The Silent Dead: A gripping crime thriller with a stunning twist

by Graham Smith

  It didn’t matter how much she reflected or used objective analysis on the moment her looks were stolen from her, justice was still awaiting an introduction to the man who’d held the bottle.

  Even now, years later, she found herself scanning crowds looking for the one clue she had as to the identity of the men who were fighting. The man who’d deflected the arm holding the bottle had two lipstick kisses tattooed onto the left side of his neck. One was scarlet and the other pink. Part of her didn’t expect to ever see him again, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep looking.

  Beth looked at Hewson, returned the frank appraisal he’d given her. ‘The larvae. I’m not going to hold you to what you tell me without a full examination of them, but can you give me a ballpark number based on your best guess?’

  ‘Judging from their development, they’ve been on the body four, maybe five days, so you’re looking at the body being placed in situ between four and six days ago.’ His eyes gave a mischievous flash. ‘If Dowdy had asked me that question, I’d have told her between a day and a month.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. Just as I’m sure she would have questioned your parentage if you had.’ Beth gave a tiny smile to show that, while there was no malice to her words, she was just as serious as the doctor. ‘Anyway, what about where the victim’s arms were cable-tied to the horizontal bar? Were there any wounds caused by him fighting to free himself?’

  Hewson cast his eyes to the sky. ‘Yes actually, there were. Not significant though, more like he was uncomfortable and was trying to wriggle into a less painful position. They certainly didn’t tie in with him exerting all of his strength into the action.’

  ‘And finally, his fingers, was there enough of one to get a print?’

  ‘I assume so; one of the CSI team dealt with that. Otherwise we have teeth.’ The doctor pulled open the driver’s door. ‘Good luck with your investigation. I’d say I’m looking forward to working with you again, but that would mean some other poor bugger would probably have to die a horrible death, and perhaps it’s tempting fate to wish for that. But I dare say I’ll see you at the post-mortem anyway.’

  Beth watched him pull away with her mind tumbling. The pathologist was a shrewd operator, and he’d not only passed his judgement on her – with the way his eyes had twinkled from time to time, she was sure he’d been on the point of flirting with her. Not in any kind of serious way that suggested he wanted to sleep with her, just enough to let her know that he’d enjoyed her company.

  She pushed those thoughts away and focussed on the information he’d given her. The wings had been attached while the victim was still alive. He’d also been alive when fixed to the post.

  A question leapt into Beth’s mind and she turned on her heel and strode back towards the house instead of returning to O’Dowd and the rest of the FMIT team.

  She used her torch to illuminate the timber hoardings that screened off the un-refurbished part of the house where the body had been left.

  The hoardings had been painted a pastel green, and one sheet had been removed to allow the various police teams to access the area where the victim was found. Beth scanned the others until she found what she was looking for. The screws holding the plywood sheets in place had all been painted over. Except on the sheet nearest the cellar. The screw heads on that sheet had traces of paint on them, but they showed signs of scuffing that told Beth they’d been unscrewed after they’d been painted.

  It was how the killer had got his victim into the cellar.

  Armed with this knowledge she trudged off to speak to O’Dowd. The CSI team would have to claim the sheet of plywood in case there were fingerprints on it, and they’d have to check with whoever installed it and the house’s owner in case it was one of them who’d removed the panel rather than the killer.

  After everything she’d just learned or surmised, there was a lot for her to think about and there would be a mountain of paperwork to complete once they all got back to Carleton Hall. At least she hadn’t made any plans for this evening.

  With no boyfriend on the scene, there wasn’t anyone who’d be aggrieved at her working into the night. The only person it would affect was Beth, and so far as she was concerned, losing a few hours of sleep was a tiny price to pay for bringing a killer to justice.

  Eight

  Once a grand manor house that dated back to the eighteenth century, with its high ceilings and thick walls, Carleton Hall was a substantial building whose air was more imposing than impressive. To Beth the building represented strength, order and power. It wasn’t a showy house with painted ceilings, it was designed as a home for the wealthy people who paid fealty to the county’s elite.

