The Silent Dead

by Keith Nixon

  A few moments later an equally tall woman, her hair long and dark, cut to a tight fringe above her eyes, came down the steps, Brandi close by. She wore a trouser suit and flat shoes. Gray handed over his warrant card again.

  “Deborah Pinner,” she said. “I’m the owner. I hope we haven’t upset any of our neighbours.”

  “Not as far as I’m aware. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

  “Come on up, Inspector.” Pinner handed back his card before leading him up the stairs to her small office. “Do you want anything to drink?”

  “No, thanks.” Pinner sat in a high-backed chair behind her desk. “We’re totally legitimate, fully licensed with all the right documentation.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Council representatives visit regularly to ensure we comply. We insist on a no touch policy and our dancers must wear a thong, knickers or briefs at all times. I’m a businesswoman first and foremost. I’ve a fair chunk of my own money tied up in this building and I want it to succeed, so whatever you need I’ll do my best to help.”

  Quite a little speech.

  “I appreciate it,” said Gray. “You’ve been open about a decade, right?”

  “Correct. I’m sure you recall all the fuss.”

  “I do.”

  “There’s the main section where members and guests can watch live shows and a more discrete area out the back for more intimate, one-on-one dance. I started off running clubs in London and moved down here with my husband and kids for a better life. The husband’s gone now, but we’re still kicking. My target audience is businessmen – preferably from the capital as they pay more. However, anybody with money is welcome.” Pinner flashed a grin. “Provided they behave. My employees are my most important assets. Without them I’d have nothing. And without me they’d be earning a lot less. We’re like a family. We all look out for each other.”

  “Sounds admirable, Miss Pinner.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Eight years ago, a Zara Jessop was working here.”

  “That’s not a name I remember off the top of my head. Then again, I’ve employed a lot of girls and guys over the years. Let me check. Our records are digitised.” Pinner turned to her laptop. She focused on it briefly. “Of course, I recall her now. Here she is.” Pinner tapped her screen. “She wasn’t one of mine for long, just a few months.” Pinner spun the laptop around. The photo on screen was indeed Zara. Clean, smiling – not the battered and ruined girl on the mugshot.

  “That’s her.”

  “She died, right?”

  “Yes. Anything you can recall about when she worked here would be helpful.”

  “Not much, to be honest. I have a strong relationship with my staff, but friends we definitely are not. Sometimes I have to make tough decisions and a bit of perspective and distance are valuable. Eight years ago, we were still battling for acceptance and survival and I was going through a divorce. I had a lot on my plate. However,” Pinner sat back. “Some of my current girls were here then. We can go down and talk to them if you’d like?”

  “Is one Lucy Gold?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “And she’s in the building now?”

  “She should be. It’s still quite early so we should be able to catch her. If you’d arrived an hour later, it might have been more of a challenge. Lucy is popular.”

  Gray followed Pinner out of the office and back down the stairs. She pulled open the doors into the main area of the club, a large open dimly lit space. The music was loud and thumping.

  Separate tables and chairs were spread out through the area, all centred on a raised central stage shaped like a figure of eight, two long brass poles on either circle. At the moment the stage was empty and only a handful of chairs were occupied.

  A waitress threaded her way between the tables, tray in hand. Beyond was a long bar, where a man stood, his back turned to Gray, wearing just trunks and they were skin tight, while a woman behind the bar pulled drinks.

  Pinner pushed her way through a door marked ‘Private’ at the far edge of the dance area. Gray entered a brightly lit corridor. She headed into the first door they came to, paused in the entrance, said, “Wait here a moment please,” before she disappeared inside. Moments later, Pinner was back. “I just wanted to check Lucy was all right first without barging through. Just in case she was in flagrante.”

  Inside was a changing area, long and narrow. Lockers against one wall, mirrors opposite, seats in front, more bright lights.

  “Lucy Gold,” said Pinner. “Detective Inspector Gray.”

  Gold sat facing a mirror. She was heavily tanned, more than likely fake at this time of year, had long, curly and very ginger hair. And she was topless, wearing just golden spangly knickers and high heels. She watched Gray closely. Perhaps this was her way of shocking him, maybe Pinner’s too. Gold span around, crossed one leg over another.

  “Hello,” said Gray.

  “Hello yourself,” said Gold. “I understand you want to talk about Zara.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We worked together for a few months, on the same shifts. We became quite close. She had a hell of a body on her, initially anyway.”

  “Did she tell you about herself?”

