The Silent Children: A serial-killer thriller with a twist

by Carol Wyer

  Astra nodded and slipped her hand into her father’s.

  ‘I happened to be at Lauren’s when Astra was visiting,’ she explained.

  Carrington’s head bobbed up and down. ‘I took your advice. I think it helped them both. Astra certainly seems less agitated.’ They headed into the kitchen, where he’d been putting together a cheese sandwich. He placed the top slice of bread onto it, cut the sandwich into four and handed Astra the plate. She took it and shuffled onto a seat by the table, picked up the black cat and hugged it, ignoring the food.

  ‘On your own today?’

  ‘Yeah. Ella is teaching an exercise class at the village hall. I try to work my shifts around her. She usually holds two classes every Wednesday – one in the morning and one early evening.’

  ‘What sort of classes does she put on?

  ‘Self-defence,’ he replied. She noticed a slight shift in his stance but said no more.

  Ella’s scarred face sprang to mind. ‘Can I ask what happened to her? I couldn’t help but notice the scar. Was she in an accident?’

  ‘Some drugged-up kid after money. He slashed her face when she refused to hand over her purse. That’s why she took up self-defence. She teaches it to women to help them stay safe.’

  Astra seemed subdued again and was staring into space.

  ‘Come on, honey. Eat it up. For Daddy,’ he said.

  Astra took a piece of the sandwich, nibbled on it and then put it down on the plate and shook her head, her curls bobbing around her head.

  ‘Don’t want it, Daddy,’ she said.

  He sighed. ‘I hope she isn’t sickening for something. Okay, Astra, go and play next door. Daddy will come and make up the jigsaw with you in a minute. I’m going to speak to the nice police officer now, okay?’

  She slipped silently from her chair, and moved through the door towards the sitting room without glancing up. Robyn decided she really was a very quiet little girl – too quiet.

  She spoke again. ‘I really wanted to talk to you anyway, about the syndicate.’

  ‘What’s to tell? You obviously know about it,’ he snorted. Robyn remained impassive and waited for an answer to her question.

  ‘We put the odd bet on, using any quiz winnings, and one week it came good for us.’

  ‘That’s an interesting choice of words. The lottery isn’t quite a bet, is it?’

  He cricked his neck, playing for time. ‘No, I suppose not, but it is a gamble. You hope to win money by choosing numbers. It’s a gamble that paid off.’

  ‘You didn’t have a special system of numbers, did you?’

  ‘We threw caution to the wind and bought lucky dip tickets.’

  ‘I understand the winnings were deposited into a holding account called Astra Holdings.’

  ‘What of it? We had to call the account something. It was the first name that came to me and the others agreed on it.’

  ‘Juliet told me the ticket was purchased from the MiniMarkt where you and Henry worked. Did you buy the ticket?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Ella bought it that week. She got it in MiniMarkt. It’s against the shop rules as an employee, let alone manager, for me to buy lottery tickets from my own shop.’

  ‘Mr Carrington, have you any idea who would have wanted Tessa Hall and Anthony Hawkins dead?’

  He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. I haven’t had anything to do with them since last December.’ He held up his hands, a defensive gesture. ‘It’s a mystery to me. Didn’t Anthony die of a heart attack?’

  ‘We believe his death to be suspicious.’

  Liam looked at her with open surprise. Robyn bided her time then asked, ‘Did Henry Gregson mention the lottery win to you?’

  Carrington pouted before answering. ‘No. Why would he?’

  ‘He was your best friend. He also knew a local lottery syndicate had won a huge amount of money and it was being transferred into an account called Astra Holdings. I figured he might have said something to you.’

  ‘You figured wrong. The subject never came up.’ Liam Carrington gave her the longest look. ‘Are you suggesting Henry’s death is somehow connected to the lottery win? That’s ludicrous. Why would anyone kill him because he knew a syndicate had won a few million pounds? Doesn’t make any sense.’

  That was one question Robyn couldn’t answer. That knowledge shouldn’t have got Henry killed. She asked a few more questions and was about to leave when she saw a pair of shoes placed by the door and remembered she hadn’t asked him an important question.