  While such a building as their HQ may, in the past, have added a certain amount of gravitas to the police force, the reality was that it wasn’t hugely practical and a lot of the rooms were too small for the number of people trying to work in them. Unlike the newer, purpose-built Durranhill Station at Carlisle, Carleton Hall was a make-do-and-mend solution. Every room had thick plastic trunking supplying additional power sources along with Ethernet and telephone connections to the various workstations that filled every available space.

  The higher ranks occupied the upstairs rooms, with the chief super and the chief constable occupying the two large semi-octagonal rooms, which were the house’s best, as they afforded their residents the most entrancing view of the local countryside.

  One factor in Carleton Hall’s favour was its location. While Kendal and Workington were larger towns than Penrith, and Carlisle was an historic city, none were central to the county.

  Carleton Hall was sited a mile from the M6, and adjacent to the A66, which gave officers a good starting point to get to wherever they needed to be. Cumbria and the Lake District covered a huge area and its only motorway bisected the county on a north-south axis. From Penrith with a shift on, the FMIT team could be at Kendal in half an hour, Carlisle in fifteen minutes and Workington in forty.

  These times were allowing for a fair wind; Cumbria was often beset with tourists and a lot of the main arteries around the county were twisty A roads. The tourists created a lot of congestion through their numbers and their slow pace as they took in the majesty of the Lakeland Fells and the tranquil lakes which drew them to the area.

  Add to this mix a surplus of traffic and farm vehicles, and it was not uncommon for journey times around the county to be doubled. On more than one occasion, emergency service response times had suffered due to the presence of a caravan being towed along a country road and there not being a safe place where the driver could allow them to pass.

  With long snaking lines of traffic a common sight on the A66 and the A595, and a constant in the tourist areas from Easter to November, a smart criminal could easily lose themselves in the crowd long before the police were anywhere near.

  Nine

  The early morning air was cool, but not so cool as to chill her exposed flesh. A quick glance at her watch as she turned onto Fell Lane told her that she was five seconds ahead of her usual time.

  As part of her morning routine, Beth ran a course around the former market town of Penrith. The route was challenging, over hills of varying gradients. Regardless of the weather or the time of her shift, Beth went for a run at the start of the day.

  Not just part of a fitness regime, she used the exercise to invigorate her mind as much as strengthen her body. The sights of early morning Penrith never changed much, but Beth had grown accustomed to their rhythms and had learned what should and shouldn’t be in certain places at certain times. Like the girl in the skinny jeans and chiffon blouse who shouldn’t be walking the streets at that time, but was. Beth saw the girl’s expression and felt the tiniest pinprick of jealousy. While the girl looked tired, she also wore a satisfied look that made light of the fact she was on her way home after a wild night out.

  Penrith was Beth’s home town and while her love for it ran deep, she could be objective about it and its residents. She knew there w
as a housing estate where the inhabitants were three parts feral, and that although the protein factory had been forced to undertake new practices to eradicate the smell of rotting animals, the very fabric of Penrith retained hidden whiffs of the once all-pervading smell ready to engulf the unsuspecting.

  She returned to the police house she rented and checked her watch as she reached the door.

  ‘Yes!’

  A pumped fist accompanied her triumphant hiss. Ten seconds had been shaved off her personal best.

  * * *

  Beth left the house some twenty-five minutes later, showered and dressed in a charcoal suit. Her hair was still wet from the shower, but her suit was dark enough that her ponytail wouldn’t leave a noticeable damp patch. The drive to Carleton Hall was a short one but, as always, she used the few minutes to finish powering up her mind in preparation for the day ahead. It promised to be another long one. It was gone midnight when O’Dowd had called a halt and instructed them all to be back at their desks by seven.

