The Silent Dead

by Keith Nixon

“Which is strange as you’ve accessed their records.” Gray span around the computer screen, stabbed a finger at the line where the DC’s name was listed along with a date and time.

  “I’m telling you again, I don’t know who they are.”

  “Yet your details are clearly detailed as having read the files.”

  “I can’t explain that, other than to say it wasn’t me!”

  “I don’t believe you!” Gray stepped closed to Worthington, fists clenched.

  “I don’t give a shit what you think!” Worthington squared up. He was a big guy, but Gray didn’t care. “All you’ve ever done is hassle me since I started.” Worthington got toe to toe with Gray.

  “Bullshit! You’re a liar, Worthington and as bent as they come!”

  “I’ve never met those kids!”

  “Who were you selling the information to this time?”

  “Nobody!”

  “You’re dirty, Worthington.”

  Worthington’s hand flashed out, grabbed Gray by the shirt, a fist raised ready to hit him.

  “What the bloody hell is going on here?” Hamson stood in the doorway, Ibbotson at her shoulder. Beyond, the rest of the office watched open mouthed.

  Worthington let go of Gray, stepped back. “Inspector Gray was pushing my buttons, ma’am.”

  “Not true,” said Gray. “He’s been selling information again.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Shut up, the both of you!” Hamson turned to Ibbotson, said, “Take Worthington to the canteen, buy him a coffee and calm him down.”

  “Ma’am.”

  Hamson stepped to one side, allowing Worthington to push past. “What are you lot looking at?” he snarled at the staring CID team.

  “DC Worthington, don’t make it any worse than it already is.” He ignored Hamson. She turned to Gray. “My office, then you can explain what this debacle was about.”

  Gray trailed after Hamson, doing the walk of shame. Wyatt gave Gray a minor shake of the head, the disapproval clear. Pfeffer threw him an unconvincing smile. Hamson didn’t speak to Gray until they were behind a closed door. “Go on, bullshit away.”

  “I’ve got the bastard.”

  “How? What, Sol? All I’m aware of is a slanging match between you and Worthington that resulted in Ibbotson calling me down and splitting the pair of you up.”

  “The boys who were attacked by the dog, Worthington accessed all their files.”

  “Okay.”

  “Several days before they were set upon.”

  “What’s his explanation?”

  “He doesn’t have one, claims he’s innocent, of course.”

  “Hang on. We have to be certain before accusing one of our own.”

  “We know Worthington is dirty.”

  “That was never proven, otherwise I’d have kicked him out myself.”

  “I’m positive.”

  “That’s not enough. And this … setting a dog onto kids, its extreme.”

  “Seemingly it’s Worthington’s way of putting a stop to their expanding life of crime.”

  “That’s a very twisted logic.”

  “It’s Worthington we’re talking about here. We’ve got to deal with this. Kick him off the force, Von.”

  “You know I can’t just do that. The best I can do is put this into the Professional Standards Department.” They were a separate team who investigated complaints against the police. “See if he’s got a case to answer.”

  “Surely we have adequate evidence to boot him out?”

  “We have to go through the proper channels. If I just give Worthington the push without going through due process it’ll probably end up in a tribunal with Worthington claiming I’m simply supporting a personal crusade by you.”

  “It bloody well is a crusade.”

  Hamson held up a hand. “All we have is an electronic access record. On its own I don’t see that as sufficient. I’ll take advice from HR as to whether I should suspend and refer him to the PSD. If they say yes, Worthington will be suspended, pending further investigation. If they say no, he stays.”

  “HR hasn’t got the balls.”

  “Whatever, they’re my final words on the matter.”

  “Seriously, Von…”

  Hamson banged her palm on the desk. “Inspector Gray!” she shouted. “Stop! Gray held his hands up. “I think you need to go home for the day.”

  “You’re kicking me out of the station and not Worthington?” Gray was incredulous.

