The Betrayal of Trust (17 page)

‘It’s impossible to say but it can never do any harm.’

‘You will give them my details?’

Serrailler nodded.

‘And you say you have some questions?’ Lowther looked at him steadily.

‘Yes. I need to go back over your original statement after you reported Harriet missing. There are one or two things I’d like to clarify.’

There was a pause. Lowther did not drop his gaze.
At this moment, Simon had to be polite but unapologetic, steady, un embarrassed. He also had to remember with every word he spoke that he was questioning a man whose only daughter had disappeared for sixteen years and whose skeleton had just been found and whose wife had died of a cancer possibly caused and undoubtedly exacerbated by grief, distress, despair.

‘Am I being questioned or interrogated?’

‘Questioned.’

‘Am I obliged to answer your questions, Simon?’

‘No, but it would be better if you did. And it would help us. I’m reinterviewing as many people as possible – this isn’t personal. If you would like to have your solicitor present …’

‘I would not.’

Lowther got up and went to look out of the window.

Am I now on the other side? Simon wondered. He treated me as a friend, for all I
was bringing terrible news. He can no longer do that.

He will expect me to ask about that day, to go over it in the minutest possible detail, to account for his movements from the moment he woke.

Instead, Simon said, ‘What kind of girl was Harriet?’

Lowther turned round. ‘What …?’

‘What was she like? Describe her until I feel as if I’d known her.’

There was a long silence. Lowther sat down.
Simon watched his expression change, become both thoughtful and tender as he pictured his daughter more clearly, bringing her to the forefront of his mind, looking at her, hearing her voice, smelling her even, feeling as near as he could to her. It would be extremely painful and also, in an odd way, though briefly, comforting and sustaining.

She would be returned to him for these few moments,
closer and more vivid than perhaps for years.

‘Quiet,’ he said at last. ‘She was a quiet girl. Always very calm. You didn’t hear her come into a room. She played a lot of music – I mean, records, tapes, all that sort of thing, and played it herself, too – but it never seemed to be intrusive. She had a quiet voice. So did her mother. But … I’m not sure that gives the right impression – she wasn’t
shy or particularly self-effacing. It was just an inner quietness that came through to you – if you can understand that.’

Simon nodded.

‘She had a … a very slow, delightful smile … it altered her face. Lit it up. But you didn’t see it all the time – she was … thoughtful, I suppose. And then suddenly, she would smile. Even as a very small child it was like that.’

Simon waited. Interrupting,
pressing another question, even encouraging – he knew he must do none of that. He just waited.

‘She was fairly bright – but not anything out of the ordinary. She was about to do her GCSEs and she had perfectly decent predictions – some Bs, an A or two if she was very lucky. She worked hard and that was what would get her the right results.
Not
one of the high-flyers. She liked sports – tennis,
running – she was a very fast sprinter – netball. She was a cricket fan too. Knew as much about the countyside as I did. We sometimes went to cricket together. She was quite – self-contained, somehow. She had friends of course, they came here, she went to their houses – but if she was alone she was perfectly happy. She never seemed to be on the telephone to them half the night – I heard other parents
complain about that – but … she liked her friends. She liked her school. But she had a – an inner life, I think. Does that sound ridiculous for a girl of her age? I think she’d had it since she was small. I used to come in late and go up to her bedroom to say goodnight – it might be nine or ten o’clock – and I’d find her just lying there, eyes open … thinking perhaps … perfectly content. She
was … you see, I remember nothing … nothing bad about her, nothing … would you expect this? I suppose so. It’s perhaps … she was never noisy, not rude, never needed to be reprimanded – I don’t want to make her out as some sort of angel … we just rarely had to do more than have … you know, a word … never needed to punish her. She just got quietly on with her life … her ordinary days.’ He put his hands
to his face.

‘Thank you,’ Simon said.

Sir John sighed and after a moment wiped his eyes. Simon let him come to.

‘When you’re ready …’

‘I am.’

‘Thank you. I need to ask one or two questions about the few days before Harriet’s disappearance. Had there been any trouble at all – even a few hot words between her and her mother or you, about something trivial – a messy room, bedtimes, not eating,
boyfriends … the usual sort of teenage things?’

