Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

  ‘I’m not so sure. Sometimes I go along with things I shouldn’t, just to keep others happy. It’s my biggest failing.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say it was your biggest failing . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Cody. You’re not helping.’

  ‘Sorry. Okay, serious face on now. What’s your plan?’

  ‘Plan? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what’s your negotiating stance? What are your desired outcomes?’

  She stares at him. ‘Negotiating stance? Outcomes? Cody, what are you going on about? I’m having a friendly discussion with my ex-fiancé, not attending a G8 summit meeting.’

  ‘All right, I’ll put it another way. Do you want him back?’

  Webley looks out of her side window for a few seconds. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Why don’t you know?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know why I don’t know. Maybe I’m not missing him as much as I thought I would. Maybe I’m enjoying my independence. Maybe I think I could get a better offer.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ Cody asks.

  Webley gives him her frostiest glare. It irritates her that, again, he’s not taking her seriously. It further irritates her that she ever entertained the notion that a ‘better offer’ could come from Cody himself, because she certainly wouldn’t want that to happen. Definitely not.

  Cody seems to sense that he is dicing with death here – so much so that he doesn’t even risk a pun about being in the dog house.

  He says, ‘Don’t you think you need to make a decision about all that before you meet up with him?’

  ‘I’ve made a hundred decisions since his last call, each one different from the last. The problem is I don’t know what I want. I think I want to hear what he’s got to say first. If he’s an arsehole, I’m walking away.’

  ‘And if he’s not?’

  Good question, she thinks. What if he’s charming? What if he’s delightful? What if he’s all the things that made me want to become his fiancée in the first place?

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ she says.

  ‘What if – and I’m merely trying to get you to consider all the possibilities here – but what if he proposes again?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘But what if he does? What if he gets down on one knee and gives it the full Monty – ring and all?’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t put me on the spot like that. Not after all we’ve been through. He wouldn’t want to risk the embarrassment of me turning him down.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do.’

  Cody goes quiet again. But only for a short while. ‘Where’s the meeting?’

  ‘I’m not telling you. You’ll show up, just to enjoy the show. You’ll probably even heckle.’

  ‘All right, then. When is it?’

  She decides that’s not sensitive information. ‘Friday.’

  ‘Friday? I see. Who chose that?’

  ‘Parker did. Why do you ask?’

  She studies Cody’s face, sees how difficult he’s finding it to suppress an emerging smirk.

  ‘What? What’s got into you?’

  ‘Friday. You know what day that is, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the day before Saturday. Cody, what are you—?’

  ‘Valentine’s Day. Friday is Valentine’s Day. A special day for all love-struck couples.’

  Webley’s mouth drops. She stares at Cody for a full minute while he enjoys himself.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ she says.

  38

  Malcolm hates it when people come to his door. They feel like unwelcome intruders. They never bring good news. Usually, they are just trying to sell something, or ask for charity. He doesn’t give to charity; he has a fear that word will spread of his generous nature, and hordes of insistent do-gooders will come from far and wide to pester him.

  He opens the door, just a few inches. Anything wider would appear too welcoming.

  There’s a man and a woman on his step. Young, and smartly dressed. Official-looking.

  ‘Malcolm Benson?’ says the man.

  Malcolm doesn’t like it when people know his name. It implies they have other information about him, and Malcolm likes to keep his life private. He also doesn’t like the way the woman can’t keep her eyes off his head injury, the cheeky bitch.

  ‘Yes?’ he says.

  The young man holds up a small dark wallet. It contains a badge of some kind, plus an ID card with his photo.

  ‘Police,’ says the man. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cody, and this is Detective Constable Webley. We’ve just got a few questions. Mind if we come in?’

  Malcolm’s mouth twitches. He has never had police at his door, and it worries him that they are here now. Did he make a mistake? Did he leave a clue at one of the houses?

  And yet these two don’t seem overly concerned about him. If they really suspected him of abduction and murder, wouldn’t they be more heavy-handed? Wouldn’t they have him in cuffs by now?

  ‘What’s it about?’ he asks.

  ‘Just routine. We’re talking to a lot of people about a case we’re investigating. Your name cropped up on a list, that’s all.’

  Malcolm relaxes a little. Routine, is what he said. Routine is nothing to get worked up about. It’s just a coincidence.

  But he really doesn’t want them in his house, snooping around. He doesn’t think he’s left anything on show that would give him away, but he can’t be certain. Did he put away the photograph album? Are any of the kids’ clothes lying around? Harriet was doing some ironing earlier. Are those family DVDs still on the bookcase?

  Harriet appears at his side. ‘What is it, Malcolm? Who are these people?’

  Go away, he thinks. I love you dearly, Harriet, but sometimes you can say or do the wrong thing.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘Let me handle this.’

  He turns to the officers again. Lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘My wife suffers with her nerves. Can we do this another time? Perhaps when she’s gone shopping?’

  ‘It really will only take a few minutes,’ Cody says. ‘I promise we won’t upset anyone.’

