The Silent Dead

by Keith Nixon

  “Dad!” Fiona pushed past Gray and ran to her father, who’d rolled over onto his knees. Gray tried to help but Jenkinson was crawling along the floor like a baby. “Leave me alone!”

  “I’ll deal with him,” said Fiona and pushed the door closed.

  Gray picked up the brush from where it had fallen and waited. Fiona returned in a couple of minutes. He said, “I’m sorry about that.” He held out the brush and Fiona took it.

  “It’s not your fault. I’ve given him something to calm down. God, I need a drink.” Fiona went to a cupboard, pulled out a bottle and a glass. She poured herself a shot of vodka, her hand shaking. “He’s not always like that.” Gulped a shot down. “Some days he’s worse.” Fiona smiled, like it was a bad joke. She rolled up her shirt sleeve. There was a fresh scratch along her arm, like fingernails had dragged. Above, yellowing bruises circling her arm.

  “Do you need help?”

  “I can’t put him into a home, Sol. Not now. There’s not long left. Every day I can have with him, even if it’s like this.”

  “I’m not sure how you cope.”

  “Sometimes we get what we deserve.”

  “I’d better be going.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” On the way they passed a bathroom, the door open. Fiona put the brush onto the sink before she opened the front door for him.

  “Call me if I can help.”

  Fiona closed the door on Gray as her father started shouted obscenities.

  Gray sat in his car, key in the ignition. Seeing Jenkinson so withered hit him hard. He was starting to feel old. Time was racing, pushing him along at a seemingly faster and faster rate. Twenty years ago, it had been weddings and christenings – new beginnings. Now, it was significant birthday parties, retirements and divorces. All too soon it would be funerals. People he’d worked with for years were starting to disappear, new faces joining the team. People he was aloof from because of the age gap, which was developing into a chasm. He struggled to relate to people anyway, without the intervening generational aspect and his seniority. Like Pfeffer, she was decades younger.

  Then he remembered the baby. She hadn’t had a chance to age.

  Gray’s phone rang. “It’s Alexander Vardie. My trip is ending earlier than expected. Can we get together at my office? 9am tomorrow morning? If you’re still interested in meeting, of course?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Great, see you then.” Vardie cut the call.

  Gray twisted the key and the engine started. He headed home, hoping he was going to start getting some answers soon.

  Eleven

  Kent County Council Social Services was situated in an unusual location – down a dead-end street on an industrial estate on the edge of Broadstairs. To one side of the government building stood an auto garage and opposite an indoor skatepark.

  The building itself was anonymous, no signs out front. The central and main portion was two storeys of grey concrete in the art deco style, flanked by more modern breezeblock wings clad in maroon-coloured corrugated metal on the upper floor. Cars were shoved all around the building but Gray found an empty visitor’s spot right out front. The entrance was a single door which led to a lobby as undistinguished as the exterior.

  “Inspector Gray, I’m here to see Alexander Vardie,” Gray told the receptionist, a middle-aged, dark-haired Asian woman – Chinese or Japanese, Gray could never figure out the difference – wearing a headset. She nodded, prodded a button and spoke quietly into the microphone near her lips.

  “He’ll be with you momentarily.” She pointed to a couple of chairs around a table. “You can wait over there.”

  “I’m fine.” Gray didn’t move.

  Soon, a smartly dressed man, in blue suit trousers with matching waistcoat and pale blue shirt open at the neck, descended the stairs. His skin was pockmarked by old acne scars. He sported a neatly clipped goatee and moustache, the ends waxed so they pointed outwards. His brown hair was slicked back and wet-looking.

  He walked towards Gray, held his hand out. “Alexander Vardie. Pleased to meet you.” His grip was firm and dry, his accent London. “Will you follow me?”

  Vardie led Gray back up the stairs to a plain meeting room a few yards along the blank corridor. The room was whitewashed walls and a meeting table in a pale wood. The blinds across the windows were drawn, blocking out the view. A black laptop, the lid down, sat on the table, the power light flashing steadily.

  “Please, take a seat,” said Vardie. Gray did so. Vardie took the place opposite, the laptop adjacent to him. “Before we start, can I see your warrant card?”

  “No problem.” Gray handed over the laminated sheet the size of a credit card.

  Vardie examined it closely before passing it back. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “What do you do here, Mr Vardie?”

  “Me or the council?”

  “Both.”

  “We offer social service support for a whole manner of people in a whole series of situations. From children to adults. Benefits, pensions, housing, disability and so on. And I’m what’s called a Senior Practitioner. The team of Thanet-based social workers report into me. I, in turn, report to the Social Care Manager. The social workers spend most of their time in the field, working directly with the families. I’m more office based than they are. However, periodically I get out and about. Sometimes our cases may take us all across the county. Say if we’re moving a family from somewhere like Tonbridge to Ramsgate.”

  “What about the actual fostering process?”

  “There’s two types – short or long term. The former typically occurs for children in case proceedings or who can’t be looked after by whoever is legally responsible for them. The latter is when a child needs a more permanent home.”

  “How long could this care last for?”

