The Silent Girls: A gripping serial-killer thriller

by Dylan Young

  ‘You’re free to go now,’ Slack said.

  A look of panic flared briefly on Sue Donaldson’s thin face. ‘What about Rick?’

  Slack nodded. ‘We’ve got your phone number. I promise we’ll let you know if we find out anything.’

  ‘Couldn’t I stay for a while? I feel a bit, I don’t know, queasy.’

  ‘Yes, of course you can stay until you feel OK. That’ll be fine,’ Anna reassured her.

  Outside, in an adjacent room, Slack’s face bore a questioning look.

  ‘Why are you so interested in Osbourne’s computer skills?’

  ‘Curious, that’s all.’

  She wasn’t going to tell him about Shaw and the person he’d come across in a chat room all those years ago. Digital forensics would take Osbourne’s laptop and she’d find out soon enough if he’d been capable of entering the dark web.

  Slack looked at the monitor set up to feed in images from the interview room camera. It showed Donaldson still sitting, sipping nervously at another coffee, the WPC talking to her gently.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s odd, not wanting to leave? Most people we have in there are almost running out the door when they get the nod.’

  ‘It’s not so strange,’ Anna said, but didn’t elaborate. She glanced up at the monitor. Some time in the next half-hour Donaldson was going to have to go to the lavatory, thanks to the two coffees and the water she’d drunk. That was when her real ordeal would begin. When she’d be confronted by her own image in the mirror. Then she would begin to wonder who that person she’d slept next to for all these years really was. She would begin to wonder if he had secrets, if she’d lied to herself about him for all that time. If there was something she should have seen and acted upon. It was a devastating process mentally.

  Anna wasn’t the slightest bit surprised that Sue Donaldson wasn’t keen to leave. But there was nothing more to be gained by interviewing her further. That was not true of someone else, though.

  * * *

  It took them half the day to find Wyngate. It was Khosa’s idea to target his car. Eventually picked up on an ANPR camera on the M5, at Junction 18 heading north, he was pulled over by a police motorcyclist, who escorted him back to Bristol. With an inevitable disinclination to cooperate, Wyngate insisted on his solicitor being present before he would answer any questions.

  ‘Some poor git he has over a barrel, I expect,’ had been Holder’s acid comment.

  The ‘poor git’ turned out to have a practice in Wolverhampton and it was almost five before they sat down together in an interview room in Portishead, not unlike the one they’d sat in with Cooper and Tobias in Gloucester just a few days ago. It suddenly seemed like an age.

  Thinking of Cooper brought a pang of leaden guilt to Anna’s tired brain. It seemed impossible for her not to stare across at Wyngate with anything but loathing for what he and his squad had done. But for their lies and fabrications, Cooper would not be in hospital and Gail and Nia might be alive. It was a fruitless, judgemental exercise and one she suppressed. Yet, not for the first time, thoughts of Cooper brought with them the unwelcome idea that he might have been better off succeeding in his suicide attempt. That way he’d never have to wake up to a world that had so cruelly and cynically crushed his hapless life.

  Anna sat with Holder. Wyngate wore an indifferent expression, his gaze neutral, flitting between Anna and Holder. It was a copper’s stare. Unsubtle and intimidating. It always struck her as a particularly inelegant way of getting anything meaningful out of a terrified prisoner.

  As Holder began the interview, thanking Wyngate, with blissful irony, for coming in, the ex-copper kept his eyes on Anna. But it was the solicitor, Saunders, a bespectacled beanpole of a man, who spoke in response.

  ‘My client wishes to cooperate, of course. Is this interview under caution?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Anna said. ‘We thought we’d keep things informal. Of course, we could be looking at a case of obstruction and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. We can go down that route…’

  ‘You’re very generous,’ said Saunders, writing on a legal pad. He remained inscrutable behind the glasses and Anna couldn’t tell if his statement oozed sarcasm or not.

  She turned to Wyngate. ‘Whose idea was it to talk to Neville Cooper?’

  ‘No one’s idea. That was a pure accident.’

  ‘Force majeure.’ Anna nodded. ‘Just an amazing set of coincidences. Like the lost evidence from Cooper’s first trial.’

