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

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Sounds like Dwight’s lot are auditioning for Police, Camera, Action!’ Hart commented.

  ‘Keystone Kops, more like,’ Foster said, glad of the opportunity to engage her in conversation. ‘The Eye in the Sky was in the area when Maitland’s lads got dumped. They’re watching the video footage.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ she asked.

  Normally, he would make a flippant remark, such as, ‘Nose to the grindstone, ear to the ground.’ But his heightened sensitivity that morning made him reinterpret her comment as an indictment.

  A cheer went up in the MIR, followed by a loud bang. The audience gave a low ‘Ooh!’ and broke into ragged applause.

  A rattling of chairs from across the hall signalled the end of the session, and the drugs team emerged from the MIR, laughing, keyed up for the day’s work. One wit shouted above the rest, in a nasal-American accent, ‘Let’s do it to dem before dey do it to us!’

  Naomi Hart rolled her eyes. ‘With all this testosterone floating around, I think my voice is dropping.’

  Foster felt it as a personal jibe, but when he looked at her, Hart was jotting a note down on the pad in front of her.

  The phone on the desk next to Hart trilled, and she picked up and gave her name. Foster noticed her tense. ‘For DCI Rickman,’ she said.

  Foster jerked his chin in question.

  She covered the mouthpiece with her hand, a fire in her eyes. ‘No name, but she says she heard the appeals to call back — I think it’s our mystery caller.’

  Rickman had just left the room and Foster ran out to call him back. The DCI had been held up by the crush of drugs inquiry team members and returned in a moment, took the receiver from Hart and pressed speakerphone. Hart, Foster and Tunstall all leaned in to listen.

  ‘Are you the feller off the telly?’ The caller sounded young, female.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Rickman,’ he said. ‘I’m leading the inquiry.’

  An ex-resident? Foster wondered. Someone who knew Mark from the children’s home?

  ‘There’s a reward, right?’

  Straight to the point.

  ‘For information resulting in the prosecution of suspects in the murder of Jasmine Elliott,’ Rickman clarified.

  ‘So, how do I get the money?’

  ‘The way it works is we take some details, and get back to you if your information helps us to catch the killer.’

  ‘I’m not giving my name!’ Her voice became high and panicky.

  ‘You can make one up if you like,’ Rickman’s voice was warm and reassuring. ‘As long as you use the same name each time, to keep things straight — how’s that?’ They heard her breathing and the sound of traffic close by.

  ‘Melanie Townsend,’ she said at last. ‘I won’t talk to no one but you.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Rickman said. ‘I can give you my mobile number if you like.’

  ‘I haven’t got a pen!’ Again, the panicky note in her voice.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he soothed. ‘Just remember for next time — I’ll give it to you then.’

  Foster knew that his priority was to establish reliable means of contact — after all, she might hang up and never call back — but he wished to God Rickman would ask her what she knew.

  ‘How can I reach you?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘You can’t,’ she said, sounding immediately suspicious.

  ‘Okay, but this is on your bill. Do you want me to call you back?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m in a phone box.’

  ‘No problem, just give me the number, I’ll call you right back.’

  Foster mouthed, ‘What’re you doing?’ Rickman was taking a hell of a risk.

  ‘You send anyone, I’m gone,’ she warned.

  ‘I won’t send anyone, I promise.’

  He jotted down the number and she hung up.

  ‘Are you off your trolley?’ Foster demanded. ‘What if she isn’t there when you call back?’

  Rickman handed the slip of paper to Hart as he dialled. ‘There aren’t many usable phone kiosks left in Liverpool, and most of those are in the city centre,’ he said. ‘See if there’s any CCTV in the vicinity, will you?’

  That was DCI Rickman for you — hard to read. Crazy like a fox.

  DC Hart zipped out of the office as his mystery caller picked up. ‘Miss Townsend,’ Rickman said, and she giggled.

  ‘Call me Melanie.’

  ‘Melanie. You said you knew why Mark Davis was at the children’s home the night of Jasmine’s murder.’

