by Keith Nixon
The Silent Dead
A Solomon Gray Novel
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
A Cold Welcome
A Matter of Life and Death
A Bit Of Charlie
Distinguishing Marks
Other Novels By Keith Nixon
About The Author
One
Detective Inspector Solomon Gray drove past three patrol cars bumped up onto the kerb outside the address he wanted. There wasn’t anywhere else to park. Most of the properties on Ranelagh Grove, a quiet back street in St. Peter’s, were built long before vehicles and parking were a necessity. He circled around again, circumnavigating the Elim Oasis Pentecostal church in the centre; a bland, single storey brick structure with a pitch roof surrounded by a moat of grass.
He finally drew up in the only available space – across a neighbour’s driveway and next to a small knot of bystanders standing on the corner, trying to work out what was going on. Residents in this quiet corner of Thanet were unused to a police investigation which erupted without warning earlier that morning.
Gray got out of his car, ignored the tut from one of the group, seemingly irritated by where he’d chosen to park. Gray made for the house, a double fronted brick and flint property. The uniformed police constable on duty by the front door threw a sloppy salute as Gray entered the narrow front garden through a white wooden fence. “A bit parky, Sol,” said PC Damian Boughton.
Although it was January, Boughton, his usual beat central Margate, wore only a thin black standard issue jacket more suited to the summer. Gray was wrapped up tight in a padded coat, the cold already seeping through. Boughton proved a stocky, imposing figure. Useful in Margate where, compared to St. Peter’s, trouble came as standard.
But Gray’s mind lay more on what was inside, rather than the weather. “Where is it?”
Boughton pointed to the window above their heads, said, “First floor.” He shivered as he said, “It’s ghoulish.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Course. You’d have to, right? My old dad told me he’d come across these things more than once, and his dad did too, regularly. Not so common these days.” Boughton moved out of Gray’s way. “That’s progress for you.”
“One word for it.”
“Good luck.”
Gray entered the house, finding himself in a narrow, unlit and silent hallway. Bare wooden floorboards and stairs of stripped wood in front, a door to a living room on one side, a multitude of pictures on the cream painted wall opposite. He glanced at the nearest frame. Photos of people in small groups, adults and children. All seemingly, different.
He headed up the stairs, reached a landing. The door to every room stood open on its hinges. Detective Constable Melanie Pfeffer, petite and blonde, waited for him in the entrance furthest away. “Sir, in here.”
She’d cut her hair recently so it was very short, a flick across her forehead, shaved tight at the sides, and sported another black eye which they would need to again discuss – if that was the word for it.
But not now.
He passed into what was clearly the master bedroom, given the space and perspective. Two sash windows, the curtains, drawn wide, looked out onto the church below. A double bed made up and neat, the brass bedstead gleaming, to the right, a large gilt-edged mirror on the wall above. The light brown carpet deep and thick. Opposite, a wide wardrobe in a dark, polished wood. It stood empty, the clothes which had been inside draped over a chair, coat hangers still hooked into the necks of blouses and dresses.
Detective Sergeant Ted Ibbotson was waiting between the bed and window, a tall man who regularly wore trousers that were too short for him, revealing trademark white socks at the ankle, and large feet. Ibbotson’s hands were clasped in front of him, head bowed, as if he were in church himself, and showing a monk’s patch of balding pate. He was in his early 40s, recently back at work after an extended sick period. Pfeffer hung behind, at Gray’s shoulder.
On the duvet was a cardboard box, longer than it was wide, the flaps open. The supplier’s brand and an adhesive address label were obvious on the outside.
“Is this it?” asked Gray.
“Yes, sir,” Ibbotson said in a hushed tone. He shook his head. A positive and a negative. “They thought it was a doll at first.”
“They?”
“The son and daughter of the recently deceased homeowner.”
Gray took a pace closer, leaned over and peered inside. He’d been warned about the contents, but still the breath caught in his throat. All his years in CID and this was truly a first.
The ‘it’ they’d all been referring to did seem to be a child’s toy. Only the face visible, the body wrapped head to foot in a blanket. Eyes closed – they would be blue, of course – skin the colour and appearance of old parchment paper. Pale puckered lips and a tuft of dark hair poking out from beneath the cloth.
A baby.
Mummified.
Stored in a box hidden in the back of a wardrobe for who knew how long or why.
“Oh my God,” said Gray.
Two
The baby appeared just weeks, maybe even only days old. But that was just an educated guess. Although Gray had had children it had been years ago.
Gray checked the address on the label. This house. He retreated, said, “Take me back to the beginning.”
Ibbotson carefully closed the flaps, hiding the body from view before he spoke. “The homeowner was one Andrea Ogilvy.” Same as on the label. “She died eleven days ago and was buried in St. Peter’s.” Ibbotson pointed in broadly the right direction. He meant the Anglican Church a couple of streets away, not the Elim across the road. Nobody got buried there. Gray knew St. Peter’s very well. He’d married, baptised his children and buried his ex-wife there. He used to worship too.
