Authors: Patricia Hall
‘So I can write about the house, can I?’
‘No reason why not. I’ll give you a quick tour before you go. It’s a fantastic old place, built about 1860, I believe, by some textile magnate, and bought by Sir David’s father in the 1950s. No one was interested in these old places back then.’ Sanderson glanced around the room with a proprietorial air. ‘He got it for a song, apparently.’
‘But it must be worth a fortune now,’ Laura said, wondering just how wealthy Murgatroyd was. No expense had been spared on the meticulous period detail around her.
‘Absolutely,’ Sanderson said, with satisfaction.
‘Mr Murgatroyd was left an orphan at quite an early age, I understand,’ Laura said.
‘He had a tragic early life, but he really is not prepared to discuss that publicly. I think you could safely say it left him deeply traumatised, and it has taken him a long time to come to terms with what happened. That’s his father over there.’ He waved a hand at a portrait of a stocky man in a dark three-piece suit, with piercing blue eyes and a proprietorial expression.
‘And his mother?’ Laura asked, glancing around and seeing no other family pictures.
‘I’ve not seen a photograph of his mother,’ Sanderson said.
‘Is he married?’ Laura pressed on.
‘No,’ Sanderson said, and it was obvious he was not going to expand on that answer.
‘And his business interests are what, exactly?’ Laura asked.
‘He’s in private equity,’ Sanderson said, confirming what Laura had already discovered. ‘He buys companies, improves
their productivity, then sells on. You could say he was a moderniser of British industry when he started, now it’s a worldwide enterprise. He has set up various private companies over the years, but is tending to take a back seat now, in favour of his educational and religious interests.’
‘Financially, he’s done very well, then?’
‘You could say that,’ Sanderson said. ‘But he is more interested now in doing some public good than amassing further money. That, I think, is what he would like you to concentrate on.’
‘So why schools?’
‘Mr Murgatroyd is a firm Christian believer, as I expect you know. And he feels that children and young people can only benefit from exposure to Christian belief at an early age. It is something that he feels he can give back to society.’
‘Give me a child before he is seven? Is it the Jesuits who say that?’ Laura suggested. ‘But these will be teenagers. They may be harder nuts to crack.’
‘We haven’t found that to be the case,’ Sanderson said, betraying just a hint of irritability. ‘It’s possible to turn lives around.’ He sounded, Laura thought, as if that was something he knew about.
‘Was religion something he had in his own life, maybe? Or something he lacked?’ Laura asked, not wanting to get sidetracked if Sanderson’s time was short.
‘I think that is the sort of question Sir David would not wish to answer,’ Sanderson said firmly.
‘The family’s off limits?’
‘Exactly so.’
‘So, in the public domain, then. He runs his academies as faith schools?’
‘Of course,’ Sanderson said. ‘Very much so. That’s the whole point. If you have heard the good news, you’re
duty-bound
to pass it on.’
‘Do you think the parents at the schools he takes over are aware of the way their character will change?’ Laura asked, doubtfully.
‘They are aware of how dramatically the schools will improve,’ Sanderson said. ‘This is about improvement, Miss Ackroyd, physical, academic and spiritual improvement. It’s a wonderful thing we are involved in, believe me. One would hope that in future all schools will take the same path. Sir David sees himself as a torch-bearer, leading the way where others can follow. There is not enough philanthropy in the world, and certainly not enough Christian philanthropy. Bradfield is indeed blessed in gaining a Murgatroyd academy. I think that should be the thrust of your article.’
Laura drove back to Bradfield deep in thought. There had been nothing unpleasant or overbearing about Winston Sanderson, but the interview had still left her uneasy and dissatisfied. He had refused point-blank to arrange an interview with David Murgatroyd himself, claiming that he was out of the country. There had been no obvious reason to disbelieve him but Laura was still left wondering why the house had been opened up, heated and evidently staffed – although she had seen no physical sign of the supposed tea maker while she was there – if Sanderson himself was about to go back to London and his boss was abroad. It felt to her much more likely that the master, like some Jane Austen gentleman returning to the country for the shooting season, was about to come home, if he had not already done so. But
Sanderson had effectively kept the gate tightly closed, which was no doubt his job.
