Dead Silent

by Sharon Jones

  She had no idea!

  ‘I must. I really don’t want to create more work for you guys right at home time.’ Poppy took her time putting the chairs back up on the table, glancing every now and again at the progress bar.

  She needed more time but the girl was glaring, looking for reinforcements.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Poppy said. And walked towards the door.

  ‘Hey, don’t forget your laptop,’ the girl said.

  Poppy spun around and slapped her forehead. OK, she wasn’t going to win any prizes for acting but it was all about killing time.

  ‘I’m not only clumsy, but really forgetful,’ Poppy said. She picked up her laptop and slowly walked back towards the door.

  98%…

  99%…

  Bingo! ‘Thanks so much.’ Poppy grinned and headed out of the door.

  Back outside, holding the computer in one hand, she scrolled through the document with the other. It was a computer-generated report spewed out by something called HOLMES.

  There were several sections. One was the coroner’s report on the death of Nicholas Bradwell, but another section contained details of a complaint that was made by the Bradwell family about Trinity College’s handling of their deceased son’s belongings. They claimed that someone had tampered with them.

  Poppy scanned through the names of the people who’d given statements.

  Mr Simon Bradwell. Mrs Rachel Bradwell. Miss Christina Sharrock.

  Oh, God! Chrissie!

  Poppy snapped the computer shut, shoved it in her bag and started running. Her legs were wobbly and her lungs felt like they would give in any second, but she had to keep going. She had to get to Trinity.

  The road seemed to have lengthened since the last time she’d slogged up it, and no matter how hard she pushed herself, her legs wouldn’t take any more punishment. She slowed to a walk and fought the burning pain in her thighs. She had to keep going.

  She was almost there, she could just about see the Great Gate looming through the fog, when a figure stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her arm. Poppy screamed.

  ‘Shhhh!’ a voice hushed her.

  It was the detective, and not far behind her was her bouncer.

  ‘I know who it is,’ Poppy whispered.

  ‘Yeah. We do too and we think we know where they are. Poppy, my sergeant’s going to take you back to the lodge and stay with you until we get Michael and your dad out of there.’

  What? ‘No. NO! I have to go there. She’s expecting me. If she thinks I’ve talked to you she’ll kill them.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. The team know how to handle these things. Thank you for getting us this far. But your part in this is over.’

  ‘Where are they, then?’

  ‘She’d booked a room, in a building out towards the river. We think they’re there. It’s one of the places the Apostles used to meet so it seems likely.’

  Chrissie had booked a room? Somehow, that didn’t feel right. How was Poppy meant to have found out that she’d booked a room?

  ‘Come on.’ The detective put her arm around Poppy and pushed her on towards the gate to Trinity. ‘Sergeant Lachlan’s going to look after you now,’ she said, squeezing Poppy’s arm. The woman’s face softened. ‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be OK.’

  Funny, those were the exact words Poppy had said to Conal.

  As the detective walked away and joined a shadowy group of people, just a little way up the street Poppy nearly collapsed.

  Another hand on her shoulder startled her.

  It was the sergeant. ‘Come on, Poppy, let’s get you somewhere warm.’

  The heat of the lodge came as a shock after the freezing fog, as did the ten or so faces who all turned to look at her. Among them she recognised the weather-beaten face of the head porter. He edged past the others, around the desk and stopped in front of her.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ he said, with a kind smile. ‘Your mum’s on her way. The police are bringing her and your stepdad down from Cumbria.’

  She tried to smile, but her cheeks were frozen.

  ‘Hey, your dad’s going to be just fine. I’ve known that lad since he was here as an undergraduate, and I reckon the number of scrapes he got himself out of were all good training for this.’

  She really hoped so. Dad was smart and so was Michael. They’d know what to do…just as long as they were still alive. They had to be. Had to be.

  ‘I think she could do with a sit-down and a hot drink,’ the sergeant said. ‘She looks like she’s about to keel over.’

  ‘Frank, get a seat out here for Poppy,’ the head porter called. ‘And put the kettle on while you’re about it. Won’t be a minute.’ He scuttled off, back behind the counter.

