A Deathly Silence

by Isaac, Jane;

  ‘The duty sergeant sent him home.’

  ‘Has anyone spoken with Blane yet?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘I take it he’s her next of kin?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Get a mobile fingerprint machine down there, will you? We’ll need to get her identity confirmed and, if it is her, contact Blane before the gossip spreads further. Has anyone reported her missing?’

  ‘Not yet. According to the duty rota, she’s been on annual leave the last couple of days.’

  ‘Okay, see if you can contain it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘Will do. The machine’s already on its way.’ He was quiet a moment. ‘There’ll only be prints available from her right hand. The fingers have been chopped off at the knuckle on the left.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Helen signed the scene log and ducked underneath the blue and white police tape. Billings factory was a 1970s prefabricated construction, with a rolling factory door marking the goods-in entrance at one end of the building, and a reception area at the other.

  The car park out front was empty. Flashing lights on the police cars parked beside the cordon intermittently lit up the surrounding derelict units, all awaiting destruction. The council had sold the land, part of their plan to renew urban areas, although she recalled reading about the new owner in the local news, a property developer, experiencing financial difficulties. They’d certainly been sitting empty for a while.

  Billings was the last unit, at the bottom of the road. Thin shrubbery feathered through the gaps in a two-metre-high industrial metal fence at the bottom, marking the boundary line. The only access point she was aware of was along Carter Road, which fed off Cross Keys roundabout. One way in, one way out. She made a mental note to get the fence checked to make sure there were no breaks or gaps where someone could climb through, or for fibres caught from clothing.

  The reception area was lit with temporary police lamps, the door open. Helen nodded to a couple of CSIs crawling around the bottom of a staircase but didn’t enter. Instead, she retrieved a torch from her pocket, the wide beam illuminating the ground as she wandered down the side of the building. She wanted to get a feel for the layout of the unit, the entrances and exits. The metal fence that encased the industrial estate ran the perimeter of the building. Her forensic suit crunched as she passed one fire door, then another. The second door was open, exposing a dark corridor beyond; the undergrowth nearby recently flattened and trampled.

  The bushes were thinner at the rear and she could see the silhouette of the Bracken Way, fifty yards or so in the distance; the disused railway line the dog walker had been using when he reported seeing the disturbance.

  She continued around the building. The factory door was rolled back when she reached it, a chasm of darkness the few police lamps in the area did little to illuminate. A weathered sign hung at an angle above and read, Billings – for all your fabrication needs. The first ‘i’ hung loose, the once green letters faded and patchy. A dank, mustiness seeped out to meet her. The factory itself appeared to be empty, the concrete floor chipped and worn, the walls scuffed from years of heavy loads passing through.

  She noticed an officer approach and couldn’t resist a chuckle. Acting DI Sean Pemberton resembled a bear in his white coveralls. He paused beside her, pulled back his hood and stared into the factory beyond.

  ‘It’s a bloody nightmare with no electricity,’ he said, digging hefty hands into his pockets. ‘We’ve had to borrow every police lamp in the county.’

  ‘I bet.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘At least the rain’s held off here. It’s been torrential in Coventry.’

  ‘For now.’ He snorted. ‘How are you, ma’am?’ He smiled, his bald head glistening as a strobe of light flashed across it. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks. You’ve lost weight.’

  He’d taken it upon himself to visit her a couple of times while she was off work. Updating her on the office gossip in his usual laconic manner. He’d never been an affectionate man, a trait which often made him the butt of jokes when colleagues tried to embarrass him at social events with hugs and the odd peck on the cheek, and this made the genuine warmth of the gesture more touching.

  He patted his paunch. ‘Mrs P’s diet seems to be working.’

  ‘It does.’

  She turned back to the factory, switched off her torch. ‘Have we confirmed her identity yet?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago. The first fingerprint machine they sent out was faulty.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s definitely Sinead.’

