Perfect Silence

by Helen Fields

  ‘Luc needs to get on with his own life. He needs a relationship that allows him to stop thinking about work for a while and lets him heal. God knows he went through enough in France. He deserves some fun. Why would he want to spend his free time with me? The only thing we have in common is the police.’ She stepped forward, smiling tenderly, enveloping Natasha in a long, hard hug. ‘I know you love me, Natasha. I know you’d do anything for me. You keep me sane. But I don’t need to be in a relationship, and I don’t need saving from anything.’

  ‘Ava,’ Natasha whispered.

  ‘Don’t,’ Ava said. ‘We shouldn’t talk about this any more. I don’t see you often enough as it is. Let’s just …’

  ‘No,’ Natasha said, tapping her shoulder. ‘Look.’

  Ava turned slowly, already drawing her right elbow back, tensed ready to punch. Natasha was rigid in her arms, staring over her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ Ava told Natasha. ‘They can’t hurt anyone except themselves, and it’s too late to stop them doing that tonight.’

  In the mouth of Brown’s Close stood two women and one man. They were swaying on their feet, eyes wide and bloodshot from lack of blinking. One of the females was making a gargling sound at the back of her throat and the other was plucking listlessly at something that didn’t exist in front of her chest. The man, older than the women, was hanging his head as if he were dangling from some unseen noose that had snapped his neck.

  ‘Can they even hear us?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Ava said, walking forward, pulling rubber gloves from her pocket and snapping them on.

  ‘How do you always have those in your pocket? Are you never off duty?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘Never,’ Ava said, walking to the nearest female and explaining that she was a police officer, for the record. She began sliding deft fingers in and out of the girl’s pockets.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘More drugs. Weapons. I can’t leave people in this state in public if there’s a possibility they’ll hurt themselves or anyone else. Here we go,’ she said, pulling out a small paper packet with the silhouette of a marijuana leaf on the front. Gold lettering declared the contents as ‘Premium Spice. 100% Pure.’

  ‘So that’s what Spice does,’ Natasha said. ‘I’ve heard the students talking about it on campus, but we don’t seem to have a big problem with it at the University.’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen users high on it,’ Ava replied. ‘That’s one of the problems with spending more time at my desk than on the street. It’s horrible, and it’s everywhere. These people are completely vulnerable. Anything could happen to them right now and they’d be completely unaware.’

  ‘It’s a huge rape risk, particularly for the girls,’ Natasha said. ‘Shouldn’t we get them off the street? Can you arrest them or something?’

  ‘No,’ Ava said. ‘But I agree, the risk they’re taking using this stuff is unquantifiable. We’re lucky we’ve only had two attacks so far.’

  ‘What attacks?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘Sorry, give me a second, would you?’ Ava said, dialling a number into her phone and talking to the control room as Natasha stared into the blank faces of the drug users. ‘Okay, I’ve got a patrol unit on its way. I’ll have them stationed here to make sure nothing happens to any of them tonight.’

  ‘Just how widespread is this?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘It’s a bigger problem than you’d imagine. Spice is cheap. It’s marketed as the equivalent of a strong type of weed, but the effects are more like heroin. You can buy it from any drug dealer, as the courts aren’t yet handing out high enough sentences to put people off.’ She walked over to the male and patted him down, pulling out a flick knife that was concealed in the waistband of his trousers. ‘He’ll have to do without this,’ Ava said, taking an evidence bag from her handbag and tucking the knife inside.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Natasha said. ‘In the philosophy department at the Uni we have a lot of students who dabble in drugs, but they want to be present for the experience. Apart from weed, they pretty much stick to ecstasy and cocaine if they can afford it. This looks like committing temporary suicide.’

  A police car drew up next to them and Ava walked over to give instructions.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘There’s a cab waiting for us that the control room organised. I think I’ve had enough for one evening.’

  They walked along until the cabbie flashed his headlights at them, then climbed into the welcome warmth.