  Wyngate laughed. ‘Jesus, you’re like a bloody stuck record.’

  ‘A cinema ticket with Cooper’s fingerprints on it? A witness who saw Emily Risman get into a car in the car park at Coleford on the day of her death? Ring any bells?’

  ‘I knew about the ticket, yes. But only later. Maddox fudged it. When we did find out about it, it was clear that ticket could have been from any time that week. There was no date stamp. I showed it to the CPS and Briggs. It was they who decided to hold it back, not me.’

  ‘So, you’re trying to tell me that the people who were working with you had autonomy. You didn’t know what was going on?’

  ‘Spit it out,’ Wyngate hissed.

  ‘I’m interested in the car park witness. Maddox interviewed him but never followed it up.’

  ‘Dave Maddox wanted a result more than any of us. He was a good cop who went off the rails a little.’

  ‘A little?’

  ‘Listen to me. I had nothing to do with that. You need to know about evidence before you can suppress it.’

  ‘I want to know about Osbourne. Your impression of him.’

  Wyngate frowned. Anna could see suspicion driving the wheels and cogs behind his eyes.

  ‘Osbourne was a bit of a lad. Had the car and a bit of cash. He’d been dating Emily for a couple of years but had known her longer. He was terrified we were going to throw the underage book at him. Fancied himself, but he was harmless enough.’

  ‘Did you establish his alibi?’

  ‘We talked to his foreman. Osbourne was a jobbing carpenter. Worked alone a lot of the time. He was miles away when Emily was murdered.’

  ‘And you established that?’

  Wyngate’s frown deepened. ‘He was hanging doors alone but someone saw him lunchtime eating his sandwiches on site. We didn’t press too hard. We had the trophies in Cooper’s possession and his confession.’

  ‘His confession was fabricated and withdrawn.’

  Wyngate shook his head. ‘Is Osbourne a person of interest here?’

  ‘One of several,’ Holder said.

  Anna shot him a pointed look, but too late.

  ‘Several, eh?’ Wyngate smiled.

  Anna said, ‘Did you examine Osbourne’s computers, his PC or laptop at the time?’

  ‘No, we had no reason to. I don’t even think he had one.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence that you found at the time that might now shed a different light on things?’

  Wyngate sat back, impassive. ‘If I did, do you honestly think I wouldn’t give it to you?’

  Anna snorted. ‘Tobias has a file of undisclosed evidence. Aren’t you even the slightest bit nervous of what’s going to emerge at the retrial?’

  Wyngate smiled. His eyes were like coals in the snow. ‘Jesus, what it is to be righteous. You’re a hard woman, Inspector. But we weren’t all extras from Life On bloody Mars back then, you know.’

  * * *

  Outside, Holder and Anna both exhaled at once.

  ‘Do you believe him, ma’am?’ Holder asked Anna.

  ‘I don’t know, Justin. For some reason I find myself wanting to, but I’m beginning to wonder who the true nutter is in this case.’ Half to herself, she murmured, ‘Why is he still up to his neck in all of this? The fact that he was around Harris right from the start of the Nia Hopkins investigation doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Could be guilt,’ Holder said, and then laughed at his own suggestion. ‘Doesn’t come across as very remors
eful though.’

  ‘From what we already know, it was Maddox that did most of the dirty work. Ideally, he would be the one to talk to, but we can’t do that.’

  ‘Unless you’ve got a Ouija board, ma’am.’

  ‘What about Briggs?’

  Holder smiled. ‘Ryia’s found him. Last thing she said as I left this morning. He’s seventy-six now. Lives alone in Tewkesbury.’

  ‘You have the address?’

  Holder nodded.

  ‘How long would it take us to get there?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Depending on traffic, an hour from here, I reckon.’

  ‘Then let’s do it, Justin.’

  ‘Should we run it past the Super? Briggs was quite senior.’

  ‘And his team was corrupt. Screw protocol. I’ve had it up to here with playing nice while some killer walks about looking for someone else’s neck to put their hands around.’

