The Silent Girls: A gripping serial-killer thriller

by Dylan Young

  Anna shut her eyes, her imagination working overtime. ‘What was Wyngate even doing there?’

  ‘I don’t think it was a coincidence,’ Tobias said.

  ‘A set-up?’

  ‘My money is on that.’

  She exhaled loudly. ‘God, you’d think they’d learned their lesson, wouldn’t you? Thanks for letting me know.’

  Tobias’s tone was grim. ‘Believe me, it gives me no pleasure at all.’

  Anna grabbed her coat and went directly to her car. She headed north for the M5, phoned HQ and left a message on Trisha’s answerphone.

  ‘Anyone asks, I’ve had to go to Gloucester.’

  It wasn’t strictly true. But Harris wasn’t answering his phone and what she had to say to him would undoubtedly be better done face to face.

  * * *

  Slack pretended to hide behind his computer screen in the squad room at Gloucester.

  ‘Where is he?’ Anna demanded.

  ‘Just come out of a roasting with the ACC. He isn’t talking to anyone.’

  ‘He’ll talk to me,’ Anna said.

  ‘Ma’am, it might be better to wait until tomorrow—’

  ‘I think we’ve waited far too long already.’

  ‘We’ve had orders that he’s not to be disturbed,’ said Slack. Anna read it as more of a show to the others in the room than a real warning, especially as he made no move to stop her.

  Harris’s office was at the very end of the large squad room, which was filled with desks and filing cabinets. Five sets of eyes looked up as Anna walked by and the subdued buzz trickled to silence as they tracked her progress to the glass-panelled door at the end.

  Harris looked up as she knocked and entered without waiting for an invitation, his face dark with a brooding anger. On recognising her, the anger died to a sullen defiance.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, shuffling the papers on his desk.

  ‘Guess,’ Anna said, folding her arms and standing with her back to the door.

  ‘Look, I didn’t plan for Cooper to end up in the bloody hospital.’

  ‘No? Then what did you plan for, Chief Inspector? Or was Wyngate there by pure coincidence?’

  Thunder gathered again on Harris’s brow. ‘Be careful, Acting Inspector Gwynne.’

  Anna shook her head, walked across the room and sat opposite Harris, matching his glare with one of her own.

  ‘I’m not really interested in your motives, sir. I can almost begin to grasp the vague idea that you, or Wyngate, may have suggested that letting Cooper see him might just scare him enough to…’ She shook her head again.

  ‘You think you’re so bloody smart, don’t you?’ His belligerence said it all. It had been his idea.

  ‘I had you down as misogynistic, patronising and bloody-minded, but not stupid,’ Anna said.

  The skin on Harris’s neck turned an ugly shade of purple. ‘Who the hell do you think you are—’

  ‘Everyone’s been telling me that you can be a pious pain in the arse, but beneath it all a good copper. That’s why I can’t believe you’d do anything so crass as goad Neville Cooper like this.’

  Harris’s lips kept opening and shutting like a fish out of water. Whatever words he was searching for seemed stuck in his throat.

  Anna leaned in close. ‘Wyngate has his own agenda, which has nothing to do with the truth.’

  ‘Cooper is still our prime suspect.’ Harris remained defiant, but it was almost as if he was appealing for understanding rather than trying to shout her down.

  Anna’s hands came up to the side of her head as if she were about to tear out two clumps of hair. She exhaled loudly before speaking with exaggerated calmness. ‘Cooper did not kill Emily, but it is very likely that whoever did kill her also killed Nia. In arresting Cooper, you’re simply chasing your own tail. Whatever misguided loyalty you feel for Briggs or Wyngate, or whoever else you were buddied up with, you have to walk away from it.’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’ He dropped his gaze and began massaging the back of his neck.

  ‘I know enough to see a good officer’s reputation going down the toilet.’

  Harris’s head snapped up, ready to protest, but Anna quelled him with a sweep of one hand.

  ‘This stops now. We have two choices. Either I walk away and let you handle this your own way, which, as far as I can see will be a disaster. Or, I can tell you what I think should be done and we remain on the same team.’