  A memory pushed to the forefront of Helen’s mind: a dead cop, killed during their last case when they took down a network of organised crime. Colleague deaths were rare, yet only eight weeks later, just as her own injuries healed and she returned to work, she was visiting the cadaver of another officer.

  ‘Has someone been out to see her husband?’ she asked.

  ‘The uniform shift sergeant is on his way.’

  Her shoulders relaxed slightly. She desperately hoped they’d reach him before the rumours. ‘Thanks. Have you had a chance to look around?’

  ‘As much as I could in the poor lighting. Uniform entered through a fire door at the rear, which is possibly the one the offender used because the lock was broken. We checked all the other access points: the factory door here, another fire exit on the side of the building and the reception door, and they were secure. We only managed to get the keys from the owner to open it all up about half an hour ago.’

  ‘So, it was either somebody with a key or they used the broken fire door?’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it. We did find a used syringe behind some oil drums on the factory floor. Looks like someone’s been shooting up here.’ He held an open hand towards the reception entrance, inviting her to walk with him. ‘Charles has already made a start.’

  Helen fell into step with Pemberton, thanking her lucky stars that out of the two pathologists covering their area, they’d struck gold. Doctor Charles Burlington had a keen eye, a rare enthusiasm for his work which went way past the remit of the job.

  Pemberton led her down to the reception entrance. The smell was different there, more potent. Her feet clattered the forensic boarding as she followed him up the stairs. She nodded to a CSI who stood aside at the top for them to pass. It was a vast area to meticulously examine and would take them several days to complete.

  They crossed a small landing, down a corridor and into an open-plan office. The metallic stench of blood mixed with faeces was stronger in the confined area, more pungent. Helen had seen her fair share of bodies in her ten-year career: the freshly killed; those that had festered awhile, the flesh grey and rotting; crisp charred remains. Every one had its own unique smell, but this was different. Stronger. Almost as if in death, Sinead O’Donnell’s body was conveying the horror of what had happened here, her final scream pervading the air. She resisted the temptation to cover her nose, aware her colleagues would have to work under that lingering aroma for many hours to come.

  A police lamp illuminated an area in the middle of the room. They zigzagged through the desks to a man in blue coveralls on his knees, examining a contorted body beside a radiator. The legs of the victim stuck out awkwardly, the laces of her trainers hung loose. Blue painted nails decorated a limp hand fastened to the radiator pipe with a pair of handcuffs. Blood and faeces soaked the surrounding green carpet, turning it motley shades of ruddy brown.

  ‘Hello, Charles,’ she said.

  The man in the blue suit immediately turned, stood and pulled back his hood. He wasn’t a tall man, medium height, and sported an athletic stance that could be mistaken for someone ten years younger, probably due to spending half his day scrabbling around examining bodies. She’d often marvelled at the absurdity of the dead keeping him young.

  ‘Helen! I wondered if it might be you.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve missed me, Charles.’


  He slipped off a latex glove and pushed a wave of peppery hair out of his face. ‘Well, you know how it is. Don’t get much company in my line of work.’

  She laughed.

  ‘How are your boys?’ he asked.

  ‘Off sailing and rafting this week. My mother’s taken them to Wales.’

  ‘Ah… A bit of rest for you then.’

  Their gaze dropped to the victim. One hand was hooked to the radiator, the other sprawled out to the side; the stubby half fingers, cut above the knuckle joints, reaching away. The woman’s head lolled forward, her sleeveless shirt so saturated with blood, it was a job to know what colour it had originally been. Straggles of chestnut curls hung over her face, but her eyes were open wide, her face taut, in one final act of defiance.

  ‘Do we know how long she’s been here?’ Helen asked.

  ‘No,’ Charles said. ‘She’s pretty much bled out. I don’t think she’s been dead long, rigor has only just started to set in around the neck and shoulders. Within the last four to eight hours, I’d say.’

