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

by Graham Smith

  His hand cupped her jaw and his thumb lay on her scarred cheek. ‘You’re quite possibly the most audacious, the most risky and the most rewarding of all my tributes. Your offering will attract a greater attention than I could have ever imagined.’

  As he stroked the scar on her cheek, Lawrence saw a change in Elisabeth’s eyes.

  Eighty-Four

  Beth regained control of her senses to find a hand on her face and a thumb caressing her scar. Her lips and cheeks stung and it was all she could do not to scrunch them around to ease her discomfort. Lawrence Eversham was in front of her and he was talking, but she couldn’t focus on what he was saying.

  She went to move her arm only to find it was attached to the rope stretched across the room.

  The realisation of her predicament snapped Beth into full awareness. The drug must have affected her just enough that she’d allowed Eversham to secure her to the rope. Had she not regained her senses at this moment, she’d have fallen victim to him.

  Her greatest fear was that she’d missed her chance due to the influence of the drug. That she was about to die in agony. Whatever the consequences, she had to act soon. Eversham was within reach and, judging by the rapturous, almost religious zeal in his eyes, he was close to being as far away from reality as Sarah.

  This had to be her last chance.

  Her only chance.

  With no other means to attack him than her legs, she kept her eyes on his and swung her right leg forward, bending it at the knee and driving it upwards into his groin.

  Beth didn’t wait to take satisfaction in the oofed grunt that came from Eversham. She gripped the rope with both hands and used it to support her upper body as she leapt upwards and planted her feet onto Eversham’s shoulders when he bent double to massage his injured groin.

  The rope then gave her something to push against as she straightened her legs and drove Eversham towards the far wall.

  His feet couldn’t move fast enough and he fell backwards. A dull thud sounded when his head struck stone.

  Beth looked at Eversham and saw that, despite the blow, he was still conscious, if stunned. He was lifting a hand to his head and groaning, which meant she only had seconds before he was back on his feet. A minute at most.

  She crabbed sideways, hauling Sarah after her. Instructions spilled from her mouth, but Sarah was slow to follow them and sluggish with her movements.

  When her fingers grasped the knot Eversham had tied to secure the rope, they fumbled and twisted without gaining the right kind of purchase. She could feel them slipping and, while she wanted to look at what she was doing, she daren’t take her eyes from Eversham.

  He swore and rested a hand on the ground as he tried to lever himself upright. Aware that time was running out, Beth gripped a part of the knot as tight as she could and pulled with all the strength she possessed.

  The knot loosened.

  Not enough to come free, but it was closer to unravelling.

  Beth hooked two fingers into the hole she’d made and pulled.

  The knot came apart and she felt a slackening of the rope securing her and Sarah.

  By now Eversham was rising to his feet. All the genteel bonhomie had gone from his face as he shook his head and glared at her.

  Not wanting to give him any kind of advantage, Beth charged forward while yelling at Sarah to come with her. The plan was to barge into him and crash his head into the wall for a second time.

  It wasn’t the most sophisticated plan, but it was the best she could come up with. Eversham was too big and powerful for her to stand a chance of taking him one-on-one. Perhaps if she had her baton and a clear head she could do it, but not when manacled to a drugged-up civilian she had to protect.

  Four paces from Eversham, Sarah tripped and staggered as she began to fall. The handcuffs connecting them dragged down Beth as well. Instead of ramming an elbow at Eversham’s head, as she planned, she thumped her shoulder into his gut.

  He doubled over as they crashed to the ground, but there was no crunch of his head striking the stone wall for a second time. Even as Beth was trying to free herself, he was raining blows onto her back and shoulders. Each impact felt as if it was delivered by a heavy hammer. She could feel her limbs deadening from his onslaught and, despite her determination to save herself and Sarah, Beth couldn’t help but worry how long she would be able to endure this beating. Beth tried to jab at him with her free hand, but she couldn’t put half the force into her blows that Eversham was putting into his.

  She felt the rope still in her fingers, got to her knees and thrust herself forward, ignoring his blows; a new plan fresh in her mind.

