The Silent Dead

by Keith Nixon

  “Yes.”

  “And did it happen to be raised at the time Andrea stopped fostering?”

  “It appears to be the cause of her putting an end to her work.”

  “Jesus. This explains everything now.” Hudson bowed her head, rubbed at the bridge of her nose. Gray waited until Hudson eventually said, “I’d moved out by the time this all happened. I had a call from one of my friends who’d been with Andrea too. She told me that Andrea was giving up looking after children. None of us could believe it.

  “I went round. She asked me if anything had happened with Gordon. I asked what she meant but she just smiled and told me to forget what she’d said.”

  “So, Andrea never told you anything? Didn’t say why she stopped her work?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Why do you think you’d be named in a complaint?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Hudson sounded suddenly tired. “Look, I don’t feel like speaking about this anymore, Inspector.”

  “All right. I may be in touch again if something else arises, okay?”

  “Fine. But let me tell you one thing for sure. I’d never do anything to hurt the Ogilvy’s. Besides my fiancée they’ve been the best people in my life.” Hudson stared at Gray for a long moment before she turned and walked away. Gray watched her retreat, wondering who’d lied.

  ***

  When Gray got to the station Ibbotson came in. “Can you talk, sir?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “DC Worthington wasn’t due to be off work today, right?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “I’ve only just arrived. Why do you ask?”

  “He’s not turned up for his shift and he’s not answering his phone. He doesn’t have a holiday booked and hasn’t called in sick.”

  “Go round and visit him then.”

  “Just did. There was no answer. I hammered on his door several times.”

  “Maybe he’s staying with somebody else?” Or perhaps Abbott had been round to have that word with Worthington already.

  “Maybe.” Ibbotson didn’t sound convinced.

  “I don’t know what else to suggest, Ted.”

  “I’m concerned, sir.”

  “So am I, sergeant. We’re another officer down when we’re already short of manpower. And, as usual, it’s DC Worthington who’s the culprit.”

  Ibbotson pushed the office door shut. “Sir, do you mind if I speak plainly?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s because of you he’s been off.”

  “Now wait a minute, sergeant, he has himself to blame for that.”

  “You’re biased against him.”

  “We’ve had this conversation already. Unless you’ve got anything valuable to add I’m throwing you out because I need to get on.”

  “Sir.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “I’ll keep looking for him.”

  “No, I want you here in the station doing some real work. When Worthington actually turns up, we’ll find out then what’s been going on.”

  Gray’s internal phone rang.

  Sergeant Morgan on the front desk. “Sol?”

  “Is it quick?”

  “You’ve got a visitor. An interesting one.”

  “I’ll be down in a minute.” Gray returned his attention to Ibbotson. “Have you got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First sensible thing you’ve said.”

  Ibbotson left.

  Gray headed down to the front desk. His visitor certainly was interesting.

  Twenty Six

  “You said to get in touch if I thought of anything else,” said Lucy Gold as he showed her into an interview room. She wore jeans and a tight t-shirt beneath a denim jacket. “Have you seen today’s paper?”

  “Which one?”

  “The Gazette.”

  “Is that even sold any more?”

  “It’s gone online, Inspector.” At least Gold didn’t roll her eyes.

  “One second.” Gray brought up a web browser on his phone, tapped in Thanet Gazette. The local newspaper was long gone. It used to be delivered to every house in the area for free. But as advertising moved online the profitability of the newspaper plummeted and the paper itself went digital only, merged into a general mess of Kent based publications. “What am I looking at?”

  “There’s a picture of the old guy that Zara used to see.”

  “Where?”

  “Give it here.” Gold snatched his phone and prodded away at it several times before she handed it back. “This guy getting cremated tomorrow, he was Zara’s boyfriend.”

  Amos Jenkinson.

  There was a photo, taken maybe a decade ago, selected presumably because it showed the man before the disease. The article underneath was short, simply stating Jenkinson was to be cremated in a private ceremony, then followed a brief biography about Jenkinson’s role as Thanet’s forensic pathologist, which was why he’d made it into the news, and finally a sentence stating that any donations for flowers were to be sent to a local charity.

  “It can’t be.”

  “I swear on my mother’s life, that’s him.”

  “Good God. Will you make a statement to that effect?”

  “Now?”

  “Please.”

  “If it helps, sure. Speaking to you made me think about Zara a lot last night.”

  “Wait here, I’ll get someone in as soon as I can.”

  Gray couldn’t believe it. But how to prove Lucy’s claim? Gray would need clear and irrefutable evidence. He picked up his mobile, placed a call.

  “Fiona? It’s Sol. I’d like to come round and see you to pay my respects.”

  Twenty Seven

  They were sitting in the kitchen; Fiona had made herself a cup of tea. Nothing for Gray.

  “His car leaves the funeral directors for a 9.15am service at the Margate Crematorium in two days.”

  “Can I visit him?”

  Fiona shook her head. “The casket is already closed.”

  Gray could get a warrant to access Jenkinson’s corpse and obtain some DNA. But if he was wrong, if Jenkinson wasn’t the father of the baby in the box and he made a huge fuss…

  Fiona continued, “I’ll be standing outside to watch the car enter the crematorium, but that’s it. You’re welcome to join me if you wish.”