  Vardie shrugged. “It really depends. Anywhere from days to a couple of years. Every situation is different. Some are straightforward, others more complex.”

  “And how does a child come into your care?”

  “Again, that’s a very broad question and can vary drastically. At one extreme the child could be at risk and forcibly removed or, at the other end of the scale, voluntarily given up by the parent or parents. Either way, a social worker is assigned to carry out an assessment of the child’s position before developing a care plan. One of the options may be long-term fostering. Another, reunification – where all parties work together to place the child back in their home. This is our preference, of course.

  “If the care plan is one of reunification the care giver may spend lots of time with the birth family. Usually, new foster parents start with short-term cases to get a taste and build up experience. Ultimately, they may decide fostering isn’t for them. Another outcome is the child moves onto longer term fostering, so the child stays with the initial care givers as a bridge before they find somewhere more permanent. Occasionally, children placed in short term foster care end up staying much longer.” He leant forward on his forearms, interlinked his fingers. “Now, that’s all rather boring. You wanted to talk about an investigation?”

  “Andrea Ogilvy, I understand she was an approved foster carer?”

  “Ah, yes. The shoebox baby. I rather hoped that might be the subject.” Vardie sat more upright, interest on his face. “I never met Mrs Ogilvy. I only transferred down two years ago. From what I’ve read she was one of our general providers. This is where I’ll need to refer to the records.” Vardie pulled over the laptop, lifted the lid, tapped away at the keys. Presumably entering a password. He stared at the screen briefly then nodded to himself.

  “Before we proceed there’s one aspect I’d like to clarify, Inspector Gray. As you’re probably aware there have been a number of high-profile institutional child abuse cases recently. When Mrs Ogilvy started fostering back in the ‘70s things would have been very different to a handful of years ago and different again now. There were far fewer checks and balances for one thing. Over time w
e’ve tightened up all of our procedures.

  “Now, my management are very alert to the fact that the shoebox baby is garnering lots of media attention. So far, is your case indicating any exploitation or mishandling we need to be aware of?”

  “Do you think there’s been some abuse going on?”

  “We don’t believe there has.”

  “So why are you asking?”

  “I’m not, management are.”

  “What are they worried about?”

  “I can’t say.” Now Gray frowned. “Because they haven’t told me.”

  “Is this going to be an issue, Mr Vardie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gray was tempted to push through Vardie and the over-cautious bureaucracy, but that would probably result in him having to come back again and he couldn’t be bothered. Better to play the game. “To answer your first question, I don’t know either. It’s too early to say.” Vardie grimaced. “But it doesn’t seem that way right now.”

  Vardie flashed a relieved smile. “Good, of course we’ll provide any information we possibly can. The care of the people we look after is the paramount concern.”

  “I’m sure,” said Gray. “So, Mrs Ogilvy.”

  Vardie blinked. “Yes, sorry.” Vardie returned his attention to the laptop. “Her record was exemplary for the majority of her time as a carer, right up until she stopped about eight years ago. The service she provided was mainly short term, with a handful of longer-term children too. Usually the subjects were of the more, uhm, challenging variety.”

  “One of Mrs Ogilvy’s own children mentioned some issue with the council regarding an accusation.”

  Vardie read on before saying, “That’s correct. We served Mrs Ogilvy a Section 47 Enquiry.”

  “What’s one of those?”

  “It’s a formal investigation and it’s instigated when, I quote, reasonable cause to suspect that a child who lives, or is found, in their area is suffering, or is likely to suffer, significant harm'.”

  “This was a formal process, you said?”

  “Correct.”

  “Because her daughter mentioned it was just the opposite. She played everything down.”

  “A sensitive subject, perhaps?”

  “Maybe. It was regarding her husband, right?”

  “You’re well informed, Inspector. After the complaint and prior to the resolution all fostering activity at the Ogilvy’s continued. The allegation was subsequently found to be unsubstantiated.” Vardie scanned through the notes some more. “It seems we attempted to re-establish Mrs Ogilvy as a carer, but she declined.”

  “Does it say why?”

  “I can’t see a reason. Then again, Mrs Ogilvy was in her late 60s. It’s a tiring business at the best of times.”

  “Can I get a copy of the Section 47 and the investigation?” Gray slid over his business card. “My email address is on there.”

  “I’ll send it to you now; otherwise I’ll get involved in something else and forget.” Vardie tapped away at the keyboard, clicked the mouse a few times then said, “Done. It’ll be in your inbox when you reach your office.” Vardie grinned once more. “The power of the world wide web.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Not right now.”

  “You’ve got my number, call me if you do.” Vardie stood. “I’ll show you out.”

  When Gray reached his car, his phone rang.

  Pfeffer. “We’ve had an initial report back on the DNA analyses, sir.”

  Twelve

  The contact at the PFA laboratory where the DNA tests occurred was Dr Amy Aplin. Her report, of several pages in length, was awaiting Gray on email when he arrived back at the station. He opened the DNA report and glanced over the data, but he was no expert. Gray picked up his phone, dialled the number listed in the email footer.