Glancing at her watch as she pulled into the
Gazette
’s car park, she decided to follow Bob Baker to the press conference that was about to begin at police HQ. She had been deeply upset by the recent case of domestic violence she had been involved in and would have to give evidence about it in court. She could not help hoping that this latest disappearance of a married woman was not another variation on the same dreadful theme.
The uniformed constable opened the door to the conference room for her and she slipped unobtrusively into a seat on the back row, with a partial view past a handful of reporters and photographers and the paraphernalia of local TV and radio news that clogged the area in front of the conference table. There were three people at the table: DCI Michael Thackeray, who caught her eye only briefly, and with absolute neutrality, as she quietly took her seat; a woman in a smart black suit, whom she recognised as a press officer from county police HQ; and a nondescript, heavily built man in a blue sports shirt, his broad face pale and stressed, his hands fiddling compulsively on the table in front of him, but oozing aggression nonetheless. This must be the husband, she thought, and she could not help feeling sorry for him as the TV crew switched on some powerful lights that almost immediately made Terry Bastable sweat. Behind him, on a board, was a blown-up and slightly blurred photograph of a pale-faced woman with a head of auburn curls, not a beauty exactly, but striking enough, Laura thought with some fellow feeling for someone of her own colouring, to stand out in a crowd.
There was a brief, dispassionate introduction from
Thackeray, setting out the facts of Karen Bastable’s disappearance, and the search that had been launched for her. At this stage he chose not to reveal all the police knew about her reasons for heading to Bently Forest, and his private conviction that she was dead, preferring to let the husband make his appeal for her to make contact, on the off chance that she still might do just that. He turned to Terry Bastable and nodded, and Bastable began to read slowly and hesitantly from a piece of paper in front of him.
‘I just want to say to Karen that if she’s gone away of her own free will, me and the kids, we want her back. We’re broken-hearted she’s gone, and we want her to come home. And even if she can’t do that straight away, she should call us. We need to hear from her, we need to know she’s all right, we need to talk.’ He hesitated, obviously on the verge of breaking down, and desperately not wanting to reveal that sort of weakness. The press officer put a hand on his arm sympathetically for a second but he pushed it away. But he was content to let her take over.
‘What I think Mr Bastable wants to say is that he doesn’t know why his wife would go off like this. And he wants to appeal to her to make contact. Perhaps we could give Mr Bastable a moment, and DCI Thackeray could take your questions. Thank you.’
Bob Baker wasted no time, and Laura could see the faintest expression of distaste on Thackeray’s face as he nodded to the crime reporter when he leapt to his feet.
‘Mr Thackeray, can you tell us how the search for Karen is going? Are you looking for a body?’
‘The search is going as well as can be expected, but there are three hundred acres of thick woodland, with very few
clearings, where Mrs Bastable’s car was found, so it’s not a quick process. And no, we’re not looking for a body, as such. We have no idea where Karen is and still hope very much that she is fit and well somewhere. That is, after all, the purpose of this press conference, based on the hope that if she hears her husband’s appeal she will make contact.’
A young reporter from the local TV station whom Laura knew by sight was next, the camera swinging towards her as she spoke. ‘Does Mr Bastable know of any reason why Karen would have left home of her own free will?’
Bastable shook his head vigorously.
‘No reason,’ he said. But Bob Baker was not letting it go at that.
‘No problems at home?’ he broke in. And again Bastable shook his head. ‘Come on, Terry. Everyone has some problems at home. Did Karen have a boyfriend, by any chance? Is that what this is all about?’
Thackeray stepped in at that, not bothering to hide his anger. Laura could see the tension in every inch of his body as he struggled to remain the dispassionate chairman.
‘These are questions we can’t answer at the moment,’ he said. ‘As my colleague here has already said, Mr Bastable doesn’t know of any reason why Karen would have left home deliberately and, as you can see, he is very distressed, and so are his two children. What we are hoping is that you’ll be able to help us in terms of space and time and give extensive coverage to the family’s appeal. We depend on you all in this sort of case. We have photographs of Karen, and the children, for you…’ But Bob Baker was not happy with this approach.