  ‘What about cause of death?’ The words sounded pitiful, surveying the shattered frame in front of her. There were so many injuries to choose from.

  ‘Ultimately, a cut throat.’ He pulled on the glove and lifted the victim’s head back to expose a messy wound running from one side of her neck to the other. When he rested her head down, the wound was covered perfectly. ‘From the amount of blood and the direction of the spatter across the walls, I’m pretty sure she was killed here.’

  Helen bent in closer. ‘Any particular sort of knife?’

  ‘Something with a smooth edge. A kitchen carving knife would do it.’ He parted locks of hair at the side to show splinters of bone, blood and grey matter. ‘She was hit on the head too, with a blunt instrument. But the neck wound caught the carotid artery; she’d have bled out pretty quickly after that.’

  ‘Okay, how long before you can do the post-mortem?’

  ‘I’m getting the preliminaries done here, then I’ll start on her first thing in the morning.’

  Helen’s gaze rested on the cuffs. ‘Are those police issue?’ she asked Pemberton.

  He crouched down, examined them closely. ‘They’re not ours,’ he said slowly. ‘Different catch. There aren’t any markings on them either.’

  His words were drowned out by a kerfuffle outside. Raised voices. A man shouting.

  Helen exchanged a glance with Pemberton and moved to the window. But the office windows looked out to the side and the voice was coming from the car park out front.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the pathologist, and moved out to the window on the landing. The lights of the police cars illuminated a fracas in the road. Officers wrestling to hold back a tall man, over six foot she guessed, who wouldn’t look out of place in the front row of a rugby scrum. The three officers restraining him clearly struggling.

  Pemberton joined her, staring out across the tarmac. ‘Looks like Blane O’Donnell’s arrived.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Blane didn’t see the officer cross the car park, didn’t notice her stop the other side of the cordon. Lost as he was in the fug of the struggle; pushing and shoving with all his might. Hurling expletives through gritted teeth.

  He needed to get inside the factory. To Sinead.

  ‘Blane O’Donnell?’

  The crisp words caught him by surprise. He froze, his vision clearing. It was the detective chief inspector he’d read about in the force newsletter, the one who’d recently been commended for arresting a local gang leader. She looked tiny, standing there in white coveralls, beside her oversized sidekick.

  Blane swallowed and nodded.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector…’

  As she spoke, the officers around him loosened their grip. And he spotted his chance. A sudden jerk, an explosion of energy as he lunged forward. Under the cordon. Towards the door.

  A blurred movement in front. Someone blocking his path. He sidestepped. A hand reached for his forearm. He flailed out. A fist connected. Instantly, he was tugged from behind, his arms clamped in a vice-like grip, holding him back.

  Blane blinked. Watched the DCI stumble back. Shit! He’d hit her. He hadn’t meant to hit her. He hadn’t meant to hit anyone. He just wanted to get to Sinead.

  ‘Helen Lavery,’ she continued, clutching her shoulder.

  He’d missed her face by a whisker. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to…’ His words trailed off.

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’ Her shoulder crunched as she rolled it back.

  ‘I need to see Sinead.’

  ‘You know I can’t let you do that.’

  Frustration twisted inside him. ‘You can’t stop me. It’s my wife in there.’

  ‘And you will see her. When the time is right.’

  A rush of anger. Tearing at his insides. He squeezed his eyes together, shut it out.

  ‘Why don’t we go and speak in my car?’ the DCI said. ‘Just you and me. I’ll give you as much information as I can.’

  ‘What about Sinead?’

  ‘I’ll arrange for you to see Sinead, as soon as it’s practical. I promise.’

  He was aware of the grips loosening. A hand at his back, leading him to a Subaru at the edge of the cordon. The cold leather of the back seat as he sat inside. But he barely saw any of it. He was in a tailspin, a swirling vortex of emotions, his heart fighting to burst out of his chest.

  He dropped his head into his hands. Concentrated on his breathing. In and out. In and out.

