A Deathly Silence

by Isaac, Jane;

  He placed the epaulette on the table and pulled out Sinead’s shower bag, her pink jogging bottoms, and then lifted out a clean white shirt, the creases crisp from the iron. Police officers always carried a spare shirt in their locker, you never knew when one might get torn in an altercation or sprayed with blood or other bodily fluids at an accident. A grey towel, one from their own bathroom, was beneath, followed by a shoe buffer. A red make-up bag contained a single lipstick, a palette of blush. Sinead always wore make-up but went for a minimalist approach at work. Another epaulette shifted in the bottom of the bag. Blane lifted it out and ran his thumb over the numbers when he noticed the number three was missing. It must have grown loose. He grabbed the bag, turned it upside down and shook it. The silver number rattled on the table as it dropped out. Closely followed by another blaze of silver.

  Blane moved the pin aside and gathered up the other item. A silver necklace with a Celtic-style heart. The delicate chain slipped around his fingers.

  He lowered himself into a chair, eyes glued to the chain. Where had this come from? Because it sure as hell hadn’t come from him.

  CHAPTER 36

  Helen checked the illuminated digits on her bedside clock. It was almost 6 a.m. She rolled over to face the space beside her. If she concentrated, she could still hear the distinctive bellow of her late husband’s laugh, feel the bristles of his beard as they kissed. The memories unearthed a longing deep inside.

  He’d never seen his boys grow and become the young men they were today: didn’t know she’d joined the police force. They’d spent more years apart than they had together now, yet he still felt integral to her life. Oh, she’d had the odd fling since, away from her children. Until recently. Only one man had rivalled John’s closeness and earned the right to be introduced to her family. And now he was dead too, killed on their last investigation.

  Dean’s dark features and athletic bearing couldn’t have been more different to John’s amusing face and wiry frame, but he’d dug deep and captured her heart the same.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. She reached out a hand, stroked the creases out of the pillow beside her. She’d been looking forward to having the house to herself this week, to focus on settling back into work, although without her family here it felt empty.

  Her boys were growing fast. Matthew would be gone in a couple of years, Robert soon after. Leaving her mother and she in the house together.

  In many ways, she was lucky. Her mother was her closest friend, her confidante. She made a point of not interfering and retreated to her adjoining flat to give them privacy. While Helen had been off work, she’d been careful to give her space. They trundled along, their lives revolving around the children. Helen knew she would never be able to do this job without her help. In return, Jane Lavery relished the time with her grandchildren. The arrangement suited them both.

  Though, without the children, things would inevitably change and she was pretty sure sharing a home with their mother wasn’t a prospect any other thirty-something woman dreamt of.

  She wondered how different things would be if Dean hadn’t died.

  What if? Those two tiny words had been mulled over so many times this past eight weeks, it was exhausting. She couldn’t go there again. She wouldn’t.

  With all her might, she forced the thoughts aside and stared at the ceiling, willing another few minutes of rest before the alarm signalled a new day. Her eyelids drooped, the warmth of sleep closing in when her mobile rang. She threw out a hand, patted the bedside table until she found the phone.

  ‘Morning,’ Pemberton said. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  Helen blinked and checked the clock again. 6.06 a.m. Barely ten minutes had passed. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘That’s the good news.’

  ‘And the bad?’

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Tappers, a mate on incident response. Yvette Edwards was found dead in her house by her husband last night.’

  Helen recalled Sinead’s neighbour’s blonde hair. Her youthful complexion. ‘What?’

  ‘She drowned in the bath, a bag of coal over her head to weigh her down. Looks like suicide. They’ve called in the IOPC.’

  Helen thanked Pemberton and rang off. The Independent Office for Police Conduct, or IOPC, were alerted when a member of the public died after recent contact with the police and since she’d spoken with Yvette less than forty-eight hours earlier, they were obliged to examine the circumstances and decide whether or not an investigation was necessary. It was routine. They were there to check the police had acted appropriately and there was no intimidation or impropriety that contributed to the death. But it was also a pain in the arse, because if they decided to take on the case, they’d appoint their own SIO and getting information would prove problematic.

  Helen pushed herself up and rested her head against the cold wood of the headboard. Yvette had recently fought cancer and was clearly besotted with her ten-year-old daughter. She might have been distressed by her friend’s death, but she also appeared to have a strong marriage and support of friends and family nearby. Not the kind of circumstances in which a person would usually commit suicide.

  Unless there was more to it.

  She scrolled through her contacts and pressed dial. She needed more information but would have to tread carefully.

  The call rang out several times before Dr Charles Burlington answered, and when he did, his voice was full of sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you so early, Charles.’

  ‘Helen. How can I help you?’

  ‘Response were called to a sudden death last night. It was Yvette Edwards, Sinead O’Donnell’s neighbour.’

  ‘And you think it’s connected to the O’Donnell murder?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The attending officers are treating it as suicide.’ She relayed her conversation with Pemberton. ‘I can’t be seen to be involved; if the case is investigated it’ll be allocated a different SIO. I suspect Yvette will be on your list for this morning. I wondered if I could attend the post-mortem and hear your initial thoughts?’

