In the Light of Madness Read online

  “Are you Darren’s mother?” Wednesday enquired.

  “Yep, I’m Judith Wright. This here is Des, Darren’s stepdad.”

  “If Darren’s not in his room then where is he?” Lennox asked, wondering why parents allowed their teenagers to roam freely without knowing their whereabouts.

  “No idea. I thought he was in bed,” she said before licking her dry lips with a furry tongue.

  Wednesday and Jacob eyed one another, then she took the lead.

  “This is very important, Mrs Wright. It’s imperative that we find Darren, can you think of anywhere he might be?”

  Judith shuffled on her feet, then crouched down to sit on a step, allowing the dressing gown to reveal a blotchy pink, dimpled thigh.

  “He’s probably round that Tom’s house. His mum is a stuck up old cow, always looking down on us. Beats me why the boys are friends.”

  Wednesday bit her bottom lip, allowing her time to compose her words before answering.

  “I’m afraid Tom has been found dead. So you can see why we urgently need to speak to your son. Can you contact him on his mobile?” She rolled on the balls of her feet in order to alleviate the cramps in her calves.

  “What’s the stupid bugger done now?” bellowed Des, lighting a semi-smoked roll-up which he held between his grubby-nailed fat fingers. He inhaled and then blew the smoke out so it swirled around the naked light bulb suspended from the ceiling.

  “Have you any idea where your son and Tom were supposed to be or who they were meeting?” Terseness reverberated through Lennox’s voice.

  “His mobile’s switched off,” Judith uttered.

  The Wrights looked at the detectives with their dulled eyes.

  “God knows then. Anyway, isn’t it your job to go looking for him, that’s what you lot do all the time, isn’t it?” Des spoke, smoke seeping from between his lips.

  Wednesday could sense Lennox’s hairs on his neck bristle, so she interjected. “May we take a look at Darren’s bedroom? We might find some clues to his whereabouts.”

  “Suit yourselves,” replied Judith, standing up and brushing past Wednesday as she headed for the kitchen.

  Before they moved upstairs, Lennox asked the pair about their whereabouts that evening.

  “Why, are we suspects?” replied Des with a semi-smirk on his lips.

  Lennox just stared at him until he told the detectives he’d got paid for a labouring job, so they were celebrating with a fish supper and some alcohol at home.

  Des led the way, mounting the stairs two at a time. On arriving on the landing all the doors were open so it was obvious which room was Darren’s. Wednesday wrinkle up her nose at the distinct smell of urine on entering the room.

  “Bunk beds,” said Lennox. “Probably for the brother in prison.” He gave a guttural snort after his comment.

  The bedroom was unkempt and filthy like the rest of the house. It was, indeed, making them wonder what Tom and Darren actually had in common. It certainly wasn’t their family background or lifestyle.

  Tucked into the corner of the room was a piece of furniture that resembled a desk, piled with scrap paper and a laptop. Lennox picked it up and tucked it under his arm.

  “Anything else of interest?” he asked

  “Not that I can see under this jumble. I just want to get out of here,” she said in a hushed tone. “I’m beginning to itch.”

  They took one final look around the sorry state of Darren’s bedroom before heading downstairs.

  “You can’t fucking take that,” exclaimed Des as he pointed a sausage-like finger at the laptop.

  “I’m afraid we can, there may be information pertaining to Darren’s whereabouts and who he was meeting. You’ll get it back. For now I’ll give you an evidence receipt.” Lennox raised his six-foot-two frame to dominate Des, whose veins were throbbing in his temples and neck.

  “His dad got it for him. You lose or damage it and you get another,” piped up Judith into the glass tumbler, making her voice echo.

  “If Darren returns or contacts you, please get in touch with us straight away,” said Lennox, handing a card to the puffy faced mother. He avoided eye contact with the stepdad. “It would be helpful if we could have a recent photo of Darren for the officers who’ll be looking for him.”

