The Silent Children

by Carol Wyer

  ‘Why don’t you shut up?’

  ‘Nah. Forget that idea. No one would want to go out with you. You don’t know anything unless it’s about football. You don’t even have a girlfriend cos all you talk about is footie. Blah-blah-blah football.’

  He ignores her. He knows lots of things. He just happens to like football a lot.

  Eventually she gives up taunting him. He sits back in the chair and watches the teams battle it out on the field. His mind is only half-focused on the match. His sister has given him an idea. He can make money if he doesn’t concentrate on the usual, conventional channels. It’s a case of thinking outside the box.

  * * *

  He scrubs up well. The suit makes him appear older – about eighteen or nineteen. The old biddy in the charity shop let him have it for five quid. Not bad. It must have cost its original owner a packet. Mum gave him some money towards it. He told her he needed a suit for a job interview and that he wasn’t getting any work cos he didn’t look smart enough.

  His sister cut his hair. She’d done a decent job too. ‘You look like Jason Orange from Take That,’ she said, returning her scissors to her bag. ‘You should make effort more often. You actually look okay.’

  ‘Take That? You listen to some right crap.’ He’d thumped her cheerfully on the arm and, whistling, had washed his hair and styled it with some of her hair gel.

  He looks at his reflection one last time. He does look a bit like Jason. Pity he doesn’t have Jason’s singing voice. He tries out a few notes but there’s no doubt he can’t sing. Still, he has brains. He doesn’t need a recording contract with a band.

  * * *

  The bookmakers is busy, filled with men watching sleek horses thunder across large television screens, betting slips in hands, the air filled with hope. He stands against a counter, head over a betting slip but actually observing the comings and goings. He’s going to get rich on the Premier League. Winning isn’t down to luck. It’s about odds and probability. All he has to do is work out if the odds are in his favour and that’s down to maths – his favourite subject.

  The football season will start in a couple of weeks with Manchester United playing Aston Villa, and he’s going to use every hour he has until then to ensure he bets wisely on the matches. He might not be able to play football but he can still strike it rich from the game.

  Forty-Three

  DAY EIGHT – TUESDAY, 21 FEBRUARY, MORNING

  * * *

  Ross had been true to his word. The gate lock had been replaced and two spy surveillance units were set up – one outside, in the guise of a house alarm box, and another hidden behind a photo frame in Robyn’s sitting room, facing the settee and the window behind it. She could access both from an app on her phone and had found she could even catch the odd glimpse of her cat as he sat on the window ledge. She’d set her house alarm and was feeling less jittery after the events of the day before when she’d spotted the intruder.

  Robyn and Matt were going to start the day with a visit to Brocton in the hope they could unearth information at Anthony Hawkins’ house, which might give them a clue as to who he was meeting on the golf course. Robyn stopped off first at Lauren Gregson’s house and was delighted to find Astra there.

  ‘Ella and Liam thought it would be a good idea if she came over. She’s been awfully miserable. We thought it might help her, and me. I haven’t seen her since…’ she swallowed. ‘Since before we lost Henry. Gives Ella a break and helps to take my mind off everything else.’

  Astra was eating an apple, a piece in her small fist making its way to her mouth. She put it down immediately when she spotted Robyn, reached for the toy black cat next to her and lifted it towards her. ‘Look,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve brought your new cat with you,’ said Robyn.

  The girl’s face was still ghostly pale but she seemed a little more content. She nodded.

  ‘How do you know it’s new?’ Lauren asked in surprise.

  ‘I gave it to her. I recently inherited a black cat and it’s wormed its way into my affections pretty quickly. I spotted that one in a shop and thought Astra might like it. She was so upset about Henry.’

  The corners of Lauren’s mouth lifted. ‘What a lovely gesture. She’s a little poppet, isn’t she? Henry and I would have loved a little girl like her.’

  Robyn reflected on the child she might have had, had she not miscarried, her thoughts interrupted by Astra.

