The Silent Girls: A gripping serial-killer thriller

by Dylan Young

  ‘You’re not suggesting that there’s still a conspiracy?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. But I know that if Neville is charged a second time, for the murder of Nia Hopkins, the retrial will turn into a farce and there are some people, some very high-ranking people, who would welcome that.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The prosecuting barrister in the original case was a QC called John Jeavons.’

  ‘I know that name, don’t I?’

  ‘You should. His career blossomed following Neville’s conviction. He is the Sir John Jeavons who now sits in the High Court of Justice. If we can prove that the cinema ticket existed, that would bring into question just how much the prosecution knew and chose to withhold from the defence. It could prove to be a very embarrassing few days.’

  Anna nodded.

  ‘We don’t talk to the Gloucester police any more,’ Mrs Cooper said with surprisingly little bitterness. ‘That was why we wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘All we want,’ added Tobias, ‘is a fair hearing now. Neville’s defence team behaved in an inexcusably heavy-handed manner. They ran an alternative defence, without Neville’s permission, seeking to limit the damage by suggesting that Neville was in a state of mental confusion after his fits – ignoring his alibi and the retraction of his confession. The defence barrister is now a judge on the Queen’s bench. He’s not going to relish the criticism that’s bound to come his way either. It looks like the bugger rolled over and played dead at the end.’

  ‘Do you have any children, Inspector?’ Mrs Cooper asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think I’d been very lucky with Neville. I had him late and he was a difficult child with his fits and all. But he’s still my boy and I’ve had cause to be very proud of him over these last years. I told him never to give up, never to stop believing in himself. We have to stop them doing this to people.’ She looked pointedly at Anna. ‘What if it’s your child next time?’ She hesitated and began to cough; a bubbling bark that left her gasping for breath.

  Tobias looked across. ‘OK, Maggie?’

  Mrs Cooper sat with a handkerchief over her mouth and nodded weakly. The spasm took the colour from her face, her lips aubergine against the pallor.

  Tobias sighed. ‘I knew this was a bad idea. We’d better get you home. Inspector, I’m sorry to have to cut this short.’ He pulled out a card and handed it to Anna. ‘My numbers. Home and office. Ring me at any time, if you think I can help.’

  Anna watched as the two cousins came back in and began fussing over the old lady. Anna excused herself and went to the bathroom. When she came out, Tobias was hovering near the front door.

  ‘Sorry about this. She isn’t very well. Having Neville in jail was the last thing she needed.’

  ‘It must be hard.’

  ‘She doesn’t care much about herself, only Neville. Look, I hope you haven’t seen this as a total waste of time.’

  Anna shook her head and conceded. ‘I’m sure I would need to talk to her at some point. At least this way she knows who I am.’

  Tobias hesitated with his hand on the latch. ‘What I really want you to take away from here is the certainty I have that there is other evidence out there somewhere. Things we haven’t seen. Things that not only exonerate Neville but implicate someone else…’ He caught himself. ‘Neville’s been in and out of a secure unit for the last two years. Depression mainly. Seventeen years have taken a significant toll. More than anyone should have to bear. Three weeks ago, I went in to a travel agent and booked a holiday for the family. I thought that we were out of the woods at long last.’

  If Tobias had intended a pun, he showed no sign.

  When Anna reached the gate, Tobias said, ‘With your permission, I’ll send you a file of what we’ve found. It makes for very interesting reading.’

  They returned to the car and Anna drove away in silence. A numb dull anger thumped away inside her. She tried very hard to quell it with some deep breaths. It was essential that she remain dispassionate, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

  ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, ma’am?’ Khosa’s candid assessment echoed her own thoughts.

  ‘That it is.’

  ‘I can’t see it happening today though, can you?’ Khosa asked.

  Anna didn’t answer immediately. She liked Khosa. She was pleasant, helpful, and keen to learn and observe. She didn’t want to mar her enthusiasm with too much cynicism.