  “I’m shipping you both off. Obviously, neither of you are thinking straight. Take yourself home, clear your head, come back afresh tomorrow.”

  “What will the rest of the team think?”

  “Seriously, Sol. When has that ever concerned you before? I’ll speak with them.” She pointed a finger. “Go.”

  Gray succeeded in not slamming Hamson’s door. He paused in the connecting office, clenching and unclenching his fists before making his way to the stairs.

  He rang Wyatt’s mobile as he reached the car park. She answered. “Hang on.” Gray heard the scrape of chair legs, then the squeak of hinges. “I’m in the corridor now. What’s going on?”

  “I’m being sent home, like a naughty schoolboy. Worthington too.”

  “By Hamson.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well done.”

  “Can you do me a favour?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bring my laptop over when you leave?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll cook you dinner to say thank you.”

  “Do you have to, Sol? You’re not the best chef.”

  “Kick a man when he’s down.”

  “Look, I’d better go. I’m being told Hamson wants a quick word.” Then she was gone.

  Sixteen

  The buzzer went earlier than Gray expected. He pressed the button to let Wyatt in, left the door on the latch. She’d been here plenty of times, knew her way around. He headed onto the balcony with two bottles of beer. He flipped the cap off of one, left the other for now. A couple of minutes later, Gray heard the lock click when Wyatt pushed the door to behind her.

  “Hello, Sol.” Pfeffer, not Wyatt, stood framed by the French window. She wore jeans and a white blouse, short hair slicked back.

  “I thought you were Wyatt. She’s bringing my laptop over.”

  “When?”

  “If she’s on time, less than half an hour.”

  “I won’t be long. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. Otherwise, I might never say it.”

  “Fancy one?” Gray lifted the bottle.

  “I’m not drinking at the moment.” Pfeffer sat. “Things have been rather … difficult since Wyatt came back to the station.”

  “For both of us.”

  “I’m pretty certain it’s going to get worse soon.”

  “I don’t understand, Melanie.”

  Pfeffer clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m pregnant.”

  Gray paused, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  “I’m expecting your baby.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred per cent.”

  “How?”

  “Do you want me to draw you a diagram? And before you ask, it’s yours.” Gray couldn’t speak. “And I’m keeping it.” A pause. “This is why I stopped fighting and cut out booze.” A longer pause. “Say something, Sol.”

  “Christ.”

  “I’m sorry, I never meant for this to happen.”

  “You nothing for which to apologise. When are you due?”

  “July. And I’ll be coming back to work after my maternity break.”

  “Well, we can figure all that out.”

  “I’m not expecting you to get involved, being a father, I mean. You don’t need to come to the scans or the birth or anything like that.”

  “I want to.” Though Gray wasn’t sure at all what he was thinking right
now.

  “As you said, we can figure it out.” Pfeffer stood. “Look, I’d better get going. Your girlfriend will be here soon.”

  Gray rose, made to kiss Pfeffer but she stepped back. “Sorry,” he said.

  “I’ll let myself out.” Pfeffer quietly closed the door behind her.

  “Fucking hell.” Gray drained the rest of his beer, opened the other. He was going to be a father again. Another thought occurred to him. He was going to have to tell Wyatt.

  ***

  Wyatt was a few minutes’ late. “Sorry, I had to park further along the esplanade and walk back.” She held out Gray’s laptop.

  Did he tell her now? If so, what should he say?

  “Started already?” She meant the three empty beer bottles on the table, a fourth in Gray’s hand.

  “Sorry, bad day.”

  “I guess you won’t want another one yet?”

  “If you’re going to the fridge I will.”

  Wyatt frowned but said nothing. When she came back, she put Gray’s beer down on the table, said, “I can’t see anything on the stove for dinner.” She sat down.

  “There’s a lasagne in the fridge I’m going to microwave for us.”

  “As I thought, a culinary delight awaits.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologising.”

  “Sorry.”