  ‘What size shoes do you take?’

  ‘Ten. Why?’ Liam asked.

  ‘Just part of our enquiries, sir.’

  After the door closed behind her, her mind wouldn’t settle, and she drove only as far as the village hall, parked up and wandered to the side door that was slightly ajar. Loud grunts and shouts came from inside as Ella put her class through their paces. Robyn peered through the gap in time to observe Ella demonstrate a manoeuvre to counter a gun-wielding attacker. With legs a blur, she expertly propelled a kick that knocked the object from the volunteer’s hand high into the air. The women applauded.

  As she drew back, Robyn decided to investigate Ella Fox further.

  Fifty-One

  DAY NINE – WEDNESDAY, 22 FEBRUARY, EVENING

  * * *

  Robyn tilted back on her chair, relieved her office was back to normal. The desks and cables and boxes had all disappeared, and she could think again. She was waiting for DCI Flint to call her through to his office when there was a commotion in the corridor and Matt burst through the door.

  ‘Guv, we’ve found a witness who saw somebody near Tessa Hall’s house on the sixteenth. They’re in interview room one.’

  Robyn slapped the report and photograph onto her desk with a satisfying thump and raced off.

  The woman waiting for her was glowing with excitement at being in the station. She jumped up when Robyn came in and for a minute Robyn thought she might curtsy.

  ‘Hi. I’m Tory Goode. Victoria really, but nobody calls me Victoria, and Vicky doesn’t suit me.’

  ‘Good evening, Miss Goode,’ said Robyn. ‘Thank you for coming all this way to speak to us.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. When Sergeant Higham asked me if I minded dropping by, I thought it’s the least I can do. Especially if it helps to catch a murderer.’ She whispered the last word.

  ‘Can you tell me what you told him about the visitor you saw near Tessa Hall’s house?’

  ‘Oh yes, sure. It was last Thursday the sixteenth. It was dead early, about six. I was talking to my mum. She always phones me the same time every morning. I’m an early bird because I have to travel to Birmingham every day. I like to go before the traffic builds up. Anyway, Mum calls every morning. She’s getting on, you see – seventy-three and lives alone – she likes to start her day with a quick chat. Mum was going on about some illness or another, as she does, and I happened to peer out of the window to see if there’d been a frost. When there is, I have to get out earlier and scrape my car windscreen, you see? Anyway, it was dark outside but I caught sight of a person in a dark hoodie, with the hood over their head, jogging up the road towards where that young woman was murdered. The hood slipped off and she turned around for a minute under the lamp post out there, and that was when I saw her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Yes. It was a woman.’

  ‘Can I ask you why you didn’t come forward before with this information?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. I thought she was just a jogger. She didn’t look suspicious in any way. She wasn’t carrying a machete or anything.’ Her chin jutted forwards and she shook her hair back.

  ‘I don’t wish to be rude. I’m a little surprised, that’s all. You didn’t see the television appeal or read about it in the newspapers?’

  ‘No. I don’t like the news. There’s always loads of horrible things happening. I don’t watch it. It was lucky I was in today or I wouldn’t have spoken
to Sergeant Higham. I’m normally at work, but today I took time off for a dentist appointment.’

  ‘Did you know Miss Hall, the lady who died last week?’

  ‘No. Never met her. I’ve only been in the village six weeks. I hardly know anybody yet.’

  Robyn gave her an understanding smile. ‘If you saw this woman again, would you recognise her?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m going to ask you to make a statement now. I’ll send in an officer and they’ll write down exactly what you saw and you’ll sign it. Okay?’

  ‘Is that it?’ Tory looked deflated.

  ‘No. I might need you to identify the woman you saw. Are you up for that?’

  Tory sat upright in her chair. ‘Yes. I’d be happy to help.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll get back to you.’

  Robyn rose, trying not to wince as the woman thanked her again and began telling Matt how much she enjoyed watching television police dramas.

