Chapter Nineteen
JEN AND ROSS SAT AT VICKI’S desk in Barnstaple looking at Lottie’s Instagram account. She had a surprising number of followers. News of her death had obviously reached them, and the latest posts expressed horror at her passing:
OMG, I can’t believe such a beaut has left us.
Love you always, Lottie.
It was hard to tell how many of these followers were real friends.
It seemed to Jen that many were aspiring actors and directors.
Perhaps they’d hoped to reach the famous director Keith Cauldwell through his nepo-baby daughter.
Certainly, in some of the posts about her death, there were photos of Lottie pulled up from pictures she’d added earlier on her account and in many of the images, she was with her father – at his home in LA, on a red-carpet press night in New York, on the set of his latest film.
In all of them she looked posed and poised, turned to the camera as she took her selfie.
Jen wondered if she’d ever been seen in public without make-up.
All the posts looked curated as if Lottie had aspired to celebrity too – to become some kind of influencer, famous in her own right.
There was an occasional mention that she was headed to Oxford after the summer break, but her taste in cosmetics and clothes seemed far more important than her academic achievements.
There was no mention now of her sporting achievements.
Perhaps wet hair and muscular arms didn’t seem like a good selfie look.
Jen wondered which was the real Lottie – the studious student or the pouting young woman of social media. Because she must have done some work to get into university. She must have aspired to more than this. It must have been a struggle hanging on to both identities.
Some conspiracy theories had already developed, and many of these included a reference to Hannah and her family.
A few were outright weird: Hannah had been killed because of a right-wing plot to punish Paul Armstrong for the government’s planned hospital reforms. Or because of a left-wing plot with the same motive.
The lovely Lottie had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She was simply collateral damage. Who, after all, said her friends, would want to kill such a beautiful person?
The conspirators said that the police would have no interest in finding Lottie’s killer.
The Armstrongs would have put pressure on them to keep away from the real perpetrator for political reasons. There was a hashtag: #WhokilledLottie?
‘Great,’ said Jen. ‘Just what we need!’ She had an image of Millscombe being invaded by a group of amateur detectives, assuming that they would have a better chance of tracking down the girls’ murderer than the local police.
All trying to find their way into Tide House and taking selfies at the crime scene.
It would be a nightmare. At least there was only one obvious route into the house.
And she’d make sure that they had more officers patrolling the woodland near the old mill.
Hannah’s relationship to a government minister meant that they’d have the budget for that.
Vicki brought up the videos taken over the weekend of MillsFest. Lottie was a skilled editor with a sharp and often cruel sense of humour. Some of the videos had been set to music, and her voiceover oozed sarcasm.
‘Look at Grandpa! Cool moves!’ she said, as a guy no older than Jen was dad-dancing with a teenage daughter.
‘This really is the place to be …’ A sweep of the site, managing to make it at once tedious and squalid. There were close-ups of bored faces and overflowing rubbish bins. At one of the bored faces, Jen paused the film.
‘Isn’t that Jonathan, the boss’s husband? I thought Matthew said he had a brilliant time.’
‘He probably did,’ Vicki said. ‘This has been heavily edited. All it would take would be one shot when he was looking away, thinking of something else, talking to a mate. The bins could have been emptied immediately after Lottie took the film, but she had an agenda …’
‘… to mock the festival and the people there.’ Jen was thinking. ‘Why? Just to make mischief because she was bored herself. Or did she have some ulterior motive? Do we know when she posted this?’
‘Yeah, late Saturday evening.’
‘So, the Brennans could have seen it before the girls were killed. They wouldn’t have been thrilled. They’d hoped the festival might bring more tourists into the campsite. This is the equivalent of a one-star review on Tripadvisor.’
‘Hannah would have hated it too,’ Jen said. ‘If she was planning a long-term future with Jake, it would be pretty embarrassing to have his parents’ event dissed in this way by a friend.’
‘Maybe that was why Hannah stayed with Jake on the Sunday night? To avoid Lottie? The couple could have gone back to Tide House, and they’d have had a bit more privacy, even with Lottie there.’
‘You think the girls weren’t as close as everyone makes out?’ Ross had been watching and listening, more focused than usual. Perhaps the screen held his attention more than a conversation or verbal briefing.
‘I know Jake said they hadn’t had a row,’ Jen said, ‘but it would be worth going back to the farm and checking.’ She was thinking that Daniel could have more information too.
He’d seen the videos and had found them funny.
She could imagine him and Lottie sneering together.
Which made it even more important to find out where he was on the morning of the girls’ deaths.
On impulse she called the Fisherman’s Arms. Mag answered.
‘Could you let me know when Daniel is working again? Nothing serious, but we’d like a quick word.’
‘So would we.’ Mag was clearly angry. The cheery front she usually gave to Jen was missing.
‘We’ve got a big fancy afternoon tea in the restaurant – it’s one of our regulars’ birthday – and he’s supposed to be here.
But there’s no sign of him. I’ve tried phoning him and his mother, but they’re not answering their calls.
If you track him down, tell him to get his arrogant, entitled arse back here. ’
The line went dead.
Jen thought that could have been Jim speaking. Perhaps the Hoopers had more in common than she’d assumed, and Mag was simply a better actor.