  ‘Let me ask you something from a philosophical perspective,’ Ava said. ‘Why would one person brand another?’

  ‘You mean literally, physically branding? Because the proper connotation of that denotes permanency.’

  ‘Literally, physically, and yes, permanently,’ Ava replied.

  ‘Okay. Start with ownership in practical terms. You can retrieve your goods if they go missing – cows, sheep, pigs—’

  ‘People. Why would you brand another human?’ Ava asked.

  ‘God, I hate these conversations,’ Natasha muttered, glancing sideways at Ava’s face. ‘Fine, take prostitution as an example. There’s growing evidence that some gangs who run prostitution rings have their women tattooed. You establish ownership, you can count your chattels, they can’t run off without being known for what they are. You can instruct other people to find them for you. But there’s a level to it that runs deeper. It’s about power and control, the destruction of liberty. The owner is empowered when the slave is disempowered. Branding is demeaning. It’s an insult. At its most base level, it’s a humiliation.’

  ‘And the psychology of the sort of person who would want to do that?’

  ‘Depends on what they’re setting out to achieve, but I’d say you’re looking at someone egotistical and self-entitled. The sort of person who believes in hierarchy. Someone who feels that they can categorise other people, sort them into types. They would also be someone who liked control and who didn’t enjoy being disobeyed.’

  ‘Someone self-righteous?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Natasha agreed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ava said, thinking about Zoey and Lorna, Mikey Parsons and Paddy Yates, and all the people who might have felt entitled to categorise them and judge them.

  ‘I shouldn’t have lectured you earlier,’ Natasha said. ‘How you do what you do, every day, is beyond me.’

  ‘It’s just a job; you get used to it. You’re not exactly unimpressive yourself, youngest head of department at Edinburgh University,’ she said. ‘And you’re a fine one to talk about not having a relationship. How many have you been in over the last few years?’

  ‘I’ve lost count.’ Natasha laughed. ‘Maybe we average one another out. How about I cook dinner one night next week? We could invite Luc and Selina, drink too much wine and be silly. I won’t even set you up on any secret dates – promise.’

  ‘Maybe just us,’ Ava said.

  ‘How about just the two of us and Luc?’ Natasha said. ‘I don’t really feel like encouraging this Selina thing. It feels strangely as if she’s treading on your toes.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Ava said.

  ‘I know,’ Natasha replied, directing the driver to pull over at her address. ‘I just can’t help feeling a bit sad that you two didn’t have a certain conversation before you were promoted. Seems like a wasted opportunity.’

  ‘Natasha, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Natasha said to the driver, pushing a twenty into his hands. ‘Get my friend home safely now.’ She climbed out of the car, waving and laughing as she disappeared up her driveway.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Arriving at Lorna’s mother’s house on Pennywell Medway at 8.30 a.m. was probably a mistake, Callanach thought. It seemed unlikely that Mrs Shaw would open the door to them so early, let alone be feeling communicative, but the investigation had run out of leads. All they could do was retrace the investigative steps and see
what, if anything, uniformed officers might have missed when they’d first spoken with Lorna’s mother. Her father was unidentified, although a stream of stepfather figures had moved in and out throughout her life, according to the information Lorna had given the nurses at the mother and baby unit.

  Callanach climbed out of the car, taking a long look at the area. The wind off the sea to the north had left rough rendering the only long-term decorative option. The 1960s tenements and terraces looked desolate and anonymous. A woman in a dressing gown and slippers screeched at three scruffy children as she walked them to school, lugging a mountain of bags. A postman plodded from door to door, an expression of hopelessness heavy on his face. No one wanted the sort of news he was delivering. Too many mouths to feed and not enough cash: the landscape and architecture told the story without the need for words.

  Callanach let Tripp knock, standing far enough back that he could tell if any curtains twitched. He wasn’t prepared to be given the runaround. Lorna – wherever she was – was in grave danger. He was surprised her mother hadn’t bashed in the police station door to get answers before now.