  Her forehead collided with his chin rather than the nose she was aiming for. It didn’t matter, she gained enough time to quickly wrap the loose end of the rope twice round his throat.

  His punches were now bouncing off her head and face, but she ducked her chin forward until it pressed on her chest and hauled on the two ends of the rope.

  After what seemed like forever to Beth, the power of his punches began to subside. She could feel her lips had split and her eyes were starting to puff out from the blows he’d landed. Her nose felt broken, but she didn’t care.

  She was winning.

  Once all the power had gone from his body, Beth loosened her grip on the ropes and aimed a slap at his face.

  He didn’t respond, so she checked for a pulse. It was faint, but present.

  Beth pulled herself to her feet and untied the other end of the rope. Once she’d got it free, she used it to bind Eversham’s hands behind his back and then hog-tie him.

  When she turned to Sarah, there was still that blank look in her eyes. Despite the battle Beth had just endured with Eversham, nothing was registering with Sarah yet.

  ‘Shit. You’re naked, Sarah.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Beth couldn’t believe that she’d only just noticed Sarah’s nudity. A look at her own body revealed she was topless.

  She figured Eversham must have been preparing them when she was out of it. Since coming to, she’d been so wrapped up in making her escape that she’d paid no attention to any of the peripheral details.

  Her pyjama top lay on the ground, but when she picked it up, she saw that it could never be worn again. To at least cover her breasts, she tied a few of the bigger pieces together to form a rudimentary boob tube. Next she pulled the nightgown onto Sarah and tied the straps off above her shoulders.

  When she saw where Eversham had placed the oxyacetylene kit, her knees threatened to buckle. It was the perfect tool to dispense both gas and oxygen into someone’s mouth and throat. That Eversham had swapped the nozzle he’d used to cut through the grill for one which had two open-ended pipes just confirmed her theory.

  The last thing she did before going to get help was to check Eversham was breathing and that he couldn’t free himself.

  Together with Sarah, Beth walked out of the castle and padded down the hill towards the house at the entrance to Workington Castle. The rough, stony tarmac would have stung her feet were her mind not reeling from her body’s reaction to how close to death she’d come. What had happened in the cellar at Highstead Castle was nothing compared to what she’d endured tonight.

  Her imagination put a foul taste in her mouth as she fought against the horrors it conjured about what had almost become her fate. She forced herself to keep walking, to not worry that she was half dressed and to believe that, despite everything, she was safe. All that mattered now was getting help for Sarah and a pair of handcuffs onto Eversham.

  Eighty-Five

  Beth had to fight not to show her emotions as she faced off against Eversham and his solicitor. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing either fear or loathing in her expression. The best way she could hurt him was to make what he’d done to her seem inconsequential.

  A man with Lawrence Eversham’s wealth didn’t accept a duty solicitor. He had enough pull to get a senior partner out of their be
d on a Sunday morning.

  His brief was a Ms Jones from some high-powered firm with several offices and more partners than an oversexed rabbit.

  Beth understood that everyone was entitled to legal representation, but she couldn’t understand why someone as prim-seeming as Ms Jones would try to defend crimes as heinous as Eversham’s.

  O’Dowd was with her, and the DI’s defeated attitude had been replaced with a triumphant zeal. It was she who opened the questioning.

  ‘Mr Eversham. I have to tell you, you’re in a lot of trouble. We’ve taken statements from both Sarah Hardy and DC Young about what happened last night. Miss Hardy told us how you kept her in a cellar which had images of dragons scratched into the walls. How you admitted to her that you are the Dragon Master. Our officers have found a cellar at your house which is exactly as she described. If they find so much as one of her hairs there, it will be irrefutable proof you abducted her. Your solicitor, Ms Jones, may well try to create reasons why she was in your cellar, but in light of last night’s events, I don’t think that a jury will believe a word you say. I should also say that above the dragons scratched in the cellar wall you had pictures of Arthuret Hall, Highstead Castle and Lonsdale Castle. Our search teams found guide books for Arthuret Hall and Lonsdale Castle, as well as papers and correspondence with the planning department and estate agents, which show that in the last five years you have tried to buy both Highstead Castle and Arthuret Hall. As far as evidence is concerned, you can’t even begin to comprehend just how much we have on you.’

