A Velvet Scream (15 page)

Matthew gave her a sympathetic look. ‘How did the fitting go?'

She wanted to say that it had gone well, that the dress was a beautiful tribute to him, that she hoped very much that he liked her – loved her in it. She wanted him to tease her about the honeymoon destination.

She could do none of it with Eloise here so she simply said, ‘Well, thank you.'

‘Was he any help?'

‘Colclough? Yeah,' she said, ‘in a way.' Then, because she felt she owed it to him she added: ‘Thanks.'

She badly wanted to talk to him about the case, wanting the benefit of his opinion. She did think about it. If there was one good thing she knew about Eloise Levin it was that she had already taken on board the rules of confidentiality. Joanna had discussed cases before in front of her – even
with
her at times, confident that the girl
would
never and
had
never breathed a word. It must be part of the medical training. She was completely trustworthy. And if she was anything like her father, which she was, Eloise would soon be a competent doctor. But tonight she just didn't want to talk about this case in front of her soon-to-be stepdaughter. If she and Matthew had been on their own she might have aired her feelings. A child damaged already by a broken home and a drunken mother. A child who was well on the road to delinquency and now this. She glanced across the room and as though sensing her emotions Eloise cued her in. ‘What's your major case at the moment, Joanna?'

‘The rape – or not – of a fourteen-year-old.'

Eloise made only one comment and that surprised and angered Joanna. ‘Asking for it, was she?'

Joanna shook her head. ‘I don't think so,' she said, recalling the face; white and frightened against the hospital pillowcases, the child underneath the bedclothes looking tiny in the hospital bed and very much alone. No mother, no flowers, no get well cards. No father. Nothing. Even trusting and accepting a police officer as a friend because there was no one else. Was there no one to speak for her?

She sat pondering this as Eloise and Matthew ‘chatted'; now about the immune system, viruses and antibodies, a subject which seemed to excite the pair of them as much as a thrill on a white-knuckle ride. Joanna stayed silent, picking up the newspaper and scanning its contents, knowing that when they went to bed Matthew would make some comment about her ‘adolescent sulkiness', meaning her rather than Eloise and ‘why couldn't she make a bit more of an effort'.

She couldn't explain to him that when his daughter was around it was she who was the outsider; she who felt the odd one out. Eloise knew this and made the most of it.

Eloise, she thought as she glanced at her almost-stepdaughter's face, was quite capable of wrecking this marriage before it had even begun. She was a mischief-maker. And these negative thoughts took her right back to Kayleigh Harrison and Neil Bretby. Only in that case it had been the child who had been rejected. Joanna was silent as she watched father and daughter talking animatedly. No need to ask whether she intended staying the night. And not much point asking what her plans were for Sunday.

She made a pot of tea.

By 7 p.m. Clara was really worried. She tried her friend's phone again and left yet another frantic message. Half an hour later she made up her mind to speak to her mother. She sidled into the sitting room where her mother was watching
The X Factor
. ‘Mum,' she said, ‘I've got a problem.'

Her mother pressed the mute button on the remote. ‘Go on,' she said steadily.

Clara dropped into the armchair, legs in the tightest of jeans, splayed out in front of her and large, fluffy lilac slippers on her feet, looking almost animal. She spilled out the whole story: the lies, the strict parents, the times when they – she and Molly – had omitted telling Molly's mother and father exactly where they were headed.

‘I lost her in the club last night,' Clara said. ‘And I've heard nothing from her all day. Not a single text. I've left messages but she hasn't got back. It isn't like her. I'm worried, Mum. And then there was that girl who was raped.'

Clara's mother took a minute or two to digest the story before coming to a decision. ‘I'll try ringing her mother.'

‘Thanks.'

‘You've got the number?'

Her daughter read it out and Mrs Williams dialled.

Clara made a wish.
I wish that Molly herself would pick up the telephone
.

But that didn't happen. Her mother was eyeing her even as she spoke in her best telephone voice. ‘Mrs Carraway  . . . It's Rosa Williams here  . . . Clara's mother  . . . I wonder. Is it possible to have a word with Molly?'

