Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  Graham took several moments to compose himself and then continued. “I went around to see Helen, on the Friday, and asked for her help. I wanted to know how she would feel if a murderer broke in and terrified her. I needed her reactions, don’t you see, to get the woman’s angle. A man would just get angry and attack an intruder, but women, well they are different...” He paused again.

  “And Helen was happy to help you?” Rachel Brown asked softly.

  “No. All she could think about was her heavy date that night with this new fella, and didn’t even give me a chance to explain properly.” Another long pause.

  “And then?” prompted Roberts.

  Graham took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “I asked Andy to go round and scare her a little.”

  “To scare her a little?” Rachel Brown could not disguise the sarcasm in her voice.

  “Yeah, I mean ruffle her feathers, shout ‘Boo’, nothing more than that.”

  “It would appear that your friend Andy did a good deal more than that.”

  “He’s a bloody good actor, that’s why. He didn’t hurt her, did he? She wasn’t bleeding or cut with a knife, just frightened a little.”

  “It was a good deal more than that,” Roberts repeated sharply. “The woman was traumatised. Let’s talk about the murders.”

  “No!” Graham shouted. “Andy would never do anything like that. I’m not sure if I even told him she had children. The timing was so perfect, with some real murderer on the loose out there. Shouldn’t you be out there looking for him, instead of wasting your time talking to me?”

  “We’ll decide how we spend our time, Mr Trueworth.”

  Graham looked down at the table and murmured what may have been an apology.

  If any suspect looked guilty, Andy would be a prime candidate. He tapped his foot incessantly on the floor. The constant noise set Roberts’ teeth on edge, and he tried to tune out the noise. The suspect’s face was bathed in sweat, he kept wiping his face with a sodden tissue, until Rachel left the room and returned with a box of paper hankies and slammed them on the table in front of him.

  “I know it looks bad, but I didn’t murder anyone,” spluttered Andy. “I couldn’t. And babies! I didn’t even know she had children.”

  Roberts opened the file in front of him. “Let’s go back to the night of the twenty-ninth of last month. Where were you around eight p.m.?”

  Andy stared at him, stunned.

  14

  DCI Roberts and Rachel Brown took a break in the police canteen.

  “We’ve plenty more to ask this Andy character, but I think we can rule out Monica and Mrs Harris.”

  “I’m not so sure, Sir. Something is not right.”

  He stared at her. “You have that feeling too?”

  “Yes. I can’t explain it, but…”

  DCI Roberts took a deep breath. “Feminine intuition?”

  “I don’t think so. I think you have the same feeling, and we can’t accuse you of…”

  He scratched his nose. “We’ve still to check out this Tim bloke, make sure he did take off for Singapore.”

  “I think it was Hong Kong, Sir.”

  Roberts waved his arm to one side. “Somewhere in that direction, bloody long way.”

  “And we’ve to check out Andy’s alibies for the time of the other murders.”

  “Always the possibility of a copycat, don’t forget.”

  “He’d need a motive though, surely.”

  “Rachel, when you’ve been in this job as long as I have, you’ll learn that felons come in all shapes and sizes. The most charismatic ones are often the worst. Some of them can charm the birds out of the trees. Come on, how often have you heard the neighbours say ‘But he was such a nice young man. Wouldn’t hurt a fly’?”

  “Y-e-s,” she replied. “Not that I’ve warmed to this one. He’s not that charming.”

  Roberts placed his cup back on its saucer and rose to his feet. “Getting too old for this job. Be nice to wrap up this one last case before retirement.”

  “Sad to see you go, Sir.”

  “I’ll miss it, but I’ll have more time to spend in the garden, and the missus will be glad of more company.”

  Rachel carried their used cups and plates back to the counter. She couldn’t help worrying about this case. It appeared open and shut but there was something niggling at the back of her mind. Something didn’t add up, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  The interrogations continued over the next few days.

  Andy’s alibis checked out for the time of the other murders.