  For a moment, Poppy almost let herself relax. But then her heart began to thud. Her brain ached as she struggled to think. There was something. Something was wrong. Dacla had got it wrong.

  The room-booking thing. It was bugging her. There was just no way that someone who’d got away with murdering three people would be that careless. Chrissie had wanted her to find them, not the police. Poppy squeezed her hands into fists and forced her mind to quieten. If Chrissie really wanted to find her, surely she’d have told her where she was eventually.

  ‘Can I borrow your phone?’ she asked the sergeant. ‘I’d like to call my mum.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ He handed her a smartphone; there was a burst of static and then a crackly voice. The sergeant frowned and pulled a radio from his pocket. ‘Receiving. Excuse me a minute.’

  Poppy nodded as he walked away. She looked around the lodge. Everyone seemed occupied with something or other. No one would notice if she went somewhere quieter to use the phone.

  Poppy edged back until she was almost at the door, then before anyone could notice, she’d hopped out of the side gate onto Trinity Street and set off down the cobbled lane. Spotting a shadowy shop doorway, she slipped inside and leaned against the tiled wall. Her hands were shaking and the phone was a model she’d never used before, so it took her a couple of minutes to find the web browser and open her email account. As she’d suspected, there was a new message from the Avenging Angel.

  Time’s running out, Poppy.

  She quickly typed a reply.

  They killed him and then covered it up. I get why you’re so angry, Chrissie. I would be too. Where are you? We need to talk.

  She sent the message, closed her eyes and prayed. Killing once must be hard enough – even when someone was blinded by grief and anger. Killing three times had to mean that Chrissie had dropped off the edge into…what? Madness? But what did she want? The truth? Could she even hear the truth now?

  Poppy refreshed the browser page. Chrissie had replied.

  The Round Church. Come alone or I’ll kill them all.

  Poppy jogged up the lane, following the flashing red dot on the phone’s GPS. The Round Church lived up to its name. Built of a dark-coloured stone it looked something like a beehive topped with a conical roof and a smaller round tower. A faint glow emanated from the windows in the turret as if someone was burning candles in there. She pushed the phone into her pocket and squeezed her trembling, cold hands into fists. Slowly, she approached the main door. A white piece of paper flapped around the studded oak – a notice cancelling a quintet practice. God! How normal that seemed – a music rehearsal. Another world. She glanced around. Bushes and trees marked the churchyard with shadows, and although she could make out shadowy figures drifting past the gate, she was sure no one would see her. Taking a deep breath, she slipped her hand through the freezing iron loop and pulled. The door made a creaking noise but didn’t shift. There had to be a back door.

  She couldn’t do this. What if she got it wrong? This wasn’t a game – Dad and Michael could die. She thought about calling Dalca. Went as far as pulling out the phone and finding her number in the address book. But what would they do? Would they send in armed police? A hostage negotiator? What possible bargaini
ng chips would they have? She’d heard of too many of these situations going badly and she couldn’t lose Michael or Dad. She’d rather die herself. She had to try – convince Chrissie to let them go. She had to try.

  She wouldn’t phone. She couldn’t afford the time for a conversation; the risk of the policewoman convincing her to do nothing, to wait for the pros. But...just in case something went wrong…

  Poppy’s numb fingers stumbled as she texted Dalca:

  She’s at the Round Church.

  Poppy tucked her head down into her scarf, scrunching up her tense shoulders to try to ease the constant shudders that racked her body, and followed the path that ran around the curving wall of the church. Stuck onto the back was a square building, and set into the wall was a door. She tried it and it opened.

  The room she stepped into was in darkness, but in the gloomy light coming in from the streetlamps she could make out the outline of a desk and filing cabinets. She quickly crossed to the only door she could see. It opened onto another very dark, very confusing area. She felt around the wall, past shelves and rows of books. Her toe hit something and she tripped, sending something clattering to the floor. Well, that took care of her plan to make a quiet entrance. She edged forward again until she found another door. Taking a deep breath she creaked it open, half expecting someone to leap out at her.