‘Terry, what did Karen say before she left home on Tuesday evening?’ he broke in again.
‘She said she was going to work,’ Bastable said.
‘Which is where, exactly? Mr Thackeray didn’t say.’
‘Shirley’s, the big bakery up Ecclesfield. She’s been there six years, does nights now and again. She takes the car when she does nights.’ Bastable’s voice was a touch stronger now, and he was beginning to regain some of what was obviously his natural belligerence. That, Laura thought, might be his undoing if he himself had anything to do with his wife’s disappearance.
‘Should she have gone to work that night?’ Baker persisted.
‘No, they weren’t expecting her,’ Bastable said, revealing his anger now. ‘She wasn’t on t’rota.’
‘So she lied,’ Baker said triumphantly. ‘So where might she go? Or, more importantly, who might she go to see?’
‘I don’t know, do I? I’ve no bloody idea. Someone’s got her. She’s come to some harm. She’d never have left her family of her own free will.’
Laura could hear the ripple of excitement amongst the reporters, as the TV camera tightened its angle on the husband and a couple of cameras flashed. The room was very hot now, and she could see a trickle of sweat running down the side of Bastable’s face. And it was obvious from Thackeray’s expression that Bastable was straying fast off the police script.
‘So she could have gone to meet someone?’ Baker asked, but DCI Thackeray, rather than Terry Bastable, answered this time.
‘That is one of the lines of inquiry we are investigating,’ he said. ‘But by no means the only one. There must be some reason why Karen Bastable’s car was driven ten miles from her home into a remote area, but so far we have absolutely no
idea what that reason was, or even if she drove it there herself. We’re hoping that the media’s input will clarify some of these points, and I appeal to anyone who knows anything about Karen Bastable’s movements after she left home at six on Tuesday evening and the time her car was first spotted in Bently Forest – though unfortunately not immediately reported to us – the following morning. You’ve got full details of the make and colour of her car in your press release. And if Karen herself hears this appeal, I would just like to reinforce the point. Please get in touch with us or with Terry. We really need to know if you are safe and well. Nothing is as important as that. Your husband and children need to hear from you. I think that’s all we can give you for the moment, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much for coming.’
Thackeray got to his feet, quickly followed by his colleague who helped the glowering Terry Bastable to his feet and ushered him out of the room. Laura sat for a moment as the TV crew began packing up their equipment until Bob Baker turned away from a brief flirtation with the attractive TV reporter and bore down in her direction.
‘What did you make of that little performance?’ he asked.
Laura shrugged. ‘Mr Bastable looked genuine enough, even if he is a bit of a thug,’ she said. ‘But you can never tell, can you?’
‘Damn right you can’t,’ Baker said. ‘Remember Ian Huntley? All smiles and deep concern for bloody weeks until they found the bodies of those little girls. We don’t even know if this beggar is telling the truth when he says Karen went off on her own. He could have killed her and driven her body out there to dump it.’
‘So why leave the car there?’ Laura objected. ‘It was the car
that aroused suspicion. It could have been weeks before anyone started searching up there for a body, if they ever did. Without the car, a corpse could lie up there for years. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe she did meet a boyfriend up there and Bastable followed her in another car. Who knows? What I do reckon is that your lover boy’s appeal for her to get in touch was all a waste of breath. He knows far more than he’s letting on at this stage. She’s dead, is Karen Bastable. I’d put money on it. So, chop-chop. Another nice little murder mystery to entertain the readers. I reckon this is going to be quite a juicy one.’ And with that Baker bustled away, tape recorder in hand, leaving Laura wondering why Michael Thackeray had been so obviously cagey that even the generally insensitive Bob Baker had noticed.
‘So what did you make of that, guv?’ Sergeant Kevin Mower asked the DCI as they made their way back to their offices after Terry Bastable’s appeal to the press. They had sent Bastable home in a taxi after his performance, still protesting that there was no way Karen would have abandoned him and his family voluntarily.
‘Not a lot,’ Thackeray said bluntly. ‘But until we find a body, it’s going to be difficult to prove that he’s harmed her. Nothing’s come back from the search teams, I don’t suppose?’