  ‘’Cos of the baby.’

  ‘Bryony?’ Rickman said. ‘Was Mark going to leave Bryony at the home?’

  ‘Sort of. They buy them.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Rickman said, his voice calm, but Foster knew him well enough to hear the agony of anticipation in it — hell, he felt it himself. ‘Who buys what?’

  ‘Them two that run the home. Hilary and Ed — they buy babies.’

  Jesus . . . The hairs on the back of Foster’s neck stood up. Baby trafficking?

  ‘How do you know this?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘Kel— my mate told me. She got put in the home for a bit.’

  Kel? Kelly?

  Rickman jotted the name on a slip of paper and added, ‘Former Black Wood resident?’ Foster scooped up the sheet and turned to one of the computers. His hands trembled as he called up the database of former residents’ names.

  ‘She left at sixteen. Got pregnant. They took her baby.’

  ‘Took it?’

  She tutted impatiently. ‘Well, they didn’t grab it out of her arms or nothing. They did give her cash for it.’

  ‘How much cash?’

  ‘Dunno — a few thousand?’

  Hart returned, and Rickman covered the mouthpiece.

  ‘She’s on Lime Street Station,’ Hart said, keeping her voice down. ‘They’ll email a couple of screen-caps to my computer.’

  Rickman asked the caller, ‘When did all this happen?’

  While Rickman talked, Hart accessed her email.

  ‘Melanie, are you there?’ Rickman asked. ‘When did your friend—?’

  ‘I’m thinking, aren’t I?’ she snapped. She left an angry silence before saying, ‘Five years — about that, anyway.’

  Hart angled her monitor so that Foster could see it. The CCTV screen capture showed the woman entering the phone box. Mid-twenties, overweight, fair, with a face that already looked battered by life’s disappointments. Foster shook his head. She didn’t look familiar. Rickman gave Hart the thumbs up.

  ‘Melanie, I have to check this, but—’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Call me a liar.’ The line went dead.

  ‘Shit!’ Rickman pressed the receiver to his brow.

  Tunstall said, ‘Oh, hell . . .’

  ‘She’ll call back,’ Hart said. ‘Greed like that, she’s bound to call back.’

  Foster exhaled in one long breath. ‘We’ve got her on camera — if all else fails, we can put out an appeal.’

  Rickman hung up, looking disgusted with himself. ‘Anything from the database?’

  Foster stared in dismay at the table of names — thousands of children, going back ten years, some of whom would have stayed at Black Wood for a matter of days, others for years. ‘It’ll take a while.’

  Hart peered over his shoulder. ‘You need to interrogate the database,’ she said — and when it was plain this meant nothing to him, ‘Do an advanced search.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Look.’ She leaned across him and typed swiftly at the keyboard. He couldn’t follow what she did, distracted by the heady scent of her perfume and the closeness of her. Moments later, the printer whirred into life.

  ‘I searched for “kel” or “quel” in the given and surname, from the present to six years ago.’ Hart handed Rickman the sheet of paper. ‘Which gives us a list of fifty-three girls.’

  ‘And another fifty-three possible witnesses to interview,’ Rickman’s
thumb traced the line of the scar on his chin. ‘Looks like we just got thrown another curveball.’

  ‘Have we just added Ed and Hilary Shepherd to the list of suspects?’ Tunstall asked.

  ‘Lee.’

  Foster focused on Rickman’s face.

  ‘Are you okay with this?’

  He felt like someone had punched a hole in his chest and dragged his beating heart out through his ribcage, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He sensed Tunstall and Hart’s scrutiny, but mostly Naomi’s, and again the notion struck him that he would rather have her disapproval than her pity.

  ‘Just let me at ’em,’ he said.

  Chapter 28

  Within thirty minutes, Rickman’s commandeered conference room was packed with civilian Calls and Response operators, CID and uniforms, including some trainees and cadets. DC Hart turned her chair to face Rickman. His tall frame almost filled the area of the whiteboard on the back wall, where he stood, calmly surveying the growing numbers of police and civilian staff, his expression serious, thoughtful. He had to raise his voice to call them to order, but after a flurry of excitement they quickly settled and silence fell.

