Hold Your Tongue

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Hold Your Tongue Page 25

by Deborah Masson


  DS Jack Allen didn’t take kindly to being woken at 4.30 a.m. – not until he realized who was calling and what she had to tell him. Eve listened to Jack lighting his second fag in the ten minutes they’d been on the phone, a full run-down already given of what had been found on Adelphi Lane.

  ‘It has to be the same guy.’ Jack coughed for the umpteenth time.

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. Cobbled lane. The bin. Where the body was. Beaten black and blue. The use of feet instead of a weapon. But most of all the bleach.’

  DS Allen inhaled sharply. ‘Yup. But does it fit your guy?’

  Eve had told him about the nursery-rhyme theory but definitely not about Hardy, thank God. ‘Yeah, not the violence though, but we found ID beside her. Sarah Crawley. Turns out she was a children’s charity worker. Got a bit in the press a couple of weeks ago about all the work she’d been doing.’

  Jack spluttered as he inhaled. ‘Friday’s Child. Loving and Giving.’

  ‘Yeah. Sick guy. I can’t see what the link is. Why that rhyme. Who we need to be looking for. How we start to confirm a connection to St Andrews a year ago.’

  ‘Could be a million things. Is there anything different between the scene of Helen’s murder and Sarah’s?’

  ‘Helen was naked, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. Never did find her clothing.’

  ‘Sarah was dressed. But according to our pathologist he’d attacked her naked and then dressed her afterwards. I can’t get my head around him dressing her again.’

  ‘Was MacLean sure?’

  ‘Yeah, markings on the body pointed towards it, plus the zip-up dress was on back to front.’

  DS Allen started to say something but then began wheezing and coughing hard. Eve had to hold the phone away from her ear. ‘Jack? You OK?’

  It took a while for him to answer. ‘Sorry, yeah. You caught me there with the dress.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Helen was wearing a dress that zipped up too, but nothing unusual in that.’

  Eve was on alert nonetheless. ‘Anything else about the dress?’

  ‘Erm, yeah. We interviewed her flatmate after the murder and it stuck in my head that the dress we were looking for was a zip-up because she gave us a story about having to help Helen get dressed before they went to the pub. About them having a laugh about it after a few wines while getting ready.’

  ‘What, was she too drunk to dress herself?’

  ‘No, the flatmate said she had to use her initiative to fasten the thing. Said the zip was broken.’

  Every hair on Eve’s arms rose. ‘Say that again, Jack.’

  ‘What? The zip was broken?’

  Eve closed her eyes, not wanting to ask what she was about to. ‘Jack, what colour was the dress?’

  ‘Red. Sounded totally out of character for Helen, but the flatmate said she wanted to dress fancy for a change and she’d lent it to her. Real party dress. A sparkly number.’

  Eve took a deep breath. ‘Jack? I think we’ve got our link.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Sarah was wearing Helen’s dress.’

  Chapter 41

  ‘Are you comfortable, Ronnie?’

  He nodded once at his nurse’s question without looking away from the telly in the corner of his room. Usually they’d chat at this point in the evening. Meaningless chit-chat that broke up his day. She’d move around his bed, checking charts and equipment, tidying what little there was to tidy, getting ready to clock off from her shift, and he’d think of any old drivel to keep her there. To have company. But he didn’t want her to stay tonight.

  Annie stepped into his eye line. He craned his head to the left of her. She looked at him, surprise on her face, then turned to look up at the telly, shuffling sideways as she did, eager to keep her patient happy.

  ‘Terrible business that.’ Annie shook her head, a plastic cup stuffed with used tissues in one bloated hand, an empty water jug in the other.

  Ronnie’s eyes flickered from the telly to the water jug, his mind seeing broken glass on a cold linoleum floor. He closed his eyes, inhaled long and slow through his nose and made sure his eyes were focused on the TV when he opened them again.

  Annie sighed. ‘Poor woman. That’s five in as many weeks.’

  Ronnie dug his nails into his palms beneath the bed sheets.

  ‘I mean, imagine dumping her in a bin. Left lying there like a piece of rubbish. God only knows how her parents must feel.’ Annie tutted, stood looking at the telly.

