Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

  Blunt rounds on him. ‘Yes, I’m fully aware of that, thank you. And I hope you are aware that there’s a young child’s life at stake here.’

  There is a level of emotion in her voice that Cody has rarely heard before. Like everyone else in the room, he remains silent while Blunt composes herself again, then turns her eyes on another detective.

  ‘Jason, you’re the FLO, right?’

  Jason Oxburgh, known to many of his colleagues as Oxo, nods his flame-haired head. As the Family Liaison Officer, it will be his job to keep the parents up to speed with developments in the case.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says.

  ‘Explain the situation to them. Collect some overnight things for them and move them into a hotel for the night. If they’ve got nothing to hide, they shouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’

  ‘I want better than your best on this case, Jason.’ She scans the room. ‘That goes for the lot of you. No shortcuts, no laziness. Grace, is there anything in your technological bag of tricks you can pull out for us?’

  Cody swivels in his chair to get a better look at Grace Meade, the Intelligence Analyst seated at the very back of the room. For the most part, Grace tends not to call attention to herself, but Cody can testify what an asset she is to the team. He has seen for himself how much of a whiz she can be when it comes to computers.

  Grace stands up. She always seems to feel the need to get to her feet when called upon to contribute. She looks nervously at all the expectant faces, then clears her throat.

  ‘Well, I’ll collate all the intelligence as it comes in, of course, and I’ll look for correspondences and mismatches. That’s standard. I’ll make sure we get a dump of phone records and I’ll analyse them. I’ll also liaise with HCU to make sure we search any computers owned by the family, especially if Poppy had access. I know she’s only six, but it’s amazing how young some people are when they start using computers nowadays, and parents don’t always supervise their activities. It’s a long shot, but I’ve got a lot of clever software I can use to help me search. I might just get lucky.’

  Cody interjects with a thought that has been burning in his mind. ‘And if they’re clean?’

  Blunt shifts her gaze to him. ‘Cody?’

  ‘The Devlins. What if we do all this checking and we satisfy ourselves that they really have played no part in this?’

  Blunt nods solemnly. ‘Then we’ve got one of the strangest and most ominous abduction cases on our hands that I’ve ever encountered. This wasn’t a simple burglary of an empty house. Whoever did this went in knowing that there were people inside. Think about the risks involved. Either of the parents could have been woken up. The child could have screamed the house down. What sort of person does this? And why?’

  Neil ‘Footlong’ Ferguson chips in. ‘What if it was a mistake? What if it started out as a straightforward burglary, but the intruder was discovered by the girl? Maybe he didn’t even know there was anyone in the house.’

  Blunt thinks for a second. ‘You mean he had to silence her before she yelled? Okay, but then why take her with him? Why not just leave the body there and scram?’

  ‘Because maybe he didn’t kill her. Maybe he’s not that kind of guy. He couldn’t leave her there because she’d seen his face, and now he doesn’t know what to do with her. Or, if he has killed her, maybe he doesn’t want to be done for murder, so he’s hidden the body somewhere.’

  Blunt mulls it over some more. ‘I don’t know, Neil. All the indications are that the intruder went straight up to Poppy’s bedroom. Nothing downstairs was touched. Why would a run-of-the-mill burglar act like that?’ She pauses. ‘All right. I don’t want to rule anything out at this stage. Start ferreting out some of the lags we know about. Find out what they’ve been up to lately. Touch base with informants, too; see what they can tell us. Anyone got any other theories about why Poppy Devlin suddenly became prize of the century?’

  Cody hesitates, but knows he has to give voice to something else that is on everyone’s minds.

  ‘Hate to say it, but we need to start talking to registered sex offenders in the area.’

  Blunt’s head lowers as if the weight of Cody’s suggestion has dragged it down. It’s clear to Cody that his boss is finding this case as emotionally difficult as he is – perhaps more so.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ she says. ‘In the absence of a ransom demand, we have to consider motives other than financial gain. Start drawing up a list and knocking on doors. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. We can’t be certain that Poppy was his first. He may have taken other children in the past, or at least made attempts.’

