The Silent Children: A serial-killer thriller with a twist Page 15

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll get on with your own investigations and let me handle it alone. I mean it. Forget it for now. Get on with your case. Leave it entirely to me and don’t pester me about my findings. I’ll tell you when I’ve got something to tell you. Promise?’ He waggled his heavy eyebrows at her to signal the end of the pep talk.

  Robyn patted his hand. ‘Promise. You’re the best, Ross. I mean that.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure I am. I’m a big softie at heart.’

  ‘I’ve got to rush off. Amélie is staying over tonight to meet my new pet cat – Schrödinger.’

  His eyes twinkled with mirth. ‘You? A cat lady? Who’d have thought it? Hey Duke, you’ve got a new friend to play with when you go to visit Robyn next. You’ll be able to play chase.’ He grinned at her, creases forming at the sides of his eyes. ‘Go on, scoot. Go see the kid and don’t bring that naughty animal any more treats until he’s learnt to get off my chair.’

  Twenty-Six

  DAY FOUR – FRIDAY, 17 FEBRUARY, LATE EVENING

  * * *

  Robyn glanced across at Amélie, in jeans, fashionably ripped, and a soft baby-pink jumper, arms clasped around her knees, shining pink toenails on elegant pale feet, and mouth slightly agape. Schrödinger was curled up next to her, head tucked into her side, the rise and fall of his tiny body indicating complete peace.

  The girl was on the precipice of womanhood and had changed considerably from the round-faced girl with a blob of vanilla ice cream on the tip of her nose, giggling uncontrollably at the camera, while Robyn and Davies grinned wildly for the kind Spanish tourist who’d snapped their photo outside the Houses of Parliament. The picture stood on the mantelpiece over the fireplace that had not contained a crackling fire since Davies’ death.

  The Devil Wears Prada had been Amélie’s choice, borrowed from her mother, Brigitte, who would not have looked out of place in the fashion industry with her sultry French looks, impeccable grooming and ability to wear any combination of clothes and make them look as if they’d been especially designed for her petite frame. Amélie had thrown the DVD on the table with carefree abandon before dropping full length onto the carpet to play with the cat.

  ‘He’s perfect,’ she repeated as Schrödinger woke and nudged her elbow with his damp nose, deep vibrating murmurs of approval at her light touch along his backbone. ‘How come you decided to get a cat all of a sudden?’

  ‘His owner died unexpectedly. He seemed all alone and I felt sorry for him.’ Her own words echoed in her head. Was she not lonely too? Was that not one of the reasons she’d taken him?

  ‘Poor little thing. How old do you think he is?’

  ‘At least four months. His eyes would have been blue when he was born and they take up to three months to change colour.’

  ‘And what a colour they are. They’re not just orange, they’re Day-Glo orange. I know Richard would let me have a cat but it isn’t fair, is it? He’d suffer too much.’

  Amélie was talking about her stepfather, married to her mother before Davies had met Robyn. Richard, cheery-faced with his exuberant confidence, impeccably attired in freshly pressed shirts and slacks with razor-sharp creases, as if he were permanently about to step onto a deck of a yacht, was as proud of Amélie as if he’d sired her. He would do anything for his stepdaughter, even allow her a pet cat in spite of having a severe allergy to them.

  ‘You can share this one,’ said Robyn. ‘He’s taken to you.’

  They’d talked about cats on many an occasion. For all her grown-up ways, Amélie had something missing – Davies. Her sudden adoration of cats came about roughly the same time Davies died. Robyn thought Amélie had transferred her feelings for her father onto the animals, and chosen cats because Davies had always loved them and read stories of Mog the Cat to her when she was very young. It didn’t require a degree in psychology to work out Amélie’s obsession with the creatures. She needed something of her own to love and that would always be there for her. Robyn understood that emotion. It was one she was familiar with herself. Why else would she be showering Davies’ daughter with such affection? Because she was the daughter she and Davies never had together.

  Amélie had allowed an opening in the conversation to mention Davies. Robyn couldn’t resist seizing her opportunity.

