The Silent Dead

by Keith Nixon

  “Victim, my backside,” Ogilvy cut in.

  Draper ignored her brother and continued, “Their licence to foster was suspended while the council investigated. It took months, even though the process was supposed to be informal. Nothing was found, of course, and it transpired this girl had lied before. The licence was reinstated, but the experience of the council investigation drained my mother of the desire to put herself out for others anymore.”

  “It was their lack of belief that hurt them the most.” Bitterness in Ogilvy’s tone. “People they’d worked with for years and knew them very well just assumed he was guilty.”

  “It was the process, Philip. They didn’t have any choice.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it. What about the presumption of innocence until proven otherwise?”

  Gray cut in. “Then what happened?”

  “She didn’t foster again,” said Draper. “The joy was gone out of it. A few months later father died, and mum carried on living here all by herself. That’s what wore her down in the end, I think. Being in a silent house full of memories.” Draper glanced at the photos on the wall.

  Ogilvy turned towards Draper, Gray momentarily forgotten. “But she wasn’t alone.” He meant the baby.

  “What if it was hers?”

  “Don’t.”

  “A brother or sister.”

  “God, no. I can’t believe that.”

  “There is a way of finding out,” said Gray.

  “What?” asked Ogilvy.

  “A DNA test.”

  “How do they work?” asked Draper.

  “If you consent then one of my team will take a swab from the inside of your mouth. We’ll also obtain a sample from the baby and compare the results.”

  “And from that you’ll be able to tell?”

  “The tests are accurate these days, as much as 99% if there’s a match.”

  Draper glanced at Ogilvy then back to Gray. “I’m okay with that,” she said.

  “Mr Ogilvy?” asked Gray.

  “Would my DNA be stored on a government computer somewhere?”

  “It’s called the National DNA Database, Mr Ogilvy. And the information will be used purely for comparative purposes. Afterwards your DNA will be destroyed. Only profiles from guilty people are retained.” Anyone arrested for an offence had to give a DNA sample. It was a powerful tool Gray believed in.

  “What about the record?”

  “Deleted too. Because of the new data protection act.”

  “I’m still not convinced.”

  “Surely we need to know?” said Draper.

  “Is there any other way, Inspector?” asked Ogilvy.

  “There may be other information, like on the birth register. However, if the birth wasn’t documented then in all likelihood we’d never get a complete answer for you.”

  “Philip, please,” said Draper.

  Eventually Ogilvy nodded. “All right, just for you, sis.”

  Three

  Gray bent down, stroked Mack again. “Come on little fella, I’ve got to get on.” The dog raised his chin from Gray’s foot.

  “Could I ask you a favour?” said Draper.

  “I’ve things to do.”

  “It’s nothing too onerous and won’t take much time. Would you mind seeing if you could get Mack to eat something?”

  “I’m hardly a dog whisperer, Mrs Draper.”

  “As I said earlier, he’s not responded to anyone else until now. Please, it may really help.”

  “All right. First just let me get the DNA samples organised.”

  “Great.” Draper smiled. “Thanks.”

  Clough was walking down the stairs as Gray left the kitchen. Mack followed close behind and got in the way as Gray attempted to shut the door.

  “Mack, here,” called Draper, but the dog didn’t move, staring up at Gray with his dark, unblinking eyes. Draper came over, took Mack by the collar and pulled him back. “Sorry about that.” Gray closed the door and the dog whined.

  Clough, holding his black leather medical bag, was waiting for him. “Looks like you’ve got a new friend.”

  “Our relationship will be brief, at best,” said Gray. Clough laughed. “Any initial opinions on the baby?”

  “They’re just assessments, of course. I can’t be definitive yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s no external signs as to cause of death that I can see, although there could be some on the torso, of course. We’ll need a post-mortem to determine a potential root cause. Mummification is a process of heat and time. Recently born babies have very little in the way of bacteria in their bodies so, the normal stages of the body breaking down don’t occur. Based on her size, I would estimate that she was only days old when she died. However, the mummification makes that an approximation. And as for when she died, it’s impossible to say at this stage.”

