Under the Ice Page 4

  Making her way through the throng of people towards Sam takes time. People are dressed in suits with briefcases and laptops scattered on tables; unwilling table-sharing is a necessity. There are about six cafés in the centre of town and on a Monday morning there is always space to meet. Not today. With the trains down due to the weather, frantic workers are out escaping houses full to the brim with children on school holidays and from schools shut with the snow, bursting with all their toys and desire to run.

  And the press: beanie hats pulled down, winter coats, feather-down gilets, collecting coffees to clutch as they stand outside waiting for news. The press conference that morning has swamped the town. Jenny had skimmed the edges of it on her way in.

  Climbing over a briefcase, Jenny flinches as its owner shouts into his phone. The slam of metal on the counter is loud as the barista bangs the foaming milk jugs, making coffee for the snaking queue, and the door knocks behind her intermittently, opening and closing with busyness.

  ‘Mad, isn’t it,’ says Sam, rising and kissing Jenny on the cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, my lovely, only ten days to go now. How was yesterday? I want all the details. How was the wicked overlord?’ Rosie is asleep across Sam’s shoulder and barely moves.

  They had met in hospital: Jenny sobbing in St George’s postnatal ward; Sam with tissues, swearing loudly in her northern Irish lilt about being lied to by all women who’d ever had a baby: ‘a fucking burning candle?’, ‘a bit of breathing?’, ‘no effing antidote to childbirth’, ‘ripped in half!’. Jenny wasn’t sure she could have made it through the first bit without her; and then Sam had already been in the process of a move to St Albans with Ben and Rosie, giving Jenny and Will the idea to look. The affordable familial home, the perfect commute.

  ‘Not so bad, all things considered. Bit uncomfortable.’ She pauses, thinking of the drowning sensation, of feeling airless and panicked, trapped.

  A bang behind her is loud; she jumps.

  ‘Uncomfortable?’ asks Sam. ‘It’s pretty uncomfortable here. Something wrong with all these suits so close to Christmas!’

  ‘Yes.’ Jenny glances over her shoulder at the crowds. ‘And I can’t believe this, the murder. Christ.’ She settles Finn out of his BabyBjörn and onto her knee as she speaks, pulling a teether out of her bag and shaking it for him with one hand and reaching for the latte with the other. She cranes her neck away from Finn so that if he flings his arm up the large white mug won’t spill its contents on his head.

  Sipping the coffee with one hand, she feels Finn curl his fingers around the thumb on the other. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Same. I can’t believe it. I saw this morning they’ve identified her: Leigh Hoarde; she’s only fourteen years old. Was, only fourteen. Horrible,’ Sam says, shaking her head. ‘They’re appealing for witnesses, anyone who’s seen this black BMW. Same as Will. Did he actually see the girl?’

  ‘No. Didn’t really see the driver, it didn’t really register. To be honest I don’t think he would have remembered seeing the car if he hadn’t had to jump out of its way.’

  ‘Have you heard if she was… raped?’ The word comes out in a whisper.

  They stare at each other.

  ‘Shit, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that,’ Jenny says. ‘Will didn’t mention anything after his interview…’

  ‘Can you move in?’ says a man, behind them. ‘There’s not much room in here.’

  Jenny looks but she has no more room. Finn will be squashed. ‘Sorry, not really,’ she says.

  The man puffs loudly, pulling his table further out into the aisle, the screech of the chair’s metal feet on the stone floor stark. The legs of the table move into the path of a photographer, carrying coffee and a camera round his neck. He trips and coffee spills over the man, who screams, ‘For fuck’s sake! What the fuck!’

  Jenny leans in, trying to help, passing the photographer a handful of napkins that sit on their table.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ says the man in the suit, and he stands, pulling his bags and banging his chair.

  The photographer smiles in thanks to Jenny, grimacing comically, saying loudly, ‘Fucking cock.’

  Both move away.

  Sam rolls her eyes and whispers, ‘Honestly, all this business that won’t stop, not for a holiday, not for a death. I popped into the library to return a book earlier and besides the usual pensioners, it’s rammed full of about thirty toddlers singing “Twinkle Twinkle” in Rhyme Time, and another twenty people all trying to plug their laptops into the same power point and complaining about the internet speed. I heard multimillion-pound deals discussed to the background of “Wheels on the Bus”.’