  Graham kept insisting his actor friend was as soft as they made them, not capable of murder. He was an artist for f…’s sake, and artists built, they didn’t destroy.

  Vera Harris was brought in again and cried her way through the questions, her loud sobbing making it practically impossible to understand what she said. This time she did admit she had ‘weird feelings’, her words, and told them about creeping along the passage in her dressing gown and slippers, but was unsure of the exact time.

  Monica received a second grilling but was unable to give them any further information and finally jumped to her feet, swearing and threatening to bring her lawyer next time. Their actions were nothing short of police harassment.

  “That’s exactly what I don’t need at this late stage,” grumbled Roberts as they watched Monica flounce out of the door with her perfect makeup, boutique outfit and six-inch heels.

  They did not have enough evidence to detain any of them past the permitted twenty-four hours except for Andy and, even after questioning him for the extra seventy-two hours allowed by the magistrates, they still did not have enough proof to hold him.

  For now, they had reached a dead end, and then, to make matters worse, there was another murder, this time in Richmond, where the police in that borough made their own enquiries.

  There was cross-station liaison, but it was frustrating not to be on the front line. One thing they did discover was that, in this latest crime, Andy had no alibi; he was home alone watching television and couldn’t prove it.

  “In my day,” muttered Roberts as they perused the paperwork, “you could grill them on the programmes they watched, see if they could recall what was on. These days, with Netflix, and with all the repeats, you can’t pin them down.”

  15

  Helen stayed with Vera for a few nights, but her kind neighbour fussing over her was getting too much and, as soon as they told her the crime scene was clear, and the cleaners had finished, she walked the five doors down and locked herself inside her own place. It looked the same as it always did, except she needed to tidy up her bedroom. She noticed a huge scratch on one of the kitchen cupboards, probably from the knife in that last tussle.

  She couldn’t bring herself to enter the children’s bedroom and locked the door; every time she crossed the lounge, she’d remember what had happened in there. She couldn’t go on living here, not in this apartment. There would be too many bad memories. Even standing in the kitchen brought back the terror. She fingered the couch where she had seen Andy sleeping. She wandered into her bedroom and began to pick up the items scattered about, placing her belongings back in the drawers, hanging her clothes in the wardrobe. She’d have a good clear out before she moved. It was time to re-invent herself. Start over again.

  The ringing of the doorbell startled her. She shuffled over to the intercom, in no hurry to talk to anyone.

  It was Graham.

  “What do you want?” she snapped at him.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Do we? What about?”

  “Helen! Let me in. It was all a terrible mistake. I am so sorry.”

  Helen sighed and released the door latch. She stood by her open door waiting for the lift, deciding if she would let him in. One look at his distraught face and a part of her melted. He was her brother and the only family she had left.

  Graham followed her inside. “Look Sis,
I am just so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “No, you bloody didn’t,” she replied, making for the fridge.

  Graham paced up and down the lounge, running his hands through his hair. He stopped and turned to face her.

  “I had no idea. I’ve known Andy for years. We were in high school together, then RADA, and he’s the gentlest, kindest person I know.”

  “Well he wasn’t effing gentle that night. And, let’s not forget he murdered my babies.” Helen’s eyes filled with tears and she reached for the tissue box and dabbed her eyes before handing Graham a beer and a glass.

  “I’ll put my life on the line and swear to you that Andy could never hurt a fly, much less a baby. And don’t forget the police have let him go. And too, there has been another mother and child murdered since then.”

  Helen stood over Graham, invading his personal space. “Oh yes, so you think Vera Harris murdered the twins?”

  “Oh, hell no!” Graham’s eyes opened wide. “No!”

  “Then that leaves your precious friend Andy, right? He was here, he had a knife, two in fact; he was wearing one and he locked me in the bedroom while he walked into that room,” she pointed to the locked door, “and murdered my children. I don’t care if the police can’t prove it. I know he did it.”

