DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Through the windscreen, he sees the baby squirm under the blankets on the back seat. She makes a few, tentative noises, more like little coughs than cries. For the first time, the full impact of the events of the last hour hit him, and his legs give way. He collapses onto the bonnet, staring in horror at his child.

  God forgive me, what have I done?

  Suddenly, the light seems too bright, the cars too fast. There is too much to take in. He needs to think. He wipes his face with his shirtsleeve, blinking back tears of self-pity. Things were going to be so great. But now his life is broken and can never be fixed.

  For a long while he sits in the car, hugging himself, but the baby is restless. He’ll have to move or she’ll start crying again, and he’s afraid of what he might do. He has to get somewhere safe. Black Wood is the only place he has ever felt safe. But he can’t just show up on the doorstep with blood all over him. I’ll call. They’ll understand — they always do.

  Chapter 6

  Rickman’s window didn’t afford much of a view: the high wall surrounding the station car park, a corner of playground at the preschool opposite. The day continued warm, and the conflicting autumn scents of richness and decay wafted in, carrying with them the downy seeds of willow-herb from the railway depots on the eastern side of Tunnel Road.

  DC Hart tapped on the door and entered. She looked rested and alert after her holiday. Hart shook his hand. Hers was cool, her grip firm. She took the empty seat and Rickman perched on the edge of the desk. Close up, she appeared slight, even delicate, and her fine bone structure reinforced the impression, but Rickman knew her better.

  ‘You’ve heard about the murder?’

  She nodded. Hart had many good qualities, one of which was the ability to wait, rather than trying to second-guess a situation.

  ‘Jasmine Elliott,’ Rickman said. ‘Seventeen years old. Her baby’s missing.’

  Hart made a small sound at the back of her throat, then covered with a cough. ‘How long?’

  ‘An hour.’

  He saw Hart’s blue eyes flicker as she calculated the infant’s chances of survival: an hour was enough time for a kidnapper to go to ground — but it was still early, and the likelihood of him being spotted between the murder scene and his hideout were good.

  ‘I’m leading the inquiry,’ Rickman said. ‘I’d like you on the team.’

  For a moment she stared at him, then roused herself. ‘That’s the second offer I’ve had today.’

  There was only one other investigation that might be scooping up officers. ‘Operation Snowplough.’ Rickman tilted his head. ‘A high-profile drugs inquiry is an excellent opportunity. I won’t hold it against you if—’

  ‘I already turned DS Cass down,’ she interrupted.

  Rickman knew she wouldn’t answer a direct question, but he also knew Cass’s reputation among the female officers and staff, and the curtness of her reply said more than a direct answer. ‘It could be good for your career,’ he said.

  ‘Terrible for my self-esteem, though.’

  ‘You’re a good officer, Naomi,’ he said. ‘And not all of us are like Daniel Cass.’

  ‘No, but there’s just enough of his type in management to make the job that much more difficult.’ Her tone was savage, and she seemed to check herself, colouring slightly beneath her tan. ‘Sorry, boss. You caught me at a bad moment.’

  Rickman nodded. The force had come a long way on equality, but it still had a hell of a distance to go. ‘You’ve been shunted around a lot the last few months,’ he said. He saw surprise and gratification that he’d checked. ‘Take it as an opportunity — you need the experience of different divisions, to build contacts . . . You’ll get there, Naomi — but not by avoiding the likes of Cass.’

  She lifted her chin, her gaze clear and confident. Of course I’ll get there, that look said. ‘I’d really like a crack at this one, sir. And it’s not about Cass . . .’ She faltered, seeming unsure of how blunt she could be without overstepping the mark.

  ‘Spit it out,’ Rickman said.

  ‘I think I could achieve more on this case than I could as a drone footling on the sidelines of a big-budget production like DI Dwight’s investigation — anyway, I heard they’ve had a few problems.’

  He should have realised that Hart would never allow her outraged sensibilities to stand in the way of her career. She had weighed up the advantages of a high-profile operation against the lingering stench of partial failure and, even worse, the taint left by the missing drugs and money.

  ‘So,’ she said, evidently unsettled by his steady appraisal of her. ‘Am I in, boss?’