  Judith Wright lumbered off towards the kitchen and returned with the latest school photo of him. Wednesday noticed how Darren’s face did not have the innocent appeal of Tom’s.

  She strode after Lennox as he gunned towards the car, avoiding slamming the car door as he had done. Nicotine cravings were ravaging her mind, so when Lennox reached for a packet of cigarettes in his glove compartment, a sense of relief washed over her. He brandished the packet in front of her, not knowing whether she smoked or not.

  “I don’t normally smoke in the car, but needs must,” he said as he flicked the lighter and lit the cigarette. He turned the engine on and sped towards the station. “It beggars belief. One family is torn apart by grief for their dead son, and the other family show no bloody concern for their missing son who could also be dead.”

  He wound down his window to allow the noxious fumes to escape. Wednesday mirrored his actions, inhaling the smoke with grateful, guilty pleasure, whilst reflecting on the night’s events so far.

  “We might as well get a few hours sleep before visiting the school tomorrow morning,” she said, flicking the cigarette butt out of the window without thinking, before they entered the station car park.

  She levered herself out of his car, every muscle in her body crying out for bed. Her brain, however, was re-examining the interviews.

  She walked towards the cream convertible VW Beetle she had bought herself as a gift when she became a detective inspector. As she turned on the purring engine, she pushed in a classical CD and let Beethoven’s piano concerto accompany her home. Tomorrow would hopefully bring more clues and not just more unanswered questions.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday opened the front door and crept in quietly so as not to wake her half-sister, Scarlett. They shared the three bedded, detached Georgian property on the outskirts of the city of Cambridge. The house belonged to Wednesday. Scarlett was her lodger.

  She removed her shoes and padded along the parquet floor to the kitchen. The room was swathed in comforting warmth thanks to the Aga that sat in a recess. A large scrubbed pine table and chairs, and a carver chair at the head of the table sat proudly in the centre of the room.

  Wednesday poured herself a bourbon and lit a longed for peaceful cigarette. Grotesque images of the past few hours played in her head, and her heart felt loaded with the parents’ pain. She knew she was too sensitive for the job at times. But she didn’t want to change the essence of her being.

  Wednesday was up and out before Scarlett had risen, which was not unusual. Breakfast was brief before climbing into her car. She relished being enclosed in her own private space, but the journey was not long enough to either unwind from a hellish shift or prepare for the next onslaught.

  She pulled into her space and noticed that Lennox was already there. She had heard he sometimes slept in his office in his previous post, so it puzzled her how he remained so immaculately presentable. Perhaps his recent divorce suited him, she thought as she mounted the stone steps into the station.

  She had never worked on a case with him before but she understood that he was quietly persistent and methodical, whereas she tended to be more organic; less regimented and meticulous, but got results all the same.

  She arrived in the Incident Room in time to hear DCI Hunter announce that he was calling a briefing in two minutes. Suzy Simmons tapped Wednesday gently on the arm and asked her if she wanted a coffee.

  “Yes please. Milk no sugar,” she replied with a nod as she took her notebook out in time to hear Hunter clapping his hands to bring the room to his attention.

  On the incident board behind him were pictures of the dead boy, Tom Dolby, and the missing boy, Darren Giles. The st
are of youthful innocence penetrated the room. The murder of children always rocked the team hard.

  “Right, preliminary findings indicate that Tom Dolby was asphyxiated, most likely smothered by some form of clothing. It stands to reason that he may have been drugged as there’s no evidence of a struggle. No DNA under the fingernails or defensive wounds on the hands. We’re waiting for toxicology. For now we have bugger all to go on.” He took a sip of strong black coffee whilst the room remained tacit and focused.

  “SOCO are at the cemetery now and a fingertip search is underway. Wednesday and Lennox will go to the school where both boys went. Arlow and Damlish can head up the team to search for the missing boy, Darren Giles, and I’ll prepare a statement with the chief press officer for the media. Right, let’s get to it, we need a lead.”