  “Dr Aplin? Solomon Gray of Thanet CID. Have you got a few minutes to discuss the results you sent through?”

  “Absolutely, and its Amy. What do you want to know?” Her accent was soft Welsh.

  “I could do with a brief summary, to be honest.”

  “How far did you get into my report?”

  “Page two, sorry.”

  Aplin laughed. “At least you’re honest.”

  “It happens occasionally.”

  She chuckled again. “Well, first and foremost, the two subjects aren’t related. If you go to the opening page of the report, you’ll see several graphs, each with vertical bars of varying height.”

  He scrolled up. “Got them.”

  “Fundamentally, the information is stored as a digital code, based on the nomenclature of what are called Short Term Random Repeats. This is a microsatellite consisting of a unit of between two and thirteen nucleotides repeated a multiple of times along the row of a DNA strand. What we do in the STR analysis is count the exact number of repeating units. The number of times these units occur can be highly variable between people. Does that make sense?”

  “Well enough for me to follow.”

  “So, back to the graphs. One plot is from the baby, the other Polly Draper. What you can see is a clear difference in the repetition of the STRs. I’d say there’s less than a 1% chance of a family connection between the subjects.”

  “That’s certainly definitive.”

  “There’s a further aspect you may have missed. If you flip on, you’ll see the chart for Philip Ogilvy. Have you got it?”

  Gray did so. “Yes.”

  “Okay, compare Polly Draper’s graph to Philip Ogilvy’s.” Gray did, flipping back and forth several times.

  “They appear different. The lines don’t overlap as much.”

  “Absolutely. So, the siblings have a match with their mother, but I would suggest they have different fathers.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I thought I should bring it to your attention, in case it’s pertinent to the case.”

  Gray sat back and thought. “At this stage that’s impossible to say, Amy.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I need to consider the options. Thanks for your help.”

  “Don’t be so quick to get off the phone. There’s more. I’ve just had the results of the familial search. We had several cold hits.”

  “You came up with names?”

  “A few. Seventeen possibilities in total.”

  “Bloody hell, that’ll take some checking out.” Gray imagined all the leg work involved in tracking down each relative, visiting them, taking statements and gaining their consent for a swab to then cross-reference against their data. He’d known familial analyses would throw up several comparisons, but he’d hoped for a smaller number. Hamson would not be pleased based on their recent discussion.

  “I’ve a suggestion which may help you. I can run the DNA through a commercial database and see if that throws anything up.”

  “Commercial database?”

  “The ones that are always being advertised on TV. Where you buy a kit, send your DNA off to them and they come back with your genealogy.”

  “I don’t know why anyone would do that.”

  “Plenty of people have. The commercial databases evaluate single nucleotide polymorphisms. They possess 600,000 to 700,000 connections so these are far more detailed than the STRs, sufficient to detect even distant family ties. The databases have been used in the US to clear up several cold cases where unwitting relatives sent in swabs and a family connection was subsequently made.”

  “What’s the downside?”

  “At worst it won’t bring down the target list from 17 and there’s a cost associated.”

  “So, our position could remain neutral, but our budget gets hit with another bill.”

  “Yes, but I’d be surprised if some benefit wasn’t seen. It could bring the list down to a handful of priority targets.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “I can probably get you an answer to
morrow.”

  Pfeffer glanced into his office then started to walk away. Gray covered up the mouthpiece, called, “I’m almost finished, Melanie. Come in.” Pfeffer did so and leant against the wall.

  “Do it,” said Gray. “And thanks for your help.”

  “I’ll be back in touch soon as I can.” Aplin rang off.

  Gray replaced the receiver, said to Pfeffer, “That was the labs; they’re going to carry out some further tests, hopefully to reduce the targets from the familial search.”

  “Good because I was going to ask you how we should proceed from here.”

  “For now, hold off. We can reassess tomorrow.”

  “You saw that the children are only half related?”

  “Yes, sticky one that.”

  “Are you planning on telling them?”

  “It’s not really our place, is it?”

  “Don’t they deserve to know?”

  “Would you want to if it was you?”

  “Yes. And what if it has a bearing? Like if Andrea had an affair and it was covered up?”

  Gray sat back. “Draper is 27 and Ogilvy 36, the baby died no more than a decade ago, when Andrea was approximately 68. I can’t see how it fits.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Pfeffer. “But I think you’re wrong to say nothing.” She pushed off the wall and left.

  Gray dialled Draper’s number.

  Thirteen

  Polly Draper lived only a few streets away from her mother’s house on Harrow Dene, a large estate of much newer properties maybe 40 or 50 years old. Hers was a chalet-style detached house with a steeply pitched roof partly hidden behind a high perennial hedge.

  Gray knocked on the door. Immediately there was barking from inside, then a small shape jumping up at the frosted glass door. A larger shadow appeared shortly after. Draper opened up, bent over, holding onto Mack’s collar. “Inspector Gray, come in.”

  “Thanks, I won’t keep you long.” Draper closed the door and let go of the dog. Mack leapt at Gray, tongue out and seemingly happy to see him.

  “Mack, get down!” Mack backed up. “Sorry about that.”