  As she parked, Beth spotted O’Dowd chewing on a cigarette with all the enthusiasm for life as the person who cleans the toilets at the diarrhoea clinic.

  Beth walked towards the entrance and nodded at O’Dowd. ‘Boss.’

  The last thing Beth wanted to do was to get into anything with the DI out here. Since Thompson’s irritating stealing of her theories yesterday, she’d toyed with the idea of making a formal complaint before deciding to learn from the experience.

  As the new girl, she didn’t want to go to the DI complaining so soon after joining the team. Rather than give Thompson the chance to repeat yesterday’s behaviour, she’d decided she’d speak up for herself and make sure O’Dowd knew which ideas she’d put forward and what Thompson had contributed.

  ‘You need to learn when to listen, when to speak and, most important of all, when to share your ideas.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  This was not the start to the day Beth wanted.

  ‘That report Thompson gave when you came back from seeing the bride who found the body, it was you who thought she was being cagey about something, not him.’ The non-cigarette holding hand was raised to stop her interrupting. ‘Don’t try to deny it. I know him, have known him for years. For all he acts like he works on hunches and intuition, his next original thought will be his first. Plus, when you get angry, the colour of your scar changes by at least two shades. When he was spouting your ideas, it was glowing like a flare.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Beth. Be smarter. I warned you and yet you still went running into the very thing I warned you about. You let someone else pass off your ideas as their own. You’re a bright lass, and if you use half your brains in the right way, you’ll go a long way in the force. However, if you don’t have the capacity to listen and learn, you’re no use to me and I’ll have to admit I made a mistake when choosing you over the other candidates to join my team. Either wise up or admit you’re not good enough to be on FMIT and go back to CID.’ The cigarette arced from O’Dowd’s fingers and landed at least six feet from the bucket of sand by the back door. ‘It’s your choice. Just do me a favour, make the one that’s right for you and act upon it immediately. Because we have a murderer to catch.’

  Beth again cursed her naivety of the previous day. Here she was in her first week on the highest-rated investigation team in the county and less than twenty-four hours into a major case being effectively told to shape up or ship out.

  As she trudged after O’Dowd she was vowing to herself that she wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

  Ten

  Beth nodded a greeting to Unthank and took a seat at her desk. At the other side of the room, Thompson aimed scowls at the kettle as if his displeasure at the early hour was enough to make it boil itself.

  ‘Right.’ O’Dowd strode in brandishing a sheet of paper. ‘Fingerprint results are in. We have a name for our victim. More than that, we have his address and just about everything we could want to know about him, with the obvious exception of who killed him. He is Angus Keane, a forty-two-year-old self-employed builder. Got himself arrested a couple of years ago for affray when he had a punch-up. According to the census report, he’s survived by his wife and two daughters. His wife reported him missing several days ago.’

  Beth sat back in her seat and allowed the hush of the office to wash over her. She may be new to FMIT, but she’d soon learned O’Dowd’s penchant for the dramatic. Pauses like this one were the DI’s way of emphasising points, and of making sure her team had the necessary time and motivation to digest the finer nuances of situations.

  ‘Has someone done the knock?’

  Beth shot a grateful look at Unthank, glad he’d been the one to ask the question they all wanted to know the answer to. Her previous DI had been a cruel man and had deferred the unpleasant duty onto the person who asked the question.

  ‘No, Paul, no one’s done the knock.’ Beth saw the pen pointed her way and tried not to let her face show the sinking of her heart. ‘Beth and I will go and inform the wife. You two can start identifying his family and workmates. We’re going to need to speak to them.’

  Beth raised a tentative hand. ‘How much are you planning to tell the family, ma’am?’

  ‘We have to tell them everything; the press has already got hold of this one, so anything we don’t tell them will be found out anyway. We have to have full transparency, regardless of how much it may upset the family. And put your hand down, you’re not at bloody school.’