  “When will you schedule the PM?”

  “Tomorrow, more than likely. Mummification isn’t something I’ve come across before. I need to do some reading up on it.”

  “I’ll make sure I’m there.”

  “I’ve arranged for an ambulance to collect the body. It should arrive any time.”

  “Bloody sad.”

  “Parents should never outlive their kids.”

  “Who says she did?”

  “True.”

  “Otherwise I’ll be in touch about the procedure.” Clough shook hands. They were cold and dry. As always. “See you soon.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Clough let himself out of the front door.

  What sounded like a creaking floorboard came from the stairs. Pfeffer was on the landing. “I overheard what the doctor said.”

  “It wasn’t confidential.”

  “I know, I just didn’t want to interrupt.” She came down halfway. “All these children.”

  “Takes a special kind of commitment to look after other people’s kids. Your own are hard enough.”

  Pfeffer stared at Gray, made as if to say something.

  The front door opened. Boughton, constable’s custodian helmet in hand, said, “Ambulance is here, sir. For the body.”

  “I’ll show them up,” said Pfeffer.

  “No, I need you to take DNA swabs for Draper and Ogilvy,” said Gray.

  “Let me handle the boys in green,” offered Boughton. Gray raised a thumb.

  “The DNA kit is in the car,” said Pfeffer. She retreated out of sight as the paramedics entered and went up the stairs, preceded by Boughton, leaving Gray wondering what she might have been about to say and without a chance to ask.

  Draper was at the kitchen door, holding onto Mack’s collar. “Are you free now?”

  “Briefly.” Gray had hoped he could make his escape, but it wasn’t to be.

  On the kitchen unit was an empty ceramic bowl, a large bag of dry food and a tin of meat. Draper had even popped the can lid for him. She handed him a fork.

  “You want me to prepare it for him?”

  “It’s not Michelin stuff,” said Ogilvy.

  “Shut up, Philip,” said Draper. “It’s best if he sees you getting everything ready. I’d suggest a handful of the dry food first.”

  Gray was reaching an arm into the bag when Pfeffer entered. She paused, staring at him. “Do you want me to come back later?”

  “Who are you?” asked Ogilvy, the attitude gone from his tone, a half smile on his lips.

  “DC Pfeffer. She’s here to take the DNA samples,” said Gray.

  “I’m sure the lady could have answered for herself, isn’t that right?”

  Pfeffer put the box she was carrying on the table, extracted a vial, said to Ogilvy, “Can you open your mouth, please?”

  “Happily.” Ogilvy showed his teeth, then cracked his jaw. Pfeffer leant in, rubbed a swab around inside Ogilvy’s mouth before placing it into the vial and screwing the cap on. She labelled the bottle and slid it into a bag.

  Pfeffer turned to Draper. “Your
turn, ma’am.”

  “Just put half the can of meat on top of the biscuits and place it down over there for Mack.” Draper pointed at a white plastic mat in the conservatory. There was a black and white print of a dog on it.

  Gray did as he was told while Pfeffer dealt with Draper. By the time the bowl was down Pfeffer was done. “Thanks,” she said and left.

  “This is great.” Draper nodded towards Mack, who was greedily chomping down the food.

  “Who cares?” said Ogilvy. “What’s next with the tests?”

  “They’ll be sent to an accredited laboratory for analysis. Feedback will be in a few days, a week at most.”

  “Can it be her that gives me the results?” Ogilvy meant Pfeffer.

  “It’ll be me.” Gray handed Draper a business card and left another on the unit for Ogilvy.

  “Shame, I was hoping one decent thing might have come from today.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Gray left the kitchen and glanced inside the front room. The space was dominated by a bay window. Nets hung across the glass; thick red curtains held by tie backs. The furniture was all dark wood and heavy. A sofa, squashy chairs, a table beneath the window. A mantlepiece over an open fireplace was littered with framed photographs. He looked at them briefly, more faces he didn’t know.

