Fragile Minds

MONDAY 24TH JULY CLAUDIE



I crept down the stairs, the flagstones freezing beneath my bare feet. I could hear them talking in the kitchen, the low murmur of women’s voices, and then Sadie, louder, getting upset about something, her high voice raised, querulous now.

‘I’m just not sure—’ I heard her say and I wanted to hear more, but then someone dragged a chair across the floor noisily and I thought, I have to go now, or I will miss my chance.

But the front door was locked. I rattled it as hard as I dared without attracting too much attention: it was definitely both locked and bolted. I heard the chair scrape again and someone say ‘I’ll get it’. In the nick of time, I ducked down behind the stairs.

The woman called Miriam stomped out looking bad-tempered. She had a key round her neck on a grubby bit of ribbon, which she used to unlock the front door. Then, at the last minute, she was struck by something, some kind of thought. She walked back, her foot on the first stair. Please don’t go up, I prayed desperately. Please. She paused – and then turned and went out of the front door, a blast of cold air making me shiver, leaving the door ajar behind her.

I knew I only had one shot at escape; I peered round the door into the yard, the voices in the kitchen now beginning to escalate in a way that suggested the start of a row. ‘Why have they left it so late?’ I heard Sadie say, ‘the rest of them are—’

I had to go. Wearing only the thin summer pyjamas they had dressed me in when I arrived, I stole across the courtyard, round the back of the old white Golf, keeping as close to the buildings as best I could, watching for Miriam. I wondered if that was the car that had brought me here.

The fresh air was a shock to me after a few days inside, the smell of countryside, manure and grass so strong I could almost taste it; my heart was beating so fast that it hurt.

Something screeched and shot out of the undergrowth beside me and I nearly screamed, realising at the last minute it was only a skinny old farm cat. I would have laughed at myself, only right now it didn’t seem all that funny. I spotted Miriam far on the other side of the yard, through the open door of one of the dilapidated barns. She was gathering bottles of what looked like bleach into a cardboard box, with her back to me.

The moon was on the wane but I could see the five-bar gate now; the night was bright enough for my eyes to adjust quickly to the dark, and I sped up now, my feet squelching through God knows what, and I saw tiny lights in the distance and realised it was a road, and from the other direction I heard the sigh of the sea, and I climbed the gate, tearing my pyjamas on the wire that held it shut, and I was down on the other side, and I started to run, run, run …





MONDAY 24TH JULY KENTON



Kenton was more excited than she’d felt in years. This was it – her first big arrest! As soon as she got off the phone from Silver, she’d called Norfolk Constabulary and they had agreed to flag up the perimeter of the farmhouse building Pritti had identified on Google Earth – after a lot of crying and hand-wringing and coercion.

Waiting out in the station forecourt, Kenton rang Alison to share her news – it seemed a good reason to call. But Alison didn’t answer. Kenton hadn’t spoken to her since she’d left her bed yesterday morning and, try as she might, she had a slightly sick feeling in her stomach that it had all happened too fast – the falling into bed – and Alison had lost interest already. Surely she should have heard from her by now? Kenton left what she hoped sounded like a breezy message on Alison’s voicemail, trying not to let the doubt creep into her voice, and pocketed the phone. Hopefully Alison would ring back before Silver arrived, and set her mind at rest.

She didn’t. As Silver pulled up, Kenton could see there was someone in the car with him, a middle-aged fair woman wrapped in a pink pashmina, who smiled at Kenton and moved into the back seat as soon as he stopped the car. Silver introduced them quickly; Helen Ganymede, Claudie Scott’s psychiatrist. The two women exchanged brief greetings as Kenton buckled up, pushing the guilt she felt about Scott down as hard as she could.

‘So,’ Silver pulled off again, heading for the A12. ‘What exactly did Pritti say? What made her change her mind?’

They spoke in low voices, although Helen was already dozing in the back.

