But Doyle was so preoccupied he forgot to be deferential and polite to Chidlow and ignored him. Instead, he looked at Morgan and Karen. ‘Detective, the parents are here.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Doyle led them to the library, where the missing girls’ parents were waiting. It was larger than Chidlow’s study. Three walls were lined with bookcases, containing the same expensive-looking leather-bound books. French windows led out on to a terrace. A log fire in the large grate gave out welcome heat. The bottoms of Karen’s trousers were still damp, and she hadn’t been able to shake off the chill that seemed to pervade Chidlow House.
There were three narrow sofas in the room as well as a number of armchairs. Despite all the available seating, the three adults in the room remained standing, tense. All three looked up expectantly as Doyle and the police officers entered the room.
‘This is Mrs Layton and Mr and Mrs Blake,’ Doyle said. He turned, nodding at the parents. ‘DI Morgan and DS Hart are the detectives I told you about.’
Mr Blake stepped forward. He had a youthful appearance and tanned skin, dark hair and bright eyes. He was only a couple of inches taller than Karen. He’d loosened his tie and taken off his suit jacket. He’d probably been heading to work when he got the news.
He thrust out his hand and said, ‘Ryan Blake. I’m Cressida’s father, and this is my wife, Jasmine.’ He gestured to the tall woman beside him. She had long, dark hair and an oddly blank expression. She wore a dark red shift dress and black cardigan, probably cashmere and expensive.
Unlike Ryan, whose face was animated and clearly showed his distress at the situation, his wife’s face appeared impassive. Her skin was smooth and unlined, and it occurred to Karen that could be due to cosmetic surgery rather than a true lack of emotion.
‘And I’m Imogen Layton.’ The other woman who had been standing by the fire strode over to them.
‘Yes, Mrs Layton is an historian at the university,’ Doyle said, gazing at her with admiration.
Imogen barely spared him a glance. She was tall with chin-length brown hair. A silk scarf in muted colours was tied around her neck. ‘Elegant’ was the first word that came to Karen’s mind as she assessed the woman.
‘Can you tell us what’s going on?’ Imogen asked, looking directly at Morgan. ‘All we know is that Mr Doyle here somehow seems to have lost our daughters.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Mrs Layton,’ Doyle said with a nervous, spluttering cough. ‘They’re teenagers. They probably went out last night, forgot the time and couldn’t get a taxi back. The weather has been awful.’
All three parents glanced at the French windows, which were being lashed with rain – probably imagining their daughters out there alone, unsheltered.
Graham Doyle could be right. In most of these cases the youngsters did turn up unharmed within a few hours. Though Karen had been a police officer too long to rule out other possibilities.
‘I can tell you what we know so far,’ Morgan said. ‘Cressida and Natasha went out together last night at nine p.m. Mr Doyle raised the alarm when they didn’t show up for breakfast at seven a.m. this morning.’
‘Yes, we got a call,’ Imogen said. ‘He told us to stay at home, but of course we couldn’t.’
‘And Natasha’s father? Has he been informed?’ Morgan asked.
‘He’s on his way. He was needed in surgery this morning.’
‘Would you like us to wait until he gets here?’
‘No, you can ask me any questions you have. Then I’d like you to get on with finding our daughters.’
There was a click. Graham Doyle had left the room and shut the door behind him.
‘Let’s sit down,’ Morgan said.
Jasmine was the first to gracefully sit on one of the sofas, and then Ryan, who’d been running his hand repeatedly through his dark hair, sat beside her. Imogen sat opposite them and Morgan and Karen sat in the wing-backed armchairs closest to the fire.
‘Were any of you aware that Cressida and Natasha had intended to go out last night?’
‘No,’ Imogen said. ‘Natasha was supposed to be studying. I would not have approved of an outing.’
‘No,’ Ryan agreed, his voice a little hoarse. ‘I don’t believe they’re supposed to be going out at all while they’re here. It’s a study week. They’re meant to remain on the premises.’
‘All right. And Cressida and Natasha were good friends?’ Karen asked.
‘Yes, they were close,’ Jasmine said, speaking for the first time.
‘Well, I don’t know how close they were,’ Ryan said. ‘But they were friends, certainly.’
Imogen said nothing but Karen noted the way her facial features tightened, and she filed it away for later. Did she not approve of the friendship between Cressida and Natasha?
‘What about boyfriends? Was either girl seeing anyone?’ Karen asked.
‘Not Natasha,’ Imogen said without hesitation. ‘She knows she’s here to study. This is an important year for her, and there’s plenty of time for boys later.’
Karen was surprised. Did Imogen really think that her seventeen-year-old daughter had no interest in romance and would be content to dedicate herself solely to academic study? That seemed unlikely from what Karen knew of teenagers. Still, they would talk to the young woman’s peers and get a fuller view of Natasha’s character.
Morgan directed the next question to the Blakes. ‘How about Cressida?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ Ryan said, running his fingers through his thick thatch of hair again.
Jasmine looked down at her hands, clutched together in her lap. ‘She wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment.’
‘Do they have friends close by?’ DI Morgan asked.
‘Not very close. Most of Cressida’s friends are based in Grantham and Newark,’ Jasmine replied.
‘Same with Natasha,’ Imogen said. ‘She doesn’t know anyone in Harmston.’
‘And they both attend Markham?’ Morgan asked.
‘Yes, both girls go to Markham School for Young Ladies,’ Imogen said. ‘It’s a private all-girls school near Grantham.’
If they’d returned to the Grantham area, they would have needed a taxi or a lift from a friend, unless they were hitchhiking. The area wasn’t well served with public transport. ‘We’ll check locally, see if anyone has spotted them in the last twenty-four hours. If you could contact their friends . . .’
‘Yes, I’ve made a start on that already,’ Imogen said, impatiently tapping her foot.
‘We’ll talk to the other students on the course. With your permission, we’d like to search Cressida’s and Natasha’s rooms. We might find something that tells us where they’ve gone,’ Morgan said.
‘I really think you should be out there searching for them. That would be a better use of your time. You are planning a search, I take it?’ Imogen demanded, then turned to look out of the window.
A search party in the pouring rain was not an inviting prospect. If a crime had been committed, it was likely some of the evidence had been washed away. But they weren’t at that stage yet. It was too early.