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

by Victoria Jenkins

Alex watched her as she moved from detachment to acknowledgement. Though she must have realised that her brother’s disappearance might have involved something sinister, she was now forced to face up to the brutal fact that he had been murdered all those years ago. Her face fell as she fitted the pieces together, crushed beneath the weight of the truth.

  Alex told her everything they had so far: the discovery of the body during the preparations for the extension, the DNA result on the bones recovered, the partial match with Oliver recorded on the police database. Nicola listened carefully, not speaking as she absorbed the truth of her brother’s fate; a truth she had waited almost forty years to hear. All the unanswered questions, all the doubt and suspicion, the anger and the pain; everything seemed to have led up to this moment. And yet the answers she needed more than any others were the ones that were still left unrevealed.

  ‘I knew he hadn’t run away,’ she said. ‘It never made sense. It wasn’t Oliver. We’d already been through so much.’ She shuffled through the photographs, lingering on each in turn. ‘I suppose you know our background … what happened to our parents?’

  Alex nodded. She had looked at the case files concerning Oliver Barrett’s disappearance: they’d revealed a family history steeped in tragedy. Both parents had died of cancer within a short time of one another, just a few years before Oliver had gone missing.

  ‘We’d always been close,’ Nicola said, still staring at the photographs, ‘but losing them made us even closer. I knew he hadn’t left me.’

  She wiped away a tear that had slipped from her left eye and turned her head as though embarrassed. ‘How did he die?’ she asked, and yet her face said something different: that she didn’t really want to know.

  There was no way to soften the truth. ‘All the evidence suggests your brother was strangled.’

  Nicola’s resolve crumbled and she leaned forward with her arms clutched around her stomach, her cry choked at first before it burst from her.

  Alex swallowed uncomfortably, moved by the woman’s agony. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

  Nicola’s fingers tightened around the photographs, gripping them as though it was Oliver she clutched, desperately clinging to the last pieces of him.

  ‘I’m sorry that I have to ask you this, but did Oliver ever have an accident involving his hand?’

  Nicola’s eyes narrowed. ‘His hand?’

  ‘Had he lost a finger?’

  The woman studied her, her expression blank. There was a moment of silence before a guttural sob filled the room, the implication of Alex’s question hitting Nicola with the force of a truck. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she managed.

  She stared at the top photograph, a tear landing on the image. ‘Someone killed him,’ she said quietly, her voice slipping across the words. She took a deep breath and turned back to Alex. ‘Look at him,’ she said, holding out the photo: a young Oliver, leaning forward to the camera and grinning as he posed on a tricycle. ‘Why would anyone have wanted to hurt him?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I promise you that we’re going to do everything we can to find out.’

  Twenty-Five

  Despite the emergency surgery he had undergone in the early hours of that morning, Darren Robinson was awake and chatting with one of the nurses, seemingly without a care in the world, when Alex and Chloe arrived. No one would suspect his son was still missing or that his wife had just hours earlier plunged a kitchen knife into his stomach.

  His expression changed when he saw Chloe. ‘I’m the victim here,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Mr Robinson,’ Alex greeted him. ‘We meet at last.’ She smiled at the nurse, who glanced at her ID before leaving the room.

  ‘Found my son yet?’ His voice had assumed a weakened tone, as though feigned vulnerability might help him escape the onslaught of questions that was about to come. The performance was a little too late.

  ‘We may be closer to finding out what might have happened to him, yes.’ She pulled the visitor’s chair over to the bedside and sat down, the closeness seeming to make Darren uncomfortable. He looked at Chloe, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Didn’t really answer the question, did it?’ he snapped, the weakness in his voice gone as quickly as it had appeared.

  ‘I apologise,’ Alex said, her words thick with sarcasm. ‘Evading the truth is obviously something you would recognise, since you’re an expert in it yourself.’

  Darren grimaced and looked to the closed door, as though contemplating whether he might be able to make an escape, or if the nurse who had recently left the room might return to rescue him from his imminent interrogation.