‘She was totally reticent at first, until eventually we showed her the pictures of Meriel burning. Eventually she cracked and broke down completely.’

‘Nice work.’ Silver’s face was grim. ‘If that’s what it takes. Did she shed any light on the Archangel idiot?’

‘No. She just refers to him as the Divine One or “our leader”.’ Kenton shivered. ‘Scary, really. It’s like – she’s not there any more.’

‘Not there?’

‘Like, not in her body. Brainwashed. She’s just repeating – you know. Clap-trap she’s been taught. I left Craven with her though.’

‘Poor girl,’ Silver muttered. ‘Is there any gum in the glove compartment?’

Kenton rifled through it. ‘Anything from Claudie’s husband or boyfriend?’

‘Husband’s a hopeless arse and the MP’s a charlatan, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a kidnapping nutcase – though he has been up in Norfolk and he has some kind of link with Tessa, too, that he’s lying about. I’ve asked Roger to check him out, but my gut says he wouldn’t have the time to be the Archangel, in between shagging women and sorting the country’s cultural desert out.’ Still, there was the Lethbridge link. Bloody woman, kept cropping up. Silver fell into a reverie as Kenton surreptitiously checked her phone for the tenth time since leaving London. She definitely had a full signal and no messages. Damn.

‘Do me a favour.’ Silver tossed his own phone at her now. ‘Text Philippa and explain I’m going to be working all night. You could even,’ he grinned at her now, showing those perfect white teeth, ‘you could even do one of those daft smiley faces at the end. Might soften the blow.’

As they drove up the empty A12, Kenton leant back and shut her eyes. She had found the images from the explosion had started to haunt her again during the past twenty-four hours: the body cleaved in two in the middle of the road, the whimpering and crying. Tessa Lethbridge’s white face in deathly repose. She needed an end to this case now, have some kind of closure, some kind of retribution for those killed and wounded right before her very eyes on Friday 14th. And then she needed to sleep.





The traffic was light and the flat Norfolk roads empty. They arrived at the grand entrance to Holkham Hall in good time, next to a pretty pub called the Victoria, the kind of place where middle-class couples took mini-breaks. There they met with the local Chief Superintendent, a tired, balding man called Ellory, who was very much of the old school. He had a year until retirement and wanted no bother on his watch.

‘We’ve got cars and uniform at every strategic point around the building you identified.’ He looked concerned. ‘But I have to say, I am not convinced it is the correct location.’

‘Really?’ Silver frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Farm concerned is owned and let by a local family, the Thomases. It’s rarely if ever empty; and there is a tenant farmer in residence right now, I understand, who has been working the land as they would expect.’

Silver felt the cold plunge of disappointment, but they had no choice but to plough on. Helen had woken up now and stood shivering by the car, the fringe of her pashmina blowing in the wind.

‘You need to stay here,’ he explained, and she nodded, looking rather frightened.

‘Of course.’

Silver grabbed his torch. Kenton resolutely shoved her phone in her pocket and followed him as they walked to the perimeter of the farm, tracking across lumpy gorse land.

They circled the building and moved forward slowly on the word of the Chief. Lights blazed in the downstairs windows and a dog was barking out in the yard, getting more and more frenzied as he sensed the police approaching.

A man appeared in the doorway. The Archangel? He was silhouetted against the electric light behind him; Silver could make out the shotgun in his hand.

‘Mr Gordon?’ Silver called out now. ‘Len Gordon?’

‘Yes?’ The man stepped forward, the dog jumping at his feet now. ‘Who wants to know?’

Silver could hear the trepidation in his voice.

‘Police. Can you drop your firearm please?’

Slowly, the man lowered the shotgun to his side.

‘We need to search your premises immediately.’

‘Search them?’ The man held a hand over his eyes to block the torch-light that was now blinding him. ‘Go right ahead. What are you looking for, mate?’

Silver met him in the farmyard now, by the gate, and extended his warrant badge. ‘Missing girls.’