  ‘What the fuck?’ a man shouted, poking his head out from an upper window.

  ‘Good morning,’ Tripp said. ‘Sorry to bother you so early. I did phone yesterday to say we’d be coming to speak with Ms Shaw. Is she in?’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ the man said.

  ‘Could you wake her up, perhaps?’ Tripp suggested.

  ‘Could you sod off, perhaps?’ the man responded.

  Callanach stepped forward to get a better look at the irate male. His irises were pinpricks, his skin greasy with an oily sheen and his hands shaking as he held on to the windowsill. ‘Thirty seconds. You open the door and talk to us or this conversation turns into a drug raid. And don’t give me any shit about needing a warrant. You’re all the evidence I need.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ the man said.

  ‘Tripp, kick the door in,’ Callanach ordered.

  ‘I’m frigging opening it, ya cunt,’ the man replied. His head disappeared from the window. Seconds later the door swung open. ‘She’s coming. Just let her get some clothes on.’

  More likely Lorna’s mother was either flushing or hiding their stash of drugs, Callanach thought. They walked directly into the lounge. One half offered bare concrete as flooring, the other was covered in a rug that looked as if rodents had feasted on it. The bottom inches of the windowpanes glowed an unhealthy green. Callanach wondered just how many contaminants were floating in the air, before deciding he preferred not to know. One glance at the sofa was all it took to persuade him to remain standing. Tripp’s face confirmed that the detective constable had reached the same conclusion.

  Several minutes later, a hunched figure plodded down the stairs. Callanach was reminded how much he hated drugs. If you could trace a user from the point at which they’d never touched class As to their point of no return, it would be like seeing the evolution-of-man graphic in reverse. The literal destruction of the body. The killing of brain cells until simple communication became difficult. The prehistoric stereotype of dirty, limp hair; skin that perfectly illustrated the death of nutrition. He felt a welling up of pity for Lorna Shaw’s mother who, in all probability, would end her life as the wrecked straggle of skin and bone that she now was. Successful rehab was about as likely as banning deep-fried food in that part of the city.

  ‘I’ve gave my statement. What d’ya want now?’ Lorna’s mother asked.

  ‘We believe Lorna’s in real danger,’ Callanach said. ‘There was a doll found in the pram. It originated from another crime scene. Inside it was a scroll of paper with a Bible quote on it. Has anyone tried to convert Lorna, or offered help that she rejected?’

  ‘I explained to your lot before. She’s run away. I told her not to wreck her life being a mother at her age. Look what it did tae me. I knew she wouldnae stick at it. She’s no’ been taken. She’s away and probably better for it.’

  ‘The mother and baby unit are really pleased with Lorna’s progress,’ Tripp said. ‘She and the baby were doing well. Had you visited?’

  ‘Do you see a car outside?’ she responded, sniffing before wiping her nose with her sleeve.

  ‘Ms Shaw, the religious message?’ Callanach reminded her. ‘It was quite judgmental in tone. We’re keen to contact anyone you think might have disapproved of Lorna’s lifestyle.’

  ‘Aye, well, there’s not much sign of God around here – unless he’s taking the fuckin’ piss,’ the boyfriend said. ‘Who cares what Lorna got up to, anyway? S’up to her. I reckon she saw sense. Baby’s better off without her anyways.’

  ‘The baby is currently being cared for in the unit, but they’ll have to place her in foster care if Lorna can’t be found. It might help if you could contact the unit and suggest a family member who could help,’ Tripp said.

  ‘Why should we help raise someone else’s kid?’ the boyfriend said.

  ‘Ms Shaw, this is your granddaughter,’ Tripp said gently.

  ‘We’ve got other stuff to look after,’ the boyfriend said, taking a step towards Lorna’s mother and putting a hand on her arm. ‘You think we just sit round here all day? There’s no time for a baby.’