  ‘I’d like to think so, but if the circumstances arose and public pressure was great enough…’

  ‘You don’t think Cooper’s guilty, ma’am, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I spoke to Cooper’s cousin while you were in the loo. He was laying it on thick about how awful it has been for Cooper’s mother. Did you know that the house they owned in Millend was burned out three months after he was sentenced? There was no question that it was arson. The old lady was lucky to get out alive.’

  Anna didn’t respond. A depressingly familiar story. The stigma was real. The finger constantly pointed.

  ‘I think I need a drink, Ryia.’

  Khosa turned to her phone and started texting. They were on the outskirts of the city by now. It was already dark. Khosa finally spoke, ‘My mate, the same one who had the skinny on DCI Harris, says there’s a place near Gloucester. It’s a coppers’ watering hole though. If you don’t mind that.’

  ‘Anywhere will do.’

  * * *

  They ran the gauntlet of a dozen smokers to enter the Rock and Fountain’s bar. Anna slipped Khosa a tenner and the DC ordered. Her white wine spritzer came in a tall glass, nicely chilled.

  Anna scanned the room over the rim of her glass, froze as she clocked a familiar face, and pivoted back towards Khosa, who handed over her change. ‘Tell me that’s not who I think it is in the far corner.’

  Khosa looked over her shoulder. ‘It is, ma’am.’

  Anna groaned. ‘I don’t suppose we could quietly slip out the back, could we?’

  ‘Too late, ma’am. He’s coming over.’

  ‘A little after-work refreshment, ladies?’

  Anna turned towards the voice and looked up into DCI Harris’s face with what she hoped was a look of surprise. ‘Just called in on our way back to the station, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Got a minute, have you?’

  ‘Actually—’

  ‘Won’t take a second. I want you to meet an old friend of mine.’

  He led the way through the crowd to a corner table. There sat a balding, squat, powerful-looking man with no neck and a pair of dark brown eyes under hooded brows.

  ‘Anna Gwynne, meet John Wyngate.’

  Anna muttered a hello. Wyngate made no effort to return the gesture.

  ‘We were just reminiscing,’ Harris said. ‘John and I both worked with Ewan Briggs during our formative years.’

  Wyngate drained the remains of his pint in two swallows and pushed the empty glass towards a loitering Khosa.

  ‘Get the gentleman a refill, Constable, will you?’ Harris said.

  Khosa looked at Harris despairingly, the muscle of her jaw working as she ground her teeth.

  ‘My shout,’ Anna said, and handed over another twenty.

  Shaking her head, Khosa took the empty glasses to the bar as Wyngate watched in dour silence.

  ‘I was telling John of your involvement with our Woodsman,’ Harris said.

  ‘Really.’

  Wyngate sat back and put an E-cigarette to his lips. ‘Must be a bastard after this length of time.’

  ‘It isn’t easy.’

  ‘Never is. Just you and Catwoman, is it?’

  ‘There are others, but we’re a small team.’

  ‘Quality, not quantity, eh?’ Wyngate did nothing to hide the heavy sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘Someone must think so.’

  Wyngate’s gaze never wavered from Anna’s face. ‘You sure you’re going to be able to stay the course?�
��

  Anna opted for silence.

  Khosa came back and Wyngate reached for the full pint without a thank you.

  ‘What brings you to Gloucester, Mr Wyngate?’ Khosa asked. She made it a blunt, direct question. The sort she’d normally reserve for suspects.

  ‘Old friends,’ Wyngate said. Only his eyes were visible behind the pint glass raised to his lips. Anna hoped he wasn’t smirking. She wanted to believe this man had a little integrity left.

  ‘You won’t be staying long then?’

  Harris sat back and sipped lemonade, watching the exchanges with an odd, detached amusement.

  ‘Don’t fence with me, girlie. I’ve had more college shits like you crying in the bog than you’ve had chicken baltis,’ Wyngate snarled.

  Khosa stared back defiantly.

  ‘Now, now, you two,’ said Harris.

  ‘Have you any regrets, Mr Wyngate?’ asked Anna.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Neville Cooper. The Appeal Court’s decision that his conviction was unsafe must have grated.’