  A slight pause. A rustle in the background. She imagined him pulling back the bedclothes, gently slipping out of bed so as not to disturb his wife sleeping beside him.

  ‘Sure. I’ll be at the mortuary from 7.30. I’ll examine her first.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Helen cleared her throat. ‘Listen, can we keep this between ourselves for now? It’s only supposition on my part.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ***

  The sudden death of Yvette Edwards plagued Helen as she drove across town. She replayed their conversation on Wednesday evening. Yvette had demanded to see a senior officer. At the time, it appeared to be a reassurance exercise, not unusual, but now her detective brain probed with niggling questions. Was Yvette involved in Sinead’s murder and checking to see how much the police knew? She couldn’t deny that the number of phone calls and texts she’d made to Sinead’s phone suggested a closer relationship than Yvette admitted to.

  Did she know what Sinead was involved in? Yvette’s movements had been routinely checked. She’d claimed she’d stayed home on the day of the murder after dropping off her daughter for her school trip. Her phone was sited at their home, although she wouldn’t be the first criminal to leave it behind, knowing it was traceable.

  Charles was already stooped over a body when Helen arrived at the mortuary. She watched him while she gowned up in the anteroom. She could see the corpse he was working on was female, but he was standing in front of the head area, blocking her view. He didn’t move while she pulled on her overshoes, donned the hair cover. It wasn’t until she entered the examination area that he looked up for long enough for her to catch the blonde hair spread across the top of the gurney.

  Yvette Edwards was virtually unrecognisable from the woman she’d seen only days earlier. Her face was blackened with mottled bruises. Her mouth gaped, the lips dry and crystallised. Partially closed eyes had roll
ed back to reveal white slits. Traces of coal dust across her naked body glittered under the bright lighting.

  ‘I can only do the preliminaries, I’m afraid,’ Charles said after greeting her. ‘I need to wait for the technician before I open her up.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Helen managed a grateful smile. ‘Thanks for doing this.’

  He gave her a sideways glance. Warm, intuitive, and she couldn’t help wondering how many times he’d done this for her late father during the time they’d worked together.

  Dusky rain-cloud bruising covered Yvette’s chest. He lifted her arms, one at a time, and peered closely at intermittent marks running along her forearms. Her legs revealed more dark patches.

  ‘The bruising is concentrated on the backs of her limbs,’ he said.

  ‘Could it be defensive?’

  ‘Unlikely. If it was, we’d expect it to be spread more widely. This looks more like the body’s natural defence mechanism. I understand she weighted her head down with a bag of coal.’

  ‘That’s what I’m told.’

  ‘When she pulled the bag onto her head, she would have panicked. It’s an innate reaction. No matter how much she might have wanted this, her arms and legs would thrash about against the bath in protest when it couldn’t be removed.’

  ‘Are you saying, you think she did this to herself?’

  Charles paused a moment. ‘According to the notes, your colleagues found a packet of Sertraline, a known antidepressant, at the scene, prescribed to Yvette. I’ll run toxicology tests to be sure. If she was being treated for depression—’

  ‘She’d recently recovered from cancer. Are antidepressants prescribed to people in remission?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes. But that coupled with the fact that she’d lost a close friend could have sent her over the edge.’

  Helen’s eyes dropped to Yvette’s hands. They were grubby, blackened with the coal dust, and hadn’t been bagged. ‘Can you still do her fingernails for me?’

  Charles shot her a perplexed look, and with good reason. If they hadn’t been bagged at the scene, it was possible any fibres or particles she was hoping for could have dropped out. That’s if they hadn’t already been washed away by the bathwater.

  ‘I’ll cover the costs in my budget,’ she said. ‘I want to be sure.’

  ‘Of course, if that’s what you want. Though I think you’re wasting your time. There is no evidence here to suggest involvement of a third party or foul play. It’s up to the Coroner, of course, but my initial assessment would be suicide.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Connor stirred to the sound of a shuffle. He opened his eyes, just in time to catch a shadowy shape pass through his bedroom. He jolted forward.

  ‘You’re jumpy this morning,’ his mother said, bending down to scoop up his dirty jeans.

  He’d been awake for most of the night, listening out for someone trying the doors, the sound of broken glass. The man returning.

  When he did sleep, his dreams were filled with the dead cop, punctuated by a man chasing him down an alley. A figure closing in on him. That menthol aroma. And when he looked over his shoulder, it was the cop in zombie form, limping towards him, both images morphing together like a scene from a horror movie.

  ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock,’ his mother said. ‘You can’t sleep all day, there’s loads to do.’ She tugged open the curtains and immediately blinded Connor with the sun’s morning rays. ‘You can start by putting the ironing away. It’s piled up on the kitchen table.’ She bustled out of the room.

  Connor lay back on his pillow, waiting for the thud of his heartbeat to slow. He didn’t want to sleep. The dreams terrified him. But he didn’t want to be awake either.

  Usually, the thought of staying in all day with no phone, no computer and no gaming would drive him mad. Today it felt like a lifeline, and one he held onto with all his might.