  Outside, Boughton was back on the doorstep, Pfeffer a few yards away, leaning into the rear of her car.

  “All sorted with the paramedics?” asked Gray.

  “They’re gone. And so is the shoebox baby,” said Boughton.

  “The what?”

  “Worthington came up with it. Snappy, right?”

  “Not really.”

  “By the way, Sol. Would you be free for a beer one evening after work? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “What?”

  Pfeffer straightened up, shut the car door, went to the front.

  “Not here, though,” said Boughton.

  She opened the door, got inside.

  “Excuse me, I just want to have a word with Melanie.”

  Boughton grabbed hold of Gray’s arm, pulled him back. “It’s important, Sol.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m free.”

  “Promise?”

  “Of course.” By the time Gray got loose from Boughton’s grip Pfeffer was pulling away. If she saw him waving at her in the rear-view mirror, she made no sign of it.

  Gray passed by Boughton on the way to his own car. He heard a bark. There, in the window, was Mack, front feet planted on the sill, watching Gray.

  “Looks like you’ve got a new friend,” said Boughton.

  Gray snorted. “That’s what Clough said.”

  “You know, it’s weird. Only moments ago, Pfeffer was saying she was surprised you even had the compassion to look after a dog, never mind a child.”

  “A child?”

  “That’s what I thought. The baby’s dead, right?” Boughton pulled a face, like Pfeffer was crazy. “Anyway, I’ll call you later.”

  ***

  The flint–built church loomed over its immediate surroundings. A crenelated tower, more castle than place of worship, pushed up towards the sky. Beneath stood the vicarage and burial ground. Across the road was a supermarket and car park where Gray had left his vehicle next to some large community recycling bins.

  He entered the grounds through a side gate. It had been a couple of years since he was last here, but there wasn’t much change. Trees and bushes grew between the stones and statues to the forgotten dead. A war grave kept pristine, an angel minus arms and just the one wing.

  The most recent internments, in a rectangle of open space, were the furthest from the church. He followed a narrow tarmac path, as straight as any Roman road, away from the church. At the far end was a relatively new area added a couple of decades ago, giving more room for burials, although it soon filled and space in the graveyard remained a premium. The markers here were more ordered, arranged in regimented lines, and tightly packed. Beyond, the path continued through cabbage fields and then passed the Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother hospital before entering the edge of Margate.

  Andrea Ogilvy’s plot was in the corner. The stone was polished marble, the gold inscription bright and unfaded. Her name looked to have been carved into the existing marble and the original lettering refreshed – she’d been buried with her husband. The earth was freshly dug. Too early in the year to put grass down, like over all the others. Some flowers stood in a pot; the blooms shriveled by the overnight frost. Gray pondered over the grave for a moment.

  But really, he wasn’t here for Andrea.

  So, he retraced his steps. To nearby, where his ex-wife, Kate, had been laid to rest, about the time Andrea Ogilvy had stopped fostering. Weeds, their leaves brown and withered, had grown up and over the inscription since he’d last visited. Kate’s family was all gone now, meaning there was nobody beside him to care for the space. Feeling twinges of guilt; he bent down and pulled away the encroaching greenery, yanked the plants out by the roots and tossed them into an overgrown area to one side.

  Next to Kate’s grave was an empty space. She’d obtained it for their missing son, Tom, shortly before her own death, but it remained untouched. Gray’s eyes couldn’t long linger before he moved to the adjacent stone. That space was overgrown too, the inscription on the cheap headstone faded and hard to read. Zara Jessop died from an unspecified reason at 18.

  Life could be cruel sometimes.

  Four

  Gray entered Odell House, the police station on Fort Hill, in Margate. The design was classic unimaginative 1970s – a plain brick box, white plastic windows and a flat roof which occasionally leaked. However, the view over the English Channel made up for lazy architecture. And there was a pub, The Britannia, right next door.