‘The place where her car was found was thoroughly churned up by up to a dozen vehicles, including the forestry workers’ heavy tractor and trailer, plus it’s been raining heavily, so they’re unlikely to get any usable tyre tracks. Are you sure it was wise to keep the lid on the dogging angle? We might get something from the other people who must have been up there if they realise that someone has gone missing after their fun and games.’
‘Fat chance,’ Thackeray said. ‘If they went to all the trouble of meeting in a remote spot like that you can bet your life
none of their partners know what they’ve been up to. Even leaving murder out of the equation, there won’t be many of them volunteering for an interview with the police.’
‘But we’ll have to trace them,’ Mower said. ‘If the husband’s the prime suspect, as usual, that group must provide the rest of the cast. Do you want me to start inquiries door to door up there? Or farm to farm in this case, I guess. It’s not exactly inhabited, in any real sense of the word, is it?’ For all his years in Yorkshire, Mower still had the mindset of a Londoner unable to grasp with any certainty the concept of wide open spaces, like those that surrounded the town of Bradfield, hemmed in by rolling hills and moors.
‘Give it twenty-four hours,’ Thackeray said. ‘By that time, we may have found her body, or she may have called in to say she’s run off with the milkman, or whoever.’
‘I suppose the car details may jog someone’s memory,’ Mower said. ‘Someone may have seen her driving up there. Or they may nudge the conscience of someone who was up in the forest with her. People are pretty shameless about sex these days, but I think death at a dogging party’s a bit over the top for your average swinger.’
Thackeray glanced at the sergeant with a hint of amusement in his eyes.
‘I didn’t think anything shocked you, Kevin,’ he said.
‘You’d be surprised, guv,’ Mower said. ‘Though I suppose this could still turn out to be a missing person; a bit of extramarital that’s run into extra time. Let’s hope so.’
‘Let’s,’ Thackeray said.
But within hours of the decision to wait for a public reaction to Bastable’s appeal, Thackeray and Mower found themselves driving once more to Bently Forest, summoned by
the search team which was slowly combing through the plantation from its western edge, near the summit of Bently Pike, one of the high fells that separated Yorkshire from Lancashire, to the valley floor, where Bently Beck tumbled down from the hills to join the River Maze.
‘You’ve found her?’ Mower had said, not able to hide a momentary excitement when he fielded the call from the uniformed inspector in charge of the search.
‘No,’ his colleague said. ‘But we’ve found summat a bit odd near the clearing. I think you ought to take a look. It looks as if the party had an audience, someone who didn’t want to be seen.’
Thackeray had decided to make the trip himself, as much to get out of the office as because he thought his presence would be useful. He had spent most of the morning, since Terry Bastable had been sent home, staring out of his office window across Bradfield’s town hall square, where the trees were just beginning to bud, smoking cigarette after cigarette and wondering how he could prevent Laura from tearing herself apart at the state of their relationship. He knew only too well what she wanted, and was equally certain that he could not give it to her.
‘Damnation,’ he muttered under his breath suddenly, as Mower swung the car sharply up the hill towards Bently.
‘Sorry, guv,’ Mower said, thinking his driving was to blame for his boss’s discomfort. ‘Bit sharp, that turn. Didn’t see it coming.’
‘What?’ Thackeray said, sharply. ‘Sorry, I was thinking about something else.’
Mower shrugged. He was getting used to Thackeray’s abstracted self-absorption, guessed the cause, and worried
about where it would lead. In some ways, he thought, Laura and Thackeray himself, much as he liked them both, deserved better than each other. He had always doubted their compatibility and his reservations only increased with the passage of time. It was what it would do to both of them when they finally split up, as he was sure they would, which haunted him.
They drove into the forest, down the track marked with police tape, and pulled up on the very edge of the clearing where Karen Bastable’s car had been found. A uniformed sergeant approached, walking carefully around the edge of the area that had been churned up by vehicles.
‘Over here, sir,’ he said to Thackeray, and led the way to an area of brambles and rough scrub on the far side of the clearing.
