A Deathly Silence

by Isaac, Jane;

  Blane’s stomach clenched. Was there ever a suitable place to tell your children their mother was dead?

  Last night was a blur, a whirlwind. He remembered an officer he didn’t know, driving him home. Giving an account at the kitchen table. A senior officer arriving to check on him. After they left, the disbelief in his mother’s face as he woke her and delivered the news. Them sitting, side by side, in the front room, her soothing and consoling him. Eventually she’d dropped into an exhausted sleep, her head on his shoulder. Blane couldn’t rest. Couldn’t think of anything other than the most appropriate way to deliver the unthinkable to his children.

  Finally, night had turned to day, the birds had started their chorus and he’d woken them at their usual hour and brought them into their grandmother’s front room, the most used room in the house.

  Slats of sunlight seeped through the wooden blinds, forming stripes across the rainbow teddy bear and doll’s head hanging out of the wooden toy box in the corner. A crystal vase on the dresser glinted in the sunlight. His gaze moved to the host of family photos surrounding it: memories captured of moments gone by.

  Including his wedding photo.

  For years it had sat there, nestled amongst baby photos of his children at varying stages of growth, part of the background, the wallflowers of his mother’s sitting room. Yet, today, the photograph was like a magnet, drawing back his gaze every time he tried to tear it away. Sinead looked beautiful. So fresh and vibrant, with her hair tied back, her translucent skin, the thick dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. The flowers arranged strategically over the bump that was later to become Thomas. Their glowing faces, blooming with the optimism of a long future together.

  Not like the photo he’d supplied to the homicide team, taken at Christmas last year, on a night out with friends. Sinead hadn’t changed much over the past seven years. A few creases had gathered around her eyes, laughter lines in her face. The signs of a happy life. She had been happy. They both had. Yes, they’d been hassled by family pressures recently. Work, childcare, elderly relatives. But it was meant to be short-term. After he finished his mother’s refurbishment, she would move to a smaller house, be more comfortable. And he’d have more time for his family again.

  His stomach clenched tighter. This morning, he would see her one last time at the mortuary. Although, after what he’d been told, he wasn’t sure if that was an image he’d want to be left with.

  Two pairs of expectant eyes grew to large pools as Blane O’Donnell crouched in front of them. ‘I’m afraid I have some very sad news for you,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 12

  Helen’s low heels dragged up the stairs. She could hear the same cadence in Pemberton’s step behind her, fighting the fatigue now starting to bite. Charles gave them an acknowledging backwards nod through the window as they entered the outer room of Hampton Mortuary, then turned back to the metal gurney to point out areas of interest for his assistant, who was busy hopping around the body, photographing her from various angles.

  Iridescent lights bounced off the metal surfaces as they gowned up. An icy shiver skittered down Helen’s spine. No matter what time of year it was, the mortuary always felt cold.

  ‘What are we doing about the possible organised crime connection?’ Pemberton asked as he pulled on his overshoes.

  ‘Jenkins is dealing with it. He’s speaking to force intelligence himself. Doesn’t want the team distracted by it.’

  ‘More meetings.’ Pemberton nodded. ‘Good for him. Give us a chance to do the real police work.’

  Helen allowed herself a wry smile. ‘Do you know Ivan Newton?’ she asked. ‘Inspector at Leicester.’

  Pemberton shook his head. ‘Never heard of him. Why?’

  ‘He’s filling our vacancy, joining us next week. You’ll be able to stand down.’

  ‘About time. It’s not like we couldn’t do with the help.’

  ‘Mm. For some reason, the name rings a bell.’

  They moved into the main room together, stepping over a drain as they approached the pathologist. Helen was relieved to see Sinead O’Donnell on the gurney. On the wall to the side was today’s date and a list of names – the examination schedule for the morning. Charles had been true to his word and pushed Sinead to the front and she was grateful for his efficiency.