  Rickman smiled. ‘You’re in.’

  Foster poked his head round the door. ‘So, it’s you, me and her, then.’

  ‘Eavesdropping is a nasty habit, Sergeant Foster,’ Rickman said.

  ‘Only way you get to know anything in this place,’ Foster shot back, entirely unembarrassed. Rickman beckoned him inside and he shut the door after him.

  ‘I’ve drafted in a team of six uniforms for the house-to-house,’ Rickman said. ‘But the way things are going, we’re not likely to get a full team till tomorrow.’

  Rickman had spoken to the superintendent by phone. He hadn’t been encouraging. The drugs operation had been months in the planning, and it was a serious screw-up: in addition to the missing money and the suspects who got away, an officer had been shot.

  ‘So, what you’re saying is, it’s really just the three of us?’ Foster said.

  ‘We’ll manage.’ Rickman’s tone made it clear this was not an argument Foster could win. ‘I’ll keep working on manpower,’ he said, ‘but I don’t need to tell you the first few hours are crucial. Local press and media are a good bet — I’ll talk to the press office as soon as we’re finished here. And Chris Tunstall will be here within the hour.’

  Foster groaned.

  ‘Chris pulls his weight,’ Hart said.

  ‘He should do,’ Foster said. ‘He’s built like a cart-horse.’

  Rickman covered a smile. Tunstall had become something of a pet to Hart, and a large part of Foster’s resentment stemmed from his bewilderment at Hart’s affection for the big Widnesian.

  Hart glanced at Rickman, her eyes dancing with laughter. There was something in the look that Rickman could not quite identify: an unexpected warmth perhaps, and he held her gaze for longer than was warranted.

  Foster misinterpreted the look as disapproval. ‘What d’you want me to say? He’s a Widnes woollyback.’ The ‘k’ sounded like a bronchial obstruction.

  ‘Have you ever even been to Widnes?’ Hart asked.

  Foster gave her the smile at quarter strength. ‘I was a Royal Marine — I’ve been around the world, Naomi.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘And they say travel broadens the mind . . .’

  Foster turned to Rickman. ‘Are you gonna help me or what?’

  Rickman raised his hands. ‘You dug yourself in, you can dig yourself out.’

  Foster looked doubtfully at Hart. ‘Nah, I know when I’m beaten.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘So, how’re we gonna do this?’

  ‘I’ve already circulated a description and the last two letters of the car’s licence plate to Traffic. House-to-house will need it as well, in case anyone other than Mr Stott noticed this character hanging around. He’s been watching the house for a few weeks.’

  ‘Ex-boyfriend?’ Foster said.

  ‘Let’s find out. Suggestions?’

  Hart was ready. ‘Jasmine was what — seventeen?’

  Rickman nodded.

  ‘So — family first, then school friends and teachers.’

  ‘Have family been informed?’ Foster asked.

  ‘Just a mother, according to the registry office. She’s not answering her doorbell or phone — uniform officers have tried both.’ Rickman handed Foster a slip of paper. ‘I’ll talk to the education department, see if I can find her last school.’

  * * *

  Rickman sorted out
a press release and set up an evening briefing for the media before leaving instructions for Tunstall. Less than an hour later, he was seated in the office of the Head of Sixth Form at West Derby High School for Girls. Mrs Staines was tall, elegantly dressed in black. A red silk blouse softened the austere cut of her suit. She wore her brown hair long, and when she crossed her legs, Rickman caught a flash of ankle bracelet below her trouser cuff.

  She listened intently, her gaze never leaving his face, as she listened to the reason for his visit. ‘Jasmine was a poor attender,’ she said when he had finished. ‘A troubled child — chaotic home life — an intelligent girl in a—’ She hesitated, then tilted her head as if acknowledging the fact. ‘Yes — a doomed situation.’ Her eyes strayed to the window onto the sunny playing fields at the back of the school. ‘Jasmine looked for approval in inappropriate friendships.’

  ‘You knew her well?’ Rickman saw no files or folders on the neat desk to indicate that Mrs Staines had read up on her ex-pupil.

