The Silent Dead

by Keith Nixon

  “She lived here a couple of times; I understand.”

  “I came across her photo only a few minutes ago, that’s why I was so surprised when you asked. How weird is that?” Draper stood up, went to the pile next to Gray, flipped through them like you would records in a store. About a third of the way in she stopped, handed Gray the picture. “Here you go.” She sat down.

  Gray saw a serious-looking girl. Long brown hair, tucked behind one ear, staring impassively through the lens. “What are your memories of her?”

  Draper blew air out from pursed lips. “She was what, just seventeen, when she came here with an attitude big enough to fill this room. Young, but acted old. Like she’d seen lots of stuff kids her age had no business to see. Not unusual for someone who’d been living on the street, from what I’ve experienced. She was very strong, very sure of herself, even at that age.”

  “Did you spend much time with her?”

  “Not at all, she was a couple of years younger than me. I was in first year of university. I was hardly going to knock around with a schoolkid.”

  “What about Philip?”

  “He was in full time employment. When he came back after getting his degree, he started a job straightaway and got his own place, so I don’t think they ever met. Philip was long sick of sharing his life with strangers by then.”

  “Was there any trouble with her?”

  “What kind?”

  “Anything.”

  “Well, it wasn’t her who defecated in Philip’s drawer, if that’s what you mean.” Draper grinned. “I didn’t hear Mum complaining of any significant problems.” She shrugged. “No more than anyone else from a difficult background.”

  “Did she ever talk about her home or parents?”

  “I asked once, when I was back for a weekend. She told me never to again, so I didn’t. She was generally okay. My mum liked her, that’s all, really.”

  Gray glanced again at the photo.

  Draper held out her hand. “I’ll put it back.”

  “That’s all right. I’m nearer.” Gray leaned over, paused. The next photo in the pile, an image in a gilt silver frame, caught his eye. It was larger and grander than the rest. He put Zara’s down, picked the other up, peered closer. Three people posing for the camera. From the easy familiarity of the body language it was clear the trio knew each other well.

  Andrea Ogilvy, two people bracing her. A woman, her hair long and black with touches of grey developing, tumbling past her shoulders one side, and a tall, distinguished-looking man the other.

  Fiona and Amos Jenkinson.

  Gray turned the picture round to Draper.

  “Oh, Fiona” Draper pulled a sour face. “She was here all the time. Mum’s social worker.”

  “How well would she have known Zara Jessop?”

  Draper blinked, like Gray had asked a stupid question. “Very well indeed. I’m pretty certain Fiona brought Zara here.”

  “You didn’t seem pleased I brought Fiona up.”

  “Not particularly. She wasn’t invited to Mum’s funeral.”

  “Why?”

  “The photo was taken a while ago. It used to be on the mantlepiece, then it wasn’t. I hadn’t realised until now. I found it tucked in that cupboard over there. And to answer your question, Mum didn’t want Fiona at the funeral. She specifically told me that before she died.

  “She said they’d had a falling out but wouldn’t say over what. Which was strange as Mum told me most things. I’ve been thinking a lot about the section 47 notice. Maybe it was Fiona who served the document? I do remember Mum being upset that people she thought highly of backed away and didn’t support her. Mum stopped doing what she’d loved, and Fiona never had a reason to come around again. Maybe that was the problem with Fiona?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  Gray stood. “You’ve been great, thanks.”

  “If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.” At the front door she said, “You never told me who the father of the baby in the box was.”

  “We’re not sure yet.” Which wasn’t a lie.

  She opened the door wide, let Gray step into the rain. He paused, one foot out, the other in. A man stood under an umbrella on the other side of the road, his back to the church. “Are you all right?” asked Draper.

  Gray twisted round. “I’m fine. Thanks again for your time.”

  Draper glanced over Gray’s shoulder, then back to him. “See you.” She closed the door. When Gray turned around Frank McGavin was getting into the rear of a car. The door slammed shut.

  The car accelerated away leaving Gray standing.

  ***

  Gray had just started his engine when his phone rang.

  “Inspector, it’s Doctor Aplin from the PFA labs.”

  “You’re working late.”

  “I wanted to crack on with the tests on the hair sample you sent. I have the data in front of me. The subject you took the sample from is the father.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s a match with a probability of 99.9%.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “I’ll email you a report over shortly.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Good luck.”

  Gray disconnected. He felt mixed emotions. He hadn’t wanted to be right, but at least he was beginning to get some answers.

  He got a text then. Abbott. “We need to talk. Same place. Now.”

  Rather than turning for home Gray made his way towards Ramsgate.

  Twenty Nine

  It was as dark as coal on the esplanade, no artificial illumination and hardly any natural light. Gray picked his way along the concrete sea defence, using the torch app on his phone to guide his way. The beam spread wide, illuminating a space in front of him.

  To one side was a steep drop to the beach. But Gray could only hear the waves, the sea lost in the darkness. To the other side stood the towering chalk cliffs.

  Abbott wasn’t in the same shelter at the foot of the Ramsgate cliffs as last time. Another couple were there instead, in a grasp, mouths on each other.