  Eversham opened his mouth to speak, but Ms Jones’s hand shot out and tapped his arm.

  ‘My client naturally refutes all of your allegations. He is a pillar of the community who has been falsely accused by an overzealous junior officer and a woman who was infatuated by him. Once you start looking at the case with the objectivity your position dictates, you’ll be making a formal apology to Mr Eversham.’

  ‘Please, Ms Jones, spare us all the pointless rhetoric. Your client is guilty.’ O’Dowd gestured at Beth. ‘You only have to look at the injuries to DC Young’s face to see that your client is a violent man, not to mention the wounds on Miss Hardy’s shoulders.’

  ‘My client states that he was trying to protect himself from your officer’s heavy-handed and brutal arrest. I think that unless you can present some evidence to back up your spurious claims, you’re going to have to release my client without charge.’

  ‘What evidence would you like? The account of a police officer who witnessed the entire thing? The physical evidence that was found at Workington Castle? How about the wings we found in one of the bags your client made PC Young carry, would they do? Or perhaps the stuffed birds with missing wings that we found in your client’s cellar. Shall we call that as evidence? If you look at Mr Eversham, you’ll see he’s wearing the kind of overalls racing drivers wear; they’re flame retardant. We also found a flame-retardant hood and gloves in his backpack. He had a scalpel with him and a square of plastic that’s the exact same size as the wounds on Miss Hardy’s shoulder blades. It’s also the same size as the squares cut into five other victims. He was literally caught in the act.’

  In that moment, Beth could tell that Eversham had lied to Ms Jones. The expression on her face didn’t give much away, but there were enough flickers of doubt and surprise to inform Beth that everything O’Dowd was throwing at her was information she hadn’t heard before.

  ‘What else do you have?’

  ‘I think I’ll let DC Young answer this one.’ O’Dowd managed to keep the smile off her face, although she couldn’t prevent it from creeping into her voice. ‘In your own time, Beth.’

  Beth leaned back in her chair and took up a relaxed posture. More than anything else, she wanted Eversham to see the lack of fear in her, to recognise that he was no longer in control: she was. It may have been petty, but she didn’t care about that. She just wanted him to know that he held no power over her.

  Rather than speak to the solicitor, Beth kept her focus on Eversham.

  ‘Did you notice how DI O’Dowd used my name then? She called me Beth, but you called me Elisabeth. Names are important to you, aren’t they?’ She didn’t wait for his answer. ‘Names are very important to you. You chose your victims based on their names. Fiona, Rachel, Angus, Nick, Caitlin, Beth and Sarah. Except to you, Beth was Elisabeth. I’ll admit that’s the name on my warrant card. The thing is, you needed a victim whose name began with the letter ‘E’. Enter me. I bet you felt oh-so-clever taking an investigating officer for one of your victims. Whatever, that doesn’t concern me. You tried, you failed. End of. I’ll bet your mother would be bothered though. You didn’t get to finish what you were doing. At first I thought you were spelling out the name ‘Frances’ until I looked into your family. Your mother’s name was Francesca. She was half-Italian, wasn’t she? Italian women are famed for being passionate, aren’t they? And, dare I say it, fiery?’

  Beth knew that her comment about Francesca Eversham being a fiery Italian was nothing more than a cultural stereotype, but she was trying to goad him into making a mistake as it was obvious to her that Eversham had serious issues with his mother.

  ‘This is preposterous. I insist you stick to the facts.’