  The man hadn’t knocked on the door or tried to break in last night. And if he did try, he’d have to face Connor’s mother and Connor didn’t envy him there. Everyone they met joked about how scary Fiona Wilson was before they got to know her. If she worked in a call centre, they’d put her on complaints because she wouldn’t take any crap. Someone probably had – she’d done so many jobs he’d lost track. No, she could handle herself all right. He’d be safe here.

  But he couldn’t stay here, could he? He needed to see Rhys.

  Once again, he wished he’d trusted his instincts and stayed out of the factory on Wednesday evening. He wouldn’t have seen the dead woman. Wouldn’t have got mixed up in a murder case, with a killer on the loose. Wouldn’t be the victim of a stalker.

  If only he could turn the clock back.

  His mother called him again. He climbed out of bed, pulled on some clean jeans, threw a hoodie over his head. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds. He glanced out of the window, relieved to find the street below empty.

  The man who’d attacked him last night shared the same menthol aroma as the guy at the park. Was he the killer? He wanted to know what he’d seen at the factory, and if that was the case, he wouldn’t only stalk Connor. He’d be after Rhys too.

  Another shout from his mother. ‘Are you coming, or what?’ She wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  He needed to find a way to slip out, to warn Rhys. Before it was too late.

  ***

  ‘I can’t believe her husband went out and left her if she was vulnerable,’ Helen said.

  She’d arrived back at the incident room to find Pemberton stowed away in her office, writing up his notes.

  She’d considered Charles’s assessment of suicide on her drive to the station. Had they missed the signs of desperation, of hopelessness, when they’d visited Yvette? Should they have taken any more action to safeguard the woman? No. Depressive signals weren’t always obvious, not even to those near and dear. She’d never forget attending the suicide of a teenager that had celebrated a birthday dinner with his family only hours before he’d flung himself off a bridge; the shocked faces of his parents when she’d delivered the news still haunted her to this day. He’d been on antidepressants for months and was improving. Back at work, doing better. In tragic cases like suicide, loved ones yearned for a clue, a trigger, and sadly there wasn’t always a clean explanation.

  ‘Her husband said she insisted on him going out,’ Pemberton said. ‘It was some kind of work corporate event. Yvette’s sister had been around to visit. She only left an hour before he found her.’

  ‘I don’t buy it.’

  Pemberton scratched his bald scalp. ‘I know. I’m struggling with it myself. But with no suspicious circumstances—’

  ‘What about the husband?’

  ‘Devastated. Naturally. He gave an account to Tappers. Said he came back with a friend, planning to collect the car and give him a lift home. He wasn’t alone. And there are bound to be witnesses at the golf club event he attended.’

  Helen rubbed her forehead and looked out into the incident room, just as Jenkins entered the main door. ‘Looks like the news is spreading fast,’ she said.

  Pemberton gave a sympathetic stare and made for the door. ‘I’d better leave you to it,’ he said, exchanging a brief nod with the superintendent before he closed the door behind him.

  ‘I take it you’ve heard the news?’ Jenkins said, undoing his jacket and settling himself on the chair Pemberton had left.

  ‘I have. It’s disturbing.’

  ‘Disturbing? It’s a downright pain in the arse. The sudden death of Sinead O’Donnell’s neighbour, within forty-eight hours of contact with the police. Sheesh! The press is going to have a field day.’

  Helen inwardly recoiled. A woman had died. A family were in mourning.

  ‘I’ve had a call from the IOPC.’ His face twitched. ‘They’ve started gathering evidence to assess whether or not they need to carry out a full investigation. They don’t know yet it was a senior rank that visited.’ He looked away, sucked his teeth. ‘Christ, what were yo
u even doing visiting her, Helen?’

  ‘Spencer had delivered the news about her neighbour’s death. The team were searching Sinead’s house next door. Yvette was distressed and asked to speak to a senior officer.’

  ‘Why you? Where was the response shift sergeant?’

  ‘Attending an affray in the town centre. Multiple offenders. He’d got his hands full. We made the usual checks, there was no intelligence on her or her family. No reason to suggest any involvement on her part. I went in there and explained the situation, calmed her down.’

  ‘Did you question her?’

  ‘Only the usual. When she’d last seen Sinead, when they’d last spoken, that sort of thing. Sinead wasn’t even cold, Yvette was her neighbour and friend.’

  He huffed.

  ‘We’ve done nothing wrong, sir.’

  ‘That might be the case, but now we have the IOPC breathing down our neck. I hope you’ve covered all the bases here, Helen.’

  She ignored his response. ‘What I’m more concerned about is a potential link with Sinead’s death.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She explained her reservations, carefully leaving out her attendance at the autopsy and the tests she’d requested. No sense in exacerbating the situation further, especially since the results might come back negative. If there was an ensuing investigation, she’d deal with it later. ‘There’s also the number of text messages she sent to Sinead on the days leading up to her murder. We’d made an appointment to go out and see her this morning, to check them out. It wasn’t high priority yesterday when we were tracking Natalia Kowalski down. Now I’m not so sure.’