  ‘Before I was promoted, I was head of upper school discipline.’ She smiled. ‘Jasmine spent more time in my office than the majority of her peers.’

  ‘These “inappropriate friendships”?’

  ‘Older men, wild boys.’ She seemed to catch something in his look. ‘I’m no prude, Chief Inspector — I know better than most the pressures teenage girls are under. But Jasmine wasted her intellect — she didn’t even turn up for her final year exams.’

  ‘It looked like she was getting her life together,’ Rickman said, feeling compelled to defend the child-woman he had seen tortured and broken. ‘She’d recently moved into a new house.’

  Again, he was struck by Mrs Staines’s steady gaze, surprised to see in it the hard, incredulous stare of police and prison officers. Teens and villains, he thought. Accomplished liars all — and like cops, teachers in her line of work must need a cool head and a hard heart.

  But he had misjudged her, at least in one respect. ‘I’m glad.’ She nodded to herself, as if this had solved some small conundrum. ‘And I’m sorry.’ She looked towards the window again and this time Rickman saw a tear shimmer on the rim of her eye.

  She glanced at her watch and stood abruptly, as if impatient at her show of emotion. ‘Almost lunchtime,’ she said. ‘The girls will be converging on the sixth form common room soon. Shall we?’

  ‘I can arrange for child protection officers to come in and interview the girls,’ Rickman said, thinking miserably of the delay that would cause, but feeling obliged to make the offer.

  ‘They are young women,’ she said firmly, ‘not children.’ She led the way out onto the grey stretch of concrete between the main building and the sixth-form block. On the field, a group of younger girls were playing hockey, the clack of wooden sticks and occasional shouts of encouragement rising and falling on the sweet autumn breeze.

  The school was enclosed by high sandstone walls, fringed by mature trees. The maples flamed red, and the sycamores and birches were buttery yellow in the afternoon sun. The sixth-form block was a featureless rectangle in cream-coloured stone, blackened in places by pollution from the ring road a hundred yards away. Many of the windows stood open and Mrs Staines glanced up at a sudden burst of laughter, as if trying to establish which classroom was the source of merriment — though Rickman couldn’t tell from her expression if she felt it was a good or a bad thing.

  In the common room, two girls huddled either side of a third — a sober-faced girl holding a magazine — while a radio played softly on the window ledge. They started at the sight of Mrs Staines, horror and guilt on their faces.

  ‘Odd,’ Mrs Staines said. ‘I haven’t heard the bell. Perhaps your General Studies teacher sent you to research popular culture?’

  The girls laughed nervously, and the one who held the magazine dropped it to the table, as if trying to dissociate herself from it. ‘Sorry, Mrs Staines.’ She was blushing. ‘We were just on our way to the library and—’

  ‘Never mind.’ Mrs Staines fixed them with her impenetrable stare. ‘Since you are here, you can make yourselves useful. When lunch break does begin’ — the slight emphasis on ‘does’ was not lost on the girls — ‘I’d like you to round up any of the girls who were in Eleven G with you, the year before last. Bring them to the art room.’

  * * *

  Over the next five minutes, fifteen girls filed into the art room. It seemed the sixth form were allowed some leeway with dress: they wore a variety of styles, the unifying principle being that the tops were sleeveless and the colour code shades of green. Rickman guessed that the sleeveless rule was imposed by the girls themselves. Some carried cans of soft drinks, several had bottles of water, very few brought packed lunches. None of them looked directly at Mrs Staines, but it was clear they were all acutely aware of her presence, and Rickman sensed a respectful restraint in their demeanour. They perched on tables, chatting idly, curious, but far too sophisticated to openly acknowledge Rickman.

  When they were assembled, Mrs Staines said, ‘Thank you,’ and the girls fell silent. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Rickman,’ she explained. ‘He would like to ask you about Jasmine Elliott.’

  ‘Who?’ someone said, and a few of the girls laughed.

  Mrs Staines cast a gimlet eye on the girl who had spoken and she looked away, taking a large sip of her soft drink.

  ‘Was anyone here Jasmine’s particular friend?’ Rickman asked. A snort of derision was followed by sniggers. ‘So she was the sort of girl who had no friends?’

