A Deathly Silence

by Isaac, Jane;

  He directed her along the corridor to the café and motioned to a table in the corner, although he needn’t have worried. Apart from a rather bored volunteer behind the counter, the room was empty.

  The smell of sugar filled the air when he returned with steaming mugs. Helen took a sip of her tea and did her best not to wince at the sweetness. Over the years, she’d made endless cups of tea for traumatised members of the public, heaping sugar into the mix to alleviate the shock, and it was a touching gesture.

  ‘We spoke with the support worker who was helping Blane on Wednesday,’ Jenkins said when he’d settled himself into a chair opposite.

  ‘And?’

  Jenkins huffed. ‘She wasn’t there between ten thirty and three thirty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Left to watch her son’s cricket tournament. Apparently, she’s received several warnings for lateness and absence and didn’t like to formally apply. So, Blane and her kept it between themselves. It had been arranged for weeks.’

  ‘And she gave a statement, covering him?’

  ‘She’s mortified. Said he was charming, fun, supportive to work with. A real family man. She thought he was doing her a great favour.’

  Helen shook her head, incredulous. ‘That doesn’t explain how he got to the factory. His car didn’t ping on the cameras.’

  ‘He wasn’t in his car.’

  ‘I don’t understand. We’d have known if he used a pool car, they’re tracked.’

  ‘He wasn’t in a pool car either. The same support worker had hired a car for one of the other trainers to attend a conference in Nottingham. The other trainer went sick. The car was sitting there, in the car park. And the keys were in her unlocked drawer.’

  Helen swiped a hand down the front of her face. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  ‘It’s true. We’ll have to check the cameras, of course. My guess is he used the hire car to pick up Sinead and transport her to the factory.’

  Helen swallowed, recalling Blane’s phone inside the locked-up Billings factory earlier. How easily he accessed Wilton’s. He must have copied the keys when he’d viewed the factories last year, which meant he’d been planning this for some time. She wrestled with the notion. ‘Whoever killed Sinead would have been covered in blood. Surely his colleague noticed he’d changed when she got back to work.’

  ‘They were in civvies. He always wore a black T-shirt and jeans when he wasn’t in uniform. Probably wouldn’t have been obvious if he’d changed.’

  ‘Tell me we’ve still got the car.’

  ‘That’s the one piece of positive news I do have. It was due to go back yesterday and the hire company didn’t collect it. At least we can seize it and check it forensically.’

  Helen sat back in her chair and exhaled a long breath. ‘Any news on the compromise to our computer systems?’ she asked.

  ‘Professional Standards are handling it. Off the record, PC Stephen Rotherham, whose login was used, was in a meeting when the system was accessed on Thursday afternoon with the whole training department. They were in the conference room. He’ll still be disciplined, of course, for leaving his login vulnerable. The time corresponds with when Blane visited. It’s possible he saw the empty office and the computer, logged in and took his chance.’

  Helen thought about Blane’s previous experience as a digital media officer. His sergeant’s remarks about what a whizz he was with a computer. Without that login, he wouldn’t have got hold of the boys’ home addresses. ‘Christ, he worked them over good and proper,’ she said.

  Jenkins scraped his chair back and stood. ‘Right, I’m off to visit the injured parties. I suggest you go home, get some rest. There’ll be a mound of paperwork to sort out when this hits the fan tomorrow morning.’

  She watched him go, took another gulp of tea and flinched again at the sweetness. What if Gordon Turner’s death wasn’t accidental? It wouldn’t have been difficult for someone to plant the phone in the squat. Remove a used syringe. Especially for someone who knew him. His brother said he’d been acting strangely and was convinced someone was going into his flat and moving things. Perhaps Blane had been hanging around, watching his movements, planning out the murder.

  Blane had been clever. He’d suspected Sinead was having an affair for a while, felt their relationship slipping through his fingers. And, as with Angela, his last girlfriend, it seemed he couldn’t face the prospect of rejection. If he killed Sinead, he kept up the pretence of a perfect relationship because she was taken from him.

  He’d hidden behind his police badge, meticulously planned everything: the retreat, the screw in Sinead’s tyre, the hire car and break from work. Used enough of Turner’s former torture tactics to frame him, and planted the needle and syringe, knowing the DNA would link back. And with Turner’s previous connection in MOSOVO and the photos on the phone it pointed the blame in one direction.

