The Silent Children: A serial-killer thriller with a twist Page 9

  Robyn struck through Liam Carrington’s name and sidled past the desks to her own. Lauren was still a potential suspect, although they had little reason to suspect her. There was no proof she was seeing another man. For now, Robyn was left with only two potential suspects – Libby and Tarik – and a weak motive for murdering a sibling – jealousy.

  No sooner had she sat down than her phone rang. It was the front desk.

  ‘There’s a man to see you at reception, name of Carrington.’

  Robyn was surprised. ‘Put him in interview room two and I’ll meet him there.’

  She hastened from the office, hoping Liam Carrington had some new information for her. She opened the door to the interview room and was met by soft sobbing and a small, crumpled face. Tears hung from the little girl’s eyelashes as she studied Robyn.

  ‘Hello,’ said Robyn, crouching down to face the pretty child. ‘I’m Robyn. Who are you?’

  The child turned away, bottom lip trembling, and scampered across the room to her father, burying her head in his lap. He attempted to lift her away without success.

  ‘This is Astra. Astra, say hello to the nice lady.’

  Eventually, the child raised her head and managed a shy smile, but remained close to her father, clutching his fingers with her tiny hand. Liam Carrington had dark purple bags under his eyes and the look of a haunted man. ‘I’m sorry. She wouldn’t let me leave the house without her. Henry was supposed to be taking her out today and I had to explain he couldn’t, because, well, you know, and she’s been like this ever since – frightened to let me out of her sight. She’s taken it badly.’

  On cue, and hearing his name, the little girl whispered, ‘Henry?’

  Robyn’s heart sank at hearing the hope in the small voice. Carrington looked at her in despair.

  ‘Is Henry here?’ she said.

  ‘Sweetie, he isn’t. He had an accident.’ Robyn spoke as gently as she could.

  The girl’s lip trembled uncontrollably. ‘No Henry,’ she stammered.

  Her father drew her to him and planted a kiss on her head. He gazed across at Robyn, his hand resting on the child’s hair. ‘I came to see if you’d got anywhere in the investigation. I couldn’t sleep last night. I hoped maybe you could give me some news.’

  Robyn stood again and let out a gentle sigh. ‘Not yet but I’ll let you know as soon as we make progress. We will find whoever did this.’

  He nodded but his face remained unconvinced. ‘Thanks. I’d better get Astra home. Shall we go home and see Mummy?’

  Astra blinked back more tears. ‘Henry? Bouncy balls?’

  He shrugged at Robyn. ‘He takes her to the bouncy ball pit at Wolseley Bridge on Thursday afternoons. It’s a cage filled with soft balls and slides for the kiddies. She loves it.’ He looked down on his daughter. ‘Astra, shall Daddy take you to the bouncy balls?’

  She hung her head and her little shoulders began to shake as she sobbed. ‘No Daddy. I want Henry.’

  * * *

  Robyn retraced her steps to the office and threw herself behind the desk. As she did so, she realised she was functioning more clearly. Davies had finally taken a back seat in her mind.

  Fourteen

  THURSDAY, 16 FEBRUARY, EARLY MORNING

  * * *

  Tessa Hall padded down the stairs into her kitchen, flicked the light switch and blinked away the sleepy dust in her eyes. She tugged at the fleece, pulling it over her ample chest and belly, and shivered.

  The boiler hadn’t yet kicked in so the air in the kitchen was cool, her nose and cheeks chilly to the touch. It was a bitterly cold morning and she was mad. Mad to be up at this ungodly hour to pound the streets. She should still be tucked up in bed, fast asleep under her warm duvet, with Schrödinger, her kitten, beside her. For a minute she considered heading back upstairs and joining him. It was a tempting thought. Then she heaved a sigh. She’d made the New Year’s resolution to get into shape for a good reason, and it was paying off. She had to stick to it, no matter if it was bloody awful getting up before 6 a.m. three times a week to jog miles along wet or slippery pavements while the world slumbered on. At first, she’d struggled to manage even half a mile, her breath coming in painful, ragged gasps with each step, but now she could keep up a decent pace for about five miles and was pleased with her efforts. It hadn’t been easy, and she’d hated every minute of it, but she had a goal – a reason for all this punishment.