  Ronnie stared at her back, thought about how proud her parents must be that she spent her working days caring for others. He thought of Susie, didn’t have to imagine how a parent felt to lose a child. To lose two children. But he knew his daughter would’ve grown to be an adult whom he could’ve been proud of. His eyes wandered to the jug again.

  Broken glass. Shattered dreams.

  He clenched his teeth, nails drawing blood from the thin, ageing, useless flesh of his hands. He didn’t want to think about that night. Had never allowed himself to, no matter what he’d told the coppers.

  But he had permitted himself to think about Susie. Had never stopped thinking about her over the years. About how alive she had been. About how she was found. Reliving every second that he’d stared at her small lifeless body hanging there. Her delicate, innocent, beautiful face turned ugly, her tongue hanging limp. How he’d watched his wife fall apart, had felt his son slipping ever further away from him. Loss. Ripping the seams of their life apart. Stitch by stitch until there was nothing left but rags.

  Thinking about Susie was what he’d had to do. The only way he’d been able to find comfort. The reason that justified that night. The one thing that made what he’d done right.

  ‘How many are there going to be, Ronnie? Before these numpties get their fingers out of their backsides and catch him. How many, eh?’

  Ronnie swallowed, guilt a bitter pill. ‘Annie, I want to go to sleep.’

  Annie put the cup and jug on the chair by the door, jumping to attention when her patient spoke. ‘Of course, of course. Been a long day.’ She fussed at his bed sheets, plumped his pillow. ‘Do you want the telly left on?’

  He shook his head. She lifted the remote from his bedside cabinet, pointed it at the telly, humming a tuneless song as she did, binned bodies forgotten. ‘There’s your buzzer, pet. I’ll be seeing you in the morning.’

  Ronnie watched her leave the room, then stared at the ceiling, beyond the roof tiles and into the past. He was still staring when the lights went off in the ward, one by one. It was only then that he let the tears run free. In the safety of darkness. And only then that he let himself think about that night.

  How many more indeed?

  Chapter 42

  Monday, 9 December

  Nancy Morrison resembled a gnome. At least Eve thought so. Shaun Dempster’s grandmother smoothed the loose grey strands of her hair towards the bun they’d fallen from, chubby gnarled fingers trembling as she did. Nerves, perhaps, but most probably age.

  ‘When did you last see Shaun?’ Eve’s voice seemed too loud in the low-ceilinged room. Everything about the sheltered-housing cottage felt like it had been built in miniature. She wanted to get to why they were here, the small talk starting to grate.

  The old woman stood from her armchair, offered the plate of warm scones again to her and Mearns that she’d not long put on the coffee table. ‘Please, help yourselves.’

  Eve declined, wondering if the woman was ever going to answer a question.

  ‘He was sixteen the last time we saw him.’ Nancy’s voice was raspy, her round face and ruddy cheeks quivering as she spoke.

  ‘When you filed the missing-persons report?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Nancy cupped her ear, shouted the word, the hearing aid tucked amongst her wiry hair failing in its job. It was the reason they’d had to travel to her when they realized a phone call wasn’t going to work. Eve repeated the question.

  ‘Yes.’ Nancy
pushed at the round-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. ‘We reported Shaun missing three days after he left.’

  ‘Why did you wait so long?’ Mearns was doing her best to balance a broken scone on a napkin as she shouted.

  ‘Shaun had gone off before but never for that long.’

  ‘Where would he go? To friends?’ Eve glanced at Mearns as she asked, wondering what the elderly woman might do if she let a crumb fall – the sitting room was pristine, floral cotton protectors on the arms either end of the beige sofa.

  ‘I’m not sure Shaun had many friends at home. We thought about moving.’ Nancy looked to the floor. ‘But it’s true you can’t run from your problems.’

  ‘Memories of your daughter? Of your granddaughter?’ Eve kept asking the questions while Mearns did her best to eat the crumbling home bake.

  Nancy shook her head. ‘I never wanted to run from memories of Angie or forget Susie. I just didn’t want to be near where that bastard had been and was again after prison.’

  Mearns coughed, struggling to swallow what was in her mouth. Nancy didn’t falter. ‘I didn’t care even when he was in prison or not. He was still there, everywhere we went. Then he had the brass neck to return to that house after they released him. Not even a life sentence, though he took my daughter’s. Got off with murder, literally, because of some cock-and-bull story of grief. What do you call it now? Post-traumatic stress?’