  She strode back to the office, lost in thought. Another jogger! A jogger they’d been unable to identify had been spotted on Cannock Chase. Could it be the same person? She thought briefly of Ailsa Pelligrini; however, she couldn’t work out what motive the woman would have for murdering Tessa, or Henry for that matter. She shut her eyes briefly and thought of Ella Fox, kicking at an imaginary attacker. She couldn’t work out why Ella would kill Tessa but it crossed her mind that Ella might have a motive for killing Henry. Henry knew Ella had bought lottery tickets. If he’d put two and two together about their winnings, he might have confronted the pair, asking for money. Had Ella wanted to protect their winnings and killed him? Then there was Naomi Povey, who had no solid alibi for the morning Tessa was killed, and who was off work on Valentine’s Day. She had reason to hate Tessa, but Henry? Robyn sighed. So many questions, and what she really wanted were answers.

  Fifty-Two

  THEN

  * * *

  He’s on his back on the hard single bed with its scratchy blanket, staring at the ceiling. Of all the poxy things that have happened in his life, this is the worst. He’s been put in solitary for his own safety. The prison guard, Mr Hawkins, took pity on him when he found him bloodied, bruised and naked in the shower block. He shifts uncomfortably at the thought of what had transpired. His backside is so sore he doubts he’ll ever be able to sit properly again. Hawkins wasn’t soft but he had a streak of humanity in him. He’d helped him up and taken him to the medical centre, where they’d stitched him up.

  Hawkins is the only screw he has time for. He doesn’t treat him like the other officers do, with cruel taunts and harsh words. Even the other prisoners treat him like he’s a real criminal – funny, really, because of all the sorts in here who claim they’re innocent, he genuinely is. They’ve taken against him, in spite of his efforts to keep his head down and stay silent. His cellmate in particular has it in for him and has made his life a living hell.

  While he was at the medical centre, Hawkins had sat with him. The old guy reminds him a bit of Sid. They’d chatted a bit. Hawkins told him he was going to retire soon and would be glad to be out of the place. He was going to live in the country as far away from people as possible, and that some of the things he’d seen in prison had sickened him. In return, he’d unburdened himself and told Hawkins about Sid, Johnny, and Kayley, and how they’d stitched him up good and proper.

  Hawkins had stared at him hard and said, ‘Don’t tell that to anyone in here. You know your trouble, lad? You try too hard. You show weakness. The other blokes in here, they can smell fear. They home in on weakness like sharks sniff out blood. If you tell tales like this, you’ll get more than a beating up. These guys are hard, and I mean hard. You need to toughen up and keep your head down if you want to survive the next few months. You’re a bright lad. I’ve noticed that about you, so you know what I’m saying. Don’t try and make friends. Take my advice.’

  Hawkins has arranged for solitary confinement until things calm down back at the cells. He’ll be moved from the cell he was sharing and into another when another con, up for parole, leaves. He hopes his next cellmate is not such a thug.

  Prison has been bad. His life had been pretty shit up until now, but prison has been a whole lot worse. He’s only been here five weeks, and already he’s got another pile of horrible memories to add to the others. His sister comes to see him every visiting time. She knows he’s blameless but no matter how much she tries to convince him to tell the truth, he refuses. He isn’t going to have her hunted down and sliced open by Johnny Hounslow. Three days earlier, she’d visited and sat opposite him, her eyes blazing.

  ‘But he doesn’t deserve to get away with it,’ she argued.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I can’t lose you. You know he’ll come after you. I can stick this out. I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

  Her eyes had brimmed with tears. She’d squeezed his hand tightly. ‘It’s so unfair.’

  It was. Life was unfair but he was a survivor. While his sister was by his side, he’d survive. She advised him to keep his head down. Keep silent. They were used to keeping silent. Said she’d think of him every day.

  The hatch door in the huge metal door opens. The prison officer with the shaved head calls his name and he struggles to stand to attention. A tray of food is pushed through the hatch. It’s stewed mince and smells worse than dog shit. He wrinkles his nose as he collects it.

