to find our daughter?” said Mrs Blackwood, now close to hysterics. “Are you really doing everything you can?”
“We are—” Pentreath tried to answer but was cut short.
“It’s her birthday tomorrow for heaven’s sake. She’ll be sixteen.”
‘Birthday on top of everything else?’ I mouthed to Velinda who (out of Angel’s mother’s direct line of sight), mouthed ‘Yes’ back to me.
“Mr and Mrs Blackwood,” said Pentreath slowly. “I can only say that last night I was specifically asked by my chief constable to take personal charge and ensure we leave no stone unturned, spare no resources until your daughter’s found. Now, if you would all follow me, I’ll take you to the gym.”
“Gym?” Sir John muttered. “No time for that sort of thing, missing girl to find.”
“Where we have set up our incident room,” the DCS sighed quietly.
“Ah, lead on.”
The WPC stayed with the parents, both of whom elected not to listen to a blow-by-blow account of how the police had thus far failed to find their daughter. The Flimwells, Sir John, DCS Pentreath and I, then entered the gymnasium to see a team of about twenty police officers, some uniformed some not, standing by charts and pictures on the walls, or sitting at desks which were spaced across the floor. We walked past a table with a row of telephones, where operators with headsets were busying talking and taking notes, and on to a corner with two large blackboards set up on wooden easels.
“Now then,” said Pentreath, reminding me of an army officer briefing his men as he pointed to a series of chalked-up names, dates, times, and arrows that listed the chronology of events leading up to and after the disappearance of Angel Blackwood. “Here are the basics. Angel was last seen leaving a school debating club meeting at about 3pm on Sunday. The police were called when she didn’t appear at dinner that evening, at 6:30pm, after which we immediately conducted a search of the school grounds and interviewed staff and pupils. At dawn yesterday, we initiated a full search of the surrounding area, with officers drafted in from all over the county and beyond, including canine units. Posters for public posting have been issued as widely as possibly, and newspapers, TV and radio informed, including nationals. As of this afternoon we have conducted detailed searches of the St Anthony area plus a sweep of the adjacent area around St Mawes. Currently, house-to-house checks are being undertaken in the Roseland, Falmouth, Penryn and Truro areas, and a forensic team is working the scene here, so we anticipate leads any time now. In fact, we…”
I lost concentration as the detective continued to repeat tried and tested methods that were general to any enquiry. Painting by numbers.
“Er, excuse me?” I eventually asked him.
“Yes Sangster?”
“Do you have any suspects? Any, as I think you say, ‘leads’ right now?”
“One possible suspect, a vagrant that has been seen in the area for some weeks now.”
“The tramp,” said Velinda Flimwell.
“The tramp?” queried Sir John.
“That’s what the children nicknamed him. Dishevelled old man with a beard and overcoat, hangs around the school sometimes, had to be escorted off the premises on several occasions by Runtle. We were never quite sure how he got into the grounds, but he did. Seen loitering in some of the local villages as well. Up to no good if—”
“Hmmm…” I interrupted. “From what you say I think I may have met him at the weekend. Do you know who this ‘tramp’ is, Pentreath, where he lives?”
“I’m afraid not. He seems to be of no fixed abode and just pops up now and again then melts into the countryside. This area is heavily wooded you know.”
“And did you identify and interview the girl’s close friends?”
“All the pupils were interviewed,” the DCS answered. “Forty-nine of them, nobody left out. Went through the entire register. Staff, including all the permanent teachers were interviewed as well, and we have a list of over ten part-time teachers we’re working through.”
“It’s just that I saw Angel canoeing with one of the other pupils at the weekend. Wondered if that boy might know something.”
“As I say, everyone interviewed,” Pentreath continued, before explaining more about his approach, and consistently mentioning just how much effort and manpower was being allocated to the investigation. My feeling was that all this was wasted and the police were looking in the wrong place.
“Very good to search the immediate area,” I finally said, “but couldn’t the girl have simply left somehow, say in a car?”
“No, Sangster,” said Cyrus Flimwell. “Runtle was in the gatehouse all afternoon. Other than a very few staff who live off premises, nobody came in or out that day.”
“The girl could have been taken in a car boot, say, or lying in the back seat under a coat or a blanket?”
“Runtle reckons not. He said the people who came and went were either on foot from the bus stop or on bicycles. Except for my wife of course. Velinda drove out that afternoon.”
“Runtle?” queried Sir John. “You keep mentioning this Runtle.”
“Caretaker and gatekeeper,” answered Flimwell. “Looks after the chapel as well. Old retainer here from years ago.”
“What about a bicycle?” I asked.
“Same thing,” said Flimwell. “The perimeter walls form a semi-circle that surrounds the academy, all around the grounds and down to the creek on both sides, and after that iron fences across the mud down to the low tide mark. You couldn’t get a bike through anywhere except the main gate, and only Runtle opens that, from the gatehouse. He’s a stickler for security as well, almost to the point of embarrassment with the way he can treat visitors.”
Of course, I thought, recalling going over plans for the site the previous year. The academy was partly chosen for the security provided by its walls, and (much to Sir John’s dismay when he saw the bill), we had installed sophisticated machinery and controls to operate the front gates from inside the gatehouse or from the main academy building.
“Isn’t there a back gate by the chapel?” I asked, my memory of the layout now jogged.
