‘Would it surprise you to know that her mother was in a relationship with a man called Alan Jakes who is alleged to have threatened
Clare?’
Mrs Benson opened her mouth and closed it again. ‘The school wasn’t made aware of this. If we had been there are procedures
in place to … I can only follow the guidelines.’
‘Of course. How would you know if nobody brought it to your attention at a meeting?’ said Wesley pointedly. If the head had
kept her eyes and ears open and got to know her pupils instead of playing at being Chief Executive, she might have picked
up on what was going on. But he knew only too well from Pam how the world of modern education worked.
‘Clare’s form teacher says she’s very quiet,’ the head continued.
‘So she goes unnoticed?’ It was the first time Rachel had spoken. Mrs Benson gave her a wary look.
‘That’s always a danger with the quieter student.’
‘Was she bullied?’ Rachel asked.
This hit the spot. Mrs Benson rose from her seat, like an animal on the defensive. ‘We have a very strict anti-bullying policy
at this school.’
‘But girls can be subtle about it. The staff might not know.’
Wesley looked at Rachel and saw that her cheeks had turned red. Once when they’d been working closely together and had been
filling the time during a long and boring
evening of surveillance by swapping childhood memories, she’d confessed to him that she’d been part of a group that had bullied
a younger girl at school. He knew she found the memory painful and embarrassing. She hated what she’d done back then and she’d
said that if she could have made it up to her victim she would. But the girl had left the school and Rachel didn’t know what
had become of her.
There was a knock on the door, nervous and tentative.
‘That’ll be the students. I have things to do. If there’s anything you need …’
After Wesley assured her that they’d be fine, Mrs Benson opened the door to admit three girls and slipped out of the room.
The term ‘girls’, in Wesley’s opinion, was misleading. These were young women. And, in spite of the neat school uniforms they
wore, they had the worldly-wise look of women ten years their senior. In September they’d be at university, he thought, wondering
if Pam had ever seemed that sophisticated during their student days. He thought not.
The girls sat down as invited. Wesley and Rachel had already decided not to place themselves behind the head’s desk, in the
position of authority. Instead they drew their seats into a cosy circle, like a group of friends meeting for a chat.
The girls introduced themselves one by one as Vicky Page, Sarah Salter and Peony White. They seemed confident, unfazed by
the fact that they were being interviewed by the police. Wesley couldn’t help wishing that they looked a bit more nervous.
But then over-confidence has tripped up many a liar. He sat back and listened while Rachel began the questioning.
Vicky Page did most of the talking. She was tall, blonde
and beautiful but her lips were rather too thin and there was something hard about her blue eyes. She was the sort of girl
who should have been irresistible in theory but there was something distinctly unattractive about her demeanour … and
Wesley couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
‘So whose idea was it to go to the Anglers’ Arms?’ Wesley asked.
‘Peony’s,’ Vicky said quickly, as though she was trying to shift the blame. Peony herself sat quite still and said nothing.
‘Her brother worked there once and he said the quiz night was a good laugh.’
‘How did Clare seem during the evening?’
‘Quiet.’ This was a simple statement of fact but Wesley thought he could detect something else behind the words, some criticism
perhaps or some indication that Clare was regarded as the outsider of the group, the lowest in their teenage pecking order.
Rachel looked at Vicky and smiled sweetly. ‘How come Clare was walking home alone? Her mum thought she was getting a lift.’
Vicky cleared her throat. ‘Yeah. Jen offered her a lift back but she cried off at the last minute.’
‘So how did you get back?’
Wesley looked round the group and saw that they were avoiding Rachel’s eyes.
Vicky hesitated. ‘Er … we shared a taxi.’
‘Why didn’t you give Clare a lift?’
‘We were going in the opposite direction. She said she’d be OK ’cause it wasn’t far.’
Wesley noticed a meaningful look pass between Sarah and Peony and he knew that Vicky was lying.
He’d had enough. It was time they talked to each girl
alone and found out what Sarah and Peony had to say away from Vicky’s influence. He nodded to Rachel and they left the room
to discuss tactics. They decided to start with Peony. Vicky they would save till last. The wait would do her good.
