“Do you know where Holly went on the night she died?”
“Murdered, you mean.” Colin Bettany fixed her with a stare. The first time he willingly met her eye. “You can say it as it is. The night someone took her from us. No. I have no idea. As far as I knew, she was in Norwich for her recital. We’ve told you all of this already.”
“Of course. I just wanted to check you hadn’t remembered anything you failed to mention before.” Bettany shrugged. It was a dismissive gesture.
“Is there anything else?” He now reverted to a display of the arrogance he initially greeted them with. Taking out a folder, she opened it and withdrew some pages of paper. They were the threatening notes sent to Ken Francis. Setting several of them out alongside one another, she allowed him time to read over them. He did so casually and without any notable sign of recognition. “And these are?” He raised his gaze from the paper, sitting back in his seat and eyeing her warily.
“Is that your handwriting by any chance?” she asked.
“Certainly not!” The retort was so dismissive it was almost as if he was offended by the very idea he could be responsible. “I know doctors have a reputation for illegible script but I would be embarrassed to call myself a Wykehamist if I put my name to that. The man can’t even spell. My parents would be demanding a refund.” He pointed to the second sheet from the left.
She turned the paper around and saw the word he was referring to, disgrase, casting a sideways glance to Janssen to ensure he saw it as well. She asked him some further questions but got little useful information from him and drew the interview to a close soon after. Colin Bettany left with a firm instruction to steer clear of Ken Francis unless he wanted to see the inside of a cell for the night. He assured her there would be no repeat of his actions.
She watched as he was escorted out to the front entrance by a uniformed constable, Janssen alongside her. “What did he mean by the term Wykehamist?” She was unfamiliar with it but didn’t want to weaken her position in front of the doctor who would no doubt have taken great pride in demeaning her any way he could.
“He went to school in Winchester.” Janssen’s explanation ended there but she was none the wiser. He must have realised because he carried on. “It was founded by William of Wykeham, if I remember correctly. The pupils are referred to by the founder’s name. Winchester is second only to Eton as I understand.”
“Oh, I see. Bristol Grammar myself.”
“I won’t hold it against you.” Janssen smiled at her briefly. “I went to the local comprehensive. Less rugby but probably more girls.” She laughed. That was the first piece of personal information he had offered since her arrival. Was he a private man who lived behind the barriers he erected or did he open up over time? She figured she would ask Eric when they were next alone.
Returning to ops, she was surprised Janssen wasn’t more vocal. He seemed lost in thought and for a brief, paranoid moment, she thought his reticence might relate to her handling of the interview. She grew impatient. “What do you think?” Eric turned to look as well, keen to hear what resulted from the interview. Janssen perched on the edge of a desk, his face set in a frown. He was very circumspect.
“Honestly? I’m not sure. How much does he know about Holly and Ken? From what he offered us in there, he still seems to be in the dark.” He folded his arms across his chest, thinking hard. “He offered just the right amount of anger, frustration and… contrition. Exactly what I would expect.”
“Meaning?” she asked, slightly perplexed by what he was getting at.
He raised his eyebrows. “When I interview someone, I hardly ever get exactly what I expect.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Eric replaced the receiver. Alone in ops, he cut a frustrated figure. Tracing the complainant whose allegation led to the arrest of Ken Francis was proving far harder than he ever imagined. He wasn’t naïve. People dropped off the radar on a daily basis. Some because they choose to while others have little choice in the matter. Not necessarily due to anything sinister. People were transient in nature these days, particularly in a vast city such as London. The days of a job for life and living in the same house were becoming rarer in everyday life. The promise of making your fortunes in the big city were still a draw for many. The influx of people from across the country saw a constant churn. Couple that with the advance of the gig economy and sky-high rents and you had a population drifting in and out of postcodes, perhaps never appearing on electoral rolls or council tax lists.
He had three known addresses for Amanda Stott along with several telephone numbers but each lead ended with the same result. She was either no longer there, the current residents didn’t know her or the phone numbers rang out. The file sent over from Canning Town had her listed as working various jobs on a part-time basis from event coordination, waitressing to bicycle courier, all allowing her the freedom to pursue what she really wanted to do which was modelling. The file listed some members of her social circle and although this bore no fruit, he was able to leave his contact details in case they came across her. Conveying at great length how Amanda was not in any way facing investigation herself, several associates sounded as if they might call if she got in touch. Amanda had dropped off the face of the earth. She could be anywhere. Sitting back in his chair, he glanced at the clock. The interview would be