  ‘What about just going out sledging instead?’ says Jenny, watching the chaos of the table behind them as two groups simultaneously tried to occupy the newly free chairs.

  ‘I know. Let’s hope the trains are back up tomorrow.’

  ‘God, I don’t. I love having Will off – an extra pair of hands at bedtime,’ Jenny says.

  ‘Getting on a bit better then?’

  Jenny sighs. Were they? She’d lost her handle on who he was recently. ‘Yes, yes and no. I had a bit of… I don’t know, a panic attack yesterday? He was great.’

  ‘A panic attack? What happened?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I heard about the drowned girl, and then I felt ice cold and started gasping for air. Will thinks I’m still a bit “overly emotional”. He gives me a metaphorical pat on the head, and then we move on. Looking forward to having Dad back.’

  ‘He doesn’t bloody get it, Jen. I don’t think any of them do. I cry at the drop of a hat. I want to have sex as much as I want to grate my nipples against sandpaper and yet still Ben gets into bed with a sparkle in his bloody eye. They’ll have to learn.’

  ‘I hope so. I felt like someone was squeezing the air out of me. Can you imagine me telling Will that? He’d have a fit. This girl…’

  ‘Scary to think that it could be someone we’ve seen around town,’ Sam says. ‘Did you see her picture?’

  Jenny shakes her head.

  ‘Hang on…’ Sam plunges her hand into the large bag hanging over the back of the chair. After a few false starts, pulling out nappy bags and toys, she produces the folded local paper. ‘It came through the door just as I was leaving this morning. Here, can you open it?’

  Jenny stretches it open, smoothing out the front page, and they both stare at the picture of a young girl, whose large eyes smile out at them from the black and white page.

  ‘Shit,’ says Sam. ‘She’s really familiar.’

  They stare for a few more minutes.

  ‘It’s Tessa’s daughter, isn’t it? It is her, isn’t it?’ says Jenny. She turns the paper towards her and reads the text quickly.

  The girl’s face floats in her memory: it’s the girl who had been helping at their baby singing class. They only met her once, last week. Tessa’s daughter. She had made a fuss of Finn and Rosie, cooing at them and smiling shyly at Jenny and Sam. She’d worn mainly black, and Sam had joked about Rosie: pink dresses to EMO black in about ten years’ time. She couldn’t be dead?

  ‘Leigh. She was at singing. I thought she was younger than fourteen? Can it really be her?’ Sam says, looking up at Jenny.

  Jenny opens her mouth to reply but nothing comes out. She had barely exchanged more than a couple of sentences with the girl last week. She had not even really registered her beyond a quick smile.

  ‘She can’t be dead?’ Her throat is raw.

  ‘I know… It’s unbelievable. God, poor Tessa.’

  Jenny takes a sip of her drink, but struggles to swallow. She feels sick.

  Sam’s face is white. Rosie wakes up suddenly and begins bawling, quickly red with the effort of screaming.

  ‘OK, OK,’ coos Sam. ‘Hungry, pickle?’ She begins feeding Rosie, hoisting her up onto her knee and resting her in the crook of her arm.

  Jenny looks down at Finn, happy with his teether. He will be tired soon. She
picks up the coffee mug distractedly; the latte is gone.

  ‘I’m so bloody tired.’ Jenny stretches her head out to the side and then rolls it back round slowly, leaning the other way.

  ‘Another one?’ she offers, hoping Sam will say no. She has lost the energy to sit here, and she longs to be outside, moving away. She wants to go home.

  ‘Tomorrow, after playgroup?’ replies Sam.

  Jenny lifts her head and glances at the clock on the wall. The dense air is thicker. It tastes of plastic: acrid in her mouth. Finn needs a nap; she needs to move. The room swims slightly. The business suits surround her like a phalanx.

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ she says to Sam. Even to herself, her voice sounds dry and reedy.

  ‘Let’s send a card. It’s the least we can do. I can’t imagine how she feels but I’m sure Tessa will want to know people are thinking of her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jenny nods, her head spinning. ‘God, we don’t even know her; we’ve only been to about four of her classes, and only met her daughter once. Why am I this upset?’