  But he’d become paranoid. A paranoia that had eaten away at him. He hadn’t banked on the kids discovering the body and then he’d worried they’d seen something. She could imagine the guilt picking away at him, morning, noon and night, forcing him to stalk them, to find out what they knew.

  When he’d broken into the homicide systems, he’d have seen the concerns over the number of messages Sinead exchanged with her neighbour and the arrangements to visit her again, suggesting a close relationship. He’d also have seen the details regarding Sinead’s secret phone and be aware she was using it to contact Natalia. Perhaps he found the phone in her bag and accessed it. Once he’d pieced it all together in his mind, the jealousy and paranoia had taken over.

  He certainly hadn’t reckoned on Angela resurfacing to tell her story.

  Blane had done what he’d always done. Played the part – this time of the grief-stricken husband. Like before when he’d played the role of the perfect husband, in the perfect marriage with the perfect family.

  He’d tried to commit the perfect murder. Only the perfect murder didn’t exist.

  EPILOGUE

  The van parked up outside as Connor kicked the football in the air, bounced it off his knee and kicked it again. A man emerged and gave him a backwards nod of acknowledgement. Connor kicked the ball up again, caught it, then stopped and watched in silence. The man pulled a ‘property to let’ sign out and hammered it into the ground beside their front gate, unspeaking.

  It didn’t matter that the killer had been apprehended, the officer who’d chased him was dead and the detective chief inspector had visited them, to assure them of their safety. His mother was doing what she always did with her problems: running away from them.

  This time it wasn’t a boyfriend. It was Rhys Evans. The ‘bad influence’ on her son that she wanted to leave behind.

  ‘We’re going back to Sheffield,’ she’d said, ‘to stay with my sister. It’s safer there. Might even be able to get your place back on your old footie team.’

  In a few weeks, he’d be introduced to a new home, another school. Have to renew friendships.

  The man checked the sign was stable and then bade his farewell. He climbed back into the van and shot off down the road, whipping up a cloud of dust in his wake.

  Another goodbye.

  ***

  Helen moved away from her colleagues and ordered another vodka at the bar. It was a balmy evening, the June sun reaching in through the open door of The Royal Oak. They’d waited a week to celebrate closing the case to ensure everyone was fit enough to attend and it was good to see her team relaxing and enjoying themselves.

  DC Dark looked her usual animated self as she chattered to Spencer in the corner. She wasn’t back at work yet, although she’d visited the station several times over the past week; the bruises on her forehead were yellowing and the bandage, or neck scarf as she’d come to call it, had now been reduced to a plaster. It was heart-warming to see her there, happy and smiling.

  It had been an exhausting week, the media focusing on the guilt of a fellow cop, speculating
on whether he’d abused his position to commit a murder, and the press office playing it down as a domestic incident. The only saving grace was her family, who soon lost interest in the politics and seemed to put the case behind them. Even her mother hadn’t raised the subject of work, tiptoeing around the issue when they discussed their days, Helen’s plight largely assisted by the fact that Dark’s ordeal wasn’t reported in the news. Had their minds been put to rest? Helen doubted it, but she was grateful for the brief respite.

  Helen thanked the bartender and swirled her vodka in the glass. There were always more casualties than the dead in a murder investigation. Blane O’Donnell had left his children to be raised by their paternal grandmother, one day to discover their own father had killed their mother in brutal circumstances and murdered their neighbour. What would that knowledge do to the developing mind of a child?

  Blane’s mother’s mouse-like face skipped into her mind. She’d paled when they’d delivered the news of his death and the events surrounding it. When Helen considered it, apart from the initial statement they’d taken, Blane’s mother had barely spoken to the police, or even appeared, when they visited the house throughout the investigation. She crept around meekly in the background, caring for her grandchildren, part of the wallpaper of their family life. But behind the scenes she’d fought for Blane, fought for his dream of the ‘perfect family’ and silenced Angela all those years ago.

  An examination of the hire car showed tiny particles, hair samples and spots of blood on the wheel brace, indicating that was the weapon Blane used to beat Sinead with. Hair samples and fibres from Sinead’s clothing were in the boot. His bloody clothing, the murder weapon and neither of her mobile phones had been found, although samples of Blane’s hair had also been recovered from Gordon Turner’s squat. Had he killed him too? They were awaiting more details from forensics, but it would make sense to take out the last link in the chain. A dead man couldn’t defend himself.

  At least, with the evidence against Blane, the IOPC had closed the file on Yvette Edwards’s death. Dodging an internal investigation was certainly a small mercy to be thankful for.