  She caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window and thought she was looking fitter and healthier. She smoothed her stomach with one hand and smiled to herself. The reason for her interest in exercise would be here tomorrow night, and she couldn’t wait.

  Tessa’s thoughts drifted to their last liaison, and she squirmed at the delicious memory. He’d had to spend Valentine’s Day at home, which was a bummer, but what could she expect? The jealous cow would be sure to suspect him of an affair if he’d been out on that particular night. It didn’t matter. Tessa looked at the huge display of flowers he’d sent her. She was winning. He was becoming more and more besotted. It wouldn’t be much longer before he’d dump the miserable cow; after all, Tessa had a trump card – one she’d kept close to her chest. She was biding her time before she played it, and when she did – he’d be amazed, delighted and wholly hers.

  It would be worth it – all the deceit, all the clandestine meetings. The future was looking remarkably brighter. She checked her iPhone to make sure her running music was set up. The music was the only thing that kept her going some mornings. She’d get this over with, do some stretching back home, grab a shower and maybe stop off at the drive-in Costa on her way to work. She’d pick up a hot chocolate – one naughty treat wouldn’t hurt.

  She’d have to buy some drinks for tomorrow night too. She planned on sharing her news at last and they’d have some serious celebrating to do.

  Tessa attached the iPhone to her upper arm, over the fleece, and picked up her running shoes. As she did so, somebody knocked at her front door – a gentle tap. It couldn’t be him, could it? He sometimes surprised her by stopping off on his way to work. He’d done so last week. He’d arrived at six thirty, desperate to see her. They’d had eager, passionate sex on the kitchen table before he’d had to leave. Her insides squirmed at the thought of it. Of course it would be him, desperate for her. Like her, he couldn’t wait for tomorrow. She eagerly drew back the bolt and opened the door but was disappointed to find it was not who she was expecting.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I had to see you. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Look, I’ve made my position clear on this subject.’

  ‘I’ll only be a minute. Please let me in. It’s freezing out here.’

  Tessa sighed. ‘Make it quick. I want to get a run in before I go to work.’ She moved aside to let her visitor in and then shut the door.

  ‘Won’t you reconsider?’

  ‘I’m not changing my mind about this,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘I told you on the phone. I’ve made my mind up and that’s that. So, it doesn’t matter what you say, I won’t back down.’

  ‘Tessa, I’m asking nicely.’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you no?’

  ‘I’m begging you to reconsider.’

  A soft meow made Tessa look up. Her kitten was at the top of the stairs, seeking attention. He called again but did not move.

  ‘I don’t have to beg, do I, Tessa?’

  The voice was angrier this time and irked Tessa. She wasn’t in the mood to put up with any intimidation. Besides, she’d made up her mind. She looked away from the kitten and shook her head crossly. ‘I have to get going.’

  She turned back to open the door again but stopped in mid-action. Her eyes widened with surprise as an object swung towards her and warm liquid spilled down her cheek. Then the pain exploded in her head. There was no time to assimilate what had happened. There was nothing but blackness as she slipped to the floor. The kitten called out plaintively.


  Her visitor checked for a pulse then stepped over her body, reached for the door handle and slid out into the darkness.

  Fifteen

  THEN

  * * *

  The hammering on the door echoes throughout the house – a thud, thud, thud of urgency. The boy lifts his head from the pillow, eyes heavy with sleep, and listens. His head still throbs. The day before, he’d been kicking his football against the kitchen wall, practising his moves, doing keepie uppies and then kicking it hard, as if scoring a goal, when his father had come thundering outside in a blind fury and whacked his head against the brick wall so hard he’d seen stars.

  ‘Keep the noise down. It’s doing my bloody head in listening to you. I can’t hear the telly.’

  He’d spent the day at home in bed with the curtains drawn. His mother had sat with him on and off. Told him he wasn’t to mention it at school when he went back, and he was to say he’d tripped up. He wasn’t to tell anyone, no one at all. She made him promise, and kissed him on the cheek and told him it would be okay. They both knew it was never okay. He might still be alive this time but what would happen the next?