  ‘It’s horrible.’ Sam is pulling Rosie into her snowsuit. ‘I’ll call the others. We could maybe send some flowers from the class.’

  They make their way outside and say goodbye, hugging on the slushy pavement.

  Jenny steps through the tiny streams of muddy water, running from the banks of dirty snow lying against buildings; the pavements have been cleared in the city’s losing battle to stay moving. The sky is dark; gone is the crisp start to the day.

  Finn rides up against Jenny’s chest dozily as she hunches and wraps her arms around him. At the top of Lake Lane, she ducks from the trees on the narrow pathway. Bare branches loom and an uneasy breath blows up from the frozen lake.

  Her mind blooms with a long-buried memory of her mother taking her hand, damp, warm… She slips her hands together around Finn, pressing her fingers together: a burst of grief.

  Quickening her pace, she could swear she can feel something pushing her forward, out of the cold and into the warmth.

  6

  ‘The parents, background on them?’

  ‘Yes, almost there, enough to make a start.’

  ‘And friends? Boyfriend? Teachers? Local groups?’

  ‘Working on it, sir.’

  Words fly, bouncing off the walls of the grey room, rimmed with a stainless-steel quality. It’s a clean look, thinks Maarten, and it ricochets the energy – nothing lost – but it can be bloody difficult to hear with nothing to soak up the noise. Long, open-plan desks, usually clear of paperwork, are filled with the activity of investigation. Maarten feels the bite of adrenalin.

  ‘So, who are we putting at the top right now?’ he says.

  ‘John Hoarde, father. Originally from Newcastle. An electrician. Speeding tickets and one drink-driving charge, but so far nothing to indicate anything suspicious. Some family problems up in Newcastle – his brother’s in prison and has been for a few years. But we need to start with the parents – standard practice. Tessa’s up there as well. There is no real alibi – they both stand for the other.’ Imogen talks as she writes his name on the board at the front.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Adrika? You’ve got the list of teachers?’ Imogen says.

  ‘Yes, we’ve run through them, and from talks with her friends so far, there is one possible, nothing concrete. “Creepy”, bit overly friendly with sixth formers. Some mention of him in her notebook: dates for music after school, et cetera, but it’s sketchy at best.’ She glances at Maarten. ‘The headmaster’s coming in this morning to go over his statement. He highlighted that she was a victim of bullying. The friends were reluctant to talk much about it.’

  ‘Right, once this is over, you and Sunny go and reinterview the friends. All the usual, but make sure you get the low-down on this teacher and also find about the bullying – names, details. Push for it. Assure them of confidentiality.’ Maarten taps his pen against his knee.

  Adrika nods.

  ‘Right, headmaster, teacher. What else – boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s been away. Family left for a Christmas holiday in Australia over a week ago – but we’re trying to locate them to arrange a phone interview, see if there’s anything he can add. Nothing’s come up so far,’ Sunny says, checking his notes.

  ‘I had a bit more luck just now, actually, sir,’ Adrika says. ‘I spoke to the mother – she’s fairly fierce. Worried about her son being upset, and also about us dragging him into this. But there’s nothing that he’s said to her that she thinks will be any use. He’s very upset.’

  ‘Can we talk to him directly?’

  ‘Yes, we can Skype him with his parents. They’re willing to do it later today – their morning, our evening.’

  ‘Right, I’ll come back after the vigil tonight and speak to them.’ Maarten taps his iPad, making a note.

  ‘We need to push on with friends too. Probe. Don’t let them get away with keeping anything from you. If you suspect there’s anything they know, press hard.’

  ‘What about evidence from the lake? Any word back on the clothing?’

  ‘So far, there were three sets of DNA found. One was Leigh’s, and two others. Blood and semen. We’re cross-checking DNA with the wider family, but nothing conclusive, early days. Looks as though one might be the father’s but if it’s her jacket that’s tentative evidence to work on.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a wallet found at the scene too? Anything there?’

  ‘Not yet. Cash only inside; it’s a Velcro one. The kind runners sometimes use. Nothing back so far,’ Imogen says.

  ‘Shall I chase that up?’ Sunny says.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Sunny. Now tell me about that notebook.’

  ‘There wasn’t a lot in there, but there was a date covered in hearts and question marks. And the date was the thirteenth of December.’

