A Promise to the Dead: A gripping crime thriller with a brilliant twist

by Victoria Jenkins

  In his pocket, his mobile started to ring. He took it out and looked down at the lit screen. Linda’s name flashed up at him, the glare of its light as accusatory as her voice, berating him with its usual nagging tone. Returning the phone to his pocket, Darren waited for the call to end. She was bound to leave another voicemail; an addition to the four she had already left him that day, her tone increasingly frantic and less forgiving with each. Excuses usually came easily to him, but finding one for his absence over the past few days was proving a little trickier than usual. He needed to prepare his story before he headed home, but he hadn’t yet finalised it in his own head. The longer he left his return, the guiltier he would inevitably appear. He didn’t need to draw that kind of attention to himself, especially not now, with everything else that was now going on.

  When his phone started to ring again, he gave a loud sigh and grabbed it from his pocket. He was just about to swipe left to cut the call dead when he saw that it was his daughter, Hannah. He wondered if she was with her mother, if Linda had persuaded her to try to get in touch after her own calls kept being ignored. Deciding he didn’t want to take the chance, he let the ringing continue until Hannah was directed to the answer machine. Moments later, a voicemail notification pinged through. Darren unlocked the phone and put it to his ear.

  ‘Dad … I need to speak to you. Where are you? Call me when you get this. It’s important.’

  There was a long pause, during which Darren could hear the faint exhalations of his daughter’s laboured breathing. She was putting on too much weight, letting herself go, but it wasn’t really for him to tell her that. He could imagine the response he’d receive if he advised her to step away from the fridge for a while, or not-so-surreptitiously left a leaflet for a local fitness class lying around. Sometimes you needed to be cruel to be kind, and as Hannah had never been the type to respond too well to kindness, Darren didn’t think either idea was that unreasonable. Her mother should have been the one to give her a shove in the right direction where things like diet and health were concerned, but Linda had always been too wrapped up in Kieran to pay too much attention to their daughter.

  Which was why it was a wonder she didn’t know where he was. People didn’t just disappear, no matter how much they might want to.

  ‘Please,’ Hannah finished. ‘Just call me, okay.’

  He deleted the message and finished his cigarette before stubbing it out on the dry ground beneath his boot. Devon had seen considerably less rain than South Wales during these past few weeks, and the forecast for the month ahead was so far looking good. The project would be able to progress quickly, providing that everyone else was prepared to put in the hours and the graft needed to get things moving. Relying on other people was the problem. Other people invariably let you down. In Darren’s experience, the only person he had ever really been able to rely on was himself, and that truth had recently made itself even more evident to him.

  He realised he had probably made a mistake listening to the message when he had. If Hannah had tried calling him straight back and found the phone engaged, she would know that he had his phone with him and had chosen to ignore her call. It would be yet another thing he would have to find an excuse for in preparation for his return home.

  With a sigh, he scanned the empty ground again as he redirected his thoughts away from his family and back to his work. The area was substantial, with high fencing cordoning it off from the buildings that lay beyond: a small estate of 1990s homes, clustered together like Lego houses, with a primary school in the near distance, its metal railings painted a bottle green that stood out against the backdrop of brown and grey that characterised the estate. He couldn’t imagine that the people already living there would be too happy with the number of new buildings that were to be constructed, but that was life: you had to accept what it gave you, whether you liked it or not.

  It occurred to Darren that both his children – both kids in their own ways, despite their years – still had quite a way to go before they learned this.

  Averting the flow of his thoughts, he contemplated the labour involved in constructing the one hundred and twelve properties that would form the development. Financially he would do all right from it – nothing he would be able to retire off the back of, but not exactly a profit to be sniffed at either – but the labour was beginning to do its worst. His back was in constant pain and his knees were starting to fail him. Years of hard physical graft had taken their toll, and though he was only fifty-one, Darren often felt like a man twenty years older.

  Glancing at the signage that stood near the site entrance, he experienced a familiar tug of envy and resentment. Newton Homes. They were the real winners. The developers sat in their fancy cars, talking business into their latest smartphones, while the contractors were left doing the donkey work for a fraction of the financial reward. It seemed to Darren that money attracted money, and to get rich you needed to have started off with something: something more than he had ever had. It was a realisation that was making him increasingly bitter, though oddly the feeling also comforted him. Where he was now wasn’t his fault.

  He looked down at his phone and accessed the internet search engine. A tap of his finger on the bar threw up a list of his latest requests. At the top, typed in that morning while he had been in his hotel room, was the name of his son, Kieran Robinson. Though he had already read it once that day, Darren opened the article at the top of the search result list and absorbed its contents once again.