Not anymore.
Ibbotson continued, “Her kids, Polly and Philip, were in the process of clearing out the house and came across this.” Ibbotson meant the baby. “They called us straightaway.” Ibbotson shook his head.
“Where are they now?”
“In the kitchen, sir. Got them a sweet tea each and some company. Dr Clough is on his way.” Thanet’s forensic pathologist. “He should be here soon.”
“Good, thank you.”
“It’s what I’m here for, sir.” Gray managed not to roll his eyes. They moved onto the landing. “I assume you want to talk to the pair of them?”
“I’d just like a quick word with DC Pfeffer first.”
Ibbotson’s gaze flicked between Gray and Pfeffer. “Okay.”
Gray pointed to the room next door, a dusty space filled with boxes. He entered, Pfeffer following. Gray pulled the door to, the click of the latch loud.
“Have you been fighting again?” as
ked Gray.
“Should we be doing this now?”
“Yes.”
Pfeffer huffed. “We’ve been over this, Sol. It’s called boxing. And you know why I do it.”
A few months ago, Pfeffer had been badly beaten and hospitalised. She’d changed – more introverted, not so quick to laugh.
“And I’ll say again, it doesn’t look great for one of my officers to turn up to work bruised.”
“That’s what I am now, one of your officers?”
“Strictly, nothing’s different.”
“Sleeping together doesn’t count?”
“Keep your voice down!” Gray couldn’t help but snap. Ibbotson would more than likely have his ear to the door. “That’s over.”
“Now your girlfriend’s back.” She meant Emily Wyatt, who’d recently been stationed in Margate after the conclusion of an operation she’d been working on in another county.
“It’s difficult.”
“No, it really isn’t.”
“Now’s not the right time to discuss us.”
“Neither was the last three occasions I brought this particular subject up. And you started the conversation this time.”
“I meant about the boxing.”
“So, you get to pick and choose the subject?” Pfeffer crossed her arms. “Anyway, I’ve quit the training for now. There will be no more bruises.”
“Glad I finally got through to you.”
Pfeffer opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Ibbotson stuck his head round. “Apologies, Dr Clough is here.”
“One moment,” said Gray. He turned back to Pfeffer. “You were saying?”
Pfeffer shook her head. “You’re right. Let’s do this later.” She moved past Gray, swung the door wide revealing Dr Ben Clough, holding a black leather medical bag. He nodded, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere between Gray and Pfeffer. Clough was wiry, bespectacled.
“Where am I needed?” asked Clough.
“I’ll show you,” said Pfeffer.
Once Clough and Pfeffer were gone Ibbotson, leaning against the bannister, asked, “Everything all right, sir? With Pfeffer, I mean.”
“We’re fine.”
“If I can do anything to help, as your sergeant, I mean, I’m here for you.”
“I appreciate it.” Gray didn’t. “For now, just show me to the kitchen, please.”
“Sure.” Ibbotson led Gray down the stairs.
Gray regarded the framed photos as he followed, hand on the bannister. All the images contained children of various ages. Dozens of them. Most smiling, some not.
“Andrea Ogilvy, she was a foster carer,” said Ibbotson by way of explanation. He’d paused on the bottom step, watching Gray. “Bet it used to be a noisy place. Quiet as the grave, now.” Ibbotson turned and continued to a door at the end of the corridor, held it open to allow Gray to pass through first into a brightly lit space. There were kitchen units to one side, then, beyond, a conservatory which opened onto the garden. To the right a sizeable, round table. More photos on the wall overlooking the occupants.
Three people turned towards Gray. All seated, each with a mug in front of them. It didn’t seem like he’d interrupted a conversation. A man and a woman Gray didn’t recognise and one he did. The latter being Detective Constable Jerry Worthington, Newcastle born and bred, a broad-shouldered man from spending time in the gym and playing rugby. Gray glanced at Ibbotson, who was inscrutable. Worthington was supposed to be staying in the station, not out on investigations.
Bloody Ibbotson.
“Cuppa, sir?” asked Worthington, he half rose, ready to serve.
“No,” said Gray. He wouldn’t drink anything offered by him.
Worthington sat back down. “This is Polly Draper and her brother, Philip Ogilvy.”
Ogilvy was grey haired, deep frown lines on his forehead, crooked square teeth. His hands were clasped around the mug, the skin worn, nails bitten down. He looked like a labourer or a gardener. His sister was younger with dark hair, high cheekbones and pale skin.
“If you wouldn’t mind, DC Worthington, I’d like to speak with Miss Draper and Mr Ogilvy alone.”
Worthington flicked a glance over Gray’s shoulder at Ibbotson.
“Is that all, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“We’ll talk later,” said Gray.
Worthington stood. Something growled as he did so. A small-ish dog, white with black and brown patches, half in, half out of a basket on the floor, teeth bared. Gray didn’t recognise the breed, he knew little about dogs. There hadn’t been the time for a pet when he’d had a family and no inclination since. Particularly since he’d moved into a flat which didn’t possess a garden.