  ‘Henry is gone,’ she said, solemnly.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Robyn, crossing the room and dropping down beside her. ‘But you have Lauren and she needs lots of cuddles from you. She misses Henry too. Can you look after Lauren?’

  Astra gave her a sincere stare and nodded, then toddled across to Lauren, threw her arms around the tops of her legs, and hugged her tightly.

  Lauren gave a soft laugh. ‘Thank you, poppet. Tell DI Carter what we’re going to do later.’

  ‘Watch a film,’ said Astra.

  ‘What are we going to watch?’ Lauren stroked the girl’s head tenderly.

  ‘Aristocats.’

  ‘That’s right, a Disney film all about cats, and this one is going to watch it with us. Why don’t you finish your apple and I’ll talk to DI Carter, then we’ll play dressing up?’

  Astra obediently returned to the table, where she pretended to feed a slice of apple to the cat.

  Lauren sighed. ‘I hope I can find another house nearby. I wouldn’t want to lose contact with Astra.’

  ‘You’re moving?’

  ‘I have to. I can’t afford the rent here on my own. The landlord’s been amazing and says I can stay a while, paying only half the rent, until I find another place. My colleagues at the estate agency have been on the lookout for a new place for me. Everyone’s being very kind. I asked Ella if there was any chance one of those barn conversions she rents is coming free soon, but she says not. My parents want me to move back home. I really don’t want to do that. It’ll be horrible without Henry, but at least here I have my independence, some friends, my job and Astra.’

  ‘Henry had no savings or life insurance?’

  Lauren smiled weakly. ‘Not something we thought about. You don’t at our age, do you? We had a little saved up for a rainy day, but that day’s come. The funeral expenses will eat it away.’

  Robyn and her team had already examined the Gregsons’ finances and discovered nothing untoward. There was no hidden money in an offshore fund or bond.

  Robyn made small talk for a while longer before leaving to catch up with Matt. Her last image was of an excited Astra pulling out clothes from a dressing-up box Lauren had specially made for her. The possibility that Lauren had anything to do with Henry’s death was becoming less and less likely. There was nothing to gain financially from his death, and there didn’t appear to be another man in Lauren’s life. What would induce Lauren to have her husband killed? The only motive Robyn could come up with was jealousy. If the DNA test results proved Henry to be the father of Tessa’s baby, she’d have to consider Lauren as a suspect. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that – at least for Astra’s sake.

  * * *

  Robyn walked up the lane to Anthony Hawkins’ house, which appeared even more dismal than she recalled. The gate squealed in protest when she pushed it open, and inside the cottage there was already a damp smell, usually associated with old, uninhabited houses. She wrinkled her nose at it and called out. Matt was in the kitchen going through drawers. She joined him.

  ‘No diary or calendar?’

  ‘Nothing. There wasn’t anything on his phone either,’ said Matt. ‘No appointments or diary app. It’s a right antiquated piece – no Internet even – only good for calls and text messages.’

  Robyn left him and entered the sitting room. It was a sad affair: a shabby chair, a single bed-settee covered with a woollen blanket to mask the stains on it, dark shelving filled with dusty books with faded spines. The flat-screen television was at odds with the room, and perched on o
ne of the shelves was a shiny Bose sound system. Anthony had been amassing new purchases. It would only have been a matter of time before he’d have left this place and found somewhere more suited to his new lifestyle. A table next to the window was cluttered with receipts and paperwork. She shuffled through it all and finally found what she hoped for – a notepad. Although Anthony had noted Saturday’s date and the time, there was no mention of the person he was meeting.

  ‘Got it,’ she called.

  Matt appeared almost instantly.

  She held up the notepad. ‘No name.’

  ‘Oh crap. This is hopeless.’

  Robyn flicked through the pages of the notepad. There were other scribbles in it, messages and dates that made little sense to her. ‘At least we know he definitely made arrangements to meet somebody at the golf course, and that person is likely to be his killer. We’ll take the notepad. He’s written other bits of information on it, which might lead to something. He didn’t have a computer, did he?’