“Yes,” said Flimwell. “But again, only Runtle has the key. Hangs in a key cupboard in the gatehouse and he says that the back gate was padlocked at the time of Angel’s disappearance. We double checked, of course, and found it locked, just as Runtle had told us.”
“So, the girl either walked out in some way we don’t know about, or she’s still here in the school or the grounds.”
“She’s not here, Sangster,” Pentreath stated flatly. “Rest assured of that after our searches. And our dogs picked up no scent, so if she did walk out, it was on thin air above the ground.”
“How do you know the dogs didn’t miss her scent completely?”
“Because they did pick up her scent on the lawn, where she was seen before lunch, but nowhere else. Especially not around the gatehouse or even the perimeter walls, where she could just possibly have climbed out, although she’d have needed a ladder.”
“So, to find this missing girl, you are mainly relying on dogs’ noses?” I asked, my incredulity hard to hide.
“We know our jobs, Sangster. Our tracker dogs are of bloodlines bred to catch escaped convicts on Dartmoor. The best hounds in the land, managed by the best canine unit in the force.”
“But the mutts aren’t foolproof, surely?”
“No, the dogs aren’t foolproof, and might struggle if the quarry has a few hours start, but will still usually pick up a scent, unless it’s raining heavily of course, then they can’t, but Sunday was a dry day.” Pentreath, seemingly desperate to justify himself (I wondered why such a senior officer would feel the need), struggled to get his words out quickly enough, causing him to pause and catch his breath. “No,” he continued, after loudly exhaling. “When the alarm was raised, and we began our search, the girl’s trail was still warm, and the scent would have lingered, I think.”
“And the boathouse?”
“All boats, canoes and so on are accounted for. And bicycles in the sheds for that matter. Nothing missing.”
“Could she have swum across the creek?”
“By no means impossible,” said Flimwell. “But the Percuil River from the front lawn here at any time of the tide would be a push for most people to swim across, especially in their clothes. And,” he added, “high tide was three ten on Sunday afternoon, so the river would have been at its most difficult.”
“But she could have swum, maybe just out to a boat or along the river, rather than all the way to St Mawes. In theory?”
“Even if somehow, she did,” said Pentreath, sounding a little exasperated, presumably at having to keep answering my questions. “We saw no footprints in the mud, and the dogs picked up no scent by the foreshore, as I said.”
“Outside of the boundaries?”
“We checked the foreshore either side of the academy perimeter for well over a mile. Again, the dogs picked up no scent.”
She is either still here, I thought again as he spoke, or she left some other way. I continued to wonder if someone could somehow have picked her up in a boat but said nothing. Pentreath did have a point that she would surely have been seen, or that the dogs would have found a trail somewhere along the shore.
“Thank you,” I eventually said, looking pointedly at Sir John. “I think we’ve taken enough of your time now.”
“Indeed we have, Pentreath,” Sir John added. “And if you want any help from us, just say the word.”
“The excellent cooperation of your staff here is more than enough help,” the detective answered, gaining appreciative smiles from both Flimwells. “And if we need assistance on the detective work, we’ll be sure to tell you.” He then turned to a sergeant standing next to him. “Bolitho, have we interviewed Mr Sangster yet?”
“No sir.”
“Sangster, if you’d be good enough to let the sergeant know your whereabouts on Sunday afternoon?”
“Of course,” I said, as Sir John snorted something under his breath to the effect that Pentreath needing a good whipping. “I can tell you now. I was at St Anthony Head until around one o’clock, then drove straight to our hotel in Truro and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon.”
“So, earlier on Sunday you were near here, but in Truro when the girl disappeared?” asked Pentreath, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I answered, as the sergeant scribbled his notes.
“Anyone corroborate that?”
“My wife, a waitress at the café by the St Anthony Head car park, the hotel guests and landlady, and oh…”
“Yes?”
“I reported a theft to the police at almost exactly three. A camera was stolen from our car boot. Was given a reference number and everything.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Via a telephone switchboard.”
“Got all that, Bolitho?”
“Yes sir.”
“Goodbye then,” I said, wanting to go before Sir John, whose face had become indignantly redder with each of Pentreath’s questions, said anything we’d both regret. “Cyrus, Velinda, don’t worry, we’ll show ourselves out.”
“Bloody sauce of the man,” Sir John spluttered as we left.
“Just doing his job, Sir John.”
As we arrived at the entrance hall, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see Mrs Blackwood.
“I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, Mr Sangster, I really am sorry, but somehow I felt if anyone could find Angel, it might be you.”
“I can only try to imagine what you’re going through, and I’ll help any way I can.” I immediately felt the burden of responsibility as she said this. “But I didn’t say much in the principal’s study.”
“I know, but somehow, call it intuition if you will, I felt that even saying almost nothing in the principals’ study, you said more than that detective has since we met him.”
“I’ll do my best, Mrs Blackwood,” I answered, my stomach knotting at the thought of someone relying on me for what I felt sure was a hopeless case. “And I’m flattered by your faith in me,” I added, just managing the wateriest of smiles.
“What did you think of that rozzer Pentreath, Sangster?” Sir John asked me as we walked to the car. “The girl’s mother didn’t like what she heard.”
“He’s obviously experienced, but his methods fit Einstein’s definition of insanity. That’s what I think.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep doing the same thing over and over again and expect different results.”