  To save herself further embarrassment, Beth changed the subject. ‘Any word on the post-mortem, ma’am?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning at half seven.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Why not today? Why are they waiting until tomorrow?’ The questions were out before Beth could stop them. The first forty-eight hours of any investigation were critical, to lose twenty-four of them waiting on a post-mortem was beyond ridiculous.

  ‘Because the chief super is a man whose main aim in life is to have a balanced spreadsheet; because our budget is thinner than a prison roll-up, and because while there are three pathologists in Cumbria, annoyingly there’s only one worth listening to, and like the pain in the arse he is, he point-blank refuses to work a Sunday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Believe it or not, Dr Hewson is an ardent churchgoer, and for the last fifteen years he’s been the organist at his church. He’ll work twenty hours a day Monday to Saturday, but he won’t do a thing on a Sunday. This plays right into the hands of the bean-counting chief super, so he’s never pushed the issue.’

  Beth was incredulous at the calm acceptance in O’Dowd’s voice. While she knew she wouldn’t dare, she wanted to go and bang on the chief super’s door, demand the resources necessary to have the post-mortem done today, and then force Dr Hewson to pick up his scalpel. It was a moot point. Chief supers weren’t at their desks on a Sunday morning unless there was a major flap on. As brutal and horrific as Angus Keane’s murder was, one death, however grisly, wouldn’t be reason enough to make the chief super attend.

  As she looked at Unthank for support she could feel her clenched fists scrubbing at the desk.

  The support didn’t come. But neither did any censure.

  O’Dowd and Unthank were looking at her with curious expressions while Thompson still hadn’t looked her way.

  Beth couldn’t contain her frustration any longer. ‘How are we meant to do our jobs with one hand tied behind our backs, ma’am?’

  ‘One handed.’ O’Dowd gave Beth a glare and then pointed her pen at Unthank and Thompson; she passed a sheet of paper to Thompson. ‘Off you go, boys. Once you’re in the vicinity, wait until I tell you I’m going in. We need to get the timelines right. Beth and I must be first.’

  Beth knew what O’Dowd meant about timings. With social media such a powerful force, there had to be coordination between the teams to make sure family members found out the news in the correct order. They also had to ensure that until they�
�d spoken to key family members, the news was kept off sites like Facebook and Twitter.

  Beth was about to rise from her chair when O’Dowd perched a buttock on the corner of her desk and motioned for her to remain seated.

  ‘You ever played cards?’

  The question seemed odd to Beth, but she answered it with honesty, certain O’Dowd’s reason for asking would become clear. ‘I suppose, I used to play gin rummy with my gran.’

  ‘What did you do when you got a bad hand?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I played it as carefully as possible and looked for a way to turn it into a winning hand?’

  ‘Good answer. Police work is the same as cards. You rarely get the hand you want, and if you do, it’s usually because of dumb luck or someone else’s stupidity. We have to play the hands we get dealt.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. It just frustrates me that we can’t get the full resources the case deserves.’ Beth took a leap of faith, brushed the hair back from her face and looked into O’Dowd’s eyes. ‘How do you cope with the frustration?’

  ‘I choose to use it as a propellant rather than kryptonite. Let your frustrations overwhelm you or dominate your thinking and you’ll be an alcoholic in two years. Let them drive you and you’ll be in my job in six.’ O’Dowd flapped a hand at the seats vacated by Thompson and Unthank. ‘Those two get it. They understand the way the game is played, and while they don’t like the rules, they know how to play the game. What Thompson did to you yesterday, don’t let it get to you. He’s got external pressures, and between you and me, it’s only his dedication to duty that’s stopping him from getting signed off with stress.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound like I’m brown-nosing, ma’am, but thanks.’ Beth knew O’Dowd was astute enough to understand what she meant.

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ O’Dowd stood and pulled a resigned grimace. ‘C’mon, we’ve got three lives we have to shatter and, as rough as it’s going to be, the sooner we’ve done it, the sooner we can ask Mrs Keane who she thinks might have killed her husband.’