  But any initial pleasure was immediately swamped by a wave of sadness. Sinead O’Donnell’s body was even more pitiful laid out naked on a metal gurney. The strong cheekbones unrecognisable from the swollen bruises and cuts that decorated her once attractive face and neck. Her eyes were open, empty.

  Helen looked at the fingernails and toenails, both painted a matching sky blue. She imagined Sinead’s excitement as she’d prepared for her holiday. Painting her nails, packing her clothes. The anticipation of her retreat, a few days of relaxation, a short respite from the demands of being a working mother. Her children were young, their family had other commitments; her husband indicated she’d struggled finding time for herself.

  It was all strangely familiar. With her own two boys under five when their father was killed in a helicopter crash, almost eleven years earlier, Helen’s own life was thrown into disarray. Forced to deal with the grief, find work and spend time with the children, eventually she’d had to rely on her mother to share the childcare. In recent years, the two women had pooled their resources and bought a house together, with a granny flat on the side to give her mother some privacy, but, still, there was always something: football matches, Air Cadet training, school events to attend. Even with her mother’s help, family commitments, coupled with the demands of running a homicide team, meant time for herself was virtually non-existent.

  She pictured Sinead packing her bag, loading it into the boot. Detectives back at the station were in the process of interviewing her friends and colleagues, but no one so far could shed any light on what could have happened to her or how she’d ended up in the disused warehouse.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked the pathologist.

  ‘She’s taken quite a battering,’ Charles said without looking up. ‘Her nose and right cheekbone are broken. There’s a crack in her jaw.’ He pointed out arcs of purple bruising across her abdomen. ‘There’s more of them on her back. I’d suggest they’re consistent with the toe of a boot or trainer.’

  ‘They kicked her when she was down?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s probably why there are more on the back. The body is internally programmed to coil, protect the organs at the front.’ He moved down to the side. ‘Cigarette burns on her left wrist.’

  Helen watched him turn over the arm, exposing a butterfly tattoo on her wrist. Three tiny round burns littered the area above it. ‘On the inside?’

  ‘The skin is thinner there. The pain more severe.’

  She resisted the temptation to flinch.

  ‘I found fibres on her tongue.’

  ‘She was gagged?’ There was no sign of a gag at the factory.

  ‘Looks that way, at least for some of the time. Maybe to muffle her cries. Whoever did this was systematic in their methods of torture. The fingers were probably the final move. When they’d cut off those, they realised she either wasn’t going to tell them what they wanted to know or couldn’t. They finished her off by the cut to her throat. The wound is deeper on the right side. I’d suggest they probably grabbed her by the hair to hold her head still, swiped from right to left.’

  The silence in the room was broken by Pemberton’s phone trilling. He excused himself and left to take the call.

  ‘We’ve done her hands, her fingernails, although there’s not much under them. Obviously one set are missing.’ Charles gave a short cough as he continued. ‘I’d suggest whoever did this was careful, wore gloves.’

  It struck her, the finger stubs hadn’t been recovered. Nor had the murder weapon, despite extensive searches.

  ‘There are marks around the ankles from the cable ties used to secure them and welts on the right wrist from where she’s fo
ught against the handcuffs.’

  There it was, the mention of the handcuffs again.

  ‘No defensive bruising, no sign of any sexual interference,’ Charles continued. ‘It looks like they took her by surprise.’ He turned the head and pointed out the wound. ‘This one was inflicted from the side. A blow like that would daze her at least, might even have caused temporary loss of consciousness and given them time to restrain her.’

  ‘What about time of death?’

  He checked his notes. ‘I can’t be any more precise than yesterday, between 2.30 and 6.30 p.m.’

  Pemberton popped his head around the door. ‘We’re needed back at the office,’ he said to Helen.

  ‘The ATM footage?’

  ‘No, a separate witness has called in with some dashcam film. Looks like they’ve captured our kids.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. Do you have anything else for us?’ Helen asked the pathologist.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll run the usual tests, put everything in my report. If I find anything else of immediate interest, I’ll call you.’