  Malcolm realises they’re not to be fobbed off, and that if he refuses to cooperate, he’s only going to make them suspicious. But how to make sure it’s safe to allow them in?

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to be funny or anything, but I hear a lot of stories about con men turning up and robbing people. And if you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit young to be a detective sergeant. Mind if I take another look at your ID?’

  Cody reaches into his pocket again for the wallet, opens it up and hands it across.

  Malcolm squints at the identification. ‘I need my glasses. Hang on.’

  As he turns, he gives Harriet a look warning her not to question his actions or do anything silly. Then he goes into the house, still clutching the wallet.

  His eyes scan the hallway. Nothing untoward here.

  He does the same in the living room. Nothing here belonging to the children, or to indicate that they are in the house.

  Just one more thing to do . . .

  He moves over to the television. Leans across its top edge to look behind it. He hasn’t had to use this for a long time.

  It’s a switch, screwed to the wooden shelf supporting the television.

  He reaches behind the television. Flicks the switch . . .

  *

  The bedroom is plunged into blackness.

  Or almost-blackness. A tiny red light on the wall flashes every few seconds.

  ‘What happened?’ Poppy shrieks.

  ‘Hush!’ says Daisy. ‘Come over here, to the bed.’

  ‘I can’t see you. I can’t see where I’m going.’

  ‘Follow the sound of my voice. I’m just here. Walk slowly so you don’t bump into anything. Keep walking.’

  ‘Daisy. I can’t . . .’

  ‘We’
re just here. Reach your arms out.’

  Daisy puts out her own arms. Makes contact with Poppy.

  ‘That’s it. Come here. Sit on the bed. Cuddle in with me.’

  She puts her arms around the frightened young girls on either side of her.

  ‘What happened?’ Poppy asks again. ‘Why did it go all dark?’

  ‘See that little red light? That means it’s Quiet Time,’ says Daisy.

  ‘Quiet Time? What’s that?’

  ‘It means we have to be very, very quiet. It’s gone dark so we don’t move about. It’s very important that we don’t make a sound. If we do, we’ll be punished. We’ll be punished really badly.’

  ‘Like you were before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Why do we have to be quiet?’

  ‘We just do. It won’t be for long. Stop talking now, and just sit here next to me.’

  She doesn’t give them a full explanation. She doesn’t want them to be tempted to call attention to their presence.

  She knows, though, that strangers have arrived at the house.

  39

  ‘You’ve got it nice in here,’ says Cody.

  He doesn’t really think that. Yes, the living room is very tidy and clean, but the décor and furnishings are a bit dated for his liking. Stuff his mum and dad would have. Still, does no harm to be friendly.

  He continues with the chit-chat: ‘Just the two of you living here?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Malcolm. ‘Just me and Harriet.’

  ‘Kids flown the nest, then?’

  ‘No. We never had kids. Never wanted them.’

  Cody nods. ‘Right. Well, we don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary. As I said, we’re just making some routine inquiries.’

  He reaches into his pocket and takes out his notebook.

  ‘According to our records, you’re the owner of a Ford van, registration number . . .’ He flips open his pad, finds the information he needs and reads out the number.

  ‘Yes,’ says Malcolm. ‘Yes, that’s right. Sorry, have I broken the law? Did I run a red light or something? Because I haven’t had any letters about it.’

  Cody smiles. ‘Nothing like that. Actually, DC Webley and I are from the Major Incident Team. We’re investigating some very serious crimes, possibly involving the use of a van like yours. All we’re doing at the moment is going through our list, ruling out people where we can. I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  Malcolm nods. Taking her cue from her husband, Harriet nods too.

  They both seem nervous, but Cody understands their unease. They seem like a couple who like their peace and quiet. The very fact that they haven’t wanted kids is indicative of that. They probably prefer to sit alone in front of their television, wearing their slippers and cradling their mugs of cocoa, and not being bothered by the outside world. The last thing they want is two coppers from a Major Crimes squad bringing the realities of death, destruction and mayhem into their oh-so-tidy home.

  Webley says, ‘Can you tell us why you own a van?’

  Malcolm looks perplexed by the question.

  ‘What I mean,’ says Webley, ‘is why a van rather than a normal car? Is it because of your business?’

  ‘Oh,’ says Malcolm. ‘Yes. I’m a plumber. I don’t do so much of it now, but I’ve still got the van.’

  ‘You’ve retired?’

  ‘Kind of.’ He points to his battered skull. ‘I had an accident.’

  ‘I see. Do you drive the van much?’

  ‘Not much. We’ve got a little Renault Clio too. We tend to use that more these days.’

  ‘So when’s the last time you used the van?’

  Malcolm rubs his chin. ‘Ooh, must have been just after Christmas. I took the Christmas tree away to be recycled, plus some other rubbish.’

  ‘But not since then?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I’ve got a central heating job in Toxteth next week, though.’

  Cody makes some notes. This one doesn’t seem promising. If Benson is their man, it seems unlikely that he would tell such a barefaced lie. All it would take is one sighting from a neighbour of him driving his van off the premises, and his story would be in tatters.