  Rickman gave a brief outline of the investigation so far, including the post-mortem findings. ‘The weapon would tell us if Jasmine was murdered by the same person who attacked Mark Davis,’ he said. ‘So we begin with a search of Black Wood. DC Tunstall will lead the search.’ Tunstall positively glowed with pleasure at being given the responsibility. It was one of Rickman’s strengths, Hart thought — seeing beneath an unpromising exterior to the potential.

  ‘Trainees and cadets will work with a trained officer,’ he explained. ‘You’ll search the grounds, initially. If we can get a warrant for the main house, you will move on to that later.’

  He checked the time — the hotline was due to open in twenty minutes. ‘Calls and Response, if a “Melanie” or “Melanie Townsend” calls, she’s to be put through to me without delay — clear?’ The operators made a note of the name. ‘Your role is crucial,’ Rickman went on. ‘We’re relying on you to act fast on anything that might give the investigation a shove in the right direction. Key points . . .’ He paused and you could almost hear the rustle of clothing as everyone sat up and listened.

  ‘Where did Davis go after abducting Bryony? Who might have had a grudge against him or Jasmine? And of course, any information on the alleged sale of babies.’ He turned to Foster. ‘Lee?’

  Foster stood up. ‘At the end of the briefing, I want the following to report to me.’ In normal circumstances, Lee Foster would begin with a joke, but today he was deadly serious. Hart listened while he reeled off a list of seven names, all signs of his earlier hangover pallor gone.

  ‘You’ll interview ex-residents of the children’s home,’ Foster said. ‘You’re looking for anyone who might’ve stayed in touch with Mark Davis, names of girls who might have given up babies, names of adoptive parents — the kids might know them as friends of the Shepherds. Did any of the former residents see or hear anything unusual? Look out for anyone who might have seen or heard about the trafficking — earwigged conversations, rumours, anything like that.’ He broke off, scanning the team, and Hart saw fury in his eyes. ‘We think that Black Wood is the probable hub of “Kiddies R Us”. You need to ask about any unusual activity — especially at night. Babies crying, noises or movement at night, visitors turning up at odd hours. Anything out of the ordinary.’

  His team of interviewers made a note.

  Hart recognised the ‘Kiddies R Us’ crack as part of Foster’s defensive shield. Make a joke about it, and people will think you don’t care. She had mishandled the earlier briefing. Her intervention over the database must have seemed impatient rather than helpful. Hart was like Foster in one respect: she was bad at apologising. More surprising even than this was the fact that, on both sides, their difficulty in admitting fault was a defence against a hostile world. In Foster’s case, it was a carry-over from his days in care. For Hart, it was a natural response to a hierarchical male-dominated workplace in which an apology could be seen as weakness.

  Rickman took over. ‘The Shepherds will be here at ten o’clock. I want as much evidence as we can bring together between now and then — I need more than an unsubstantiated accusation to take into the interview room. For now, they think they’re helping us to narrow down the field of interviewees — they do not know they’re under suspicion, so if you deal with them, I want them shown courtesy and respect.’

  Hart saw a muscle twitch in Foster’s jaw.

  ‘Until we have more, we’re grateful they’ve taken time out to talk to us — okay?’ He got a murmured acquiescence, though not from Foster.

  ‘DC Hart.’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘You will interview Mrs Shepherd with DS Foster.’

  She nodded, already working on approaches and questions, pleased to have been selected from such a large team.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Rickman said, ‘see if you can get hold of Davis’s mobile phone records for the week prior to his death — then I’d like to see you and DS Foster to talk interview strategy.’

  * * *

  Rickman wound up a few minutes later, after taking questions, and Foster dialled Kate Nolan’s number on his mobile, immediately. ‘Mrs Nolan? Kate?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, uncertain. Then, with a laugh, ‘Lee Foster!’

