“Any idea who she is?” he asked, looking to Eric.
“Yes. She’s the Bettany girl.”
“Colin and Marie’s daughter?”
“That’s right. You know them?” Eric asked, sounding surprised. He always did when outsiders knew the locals. Those without form at least. Not that Tom Janssen was a true outsider. He grew up in Sheringham, along the coast from the more famous seaside town of Cromer. However, when you moved away only to later return there was still the scepticism regarding how truly Norfolk you really were.
Janssen shook his head. “No, just by name. I didn’t know they had children. I saw her parents this morning by pure coincidence.”
“They have two, although the other one’s name, I can’t recall. I’ll check.” Eric confirmed his superior knowledge of the local community. “They have the GP practice just outside Burnham Overy. They’ll be devastated. I called in forensics as well as the coroner. They’ll be on their way.”
“Good. What do you make of them, Colin and Marie?”
Eric took a moment, his expression a contorted mixture of sincere thought and concentration. “Professional. Well respected and hard working. Posh.”
“Posh?”
“Well, you know… wealthy, moving in the right social circles and stuff like that.”
Janssen wondered whether there was an edge to Eric’s tone. He was a lovely young man, dedicated, but every now and again a little chip would appear on his shoulder, often without notice and at the strangest of times.
“Right. What about the witness, the lady who found her, where is she?”
“I took her details and sent her home. I said we’ll call round later and take her statement. Is that okay?”
Janssen nodded his approval, focusing on the deceased. “What did you say her name is?”
“Holly. Holly Bettany,” Eric confirmed.
“How old was she, do you know?”
“Sixteen or seventeen, I think. I know she was studying at the local sixth form.”
Janssen blew out his cheeks, massaging his temple with the fingers of his left hand. Too young to go out like this. “We’ll need to go and speak to the parents. Word gets around and I don’t want them hearing about it from anyone but us.”
The village of Burnham Market was a hive of activity. The warm sunshine had brought people out to visit the independent shops, galleries and artisanal establishments the area was known for. At the centre of a conservation area, it was the quintessential chocolate box representation of a rural Georgian market village. Eric turned off the high street and picked his way down the narrow side street, negotiating the parked vehicles of early season tourists and residents alike.
Brancaster House was easily identifiable by the large plaque mounted to the side of the entrance, fixed to the huge perimeter wall. The tyres of the car crunched on the gravel lining the driveway as they pulled up before the front door.
Janssen rang the doorbell, hearing it chime within. Moments later, a figure appeared on the other side. It was Marie Bettany, Janssen recognising her from earlier in the day. She had changed out of her earlier clothes. Now she was wearing a long summer dress, predominantly blue with a floral print. Her hair, worn up that morning, now hung to her shoulders and she sported a pearl necklace. There was a flicker of recognition when Janssen revealed his warrant card but she pretended to acknowledge him only for the first time there and then. He introduced Eric behind him, also brandishing his identification. To Janssen it came across in a stylistic way reminiscent of a television crime programme. The young man really hadn’t settled into his new role yet.
She welcomed them into the house but it struck him as a begrudging gesture which he found odd.
“Could your husband join us as well?” Janssen asked, looking around the entrance hall. It was suitably grand, far larger than the biggest room in Janssen’s own home, with hardwood panelling lining the walls and continuing on up the ornately carved staircase to the first floor.
“I’m sure, yes. Please, do come through.”
She led them along the hall towards the rear of the house. The ticking of a grandmother clock echoed off the walls and the polished parquet floor. Janssen noted Eric’s discomfort, resolving to enquire about his strange behaviour later on. The kitchen was huge, a real farmhouse affair. Obviously, a modern installation and yet with a traditional inspiration. Marie Bettany stepped across to the threshold of the French doors and called out into the garden before returning to them. She met Janssen’s eye and he thought he saw a glimmer of embarrassment. He was surprised she wasn’t pushing to know why they were there.
Colin Bettany arrived shortly after, appearing at the entrance from the garden, beads of sweat on his forehead and looking decidedly unhappy at the interruption.
“For Pete’s sake, Marie, what is it?” He pulled up when he caught sight of the detectives. His facial expression changed in an instant along with his tone, adopting a far more gracious manner. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realise we had visitors. It’s just that we have guests arriving this afternoon for drinks before we head out for a meal and I have so much to organise.”
Janssen spied the dining table in the adjoining room. It was laden with plates of food, all neatly laid out and wrapped in cling film. By the look of it, they were expecting a fair number of people.
“No need to apologise, Mr Bettany.” Janssen smiled warmly as he spoke.
“Dr Bettany,” he replied coolly. Janssen was taken aback but then again, some people could be spiky when it came to their titles. In contrast, Marie didn’t seem to be particular about hers