The overweight farmer stared at him in shock, and then began to laugh. ‘I should be so bleeding lucky. Wife left me three year back; last girlfriend didn’t like getting her feet muddy. Stuck-up cow.’

Silver could smell the whiff of alcohol on his breath, and recognised the slight stagger.

‘Look away.’ Len Gordon stepped back and extended a thickset arm, gesturing at the outbuildings. ‘You’ll be lucky if you find so much as a female rat round here.’

They searched. There was nothing. The farmer watched them as if they were entertainment especially for him, red nose bulbous, chuckling, whisky glass in hand.

‘Have you tried down the lane?’ Gordon enquired, as they regrouped in the yard.

Silver frowned. ‘The lane?’ The bastard Beer was whispering as he watched the gold liquid in Gordon’s glass tip perilously. The man gestured unsteadily down the track.

‘Disused farm. Last owner shot himself in the head.’ Gordon rubbed his jelly nose, then downed the contents of the glass. ‘Don’t bloody blame him, personally. Considered it myself once or twice.’ He picked up his gun, cradling it like a baby in his big arms, the thick fair hair there glinting in the torch-light. ‘Have a look down that way. There’s either ghosties camping out there, or my eyes have been playing tricks on me recently. Lights in the windows and that. Cars back and forth.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought it were gyppos.’

‘Did you report them?’ Silver asked sharply.

‘Leave ’em to it,’ Gordon turned back to the house. ‘That’s my motto.’





Hope is a double-edged sword, lacerating us when it proves futile.

Down the lane, they were too late. The decaying farmhouse was empty, Kenton realised with a thump of frustration – but it hadn’t been until recently.

No Sadie Malvern, no Claudie Scott – though Sadie’s bag was still in the kitchen, an expensive leather affair with a Mulberry tag, which definitely looked more lap-dancer than religious zealot. The old metal kettle was still very slightly warm, which meant they couldn’t have left that long ago.

‘Damn, damn, damn.’ Silver stood stock still by the door, above which someone had painted the words:

DADDY’S GONE A-HUNTING



Kenton sensed his deep anger, though he still managed to contain it.

‘How the f*ck did they know we were coming?’ Silver rubbed his face with his hands. He looked exhausted.

‘God knows.’ Kenton gazed up at the scrawl. ‘Perhaps they saw us at the other farm. That’s from a nursery rhyme, isn’t it? My sister always sings it to my nephew.


Bye, baby Bunting, Daddy’s gone a-hunting,

to get a little rabbit skin to wrap the baby Bunting in.’



‘Is it?’ Silver rubbed his face again, trying to rouse himself, but he felt tired beyond belief now. He had a sudden image of Lana cradling one of his babies, swaddled, singing quietly. He shook his head against the maudlin memory. ‘So who and where is Daddy?’

Kenton shivered. ‘It’s really creepy, isn’t it?’

Helen Ganymede entered the house now with a WPC.

‘Any sign of poor Claudie?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, none.’

But that wasn’t quite true.

Upstairs on the single made-up bed lay a locket, the thin silver chain broken. A locket that Kenton remembered seeing round Scott’s neck. It was full of acrid-smelling brown twigs.

‘What do you think it is?’ Kenton smelt it cautiously.

‘I don’t know. But we need to find out. Bag it.’

Silver looked out of the little casement window, across to the dark sea must be, whispering in the distance. Sure, he was worried about these missing women, but he realised with a shock that shook him almost viscerally that he was in the wrong place.

His phone began to ring.

‘Silver,’ he snapped. He listened for a minute, then looked up, his hooded eyes blazing.

‘And you’re sure it’s her?’

He hung up.

‘Sir?’ Kenton held the little locket by her side.

‘Claudie Scott. They found her on the road, about a mile from here, wandering round in her pyjamas.’

Helen sat heavily on the old wooden chair in the corner. ‘Thank God.’