  “In great detail. She’d run away from home and was living in some crappy flat nearby. She hated her family, except her brother, can’t remember his name.”

  “Edgar.”

  “Oh, yes. In the early days I was interested in her, you know.” Gold winked. “But I soon realised how nice she was and what a shit hand life had given her. Plus, she had her eye on someone else, the poor cow.”

  “Who?”

  “A man who used to come here a lot. I’d given him a few private dances until Zara turned up, then all he wanted was her. Not that I blamed him, of course. I happily passed him to her. He was a good tipper and she needed the money.”

  “What was his name?”

  Gold shrugged. “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I could tell he was married, though, and more than likely had kids. Those kinds of guys don’t say much about themselves. They turn up for the type of entertainment they’re not getting at home. Two separate lives which don’t intertwine.” She winked at Gray.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Course not.”

  “Why did Zara leave?”

  “Cos of the baby bump.”

  “Once I learned she was pregnant,” said Pinner, “I put Zara on maternity leave. We kept her job open, paid her a small wage so she would be all right. I couldn’t afford much, but it would keep her off the streets. And if she wanted, she could return once sorted after the birth. She never did, though.”

  “Do you recognise either of these two men?” Gray showed photos stored on his phone. First, Gordon Ogilvy. Both women shook their heads. Fowler was next. He’d told Hamson Fowler couldn’t be the father, but Gray wanted to be sure.

  “Him I know,” said Gold.

  “Me too,” said Pinner. “He’s that cop who was in here all the time.”

  “Not for Zara, before you ask. Her fella was bigger than this guy.”

  “Why did he come, then?” asked Gray.

  Gold laughed. “Same reason I told you earlier. Second life.”

  In Fowler’s case it was third or maybe even fourth life. Gray asked, “After she left were you and Zara in contact again?”

  “No,” said Pinner.

  “I was,” said Gold. “Several times, right up until the baby was born. The last occasion we met in a café. Zara looked like she’d burst open right there if she wasn’t careful. She was in a right mess, said the baby’s father had dumped her. She didn’t know how she was going to cope and was talking of having the baby adopted.”

  “God,” said Pinner. “I had no idea.”

  “The report I read said it was you who called the police,” said Gray.

  “We were supposed to have another coffee together,” said Pinner. “To m
eet her kid for the first time. Zara didn’t turn up, didn’t answer her phone, didn’t respond to me banging on her door. I was there when your lot went in. Maybe if I’d have called earlier things would have been different.”

  “Very unlikely. I’ve read her post-mortem report. Zara fell and banged her head. She’d been dead a couple of days by then.”

  “That cop you showed me just now made me stay outside. When he told me, Zara was dead I couldn’t believe it. I’ve often wondered if I could have done more to help.” Gold wiped away a tear. Pinner grabbed a tissue from a nearby box, handed it to Gold who dabbed away at her eyes.

  “What about the baby?”

  “I did mention it. The cop said everything was being dealt with. He sent me away. Her funeral was a couple of weeks later. Most of the girls went. So did her brother, nobody else from her family. I couldn’t believe her mum wasn’t there. I don’t know what I’d do without mine.” Gold glanced up at the clock on the wall. “God, look at the time. I’d better fix my make-up then get out and mingle.”

  Gray passed over one of his cards. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

  “I’ll show you out, Inspector,” said Pinner.

  The dance area was busier than earlier. More tables taken, more chatter, same loud music.

  At the front door Pinner said, “Feel free to come back any time, we’ll be happy to entertain you.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  As Gray walked back to the car his mobile rang. Fiona Jenkinson.

  “Sol, hi.” Fiona sniffed, sounded like she’d been crying.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that Dad died this afternoon in his sleep.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s for the best. He’s joined Mum now.” Another sniff. “The funeral will be in a couple of days. I’ll send you the details.”

  “That soon?”

  “Before Dad got really bad, he insisted we make the arrangements. It’s only simple anyway.”

  “If I can do anything, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Sol. I’d better go.”

  “I’ll come over if you want.”

  “I’m not ready right now.”

  “Okay.”

  “But thanks, I appreciate it.” Fiona rang off.

  Within moments Gray’s mobile buzzed. A text from Vardie. “I’ve just found the Section 47 report I was supposed to send you lodged in my outbox. The file size was too large. I’ve sent it again, my apologies.”

  Gray had forgotten about that document. He opened it on his phone and read with a bit of difficulty – the text was small on the screen. He got to the end, went back to the beginning again.