  ‘And you think I’m bloody arrogant?’

  ‘Call me what you want, the choice remains the same. Like it or not, I still have a brief and either you come with us on this or you don’t.’

  Harris stared.

  Anna cocked her head, cheeks burning, her pulse throbbing in her throat.

  Harris said, ‘I’m listening.’

  Anna nodded. A small, barely perceptible movement. ‘Try to take a small step back for a moment. Let’s take it as a given that Cooper did not kill Nia Hopkins. Accept that and you must also accept that someone wants very much for us to believe that he did by planting evidence at Cooper’s workplace.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The same person that planted Emily Risman’s underclothes eighteen years ago.’

  Harris considered this thought for all of two seconds, before anger once again erupted. ‘If you believe all the press are saying, that could have been the CCRC.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘Wyngate and Maddox and Briggs were responsible for many unforgivable things, but I don’t think they did that – even if Maddox was Tonto to Briggs’ Lone Ranger.’

  ‘John Wyngate isn’t like that.’

  Anna held up one hand, palm open towards him. ‘At least accept that someone planted evidence. It’s inconceivable that Emily’s undergarments were only found on the third search of Neville Cooper’s property in 1999.’

  ‘You have a name?’

  ‘Not yet. But whoever it is, he’s played you and Wyngate like an expert fisherman with an irresistible lure. He’s relied on the fact that the police were willing to make a case against Cooper once – so why not again? Now he’ll be praying that the case sticks. So, here’s the choice we must make. I’m asking you to perpetuate the lie. That way we can continue the hunt in the faint hope that he might be slightly off his guard. It’s the stealthy approach and definitely the one I’d prefer.’

  Harris let out a mirthless laugh. ‘Stealthy? Yeah, right. I’ve just had my arse kicked from here to Sunday by the ACC and she has very sharp boots. What’s going to happen is that I have to call a press conference with me eating a two-hundredweight slice of humble pie and releasing Cooper from custody. At least while he’s in hospital. The ACC says it’ll show compassion.’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘No?’ Harris’s mock surprise was pure am-dram. ‘And there’s me thinking you’d be applauding the loudest.’

  ‘I’m sure it would be good for Cooper, but it’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘What trouble?’

  ‘It’s too provocative. With Cooper still under suspicion the real killer feels safe. Take away that safety net and who knows what he’ll do.’

  ‘You don’t think that flushing him out is an option? Isn’t that exactly what we want?’

  Anna recoiled. ‘No.’

  Harris’s eyes were shining now. ‘Why so negative? I thought you’d jump at the chance?’

  Once again, she found Shaw’s words fuelling her train of thought.

  And then maybe our special boy can get back to business.

  She felt trapped, like a thumb in a vice. She didn’t want him to ‘get back to business’ if the business meant stalking and raping. She hated the thought of it. But contemplating the alternative made something reptilian coil and uncoil in her gut.

  ‘I despise the fact that Cooper’s been targeted by you again, but if you let him off the hook, it’s likely the killer will panic. This man has killed coldly and cynically to keep himself free. He
picked out Nia Hopkins for maximum effect because of her link, through her father, to Cooper. I think he’s capable of anything and I don’t want to be responsible for that. Frankly, it smacks of real unfettered malevolence and it scares me silly.’

  Harris stood up and crossed to a large pinboard, which was covered by the monstrous collage of photographs, drawings and details that told the dreadful story of Nia’s murder. When he spoke he was still facing the board. ‘John Wyngate made a promise to Emily’s parents that he would find the killer of their daughter. He’s still driven by that promise. We all learned a lot from Briggs. He’s the sort of boss that commanded fierce loyalty. They were desperate for a result.’

  ‘Desperate enough to plot a confrontation that put Cooper in hospital?’ Anna knew she shouldn’t have, but the words slipped out anyway.

  Harris pivoted, his face flushing a dusky red. ‘Wyngate just asked him how his mother was.’

  Jesus. Anna shook her head.

  ‘It was only meant as one more little turn of the screw, that’s all.’