  Helen had worked herself into a rage. The tears were streaming down her face, she was shaking as she stumbled across the carpet and collapsed onto the couch.

  Graham rushed to put his arms around her and rocked her like a baby. “There, there,” he murmured. “I was wrong, so wrong and I’m so, so sorry. I would never have guessed.”

  She buried her head against his chest and sobbed, making his sweater damp as she clung to him.

  Graham hugged her tight. They needed to stick together, and he swore to himself that he would never, ever put Helen in any danger again. He couldn’t believe what a fool he’d been.

  At last, she lifted her head and gave him a half smile. “That reminded me of how Mum would comfort us when things went wrong.”

  “I still miss them.” He pushed her hair back off her face and clumsily tried to wipe away her tears. “Yet even though we were orphans we managed to stay together.”

  She nodded, then sat up suddenly. “Whoa there. You’re after the spare bedroom, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he proclaimed his innocence. “Trust me, I wouldn’t. Not now.”

  “Just as well, because it’s not on offer. I’m handing in my notice the moment I find somewhere else to live. I’ve two appointments this afternoon to view a couple of places.”

  Graham swallowed. That was another plan that had not worked out. He was angry; the least his sister could do was offer to put him up. Would she prefer to see him on the streets? And, to make life even more miserable, he’d not had a chance to talk to Andy, find out what had happened. He was not answering his calls or his texts and, when he went round to his place, Andy refused to open the door.

  “But I can offer you lunch.” Helen rose and walked into the kitchen. “It’s only cheese on toast, but better than starving.”

  16

  Rachel Brown walked over to DCI Roberts’ desk and placed a file in front of him. “The reports from Forensics.”

  He smiled at her and began to read, skipping over the medical jargon, he needed to know only a couple of basic facts from the wad of papers in front of him.

  Rachel was busy catching up on her paperwork when she was startled to hear Paul Roberts shout “Yes! I knew it.”

  She left her desk to peer over his shoulder, reading the line above his finger.

  “Now it all makes sense.”

  He looked up and nodded. “We both felt there was something not quite right. Too many inconsistencies. Too many lies.” He stood up and pushed his arms into his coat sleeves. “Ready?”

  “I sure am, though I’m not going to enjoy this.”

  “We’ll run this past the top brass first.”

  Roberts and Jones knocked on the door to the Chief’s office. He waved them to the chairs on the other side of the desk.

  “I need you to assure me you have a watertight case for the Public Prosecutor.”

  “Yes Sir, we have, wrapped up tight.” Rachel was beaming.

  “So, what alerted you to the real culprit?” He stretched his hand out to take the file the DCI offered him.

  He sat in silence as he read through the facts, while Roberts and Jones sat and waited. He flicked through the thick pile of papers and looked up. “Give me the bare facts.”

  “There were too many things that didn’t add up. First, the finger prints on the children’s bedroom door only belonged to Mrs Harris and Andy Fitzpatrick. It was Rachel who pointed that out. Odd, the mother’s prints were not on it,” Roberts explained.

  “As if she’d wiped the handle clean at some point. And, what mother doesn’t check her children are sleeping safe and sound when she comes in from a date?” Rachel added.

  “Next,” the DCI continued, “there were prints from Vera Harris on one knife, and Helen’s prints under Andy’s on another knife. So far this is all circumstantial, but then there was the first lie. Helen told Mrs Harris not to come and babysit on the Saturday morning as she wasn’t playing tennis.”

  “She hadn’t told Monica she wasn’t going to play,” Rachel interjected.

  Roberts continued. “When we questioned Monica, she wasn’t aware of any cancellation, in fact she cancelled the court herself on the Saturday morning.”

  “She lied again, Sir. When we interviewed her boyfriend Tim Paterson. He told us she’d said she didn’t have children. She’d been really excited about flying all over the world with him on his business trips. He understood she had no ties or obligations here in Britain.”