  ‘No devices at all. I don’t think he was into technology. There’s no modem in the house.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll call it a day here.’

  As they pulled away from his road, Robyn thought again about the likelihood of all the murders being connected. If they were, she still had to establish why. The other thought that bugged her was that Shearer’s hunch had been right. It was looking more likely that Anthony Hawkins had been murdered, and Shearer would be even more insufferable once he found out.

  Forty-Four

  THEN

  * * *

  The bloke on the doorstep looks nothing like his father. This guy is smaller, weaker, a sad apology of a man with eyebrows like grey caterpillars and worn-out, yellow teeth like an aged wolf’s.

  ‘Hi, son.’

  He sneers. ‘Bit late in the day to call me that. I haven’t seen you in six years. You’ve hardly been a father, have you? What do you want? Mum’s out.’

  ‘I know she is. I wanted to see you. See how you were doing.’ His father studies his brown shoes with frayed laces.

  ‘I’m fine so thank you for your concern and goodbye.’ He pushes the door but his father shoves his large foot in the way, preventing it from shutting.

  ‘Please hear me out,’ he pleads.

  ‘I don’t really want to hear you at all.’

  His father shifts slightly. ‘I know. I can’t expect you to forgive me. I wanted to make it up to you though.’

  He snorts. ‘And how do you intend doing that?’

  ‘I met someone who might be able to assist with your project,’ he says.

  ‘What project?’ he asks, eyebrows high in mock amusement.

  ‘I still have friends with influence. One of them told me you’ve been hanging about the betting shops in town and asking blokes to place bets on football teams for you, then sharing the profit when you win.’

  He crosses his arms. ‘So what if I have? It’s hardly a project, is it?’

  ‘Let me come in and I’ll explain. I picked up a lot while I was banged up in jail. I have skills now and I can help you become wealthy. But if you’re not interested in what I have to say, I understand.’

  He studies the man who had once beaten him on a regular basis. Could he trust somebody so volatile? At the same time, his brain whirs with possibilities. Maybe the old man had learnt how to cheat the system while he was in jail, and would it hurt to hear him out? His father stands patiently.

  In the end, curiosity wins out. ‘Come in, but only for a few minutes. If I don’t like what you tell me, I’ll throw you out myself.’

  ‘Sure. I understand. You look like you can stand on your own two feet fine,’ says his father as he crosses the threshold into the house. He hesitates for a second. ‘Doesn’t look like I remember it,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Nothing’s like it was. You’ve got two minutes to explain what you mean.’

  His father nods. ‘Sure. I heard you’ve been placing bets on the football games.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s a mug’s game. You’ll lose more than you’ll make, and even if you win big on a match, you’ll lose it all again. I met loads of blokes when I was banged up who wasted money on betting. We all did it inside. It was a way to pass the time. We’d bet on almost anything: football matches, horses, snooker games – you name it, we’d bet on it.’

  ‘If that’s all you have to tell me, you can bugger off.’

  His father looks at his feet again. ‘No, that’s not it. I want to help. I did a lot of thinking while I was inside. You get too much time alone. You get too much time to realise how you’ve affected others and how you’ve ruined their lives. I did wrong. I was quick-tempered, always hit first and thought afterwards. It was the drink. I know that’s not a good excuse but the drink changed me. I wasn’t a bad man. I was a man who couldn’t control his drinking. It became an addiction. Your mum tried to tell me I had a drinking problem but I didn’t listen. I don’t think alcoholics want to hear the truth. We hide it away. We can only focus on the next drink.’ He licked his lips again, shifted again uncomfortably. ‘I’m over that. I don’t drink any more. I really am a different man. I found God in jail and I’ll never be the man you knew again.’

  He resists the urge to snigger. His father’s too sincere about this to laugh at him, however ridiculous this sounds. His father finding religion! He wants to interrupt and tell him to leave, but his dad keeps talking, trying to explain.