  “Hey!” shouted the man when Gray shone the beam inside.

  “Sorry.”

  “Bloody perv.” Then he was back on the woman.

  The next shelter was empty. Gray found Abbott in the third.

  “Your information was total crap.” Abbott was seated, leaning forward, arms on thighs, chewing gum furiously. “It wasn’t him.”

  Gray blinked. “You’re wrong, it must be.” He sat down a few feet from Abbott, trying to process what Abbott had said.

  “I’m telling you, that Geordie bastard wasn’t the one who set the dog on my lad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Look, mate. You’re really pissing me off now. I’m certain. We gave him a good going over. If it was him, he’d have spat, believe me. So, I beat up a cop for nothing.”’

  Gray leant back a pressure building up in his chest and a pounding headache coming on. “Did he see you?”

  “What do you think I am, stupid? No, he didn’t see me. Or anyone else. Don’t worry, he won’t make any connection you.”

  “Thank God for that.” Gray released a lungful of air he’d been holding on to.

  “Who’s the next suspect on your list, Inspector? Or are you expecting me to randomly smack people around until I chance upon the right one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not a good answer.” Abbott stood, a large shape in the shelter entrance. “Get in touch when you do know.”

  “I don’t think so. I won’t be contacting again.”

  “What was I then? A convenient enforcer?” Abbott shifted forward a steep, looming over Gray. He shuffled sideways along the seat, trying to distance himself from Abbott.

  He felt a tingle of fear. How had he got himself in this situation? “I made a big mistake,” admitted Gray. Abbo
tt moved suddenly, pressing his weight down onto Gray, a hand around his throat. Abbott’s mouth was near Gray’s face. “I’ve literally got your number, Inspector Gray. What would your boss think if we had a little chat about you?”

  Gray tried to speak but couldn’t. His hands clawed at Abbott, but the other man had the leverage. Then the pressure was released, Abbott upright again. Gray sucked in air.

  “It’s a good job one of us has a plan,” said Abbott and left.

  Gray waited a few minutes, allowing his heart rate to steady. If it wasn’t Worthington who’d accessed the PNC to check out the kids, then who was it? Gray knew for sure it had to be a cop. But who? And what was the plan Abbott referred to?

  Gray ignored the couple in the other shelter when walked back along the esplanade towards the distant streetlamps. As he neared the concrete strip’s end his phone rang.

  “Sir,” Ibbotson said. “We’ve found Worthington.”

  Gray swallowed, his throat sore. “Which pub was he in?” Trying to sound light-hearted.

  “Not quite, sir. He’s in the hospital.”

  ***

  Worthington was propped up in bed in a private room off a corridor in the QEQM. He was battered, bruised, one eye closed over, the other a slit.

  “How are you doing, Jerry?” asked Ibbotson, his tone grave.

  “All right,” said Worthington. He spoke through puffy lips, affecting his enunciation.

  “See I got you a room? Better than being stuck in the ward with a load of old blokes, right?”

  “Nice one.”

  Ibbotson poured a glass of water for him, then paused. “I’ll get you a straw.”

  “What happened?” asked Gray once Ibbotson had left.

  “Two guys wearing masks jumped me as I was walking back from a night out. Thought I’d have a few beers before I returned, faced any more shit from you, boss.” A chuckle which morphed into a cough. “They bundled me into the boot of a car, drove me to a warehouse.”

  “Where?”

  “No idea. They tied me to a chair and beat me up.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe they didn’t appreciate my good looks. Like that bloke in Fight Club.”

  Gray didn’t know what Worthington was on about. “Go on.”

  “Once they’d hit me a few times they asked about a dog being set on some kids. Reckoned it was me what did it. I told them over and over, it weren’t. They didn’t believe us at first, so they kept hitting us. Cracked a rib, eventually. Then I blacked out. Where’s bloody Ted with that straw?”

  Gray passed Worthington the plastic cup. He held it between shaking hands, spilled more down himself than went into his mouth. “Thanks.”

  “Then what?”

  “When I woke up, I realised I were in the boot of the car again. They dumped me outside me house and drove off. I called an ambulance and ended up here.”

  “That’s everything?”

  “Aye. They just asked about the dog attack. I couldn’t tell them anything and eventually they must have realised I knew nowt, then got rid of me.”

  “We’ll, you’re safe now. Did you recognise them? Anything to identify them?”

  “Not a bloody thing. Faces covered, long sleeves so no visible tats. They had gloves on. Accents were southern but can’t pinpoint them. Youse lot all sound the same. All I know is, they knew what they were doing. This weren’t their first beating.” Worthington had another drink, passed the cup back. “You know what were weird? There was this guy, stood back in the shadows, watching it all. Big bastard, leaning on a cane. Didn’t move, didn’t say a word.”

  Jesus. McGavin?

  “Did you recognise him?”

  “Never seen him before.” Ibbotson came in then. “’Bout bloody time.”

  “Sorry,” said Ibbotson. “I had to go all the way to the canteen. It’s a maze this place.”

  “All right,” said Gray. “Get some rest. I’ll send someone over to take a statement.”

  “Lot of bloody good that’ll do,” said Worthington.

