Read Online Cherringham--A Lesson in Murder by Neil Richards - Free Book Online
Authors: Neil Richards
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fell out. Sarah picked it up and looked at it closely: Emily Braithwaite and a girl in her late teens smiled into the camera. Their arms were draped around each other, their faces close.
Sarah picked up one of the envelopes and checked the postmark: 2008. She took out the letter and started to read. It was long: six pages of densely written script.
Six pages of passionate feelings, recollections of moments shared, heartfelt wishes for a never-ending future together …
Then chilling words …
‘Our special friendship …’
Sarah put the letter back in the pile and picked up the photo again. The girl looked older than Chloe. But not much.
She paused, then slipped the photo back among the letters and tied them all up in braid again. She opened up another drawer.
Again, a bound batch of letters and photos.
And more photos. All with Emily — but now with a different girl.
Sarah opened the other drawers one by one — each contained a bundle of letters. The postmark on each set, a different year.
Six, seven drawers? Seven different girls.
Seven different sets of letters.
But not just ordinary letters, thought Sarah.
The last bundle was the most recent, bearing a postmark just a month ago. Sarah untied the braid and carefully laid out the contents on the desk top. She looked at the photo. The same pose as the others. Perhaps even the same location? This girl had frizzy blonde hair and a nose stud.
She looked at the envelopes. Some were marked US Mail. She opened the top one in the batch and started reading.
Dear, dear Emily …
This is so unfair. Why haven’t you written? You know I’m going crazy here. Please — you must write me!!
Sarah heard the bang of a door shutting. It was the door to Florence House. She stopped reading and waited, holding her breath, listening.
Now the sound of a key in the lock.
Damn, somebody’s coming in.
She grabbed the bundle of letters and shut the desk, then went over to the light switch, turned it off, and stood behind the half-open bedroom door in the darkness.
She heard the door open, and shut.
Then the sound of someone walking down the corridor and into the main sitting room.
What am I doing here? Sarah thought. What an idiot! If it’s a member of staff — or even the police, I’m in big trouble …
Whoever was in the flat now walked back down the corridor. Sarah pressed flat against the wall as the intruder came in.
Sarah watched the figure walk over towards the bed and turn the bedside light on, then turn —
In an instant, Sarah knew who it was.
“Freya DeLong,” she said as the girl saw her and flung her hand to her mouth to suppress a scream of shock.
“What? Who the hell are you?” said Freya.
Sarah had to admire the girl’s speed of recovery. Her own heart was still racing.
“I’m the person who’s got the letters,” she said, slowly holding them up. “Your letters. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
Sarah watched the girl take out a mobile.
“You’re a thief,” said Freya. “And I’m going to call the police.”
What is it they teach these girls, thought Sarah. How can they be so cool?
“I really wouldn’t do that, Freya.”
“You know my name. How do you know my name? We’ve never met.”
Sarah watched her put her phone to her ear, about to speak, about to summon the police …
“I’ve seen your photo, Freya. With Ms. Braithwaite. And I’ve seen your work too — on Sophie White’s door. And I know what’s in these letters. Your feelings, then … your threats.”
Sarah stared at the girl, silently willing her to put the phone away, not wanting to show weakness now, this moment too important.
Freya snapped her phone back into its holder. “Well?” she said, her voice a challenge.
“I think we ought to talk — don’t you?” said Sarah.
“Talk? What about?”
“About Emily. And you. And what’s been going on in the school this last month.”
Sarah watched Freya’s shoulders slump.
“All
Sarah picked up one of the envelopes and checked the postmark: 2008. She took out the letter and started to read. It was long: six pages of densely written script.
Six pages of passionate feelings, recollections of moments shared, heartfelt wishes for a never-ending future together …
Then chilling words …
‘Our special friendship …’
Sarah put the letter back in the pile and picked up the photo again. The girl looked older than Chloe. But not much.
She paused, then slipped the photo back among the letters and tied them all up in braid again. She opened up another drawer.
Again, a bound batch of letters and photos.
And more photos. All with Emily — but now with a different girl.
Sarah opened the other drawers one by one — each contained a bundle of letters. The postmark on each set, a different year.
Six, seven drawers? Seven different girls.
Seven different sets of letters.
But not just ordinary letters, thought Sarah.
The last bundle was the most recent, bearing a postmark just a month ago. Sarah untied the braid and carefully laid out the contents on the desk top. She looked at the photo. The same pose as the others. Perhaps even the same location? This girl had frizzy blonde hair and a nose stud.
She looked at the envelopes. Some were marked US Mail. She opened the top one in the batch and started reading.
Dear, dear Emily …
This is so unfair. Why haven’t you written? You know I’m going crazy here. Please — you must write me!!
Sarah heard the bang of a door shutting. It was the door to Florence House. She stopped reading and waited, holding her breath, listening.
Now the sound of a key in the lock.
Damn, somebody’s coming in.
She grabbed the bundle of letters and shut the desk, then went over to the light switch, turned it off, and stood behind the half-open bedroom door in the darkness.
She heard the door open, and shut.
Then the sound of someone walking down the corridor and into the main sitting room.
What am I doing here? Sarah thought. What an idiot! If it’s a member of staff — or even the police, I’m in big trouble …
Whoever was in the flat now walked back down the corridor. Sarah pressed flat against the wall as the intruder came in.
Sarah watched the figure walk over towards the bed and turn the bedside light on, then turn —
In an instant, Sarah knew who it was.
“Freya DeLong,” she said as the girl saw her and flung her hand to her mouth to suppress a scream of shock.
“What? Who the hell are you?” said Freya.
Sarah had to admire the girl’s speed of recovery. Her own heart was still racing.
“I’m the person who’s got the letters,” she said, slowly holding them up. “Your letters. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
Sarah watched the girl take out a mobile.
“You’re a thief,” said Freya. “And I’m going to call the police.”
What is it they teach these girls, thought Sarah. How can they be so cool?
“I really wouldn’t do that, Freya.”
“You know my name. How do you know my name? We’ve never met.”
Sarah watched her put her phone to her ear, about to speak, about to summon the police …
“I’ve seen your photo, Freya. With Ms. Braithwaite. And I’ve seen your work too — on Sophie White’s door. And I know what’s in these letters. Your feelings, then … your threats.”
Sarah stared at the girl, silently willing her to put the phone away, not wanting to show weakness now, this moment too important.
Freya snapped her phone back into its holder. “Well?” she said, her voice a challenge.
“I think we ought to talk — don’t you?” said Sarah.
“Talk? What about?”
“About Emily. And you. And what’s been going on in the school this last month.”
Sarah watched Freya’s shoulders slump.
“All
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