  The Incident Room erupted into a hive of activity, each officer keen to find the breakthrough needed in the first forty-eight hours. All keen to impress Hunter.

  “Shall I drive?” Wednesday asked.

  “Mind if I do? I think more clearly when I drive.”

  Walking in his wake, she was slightly overpowered by his musk aftershave. She hoped her own perfume was masking her cigarette stench just as successfully.

  Markham Hall School was nestled in an expanse of neatly trimmed grass, with wooded areas to either side. It was an imposing building with the semblance of a fortress. It used to be an all boys grammar school, but it was now a mixed comprehensive, much to the annoyance of the elders in the town and surrounding villages.

  Clusters of students dribbled their way to the main entrance, unaware of the devastating news they would soon be privy to.

  “Would you take this interview, Boss,” Lennox announced as he pulled into a parking space. “You’ve got the air of an all girls grammar school about you.”

  “Is it that obvious?” she replied, blushing slightly.

  He remained mute, rubbing his hand through his spiky hair, making the ends stand to attention. Surreptitiously he checked himself in the rear-view mirror before getting out of the car.

  Being in plain clothes meant the students were not fazed by their arrival. If anything, the pair looked more like a visitation from OFSTED. Entering the double doors, they were jostled by a few boisterous lads playing rugby with someone’s rucksack. Wednesday heard Lennox mutter something under his breath.

  “We’re looking for the headmaster,” announced Lennox to the woman sitting behind the reception hatch. She peered over the glasses on the tip of her nose. Her white hair clung to her scalp in tight curls.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  They retrieved their ID cards from their pockets and flashed them at the unflappable woman.

  “I see,” she said, still unmoved. “I’ll phone through.”

  Within seconds, a suave man of slim build with slicked back hair arrived.

  “I’m the headmaster, Stewart Cleveland. How can I be of assistance?”

  “Could we have a word in your office, Mr Cleveland?”

  With a shrug of his shoulders and a raise of eyebrows, Stewart Cleveland guided them down a corridor.

  The opulence was apparent as soon as they stepped through the heavily studded door. A large walnut desk housed a laptop and a set of Montblanc pens. His chair, which looked rather like a throne, was made of green leather and swivelled around so he could survey every angle of the room. Tennis courts could be seen through the leaded windows behind his desk.

  “I’m sorry to inform you that one of your students was found dead last night. His name was Tom Dolby.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “We’re not sure exactly. And Darren Giles is missing.”

  Cleveland’s face visibly drained. “Good God, I’ve never had this happen before.”

  “We’d like to know more about them; their friends, teachers, any problems at school.”

  Cleveland swivelled towards his computer and pounded on the keyboard.

  “Not much to say really. Tom was a bright lad who was heading towards uni. Generally quiet with no behavioural problems reported. Darren was the exact opposite.” He swivelled around again so he was facing them once more, cupping his hands together and resting them on the leather-bound blotter on his desk.

  Wednesday scanned the plethora of silver framed certificates hanging on the wall, all embossed with his name.

  “Perhaps their form tutor would be able to tell us more,” she suggested.

  “Indeed, that’ll be Colin Pollock. I’ll take you to him.” Cleveland stood up and ushered them out of his office.

  They followed him down a corridor lined with framed photos of sports teams, music and drama clubs. The air was stale and reminded Lennox of his own miserable school days. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled with the memories.

  Cleveland showed them into a classroom where Colin Pollock sat at the front of the class at a desk on a plinth, marking papers.

  “Colin, this is . . .” he waved his hands about as he struggled to remember their names, so Wednesday took over.

  “DI Wednesday and DS Lennox. We’re investigating the death of Tom Dolby, and the disappearance of Darren Giles.”

  Colin Pollock stopped writing and looked over to them in numbed silence.

  “Good God . . .”

  “In order for us to thoroughly investigate the issues, we need to know more about them. Who were their friends and who were their enemies?” Wednesday asked, gripping her notebook.

  Colin cleared his throat and loosened the knot in his tie.