  She rounded on him. ‘God, don’t you get it? It’s not enough for us to find the guilty. We’re here to protect the innocent as well.’

  For the first time since she’d met him, the fierce conviction left Harris’s face, to be replaced by… what was that? Doubt? But this was Harris. It didn’t last.

  ‘The ACC hasn’t given me any choice. We go ahead with the press conference.’

  Anna rolled her eyes.

  Harris said, ‘And she wants you to be a part of it.’

  ‘I’ve just told you. I think it’s far too dangerous.’

  ‘I heard you. But she wants to show solidarity.’

  ‘Who are you doing this for? Yourself or Wyngate?’

  ‘This is all for Nia. Believe you me.’

  ‘The answer’s still no.’

  Twenty-One

  Cooper’s attempted suicide made the News at Ten. She watched, mulling over the events that had followed her meeting with Harris. She’d spent an hour with Tobias and the assistant chief constable and both, for very different reasons, refuted her argument and insisted on the conference.

  On screen, yet more library Woodsman footage and lurid Nia Hopkins details were churned out and Anna watched as her own face was paraded as the detective re-examining the evidence in the case of Emily Risman. Harris’s delivery was deadpan, devoid of anything but the most essential background information as to Cooper’s state of mind. When asked if he was still in police custody, Harris trotted out, ‘Neville Cooper is still helping us with our inquiries. However, he has been released from custody and we are exploring other lines of inquiry.’

  There was, as expected, no mention of Wyngate. Anna’d fought the suggestion that she should take part in this little fiasco and had won that small skirmish. But they’d filmed her leaving the nick and her hurried exit was tagged on to the report, making her look like a fleeing suspect in her own right. Watching it in her flat, and feeling the misgivings rumbling in her gut, she knew it had been the right thing not to appear at the conference. She did not want to be associated directly with Harris and his squad. It didn’t feel right.

  The nagging certainty that she knew the answer to all of this itched in an unreachable place inside her head. The pattern was here and all she needed to do was see it. Anna was convinced that something set up an auto-search function in her head for unanswered conundrums. Eventually, it would complete its search and present the memories to her, fully formed as an answer. But whereas, in most people, this happened silently, in Anna her right brain algorithm fluttered constantly like a damaged moth against a lit window and there wasn’t much she could do about it except get on with the day to day and wait for it to break through.

  Her eyes drifted from the screen momentarily to the room around her. One of millions in which the images were being viewed. In one of those rooms this throw-away news item was going to cause irritation in the killer’s mind, and possibly something much, much worse.

  * * *

  One of her phones woke her some time during the night. She fumbled for them both, saw it was non-work and picked up in a semiconscious stupor. She croaked a hello, but heard nothing except muffled sounds and static in reply, before the ring tone mercifully intervened as whoever was on the other end killed the call. She didn’t even open her eyes to look at the clock.

  In the morning, she half believed she’d dreamed it, but her call log showed the number to be a landline. When she arrived at Portishead, she gave it to Trisha to run, but the analyst frowned and said, ‘I know that number.’

  ‘How?’

  Trisha consulted her screen and nodded. ‘There. It’s in the file, ma’am. The address is Beacon Cottage, Alburton.’

  ‘Charles Willis?’

  ‘That’s right. Would you like me to ring it, ma’am?’

  Anna nodded, mind whirring.

  After several seconds, Trisha shook her head. ‘Engaged, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve tried twice already, too.’

  ‘Phone off the hook?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You sound a little anxious, ma’am.’

  ‘Do I? I don’t like calls at two thirty in the morning. In my experience, it usually means bad news. Keep trying, Trisha.’

  Once Khosa and Holder arrived, Anna summoned them to the whiteboard.

  ‘OK. Let’s consolidate. Shaw has been too big a distraction. Justin, where are we with forensics?’

  ‘We’ve managed to trace most of the samples, ma’am, though there was nothing on the nail swabs or on Emily’s clothing. No blood or semen. Little or no fibre contamination.’

  ‘But we know Roger Willis was not surprised to learn that he was the father of Emily’s unborn child, am I right?’