  * * *

  After fifty-five minutes, driving through surprisingly heavy traffic, they reached the outskirts of Tewkesbury and a village called Fiddington.

  Briggs opened the door of a modern, immaculately kept bungalow on a street with smart gardens and clean pavements and lamp-posts sporting neighbourhood watch stickers. He stood, stooping slightly, peering out over a pair of half-glasses at Holder as he proffered his warrant card. He then raised his eyes and his stern gaze took in Anna. She returned it, noting the slack flesh of his jowls and the thin moustache. He looked like someone who’d lost a lot of weight too quickly. An image of the portly form that had bustled his way confidently through a dozen TV interviews during the original Woodsman monster hunt sprang to mind. Something was eating, or had eaten away at Briggs. The question remained as to whether it was something physical or mental.

  ‘What do you want?’ Briggs asked, his voice was soft.

  ‘A few questions regarding retired Chief Inspector Wyngate,’ Anna said.

  Briggs looked hard at her, giving nothing away. ‘My supper’s in the oven. It’ll be ready in eight minutes. I’ll give you till then.’ Briggs turned and walked inside, leaving the door open. Holder shrugged to Anna and followed the old man into a small parlour. Briggs didn’t ask them to sit. Instead, he stood in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind his back. Behind him on the walls were framed photographs of himself in the force, receiving handshakes and praise.

  ‘Constable Holder and I are part of—’

  Briggs stopped her with one wave of his hand. ‘Give me some credit. I know who you are, I know why you’re here.’

  ‘Do you? Then I’ll get to the point. It can’t have been easy facing all that criticism when Cooper’s conviction was quashed. Mr Wyngate seems… reluctant to accept it. In addition, he’s been involving himself with DCI Harris in the Nia Hopkins investigation.’

  Briggs grunted. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘Why do you think Wyngate is so interested in Cooper still?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he be? The case made him.’

  ‘Like it made you, you mean?’

  ‘Not quite. I wasn’t looking for any promotion but I was commended. So was Wyngate.’

  ‘What about Maddox?’

  Briggs rolled forward onto the balls of his feet. ‘I won’t have you disparaging a good copper like Dave Maddox in this house. He wasn’t scared to get his hands dirty when the going got rough. He did as he was told. That’s all you want in a DS.’

  ‘I’m intrigued as to why he wasn’t commended, that’s all.’

  ‘If they’d have listened to me, he would have been.’

  ‘Why didn’t they listen? Did it have anything to do with the fact that his methods were less than scrupulous?’

  Briggs’s voice hardened. ‘You know nothing at all about Maddox.’

  Anna wanted to push him on this. ‘I know he was disciplined for actions likely to pervert the course of justice.’

  Briggs stuck his chin out. ‘Maddox was a good copper who put hundreds of villains away. Villains who wouldn’t think twice about robbing you or raping you, or worse.’

  ‘We have proof that Maddox concocted evidence, suppressed evidence, basically made it up as he went along. Wyngate won’t talk about it and I’m wondering if he really knew about it at the time. From what I’ve learned, Maddox answered only to you.’

  Briggs’s mouth cracked open into a wintry smile. ‘Let me tell you what I told the CPS. Intelligent discrimination is what clears up cases. Discrimination that comes from experience.’ He shifted his gaze deliberately towards Holder. ‘You catch muggers by targeting little shits with pit bulls and bloody tea cosies for hats. You find drugs in hippies’ backpacks. Those are facts.’

  ‘That’s an abuse of Stop and Search and you know it,’ Anna said.

  Briggs shook his head. ‘You go after targets with your mind fixed, knowing you’ll find something. And if they know you know they’re guilty, it helps a lot.’

  Next to her, Anna could sense Holder seething.

  ‘The press were on your back. You’d have had pressure coming from above. You couldn’t have been far off retiring. It must have been tempting to go for the easy target.’

  Briggs shook his head, but his eyes were telling a different story. Ragged, the lids blepharitic and swollen, they stared back at her with defiance. Or was that guilt that she read there?

  Anna shook her head sadly. ‘Wyngate had doubts, didn’t he?’

  Briggs continued to wear that icy grin.