‘There are tyre tracks here, a bit apart from the rest. Not very clear because they’re mainly on the grass, see?’ He indicated where a vehicle had crushed the vegetation. ‘And then here, look, someone’s been standing right here. Maybe more than one person. We thought maybe they were watching what was going on, a grandstand view, as it were.’
‘Any chance of a tyre print?’ Thackeray asked.
‘I doubt it, but I’ve asked forensics to take a look. You never know. A vehicle might have left some other trace in this sort of terrain. It’s not where I’d risk the family car, let alone anything more upmarket. You’d be bound to scratch the paintwork.’
‘So that’s it, is it?’ Thackeray asked, irritated at having been tempted to come so far for so little.
‘Not quite, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Whoever parked up here got out of the car and left some footprints, which are quite a
lot clearer than anything else we’ve found. Over here.’
He led the two detectives to a spot overlooking the rest of the clearing but where a couple of bushes provided a screen. A patch of damp ground was carefully cordoned off and a white-suited forensics officer was crouching on the ground.
‘Anything useful?’ Thackeray asked. The young woman looked up.
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Someone stood here for quite some time. The prints are quite deep and didn’t get too damaged by the rain because of the overhanging vegetation. And they were made by a man, not a woman, judging by the shoe size. About a ten, I’d say. I should be able to get a good cast. And this is quite clearly someone wearing shoes, not the ubiquitous trainers that a thousand people are wearing within a square mile. Shoes last longer, wear in particular ways, are much more individual, in other words. If you can match the cast to a shoe, you’ve a good chance of identifying who stood here.’
‘And the shoes will have got muddy,’ Mower ventured.
‘That too. I’ll take samples of the ground and the vegetation.’
Thackeray nodded and glanced at Mower.
‘So what do you make of it?’ he asked. ‘You get a large group of people up here intent on public sex. And someone keeping out of sight and watching them. Was he standing here wondering whether to join in? Or was he a voyeur who was satisfied simply by watching other people? Or was he a predator who wanted to keep his car out of sight before picking up his victim and driving away with her?’
‘We need to push Charlene and the boyfriend some more,’ Mower said. ‘They’re our only link to what was going on. They may have noticed a car being parked away from the
main circle on previous occasions. Or seen someone joining in, apparently arriving on foot, which would be a bit unusual, to say the least. Until we find someone who was here this week, we’ll have to rely on what they can recall happened on a regular basis and what, if anything, seemed unusual.’
‘The other possibility, of course, is that it was the husband spying on Karen, trying to find out exactly what she was up to before intervening,’ Thackeray said.
‘Except, as far as we know, he had no transport, guv,’ Mower objected. ‘She’d taken the family car.’
‘Transport’s not difficult to get hold of if you really try,’ Thackeray said. ‘I think at the very least we’ll have a look at Terry Bastable’s footwear. He may think he’s washed the mud off, but you can bet your life that if he was up here, there’ll be traces forensics can find. Clothing too. If he’s been in amongst this thick vegetation, there’ll be traces of that on his clothing as well.’
‘He won’t be very pleased if we go round raiding his wardrobe,’ Mower said with a small grin. ‘He took offence when we looked at Karen’s stuff. I’ll get the heavy mob to do it, I think.’
‘Straight away,’ Thackeray said. ‘Before it occurs to him to get rid of anything incriminating.’
Laura kept her head down as Ted Grant made one of his regular sorties round the newsroom, peering over reporters’ shoulders and generally making them uneasy even if he offered no overt comment on what they were writing. When he got to Bob Baker’s desk, where the crime reporter was pounding his keyboard as if his life depended on it, Grant made a close study of what he was writing.
‘So, do you still think the husband did it?’ he asked at length. Baker glanced round and shrugged.
‘I took a turn round Greenwood Close, after the press conference. That’s where they live. There weren’t many neighbours about, all out at work, of course. But I did have a chat with one woman who reckoned that the Bastable marriage was on the rocks when I told her Karen had gone AWOL. She lives opposite and said she’d heard shouting at all hours. Her husband went and banged on the door once when the noise got too bad. Got a mouthful from Terry for his pains. All sorts of threats, she said. She reckoned Terry’s a violent bastard and she wouldn’t be surprised what he’d done. Either he’s done Karen in or she’s scarpered for her own good, she reckoned. Of course, she didn’t want to be named, but I reckon I can get some of it in as neighbours’ speculation, that sort of thing.’