Peony was a plain girl, the sort bullies often used as a righthand man – or woman. She was heavily built with dark hair and
eyebrows that were in danger of meeting in the middle like a pair of over-friendly caterpillars.
Wesley began by asking Peony’s opinion of Clare. The answer was as he expected. Clare was great. But the unconvincing way
she said the words told him that she was lying.
‘Did Clare ever mention her mother’s boyfriend?’
Peony nodded warily. ‘I don’t think she liked him.’
‘Did he ever hit her?’
Peony shook her head. ‘She never said anything like that.’
‘Or try to do anything she was uncomfortable with. I’m talking about kissing her or …’
Peony looked up sharply. ‘I don’t know. She never talked about it.’ There was a long silence before Peony spoke again. ‘I
wanted to let her in the taxi but Vicky said it would be too much trouble to go out of our way like that to take her home.’
‘Why would it be too much trouble if it wasn’t far?’ Rachel asked.
Peony stared at the floor, unable or unwilling to answer.
‘Why did you want to let her in the taxi, Peony? Why were you worried about her walking home alone?’
Peony looked him in the eye. ‘Her mum’s ex was there in the pub, wasn’t he? Clare saw him. She was scared.’
Wesley and Rachel drove back to Tradmouth in silence. Sarah and Vicky had
admitted that they knew Clare had spotted Alan Jakes in the pub but Vicky had dismissed her fears, saying that he was hardly
likely to do anything with all those people around. Sarah, like Peony, had gone along with it.
When asked about the taxi, Vicky had blustered. It wasn’t her fault if Clare happened to meet some kind of psychopath on the
way home, was it? Wesley had a feeling that nothing was ever going to be Vicky’s fault. She would go through life shifting
the blame onto others. And she would probably get away with it.
It was coming up to six when they returned to the incident room and found Gerry Heffernan staring at the notice board which
covered one wall of the large open-plan office. Clare’s picture was there in pride of place, together with scribbled details
of the Neston attack. It seemed that Gerry had made up his mind that Clare’s mumbled words about the attacker having a dog’s
head were significant. The Neston attacker had worn some kind of cartoon animal mask so the two attacks were probably connected.
The possibility of getting a psychological profiler in had been mentioned, budget permitting: CS Nutter had promised to think
about it.
As they walked in, Gerry emerged from his office to greet them. ‘How did it go?’
Wesley told him.
‘So this Vicky bullied Clare and the other lasses went along with it?’
‘Oh she didn’t beat her up on the way home from school or hide her PE things. The bullying was more subtle than that. Snide
remarks and veiled threats to exclude her from the group, that sort of thing. I think Vicky enjoyed the power and when Clare
saw a man she was afraid of in the pub, Vicky still wouldn’t let her share their taxi.’
‘Cruel.’
‘Yes. I think the other two would have given in but Vicky’s the dominant personality. What she says goes.’
‘You think the other girls know something?’
‘I’ve left my card with them and told them to contact me if they remember any more. But I’m not getting my hopes up.’
‘Well, at least we know Alan Jakes was on the scene. We’ll send someone round to the pub to see if anyone knows what he did
when he left.’ He grinned. ‘But not tonight. I want everyone in bright and early tomorrow. No hangovers.’ He sighed. ‘Why
don’t you get home, Wes? Early start tomorrow.’ He called across to Rachel who was checking messages on her desk. ‘You too,
Rach. Seven o’clock start tomorrow. But give Trish a ring at the hospital before you go, eh? See if Clare’s up to questioning
yet.’
As Wesley put on his coat he watched Rachel make the call. From her expression, he sensed that the news was neither good nor
bad. Clare was on the mend … but slowly. They’d have to be patient.
He walked home up the steep narrow streets to the top of the town. It was dark and the street lamps reflected off the damp
pavements as he walked on, longing for spring when the rows of cottages he passed would be festooned with bright flowers.
When he arrived at his house the lights were on, warm and welcoming, and as he opened the front door he called Pam’s name.
She appeared from the kitchen, a tentative smile on her face, and somehow he knew she was about to impart unwelcome news.
But before she could speak two children erupted from the front room, charging at him with shrieks of ‘Daddy’. Amelia took
his hand and dragged him into the
room while eight-year-old Michael followed behind, his face serious.