  ‘Come in, Poppy,’ a voice called.

  She felt beneath Dad’s scarf and pressed the small piece of obsidian between her finger and thumb. If ever she needed protecting, it was now.

  She edged out of the darkness and into the flickering circle of light created by the candles burning in various recesses and corners. To the left, at the square end of the church there was an altar and rows of pews facing in towards the aisle. But to her right, through the arched columns that circled the heart of the church, she saw a girl with long white-blonde hair and eyes that no longer looked angry or defiant, but scared and uncertain.

  Ria raised her hand. In it she was clutching a gun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Poppy froze. Ria? Not Chrissie after all? Had she got it so wrong?

  Ria had the blank look of a robot that hadn’t yet received instructions on how to respond. She didn’t seem in control of anything. Was that it? Was she was being told what to do? Ria’s eyes shifted, almost imperceptibly. Poppy followed her gaze to the altar. There was nothing there, except, wait…what was that shadow on the tiled floor?

  Poppy started towards it.

  ‘Poppy, stop,’ Ria said, but there was no power to her voice. Ria wouldn’t shoot her. She’d meant for her to go over there. The person really in charge of this scene didn’t want her dead – not right away anyway.

  Her footsteps echoed as Poppy darted towards the altar. As she drew closer, she saw that the shadow wasn’t a shadow at all, but a boot sticking out around the edge of the carved oak pew. The boot was connected to a leg, and the leg belonged to…

  ‘Dad!’ she gasped. Oh no! Not him…no…please!

  Poppy fell to her knees. Dad’s hands and ankles had been bound with tape and dark blood had dripped from his forehead onto the tiled floor.

  ‘Dad? Dad!’

  His eyes flickered open. The breath flew out of her chest with a cry. He was alive. There were muffled noises behind her. She spun around. Lying face down in the pew was Michael. His hands and ankles were taped together and there was a rope looped around his arms, tying him to the pew so that he could hardly move. His gaze connected with hers. Someone had done this to him…to both of them. If it was Chrissie, she would…

  Poppy scrabbled towards Michael, blood pounding in her head.

  ‘That’s enough. Leave him,’ a voice said. This time it was the voice she had expected. Fury filled her heart. And fear.

  Poppy pushed to her feet. Her whole body was shaking. She looked between the columns: standing behind them, several metres away, in the centre of the round chapel, was Chrissie.

  Burning anger surged through Poppy’s veins. She ran at the girl.

  ‘Stop!’ Chrissie thrust out a gun, aiming it at Poppy’s face.

  Her pumps squeaked against the tiles as she skidded to a halt. Poppy’s heart thrashed in her chest as she sucked in short sharp gasps of air. ‘You bitch!’

  ‘Unlike Ria’s gun, this one isn’t for show,’ Chrissie said. The girl brushed a strand of her bobbed brown hair away from her face and she steadied her stance as if preparing to fire.

  Just to the right of Chrissie, Ria slumped to the ground; the gun she was holding clattered down beside her and she wrapped her arms around her legs and buried her head in her knees. She’d given up. She was waiting to die.

  Chrissie would kill them all. She had to delay, string her along until the police got here. She licked her lips, tried to stop shaking with fear and hatred.

  ‘How did you get them all here? That was clever.’

  Chrissie huffed out a laugh and her gun arm dropped to her side. ‘It was stupidly easy. Michael kindly met me here as per the note I left him. Then once I had your mobile phone, it was just a process of texting really. And collecting more phones, until…’ Chrissie spread her arms wide.

  Poppy had seen Dad, Michael, Ria…were there more? More dead people. She shuddered harder.

  ‘What did you do to my dad?’

  ‘He wasn’t cooperating.’

  Anger bubbled up from her stomach, this time it felt like hot lava. Without thinking, Poppy took two steps towards Chrissie before the gun was once again levelled at her face.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Poppy. You don’t want to die…not for Jim. After all, he left you. He’s one of them, Poppy. He stands there in that chapel, preaching about us all being equal before God and yet he’s one of them: a group who think they’re so much better than everyone else.’