  “Worth a try,” lied Gray.

  “Obviously I won’t be in for a few days.”

  “Do your best, Jerry. It’s not like you’ve got cancer or anything.”

  Worthington just glared at him.

  Thirty

  In the corridor, the door closed, Gray thought back to what he’d said to Worthington just now.

  It’s not like you’ve got cancer or anything.

  A throwaway comment that sparked something inside Gray.

  He remembered Fiona telling him about Jenkinson’s cancer. From experience he knew the hospital kept test samples as routine so they could make future cross comparisons. Therefore, the hospital would have Jenkinson’s DNA.

  Not long ago Gray had recovered from cancer. The Sri Lankan who’d treated him then was called Doctor Manesh. As a consultant Gray doubted Manesh would be here at this time, their hours were more sociable, but it was worth a try. Once Gray had orientated himself with a map he easily found the consultant’s office. He’d been there enough times himself. As he’d expected though the door was locked and the light off.

  ***

  “Sol,” said Fiona after she opened the door. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I was just passing,” lied Gray. “Can I come in?”

  “I was just about to go to bed.”

  “I won’t keep you long.”

  After a moment’s hesitation Fiona stepped out of the way to allow Gray entrance. She led Gray into the kitchen, leant on one of the cabinets like she needed the support.

  “How can I help?” she asked. No offer of a drink this time.

  “Have you heard of a Zara Jessop?”

  Fiona blinked. “Who?”

  Gray showed her a photo on his phone, taken just before Zara died. “She ran away from home several times and was fostered by Andrea.”

  Fiona stared intently at the image. “When would this have been?”

  “Eight years ago.”

  “A long time.” Fiona held the phone out for Gray to take back.

  “So, do you recognise her?”

  “Not really. I don’t think she was one of mine.” Fiona frowned, like she was thinking. “But Social Services will have the records. They’ll be able to confirm. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “I’ve already checked.” Fiona blinked at Gray. “I believe the baby in the box was your father’s.”

  “What?”

  “You and the baby in the box. I believe you have the same father. You’re half-sisters.”

  Fiona burst out laughing. “How ridiculous!” She laughed again. Gray didn’t. “What makes you think so?”

  “Some evidence I’m not at liberty to share.”

  Colour started to reach Fiona’s cheeks. “You’re saying my father impregnated a child who was under the age of consent?”

  “Zara was seventeen when she got pregnant.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right then!” Fiona threw her arms up in the air. “Jesus! Seventeen?” She leant on the work surface, narrowed her eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’d like your permission to take a DNA sample for analysis.”

  “I thought you said my father was the baby’s too?”

  “I don’t know for sure. Your DNA would confirm it.”

  “And if you get corroboration, what would you do with the result?”

  “Inform her family.”

  “And what about the press? The papers are all over the story.”

  “Nothing would be said to them.”

  “Can you guarantee that?”

  “As much as I can.”

  “That’s not enough, Sol! Even if he was the baby’s father, which I don’t believe for even one second, why should his name be dragged through the mud? He was a good man!”

  “I don’t want to destroy anyone’s reputation.”

  “But don’t you see? That’s exactly what would happen! And what for? She’s dead, the b
aby’s dead! Nobody wins!”

  “Her family should know what happened to her.”

  “So fucking what? Why does her family count more than mine?”

  “It’s what’s morally right, Fiona.”

  “Who gets to choose what’s right or wrong? You? God?” Fiona shook her head. “The answer is no. Now get out of my house.” Fiona pointed towards the front door.”

  “Fiona, if—”

  “Leave.” She strode over, pushed at Gray to get him to move. “And don’t ever come back.”

  Gray raised his hands in surrender. “All right.” He walked along the corridor, Fiona on his heels. He opened the door, stepped outside.

  She slammed the door behind him.

  Thirty One

  Where the bloody hell are you, Von?” said Gray to himself.

  He pulled off the single road into a gap supposed to be used to allow cars to pass. To one side was a field, to the other a high hedge. Even though the ancient walled town of Sandwich was nearby it felt like he was in the middle of nowhere. There were no streetlights, so the tarmac stretched off into darkness. Gray didn’t like it, give him obvious civilisation every day.

  Hamson had told him she had a house in a tiny scattered settlement near Finglesham. Gray assumed he’d recognise her car parked on a drive as he went past, but no luck. Everything was far more spread out than he’d realised. There was no reason to come to Finglesham, unless you had to.

  He pulled out his phone. There was only one bar of reception out here. Then even that dropped out. He got out of the car. In the distance an owl hooted, but otherwise it was silence. He walked around; phone held high in the air until the connection came back in again. He stayed still, dialled Hamson. “Von, it’s Sol.”

  “I know,” said Hamson. The line broke up and what she said next was garbled.

  “Say that again?”

  The call ended. No bars. He moved again. Two bars six feet further down the road.

  “What bloody time do you call this?” asked Hamson.

  “Tell me your address.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “We need to speak, but it’s best in person.”

  “Will it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’m already in Ham.”

  There was more static. Gray suspected Hamson was swearing. “I don’t like bringing my work home, Sol.”