  Now he’s awake. His head isn’t hurting as badly and his senses are on full alert. His parents’ bedroom door creaks open and he hears his mother descend the stairs, one at a time, hesitating until the thumps begin again and a voice calls her name. She scurries lightly down the last few stairs and the door opens.

  He gets out of his bed and pads to the door. His sister hasn’t woken. She sleeps so badly at night she needs a good shake every day to get up. She’s wrapped up in a faded duvet covered in lambs, no doubt lost in a magical world far away from parents who scream at each other, where plaster crumbles from the ceiling to leave light flurries of snow-like grey dust on their bedding, and where large damp patches of mould spread up the bedroom wall. She lets out a soft sigh. He leaves her sleeping. He knows it is much better to be asleep. When you’re sleeping you don’t feel the hunger that rumbles like a caged tiger or the anxiety that you wear like a heavy cloak.

  The voices below are mumbled then his mother cries, ‘No!’ A deeper voice speaks and the door closes again, the voices moving into the kitchen.

  He creeps down the stairs and hovers outside the door, not daring to enter but desperate to know what has made his mother cry out. He can’t hear what’s being said. He walks silently to the front window and peers outside. The police squad car is difficult to miss in its fluorescent yellow and blue. His heart thumps against his rib cage as he thinks about why the police might be behind the kitchen door. The day before, before he’d had his head smacked against the wall, he’d gone into Mr Bridge’s local shop. It hadn’t been planned. He’d been going home from school with Johnny Hounslow, whose dad owns a factory in Birmingham. Johnny, who gets loads of pocket money, decided to buy some crisps. While Johnny was hunting through the various flavours in a large box next to the counter, he’d wandered down the aisles. Mr Bridges had been so busy watching Johnny, he didn’t spot the theft of a king-sized chocolate bar. Neither did Johnny. What if it had been caught on camera and now the police were here to tell his mother? It wasn’t the first item he’d stolen.

  The sound of a kitchen chair scraping on the floor makes him draw back up the stairs. The door opens. His mother emerges, her face ghostly white. She spots him and signals for him to return upstairs. Two uniformed officers head for the front door, speaking in hushed tones.

  ‘Someone will be in touch soon.’

  His mother shuts the door behind them and stands with her back against it.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asks. ‘What did the cops want?’

  ‘Your dad. He got into trouble. Looks like he’ll be going to prison for quite a while.’

  He takes in her words. No more drunken beatings. The relief is palpable and he wants to shout hurray, then he notes the silent tears.

  ‘Why are you crying? If he’s in prison, he won’t be able to hurt you any more.’

  She shakes her head, sniffling so badly, snot runs down her face. ‘He can’t hurt us but I don’t know how I’ll manage. I don’t have a job and the rent is overdue on this place again, and I’ve not even got the emergency money.’ The words trail away, overtaken by sobs. ‘If I can’t look after you, they’ll take you away…’

  He doesn’t understand. ‘It’s okay. You can get a job and I’ll look after my sister when you’re out. I’ll get a job too. Maybe I could deliver papers.’

  Her shoulders shake up and down like she’s laughing hysterically. The tears fall faster. She can’t speak. The look on her face makes his blood run cold. He senses it’s going to be worse without his father.

  Sixteen

  DAY THREE – THURSDAY, 16 FEBRUARY, AFTERNOON

  * * *

  Robyn was working through the information on Gregson’s mobile when her phone rang for the second time. It was the desk sergeant again.

  ‘DCI Flint asked me to pass this to you. DI Shearer’s not available and it’s urgent. There’s been an incident at Barton-under-Needwood. Victim’s a young woman. Don’t have any other details. Paramedics called it in. Head injuries.’

  Robyn got everyone’s attention. ‘We’ve got another case to handle. We’ll need to split the team for the moment. Matt, stay on this, and Anna, see if you can trace Henry Gregson’s Kia before it headed to Cannock Chase. Keep me in the loop. David, Mitz – with me.’