  An olive-skinned girl spoke: ‘She’s a weirdo.’

  Mrs Staines was about to admonish the girl, but Rickman said, ‘Weird in what way?’

  The girl caught a hank of glossy hair in one hand, smoothing it before administering a practised flick, so that it fell in a cascade over her shoulder. ‘The usual way. Weird make-up, weird way of dressing. Seriously weird taste in music.’

  ‘What d’you expect? She’s a smackhead.’ The speaker was a pretty girl with a snub nose and a broad Scouse accent.

  ‘A heroin addict?’ Rickman asked — always best to be sure, where teenagers were concerned.

  ‘Smack, crack, whatever,’ the girl said. ‘If you can smoke it, chew it or grind it into powder and inject it, Jasmine’ll do it.’ A ripple of delighted laughter, then the girls watched for Mrs Staines’s reaction. She seemed willing to let them run with it, and for this Rickman was grateful — now was not the time to reinforce school discipline.

  The olive-skinned girl spoke again. ‘She always had to try to be different.’

  ‘She was different.’ The sombre-looking girl from the common room sat cross-legged on one of the tables, straight-backed and confident, sure of gaining a hearing in this most competitive of environments. Her hair — brown and unhighlighted — was tied back in a simple ponytail and her eyes, pale and luminous, brimmed with intelligence. ‘Jasmine’s mum is a waste of space. Jasmine’s looked after herself since she was about twelve.’

  ‘Were you her friend?’ Rickman asked.

  All eyes turned to the brown-haired girl. ‘None of us were.’ Someone gave a shocked giggle, but the girl continued. ‘She was hardly ever here — even if you wanted to get to know her.’ She stopped, apparently hearing the defensiveness in her tone. ‘Has something happened to her?’

  Now Rickman was the focus of attention, but of all of them, he felt most acutely the gaze of the solemn girl.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it has. Mrs Staines will explain.’ Better such news should come from their pastoral tutor. ‘If any of you remember anything that might help us — the name of a friend — a boyfriend, maybe . . .’

  The girls remained silent until Mrs Staines spoke. ‘Jenni?’

  The solemn-faced girl glanced at Mrs Staines, then looked Rickman in the eye. ‘Is she dead?’

  Rickman sensed a collective holding of breath. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Jenni sighed, and a rustle of whispered exclamations followed. ‘From Year Ten on
, she was here maybe three days a week,’ Jenni said.

  Someone muttered, ‘If that.’

  Mrs Staines frowned, the information not tallying with school records.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Staines,’ the girl went on. ‘She’d come in for registration, then hide in the toilets till the coast was clear and sneak out of the side gate.’

  ‘What about that woman, used to pick her up, after school, take her cruising?’ the olive-skinned girl asked.

  Jenni spoke up again, and they fell into guilty silence. ‘Kim,’ she said. ‘I think her name was Kim.’

  ‘Yeah, Kim — Kimberley — something like that. She was gonna be an artist, or something,’ the snub-nosed girl added.

  ‘Piss artist, more like,’ somebody chipped in from the back.

  The others gave way to snuffled laughter, a touch guilty perhaps, some hidden behind hands, but all of them enjoying the baiting of a dead girl. In a seventeen-year-old’s world, it seemed sympathy and grief were short-lived and shallow.

  As they crossed the playground back to the main building, Rickman said, ‘I’m surprised that staff didn’t report Jasmine’s absences.’

  ‘Jasmine could be difficult,’ Mrs Staines said. ‘Some staff breathe a sigh of relief when certain girls are absent.’ She led the way to the school entrance and the car park.

  Rickman thanked her for her time and she frowned slightly. ‘I’m so sorry, Chief Inspector,’ she said with sincerity. ‘I wish we could have been more help.’

  Chapter 7

  Jasmine’s mother lived off the Lodge Lane end of Smithdown Road, in one of several clusters of studio flats masquerading as houses. Built in the 1980s when Thatcherite principles dictated that everyone was entitled to house ownership, they leaked in the rain, howled up a storm in a light breeze, froze in winter and tore themselves apart with subsidence and upheave in the summer.