  Mearns nodded and finally crumpled the napkin, careful to place it on the coffee table without anything falling to the carpet. ‘And you never saw him?’

  Nancy shook her head. ‘No. I heard he was reclusive. It was tough for us. With Shaun.’

  ‘You must’ve wanted to protect him.’ Mearns softened her tone but maintained the volume.

  Nancy looked to the floor. ‘It’s all I wanted to do.’

  Mearns nodded, understanding. ‘Losing his sister and then what happened with his parents might’ve made him confused. Angry. Distant. He was only ten, wasn’t he?’

  Nancy worked her wrinkled lips against each other, crops of wiry grey hair on her top lip and chin visible from where Eve sat. ‘Yes. I … we tried to reach him.’

  ‘Did you ever get help?’

  ‘We tried. It wasn’t good, keeping all that inside. What he must’ve seen.’ Nancy sighed. ‘We worried we weren’t enough, that we were doing something wrong. Even with help it didn’t work.’

  Mearns leaned forward, took hold of the old woman’s hand. ‘I’m sure you did the best you could.’

  Nancy patted Mearns’ hand with her free one, reversing roles. ‘Thank you, dear, but I sometimes wonder if, having a father like Shaun did, if there’s anything we could’ve done.’

  Eve wasn’t shocked by Nancy’s words, could see why there was no understanding of Ronnie’s state of mind. He had taken her daughter. She wanted to take the opportunity to introduce the subject.

  ‘Shaun’s father said he doted on his sister Susie.’

  Nancy froze. ‘You’ve been to see him?’

  Mearns nodded. ‘Yes. I told you that on the phone. It was the reason we looked for you.’

  Nancy glowered. ‘My hearing’s not the same as it was, neither’s the mind. But you would’ve heard me if I’d caught that little snippet.’

  ‘I can imagine it must be hard.’

  ‘I hear he’s dying.’

  Her voice was devoid of emotion.

  ‘He’s in a hospice, yes.’

  ‘Good. I hope it’s slow and painful.’ Nancy clasped her hands under her bosom, seemingly satisfied.

  Eve changed tack. ‘What was Shaun’s relationship like with his parents? With Susie?’

  ‘Happy. Or at least I always thought it was. Mind you, I used to think that Ronnie was a good man.’ Nancy laughed, not a merry sound. ‘Susie was great for Shaun, took him out of his shell when she was born. She did that to people. Such a contented baby. Loving. Was growing into a fantastic wee girl.’

  ‘Sounds like they had a good relationship,’ said Eve, trying to prise more from her.

  Nancy nodded. ‘She idolized her big brother. Would play whatever he wanted to play. Do whatever he wanted to do. It was his idea to play hide-and-seek that day … Can you imagine?’

  ‘Her death must’ve been difficult for him.’

  ‘He found her. Hanging there.’ A crack in her voice.

  Eve closed her eyes, imagining what that must’ve done to a ten-year-old kid.

  ‘There were days when I wondered if things might’ve been different if it had been Shaun.’ Nancy’s words sliced into the silence.

  Eve’s mouth opened involuntarily. She heard Mearns’ sharp intake of breath by her side.

  Nancy’s eyes were brimming. ‘Terrible, isn’t it? But I wonder if the family would’ve been torn apart like it was if it had been him instead. If my daughter would still be alive.’

  The room stilled but for Nancy’s heavy breathing.

  ‘I don’t mean what I said to sound bad. Susie was the apple of my daughter’s eye. The girl she’d always wanted. I used to wonder if Ronnie was jealous, the way he’d watch them together. You’d expect that from the sibling, wouldn’t you? Not the father. Losing Susie … my daughter never recovered.’

  Nancy’s hands were shaking, the shame she felt in her admission clear to see.

  ‘It certainly didn’t bring back the wife Ronnie might’ve felt that he’d lost. I’m not saying she loved her son any less, I just always wondered if things would’ve been different. After what Ronnie did to our Angie, I wondered if maybe Shaun went through more than I knew in those four walls. If our inability to help him was about more than losing his sister.’