  ‘Sorry, Kate,’ he said. ‘I’m on the clock, here. I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Ask away.’ In the background, he heard a babble of baby talk, and a man’s voice, sounding grumpy, demanding something.

  She must have cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, because her voice became muffled, directed at somebody else. ‘Where it always is.’ When she spoke again, she said, with careful emphasis on his title, ‘Sorry, Sergeant. What did you want to ask?’

  Foster heard a stifled apology.

  ‘Did you ever notice anything . . . odd going on at Black Wood?’

  ‘Odd?’ she said. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Comings and goings, maybe,’ he said, deliberately vague.

  ‘Oh! There were always kids coming in at night — you remember that?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’ He had been one of the late-night arrivals on more than one occasion. ‘But I’m talking about stuff you’d think of as strange.’

  She was quiet for a moment, the sound of the child’s contented burble the only confirmation that the line was still open. ‘You did hear things at Black Wood,’ she said at last. ‘Noises in the woods around the house.’

  Foster’s stomach tightened. ‘Noises?’ he echoed.

  ‘Foxes or cats, Ed Shepherd used to say.’

  There was a hint of doubt in her voice and Foster said, ‘But . . .’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she began, ‘I thought . . . Well, I thought it sounded more like a baby crying.’

  Foster made a note on the pad next to the phone, adrenaline tingling in his blood.

  ‘Ed said it was cats — you know — gone wild, staking their territory.’

  ‘But you thought it was a baby.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice distant, as if listening for the ghost of a cry. ‘A few times.’

  ‘You heard it more than once?’ Foster asked. ‘When?’

  ‘What time of night, you mean?’

  ‘Time of night, time of year — whatever you can remember.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Late at night — after we’d all gone to bed. As for time of year, take your pick — it wasn’t what you’d call seasonal.’

  Foster heard the occasional clink of a spoon against a breakfast bowl and couldn’t help thinking that the cosy domestic scene it conjured in his mind seemed far removed from the sullen goth he had known all those years ago. ‘You can’t be more specific?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry, Lee. Dates and times get muddled in your head when you’re a kid.’ She paused, and Foster sensed a sudden awkwardness. ‘D’you mind me asking,’ she said at last, ‘w
hat’s this got to do with Mark?’

  ‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said, dodging the question. ‘If you remember anything else, let me know, okay?’

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to get the necessary clearances on Davis’s mobile phone. Hart sat back from her computer monitor and stretched. Now came the hard part — waiting for the printout to be sent to her. Behind her, the civilian phone operators were taking a steady stream of calls, and at the newly arrived desks CID officers worked the phones and sifted the pink message slips, searching for the one that might change everything.

  ‘All right, Naomi?’

  She turned to face Chris Tunstall. ‘I thought you’d be gone by now.’

  ‘Just finished briefing the lads,’ he said, with ill-disguised pride. ‘Time for a quick cuppa before I shoot off — fancy one?’

  ‘Fifty pence for scalding dish water from the machine?’ Hart said. ‘I thought you had a more discerning palate.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the muck in a plastic cup some laughingly call tea,’ Tunstall said.

  There was something in his tone. Glee — triumph, even. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he grinned, stepping aside. The kettle was in its rightful place on the tea table, with lead attached.

  Hart sat back in her chair. ‘Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, Chris — I thought that’d gone for good.’

  ‘It was well-hid, but I tracked it down using my superior detection skills,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘In that case, let’s celebrate while we can. You do know they’ll nick it again?’

  ‘I’d like to see ’em try.’ There was a gleam in Tunstall’s eye.

  ‘Chris Tunstall, what have you done?’

  ‘Here.’ He offered her the kettle. ‘Have a go.’

  She approached the tea table. ‘No chain?’ she observed.

  ‘The chain wasn’t whatchamacallit — satisfactory. Go on,’ he urged. ‘Unplug it.’

  She took it from him warily. ‘Tunstall, if you’ve got this rigged for electric shock—’