Chapter Seventeen
WHEN MATTHEW ARRIVED HOME, JONATHAN STILL wasn’t back. He’d let Matthew know that he’d be late. A trustees’ meeting at the Woodyard. He’d left a note.
I’ll have eaten, so go ahead without me.
Matthew felt a little bereft, then guilty because he depended so much on Jonathan for his happiness.
He loved their evening meals together, but then Jonathan usually cooked, so it made his life easy.
Venn thought that he took too much from their relationship and gave too little.
He must make more effort to support his husband in his search for his birth mother.
After all, she’d be related to him in a way too.
He might discover a very different family, warm and relaxed.
He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that: exhilarated and scared at the same time.
He found cold meat and salad in the fridge and took it outside with some good bread from the bakery in Braunton.
After eating, he sat with his laptop and checked his messages.
He saw that Jake had forwarded the email thread between Hannah and him, and scrolled back to their first contact, just after Christmas.
In the email conversation, Venn saw the relationship develop from tentative friendship to something more intense.
There seemed to be some gaps in the timeline – perhaps some exchanges were too personal, too intimate for Jake to share – but the tone was always loving.
Hannah was obviously looking forward to meeting Jake, counting the days until the end of exams and her trip to Tide House.
In the most recent message, there was talk of their future together:
If all goes well, in a couple of months, I’ll be in Exeter. Just think, we’ll be able to meet most weekends!
The joyous, youthful excitement made him want to weep. He shut the laptop. It was quiet and still, and he heard Jonathan’s car before he saw it. It was an old car that needed replacing but Jonathan could never seem to find the time to look for a new one. It wasn’t, he always said, a priority.
The sun was low, and Venn saw Jonathan as a silhouette with the light behind him.
Even from the way he was walking through the garden and onto the terrace, he could tell that the man had had a bad day.
Jonathan could never hide his feelings, had never felt the need to. He sat in the chair next to Matthew.
‘Difficult meeting?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’ Jonathan paused. ‘Maurice Braddick is dead. A heart attack. They took him into hospital, and he seemed well enough, then he had another cardiac arrest on the ward. They couldn’t save him.’ He looked up at Matthew. ‘Lucy was there, visiting when it happened. She’s in bits.’
‘Of course.’ Matthew didn’t know what else to say.
Lucy Braddick was a woman who’d played a large part in the first murder case he’d investigated when he came back to North Devon.
She had Down’s Syndrome and had lived at home with her elderly father, until she’d gained the confidence to move into independent living.
She worked in the Woodyard cafe. Jonathan had looked out for them both – Maurice, the anxious father who found it hard to let her go, and Lucy, fiercely proud of her work and her new home.
‘You know, she will be okay.’ Venn reached across and put his arm around Jonathan’s shoulder. ‘She’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. And she has lots of support.’
‘I know.’ Jonathan went into the kitchen. He came back with two mugs of coffee, and they sat, chatting about everyday things, watching the sun disappear below the dunes.
Matthew was up and out the next morning even before Jonathan had been for his swim.
He was in his office at the police station, on his computer, checking the holiday lets and guest houses in the streets behind Torr Harbour.
He came up with a list of places for Ross May to check and emailed them across to him.
There was an email in return. On it, boss.
At eight, Matthew decided there would be someone in the office of the school where the dead women had been students. He’d like to talk to the head teacher before their day properly began. Lottie and Hannah had left because they’d finished exams, but the younger girls would still have classes.
He phoned the number Jen had given him. A recorded woman’s voice told him that the office didn’t open until eight-thirty and offered a number of options if he didn’t need to speak to a real person.
He left a message, saying it was urgent and leaving his contact details. Five minutes later his phone rang.
‘Inspector Venn. This is Sylvia James. Headteacher of Silverdale School.’
The tone was brusque and businesslike. She must have known that Venn was calling about the murder of two of her pupils, but she expressed no emotion. Perhaps private schools were businesses after all.
‘You’ll know why I’m calling.’