  ‘I reckon Davies would have loved him too,’ she said.

  Amélie rubbed the animal’s head with the palm of her hand. ‘He would’ve,’ she replied.

  Robyn didn’t need to say anything else.

  A myriad of emotions passed over Amélie’s face. She gave a small cough before speaking again. ‘I don’t like to talk about him too much with Mum. It’s difficult, what with her being with Richard. I feel I have to keep my thoughts to myself. I’ve chatted to Florence about him, of course, but it feels like he’s moving away from me. I’m beginning to forget him, Robyn. And I worry I’ll forget all about him completely one day. Sometimes, I can’t picture exactly what he looked like. I have to look at photographs, and then I feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t forget him. He was such a great dad. Even though he was away a lot, he’d be there for me as soon as he returned. And now I know why he was away, he’s even more of a hero. Not many girls can say their dad was a spy like a real-life James Bond.’

  The words dried on her lips and in that instant she’d transformed back to the vulnerable eleven-year-old who was shell-shocked to learn her father was dead. Robyn dropped beside her on the carpet and put an arm around her thin shoulders, making out the bony ridge of her collarbone.

  ‘You won’t ever forget him. Think of the way he’d throw back his head when he found something funny and erupt with laughter so noisy it would make you want to join in. Remember the way he’d kiss your forehead for no reason other than he cared about you. You might forget every detail of him, but you’ll always remember something special about him, and that will keep him in your heart and alive forever.’

  Amélie swallowed and returned her attention to Schrödinger. ‘It’s weird because sometimes I think I see him. Do you?’

  Robyn tried not to tense at these words. ‘That’s normal. There are so many people who resemble others. It’s only natural you’d see an identifying feature – a tall man with dark hair, glasses like those he wore – and think it’s him. I’ve done it too. Soon after we lost him, I was crossing the road and was convinced I saw him in a crowd but it wasn’t him. I chased after the man and when he turned around I could see the similarities, but it wasn’t Davies.’

  She’d not opened up about this before but if she wanted to gain Amélie’s confidence, it was necessary. It had been a horrendous few weeks following his death. Soon after he’d been buried, she’d lost their baby she’d been carrying, and the loss of the two most precious gifts in her world had sent her spiralling downwards into a serious depression and breakdown. Her cousin Ross and his wife, Jeanette, had helped her through it. And now, she was dragging them both back into her mess by asking for help again.

  She removed her arm and Amélie spoke again. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? I was so sure it was him even though I knew it couldn’t be. He did look like Dad, only older and thinner, and he wasn’t dressed smartly like Dad. He was wearing a faded sweatshirt. Dad always looked like he was going into an important meeting. Always had the shiniest shoes.’ She smiled at the memory.

  ‘See, you remember all sorts of things once you start talking about him. You needn’t worry about forgetting him,’ said Robyn, hoping Amélie would say more about this unusual encounter.

  ‘I even wondered if Dad had a long-lost twin brother. Florence said that was hardly likely and I was being silly, and maybe I needed to start wearing glasses. She was trying to cheer me up,’ she explained.

  ‘Where was this?’ asked Robyn, keeping her tone light so as not to cause suspicion. ‘Town?’

  ‘Yes, at the CineBowl in Uttoxeter. We were at a friend’s bowling birthday party at the end of January, and he was bowling a few lanes down from us. I didn
’t spot him to start with, but I’d just bowled a strike and was cheering, and I spotted him looking across at me. It was one of those weird moments. He stared right at me. I didn’t know what to do. I told Florence and she looked across but he’d gone. I felt silly afterwards. It couldn’t have been Dad. I suppose it’d happened because I’d been thinking about him a lot over Christmas. Anyhow, it’s not happened again. I’ve not seen the man and we went to the bowling alley again three days ago.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let it bother you. As I said, it happens a lot. It’s part of brains refusing to accept a loss. As for forgetting Davies, you won’t. If you fancy we can talk and talk about him and it’ll bring back all those happy memories. What about the time he decided we should all go camping?’

  ‘And he forgot to bring a tin opener! His face. He turned every bag upside down looking for one. He was so sure he had brought it!’