  Police are growing increasingly concerned about the whereabouts of Kieran Robinson, who was last seen in Cardiff Bay on Thursday 8 March following a night out with workmates. The twenty-three-year-old, an apprentice bricklayer from St Melon’s, left Haha’s Comedy Club at 9.10 p.m. during the mid-set break. The last-known sighting of him was on CCTV footage taken near the St David’s Hotel, where he was picked up on a recording at 11.36 p.m. His mobile phone was traced to the area, but a search of the waters around the Bay, carried out by a team of specialist police divers, yielded no trace of the young man. Police are particularly keen to learn where Kieran went and who he was with between the hours of 9.10 and 11.36. Anyone with any information that might help in the search is asked to contact South Wales Police.

  Darren looked up and breathed in a lungful of cold air. He contemplated another cigarette, but he had already smoked too many of them that day, following one with another, replacing oxygen with nicotine as though it was the only thing keeping him functioning. He closed the internet page and deleted the entry from his search history. Finding the number he wanted, his finger hovered over the keypad. His previous messages could be seen on the screen; there were a string of them, with no replies to any having been received.

  He could try to ignore him all he wanted, Darren thought. Some things were more than worth waiting for and he wasn’t going anywhere.

  He uploaded a photograph that was stored on his mobile and added a caption. You have two days, he wrote, and then I’m going to tell Michael everything.

  He pressed send.

  Six

  The small room on the ground floor of the police station was filled with people: reporters, film crew, police officers. Alex sat beside Matthew Lewis’s parents at tables that had been moved to the head of the room, placing the couple beneath the glare of the cameras, where they were unable to avoid the looks of sympathy and doubt being passed their way with equal frequency. It was evident that the room was divided into two distinct halves: those who believed the couple’s son had killed his girlfriend and those who questioned where he now was, believing his absence suggested there was a possibility he might be in some sort of danger. Either way, the mystery surrounding the events of Saturday night had garnered plenty of tabloid and social media interest.

  Behind the tables at which they were sitting, a photograph of Matthew – the same picture that was pinned to the evidence board in the incident room – was projected on to a screen in the hope that someone who saw the appeal migh
t recall having seen the young man at some point during the past sixteen hours. The photo had been taken the previous summer: a head shot of a smiling Matthew posing on a football field with a ball gripped beneath his arm. Alex had glimpsed the boy’s mother eyeing the picture when she had entered the room with her husband, immediately moved to tears by the image of her missing son. Watching her reaction might have been enough to move Alex to tears too, had it not been for the gathered audience, who expected her to maintain a neutral outlook. She couldn’t imagine the nightmare Matthew’s parents were experiencing; she could only resolve to find out what had happened as quickly as possible. Guilty or not, they needed him back home.

  Her thoughts strayed to the adoption application she was waiting for a response to. Becoming a parent was the most intimidating role she had ever signed herself up for, but things worth having rarely came without hard work and a little heartbreak along the way. If someone had told her ten years earlier that she’d be doing this alone, she might have thought them crazy, but a lot had changed during that decade, and she had learned that the only person she could ever really rely on was herself. She could do this. She’d be fine.

  She looked at Matthew Lewis’s mother, her pale face racked with worry, and the confidence she felt in her own abilities wavered. Before she could contemplate being a parent, she needed to finish her job as a detective.

  News of what had happened on the mountain road the previous night had travelled with the typical velocity of grim tidings, with a number of different versions of events already doing the rounds of social media. As was so often the case, Alex was disheartened by the people’s insensitivity. Inane, thoughtless remarks and so-called jokes across Twitter and Facebook only added to the suffering of those awaiting news of a person they loved and feared for, yet these comments were made so carelessly – in some cases callously – that Alex couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to humanity. These people were so driven by a need for ‘likes’ that they were prepared to reduce themselves to cruelty to gain them. In the case of Matthew Lewis, there was little thought for the couple who now sat beside her, looking down at their hands in their laps, reluctant to face the onslaught of an equally insensitive press.

  Matthew’s mother glanced to her side and met Alex’s eye. There was a dull emptiness within her gaze, something hollow and removed; so different from the eyes of the boy who had looked out from the screen of the mobile phone retrieved from the car the previous night. How easily the brightness could be dimmed, the light shut out. Alex attempted a reassuring smile, but she knew there was little she could offer in the way of comfort.

  By all accounts, Matthew was a popular and grounded young man who was doing well at university and had no enemies. He had never been in any trouble with the police, and the suggestion that he might have owned or had access to a firearm was met with incredulity. The subject was so unexpected that the mention of it had been initially met by the boy’s father with an awkward laugh, as though he believed himself caught momentarily in some parallel universe from which he would be just as quickly returned to his own life in which his boy was still upstairs getting ready for a night out with his friends.

  The general public could come to its own conclusions, Alex thought, as it always seemed to, regardless of fact or common sense. Her own mind would not be shaken from the notion that Matthew was somewhere he shouldn’t be, with God only knew who, and it was her responsibility to find him before he came to any harm.

  The chatter that rippled throughout the room fell into a hush as the appeal began. DCI Thompson, dressed for the occasion in full uniform, addressed the waiting press with a general introduction before passing the focus over to Alex. She swallowed and cleared her throat, trying to forget that the cameras were trained upon her.