  Gray didn’t really see the point. “The arrangements are unusual.”

  “It’s how Dad wanted it to happen.” Fiona stared into her tea, frowned. “Other people’s wishes were never really his consideration. Pathologists, they’re a selfish bunch. He’d be in and out at all times of the day when he was working. Called off across the country to be performing post-mortems. He was more interested in the dead than the living.” Then she looked up, forced a grin, tears in her eyes. “Anyway, we’re all in a better place now.”

  “Is that why you and Ben Clough split?”

  “I haven’t thought about Ben in years.” She seemed lost in her memories for a few moments. “How did you know about him and me?”

  “I learned from him about your father having cancer. He said you two used to be in a relationship.”

  “It was nothing, just a brief fling.” She brushed the comment away. “He wasn’t the man for me, unfortunately.”

  “How about you? How are you doing?”

  “The house feels empty without Dad,” said Fiona. “It’s all very strange. Anyway, I’ll get the house cleared then put it on the market. I can finally get on with my life again.”

  “Good to hear. Look, I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “Well, thanks for coming.”

  “Do you mind if I use your toilet first?” asked Gray.

  “Of course. It’s just down the hall.” Fiona pointed, took her mug to the sink.

  Gray pulled the kitchen door to and went along the hall to the bathroom he’d seen when he was here before. The facilities were avocado green –
a toilet, sink and soap, a cabinet on the wall. Toilet paper, a radiator.

  But not the hairbrush he wanted.

  Gray went back the way he’d come, paused outside the kitchen, heard the tap still running. He took the stairs, halted on the landing, pushed open the nearest door. Right first time. A larger bathroom in the same green coloured ceramic, shower behind a curtain.

  On the sink was a glass with two toothbrushes. Gray didn’t know which would be Jenkinson’s and taking one would be obvious. There was a razor too, a cheap disposable of blue plastic with a clear cover over the blade.

  Gray wondered how Fiona would have managed to shave Jenkinson at all, he imagined it to be a challenging task. There was stubble in the razor, of course, but the shaft of hair possessed much less genetic information. For testing Gray needed the follicle to be intact and that was why he wanted the brush, or a comb.

  Not one here, either.

  He headed back onto the landing, listened briefly for Fiona. Heard nothing. Next, he tried each door on the landing in turn, turning the handles quietly and carefully. He found Jenkinson’s on the third attempt, but the seconds were ticking by and Fiona was bound to start wondering what the hell Gray was up to.

  The curtains were drawn, the interior gloomy, smelling of must and sweat. The large double bed was neatly made. Either side were bedside cabinets, a reading lamp on both. In front of the window was a set of drawers, and a large three-piece mirror mounted atop, organised for dressing.

  On the drawers were two collection of bottles; perfumes and lotions to one side, presumably once used by Jenkinson’s deceased wife and not cleared away, aftershave and deodorant on the other.

  There was also a brush and a comb set lying on a tray. Gray went for the brush, picked it up. There were several hairs stuck within. Gray took a glass vial and pair of tweezers out of his pocket. After removing the vial lid, he carefully withdrew several hairs from the brush and slid them inside the vial then the vial back in his pocket.

  He left the room, closed the door carefully, made his way back to the stairs. Was outside the bathroom when Fiona said, “What are you doing, Sol?” She’d paused halfway, one hand on the bannister, frowning.

  “I couldn’t find a towel to dry my hands with,” said Gray. “So, I came upstairs.”

  “I’ll see you out.”

  “No need.”

  “I insist, so you don’t end up wandering around again.”

  Gray forced a laugh. Fiona didn’t.

  She stood at the door until Gray got into his car. He started the engine, placed a call. As he drove away, he saw Fiona through the window, standing back in the shadows, watching him.

  The call was answered. Gray said, “Dr Aplin, I’ve got a hair sample for you which I’ll be sending by courier. I’d appreciate you processing it as fast as you can.”

  “My pleasure,” said Aplin.

  When he was on the main road heading north east back to Margate, Gray rang Draper. “Can I look around your mother’s house again? As long as it’s no trouble.”

  “It feels like a never-ending job,” she said. “I’ll be there tonight after work. Is that all right?”

  “See you then.”

  ***

  “Are you okay, Sol?” Wyatt, standing in his office doorway.

  “I’m fine.” Gray forced a smile.

  Clearly, Wyatt didn’t believe him. She said, “Do you fancy popping out for something to eat?”

  “The staff canteen?”

  Wyatt pulled a face. “I was thinking of somewhere a bit more upmarket with actual edible food.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  ***

  Gray and Wyatt sat side by side on the Margate concrete sea defence, a series of levels laid out like large steps. Opposite a handful of fishing boats were moored, beyond stood the protective harbour arm. To their right stood the concrete block of the Turner Contemporary gallery. The sun was out, and it was cold, a breeze coming off the sea, but equally the chill woke Gray up, enlivened him.