‘None. There was nothing. I went over all this in my mind at the time – every detail, every conversation. There was nothing. But, you see, there never was.’

‘Never?’

‘She was such an easy girl to bring up.’ Lowther’s eyes were cloudy with pain. ‘She was a bit of a noisy toddler at one stage … liked to bang things … spoons on tables, feet on the
floor … it passed very quickly.’

‘Had you seen her that morning?’

‘I had, yes. I passed her on the landing as she was going to the bathroom just after her mother had woken her … I was on my way out. I said something to her.’

‘Can you remember what?’

‘No. But probably hello – good morning. You know.’

‘What did you call her?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Did you call her Harriet – or Hattie? Something else?’

‘Always Harriet. She was never Hattie to us, though some of her friends used it … she preferred Harriet. Occasionally …’

Simon did not prompt him.

‘Occasionally I called her Alice.’

‘Her middle name?’

‘No.
Alice in Wonderland
was her favourite book. I read it to her night after night when she was six or seven. She played Alice in a school production when she was eleven. It was a musical version.
She had quite a pleasant singing voice – tuneful. I liked to listen to her.’

‘Did she sing a lot?’

‘Around the house, yes. And she was in the school
West Side Story
.’

‘Did you see her again that day she disappeared?’

‘No. I heard her upstairs but she hadn’t come down before I left as usual at around a quarter to eight.’

‘You drove in to work?’

‘Yes. I could have had a car … chauffeur. I
hate all that. I like to drive.’

‘How did Harriet get to school?’

‘Usually one of us drove her into town and she caught the school bus from the square. Occasionally we gave her a lift all the way, if she had a lot of things to carry – sports gear and so on. But that day was in the holidays, of course.’

‘The rest of your day?’

‘I had meetings all morning, lunch with some clients.’

‘Where did
you lunch?’

‘At the factory. We have – had – a dining room. A cook. Much the best.’

‘And in the afternoon.’

‘I worked … and I went for a walk. The factory is set in rather fine grounds. I often walked there. I hate not having some fresh air and space to think at least once in the day.’

‘What time did you go out?’

‘About a quarter past three.’

‘Until?’

‘I walked for around half an hour,
as usual.’

‘What kind of day was it?’

‘Oh, it was a beautiful day … warm, sunny … it was a …’ He cleared his throat.

‘Did you walk outside the grounds of the factory?’

‘No.’

‘And so you came back inside at around four?’

‘I think so. This is all in the original interview.’

‘Yes. What did you do for the rest of the afternoon?’

‘Worked at my desk. I think I made a few phone calls. I had a
lot of papers to read about another company we were planning to take over.’

‘Would your secretary have remembered the time you came back in? Did she bring you tea?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘Could you tell me?’

‘My secretary was off – she was going to a wedding some distance away the next day.’

‘And no one was standing in for her?’

‘No. It was Friday afternoon. I didn’t need anyone.’

‘So you made your own phone calls?’

‘Yes. I liked to do things for myself. My secretary, Gillian, was invaluable but I never wanted a secretary to wait on me … for the same reason I liked to drive myself. I still do.’

‘What time did you leave your office?’

‘Just before six. Perhaps ten to? I was reading some company reports. I put the rest of them in my briefcase to go through at home that
weekend.’

‘Had everyone else gone by then?’

‘Not the security staff or the doorman. But the factory itself closed at four on Friday and the offices at five.’

‘Did anyone see you leave?’

‘Ernie – the doorman. There’s confirmation of that in your files.’

‘Yes. Did you drive straight home?’

‘Yes. No – I stopped for a paper. I like to get the local paper. And some pipe tobacco. I had a rule
only to smoke at the weekends. Eve never cared for the smell of my pipe. I stopped altogether some years ago.’

‘Where did you buy the paper?’

‘The newsagent’s on Mercy Way … it’s closed now. There’s a confirmation of that too, I believe.’

‘Yes. What time did you get home?’

‘About six thirty. By then Eve was back – Harriet hadn’t met her as arranged. Eve had been trying to call me at work and
missed me. Of course nowadays I would have had a mobile phone – so would she. So would … Harriet.’