  Shaved Head – Mr Burns – snarls at him. ‘Don’t look so bloody po-faced. It could be a lot worse. Count yourself lucky it was Hawkins found you. If it’d been me, I’d have left you there or locked you in with Kurt the Knife, and watched while he played with you.’ The hatch snaps shut.

  He places the tray on his bed and crosses the room, where he bashes his knuckles repeatedly against the wall until he can no longer feel the pain. Hawkins was right – he has to toughen up. It’s a technique that’ll not only prevent himself from crying but to make him feel hate – hate like he’s never experienced before. One day, it’ll serve him well.

  Fifty-Three

  DAY TEN – THURSDAY, 23 FEBRUARY, EARLY MORNING

  * * *

  Robyn was woken by her mobile phone. She pushed Schrödinger away to reach it, glancing at the time as she did so. It was coming up to 5 a.m.

  ‘Carter.’

  The voice at the other end was tearful and quiet. ‘It’s Juliet Fallows. I can’t sleep. I had to ring you.’

  Robyn sat up, fully alert. ‘Is everything okay, Juliet?’

  ‘No. I’m okay but it isn’t okay. Oh, God, I’m not making any sense, am I?’

  ‘You’re fine,’ said Robyn smoothly, hoping to calm the woman. ‘Take your time. What’s this about?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be ringing you, but I can’t keep silent about this. I’ve been thinking about Tessa and Anthony. I should have told you everything when you asked me, but I didn’t dare.’

  Robyn was still struggling to comprehend what Juliet was saying.

  ‘What’s worrying you?’

  Juliet let out an almighty sigh. ‘It’s to do with the lottery win. I should have come clean. The money shouldn’t be ours.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Juliet. Why not?’

  There was silence, during which time Robyn wondered if Juliet was going to hang up. Eventually, she spoke. ‘We won the pub quiz like I told you and decided to use the sixty pounds winnings for lottery lucky dip tickets. We’d had too much to drink that night and were joking about what we’d do if we actually won the lottery. Liam told us about a couple whose numbers had come up. He has an incredible memory for numbers and he was convinced their ticket had won a rollover jackpot in November. The couple were away on one of their regular holidays, and he was certain they wouldn’t even be aware they’d won. They always relied on Liam to tell them if they’d won or not, by passing the ticket through the shop machine. They had a routine, and instead of getting a weekly ticket, they’d buy monthly lucky dip ones that covered them for every draw t
hat month. At the end of each month, they’d hand Liam the ticket to check it out. Liam said they sometimes won a tenner or even a little more but mostly they lost, and he’d throw the ticket in the shop bin, give them a new one for the next month, and off they’d go again.

  ‘A few more drinks later and we were working out ways of getting our hands on that winning ticket. If Liam was right, he could tell the couple they hadn’t won, pretend to throw the ticket away, keep it, and we could pocket the winnings.

  ‘Liam wasn’t keen on the idea. Said it wasn’t moral. Anthony took him to one side and had a man-to-man chat with him. It worked. He agreed to the plan.

  ‘Two weeks later, Liam told us he’d got the ticket, and it was, as he thought, a winner. We became the official winners of the rollover jackpot. We decided to keep quiet about it like I told you, and then on December the thirtieth I got a phone call from a man who said he knew everything but was giving us all a chance to confess and hand back the winnings, rather than report us. Tessa rang me two minutes after I hung up. She’d had a similar call and had been alarmed by it. We both telephoned Anthony. He was convinced it was a prank call and there was no possible way anybody could have known what we did. He told us not to be so silly and to relax.

  ‘I gave it a week, then two, and there were no further calls. I decided Anthony was right. And then last week Tessa was killed, and soon after, Anthony died.’ There was a lengthy pause before she spoke again.

  ‘I should never have got carried away like that. I was so excited at the prospect of all that wealth. Who wouldn’t want to get their hands on a million pounds?’

  ‘Did the man who rang you tell you his name?’

  ‘You asked me once about Henry Gregson. I’ve been wondering if it could have been him.’

  ‘Juliet, you’ll have to come to the station and make a statement. You can’t keep the money. You know that, don’t you?’