  “Tom was quiet but he had a good sense of humour if you spoke to him on a one to one.” He rose from his chair and walked over to Tom’s desk. “He sat here, next to Dylan Frost. They spoke to one another, but I’m not sure you’d call it a friendship. Maybe just a convenience as they sat together.” A thin line of sweat sparkled on Colin’s top lip.

  “Did he ever mention if he was being bullied?”

  “No, not that I know of,” he said, bowing is head and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets.

  There was a knock at the door and a few faces peered through the glass panelled door.

  “It’s time for registration, can they come in?” he asked.

  Wednesday nodded. “We’ll need to speak to his friends and classmates, then see his locker, so we’ll need to use your office,” she said, turning towards Cleveland.

  He made an audible sigh before ushering them out of the room as the students stood back, wide-eyed and chewing gum; a rebellious move in front of the head had it been a normal day.

  One by one, the students entered Cleveland’s office looking fearful, anxious, or arrogant. Lennox particularly despised the last trait as he was getting enough of that from his own two sons. They remained stunned or silent when they were informed of Tom Dolby’s demise.

  Dylan Frost entered looking the picture of calm.

  “What was Tom like to talk to?” Wednesday asked, pen poised before her lips like a cigarette.

  “All right I suppose,” he replied, cocking his head at her.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Football mostly.”

  Wednesday could sense Lennox’s irritability at having to sit through yet another dead-end interview. She was finding it difficult to imagine him as a father.

  “Did you ever meet up with him out of school?”

  “Not likely,” he said rather abruptly before blushing wildly. Wednesday sat back and studied him carefully.

  “Is there something you want to tell us, but aren’t sure how we’ll react? We’re not here to judge you. We want to find the person who did this to your friend.”

  “He wasn’t my friend. He was a geek with old people as parents. He was a loser and I only spoke to him because we sat together in form.” Dylan slouched down in the chair as soon as he had finished spouting the words, scuffing the toe of his shoe into the deep pile carpet.

  “Is that what everyone thought about him?”

  “Yep.”


  “What about Darren Giles? They were friends weren’t they?”

  “I dunno. Darren was a loser too; I mean have you seen his parents? They’re like gypos,” he replied, standing up swiftly, ready to go.

  Wednesday could not deny that Dylan’s description of Darren’s parent’s hit close to the mark. But she still flinched at his words.

  “If you think of anything else, no matter how insignificant you think it may be, call me,” she said as she handed him her card, which he promptly shoved into his blazer pocket.

  They watched the boy swagger out, leaving the door swinging wide open behind him.

  “Arrogant arse,” Lennox muttered.

  “Not all kids are like him.”

  “I know that, but I fear my two are going to turn into his type.” He looked down at his shoes and pursed his lips.

  By the time they had interviewed the entire twenty-nine surly or overly animated students in Colin Pollock’s form, they were exhausted and no closer to discovering more about the two boys, except that they appeared to be misfits and not well liked.

  “I think we need to re-visit Tom’s parents. They may be more emotionally stable to talk now,” Lennox said.

  Somehow, Wednesday doubted that. The Dolby’s may not welcome the police’s presence in their home, as that would make their nightmare real.

  Stewart Cleveland gave them a frosty look when Lennox announced he could have his office back after showing them the inside of both boys’ lockers. They followed him towards the cloakroom area where he opened them.

  Tom’s locker contained a pack of football stickers, a local map, a French dictionary and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. They bagged the contents and then moved onto Darren’s locker. There they found a smelly sports kit, some school books, and an appointment card to meet the school counsellor at the end of the week. Again, the contents were bagged to take back to the station. After giving Stewart Cleveland an evidence slip, they returned to the car.

  Lennox leant forward and delved into the glove box to retrieve a packet of cigarettes. He helped himself to one and then indicated to Wednesday to help herself. She frequently toyed with the notion of quitting, but as Lennox smoked, she thought it would be near impossible.