  Wyngate took a long drag on his E-cigarette before answering. ‘It was the court that put him away for seventeen years, not me.’

  ‘But you still feel that’s OK?’

  ‘Your heart’s bleeding all over your shirt, Inspector. I was a copper that ran on instinct. What we did was standard practice at the time. We didn’t have the benefit of help from clever people like you then.’ He turned to Harris. ‘Makes you wonder how the hell we managed, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It seems you managed to convict the wrong man,’ said Anna.

  ‘I didn’t question what went on. The CPS were convinced we had enough to nail him, so that’s what we did.’ A slow smile appeared on his lips and he looked across at Harris. ‘My boss at the time didn’t encourage discussion of the finer points of police work. You just got on with it.’ His smile vanished and he glared at Anna again. ‘We gave everyone in that community peace of mind for seventeen years. That may not mean a lot to you, but as far as I’m concerned it’s what being a copper was all about.’

  ‘Of course. I mean, why let the truth get in the way of peace of mind?’ Anna said.

  Wyngate frowned. But Anna kept her powder dry on the rape cases. This was not the right place for that.

  ‘Any scapegoat in a storm, is that it?’ Khosa said.

  Wyngate shook his head. ‘I was only interested in putting away the nonce that killed Emily Risman. If it turns out that Cooper really is that nonce, let’s just say I won’t be too disappointed.’ His smile revealed a row of small and widely spaced teeth.

  ‘What if he isn’t?’ Anna said.

  Wyngate shrugged and lifted the full glass to his lips, but his eyes never left Anna’s.

  Khosa looked at her watch. ‘We should be getting back, ma’am. The meeting was for six thirty, wasn’t it?’

  Anna embraced the lie. ‘Sir, Mr Wyngate, you’ll have to excuse us.’

  Anna stood and followed Khosa to the door. Halfway there, a peal of brassy laughter burst from Harris’s table and she turned to see the men almost doubling over in glee. There was no way of knowing if she was the butt of their joke; the chances, however, were high.

  Khosa stared openly at Wyngate. ‘What a prick,’ she said.

  Anna kept on walking. ‘Come on, Ryia, let’s get out of here before I throw up.’

  Eighteen

  He watched the woman push the stroller while her partner walked ahead, kicking at stones, smoking, the tattoos on his hands and neck clearly visible. The man wore tracksuit bottoms and a light, unzipped fleece, defying the cold as if he was trying to prove something.

  Idiot.

  The woman wore a puffer jacket and tight jeans and a beanie hat, her bottle- blonde hair spilling out from beneath it. She was pretty, even from forty yards away. She talked to the little girl in the pram, who was swathed in a warm coat and mittens, pointing out the trees and the ice still covering the puddles.

  She might do. She might well do.

  He breathed in and out slowly, savouring the delicious anticipation. He’d missed this. So much.

  He let his mind stray towards how it might go with her and he knew that it would be difficult now to stop at the red line. He’d squeeze until she couldn’t move. Squeeze until she passed out, but… he’d liked the sound of the knife and the way the last girl’s body had bucked with each thrust.

  Liked it a great deal.

  He knew which car the woman and the child and the tattooed man had arrived in. A Subaru with a spoiler on the boot. He’d watch them for another two hundred yards and then double back to the car park, out of sight, and park so that he could watch them leave without them seeing his car. Then he’d follow, confident that they’d drive to a nearby town or village. They were not dressed for hiking. They had not come far.

  He toyed for a moment with what he might take from her, what would be the most precious thing? The child, perhaps. He’d never contemplated that before. He liked the way the thought uncoiled. He let it marinate in his brain.

  Everything was falling into place. The police and now the press had taken his offering and Cooper was in custody. They’d believed, once again, that they had the Woodsman, when nothing could be further from the truth. He’d watched the police run around like ants, clueless insects. Watched the press like wild dogs snapping at everything.

  Even the pretty detective, the one who looked like she was smiling but had ice in her eyes, couldn’t see what was in front of her face.