  Laughter bellowed from the corner. Ivan Newton. He was doing squats, up and down, a full pint of beer balanced precariously on his head. He’d joined them on Wednesday, then promptly left for a training course on their computer system. They’d only crossed paths briefly and his instant need to show off to an audience gave her a deep sense of foreboding. Would he be able to knuckle down, do what was needed during the fast-moving hours of a major investigation? Time would tell.

  She held up her glass to the bartender for another refill. Leaning her elbow on the bar as he filled the glass and resting her chin on her hand, she swirled the drink in the glass again when he handed it back.

  ‘How’s the new super doing?’

  Helen looked up at Pemberton and gave a disgruntled smile.

  ‘Well, you don’t look very pleased about the promotion,’ he said with a sarcastic laugh.

  ‘It’s temporary.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  They clinked their glasses together. She’d accepted Jenkins’s offer to step into his shoes; in view of the circumstances, she hadn’t been able to think of an acceptable reason to turn him down. Another bellow from the corner. It was going to be a long three months.

  The stool beside her creaked as Pemberton shifted his weight onto it. ‘Penny for them,’ he said and signalled to the bartender for another beer.

  Helen turned to face him. ‘What? Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking about Chilli Franks. What do you think he’s doing right now?’

  ‘Preparing his defence, if he’s got half a brain.’

  Helen gave a hollow laugh. The question mark over the involvement of organised crime groups and specifically Chilli Franks had haunted her this past week, the use of handcuffs to restrain Sinead initially raising the question of a personal vendetta. Inspector Burns hadn’t been able to find any link between Sinead and Blane and the organised crime community, and the relief she felt at receiving the news was palpable. Chilli’s trial was scheduled to be heard late summer and the CPS were confident of a conviction. It was about time she shelved his ghost and moved forward.

  They supped their drinks in silence. A song played out in the background, a cover by Ed Sheeran that Helen didn’t recognise. The vodka warmed her insides.

  ‘A few of us are talking about getting a curry,’ Pemberton said eventually.

  ‘Won’t do the diet any good.’

  ‘I won’t tell Mrs P if you don’t.’

  Helen laughed.

  ‘You coming?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She finished the last few drops of her drink and followed him out of the bar.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I find writing acknowledgements a challenge because I always worry I’ll forget someone. So, if you helped in any way with this novel and aren’t mentioned here, please know that I’m heartily grateful. I didn’t mean to omit your name, I just have a terrible memory!

  First, I’d like to thank Sam at Kettering Motorist Centre for finding time in his busy schedule to talk me through how tyres and punctures work. As usual, any errors or inconsistencies are my own.

  Also, my paramedic sister-in-law, for advice on injuries to the head and neck and the placement of arteries.

  Gratitude to Lauren, Lucy, Tom and all the team at Legend Press for their continuing support and belief in my work. It’s lovely working with you guys. Also, a huge thanks goes to the cover artist who designed this wonderful cover.

  The crime writing community is incredibly friendly and through it I’ve made some wonderful lifelong friends. I’d like to thank all the authors who’ve supported me, and send special thanks to Ian Patrick and Rebecca Bradley who are my early readers and always there at the end of the phone or email, with a generous helping of support. It’s much appreciated.

  Also, to all the wonderful book bloggers who shout from the rooftops when they enjoy a story. Far too many to mention individually, but all of whom are truly the unsung heroes of the book world. And the book clubs online that provide such great support: Anne Cater and all at Book Connectors; Shell Baker and Llainy Swanson at Crime Book Club; Susan Hunter at Crime Fiction Addict; Tracy Fenton, Helen Boyce, Teresa Nikolic and all at The Book Club (TBC); Wendy and all at The Fiction Café Book Club; and David Gilchrist at UK Crime Book Club.

  So many friends have listened to early storylines, helped with cover art, proofread, talked through characters and generally offered a shoulder to lean on, most notably Colin Williams, Emma Thompson, Stephanie Daniels, and Abi and Philip Bouch.

  As always, heartfelt thanks to my dear family, for sharing their days with my characters. Especially my husband, David, who tirelessly helps with research and always reads my first drafts, even when they aren’t very good! And my daughter, Ella, who cooks me super meals when my head is stuck in edits. I couldn’t do this without either of you.

  Finally, to you, the amazing readers. Without readers there would be no writers and no stories, and what a dull world that would be. Please know that I’m incredibly appreciative of your ongoing support.