  Wyatt rolled her eyes. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Gray wasn’t sure where to begin. His instinct was to stay quiet. When this secret came out there was no putting it back.

  “Hamson spoke with the CID team.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. How did it go?”

  “I thought you’d be on at me as soon as I walked through the door to find out.”

  “I forgot.” Wyatt blinked in surprise. “What did she say?”

  “That you’d gone home with a stomach upset and to leave you alone.”

  “A stomach upset?”

  “Nobody believed it. You were the talk of the station.”

  “Great.” And he would be again once Pfeffer’s news came out.

  “Why don’t I make us dinner?”

  “If you want.”

  Gray carried on drinking, stared out to sea. Wyatt returned soon with two plates and a fork. She’d even managed to find some wilted salad from somewhere. Gray ate mechanically.

  “What’s going on, Sol?” asked Wyatt.

  “Nothing, really.”

  “You’re totally spaced out.”

  “Just tired. It’s been a really strange day.”

  “All right, why don’t I leave you alone?”

  “If you want.”

  Wyatt’s face fell. She clearly didn’t want. Like Pfeffer, she shut the door quietly behind her.

  Seventeen

  Gray drove into work the following morning, his head still spinning. He’d drunk a lot more than he’d intended and barely slept, turning everything over in his mind. Several times Gray had picked up his mobile to call or message Pfeffer. On each occasion he’d held back.

  His phone rang, intruding on his thoughts. “Good morning, Dr Aplin.”

  “Is now a good time?” she asked.

  “Nothing’s good at the moment.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m in traffic so you’ll help me not swear at other drivers.” Gray pushed aside thoughts of Pfeffer.

  Aplin laughed. “I’ve got feedback from the commercial laboratory regarding the cross-referenced DNA samples. It’s good news. The list is down from seventeen to three.”

  “That’s great, a much more manageable number.”

  “You’ll have the information when you arrive at your desk.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Aplin rang off.

  Gray missed a set of lights, arriving just as it turned red. He thumped the steering wheel in frustration.

  ***

  Gray walked through the Detective’s Office, ignoring the glances from members of his team, curious still about his absence. Pfeffer wasn’t in yet, or Worthington. Ibbotson kept his head down, like he hadn’t noticed Gray.

  “Morning, Ted,” said Gray, simply to needle him.

  “Oh, hi.” Ibbotson flushed a bright red, cheering Gray up no end.

  He kicked his office door shut, then fired up the computer. There, at the top of his email list, was the note from Aplin. In the note she gave a brief outline of her findings and the names as bullet points – Imogen Nicklin, Zara Jessop and Kerry Hudson.

  The DNA reports for each prospect were attached too. Gray gave them a cursory glance, just to confirm the similarities were as Aplin stated. He moved to the PNC database to check for any records. Statistically, families stayed within the same local area. Meaning Gray would prioritise those within Thanet.

  Immediately, Gray discounted Nicklin, a 33 year old Glaswegian and still resident there. She’d been arrested several times for selling Class A and Class B drugs as recently as six months ago and was on bail awaiting trial.

  Next on the list was Jessop. She possessed an extensive record – and she was deceased. Eight years ago, cause of death was listed as accidental. Although she’d lived in Ramsgate her origin was the Medway town of Rochester.

  Hudson, however, appeared far more interesting. She lived just a few miles away in Garlinge, a village off the Canterbury Road, roughly halfway between Margate and Birchington. She was 27 and had been arrested for criminal damage in her late teens. Her photo from then showed a surly Goth – long black hair, lots of black make-up and a sneer. She’d had no contact with the police since; perhaps her one blemish was a result of youthful angst. Gray wrote down her address too.

  Gray switched his attention to the births, marriages and deaths database maintained by the British Government which recorded all of these events in the UK. Officially, two of the women hadn’t registered a baby at all. The only parent was Nicklin with children delivered periodically over the last decade and to different fathers.