  ‘And Maddox did all your dirty work for you.’

  From somewhere in the house a buzzer sounded.

  ‘That’s my supper,’ Briggs said. He walked back to the front door and held it open for them.

  ‘You realise that you’re going to have to face all this once we find the killer.’ Anna couldn’t resist the taunt.

  Briggs didn’t reply but the whole building seemed to shake from the force with which the front door was slammed in their faces.

  * * *

  The driver of the 21.05 Paddington to Swansea train reported seeing what he thought was a mannequin hanging from a bridge near Magor. He was about to commence his deceleration on the approach to Newport when it appeared in the lights.

  He caught no more than a glimpse in the front beams and then heard the thump as the train struck. Kids, he thought. You’d have thought they’d have got Guy Fawkes out of their damn systems after Bonfire Night. It shook him quite badly to think of kids out at that time at night. Especially kids throwing things off bridges.

  He called his superiors and the transport police were informed. They sent a team out to investigate, but it was almost 7.30 a.m. on Thursday when Anna took the call from Holder.

  ‘It looks like they’ve found Charles Willis.’

  ‘Is he OK?’ Relief surged through her, but evaporated on hearing Holder’s next sentence.

  ‘No, ma’am. He’s strewn over a quarter of mile of railway track on the main Paddington to South Wales line.’

  Twenty-Five

  It was a steel-grey morning on the other side of the Bristol Channel, heavy with the promise of rain on a chill sea breeze. Anna met Holder and Khosa on the approach to the bridge near Magor where the train had struck the body. She’d crossed on the second Severn Crossing, coming off the motorway at Junction 23A, and had driven along the winding lanes that divided the flat landscape of the estuary. Now she parked at the end of a line of police cars and, walking up, she could see that it was a thirty-foot fall to the tracks beneath the bridge. A young uniform stopped her at the police cordon, but Holder emerged from behind a white Scientific Support Unit van and waved her through.

  ‘Morning, ma’am,’ he said, with little of his usual joviality. ‘I’ll take you up.’

  At the parapet, Anna looked down on a small army of white-overalled CSI officers combing the tracks, with uniformed transport police in the hedgerows searching for clues.

  ‘They’ve bagged fourteen separate body parts so far,’ Khosa said as she joined Anna.

  ‘Ha
s there been a formal ID?’

  ‘Pathologist says it’s impossible. The head and upper body are unrecognisable. He was corkscrewed under the wheels. We’re relying on document ID and clothing for the moment,’ Holder said.

  Khosa shivered.

  A uniformed officer approached and Holder stepped to one side to speak to him.

  ‘Driver’s quite shaken. Thought it was kids messing about,’ Holder said, turning back to Anna.

  She grimaced. ‘Can’t have been pleasant.’

  ‘Bound and dumped in front of an Inter-bloody-city. Bastard.’ Khosa glowered.

  The area was surprisingly built up. Half a dozen houses nestled within a stone’s throw of where they stood, screened from the five lines of track by a tall line of trees. From their vantage point, Anna could look east towards the swollen river, where it ballooned out towards the channel. A quarter of a mile further on and the houses petered out to be replaced by fields and hedgerows. To the west, new estates had sprung up in what was the newest part of the M4 corridor. She peered down the railway track itself. This section had several bends. To the north and south, it was a bare four hundred yards before the line curved out of sight, but she could see four bridges from where she stood, some designed for traffic, others mere footbridges.

  ‘I can’t believe no one saw anything,’ she said eventually.

  Holder pointed to some scaffolding poles that stood proud of the parapet towards the edge of the bridge. ‘They’re repairing the supports. It’s like a hide under there, look.’

  Anna and Khosa followed Holder thirty yards to the west. He leaned over a fence so that he could look back at the bridge. ‘There. See that tarpaulin? The workers leave it hanging up as protection against the weather.’

  Anna followed Holder’s pointing finger and took in the flapping grey-green sheet hanging under the bridge. The scaffolding extended across in a spindly framework beneath the whole span. He was right. It was perfect camouflage. They went back up and stood for a while, watching, until they turned away collectively, letting the specialists do their job.