  ‘Good point. Okay, do some digging. Look at past cases, both solved and unsolved. I don’t know of anything as audacious as this one, but maybe he’s been working his way up to it. Maybe the danger is part of the thrill for him. I’m sure Grace can help you look for patterns.’

  Cody looks back at Grace again. Sees a flash of a smile before she buries her head behind her monitor.

  ‘There’s a lot of work to do,’ Blunt announces to the throng. ‘A lot of people to interview. Get on it. If anyone can find Poppy Devlin, you can.’

  12

  He finds Harriet in the kitchen, furiously stirring some cake mix. He can’t see her face, but he suspects that more than a few tears have dropped into that bowl.

  He comes up behind her, slips his arms around her waist. ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Chocolate cake,’ she says in a squeaky voice.

  ‘Lovely,’ he says. Then: ‘Are you okay?’

  She stops stirring. Puts the bowl down. ‘Oh, Malcolm, have we done the right thing? This new girl, she seems so . . . defiant. You know I can’t cope with badly behaved children. I get so upset.’

  ‘Hush, dear. It’ll be fine. Have you taken a tablet?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think it’s helped.’

  Harriet self-medicates. She has boxes full of drugs, all dating back to the time she worked in the hospital. She stole them in the period leading up to her breakdown.

  What a pair we make, he thinks. Me with my bashed-in skull. Her with her nerves. It’s a wonder we manage to cope.

  ‘What you have to remember,’ he says, ‘is that Daisy was rebellious as well when we first got her. And now look at her! She’s a little angel.’

  Harriet twists in his arms to face him. ‘I know, but I don’t think she was ever this bad. She was never this destructive, and I certainly never heard her swear. That language from Poppy was disgusting. You know I hate those words.’

  ‘I know, dear, I know. Give her time. I’m sure she’ll settle in. You can already hear how quiet she is.’

  Harriet glances up at the ceiling. ‘Did you . . . Did you have to hurt her much?’

  He doesn’t know the answer to this. He still hasn’t been into the bedroom to check. It worries him that it has been deathly silent up there since his intervention.

  ‘I didn’t really hurt her,’ he says defensively. ‘I just restrained her until she calmed down.’ He wants to believe this. Wants to be convinced that he used minimal force. But he’s not sure.

  ‘Good,’ says Harriet. ‘Well, maybe she has learnt her lesson. I hope so. I want us to be a proper family, Malcolm. I want Poppy to feel she can be happy here with us. I mean, we’ve done a good job with Daisy, haven’t we?’

  He beams a smile at her. ‘We’ve done an excellent job. And it’s all thanks to you, dearest. You’re everything a good mother should be.’

  He kisses her on the forehead then, and she embraces him. They stand like that for a while, lost in each other’s warmth.

  And then the buzzer sounds.

  They both look out towards the hallway. It’s not a visitor at the front door, but a signal from Daisy’s bedroom. It’s what she uses to tell them they’re needed.

  Harriet’s agitation returns. ‘If she’s causing trouble again, I don’t wa
nt to know. You go, Malcolm.’

  Malcolm swallows hard. He’d rather not go up there. Despite what Harriet has said about mischievous children, she will be devastated if Poppy is . . .

  He doesn’t want to think about that.

  ‘Okay, my love,’ he says. ‘I’ll go.’

  He pulls away from Harriet, leaving her to resume her baking while he trudges into the hallway and then up the carpeted stairs. On the landing he pauses and listens, but can hear nothing. He slides back the bolts, then opens the door.

  He does not enter, but stands in the doorway, absorbing the scene in front of him. Taking a breath, he calls over his shoulder. ‘Harriet! Harriet, you’d better come and see.’

  He hears his wife come up the stairs after him. She halts at the top step, still wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispers. ‘Is it bad news? I don’t want to know if it’s bad news.’