  ‘And he tried to open the tins with a stone.’

  ‘And gave up and took us to the pub for dinner instead. We had such a laugh.’ Amélie’s face broke into a huge smile and they both began to laugh. Robyn, grateful to be part of this girl’s life, was not going to press her further, but Amélie had given her something to consider – Davies might be alive and was watching them all.

  Twenty-Seven

  SATURDAY, 18 FEBRUARY, MORNING

  * * *

  Tony admired his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was wearing well for a man in his late fifties. His hair was still as thick as it had been in his twenties, albeit silver-grey. His trip to the posh salon in Lichfield had been worthwhile, and the young man who’d cut and styled his hair for an exorbitant fee had done a decent job. The new hairstyle made him look ten years younger. If only his ex-wife, Sandra, could see him now.

  He shrugged off the memory and whistled as he splashed eau de cologne on his hands and patted it onto his neck. It had been two years since she’d hightailed it with one of his so-called friends – one who ran a successful business and owned a flashy motor. Tony beamed newly whitened teeth at the man in the mirror. She’d be majorly pissed off when she found out she’d made a bad call. She should have stuck it out with him.

  He checked his watch. Tee off time was at eight. It seemed very early to him, but being a novice at the sport and to the golf club, he wasn’t going to question the club captain, Jefferson. Not after his secretary had rung to invite Tony to a private lesson. Tony was going up in the world.

  It was only a fifteen-minute walk to the clubhouse from his tumbledown cottage in the lane. It would do him good. He’d been a bit short-breathed recently and a brisk walk should help improve his lung capacity. He patted his chest, breathed in the cold air and hoisted his bag of clubs onto his shoulder.

  By the time he reached the main street and the golf-club entrance, he wasn’t feeling great. The bag weighed a lot more than he’d first believed and had become increasingly heavy as he’d marched down the winding lane. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and made his way to the green. Jefferson had agreed to meet him there. Tony set down his clubs, removed his jacket, rolled it up and slipped it into the side pouch on his golfing bag, then put on his new golfing shoes. He patted his face with the cloth meant for his clubs and looked about. No one was around. It was amazing to think he was now a proud member of this exclusive club. He’d wanted to join for decades but could never afford it. Of course, that had all changed now.

  He’d enjoy afternoons playing with like-minded folk. He needed this. Life hadn’t been the greatest. He’d had to leave his job because of the pressures on him, and his marriage hadn’t worked out. He’d struggled but now things were different. He deserved some comfort in his later years. He had it all planned out: make friends and acquaintances here, practise until he was pretty good at it, then head to warmer climates over the winter months to play: Spain, Portugal, maybe even further afield.

  He picked out a club and gave it a swing. His head felt clammy from the walking and his chest was tight from carrying the bag. He stretched and loosened up, then resumed the golfer’s stance and swung again. He still didn’t feel too good. He should have driven to the club. He didn’t hear anybody approach and it was only when his peripheral vision picked up a movement that he lifted his head and studied the figure near him. His brow furrowed.

  ‘He told me about you,’ said the person.

  ‘What the heck are you on about? What are you doing here?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have made him do it.’

  ‘He wasn’t made to do anything,’ Tony spat.

  ‘And now, you’re going to pay.’

  Tony waved his club. The pain was getting worse – like steel bands stretching his rib cage. ‘Clear off. I’m about to play a few holes with somebody. They’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘They won’t. Nobody’s due on the course for another hour and the clubhouse is empty. I arranged this meeting with you, not the club captain. Nobody even knows you’re here. But they will when they find your body.’

  The figure lifted a gun and pointed it directly at Tony, who dropped his club in surprise. ‘You’re mad. Put that down. We can discuss this.’

  The face staring at him smiled – a cruel, cold smile. ‘Bye, Tony.’

  The blood surged, humming in his head. The pain in his chest intensified and the sweat poured again from his forehead. He opened his mouth to shout but the pain was too fierce and he fell onto his knees.