  ‘This is my way of making amends. I know a bloke, Sid, who runs the betting shop near the railway station in Stoke. He’s a good man. I met him at our local church. He and I got chatting. He knows all about me, and about your mum, sister and you. I told him how I ended up in prison. I explained how I’d screwed up my life. I don’t suppose you’d understand but I’m not proud of myself. I let you all down. Anyhow, I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground, asking about you and trying to find out how you’re all doing.’

  ‘We’re doing fine. You don’t need to check up on us.’

  ‘I wasn’t checking up. I wanted to know how you all were. I missed you.’ He sighs, shakes his head and continues, ‘Sid’s in his early sixties now. He’s willing to take you on at his betting shop. You won’t be able to handle the bets yet cos of your age, but he’ll pay you for work out the back, show you the ropes and you’ll learn a career – a proper job. If you’re any good, you’ll be able to take over when he retires in a few years’ time. The real money is behind the counter, not in front of it. I told him about you and how you’d done well at maths at school. I also heard you’d been placing bets, getting others to make them and splitting the winnings. You’ve made a few good calls. I told Sid about that too, and he’d like to meet you.’ He gives his son a weak smile. ‘I don’t expect you to forgive me but maybe this will go towards helping us become friends. I’m a changed man. Not drunk a drop since I went inside. I’m not the man you remember. This is the new me.’

  Something about his father’s demeanour embarrasses him. The man seems weaker, less confident and more subservient. He wants to please. It’s written all over his craggy face. It would be so easy to plant a kick into the old man’s abdomen and get payback for all the hurt he caused in the past, but he’s too defenceless. Something about him suggests he’d allow his son to bash him up. He’d roll over and accept it. It’s pathetic.

  He watches Paul Scholes slam the ball into the back of the net on the TV and considers his father’s words. Working at a betting shop appeals to him. He’d enjoy that. He looks at his father, so eager to make amends. It’ll never happen but he will take him up on the job offer. What’s he got to lose?

  Forty-Five

  DAY EIGHT – TUESDAY, 21 FEBRUARY, AFTERNOON

  * * *

  It was almost two thirty when Robyn and Matt got back, and she heaved a sigh of relief that Shearer and his team weren’t in the office.

  ‘Finally got hold of Andy Ford,’ said David. ‘He confirmed Roger Jenkinson was with him in Leeds
on Thursday morning. Only one discrepancy – he didn’t arrive at eight thirty. It was just after nine.’

  ‘Which gives Roger Jenkinson just sufficient time to murder Tessa and travel to Leeds.’

  ‘It’d be tight.’

  ‘But possible. Best keep an open mind about this man. I’m not ruling him out yet.’

  Anna had spoken to the receptionist at Brocton Golf Club, who confirmed there was no record of the golf course being booked on Saturday morning, the day Anthony Hawkins had died, but remembered taking a call from someone asking if it was available. The line had been so bad she couldn’t tell if it was a male or female voice and they were cut off before she could make a booking. They didn’t ring back.’

  ‘Could you trace the call?’ Robyn asked.

  Anna shook her head. ‘It was from a withheld number.’

  ‘So, we believe this mysterious person rang up to ensure nobody was playing on the golf course on Saturday morning, enticed Anthony there with the intention of murdering him, and might have scared him to death. It sounds a little far-fetched but it’s all we have at the moment, and given Anthony Hawkins had come into a vast amount of money – a similar amount to Tessa Hall – we have reasonable grounds to treat his death as suspicious.’

  The call from the front desk interrupted the meeting. Mitz took it, his eyebrows rising at the news.

  ‘Guv, one of Tessa Hall’s friends, Juliet Fallows, is in reception and insists on speaking to you – alone.’

  Robyn put aside her pen and marched towards the door, a fresh spring in her step. Maybe Juliet was about to throw even more light onto this case. ‘Keep at it, folks. We’re making progress.’

  * * *

  Juliet was standing by the window, arms wrapped around her body even though it was warm inside the room. She spun around and spoke as soon as Robyn entered.