  He beckons her with a flick of his head. ‘Look.’

  She comes up behind him. Peers around his shoulder.

  Daisy and Poppy are sitting quietly at the table. The room is tidy once more: the furniture upright, the toys in their rightful places, the bed made.

  ‘We drew a picture,’ says Daisy.

  She holds it up for them to see. Most of it has been done in blue crayon by Daisy. It shows Malcolm and Harriet holding hands with Daisy. At the end of the chain of people, Poppy has added her own crude rendition of herself in green.

  ‘We thought you might like it,’ says Daisy. She looks at Poppy. ‘Didn’t we, Poppy?’

  Poppy doesn’t speak or smile. She simply nods. But that’s enough.

  Malcolm steps forward. He takes hold of the picture and examines it more closely. ‘That’s beautiful,’ he says, a lump rising in his throat.

  He takes the drawing over to Harriet and shows it to her. ‘Look at this, Mummy,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Harriet is already crying. She can find no words.

  He puts an arm around her shoulders. ‘You see? I told you it would all be fine. We’re a family now. A proper family.’

  13

  DC Jason Oxburgh loves this side of his work. It’s why he volunteered for the Family Liaison Officer training. He likes the human touch, the closeness to the people who, as a policeman, he has elected to help.

  Some of his colleagues think of FLO work as a bit too touchy-feely. They prefer detachment, objectivity. They don’t like emotions getting in the way of what they believe should be a logical process. They’re quite happy making phone calls, interviewing suspects, and taking down criminals. FLOs are, in their view, a bit ‘soft’.

  Oxo would be the first to admit that he’s a little on the sensitive side. But he doesn’t believe that makes him a bad copper. In fact, he is stronger for it. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

  There are times, though, when he thinks he should have taken up a different career. A counsellor, perhaps, or a psychologist. He likes to know what’s going on in people’s heads. It’s why he moved from uniform to CID as soon as he could: it seemed to him that detectives have far more opportunities to explore the motivations of criminals, and the effects their crimes have on victims. But the downside of such an empathetic nature is that sometimes the contents of other people’s heads stay with him for far too long.

  He cried just last week. A murder-suicide, it was. MIT were brought in because at first it looked like a double homicide. Turned out the man had shot his wife in their bedroom, and then, at the top of the stairs, turned the gun on himself. The blast had sent him tumbling down the steps, leaving the gun on the landing.

  To many cops, establishing the facts of the case would have been enough. Man kills wife; man tops himself; case closed. Nobody left to arrest, no leads left to follow.

  Oxo, though, needed to know the whys and the wherefores. He needed to understand.

  And what he discovered was that the woman had been told just before Christmas that she had terminal cancer. Her husband didn’t want to watch her rapid decline, and he didn’t want to live on without her. So he brought things to an end. In the note that was eventually found on his computer, he said that he was simply ‘deleting one more episode of pain and misery from a world that can do without it’.

  Oxo read out that line to his wife, and they cried together.

  He wonders if any of his colleagues ever cry over a case.

  This one could do it, he thinks. If anything can turn on the waterworks, it’s the victim being a young child. Such cases almost invariably end in tragedy.

  He’s not going to say that to the couple now sitting in front of him, of course. Craig and Maria Devlin. Perched on the edges of their seats with expectation written on their faces.

  It’s a difficult balancing act, being an FLO. His role here is as an intermediary. He will bring the family updates on the progress of the investigation, while at the same time not revealing confidential intelligence. Conversely, he will do his utmost not to demolish the trust of the family when conveying useful snippets of information from them back to the detectives. He must also strive not to raise false hopes or cause undue distress.

  Not everyone could do this job, he tells himself.

  They are in the living room of Maria’s parents’ house, a new-build detached property in Grassendale. Taking a hint, her parents have gone out for a walk, leaving the three of them alone.

  Oxo begins by explaining to the couple, in the simplest and clearest terms, exactly who he is and what he will be doing for them.