‘Your wife had reported Harriet missing by the time you got home?’

‘Your people were already at the house. I saw the police car as I drove in. Eve was at the door. I can see them now. They were very good. Their kindness … I know they had to ask me those questions … where I had been, what time …’

‘Yes.’

They were both silent.

Simon did not return to the station after leaving the Old Mill but drove a couple of miles on, to a pub he sometimes visited when he didn’t want to meet anyone he knew. The place was quiet – it was still short of twelve thirty – and he ordered a home-cooked-ham sandwich and a half-pint of the locally brewed ale called, for some reason, the Snoddy.

When the thick
slabs of fresh bread and ham with mustard arrived, he sat quietly for several minutes, clearing his mind of the morning’s interview with Lowther. He had come here in order to think about something else.

He drank, then took out his phone.

He had chosen a corner seat. To his right were two empty tables. The bar was at the far end, so the sound of voices was not going to disturb him.

There was
nothing to disturb him.

He took another couple of draughts but did not eat. He would ring first. Eat afterwards. Once he knew.

It had been easy to find the phone number of course. He had the card on which he had scribbled it down in his wallet. He took it out. He finished his beer and picked up his phone.

For a few seconds there was no connection. A bad line, a wrong number? Why was he doing
this?

Because he had sat next to a woman at a dinner and …

And what? For Christ’s sake. And nothing. An attraction? A fleeting connection but nothing else because there had not been time, it had not been the occasion, and besides … He heard the dialling tone.

She came into his mind. Her face, her hands, the curve of her arm, the line of her mouth, clear and distinct, along with the glittering
lights and the gleaming silver and the sound of a room of people talking, the smell of candle smoke.

How long had it been since he had experienced anything like this? Freya. He remembered Freya and with a sense of great sadness. But he could not bring her face to mind, could not remember her voice. Freya had gone.

‘
Hello. This is the answerphone for Kenneth and Rachel Wyatt. We aren’t able to
take your call. Please would you leave a message? Thank you
.’

Her voice was utterly familiar, as though he had been hearing it all his life, and listening to the message unnerved him, so he disconnected quickly, leaving no message.

He left the pub and strolled up the lane in the cool, bright afternoon. A donkey stood by a field gate and he stopped to scratch its ears, thinking he might come
back to draw it.

His phone beeped a text.

Come 2 supper? Steak pie. Not seen u 4 ages. X

He was answering Cat when the phone rang, but in the confusion of ceasing to text and then replying, he pressed the key but did not give his name.

‘Hello? I think someone rang? This is Rachel Wyatt.’

‘Yes. I rang.’

She hesitated a long moment then said, ‘Simon?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you – Ah. Yes. But you
didn’t leave a message.’

‘No.’

‘Are you at the station?’

‘No. I’m in a lane near a pub. I just had lunch. Can I see you?’

‘Now? No, it’s –’

‘Not now. I have to get back. This evening? Could we meet this evening?’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘A drink?’

‘I’m not sure. I would have to …’ She stopped.

‘If you’d rather not, it’s fine, of course.’ Though it wasn’t.

‘No. No, I want to. Can I let you know
a bit later? Or should I not ring you?’

‘It’s fine. I have to go and interview someone but you can leave me a message. Or send a text. Will you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be back at the station around four. When can you ring?’

‘Simon, I don’t know. Just … I will if I can.’

‘OK.’

‘But … it’s nice to hear from you. What a non-word that is – “nice”.’

He laughed. ‘I’m happy with nice.’

‘I’ll ring.’

‘And meet me. Try and meet me.’

HE WOULD HAVE
recognised Katie Cadsden – now Katie Morris – from the photographs of her in the files, though she had been fifteen then, was thirty-one now. She had small sharp features but a wide mouth.

The house was on one of the new estates that had sprung up in the past decade between Bevham and Lafferton. It was neat, clean, detached, pleasant, but with all the character of a
show home. Perhaps it had been a show home, Serrailler thought, as she led him into the sitting room. It overlooked a small garden. Grass. No borders. An octagonal cedar summerhouse at the end. A fence.