  The CID team was located in the Detectives’ Office, a collection of desks grouped together in clusters, each with a phone, computer and screen. In one corner stood a makeshift kitchen, in the other Gray’s own small office. Gray hung up his coat.

  Worthington, the irritant himself, was at his desk, the space opposite his, where Ibbotson usually sat, empty. A large spider plant occupied one corner of Ibbotson’s desk, spilling over the edge. Ibbotson was an itch Gray wanted to scratch but that would have to wait for now, it seemed. He paused between Pfeffer and Wyatt who were seated at their respective desks either side of the passageway.

  “Can I get either of you a drink?” asked Gray.

  Wyatt tapped her mug, said, “I’m good, thanks.” She’d recently relocated to Margate when her previous assignment, Operation Pivot, an initiative to tackle County Lines drug supply, had concluded. She lived nearby in Deal, a forty-minute drive away. Prior to Pivot she’d worked for The Child Exploitation and Online Protection Command, CEOP, part of the National Crime Agency.

  Gray’s boss, Detective Chief Inspector Yvonne Hamson, had agreed Wyatt could base herself in Margate until she was reassigned, which had created some interesting stresses. Thankfully Wyatt and Hamson oblivious to them.

  “Melanie?”

  Pfeffer didn’t as much as glance at Gray. “I’m good.” She being the primary source of the tension.

  “Either of you seen Ibbotson anywhere?”

  “Sorry, not since you came back from St. Peter’s,” said Wyatt. “Why?”

  “Private matter.”

  Wyatt winked at Pfeffer, but she was paying the other woman no attention. Gray went to the kitchen area, added just enough water to the kettle.

  Wyatt joined him as he flicked it on. “Actually, I will have a freshen up.” She poured what was left of her drink into the sink, washed it out then picked up the kettle, sloshed the contents around, added more water from the tap.

  Pfeffer glanced over her shoulder, frowned briefly before returning her attention to her PC screen. Gray wasn’t sure if the glare was at him, Wyatt or both of them.

  He and Pfeffer had had a brief, no-strings-attached fling. At the same
time Gray was in a long-distance relationship with Wyatt. Gray had broken it off with Pfeffer when Wyatt announced she was to be stationed in Margate. Unsurprisingly, Pfeffer was cool with both Wyatt and Gray. He constantly expected to be found out, for the past to come back and savage him. Sometimes he even wondered if that’s what Pfeffer wanted.

  “You should boil a full one,” said Wyatt.

  “Why? Most of it goes cold. Does my head in. Such a waste.” Stuff like this wouldn’t have bothered him a few years ago.

  “You’re turning into a moaning old git.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I heard about the baby in the box, the poor mite,” said Wyatt, leaning against the counter, right beside Gray. “It’s the talk of the station.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “The shoebox baby I heard it called.”

  “Worthington?”

  “He’s very pleased with himself. It makes you think, though.”

  “What does?”

  “You know.” Wyatt leaned in. “Children.”

  “Is there enough for me?” asked Pfeffer loudly, although she was only a few feet away.

  “Plenty,” said Wyatt. She smiled at Pfeffer but got just teeth in return, no genuine emotion behind it.

  “Considerate of you to look out for both of us, sir.” Pfeffer leaned in. Wyatt reluctantly took a pace sideways, giving Pfeffer room to grab the kettle. Wyatt raised her eyebrows at Gray as Pfeffer splashed water onto a tea bag.

  “You might know this, Emily,” asked Gray. “Who would I speak to at social services regarding foster care?”

  “Why, are you thinking of getting a kid?”

  “God, no! I’m long done with that kind of thing.”

  Pfeffer knocked her cup over, spilling hot water everywhere. “Bloody hell!”

  Wyatt grabbed a roll of paper towel, tore off several strips, passed them to Pfeffer and started to mop up the mess.

  “I’m fine,” said Pfeffer.

  “You okay?” Wyatt asked Pfeffer.

  “I said, I’m fine!”

  “All right.” Wyatt reached for the tea bags to make Pfeffer another drink.