As soon as Wesley had taken his coat off Amelia sat beside him on the sofa, snuggling into his side and offering up her new
reading book to be admired. She began to read unprompted and he was aware of Michael sitting silently on his other side, awaiting
his turn to speak. Michael was quieter than his younger sister, something that worried Wesley from time to time. But, according
to his mother, he himself had been an introverted child while his sister had claimed all the attention. Perhaps it was just
a case of history repeating itself.
As Amelia prattled on, reading the text fluently, he turned to Michael and smiled. ‘OK, mate?’ he whispered.
Michael nodded, slid off the sofa and gathered up a heap of books lying on the floor; library books by the look of their glossy
plastic covers. The top book bore a large image of Tutankhamen’s blue-and-gold death mask and Michael began to flick through
the pages.
‘That’s brilliant reading,’ Wesley said gently as Amelia reached the end of her paragraph. ‘Shall we see what Michael’s got
there?’
Michael passed the book to his father. ‘I’m doing a project on the ancient Egyptians. I’m going to ask Uncle Neil to help
me.’
‘I don’t think it’s really Uncle Neil’s branch of archaeology but I’m sure he won’t mind.’ The mention of Neil’s name reminded
him that he hadn’t seen him for a while. Neil tended to burst into their lives from time to time and then disappear to immerse
himself in his work. Wesley could have pursued the same career path after university and he sometimes wondered whether he’d
have been happier as an
archaeologist. He certainly wouldn’t have had to face women traumatised by violence like Clare Mayers.
He whispered a few encouraging words to Amelia before joining his son on the floor.
‘So what do you know about Ancient Egypt?’ he said, ruffling Michael’s dark curls.
But it was Amelia who spoke. ‘Della’s getting us a kitten.’
There had never been any question of Pam’s mother, Della, being Nanna or Granny to her grandchildren. Della didn’t like anything
that might make her sound her age.
‘When’s this kitten arriving?’
‘Della’s friend’s choosing one for us. She runs an animal sanctuary,’ said Michael, matter of factly.
‘I’d better go and get my supper.’ Wesley was hungry. And he wanted to find out what his mother-in-law was up to now. Getting
a kitten was news to Wesley. Knowing Della, one kitten probably meant a houseful of cats, none of them house-trained and each
bent on destruction.
He found Pam at the kitchen table with a pile of exercise books by her side. ‘I’ve got to get this marking done tonight,’
she said as she looked up. ‘Can you help Michael with his Egypt project? I tried to phone Neil earlier but there was no answer.’
‘I’ll do what I can. What’s this about a kitten?’
Pam sat up straight and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Why? Don’t you want one?’
‘Well, I like cats but …’
‘But?’
‘Why do I get the feeling that this is something your mother’s foisting on us?’
Pam sighed and sat back in her chair. She looked a little tired after a long day’s teaching but Wesley thought she
looked good and the blue top she was wearing brought out the colour of her eyes.
‘I admit it was Della’s idea. Her latest thing is playing lady bountiful to a load of stray animals. I can’t see it lasting
myself.’
‘Michael said something about a friend with an animal sanctuary.’
‘She went to a university conference and met this psychology lecturer. They got talking and he mentioned that his mother ran
an animal sanctuary in Hugford. Between you and me she probably fancied the lecturer and thought it was a good way to ingratiate
herself. You know what she’s like about younger men. Anyway, one of the sanctuary cats had kittens a couple of months ago
and Della thought it would be nice for the kids to have a pet.’
Wesley said nothing. If it had been anybody but Della, he would have been all for it but, in his experience, everything Della
ever did for them came at a price.
The doorbell rang and Pam leapt up, meeting the children in the hall. Wesley watched the three of them dash to the front door.
Sure enough their visitor was Della and she was carrying a wicker cat basket. As Wesley stepped forward his eyes were drawn
to the little creature inside and it would have taken a heart a lot harder than his not to warm to the small, inquisitive
face with its large eyes and whiskers.
Pam did her best to calm the children’s excitement as Della took the basket into the front room and placed it on the floor,
turning to look at Wesley, a challenge in her eyes.