‘Indeed. I thought I might have heard from someone earlier.’ As if, Venn thought, he’d been late handing in his homework. The woman continued: ‘It was unfortunate that we had to learn about the tragedy from the press.’
He ignored the dig and continued. ‘It would be helpful for me to talk to you, to have your insight into the girls and their families.’
‘I see.’
‘Perhaps I could talk to any staff who were close to them. Tutors or form teachers.’
The woman seemed to be considering the request. There was a moment of silence before she answered.
‘I can let you have any facts that you require. No need to disturb my staff. In confidence of course. We’re already being hounded by the media. They’re camping out by the school gate, yelling questions at whoever comes in. They’re even approaching the girls with microphones and cameras.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that any of my officers would leak information to the media.’ His voice was mild. He didn’t want a confrontation, but this had to be challenged.
She didn’t reply immediately. He persisted.
‘And it would be useful to talk to teachers who had direct contact with Hannah and Lottie. Perhaps we could set up a Zoom meeting. At a time convenient to you and your staff.’
Now, Sylvia James seemed to come to a decision. ‘No. You can come here. I can be free at the end of our school day. Four-thirty.’
‘This afternoon?’ He wondered at her arrogance. Her assumption that he would drop everything and travel to London to see her.
‘That is convenient for you? I’m afraid it’s the only time I have free this week. The end of term is our busiest time.’
He saw then that she was playing games with him. She was hoping that he couldn’t make the appointment. Then she could persuade herself and everyone else that she’d been helpful to the police, without having to speak to him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can rearrange things here.’
She was surprised. ‘I’ll see you then, Inspector.
’ A pause. ‘I’m so sorry about Hannah and Lottie.
What a very dreadful thing.’ He couldn’t tell if she meant it because she’d known the girls well and was personally hit by their deaths, or because of the impact the tragedy was having on the rest of the school.
But either way, it proved that she was more human than she’d first seemed.
In the end, he decided to head to London as soon as he could get a train.
He wanted to get a sense of the places where the Armstrongs lived.
Geography had always been important to him.
He loved maps and used them whenever he was travelling.
He thought people reflected the communities they were a part of.
Elaine Cauldwell intrigued him too. He thought he might understand her better if he went to her office and met the people she worked with.
He phoned Jonathan and told him what he’d planned. ‘I should be home late this evening.’
Then he sent a message to his team, explaining his movements for the day, and drove to Tiverton Parkway to catch the train.
He arrived into Paddington at lunchtime.
The air was heavy, and the station packed with people wanting to leave the city.
Matthew had an old A–Z and used that to navigate.
He had time to kill before meeting the girls’ head teacher and he walked past Regent’s Park to Bloomsbury where Elaine Cauldwell had her office.
He found it on the first floor of a stately terraced house in a quiet, respectable square.
He’d been expecting something different, more raffish for a theatrical agency.
Something more Soho. The door to the whole building was locked, only accessible with a key code.
He pressed a buzzer and waited for a response.
‘Yes?’ The tone was sharp and suspicious. He suspected they’d been pestered by the press too.
‘Detective Inspector Venn from Devon and Cornwall Police.’
‘Really?’ The suspicion was still there. The reporters must have been inventive.
‘Really. I’ll show you my warrant card if you let me in.’
There was a buzz and a click. He pushed the door open and climbed wide stairs with a dark wood banister.
The office was guarded by a formidable woman behind a large desk.
He supposed she’d be used to fending off failing actors and scriptwriters as well as the press.
She was of indeterminate age and wore a black silk garment that looked like a dressing gown.
Her grey hair was long and loose and gave her the appearance of a witch. Silver bangles jangled on both wrists.
‘Show me that card.’
He presented it to her.
‘I suppose it looks all right.’ She was grudging. She would have preferred the opportunity for a fight. ‘Elaine’s not here, though.’
‘Oh? I thought she came back from North Devon yesterday.’
‘That doesn’t mean she felt up to work. I suspect she doesn’t want to see anyone. You’ve had a wasted trip.’ That thought cheered her up.