  Placing a handful of printed sheets on the bed beside him, Alex waited for him to pick them up and take a look. His face fell when he realised what they were, and he exhaled loudly, closing his eyes and tilting his face to the ceiling.

  ‘Want to tell us what this is all about?’

  When there was no reply, Alex picked up the transcript at the top of the pile. ‘“I want what’s mine”,’ she read. She scanned down the sheet of text messages sent from Darren’s number to that of Gareth Lawrence, co-owner of Lawrence and Wyatt Properties. ‘“I want my money. Pay up or I’ll tell Michael everything.”’

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking, this has got nothing to do with Kieran.’

  ‘You’re not denying an attempt at blackmail then?’ Chloe said. She pointed to another of the sheets on the bed: an invoice for materials addressed to Michael Wyatt and signed off by Darren Robinson. ‘We’ve checked with your suppliers and we know you only purchased half the materials listed here. Anything you want to explain to us?’

  ‘Go and speak to Gareth Lawrence,’ Darren snapped. ‘See what he’s got to say for himself. Oh no, sorry … your lot don’t do that, do you? You’d rather pick on the little guy – the ones who can’t afford to buy themselves out of trouble.’ He winced and shifted beneath the bedsheet. ‘This is bullshit.’

  ‘So what’s he done then?’ Alex challenged, riffling through the pages. ‘Enlighten us, Darren. You sent a text message to Mr Lawrence on Sunday with a threat to tell Michael everything. You demanded your money. What money would that be?’

  Darren said nothing.

  ‘Your silence suggests guilt. I’m presuming the invoice has been altered to add materials that were never bought, am I correct? It looks as though you’ve been taking money for a lot of work that was never completed.’

  Knowing he had been backed into a corner, Darren had little choice but to respond. ‘Presume what you want. Like I said, go and talk to Gareth.’

  ‘Mr Lawrence’s money was obviously of more concern to you at the weekend than your missing son was.’

  Darren’s mouth twisted, fighting back the expletives Alex felt certain were struggling to emerge. Whatever explanation he might come up with, nothing could excuse his priorities that week. She could almost sympathise with his wife.

  ‘Wyatt hasn’t been around much,’ Darren said between clenched teeth. ‘You might already know, but his daughter died last year. Anyway, in his absence Gareth Lawrence has been helping himself to whatever extras he can get from the company – as if he needs anything more.’

  ‘And you’ve been giving him a hand along the way, no doubt. How much did he promise you?’

  Darren’s hesitation gave Alex her answer. No matter how much he’d been promised, she imagined he hadn’t received a penny.

  He sighed. ‘He said if I drew up the invoices he’d give me a percentage on the lot.’

  ‘But that money hasn’t materialised?’

  ‘Obviously not. And it’s not as though he can’t afford it,’ Darren said defensively. ‘The pair of them are minted.’

  ‘We know that you had an argument with your son on Wednesday evening last week,’ Chloe told him. ‘During which he called you a liar.’

  Darren looked from one detective to the other, a fresh wave of panic passing across his face. ‘How do you know about that?’

 
‘So you’re not denying there was an argument?’ Chloe asked. ‘You seem to keep making involuntary admissions, Mr Robinson. Be quicker for everyone if you just told the truth.’

  Darren shot her a glare. ‘It’s not exactly uncommon, is it, a father and son having a row? It was nothing, all right. I can’t even remember now what it was about, that’s how important it wasn’t.’

  ‘How do you know it was nothing if you can’t remember what it was about?’ Alex leaned towards him. ‘You seem to be making a habit of arguing with people, Mr Robinson. First Kieran, and then last night your wife. It’s about time you started telling us the truth. Don’t you care what might have happened to your son?’

  Just like his wife, Darren refused to speak. It was the kind of ‘no comment’ attitude that Alex hated more than any other: an arrogant, naïve assumption that silence might protect a guilty person if they were only able to sustain it for long enough.