Clara's heart sank as her mother spoke the sentence in an ominously quiet voice. ‘She isn't?'

ELEVEN

C
lara could hardly bear to listen to her mother's halting explanation. ‘I'm afraid, Mrs Carraway, that the girls went to a nightclub together last night.' Without waiting for Molly's mother's response Rosa Williams hurried on. ‘It was with our knowledge and permission. I assumed that Molly had told you where she would be.'

Clever that
, Clara thought. It shifted the blame right away from them and on to Molly's shoulders.

But maybe it wasn't quite clever enough. Angry voices shouted down the phone. Apparently Molly's father had joined in.

Rosa Williams kept her calm, shrugged her shoulders and gave Clara a small, apologetic smile. ‘That is between you and your daughter,' she responded calmly.

More angry noises down the phone then, even from the other side of the room, Clara could hear the question quite clearly. ‘So where is Molly now?'

Rosa Williams gripped the phone very tightly, whitening her knuckles. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘Apparently the girls were separated some time during the evening. When it was time to go home Clara couldn't find her. She assumed Molly had gone straight home, back to you. She didn't stay here last night.'

The next sound was a horrified, explosive, incredulous, ‘What?!'

Rosa Williams repeated her last sentence very slowly. They were all beginning to see the implications.

‘Let's get this straight.' Molly's father came on the line and he sounded livid. ‘Are you saying not only that my daughter was at a
nightclub
last night but also that you haven't seen her since yesterday evening?'

Still Rosa Williams remained calm. ‘Yes. Clara has been trying to get in touch with her all day but hasn't received a response. We wondered if you'd heard  . . .' Her voice trailed away in the silence. A silence that was so thick and menacing that Clara scuttled across the room and went to sit by her mother. Rosa put her arm around the girl's shoulders.

‘So where is she now?' Philip Carraway's voice was ice cold.

‘That's what we're telling you, Mr Carraway. We don't know.'

In the background Molly's mother gave a sob. It made Clara feel much worse than Mr Carraway's bluster.

‘Let me tell you,' he ranted on, ‘that I hold you and your daughter responsible for anything that has happened to our girl.'

‘I think that's a little unfair, Mr Carraway.' Clara could not but admire the way her mother was keeping her cool. ‘Your daughter has obviously been deceiving you and last night she let my daughter down, too, leaving her alone in the club.'

Philip Carraway cleared his throat noisily but the words had their effect on him.

‘Leave this with me, Mrs Williams.' Molly's father was now calm and a little worry was beginning to edge into his tone. ‘I'll try and ring her. In the meantime if you
do
hear from her please, please get in touch.' Clara winced at the note of desperation in the man's voice.

He continued. ‘If
I
can't contact her I shall be calling the police.'

‘I shall wait for your call, Mr Carraway,' Rosa said.

‘Just a minute.' Molly's mother was back on the line. ‘Was the nightclub the same one where that girl was raped on Tuesday?'

Rosa Williams was nodding as she answered.

‘Oh.' Molly's mother sobbed into the phone.

‘I'm really sorry,' Rosa said and pressed the end call button. Then she looked at her daughter. ‘I have to confess,' she said. ‘I'm very worried.'

Clara merely nodded. She felt numb, dumb, responsible and terribly guilty. And then within a second her guilt was replaced by anger. Molly had dropped her right in it, hadn't she? She'd abandoned her, leaving her to sort out this mess. She wouldn't be in
her
shoes when she was reunited with her father. But she couldn't ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

At Waterfall Cottage Matthew and Eloise stopped their work for a supper Joanna had cooked: lamb chops, mashed potatoes, et cetera. Matthew opened a bottle of red wine, poured out three glasses and held his up to the light, admiring its colour. Then he proposed his toast with a wide and happy grin. ‘To the two women in my life,' he announced. ‘My clever daughter, who in spite of her cleverness will soon be another Doctor Levin. And  . . .' He turned towards Joanna, ‘to my almost-wife. I love you both so much.' They clinked glasses. Joanna took a swallow and felt almost mellow. She glanced across at Eloise and tried to smile. Matthew kept the conversation going throughout the meal, perhaps not noticing that ‘the two women in his life' were not actually exchanging any conversation.