‘She’s no idea whether she had a boyfriend on the side?’ Grant asked.
‘No sign of anyone that she’d seen,’ Baker said. ‘But I might go back later, when they’re all home from work, and see what else I can dig up.’
‘Good lad,’ Grant said and turned towards Laura, who had been listening unashamedly to this exchange.
‘And you, miss?’ Grant said, obviously irritated. ‘Have you tracked down our mysterious Sir David Murgatroyd yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Laura admitted. ‘I’ve made contact with his PA, but he doesn’t hold out much hope of an interview. Says he hates personal publicity.’
‘Well, let’s come at the beggar another way,’ Grant said. ‘Go to one of the other schools he’s taken over, why don’t you. Isn’t there one in Leeds? The budget will run to that. See what
they think of him over there, how it’s working out in practice. You may find it’s the best thing since sliced bread for all I know. These objectors in Bradfield may all be closet commies, rent-a-mob, green weirdos, who knows what? Get the facts, girl, and then we’ll see where we are, shall we? Don’t hang about. I don’t pay you to sit around playing solitaire on your bloody computer all day.’
‘Right,’ Laura said, smiling faintly at the jibe, and flicked back to her notes to find the names of the other schools David Murgatroyd had sponsored. The head teacher of the nearest academy was very willing to see her the next morning to give her a tour of his empire, but she reckoned that it would be useful to get more than one view of a new academy, so she rang her grandmother to see if the campaign in Bradfield had any unofficial contact with the Murgatroyd Academy in Leeds.
‘Talk to the union secretary,’ Joyce said. ‘She’ll fill you in.’ And she gave her a name and a number. ‘You haven’t forgotten I’m off to Portugal in the morning to see your mum and dad, have you?’
‘Are you sure you’re OK getting to the airport?’ Laura asked, feeling guilty because she had completely forgotten.
‘All fixed,’ Joyce said. ‘Taxi at six-thirty.’
‘So have a wonderful holiday,’ Laura said. ‘And all my love to them both.’
‘Aye, I’ll pass on all the news. Take care, pet.’
Laura called her grandmother’s contact and made an appointment to meet her next morning in a coffee bar close to the school.
‘If they catch me talking to the press, I’ll be for the chop,’ the union rep said. ‘Strictly against the rules, that is.’
‘Tomorrow at eleven, then,’ Laura said cheerfully, knowing from experience that the more people were forbidden from airing their grievances to the press, the more willing many of them were to do it.
‘I’ll slip out in my free period. And hope no one sees me. It’s like Alcatraz round here.’ Laura hung up and decided to call it a day. There was something she had to resolve and she needed to get home in good time today to do it.
Less than an hour later, Laura gazed at the blue line on the testing kit without much surprise but with a sense of foreboding which almost overwhelmed her. She had been sure for several weeks that she was pregnant, but had been putting off the moment of truth, which she knew would present Michael Thackeray with a decision that he desperately did not want to take. She guessed it would make or break their relationship and she blamed herself bitterly, knowing that it was her own carelessness that had led to this. Thackeray was the last man in the world who would be pushed, or bounced, into something he did not want to do, she thought, and although he had made quite a different promise not long ago, she was sure that he still did not want to become a father again.
Laura groaned, and pushed the testing kit back into its packet, took it into the kitchen and buried it at the bottom of the rubbish bin. But she knew that the dilemma she faced would not be so easily disposed of. She glanced at her watch. It was six-thirty and Thackeray had not called to say that he would be late, as he often did, so she began desultorily preparing a meal. The efforts she used to make to persuade her partner to take an interest in cooking had run into the sand when it became obvious that she was always home long
before he was. He had also, she realised sadly, resisted most of her efforts to persuade him to shift from his preferred diet of meat and two veg. She took chops out of the fridge; she would have hers with a salad and she would cook chips for him. She should, she thought, feel elated at the thought of the new life inside her, a life she passionately wanted to bring into being, but instead she felt deeply depressed and on the edge of panic.