  ‘Here’s what I think happened. I think Kieran found out somehow what you and Mr Lawrence had been up to. The two of you argued, and on Thursday night you went to the Bay knowing exactly where you’d find him. You needed to keep him quiet, didn’t you, before he ruined your chances of getting a pay-off from Lawrence.’

  ‘This is rubbish,’ Darren said, grimacing and turning his head to the window. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘So tell us,’ Alex challenged him again. ‘Where are we going wrong?’

  With a sigh, Darren pushed himself up in the bed, wincing again at the pain the movement prompted. ‘I was going to the Bay to confront Lawrence, not Kieran, okay? I changed my mind at the last minute. It was a stupid idea in the first place – as if I could just challenge him with all those subcontractors there to see it. I was angry, I wasn’t thinking straight. Kieran didn’t know anything about Gareth or the money. That wasn’t why we were arguing.’

  The two women waited, both eyeballing Darren with impatience. He wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, and until he told them the truth, neither were they.

  Darren tilted his head back, avoiding their stares. ‘Kieran was angry with me because he’d found out he was adopted.’

  Twenty-Six

  Using the list of friends and relatives sent to them by Carol Smith, Dan had spent the afternoon trying to trace someone who might have remembered something of interest about activities that had taken place at 14 Oak Tree Close when Carol had been just a child. He had so far found out little they hadn’t already known: Stan Smith had been a local councillor who volunteered as a scout leader; Peggy Smith had worked part time as a sales assistant at a nearby supermarket. By all accounts the family was fairly typical, and none of the people Dan had so far spoken with had shown any reason to suspect the couple of any suspicious activity.

  Tracing his finger along the list of names and contact details, he stopped at Eileen Armstrong, the ex-wife of Stan Smith’s brother Trevor. Although she would now be in her eighties, there was a telephone number noted that Dan hoped might still be hers.

  He called the number and waited just a brief time before the call was answered.

  ‘She doesn’t live here any more,’ the voice of a young woman told him.

  Dan felt disappointment trickle through him, though he wasn’t surprised by the woman’s absence. Her status as ‘ex’ meant it might prove unlikely that any of the Smith family had remained in contact with her.

  ‘She’s only up the road, mind,’ the young woman continued.

  ‘Up the road?’

  ‘Old people’s home. They got her a place locally so she didn’t have to move too far. Don’t know why she was so bothered with sticking around here, mind – I don’t think I ever saw her have a visitor in two years. I used to be in one of the flats, see, just across the street.’

  ‘What’s the name of this home?’ Dan asked, jotting down the name as the woman told him. He put down the pen and moved his free hand to his computer, tapping it into the keypad. A moment later, the contact details of the home appeared on the screen.

  Thanking the woman for her help, he ended the call before ringing the care home number. It was answered by a female voice.

  ‘DC Daniel Mason, South Wales Police,’ he introduced himself. ‘I believe you have a lady called Eileen Armstrong living with you?’

  ‘Eileen? Yes. Can I ask why you’d like to speak with her?’

  ‘We’re making some inquiries into a former family member of hers,’ Dan explained. ‘Someone now deceased. Can I ask … how is Mrs Armstrong’s state of mind?’

  ‘Does she have dementia, you mean? Eileen’s sharper than I am. She’s physically very frail – kept having falls, that’s why she had to leave her own place – but there’s nothing wrong with her mind, that’s for sure. Anyway,’ the woman said, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but how do I know you are who you say you are? Sorry, but I can’t be sure, can I? You could be anyone. I’ve got a duty to protect the residents.’

  Dan gave her his police ID number, along with DCI Thompson’s contact number. He hung up and waited for the woman to get back to him, which seemed to take an age.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ she said once she’d called back. ‘Anyway, I’ll try to put you through to her room now – she’ll probably be there around this time.’

  Dan thanked the woman and waited to be transferred. The line fell silent for a while, during which time he began to wonder whether he had been cut off by mistake. When he was finally connected, the call was answered before the first ring had ended.