  ‘Thank you. You can reach me on my mobile.’

  She’d turned to go when he called after her, ‘Helen?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s good to see you back.’

  ***

  ‘Play it again,’ Helen said. Pemberton and she were back in the incident room, crowded around DC Steve Spencer’s desk.

  Spencer pressed a button on his laptop and a surprisingly clear image of a road filled his screen. A red Toyota in front was inching forwards in the semi-darkness. In the distance, they could see a roundabout. Pavements either side were empty.

  ‘These dashcams have quite a reach,’ Pemberton said.

  ‘The motorist was on Hampton High Street, approaching Cross Keys roundabout on Wednesday evening,’ Spencer interjected. ‘He heard our appeal this morning and emailed this footage through.’ The time in the corner of the screen read 8.47 p.m.

  Two figures appeared. They were dressed in dark jeans, hoods pulled over their heads, shielding their faces from the lens. One much taller than the other. The descriptions and timings certainly seemed to fit with the informant’s description.

  The kids approached the roundabout, crossed in front of the car and were gone.

  ‘Can you rewind,’ Helen asked, ‘and play it back in slow motion?’

  Spencer grinned. ‘I can. That’s where it gets interesting.’

  He moved the cursor back and clicked another couple of buttons. Frame by frame, the kids approached. Look up, Helen thought. Just once. But they kept their heads down and turned at an angle, away from the lens. They were almost out of sight when Spencer pressed pause.

  Helen exchanged a confused glance with Pemberton. Nothing looked obvious.

  Spencer clicked again. One of them glanced sideways at the motorist. It was a quick glance from beneath his hood, not enough to show his face.

  ‘Is that it?’ Helen asked.

  Spencer shook his head, zoomed in. The photo immediately blurred, the rear lights of the car in front dazzling the lens. Helen narrowed her eyes. A few strands of fringe, barely recognisable, protruded the edge of the hood. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that kid’s got ginger hair.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Helen said. A distinguishing feature would certainly narrow down their search. ‘Any news on the ATM footage?’

  Spencer grimaced. ‘It’s a bit grainy. I’ve isolated the best part.’ He clicked a button and a still of a swarthy man wearing an Adidas sweat top graced the screen. A cap was pulled down over his nose.

  ‘That’s a grown man,’ Pemberton said.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘They could still be connected,’ Helen said. ‘Have you checked with intelligence to see if he’s known to us?’ she asked Spencer.

  He nodded. ‘They can’t tell from this shot.’

  She turned to Pemberton. ‘See if you can reach Vicki Gardener in the press office. We could do with the photos of the kids and this one going out to the news teams. Have them placed on our social media channels too.’ Releasing the ATM image publicly at this early stage was a risk. The offender might see it, go into hiding. But they were up against the clock and she couldn’t afford to wait. They’d circulate it internally and check with other forces, but if a member of the public had spotted him in the meantime, they could make a move.

  She faced the rest of the room. ‘Right, everyone. We’re looking for two kids, one of them ginger-haired, and a grown man with dark features. Go through the files, speak to intelligence, see if there are any matches. Oh, and grab any CCTV from the businesses surrounding the ATM machine. Let’s see if we can get a better image.’ A low murmur of excitement followed as she turned back to the screen and placed a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. ‘Well done, Steve.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Connor picked up a stone from the riverbank and tossed it at the water, watching it skim off the surface before it disappeared. The sun had broken through the clouds, making for a pleasant day. The grass was warm beneath him. He held his head back, closed his eyes, allowing the rays to sink into his face.

  It hadn’t been difficult to arrive at holiday club that morning and leave within an hour, feigning a headache. When they offered to phone his mum, he’d held up his mobile phone, said he’d call her himself. And he would call her, later. Cathy, the team leader, had been struggling with a four-year-old throwing a tantrum and shot him a grateful look as he left, saying she hoped he’d feel better tomorrow. They were used to him arriving alone, making his own way home. This was his second time with them, and he was one of the oldest there, one of the responsible ones.