Once they'd loaded the dishwasher they passed the evening watching a film and finishing the bottle of wine, then opening another.

At nine o'clock Philip Carraway called back to the Williams' household, this time getting hold of Clara's father, Mark. Luckily his wife and daughter had filled him in on the events and he had naturally taken his daughter's side. ‘I can't see how it's your fault,' he'd said during the family consultation. ‘Molly lied to her parents and then gave you the slip. She's a big girl, darling – not your responsibility at all.'

Clara had nodded. ‘But Molly,' she said, ‘is really naïve, Dad – not streetwise at all. I should have kept a better eye on her.'

Again her father had been defensive. ‘She isn't your little sister, you know. She's your friend. You don't need to feel responsible, Clara.'

The girl had simply bitten her lip.

‘Did you see her with anyone?'

‘She looked really nice last night,' Clara said. ‘I saw her with lots of guys. Practically everyone in the club seemed to want to dance with her.' There was a note of jealousy in her voice which didn't escape either parent.

Mark Williams was silent for a moment before he continued. ‘You've read the description of the person who attacked that young girl at the beginning of the week, Clara. Was Molly with anyone who looked like him?'

The girl shook her head. ‘Not that I noticed,' she said. ‘Not particularly. She wasn't with anyone special. Just about everyone.'

So when Mark Williams listened to Molly's father he was sympathetic but also defensive about his daughter's role in the matter.

‘Any news, Phil?' The two men knew each other very vaguely from being taxi drivers to their daughters – to and from school functions, mainly.

Molly's father sounded subdued, worried and upset. ‘I can't get hold of her, Mark,' he said desperately. ‘I'm going to call the police. I just wanted to let you know before I did.'

‘If there's anything we can do to help.'

‘No.' He sounded broken. ‘Not at the moment. The police will want to talk to Clara, I'm sure.' Then the appeal came: ‘What can have happened to her, Mark? Where is she? Has Clara said anything that might help?'

‘Not really.' He felt he had to give Molly's father some ray of hope. ‘But she didn't see her with anyone who looked like the person who  . . .' His voice trailed off.

And now, needing someone to blame, Philip Carraway became hostile and angry. ‘What could have possessed the girls to go there? When they knew what had happened only this week?'

Clara's father tried to mollify him. ‘The rapist wouldn't strike twice in such a short time, Phil. There'll be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why Molly hasn't been in touch. Her phone's probably out of charge or run out of credit.'

‘We pay her phone bill,' Carraway said tightly.

‘Itemized?'

‘No. It comes in on line. We never really look at it.' He was beginning to sound defeated again. ‘What am I going to do, Mark?'

‘Get the police involved.'

At that the phone was put down. And even that act seemed heavy and weighted down with foreboding.

Saturday, 4 December. 9.20 p.m.

The desk sergeant took the call and did his best to calm Philip Carraway down. ‘She's a young lassie,' he said. ‘Probably knows she's in trouble. Don't you worry, Mr Carraway. Girls will be girls.'

But rather than being appeased at the attempt being made to comfort him the platitudes made Philip Carraway all the more livid. ‘This is
my
daughter we're talking about,' he said tightly, ‘who was last seen at the local nightclub where a girl was assaulted only this week and today appears to have vanished off the face of the earth. And you tell me not to worry?' he exploded.

‘Leave it with us,' the sergeant said. ‘We'll send someone round to speak to you. In the meantime keep trying to get in touch with her. If you do hear anything I'd appreciate it if you'd let us know.'

‘I will.' The phone was banged down.

It fell to DC Alan King who was on night duty to speak to Molly Carraway's distraught mother and father. It was eleven by the time he arrived and he could have picked out which house was the Carraway home by the lights which flooded from inside it and the man standing at the front door in spite of the freezing night which misted the car headlights as he swung into the drive. For a second DC King, a gangly man with long arms, sat in the car without switching the engine off and wished that Mr Carraway would come forward and say the words, ‘
It's OK, Officer. False alarm. Molly's turned up. She's fine – a little sheepish and in big trouble – but she's OK
.'