Hunting the Silence: The Yorkshire Murders (DI Haskell & Quinn Crime Thriller Series Book 4)

by Bilinda P Sheehan

  “Sorry.” Guilt rose in her throat like thick tar that threatened to choke her. “We caught a new case late Saturday night, and if I do well, I might get the chance to move up.”

  Her father’s smile was worn around the edges, and the tension in the centre of Martina’s gut increased. “It would have been nice if you could have stayed around for breakfast,” he said. “But it’s fine. I know you’ve got work.”

  Martina sighed. “Once this case is done, I’ll be around more.”

  He shook his head. His blue eyes glistened in the half light that peeked through the blinds on the windows. “It’s fine, Marty. I know you’re doing your best.”

  “Do you want a cuppa?”

  He nodded, his smile broadening. “That’d be lovely.”

  Martina set about taking down her father’s favourite mug. She prepared the tea silently, aware of his presence in the room. When she turned around, she found him sitting at the table with his head in his hands. His greying hair was thinning on top, and as she set his cup on the table next to him Martina couldn’t help but notice the purple bruise that had blossomed across his pate. “When did that happen?” Despite wanting to hit the road early, she felt compelled to drop into a chair opposite him.

  “She didn’t mean it,” he said, his gentle voice tugged at her heart.

  “She’s getting worse. We both know--”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he said. There was a firmness to his voice that belied the weariness in his face, and it took her by surprise.

  “Well, then when are we going to talk about it?” She didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but the words came out that way just the same. It was always this way.

  “Marty, not now. Please.”

  If she pressed him, it would only end in an argument. That was all they did lately. There had been a time when she’d known her father to only raise his voice in merriment, but those days were long gone. It was strange; her mother’s illness was whittling away at her memory, robbing her of the years they’d shared. And yet, that wasn’t all it was slowly stealing from her. The more of her mum she lost, Martina was forced to witness the slow disintegration of the man she’d called dad. The weight of it all draining him of the life he’d once enjoyed; leaving this husk of a man in his place. Emotion, hot, and raw burned in the back of her throat, but she’d cried all the tears she had in her when they’d first received the diagnosis of mum’s illness, and now there was nothing left.

  “I’ll try to get off early, come home for dinner,” she said. She reached over to brush her fingers against the back of his work-roughened hands. They were cold to the touch, and she fought the urge to take his chilly hands in hers, and chafe some warmth back into his hands the way he’d once done with hers when she was a child.

  “That’d be good,” he said wistfully. “Your mum would love to see you. She misses you, you know?”

  A sharp retort hovered on the tip of her tongue, but Martina bit it back. Her mother hardly remembered her, instead she called out for a Martina that had long since grown up. There were moments, brief sparks of happiness, where she remembered who she was supposed to be, but they were growing scarce, replaced by a suffocating darkness that swamped the house.

  “I know you don’t believe me,” he said sadly, curling his hands around the belly of the mug. “But I see the moments more than you, because I’m here.”

  “And I’m not,” Martina finished for him. The sting of his unspoken words caused her to press up onto her feet.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said hoarsely. “Marty, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I know, dad. I need to go.”

  “Of course, love. Have a good day.” There was an emptiness to his words that dug a hole in the centre of Martina’s chest, as she gathered up her travel mug, and slipped her boots on at the back door.

  “Do you need me to bring you home anything?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Dorothea will be in later. I can always pop to the shops then.”

  “Right.” Martina paused awkwardly in the door. “I really will try to get off early.”

  “Of course you will.”

  She left him sitting at the table, his gaze almost as vacant as she knew her mother’s to be. By the time she made it to the car, she’d bottled her emotions up and pressed them down into a rapidly hardening ball in her chest. It was easier that way, easier to compartmentalise so that nobody knew just what she went home to every evening. If they knew the truth, Martina wasn’t sure she could live with the pitying looks they would throw her way, like she was some kind of stray dog in need of affection.

  Ambrose greeted her with a barely audible grunt as she slipped into the passenger seat, and Martina slipped her seat belt on, before she settled back against the faux leather slip covers. She sipped her tea and stared out the window.

  “Have a good night?” Ambrose asked, finally breaking the silence.

  “It was fine,” she said curtly. “What about you?” That was all the encouragement Ambrose needed, and he launched into a full report on his pregnant wife’s latest cravings. It was what Martina needed, and she fixed a smile on her face as she pretended to have an interest in his half-hearted morning moan.

  Martina nodded and gave him the obligatory responses necessary to keep the conversation flowing. Keeping him at arm’s length was best for everybody involved. Martina sighed and sipped more tea. Easy was good. Easy was right.

  There was always a distinctive smell that accompanied a trip to the mortuary. It was the kind of smell that, once it was in your hair and clothes, you stood relatively little chance of ever getting rid of it. Martina had learned early on that formalin was the potent chemical that crept up inside her nose and lodged in the back of her throat.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Ambrose said, a smile curling his wide mouth as he leaned back against the wall. How he could be the picture of ease considering the scene that awaited them on the other side of the door was something Martina had never sorted out in her mind. There was a time when she’d wondered if his nonchalance was because of a lack of care, but she’d worked with him for long enough to know that wasn’t true.