  Would they still consider him responsible if they knew where he’d been, what he’d seen last night?

  Laid out beside him, Rhys grunted, placed his hands behind his head and stretched his elbows back. He’d dressed and made his way to the park as soon as he received Connor’s text earlier. When Connor arrived, he was sitting on a bench by the entrance, waiting, a football tucked underneath his arm. They’d barely spoken, falling straight into a game, kicking the ball around, taking turns at the goal. Finally, exhausted, they’d moved down to the riverbank to rest in the sunshine.

  But the air was still thick between them.

  Connor opened his eyes and lifted his head. A swan passed, gliding along the water, closely followed by a line of cygnets. Further along the bank, a mother was picnicking on a blanket with her toddler. He watched her reach down and wipe the child’s mouth while it pointed at the swan. As she did so, a lock of hair picked up and blew in the breeze. Dark hair. Curly.

  Anxiety bubbled inside him. He looked back at the water.

  ‘They found her,’ he said eventually.

  Rhys had sat up now and was scrabbling around on the bank beside him, picking out loose stones from the grass and placing them in a pile. He didn’t look up. ‘Who?’

  ‘The dead woman in the factory. It was on the telly this morning.’

  Rhys shrugged a single shoulder and tossed one of the stones at the water. It skimmed off the surface, one, two, three times.

  ‘I keep seeing her in my mind,’ Connor continued.

  ‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’

  ‘They said on the news she’s police.’

  Rhys turned to face his friend. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s a police officer. We need to speak to somebody.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone saw us leaving Billings. They contacted the police, gave a description. It was on the news.’

  ‘What kind of description?’

  ‘Two kids, dressed in black jeans and hoodies.’

  ‘That’s it? Shit,’ he scoffed. ‘If that’s all they’ve got, then we’ve nothin’ to worry about.’

  ‘There’s footage too, from the street cameras nearby.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Not if they don’t see our faces.’ He tossed another stone into the water.

  ‘What if someone else saw us running away? They
might have seen our faces, contact the police.’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘You can’t be sure. They might think we were involved. I mean—’

  Rhys’s face hardened. He rounded on his friend. ‘No! We tell no one. We agreed.’

  Connor looked back at the sparkles of light bouncing off the water. His eyes filled. He couldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. Not in front of Rhys. But the weight of that poor woman’s dead body was twisting his stomach, wringing it out, over and over.

  ‘What would your mum say if she knew you’d gone into the factory?’ Rhys said.

  He had a point there. Connor could still see his mum’s face when she found him at the park on the last day at school. The tightness in her voice as she commanded him to collect his belongings; the way she’d marched him home like a child, his cheeks smarting. He cringed inwardly.

  ‘We’ll only get in trouble. And it’s not like we can help in any way. I didn’t see anyone, did you?’

  Connor kept his gaze on the water, gave a juddered head shake.

  ‘There we are then. It’s none of our business.’

  Silence hovered between them. Connor fixed his eyes on the water, refusing to be lured back to the dark-haired woman beside him, the mother. In many ways, Rhys was right. He needed to crush the tiny voice inside him trying to convince him otherwise.

  ‘Come on.’ Rhys jumped up and grabbed the ball. ‘Race you back. It’s your turn in goal.’

  CHAPTER 14

  The queue at the canteen had reduced to a trickle. Helen nodded to a passing superintendent she recognised from the east of the county and stepped inside. Apart from the staff behind the counter, she was now alone.

  She approached the lectern and ran the tips of her fingers across the white book of condolence. In Memory was etched on the front in silver italics. She turned the cover and immediately faced a ream of handwritten messages. It was the same on the next page, and the next: penned scrawls, some accompanied by kisses and hearts. A handful were personal, others broad and general, those that didn’t know Sinead personally yet felt compelled to support a fellow officer. The police were good at that, pulling together in times of need.