  He picked up the notes. Hudson’s address went into his pocket. He grabbed his jacket. Gray handed Ibbotson the paper with Nicklin’s details on it. “Would you give Glasgow CID a call please and check into Imogen Nicklin. She’s a possible relative to the baby in the box. I think it’s unlikely, but I’d prefer to be certain there’s no connection to Thanet.” Ordinarily, he’d have asked Pfeffer but for obvious reasons he chose not to.

  The sergeant took the note. “Of course, sir. I’ll get onto it now.”

  “Morning, Em,” said Gray.

  Wyatt grinned. “Morning, yourself. Feeling better?”

  “Sort of.”

  “No hangover?”

  “Made of sterner stuff.”

  “I’m about to go and interview somebody and I suspect the discussion is going to be sensitive.”

  “So, you wanted somebody a touch more empathic than you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What about Pfeffer?”

  “I’d prefer you.”

  “I’m honoured.” Wyatt sat back. “Before I agree, what’s the problem?”

  Gray perched on the edge of Wyatt’s desk. “I’m about to ask someone if they hid a pregnancy.”

  “Okay, I can see why you’d need some female help with that. I’ll get my coat, then you can bring me up to speed on the way to wherever we’re going.”

  As Wyatt turned away Worthington entered the office. He paused, held the door for Pfeffer. Both of them ignored Gray.

  ***

  Dent-de-Lion Road sat towards the west of Garlinge and ran parallel with the Canterbury Road. Nearby was a medieval structure originally built by Sir Dent de Lion more than five hundred years ago to protect his estate from marauders. Only the gatehouse itself remained now, sandwiched between two far more modern properties.

  The house Gray wanted was a small bungalow on the corner of a street called Noble Gardens opposite a large area of flat, open ground beyond which was the disused Manston airport. Gray stopped immediately outside the house, waited for Wyatt
to join him at the gate. On the drive a black Audi was parked.

  “Remember, Sol. If she gets difficult, let me take over,” said Wyatt.

  “I hadn’t forgotten since you told me the last time.” Which was two minutes ago. At the door Gray knocked. It was opened by a woman smartly dressed in a pinstripe trouser suit and high heels. It was hard to see a similarity between the file photo and her. Hudson had changed a lot in the intervening years, not least dropping the Goth image completely. Her eyes moved between Wyatt and Gray. “Yes?” Her tone was sharp, clipped, like she was busy.

  “Inspector Gray, Thanet CID.” He showed his warrant card. “And this is my colleague, Emily Wyatt. Are you Kerry Hudson?”

  “Just for another couple of weeks until I get married.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “What’s this about? I’m rather short on time.” She flicked a glance at the watch on her wrist as emphasis.

  “Maybe we should speak inside?”

  Hudson stifled a sigh, opened the door wide to allow them entrance. “I’ve only got ten minutes before I need to be leaving. Got a house to show to clients.” She shut the door but made no move out of the hallway.

  “What do you do?”

  “I work for a local estate agent’s, Robson and Edwards. We’re very busy these days, lots of interest in Margate particularly.”

  “Which I find puzzling.”

  “I could give you chapter and verse on the relative attractiveness of the town, but we’ve only nine minutes left now.”

  “We’ll come to the point then,” said Gray, producing a thin smile from Hudson. “Your name has come up in an investigation.”

  “Oh?” Hudson frowned. “That can’t be right.”

  “You were arrested for criminal damage.”

  Hudson blinked. “That was years ago, and I haven’t been in trouble again.” Hudson waved away the issue. “Me and some friends broke into our local school. It was stupid, hanging around with older boys who used to lead me astray. I’ve grown up a lot since then and I’m sure it’s not worth wasting your time over.”

  “I agree and we’re not here about that. Your name came up in connection with another matter. You may have read about the baby in the box.”

  “Of course, who hasn’t?”

  “We’re trying to trace the parents.”

  “And you think I may be able to tell you, what? Who the mother is?”