  So be it.

  The child made a noise, a bored cry. The tattooed idiot kept walking, not his job. The woman bent over to tend to the child, revealing a tight round bottom in the jeans. She was very shapely.

  Shapely enough.

  He moved, invisible to the strollers, and turned back towards where he’d parked the car. He would not wait for them to complete their walk. The child was getting restless. The idiot had his hands in his open jacket pockets, refusing to yield to nature, but cold, no doubt. They would return to their car soon.

  He’d follow. Find out where they, or perhaps only she, lived. Watch and return, perhaps for several weeks until the moment was right, when she least expected it. Savour the watching. The stalking. Until he could stand the pressure no more.

  He knew, by the time he’d stripped off his camouflage and sat in the car, that this time would be different. He’d crossed the red line with the Hopkins girl and it had filled him with ecstatic energy and light.

  Now, there was no going back.

  Nineteen

  Rainsford was knotting his tie in front of the bedroom mirror when he took the call on his mobile. The dispatcher from Portishead explained that she’d been contacted by the governor of Whitmarsh Prison. He’d left a number and a request that Rainsford ring him back urgently. Hair wet, Rainsford wrote down the number and dialled. He stood at the window watching the grey shapes in his garden develop in front of his eyes as morning light leeched into the day.

  ‘Thanks for ringing. Sorry about the early hour,’ said the voice that answered. Rainsford recognised it. They’d spoken previously when they’d laid the ground for Shipwright and Gwynne’s visit after Shaw’s DNA lit up on the national DNA database. George Calhoun had a Scottish burr and a no-nonsense attitude. Even so, anxiety gnawed at the superintendent. A seven-thirty call hardly ever meant good news.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Shaw,’ Calhoun said. ‘His lawyers have been in and out the last couple of days. This morning I found out why.’

  Rainsford waited, his pulse thick in his throat. He hoped this was not another complaint. Something Gwynne or Shipwright had said or done. The usual BS, no doubt. But he was not prepared for what Calhoun said next.

  ‘Shaw wants to show you where he buried the body.’

  Rainsford sank heavily on to the edge of the bed as Calhoun’s words thudded home. ‘What?’

  ‘Exactly. But don’t crack open the champagne yet. This is Shaw we�
�re talking about. There are caveats.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘Seems he’s taken a shine to your girl Gwynne. He’ll only do this if she’s there.’

  Rainsford was silent. There was no denying that this was a real coup. He was also very aware that allowing Shaw to manipulate the situation carried risks. But assessing risk against benefit was why he was in the job.

  ‘You still there, Superintendent?’ Calhoun’s voice broke the silence.

  ‘Yes, still here. And she’s Inspector Gwynne now.’

  ‘At this rate, she’ll be in your job before you turn around twice.’

  Rainsford laughed politely at Calhoun’s stab at humour. But it felt hollow. He’d already made his mind up. They had no choice but to comply with Shaw’s demands and there was nothing at all funny about that.

  ‘Oh, and he’ll only do it if it can be done today.’

  ‘What? We’ll never get the paperwork done in time.’

  Rainsford knew that the police had no right to have prisoners transported from prisons to external locations, though this was commonly done in order to take part in identity parades, further lengthy interviews, or to identify premises or deposition sites in connection with investigations. But such requests were normally done on Ministry of Justice CID 25 forms at least seven days in advance.

  Calhoun was ahead of the game. ‘I’ve already spoken to the Home Office. They’re prepared to give special dispensation under the circumstances, if you think we should go ahead.’

  ‘Do we have any choice?’

  There were always choices, of course, but both men knew that for the relatives of missing victims these choices were few and far between. If there was an opportunity for Shaw to cooperate, it needed to be seized with both hands.

  ‘No,’ said Calhoun. ‘None that I can see. Shaw says this is a one-time offer. It’s this or nothing.’

  Rainsford looked in the mirror and the face that stared back knew that Calhoun was right. ‘I’ll get it set up.’