  “These are pretty good,” said Wyatt, bobbing a wooden fork into a bag of chips they were sharing. She’d suggested the café at the bottom of the hill from the station on the edge of the old town, but Gray had dragged her into the fish and chip shop next door, then brought her across the road and onto the beach.

  “Told you.”

  Gray liked plenty of vinegar and salt on his, whereas Wyatt preferred them plain, so they’d roughly split the chips in half. A few feet away a large black backed gull eyed their food. Gray threw a stone but the gull nonchalantly avoided the pitch. Wyatt laughed at Gray’s rubbish attempt, sipped some coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

  “This is fantastic,” said Wyatt. “It’s nice to spend some time together.”

  “Thanks for coming down, I was struggling to maintain my focus this afternoon.” Gray dropped his voice. “I know who the father of the baby in the box is.”

  Wyatt turned to him. The chip she was holding went back into the bag. “It sounds like this is going to be a problem.”

  “It’s Amos Jenkinson. Used to be the district forensic pathologist before Clough. He was married and much older than the mother. He died only a day or so ago.”

  “God.”

  “There’s worse. I think his daughter, Fiona, might have known what he’d done and kept it hushed up.”

  Wyatt frowned for a moment. “Bit of a scandal, I can sort of understand why.”

  “I’m wondering whether she was involved with the baby too.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s evidence, right?”

  “Jesus, Sol. That’s heartless.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, just that the baby was proof of Jenkinson’s association with Zara.”

  “Association? God, this gets worse!”

  “Hear me out. Fiona was a social worker involved with rehoming and fostering children and babies. She regularly went to the house where the baby in the box was discovered. Perhaps she persuaded Zara to give the child up and took it to Andrea while she figured out the next steps.”

  “But the baby died.”

  “Right, and when I first discussed the baby with Fiona, I think she was genuinely shocked about the discovery. She didn’t expect it.”

  “What about the mother?”

  “Zara, she died, accidentally according to the reports. Fell over and banged her head. Large amounts of alcohol in her body.”

  “But you’ve got proof now, that Jenkinson was the father,” said Wyatt. Gray didn’t answer. “Sol?”

  “Nearly.”

  “Nearly?”

  “I’m waiting for the results. That’s why I’m jittery. And what I have isn’t admissible.” Wyatt gave Gray a flat look. “I took a hair from Jenkinson’s bathroom without his daughter’s consent.” Wyatt put her head in her hands. “I didn’t have any choice.”

  “You always say that.”

  “I was pretty sure Fiona wouldn’t voluntarily help; I need to know first for sure before I make my next move.”

  “And once you have that information?”

  “I’m going to have to force the issue.”

  “And people may get hurt?”

  “They usually do.”

  “When the game is played by Solomon Gray’s rules, at least.”

  Gray didn’t have a comeback so they ate the rest of the chips in silence, watching the waves roll in.

  Twenty Eight

  The rain started as Gray got out of his car. He couldn’t get near Andrea Ogilvy’s place; the square was full of cars. People home from work, living in houses built when horses were the main mode of transport. He’d been forced to park on Oaklands Avenue, near the doctor’s surgery, itself a vehicular pinch point.

  Gray cut down Tippledore Lane, an ancient footpath which once connected St. Peter’s church with the cathedral in Canterbury, here long before even the houses.

  Where the lane emerged onto Ranelagh Grove he turned right, walked the few remaining yards. The ‘For Sa
le’ sign in the front garden had been replaced with ‘Sold’. As predicted, houses didn’t stay on the market for long round here. He knocked on the front door, tried to shelter from the rain in the narrow archway until Draper opened up. She was wearing dungarees, her hair held back by a bandana, a smudge of dirt across one cheek.

  “God, sorry, come in,” said Draper. She grabbed Gray’s arm, tugged him inside like he needed the impetus. She slammed the door behind him, then sneezed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “It’s the dust in this place.”

  “How’s it going? The clearance, I mean.” Gray had done it himself, for a father he barely knew.

  “Slowly. Philip isn’t willing to help. He finds it too painful. Apparently just being here reminds him we’re orphans now.” Draper rolled her eyes. “Like it’s easy for me. However, I’m finding it cathartic. It’s only stuff, things my parents bought or were given. I’m beginning to see it as a fresh beginning.” She sounded just like Fiona. “And the house is sold, as you probably saw, so I have to get a move on.”

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” Draper hiked a thumb over her shoulder towards the kitchen. “I can put the kettle on.”

  Everyone wanted to offer him a drink.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Let’s go into the front room. My feet are killing me.” Draper flopped into a large, comfy looking armchair leaving the sofa for Gray. One end was stacked up with a pile of photos in frames. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask you about one of the foster children who stayed here.”

  The paintings and mirrors were down off the walls now, standing on the floor, leant up. The photos likewise. More were butted up together on one end of the sofa.

  “Do you remember Zara Jessop?”

  “Zara?” Draper leaned forward, rested her arms on her thighs. “Why?”

  “She’s the mummified baby’s mother.”

  “Jesus.” Draper sat back; her mouth partly open. She shook her head. “Are you sure?”

  “We have conclusive DNA evidence.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m telling you this in confidence.”

  “Nobody will hear it from me.”