  Even if he didn’t show it, Ambrose cared. She’d asked him once why he did the job, and he’d told her it was because of his kids. She wasn’t convinced that was the truth. After all, he hadn’t actually been a father when he’d first joined. But when she’d pointed that out to him, he’d told her not to be such a pedantic prick.

  “I couldn’t ever get used to this smell,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “If I worked here, I’d use an entire tub of Vicks every day. In fact, I know I’d use it so much I’d end up buying shares in the company who makes it.” As she spoke she slipped the tub of Vicks Vapo Rub from her jacket pocket and smeared a thin film of the potent mixture beneath her nostrils. The scent instantly transported her back to her childhood when mum used to rub it on her chest anytime she had a cold.

  Martina pushed the memory away; now was not the time to get caught up in such a sticky web. Dr Jackson stepped out of the examination room, his nose buried in a blue plastic folder. As he approached them, Martina coughed, causing him to lift his gaze.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, making the statement sound like an insult. “I didn’t know I was expecting you down here this morning.” He frowned at them both, before he turned his hand over and glanced down at his watch. There was a momentary flicker of consternation on his face as he noted the time, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

  “You told us yesterday to come down on Monday. It’s Monday now,” Ambrose said amicably. From the corner of her eye, Martina watched the DS straighten up from his position against the wall, so that he towered over the forensic pathologist. If the doctor noticed the subtle shift in the energy in the room, he gave no indication of it.

  “The forensic anthropologist isn’t finished with her examination of the remains,” he said dismissively. “So you’ve waste
d your morning coming down her.”

  “Is there anything you can tell us?” Martina asked. Frustration made her voice a little sharper than she’d intended, but it caught the attention of the forensic pathologist.

  “This isn’t really my area,” he said. “The flesh, and organs is where I specialise.” He snapped the folder shut. Martina felt her shoulders drop. “However, from a cursory examination along with Dr Grieves when the body arrived here, we’re both in agreement that the victim was male, mid to late twenties. There’s evidence of a severe curvature of the spine which would have been consistent with a diagnosis of scoliosis. Dr Grieves noted some oddities along the larger joints.”

  “Could he have been dismembered?” Martina asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

  “I really couldn’t say,” Dr Jackson said exasperatedly.

  “Could you give us an approximation of the time the body spent out there?” Martina asked. The more information they could glean from the doctor, the better their chances of getting an identification of the victim.

  “Rough estimate the body has been there at least twenty years,” Dr Jackson said. “We’ll know more once the forensics team have finished collecting their evidence, and of course, you’ll have to look into the details yourself, but from the evidence we have found on the body, I’d reckon it has been about that long.”

  Martina caught sight of Ambrose as he stiffened, and she glanced over at him. His face was pale, and Martina had the sudden urge to drag him away from the forensic pathologist and ask him just what he was thinking.

  “Now, if that’s all. I’ve really got to get some things sent off to the labs...”

  “Of course,” Ambrose said. He didn’t wait for Martina, and she had to practically run down the hall just to keep up with his long stride.

  “What is it?” The question burst out of her mouth as soon as they stepped outside.

  “That’s roughly when those kids went missing,” Ambrose said. “I mean they went missing twenty-one years ago from Dalby Forest, and Dr Jeckell in there reckons our guy has been out there for at least twenty years. That’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “So how do you think it’s connected? I mean, it’s obviously not the body of one of those children. They were, what, ten when they disappeared?”

  Ambrose nodded and scrubbed his hand up over his face. “I know it’s not them, but this is too much to be a completely separate matter,” he said. “We can’t ignore what’s obviously staring us in the face.”

  Martina raised a hand and chewed a fingernail as she pondered Ambrose’s statement. He was right about one thing; it was definitely too coincidental to just be ignored.

  “Where exactly did the children disappear?”

  Ambrose screwed up his face in concentration. “I’m not sure exactly. They went camping, I think, and didn’t come back...”

  “Come on, Ambrose, we need a bit more than that. Dalby Forest is huge.”

  “It’s not that big,” he said.

  “It’s eight thousand acres,” Martina said confidently. When they’d found the remains in the woods, Martina had gone home that night and familiarised herself with the location. It had surprised her to learn there was such an extensive area of woodland practically on her doorstep, and she’d never bothered to go and investigate it. Not that she’d ever been the outdoorsy type. The idea of spending a night in the woods in a tent, sleeping in a bag, and the subsequent insect activity you would inevitably end up with didn’t fill her with joy, and her mother’s illness had taught her that life was far too short to do things you didn’t enjoy.

  Ambrose blew a low whistle out between his teeth, his eyes widening at the prospect of such a large area to cover. “So it’s bigger than I remember it being as a kid.”