  ‘Ever been to Harlech, Mr Benson?’ Webley asks.

  Malcolm blinks. ‘Harlech? You mean Harlech in Wales?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, yes. I’ve been there. But not for a long time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Years.’ He looks at his wife. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever been there together, have we, love?’

  Harriet shakes her head.

  ‘So,’ says Malcolm, ‘it must have been at least thirty years ago when I was there.’

  ‘But not since? Definitely not in the last five years?’

  ‘No. I’m sure of that. We tend to stay in England for our holidays now. We like Cornwall and Devon.’

  Cody snaps his notepad shut. ‘Okay. I think that’ll do us for the moment.’ He sees the relief on the couple’s faces, and then he adds, ‘We’ll just need to take a quick look at the van, if that’s all right.’

  ‘The van?’ says Malcolm. ‘You want to see it?’

  ‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No. It’s in the garage. I just . . . I just need to find my keys.’

  He shambles off, heads upstairs.

  Cody rocks on his feet, exchanges glances with Webley, smiles at Mrs Benson.

  ‘Do you work, Mrs Benson?’ he asks.

  ‘Me? No. Not now. I used to be a nurse, but I had to give it up. Health problems.’

  ‘I see,’ says Cody. He wonders if she met her husband in the hospital when he was having his head seen to, but doesn’t ask.

  Malcolm reappears, jangling the keys in his hand.

  ‘Found them. Haven’t needed them for a while. Shall we go outside?’

  He leads the way out to the front driveway, then to the garage. He reaches down, grabs the lever and pulls up the garage door.

  There’s a van in there, all right. It has the right number plate, too, the registration ending with the three letters ‘PUP’.

  There’s only one problem.

  It’s black.

  Cody moves into the garage, then circles the van. On its sides it has a gold sign for ‘M Benson, Plumbing and Heating’, followed by a phone number.

  Cody takes a closer look at the paintwork. It is showing clear signs of aging, including numerous scratches and nicks. It certainly wasn’t done recently as a cover-up job.

  He says, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Benson, but our records say that the van with this registration number is white.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Malcolm. ‘Yeah. It used to be white. I had it resprayed. Thought it looked classier like this.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Ooh, about four years ago. I think I’ve still got the invoice in the house if you want me to dig it out.’

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ says Cody. ‘You do know that you’re supposed to inform the DVLA when you change the colour of your vehicle, don’t you?’

  ‘Am I? Sorry, I wasn’t aware of that. Nobody’s ever told me.’

  Cody exits the garage. Takes one last look at the van. Sighs.

  Another wasted journey, he thinks. If a van really was used for the abductions, it definitely wasn’t this one.

  40

  The Bensons spend a good couple of minutes at their front door, reassuring themselves that normality has resumed. But when they retreat once more into their living room, Malcolm can tell that Harriet is still fretful.

  ‘Oh, Malcolm!’ she says. ‘The police.’

  ‘Stay calm,’ he tells her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. They’ve gone now, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . but why did they come here in the first place? Do they know about us? About the girls?’

  Malcolm takes her in his arms. ‘Hush now. They don’t know anything. You heard them. It’s the van. They’re looking at vans.
They’re probably working their way through hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands.’

  ‘Yes, but why? Doesn’t that mean you were seen?’

  Malcolm shakes his head. ‘If they knew anything, they would have searched the house, wouldn’t they? They’re just poking about in the dark at the moment. Honestly, dear, it’s just coincidence. They won’t be back.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I am.’

  But he isn’t really. He suspects that the police know a lot more than they were saying, and that worries him.

  ‘The children were good,’ says Harriet.

  ‘Yes. Yes, they were. Maybe we should let them watch another DVD as a reward. Why don’t you dig one out for them, eh?’

  ‘Yes. All right. And then I’ll put the kettle on. Can you end Quiet Time now?’

  He nods. And while Harriet totters off, he goes over to the television and locates the switch hidden behind it.

  He realises then that he hasn’t explained Quiet Time to Poppy and Ellie. It’s been a long time since anyone else has been allowed into the house, and so the necessity of informing them simply didn’t enter his head. Daisy must have told the others what was going on, because there wasn’t a peep out of them.

  He doesn’t want to think about the consequences if they had broken this particular rule.

  *

  The lights come back on. The red warning light no longer winks at them.

  Daisy breathes a long sigh of relief. She had been so worried that one of the other girls would make a noise. She had put her arms around them not only to comfort them, but also to keep them in check.

  ‘Can we talk again now?’ Poppy whispers.

  Daisy smiles. In a normal tone of voice she says, ‘Yes, of course. It’s all over.’

  She lets her arms drop from the children’s shoulders. Poppy slips from the bed and turns to face Daisy.

  ‘I could hear voices,’ she says. ‘Downstairs. There were voices.’

  Daisy knows there is no point in denying it. ‘Yes. They had visitors.’

  ‘What visitors? Who were they?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could have been anyone.’

  ‘But why did we have to stay so quiet? What if we make a noise when there are visitors? Would they come upstairs? Would they find us? Would they take us back home?’