  Twenty-Eight

  DAY FIVE – SATURDAY, 18 FEBRUARY

  * * *

  It was 8 a.m. and Robyn stood in front of the whiteboard, blocking out the racket coming from the other side of the office. Matt and Mitz had joined her there and were close enough to have a conversation without shouting over desks. Robyn winced as Shearer yelled something into his phone. He’d been extra vocal since his arrival ten minutes earlier. He slammed the phone onto the table and muttered something to Gareth. Without warning, he pushed back from his desk, leapt lightly to his feet and moved swiftly towards the door.

  Gareth was a few seconds behind him. He paused to speak to Matt. ‘Bloke dead on a golf course. Maybe he got hit by a golf ball.’

  ‘Roger Jenkinson,’ said Robyn. ‘Lives just outside Yoxall. He might have dated Tessa Hall for a while. Her friend Juliet said Tessa slept with at least one of the men on the quiz team but doesn’t think it was Anthony. Liam Carrington claims he stayed well away from Tessa so that only leaves Roger Jenkinson. Can you find out about him and talk to him, Mitz?’

  ‘Will do. I’ve spoken to Tessa’s parents but they don’t know anything about a new boyfriend. I also found out they gave her the deposit for her house and have been paying half the mortgage for her. She’s their only child and they wanted to help her out. Totally devastated about her death. Sara Hall, her mother, could barely speak to me for tears. I thought I might go and visit them personally.’

  ‘Good idea. They must be in a wretched state.’

  Robyn’s phone vibrated. It was Anna, who, along with David, was at Tessa’s house, searching for anything that might lead to the identity of her boyfriend.

  ‘I think we found something relevant – a contract note concerning an offshore account in Grand Cayman for Schrödinger Securities.’

  Robyn slapped the palm of her hand on the desk in front of her. ‘Photograph it and send it across immediately. Great work.’

  ‘We’ll bring back everything we think’s relevant.’ Anna rang off and Robyn rubbed her hands in satisfaction.

  ‘Matt, Anna’s sending across some new information concerning Tessa Hall. She might have been hiding money offshore. Obviously, we need to find out how she got it in the first place. Might be a trust fund from her parents or her lover. Mitz, talk to her folks. This might change how we handle this case. Up until now, we’ve been looking for a lover or some link to Henry Gregson. Now, we could be looking for somebody who uncovered this information and either blackmailed her or wanted a part of it.’

  ‘You got it.’

 
Robyn threw her pen towards Matt, who caught it deftly. ‘Matt, make the necessary additions.’

  Matt gave a mock salute and removed the pen cap with a flourish, adding ‘offshore account’ next to Tessa Hall’s name.

  Robyn’s attention flitted back to Henry Gregson. She still harboured doubts about Libby’s boyfriend Tarik, who’d been in the vicinity on the day. Her instinct screamed he was withholding information, and not only was he in a relationship with Libby, there was also the matter of his brother, Nadir, beaten up at school by Henry and his friends. Seeking revenge for the attack on his brother years before was an unlikely motive, but Robyn had come across stranger cases. If Tarik already harboured a grudge against Henry, he might have been easily persuaded to attack the man. Robyn wasn’t yet ready to discount Libby completely as a suspect. She might be behind the murder and have involved Tarik.

  With that, Robyn left the busy office, headed for her Golf and programmed JJ Parts in Cannock into her satnav.

  It took some considerable time to find the premises at the end of an almost deserted street filled with unoccupied buildings, boarded up and scrawled with graffiti. It turned out to be the smallest of garages, almost no bigger than an ordinary double garage, and shuttered up, with an ugly brick extension attached to its side. The door to it was locked and it was only after incessant banging on it that a short, barrel-chested man in overalls appeared. Robyn held her warrant card to the grimy glass and he unlocked the door.

  ‘Brett?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’m DI Carter. We spoke on the phone earlier. I understand Tarik Akar was here Tuesday afternoon.’

  Brett squared his shoulders and scratched at his cheek. His button-brown eyes were unusually bright and darted uncomfortably around the bleak office, resting on a tatty grey plastic chair. ‘He was here.’