  “Just a tad,” Martina said with a smile. “If we’re going to look at a connection between this body, and the disappearance of those children, then we need a little more information to go on. Agreed?”

  The DS nodded. “Fine. You’re right. But if I’m right, you owe me a pint.”

  Martina shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “That’s not a yes,” Ambrose pressed.

  “Fine. If you’re right, I owe you a pint. I didn’t think this was a competition.”

  “Ambrose’s smile was broad. “Isn’t everything?”

  Martina shook her head as she followed him back toward the car. “We should start with MISPERS from that time, focusing in on young males who disappeared at the same time.”

  Ambrose cast a speculative glance back over his shoulder. “Are you fishing for my job?”

  Martina shrugged. “Hey, you said everything was a competition; I’m merely following your example.”

  Ambrose’s laughter warmed her to the core, and Martina couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to be out here, finally, with something worthy to sink her teeth into. As she slipped into the car, she felt lighter than she had in a long time. This was what it meant to be alive, and at least out here she could forget the pain that awaited her at home. Out here, she could be free.

  And that, she realised with a start, was all she’d ever wanted in life.

  Chapter Twelve

  Harriet paused next to Drew’s empty desk. She tried not to review the case files he had spread out all over the wooden surface, but her curiosity got the better of her, and Harriet found it impossible to avoid scrutinising his impossible handwriting.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today,” he said, his voice making her jump. Harriet took a step back from the desk and plastered a smile on her face.

  “I thought if you were free we could pop around to your place so you could pick up some more of your stuff.”

  A cloud momentarily passed over Drew’s face, but then it cleared, and he was an impassive, blank slate again. “I’ve got a lot of work to get through here,” he said. It was clear from his tone of voice that he was avoiding the inevitable.

  “How about tomorrow, then?”

  He pulled a face, and Harriet sighed. “I understand you don’t want to go back there, but it’s only temporary. Just as soon as you have what you need, you can leave again. But constantly putting this off isn’t going to do you, or your wallet any favours.”

  His eyebrows disappeared up towards his hairline. “What does that mean?”

  Harriet indicated the shirt he wore. “That’s another brand new shirt, isn’t it?”

  Colour crept up Drew’s neck above the line of his collar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve had this old thing for years.”

  “I can see the creases from where the shirt was folded in its plastic packet, not to mention the plastic collar liner is still in place,” Harriet said, not unkindly as she gestured to the edge that peeped out from beneath the white material.

  Drew’s hands shot to his neck; he caught the edge of the clear plastic collar stiffener and tugged it free. Screwing his face up, he pulled at his tie half-heartedly. “I was wondering why it felt so bloody tight,” he grumbled. “Why do they put these bloody things in, anyway?” He caught Harriet’s eye and sighed. “Fine, maybe I am avoiding it.”

  “You’re building this up in your head, Drew. The more you do that, the harder this is going to be for you.”

  He bunched the collar liner up in his hands and closed his eyes. “Don’t you think I don’t know that?”

  “But?”

  He sucked a low breath in through his teeth. The whistling sound hurt Harriet’s ears, but she didn’t say anything to him. “Because when I go back there, then it’s really over.”

  “This is about Freya?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know anymore, but she’s wrapped up in it, yeah.”

  “Do you want me to give you my professional opinion, or do you want my friendly advice?”

  Drew cocked an eyebrow at her. “They’re different?”

  Harriet shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  Glancing around at the office, Drew nodded. “I’d l
ike your advice as my friend,” he said softly.

  “As your friend, my advice is that you get your coat so we can go over there right now.”

  Drew glanced up at her in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Personally, I’m a fan of tough love,” Harriet said. “And as your friend, I’m afraid it’s time I told you to face up to your fears.”

  Drew glanced down at his hands, and without thinking about the repercussions, Harriet reached out to touch her fingers to his shoulder. He glanced up at her, a question lurking in the depths of his gaze. Withdrawing her touch, Harriet let her hand drop back to her sides.

  “Anyway, I’ll be right there with you.”

  “Fine, I suppose you’re right.” He glanced back down at the paperwork.

  “I promise it’ll be there tomorrow,” she said gently.

  Drew clambered to his feet and tugged his jacket off the back of the chair. “You know if this goes tits up then I’m going to have to reconsider our friendship,” he said.

  “That’s not fair,” Harriet said stiffly. “I gave you the choice.”

  Drew’s laughter was tinged with tension. “It’s a joke, Harriet.” He sighed and glanced at her sideways. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “Wait until this is over to thank me,” she said.

  “I’m saying it now in case I forget to say it later,” he said. “I know I can be a grumpy bastard, and I don’t say it often enough.”

  Embarrassment caused heat to crawl up into Harriet’s face. “You don’t need to thank me. I know you’d do the same for me.”

  His grin brought an unfamiliar warm glow to the centre of Harriet’s chest. “Anytime you need me to force you to do something you’d rather not, just give me a shout.”

  Harriet returned his smile with one of her own. “I might just have to hold you to that.”