  ‘So we can work on the theory that she knew her killer. We’ll have to ask the boyfriend if she had met any other boys lately.’ Maarten speaks as Imogen turns to the team. Finished with writing on the board, she picks up the notes nearby.

  ‘OK, friends’ interviews, background on father and who’s doing the neighbours?’ Maarten glances down at his iPad.

  Imogen reads out from the list, tasks pinned, allotted. Chatter, details. The office group disperses; noise spreads around the room like spilled popping candy.

  Maarten checks his emails as Adrika passes a box of muffins round the office. Maarten takes one, chewing as he reads.

  ‘They’re good,’ he says. ‘Who brought them in? Is it someone’s birthday?’

  ‘I think it’s DI Deacon’s,’ Adrika says. ‘Her husband just dropped them off.’ She indicates to the far side of the room. ‘He said we’d probably need a bit of sugar today, given this morning. I’m not arguing.’ She grins, her mouth full of cake.

  Maarten looks over and catches Seb’s eye and waves. He hasn’t seen him for a few weeks and he owes him a pint.

  ‘Maarten!’ Seb crosses the room and the two shake hands.

  ‘Kind of you, Seb,’ Maarten says. ‘Wish I’d had a heads up – I’ve not got a card signed or anything. She kept that quiet.’

  ‘You know Imogen – she hates her birthday. Not too much celebrating when she was young. Hey ho. We’re heading to dinner later, as long as she’s out on time.’

  Maarten smiles. ‘Will do my best.’ His phone beeps, and he picks it up. ‘Sorry, got to go – pint soon with Liv and Imo?’

  They shake hands. As always, Maarten notes the fluidity of his movements – his grace. Seb, he thinks, again, is born out of time. He should have been a benevolent lord, or a poet, dark-haired and writing in the pitted night; ink-stained fingers and a mouth bloodied with red wine.

  Watching him kiss Imogen on the way out, her head tilting upwards, Maarten thinks of a Christmas card picture – then thinks of Christmas, coming apace; the undone tasks will have to wait.

  Sunny shouts, ‘Sir, headmaster’s downstairs. They’ve put him in r
oom six.’

  ‘Right, thanks.’ Maarten climbs from the desk on which he’s perched, swinging his feet forward, fired by momentum: sparks of coffee and the crackle of the investigation.

  ‘Imogen!’ he calls, as he swings his jacket over his shoulder and pushes open the double doors that lead down to the station interview rooms.

  The click-clack of heels sounds on the stairs.

  Pulling his arms through his jacket sleeves, Maarten pauses and stands back, to allow her in first.

  The headmaster rises as they enter, and Maarten leans over to offer his hand.

  ‘DCI Jansen,’ he says.

  ‘Alex Craven, headmaster of Rolyhill School.’

  The man wears an expensive tie, pastel and sharp, and his top button is undone. His hair is styled. Very styled, Maarten thinks. He’s overdone in this drab room. Maybe he would slot into a school better, against walls filled with artwork, certificates, bustle. But why so dressed today? A photo opportunity?

  ‘How can I help?’ Craven tips back slightly, fingers touch in a pyramid.

  Lifting the statement that has been taken by one of his officers, Maarten skims it.

  ‘You mentioned some bullying when you gave a statement to our officers. You’ve said low level. Maybe we could start with that?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, Leigh is, was, a lovely girl.’ He takes a drink of water that sits by him, sleeve riding up, expensive cufflinks flashing, catching the strip light. ‘I can’t quite believe it. Such a shock. She was fairly popular, fairly good academically – solid B grades. But last year she was a victim of some bullying by a group of older girls, aged about sixteen, so a couple of years older.’

  ‘How did it start?’ Imogen asks.

  ‘Some WhatsApp, Facebook and Snapchat trolling, late at night – all these kids have phones; they tripped her up on the way out of school – they flushed her school bag down the loo and flooded the toilets.’

  ‘And did you manage to stop it?’

  ‘Well, it was the toilets that helped us spot it. That was when we found out, and we dealt with it once we knew. There are policies in place for bullying and we’re rigorous about following them. We brought in a counsellor to speak to Leigh for a few sessions, to reinforce her confidence.’