  ‘Facts. Names. Dragons. Obsessed.’ Beth ignored the surprised looks at her outburst and pushed on with coherent sentences. ‘I am sticking to the facts, Ms Jones. We know that Mr Eversham bought paintings from Fiona McGhie, that he used to employ Rachel Allen in one of his hotels, that he hired Angus Keane for some building work and had a kitchen fitted by Nick Langley. We believe he came across Caitlin Russell on a back road by chance after she’d fallen out with her boyfriend. We have found clothing in Mr Eversham’s cellar that Sarah Hardy has identified as hers. He met Miss Hardy when buying a car; he met me when I was investigating the murder of Angus Keane. Another point to consider is that your client has the name ‘Francesca’ spelled out on his back, in what the police doctor said appeared to be cigarette burns. The doctor found this when your client was being examined for his own well-being. The doctor also said that it looked as though the burn scarring happened a long time ago.’

  Beth slid a photograph across the table. ‘This is a picture of the dragon scratched into the wall of Mr Eversham’s cellar. Miss Hardy has already identified it as the same one she saw while imprisoned. The thing is, that’s not the only dragon we found in the house. It would appear that your client has quite the fixation with dragons. My fellow officers have found dozens of books about them. Apparently Mr Eversham has pictures and ornamental statues of dragons in every room. Are those enough facts for you?’

  Even behind the sculpted make-up, Beth could see the colour drain from Ms Jones’s cheeks. ‘It’s not a crime to be interested in a mythical creature.’

  Beth skewered the solicitor with a glare. ‘Ms Jones, you can take the boredom out of your voice. You’re not fooling anyone. Your client is guilty and everyone in this room knows it. I’ve just explained his connections to a seemingly random selection of victims. We have all the evidence we need to lock your client up for a very long time. In fact, we’ve now got so much, we’d probably only need to present half of it to ensure a conviction.’

  She pulled another picture from the file. ‘This picture is rather interesting too. It’s Francesca Eversham’s death certificate.’

  The expression on Ms Jones’s face suggested she was beginning to realise what a monster she was representing. Beth could see revulsion and horror in the solicitor’s eyes as Eversham’s crimes were laid out before her.

  ‘It’s framed, which is rather unusual. What’s more, it wasn’t just framed, it was displayed. Not in an office or study, but in the main living room of Mr Eversham’s house, which, in case you aren’t aware, is a massive country pile called Kirklinton House. Yes, that’s right, he displayed his mother’s death certificate front and centre above the fireplace. Personally, I think a picture or a portrait would be more appropriate, but hey,
if he wants to celebrate his mother’s death, that’s his business.’

  O’Dowd put a hand on Beth’s arm. ‘Excuse me for interrupting, but you’re talking about Mrs Eversham’s death when you should be talking about her murder.’

  ‘I thought we’d been over that, ma’am. The Italian police who dragged her body out of the lake couldn’t get enough evidence for a conviction. They had to take her son’s word for it that she’d fallen out of their pleasure boat and drowned. Personally, I think he killed her. Snuffed out her fire in the lake. You read those reports; you saw that nobody liked her. That everyone hated the tongue-lashings she dished out. Even her own father admitted that she was a difficult woman who made her son’s life hell.’

  Eversham slammed his hands onto the table and rose to his feet. ‘Can you leave my mother out of this, please?’

  ‘Sit. Down.’

  Beth pointed at Eversham’s seat and glared at him until he sat down again.

  ‘No, we can’t leave your mother out of this. We believe you killed her because she was a horrible mother and that then you regretted it. You were obsessed with dragons, possibly because you thought of your mother as one, and then your guilt for killing her warped your mind. When you were “preparing” me and Sarah, you talked about offerings and tributes. Were you making dragons to replace your mother dragon? The initials of your victims’ names were spelling out your mother’s name. You made your dragons in the cellars of country houses, because you hid from your dragon of a mother in the cellar of your country house. That was until you killed Caitlin Russell and left her attached to the portico of Lonsdale Castle. For the record, the message you were sending with her was neither clever nor subtle. We all worked out that her positioning was you emerging into view and surveying all before you as you prepared to soar away and look down on us.’ Beth was using the insult to needle Eversham’s superiority complex. ‘Despite everything, you couldn’t replace your mother, could you? Tell me, Lawrence, were you making dragons because you loved her, or because you hated her?’