  * * *

  Robyn gritted her teeth as they attempted to navigate the popular village of Barton-under-Needwood, populated by commuters working in nearby Lichfield, Tamworth and Burton-upon-Trent. Even with the siren blaring, it took several minutes to circumnavigate the lunchtime traffic and reach the terraced house situated in a side road, near the Tudor church of St James.

  Robyn slipped on the obligatory crime scene paper suit behind the squad car and studied the front of the house, separated from the road by a foot of pavement and accessed by a paved driveway to the left. It was a small, brown-brick property, with a wooden door painted in duck-egg blue and windowsills to match. Window boxes filled with pale pink and purple pansies, damp and limp from the recent rain, had been recently tended and deadheaded. Slatted cream blinds hung halfway down sparkling windows, and on the window ledge was a black kitten, its head turning this way and that, attracted by all the outside activity. Robyn showed her ID to the PC standing at the entrance to the drive, and entered the property. The kitten watched her, its golden gaze following her as she stepped cautiously over the threshold.

  The front door led directly into the kitchen that doubled as a dining room. Tessa Hall, in jogging bottoms and a fleece, was lying near the foot of a staircase that rose from the side of the room. The tiled floor was splattered with bright-red stains. Several tiny droplets of blood had splattered onto the kitchen cupboards and some even onto the white wooden banister behind her. Her head was a bloodied mess surrounded by a crimson halo. Several forensic officers were working silently in the kitchen, and the photographer was in the doorway separating the kitchen from a sitting room, checking through what he’d already captured. Connor Richards, already in situ, raised his hands helplessly when he saw Robyn.

  ‘Horrible,’ he said.

  ‘What are we dealing with here?’ asked Robyn.

  ‘Female in her twenties. Head injury. Might have been due to a nasty fall. Or more likely it was an attack. Harry McKenzie is on his way. He’ll be able to verify if it was deliberate.’

  On cue, Harry McKenzie, the pathologist, entered, his medical case gripped tightly, brows furrowed. He didn’t greet them; instead, he nodded in their direction and heaved a sigh at the spectacle before him. A small, neat man in his fifties, with greying temples, pale face and delicate features, Harry had a gentle bedside manner. Robyn liked his methodical approach combined with the kindness that exuded from him.

  He unpacked his case in silence and set about examining Tessa, gently checking her injuries. Robyn turned away from the sight of the woman and
looked around the impossibly tidy kitchen. Tessa looked after her home. Porcelain jars marked coffee, tea and sugar stood beside a gleaming kettle and a mug bearing a picture of a cat in a bow tie. Other animal mugs were hanging from wooden pegs under kitchen units, and a magnificent display of flowers rested upon the table at the far end of the kitchen. Beside it stood a large card bearing a velvet red heart. A small beanbag cushion balanced on a kitchen chair was presumably for the cat. A litter tray and a blue food bowl bearing the name Schrödinger stood by the door. One of the forensic team had removed the kitten from the windowsill and it was now shut in a cage by the door, still fixated on Robyn. It meowed at her – a weak, lost cry – and a rush of sadness overcame Robyn, for both the house-proud young woman and her small companion.

  Mitz joined them, notepad in hand.

  ‘Victim is Tessa Hall. Twenty-six years old. Single. She was a nurse and worked in Tamworth. The neighbours on either side are currently out at work. I’ve just spoken to the woman who found her, Mrs Frances Shields. She came around to drop off a copy of the local newsletter and heard the cat yowling. She thought it might have been injured, peered through the letter box, caught sight of Tessa lying on the floor, and called the emergency services. We’re getting a full statement from her now.’ He looked up from his pad.

  ‘Can you arrange for house-to-house enquiries?’

  ‘Sure.’ David glanced at the body of Tessa Hall and winced. ‘You want me to start now?’

  ‘As soon as we’ve finished here. I don’t want to get in the way of the forensic team.’ Robyn looked around the room. There didn’t appear to be any obvious signs of a struggle. Forensics would be able to ascertain if there had been one. Her eyes lit upon the iPhone still attached to Tessa’s arm and the running shoes on the floor. ‘It looks like she’d been getting ready to go out jogging. Maybe she surprised an intruder. This could be an attempted burglary that went wrong or a random attack. Connor, can I take that phone with me?’