  ‘And what about Michael? What crime did he commit?’

  Chrissie frowned, looked confused, but then swallowed and raised her chin. ‘Nothing yet. But can’t you see? He’s going to come here and become another one of them. And then he’ll leave you too.’

  ‘No, he won’t.’

  ‘Don’t you get it, Poppy? I’m saving you the pain. In another year he’ll be here and you’ll be at home. He’ll meet someone else and he’ll rip your heart out. Better to lose him now.’

  ‘Is that what Nick did?’ Poppy asked. ‘Did he come here and find someone better?’

  Chrissies face flushed with anger. ‘No! Nick was different. He loved me.’

  A laugh echoed through the stone arches. Ria raised her head and snarled: ‘Oh my God, you’re so full of crap. Nick had been trying to break it off with you from the minute he got here.’

  Chrissie strode across the chapel and backhanded Ria, sending her sprawling on the tiles.

  Ria let out a series of grunts; Poppy couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.

  ‘They killed him.’ Chrissie pointed the gun at Ria. Her finger tightened against the trigger. ‘Her and the rest of them. And they covered it up to make it look like an accident!’

  Ria raised her head. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, we had nothing to do with Nick’s death?’

  Chrissie turned back to Poppy; her eyes were wild and unfocused. ‘We were in love.’ A memory seemed to lighten her face and brought with it a faint smile. ‘He wanted to be a journalist. He was good, too – everyone said so. Then when he got here he was invited to a black-tie party. He said, “You’ll never guess what, I think I’m gonna be invited to join this really famous secret society.” Typical Nick, though, he wasn’t excited about being asked to join; he was excited at the thought of writing an exposé. He wrote about the silly dinners…and being introduced to all these important people, even the Chief bloody Constable. He started working out who the members were. Then when he was invited to join, he said yes, and went through their silly ritual. That was it – he had enough to write his story. But he had these stupid ethics. Didn’t want to turn into a tabloid journalist. And so he made the mis
take of telling them he was going to write a story about the society.

  ‘That’s when stuff started to happen. A dead rat was left on his bed. His bike disappeared and then reappeared up a tree. He complained to the college, but no one did anything about it. I told him – if these people…these Angels were as important as he said they were, he had to be careful. But he went ahead and got himself a job with a student newspaper.’ Chrissie smiled. ‘He was so excited. His first story for them and it was going to be the lead. They’d given him a week to finish up, and that’s when it happened. I got the phone call from his mum saying that he’d had an accident.’

  ‘That’s crap,’ Ria, muttered. ‘You’re telling yourself fairy tales. Nick wasn’t going to publish that story. Lucy persuaded him—’

  ‘—Shut up. Shut up!’ Chrissie roared. She raised the gun again – this time her hand was shaking and she was breathing so fast she was almost hyperventilating.

  Not good. She was losing it.

  ‘So that’s why you did it?’ Poppy asked quickly, hoping to distract her. ‘You wanted to punish them. To be his avenging angel?’

  Chrissie’s eyes widened as if those words had connected with something inside her. She dropped the gun to her side and nodded. ‘No one listened to me. But they’re everywhere. I’ve got the book with all their names in. Politicians…judges…they’re everywhere. They had him killed and made it look like an accident. Then they wiped his computer. They think they fooled everyone. But I know what they’ve done…they’re evil. They manipulate everyone and everything. They took my Nick from me. They have to be punished.’

  Chrissie reached in her pocket. ‘Use this. Get the tape off Devon’s ankles and bring him out here.’ Chrissie threw a penknife to Poppy. And pointed to the pew where Michael was.

  Poppy hesitated. Oh God. Chrissie wasn’t looking for answers. This wasn’t a trial. This was an execution.

  ‘Now!’ Chrissie yelled.

  Poppy’s legs shook as she forced herself over to the pews. She made herself walk past Michael. There in the next pew was Devon, hands and feet tied together, his mouth taped shut. He looked up at her, terrified.