  Holder nodded. ‘Given Emily’s history, we know there were other possibilities but, as I said, the DNA matched up with him.’

  ‘Let’s get confirmatory testing done on that. In-house if possible, but use Chepstow if needed. And go and knock on Forensics’ door. We need all this pushed.’

  Holder nodded.

  ‘OK. Ryia, I want you to concentrate on the van driver’s statement that was never presented as evidence. The one we found in Maddox’s handwriting on the torn sheet in his notebook. We need to find that man, if he’s still alive.’

  Khosa nodded.

  The whiteboard was filling up, arrows branching off from the main photograph of Emily Risman in a network of interconnected threads.

  ‘And, of course, there’s Wyngate.’

  Trisha shook her head. ‘I’ve been unable to contact John Wyngate, ma’am.’

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘But I do have an address for Briggs.’

  ‘Good. I’ll need to speak to him at some point, too.’

  Trisha picked an envelope off her desk. ‘Oh, and this came for you yesterday, ma’am.’

  Anna took the large manila envelope addressed in a firm neat hand and opened it. Inside was a handwritten note and two pages of typed A4. The note was brief and to the point.

  Dear Inspector Gwynne,

  As requested, I’ve looked through my diary and jotted down the events that were not routine. That means I’ve left out trips to Sainsbury’s and concentrated on things that I deemed noteworthy. As you suggested, I’ve written them out and signed the note. I hope it helps. If you think I ought to go back further, just let me know. It’s less tedious than marking year nine projects!

  Yours sincerely,

  Megan Roberts

  Anna took the sheets out and forced her brain to concentrate. There were trips to the cinema, restaurants, dentists, shopping in Bath, and hiking trips on two of the Sundays in the twelve-week period covered. Megan Roberts had copied her entries verbatim and the term she used to apply to these trips were ‘jaunts’. It was the second of these that drew Anna’s attention.

  Sunday, 15 June. Up with the sun this morning for our jaunt to the Forest. Luke made egg and bacon but managed t
o burn the toast. Away by seven thirty on a beautiful morning…

  As she read this simple account, Anna’s pulse began to pick up. There were a hundred forests Megan Roberts could be referring to and yet…

  We arrived at Wenchford at 9 and despite the fine morning found it deliciously deserted. We decided to do the walk in reverse, for the hell of it, and stood on the Drummer Boy Stone for a ‘photo op’. Luke tripped over the stile but had recovered by the time we’d climbed to the viewpoint, which overlooked the Blakeney Straits. We could see Blakeney village and the Cotswolds clearly in the distance…

  Blakeney. She’d seen signs for Blakeney when they’d visited the Rismans. She googled it and found it easily. Blakeney was exactly where she’d thought it to be. Less than two miles from Millend, on the edge of the Forest of Dean.

  Face flushing, she read on. There was little or no further reference to any place names, just a small essay on how much Megan and her boyfriend enjoyed the day. But there was enough for the germ of an idea to take root in Anna’s head and turn the fluttering disquiet that had not left her since reading Tobias’s file up a notch.

  ‘Ryia, have a word with the Thames Valley team investigating the rapes. Find out if any of the victims visited the Forest of Dean in the three months before their attacks. No, make it six months. See if they got within half a dozen miles of Blakeney.’

  Khosa wrote something down and nodded. Anna told them about the phone call in the night. Neither of them had any real explanation. She tried the Willises’ number again on her mobile. A call to BT confirmed no fault on the line.

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out why they called,’ Anna said. She grabbed her coat and, pondering Megan Roberts’ information, headed north.

  * * *

  Anna arrived at the Willises’ cottage at 11.20 a.m. The scene, as before, was idyllic. The day had mellowed and the backdrop that nature had painted made Anna think of old chocolate boxes. Clouds raced overhead against a robin’s-egg blue sky, the breeze ruffling what little foliage was left on the trees. Once again, the adjacent farm’s contribution to the day was less than ideal, with a fresh pungent bouquet of sprayed slurry hanging in the air.