“That’s Mack,” said Draper.
“He’s a bloody mutt,” said Ogilvy, his tone a growl too.
Worthington shifted and a warning rumbled in Mack’s throat again. Gray decided he liked the dog. Anyone who wasn’t keen on Worthington was fine with him.
“It’s okay to stroke him,” said Draper. “He’s normally very placid.”
Gray went over, squatted down and stroked Mack. The dog sat, Gray saw his own reflection in the dog’s large brown doleful eyes. The dog flopped down, rolled over onto his back, paws raised. Gray rubbed the dog’s chest. He could feel ribs under the skin.
“That’s amazing,” said Draper. She stood by his shoulder. “He’s been totally lost since Mum died. In fact, this is the first time he’s moved from his basket. He’s barely eaten anything, and we’ve had to carry him outside. He does his business then it’s straight back to his bed. Isn’t that right, Philip?”
“Don’t bring me into this,” said Ogilvy. “I want nothing more to do with the animal. And picking up his crap.” Ogilvy shuddered. “No chance.”
“Thanks for reminding me, Philip,” said Draper.
Gray stood upright, went back to the table, pulled out a chair. Just the three of them now, excluding Mack.
“I’m Detective Inspector Solomon Gray.”
“Polly, Philip,” said Draper. “And I’m Mrs, not Miss as your officer stated.”
“My apologies.”
“Not your fault.”
“I understand your mother died recently, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Gray felt a nudge at his leg. He glanced down. It was Mack. Another nudge of Gray’s calf with his nose.
“If he annoys you, just kick him away,” said Ogilvy.
“Philip!” Draper frowned at her brother.
“What?” Ogilvy raised his arms, attempting innocence.
“He’s okay.” Gray reached down and stroked the dog around his ears. Mack licked his hand. Gray wiped his palm on his trouser leg, hoping Draper didn’t see. Mack nudged him again before sighing and lying down, chin resting on Gray’s foot.
“He’s as tired as we are,” said Draper. “I’ve been coming here every day to feed him.” Ogilvy frowned, turned his head away.
“I understand you discovered the baby while you were sorting through your mother’s things?” asked Gray.
“Philip found her, didn’t you?” Ogilvy shook his head, like he didn’t want to be part of that conversation either.
“How do you know it’s a her?” There wasn’t any way to tell so far as Gray had seen.
“I don’t but calling a chid ‘it’ feels wrong.” Exactly what Gray had done. “Philip was taking clothes out of the wardrobe. I was in the next bedroom, heard a shriek and came running. Philip just stood there, pale, holding the box out towards me. It was mind-numbing, frankly. We stared at her for a while, then called the police.”
“I didn’t shriek.” Ogilvy glared at his sister.
“Do you have any idea why she might have been there?” asked Gray.
“None.” Ogilvy was sharp. “I’ve never felt the need to search my parent’s wardrobe until now. Why would I? And they never mentioned anything about a baby’s corpse being under our roof.”
“Our father passed eight years ago,” said Draper. “He was a manager at a local chemicals plant. Retired at 65, was gone within a year. Mum was a little older than him, 78 when she died.”
“I understand your mother was a foster carer?”
“She looked after hundreds of children over the years. It was her mission, so to speak. After Philip she thought she couldn’t get pregnant again, so other people’s kids became hers, then one day…” Draper glanced at her brother. “I unexpectedly came along.” Draper pointed at the photos on the wall beside them. “These are just a few of the many she looked after.”
“Kept life interesting, I expect?”
“Mum didn’t make it easy on herself or us. She often took the challenging ones. That had run away from home, possessed learning difficulties, unplanned for pregnancies. It was bedlam sometimes. Council staff turning up at all times of the day and night. Sometimes the kids would be here for only a few hours, others for months.”
“It was awful,” said Ogilvy with a scowl. “You never knew who was going to be in your house, even in your bed. One of them crapped in my sock drawer once.” He shuddered.
“Don’t listen to him,” said Draper. “It was a constant adventure. Mum, she simply cared about others. She couldn’t help herself.”
“What about babies? Would they be brought round?” It was the obvious question for Gray to ask.
“Not often but sometimes, sure.”
“When did your mother stop fostering?”
“Just after she turned 70.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t lack of energy; I can tell you.” Draper laughed. “She had enough drive for all three of us.”
“So, what was the reason?”
“Because the council were bastards,” cut in Ogilvy, banging his fist on the table.
“You know it wasn’t just that, Philip,” said Draper.
“They treated her very badly.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gray.
“There was a complaint.” Ogilvy stared at the mug he was turning between his fingers. “One of the girls said our dad was spying on her, touching her up.”
“Utter bullshit,” snapped Ogilvy.
“Nothing like it had ever happened before. Until then our parents had faultless records. But the council had new rules, the victim was always believed first and foremost.”