  Eve didn’t want to get on to the subject of Ronnie but couldn’t help herself. ‘When we went to visit Shaun’s father, he was full of remorse. Spoke about how everything fell apart after Susie’s death. It seemed grief and stress, mental illness, played a large part in what Ronnie did.’

  ‘He would sell that story, wouldn’t he?’

  There was no point in discussing it any further. ‘Was there ever any news on Shaun after his disappearance?’ There hadn’t been anything in the media – Elliott had done an extensive search.

  ‘His wallet was found washed up on the beach three months later. Everything still in it. Always had it in his back pocket.’

  Mearns flinched, neither of them expecting to hear what Nancy was telling them.

  ‘Do you think he was capable of taking his own life?’ Eve watched tears drop from Nancy’s eyes as she nodded.

  ‘I knew as soon as they found it. Some woman walking her dog. Never questioned he was dead. We even held a service for him. Wanted to remember him, to let him rest with respect. Even though I knew he was gone, I tried to kid myself for a while that it might’ve been an accident. Thought maybe even someone else did it. But I think he wanted to be free of it all, you know?’

  Mearns nodded. ‘Maybe he thought he’d be with Susie again.’ She looked around the room, at the photo frames dotted here and there. Pictures of an older gent whom Eve took to be Nancy’s husband. None of her daughter. Not one of her grandkids. ‘You must miss him.’

  Nancy closed her eyes. ‘Every day. Six weeks after his wallet was found, my husband dropped dead. Massive heart attack. I blame the stress of it all. You can see why I hate Ronnie Dempster. What that man took from me.’

  Ronnie. The hopes and dreams he’d had for his son. Not knowing about his disappearance. None the wiser about the wallet or that a service had been held in his son’s memory. A man imprisoned and then inebriated throughout his freedom. She wouldn’t be the one to deliver the news to him. There was no need.

  Mearns passed Nancy a tissue from her pocket. ‘You have memories, Mrs Morrison. Good ones from before. He can’t take that.’

  Nancy dabbed at her eyes. ‘Memories can be as painful. They were such beautiful children.’ She straightened, seemed to brighten a little. ‘Would you like to see a photo? I have some in my loft. I c
an have Charlie, our caretaker, find them. He put the stuff up there. Was too painful to look at them every day. He’ll know where to look for the photo albums. I could ask him.’

  Eve felt for the woman, didn’t want to refuse her offer, even though she knew there was nothing left for them to find here.

  ‘We’d love to see a photo, Nancy. If I give you our address, could you send us one?’

  Chapter 43

  Wednesday, 11 December

  Hastings rapped on the desk at the front of the packed incident room. Chairs scraped, backsides hitting seats as fast as possible. Eve leaned against the wall, bracing herself for the fallout.

  ‘Quiet, please. Quiet.’ Hastings’ voice was gruff, his sickly face glistening with sweat, patches visible on his shirt beneath his arms as he raised them to hush the room. ‘Thank you.’

  Eve looked around at the officers who had been working non-stop over the last five weeks. Her team. All of them desperate for a lead. To feel they were doing their job, to believe they might glimpse justice for the women murdered. They’d tried hard and she wanted more than anything to shield them from her boss’s imminent rant.

  Hastings picked up that morning’s newspaper, flapped it in the air. ‘We are being damned in the press, doubted by our public.’

  Here we go.

  ‘But this is not about failure. I don’t think we can speak about that with the efforts that have been made by this team.’ Hastings glanced around the room.

  Eve straightened, stepped away from the wall.

  ‘I have to commend you all in the hours that you’ve put in, the countless lines of inquiry that you’ve followed, the things that you’ve had to deal with.’ Her boss turned to the whiteboard behind him, five A4-sized, coloured crime-scene photos a reminder of what they’d had to endure. Ferguson sitting up front, panting at his boss’s feet.

  ‘This case has not been without its setbacks and difficulties.’ Hastings glared at Ferguson as he spoke, stopping the officer’s adoration in its tracks, and then looked over at Eve. ‘But like any case, we’ve looked for the facts, for the answers. Ryan Phillips, Michael Forbes, Johnny MacNeill, Adrian Hardy. All viable suspects. But all dead ends.’

 

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