  ‘We’ll be seeing a lot of you, then?’ says Maria.

  ‘You can see as much or as little of me as you like,’ he says. ‘Some people like to have constant updates, while others prefer to have as little to do with the police as they possibly can. I’m not going to judge you. If you want me to stay away, I will. Or if you find you don’t get on with me, and would prefer someone else as your FLO, that can be arranged too.’

  When Maria looks to Craig for his view, Oxo quickly adds, ‘You don’t have to decide right now.’

  Maria nods. ‘I think at the moment we’re so focused on Poppy . . .’

  ‘I understand. So let me tell you what we’re doing in the investigation.’

  He spends some time outlining each of the actions being taken by the team, stopping at frequent intervals to make sure they understand, and to give them an opportunity to pose questions.

  Then he takes a deep breath. So far, so good, but there are a couple of other things he needs to bring into the conversation that could prove more controversial.

  ‘As I mentioned, we’ve alerted the media, and we’ve got them on board. Anyone who picks up a paper or turns on the news will hear about what’s happened to Poppy. Her face will be everywhere. This is the kind of story that attracts attention, and so there are going to be huge numbers of people looking out for any sign of your daughter. What we need to do is to make sure that the case registers fully with as many people as possible. That’s where you come in.’

  ‘Us?’ says Maria. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve arranged a press conference, for tomorrow morning. We’d like you to put out an appeal for the safe return of your daughter.’

  The couple exchange glances again.

  Maria says, ‘So we’ll be on camera? We’ll be in front of reporters, asking us questions?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s nothing to be frightened of. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re not accused of anything. All you have to do is answer truthfully. Don’t try to hide your emotions, either. Let people see how devastated you are by what’s happened. They’re more likely to be sympathetic then. The more people we have on our side, the greater the chance of finding Poppy quickly.’

  ‘All right,’ says Maria. ‘If you think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Absolutely. But the most important thing of all is what you say to your daughter’s abductor.’

  The mention of this phantom figure causes alarm to leap into Mar
ia’s eyes.

  ‘Her . . . her abductor?’

  ‘Yes. Whoever did this is also likely to be watching news reports. They’ll want some idea of how successful they’ve been. They’ll want to know whether they’re getting away with it, or if the police are hot on their trail. They may even get a kick just from hearing people talking about them.’

  ‘They?’

  Oxo waves the question away. ‘At this stage, I’m trying to avoid getting fixated on a preconceived idea of who the perpetrator is. It could be a man, a woman, or several people acting together. The point is—’

  ‘A woman? You think a woman could do this?’

  ‘Why not? Burglars are almost exclusively male, but this isn’t your standard burglary. Somebody, it seems, desperately wanted your child.’

  He sees how Maria lowers her gaze while she tosses his suggestion around in her mind. It’s as if it has opened a whole new realm of possibilities for her.

  ‘As I was saying,’ he continues, ‘the point is that Poppy’s abductor is probably going to hear whatever message you send out. This is your prime opportunity to make a connection. You need to think carefully about how best to do that. You don’t want to frighten them off, but at the same time you need to convince them that they’ve made a huge mistake, and that it’s not too late for them to put it right.’

  Craig shifts forward in his seat. ‘It’s . . . it’s a huge responsibility. What if we get it wrong? What if we say something that triggers the kidnappers to . . . to . . .’

  ‘We’ll help you,’ says Oxo. ‘We’ve got experts in this kind of thing. Write down some thoughts as to what you might say, and we’ll knock it into shape for you before tomorrow morning.’

  Craig nods, but still looks a little unsure and bewildered. Oxo isn’t relishing what comes next.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ he says. ‘As you know, we’re conducting a search of your house . . .’

  ‘Okay,’ Craig urges.

  ‘Obviously, we’re primarily on the lookout for forensic evidence that may have been left by your daughter’s abductor, but we also need to make sure that the two of you cannot possibly have fingers pointed at you for being involved.’