  The Chief pursed his lips. “Um, I’m not overwhelmed with your reason. It could be seen as circumstantial.”

  “I agree, Sir. Except for two further things. The children were killed with a knife from the block in the kitchen. They have very distinctive blades, a present from Mr and Mrs Harris. The old man, Bert Harris, was a butcher and knew a lot about knives. According to the forensic report their throats were cut by a left-handed person, and all the other possible suspects are right-handed.”

  The Chief nodded.

  “But the final piece of evidence is the time of death.”

  Their boss checked the data and nodded. “Go, do what you have to.”

  When Helen let DCI Roberts and DC Jones into the flat, she was dressed up ready to go out on her next date with Tim. Graham was sitting on the couch looking glum, Mrs Harris was fluttering around like a bird with a broken wing, and Monica was sitting on the sofa flicking through a magazine.

  “What do you want?” Helen glared at them.

  “We’ve come to make an arrest,” was the reply.

  17

  The court was silent as DCI Roberts took the stand. The press was leaning over the balcony eager to catch every last sordid detail. The public gallery was crammed with friends and strangers, as the prosecution began to question the witnesses.

  “You were taking a bit of a chance there, with the timing I mean,” Rachel said to Roberts as they walked down the steps outside the courthouse.

  “You didn’t believe me when I told Helen that forensics could prove time of death to within ten minutes?”

  “Well no, an hour or so, even a bit more, but…”

  Roberts chuckled. “As long as she believed me. Those babies were dead before she went out that night. I think she was trying to set Mrs Harris up for the murder. Then, when Andy came round to ‘rehearse’ his part in Graham’s play, he was an even better candidate.”

  “She may well have believed he was the real murderer in the other cases,” Rachel said, as they waited to cross the road.

  “Yes, ironic, she would have got away with it.”

  “Only if he hadn’t killed her too. Sir, it’s unbelievable to think a mother would kill her own children.” She shook her head.

  �
�Don’t believe all the Disney movies about mother love, Rachel. Those kids were holding Helen back from the life she wanted.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone lose it like that before. She went ballistic and confessed to everything.”

  “Yes, and now she’ll spend the rest of her life in prison.”

  “She won’t have an easy time inside. I almost feel a little sorry for her.”

  Rachel glanced at the headline in the newsagent’s kiosk.

  MOTHER COMMITS INFANTICIDE

  “Well I don’t… and to think I did feel sorry for her. I wish we’d caught the real murderer, Sir. Have we checked Helen’s alibi for those crimes?”

  Roberts stopped dead in his tracks. “Now, that’s something I’d not considered. We must look into that. Come, let’s have a pint to celebrate.”

  They took a short cut through the park to the pub, and Roberts paused briefly to watch the crowd of excited youngsters scrambling through the plastic tunnels and climbing up the steps to the top of the slides and monkey bars in the play area. He was tired after a long and successful career, longer than most, though he’d never aspired to climbing too high through the ranks, no desk job for him. He’d been happier working out in the field, but it was time to leave it to the next generation.

  He was relieved that Rachel couldn’t read his mind. It was a shame they couldn’t pin the other murders on Andy; he’d been the perfect candidate. But now he was out of the frame it would not be easy to protect the real killer. There must be a way, maybe by taking him abroad, or having him sectioned? Yes, he thought, he’d always been wild, right from the day he was born, but now he’d escalated to murder he’d gone too far. DCI Roberts could no longer sit back and see more innocent mothers and children killed by his own son.

  About the Author

  Lucinda E Clarke has lived in eight countries, survived riots, observed a public hanging, broadcast live with a bayonet at her neck, run a rock band, met Mandela and Prince Charles, wrote for years for the South African Broadcasting Company, moved from radio to television and eventually had her own video company before retiring from Africa to Spain. Now she doesn’t write to order but for herself and says she couldn’t have asked for a worse boss – who never lets her have a day off and sets impossible deadlines. She is currently working on her 16th book.