  ‘She’ll come back,’ Lorna’s mother said. ‘Couple of weeks. She probably just needed a quick fix. They don’t let you have nothin’ at all in them places. Give it two or three more days. You’ll see.’

  Callanach saw the disbelief in her eyes as she spoke. Lorna’s mother was persuading herself, not them. Tripp was wasting his time. Even if Lorna’s mother stepped up, there was no way the baby was going to be released into her care and she knew it. The prospect of what was actually happening to her daughter drifted away more effectively with enough pills or powder.

  ‘Perhaps we should speak with Ms Shaw alone,’ Tripp said.

  ‘Perhaps you should get the fuck out of our place,’ the boyfriend said, lifting a hand to point into Tripp’s face, revealing a knife in the waistband of his trousers as his shirt rose.

  Callanach stepped between them, raising both hands and shaking his head.

  ‘We didn’t come here for any trouble. All we want is to find Lorna,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the boyfriend’s hands, ready to disable him if he went for the knife. ‘We’ll be out of here in a minute. Ms Shaw, when did you last speak with Lorna?’

  ‘A few weeks ago,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What was that about?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘I just needed, you know, to see how she was doing,’ she replied, but there were tears in her eyes as she answered.

  Callanach’s first thought was that she had called to see if Lorna had any spare cash. It was unkind, but realistic. Lorna’s mother was too far gone to worry about anything except her next high.

  ‘Have you ever come across either Mikey Parsons or Paddy Yates? They’re both drug users in the city,’ Tripp said.

  ‘What the fuck’re you implying?’ the boyfriend said, squaring up to Tripp.

  ‘I’m asking if you’ve met either of them, or if Lorna might have met either of them. It’s a relatively small city,’ Tripp replied mildly, keeping his body language neutral.

  ‘We don’t know any goddamn drug dealers, do we babe?’ he snarled.

  ‘Don’t know any,’ Lorna’s mother echoed, wringing her hands together.

  ‘Time’s up,’ the boyfriend said. ‘That fucking girl’s caused nothing but problems. She can’t even disappear without leaving a load of shit behind her.’

  ‘We’re going,’ Callanach said. ‘If you remember anything, or if anyone contacts you about Lorna, please give us a call.’

  Her mother responded with an incomprehensible murmur. The boyfriend just laughed. Callanach and Tripp retreated to the car.

  ‘Should we not do something, sir?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘About the drug situation in there, you mean?’

  Tripp nodded.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do. The boyfriend had a knife, but k
nock any door round here and half the residents will have a weapon within grabbing distance. Drug-raid the entire community and we’ll just take away their supply until they can afford another fix. Substantial amounts of crime will probably be committed in order to help them afford that next fix. This is what poverty does, Max. It’s corrosive. Unless you can fix the problem, it’s unwise to judge the symptoms.’

  ‘What if next time they’re high, he uses the knife on Lorna’s mother?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘The next time they’re high will be about ten minutes from now, and Lorna’s mother is just as likely to grab that knife and use it on her boyfriend. It’s no wonder Lorna ended up in the mother and baby unit. The only surprising thing is that she was doing so well they were going to let her keep the baby. It must have taken a monumental effort to get off the drugs when her mother was a user too. Come on. I need to let DCI Turner know we’ve hit another brick wall.’

  Ava waited all afternoon to get five minutes with Detective Superintendent Overbeck, and then she was warned by the super’s assistant to expect no more than a few seconds. She gritted her teeth and went in.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Ava said, nodding at her superior.

  Overbeck was surrounded by piles of paperwork and looking uncharacte‌ristically imperfect. Her usually immaculate nail varnish was chipped on one hand and a few greys were showing through at her roots. Not good timing, then, Ava thought. Not that there ever was a good time when reporting to Overbeck. On most occasions it was like trying to step over a sleeping tiger without getting your leg bitten off.

  ‘Go,’ Overbeck said.

  Ava turned to look at the door.