  ‘Who’s this family member?’ Eileen asked, having obviously been filled in on the nature of the call.

  ‘Stan Smith,’ Dan said, already suspecting from Eileen’s tone that social niceties and small talk were something she lacked patience with. ‘I believe you were married to his brother, Trevor?’

  ‘Ha,’ she said abruptly, the sound bursting down the line. ‘So did I, but that turned out to be a joke, didn’t it? There were certain parts of him that clearly had other ideas, if you understand what I’m saying.’

  Dan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turning up into a knowing smile. Eileen reminded him of one of his neighbours, a woman in her eighties who had more enthusiasm for gossip than some of the other people living in their street had for their kids. In the small valleys town in which Dan had spent his whole life, it was said that what Mrs Evans at number 42 didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. He imagined Eileen Armstrong was built from the same fabric. In just two sentences, she was already proving to be quite a character.

  ‘He was unfaithful during your marriage?’ he asked, emboldened to ask the question by the woman’s forthright attitude.

  Eileen made a noise that sounded like a horse sneezing. ‘Unfaithful? He had the clap more times than I’ve had my roots done, and I went grey at twenty-six. Meeting him, that’s what done it. Anyway, you’re not calling about him, are you? What do you want to know about Stan?’

  Dan told her about the macabre discovery beneath the patio of the Smiths’ former family home. A silence followed, but it was short-lived; Dan got the impression that there was little that shocked Eileen Armstrong. He wondered if there was a particular age to be reached when this naturally became the case.

  ‘Good God. It was there all these years? I wish I could help you, but I’m not sure how I can. I hardly ever went to that house – Peggy never liked me very much, truth be told. Mind you, I’m not sure she liked any bugger very much.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Just the impression I got. Sour-faced, that’d be the best way to describe her. Seemed like she had a bit of a chip on her shoulder. Maybe she just preferred to keep herself to herself, I don’t know. Anyway, like I said, I hardly ever went there. I had enough to do trying to keep tabs on Trevor. Full-time bloody job that was, I can tell you.’

  Dan smiled wryly and looked down at the list of names in front of him. He read them to Eileen in turn, waiting for her to confirm or deny know
ledge of each. When he got to the end, he asked her if there was anyone else she might have been familiar with; anyone Carol Smith had been too young to remember who might at some point have had access to the family home.

  ‘There is someone else actually. That boy of Debra’s.’

  Glancing down at the list in front of him, Dan found Debra’s name. Debra Rogers. Stan and Trevor’s sister. She had died a number of years earlier, having been widowed in the 1990s when she was still only in her fifties. There had been no mention of the couple having any children.

  ‘Debra had a son?’

  ‘No,’ Eileen said, as though correcting herself. ‘She couldn’t have kids. Caused her no end of heartache, but the grass always looks greener, doesn’t it? She went on to have a whole load more grief by the end of it all. Decided to foster, she did. No one could understand it really – she should have adopted, shouldn’t she? There’s no goodbyes that way. And why she didn’t go for a younger kid, none of us could work out, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she could do more good with an older child, someone who really needed her help. Always playing the bloody martyr, that one. Can’t save the bloody world, can you, but there was no telling her that. She needed to find out the hard way.’

  ‘This boy,’ Dan said, keen to get to the details. ‘How long did he live with Debra?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Not that long, I don’t think. He hit sixteen and buggered off, which was always going to happen, wasn’t it? That’s what she got for trying to play Mother bloody Teresa. He was with her a couple of years at most, I reckon.’

  ‘And this would have been the early eighties?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know when exactly. Isn’t it your job to find all that sort of stuff out?’

  With a smirk that was more of a grimace this time, Dan drew the conversation to a close. ‘This boy’s name, Mrs Armstrong. What was it?’

  ‘Graham something. Sorry … I’m terrible with surnames, always have been.’

  Dan thanked her for her time and ended the call, seeking out the contact number for Carol Smith. Had she forgotten about this boy Graham, he wondered, or was there another reason why she had kept his name from her list?