  ‘Last night, sometime between the hours of 10.30 p.m. and 1.30 a.m., there was an incident on the mountain road that links Caerphilly with Rhiwbina. Unfortunately, this incident resulted in the death of a young woman.’ She paused. Stacey’s name had already been shared all over social media that morning, despite the best attempts of the police to keep her identity from the public eye for the time being. Regardless, Alex had been told not to state it at the appeal. With the details of the incident unknown, they needed to tread carefully. Though she believed Matthew himself to be in danger, she had been told he was to be still considered a possible suspect at this point. If there was any chance he might see the appeal, she mustn’t do or say anything that might scare him away or deter him from coming forward.

  ‘We are keen to speak to Matthew Lewis,’ she continued, turning slightly to gesture to the photograph behind her. ‘If anyone has seen Matthew or knows where he is, we ask that you get in touch on the number shown below.’ She looked across to the boy’s parents. ‘I will now read a brief statement from the family. “We are devastated by what has happened and are fearful for the safety of our much-loved son. Matthew, if you are watching this, we ask that you come home or make contact with the police. We love you very much and just want you home safely.”’

  She folded the statement and returned it to the desk in front of her. ‘We are keen to speak to anyone who used the mountain road between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. last night. Thank you. That’s all for now.’

  Immediately the questions came thick and fast, just as she had known they would.

  ‘What about Stacey’s parents?’ one reporter called out. ‘Where are they?’

  Alex’s lip curled and she shot the man a glare. There had obviously been a reason for her withholding Stacey’s name from her statement, yet he had chosen to ignore without a second thought the procedure the police were clearly trying to follow. In Alex’s experience, the press were experts in disregarding the wishes of others, even when those others were in positions of authority. It was typical of a journalist to believe he was above the law.

  ‘The victim’s family are receiving specialist support from the police,’ she said flatly. ‘They are naturally distraught and we ask that their privacy is respected at this difficult time.’

  ‘Do you think Matthew killed his girlfriend?’ another reporter asked.

  At her side, Alex saw Mrs Lewis’s grip tighten around the glass of water that rested on the table in front of her, the surface of the drink trembling as it shook between her fingers. She clutched the glass as though it was the only thing keeping her from fleeing the room and the glare of attention focused upon them. Next to her, her husband sat motionless and distant, his eyes fixed sightlessly on the far wall, trying to blank out the audience that their misfortune had attracted.

  ‘Finding Matthew is a priority.’ She glanced across at DCI Thompson, briefly meeting his ever-critical eye. In the briefing before the appeal began, he had been explicit in his wishes that they remain vague about the details. It seemed to her now that being vague was helping to indirectly brand Matthew a potential criminal, and that doing so could jeopardise their chances of finding him alive, but she was under instructions and there was nothing she could do about it.

  ‘What about Kieran Robinson?’ someone else asked. ‘Any updates?’

  ‘Our inquiries are ongoing,’ Alex responded through pursed lips. ‘Needless to say, Kieran also remains a priority.’

  She responded to a string of further questions, all with the same vague, non-committal answers. When the appeal ended, Matthew’s parents stood hurriedly, his father brushing past her without a word. The snub felt personal. Though she hadn’t directly accused Matthew, she hadn’t expressed a belief in his innocence either.

  Matthew’s mother stopped in front of her and met her eye. Her jawline was set in a grimace and dark shadows of sleeplessness rested upon her sharp cheekbones. ‘They all think he’s guilty.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mrs Lewis, we are doing everything we can to find out what happened to Stacey and where your son is.’

  ‘Are you?’ she challenged. ‘What about those tyre marks that were found?’

  Alex ushered the woman to
one side, not wanting prying ears to overhear the details of the investigation.

  ‘We don’t have any reason to believe the marks are connected to what happened to Stacey.’

  ‘And that’s it? You’re not even going to look into it?’

  ‘We’re currently in the process of trying to identify the vehicle through the tyre tread, but as I said—’

  ‘But as you said,’ Mrs Lewis repeated, cutting Alex short, ‘you don’t think it’s relevant. I’m sure if it was your child missing you’d consider every possibility.’

  She walked away, following her husband through the door into the corridor. The couple felt let down – by Alex, by the police – and at that moment she couldn’t blame them. She knew that the only way in which she would be able to restore their faith would be to find their son alive.

  Seven

  The young woman in the station reception area was leaning on her elbows at the front desk, her angry face pushed towards the Perspex screen that separated her from the officer on the other side. Her purple hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail that trailed the length of her back, and she was wearing a pair of Doc Martens that made her feet look far bigger than they probably were.

  ‘Ginger,’ she spat, pushing one foot behind her and pressing on to her toes, arching her back as though it was causing her discomfort. ‘Skinny.’

  The desk sergeant didn’t have to think too hard about who she was describing; it was a brief yet accurate description that could only refer to one person working at the station. ‘DC Sullivan?’

  ‘That’s him. Is he here then, or what?’