  It was a while before he opened his eyes and, when he did, he was surprised to find the DCI beside him. A slip of a woman. How the hell did he manage to hit her? He worked in defensive tactics, for Christ’s sake. Trained other officers daily on how to restrain themselves and keep their cool.

  ‘I’m sorry about the shoulder, ma’am.’

  ‘It’s okay, really.’

  She was lying, the discomfort obvious in her face.

  He wound down his window, inviting in the fresh evening air. ‘What happened to Sinead?’

  ‘It’s too early to say exactly. Does Sinead have any connection to Billings factory or the industrial estate?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What about enemies. Are you aware of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?’

  ‘No.’ He looked across at the factory. The wonky signage, the works entrance door folded back, a wide-open mouth. ‘Is it true, what they’re saying? Had she been tortured?’

  ‘There are a number of injuries. We’re still establishing the extent of them. I’m so sorry.’

  Acidic bile rose in his throat. He tore his gaze away, focused on the back of the seat in front of him.

  ‘How has she been recently?’

  He took his time to answer, navigating through the mist in his mind. ‘I don’t know. Things have been… difficult.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Her mother suffers from early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’s in a home nearby, deteriorating rapidly. And my own mum is downsizing; I’ve been spending a lot of time there, renovating the house, getting it ready for sale. It’s been a strain.’ He pressed a hand to the side of his face, the heat providing a short respite from the pain fizzing at his temple. ‘Sinead’s been under pressure, what with the children, work, family stuff. I organised a holiday, to give her a break. That’s where she should be now.’

  ‘How old are your children?’

  ‘Thomas is five. Our daughter, Ava, is three.’ His hand slipped down to his chin, thick calluses scraping against his cropped beard. His children. So young. So innocent.

  ‘When did you last see Sinead?’ the DCI asked softly.

  ‘Um, this morning.’ Was it only this morning? It seemed like days ago. ‘She’d taken a few days’ leave from work to go on a yoga retreat in Derbyshire. The kids and I saw her off.’ Twelve hours ago. He could still see her wide smile as she crouched down and wrapped the children in hugs, smothering their faces with kisses, a
sking them to behave for their father. Climbing into her Fiesta with promises of presents on her return. Waving out of the open window as she drove down the road. ‘I thought it would do her good,’ Blane said, snapping back to the present. ‘You know, to get away for a few days.’

  ‘Was she going alone?’

  ‘She was expecting to. I’d planned to go up and join her tomorrow. A surprise. We rarely get any time on our own these days.’ He bit back tears, passed on the details of her car and the direction in which she was travelling.

  The DCI jotted down the details. ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Fine. Normal. I think she was looking forward to the break, to be honest.’

  The police tape crackled as it fluttered in the light breeze.

  ‘Blane, I’m sorry to have to ask you this. Where were you between 10 a.m. and 10 p.m. today?’

  He knew this was coming, he’d been in that chair so many times himself, asking the questions. But it still stung all the same. ‘After we waved Sinead off, I dropped the kids at my mum’s house, then went to work. I booked on at about 10.30 a.m. – you’ll be able to check the duty system – and finished at 5 p.m. I went to the gym afterwards, got home in time to put the children to bed around seven.’

  ‘At your mother’s house?’

  ‘Yes. The kids often stay there when Sinead is on shift, especially recently while I’ve been doing the renovating. Mum cooked dinner. She was there with me all evening.’ He reeled off the address, watched her scratch it down. ‘Sinead phoned me, you know, about twenty minutes after she left. It was her first holiday away from the children. She wanted to check they weren’t too upset after she’d driven away.’ He looked down. ‘It was the last time we spoke.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Do you have the details of her mobile phone? It doesn’t seem to be with her.’

  ‘It would have been in her bag. Sinead took a handbag everywhere with her. I used to tease her about not carrying it on duty.’ Used to. He flinched, retrieved his phone and passed over her number.