  The complaint was indeed about Gordon Ogilvy. The child’s name wasn’t stated. But what interested Gray was the date. The Section 47 had been served ten years ago, not eight. Well before Andrea stopped fostering.

  Gray called Draper, said, “When we talked yesterday you mentioned your parents were subject to an enquiry and your mother stopped fostering as a result.”

  “Correct.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My mother. Dad was dead by then. Why?”

  “I read some of the report just now. It’s called a Section 47. The investigation actually occurred two years before your mother gave up fostering.”

  “Oh! That makes no sense.”

  “Your mother definitely made the link between the complaint and her no longer fostering?”

  “Yes! I really don’t understand.”

  “Okay, sorry to bother you.” Gray disconnected. Draper’s answers made Gray think of Kerry Hudson. Maybe there was a connection between her and Andrea.

  He started the engine and drove to Hudson’s house in Garlinge. It was late, but his questions needed answering.

  He knocked on the door, but nobody answered. The lights were off, no car parked on the drive. She must be out for the night. And he didn’t have her mobile number. He swore.

  The questions would have to wait.

  Twenty Five

  The following morning Gray waited in his car, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. He’d called Hudson’s employer, Robson and Edwards, as soon as they’d opened and been told that she was showing a house on Dickens Road in Broadstairs. After some insistence on Gray’s behalf the estate agents gave out Hudson’s phone number but when he called, it diverted straight to voicemail.

  Gray drove over, pulled up outside across the drive. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign in the small front garden. Parking here was tight. Few of the residences possessed drives and the beach was just a few hundred yards away so tourists used the roads around here too.

  When the door opened, Gray got out, leaned against the front wing. The sound of the breaking waves carried to him easily. The wind was up. Hudson followed out the couple she was showing the property to, pulled the door closed behind her. When she turned back, she caught sight of Gray and paused mid-speech. The man and woman glanced at him. He walked over to the trio.

  “Sorry, what?” asked Hudson.

  “We were asking about the schools around here,” said the man as he buttoned up his coat over a suit.

  “They’re fine.”

  “That’s it?” asked the woman.

  “How old are your children?” asked Gray. The man frowned at him. “My kids went to school here so I can help answer your question.” Gray showed his warrant card.

  “We’ve got twins, they’re thirteen.” The man still sounded suspicious.

  “Then I’d suggest going for Dane Court, it’s a selective Grammar a few miles up the road.”

  “We were thinking of going private.”

  “Ah, then I can’t help you. My wages never stretched that far.”

  The man didn’t respond. He turned to Hudson. “We’d better be going.”

  “Okay, well thanks for letting me show you around.” Hudson shook both their hands in turn. “If I can tell you anything else, please just call me.”

  “Would you mind moving your car,” said the man. “We need to get out.”

  Gray nearly pointed out he’d failed to use the word please. “Happy to, sir.” He reversed into the road, leaving enough room for the man to back his Volvo out and drive away. Gray regained his space. Hudson was waiting for him.

  “They were a pleasant couple,” said Gray. “DFLs, I guess?” A local acronym – Down From London. Thanet, and Broadstairs in particular, was becoming increasingly popular with families moving out of the capital and using their equity to buy a far bigger home by the sea. The wage earners continued to work in London, commuting by train each day. When the journey time was well over two hours for a distance of around eighty miles the DFLs were few and far between. Now, with the timespan slashed back to little more than an hour, the exodus from the capital was in full flow. Broadstairs was regularly in the newspapers as a place to relocate away from the bustle of big cities.

  “What is this, Inspector?” asked Hudson, ignoring Gray’s question. “Why are you tracking me down while I’m working?”

  “I’ve got some more questions.”

  “I haven’t got the time right now; I have another showing in a few minutes.”

  “You don’t. I spoke to your office. I know you’ve got at least an hour free.”

  “There’s paperwork to do.”

  “It’ll have to wait. Let’s walk.” Gray pointed towards the cliffs. He turned at the bottom of the road, along Eastern Esplanade, heading away from Broadstairs past three- and four-storey houses with great sea views. They walked next to the cliff edge, protected from the drop by metal railings.

  “What can you tell me about Andrea Ogilvy?”

  “She was a bloody life saver, Inspector. She really turned my life around. There wasn’t a bad bone in that woman’s body.”

  “Did you go to her funeral?”

  “Of course. Lots of her children did.”

  “Is th
at how you see yourselves?”

  “I’m an orphan, I don’t know who my real parents are. I moved around quite a few homes. It wasn’t pleasant. Andrea and Gordon had faith in me when nobody else did. I owe them everything.”

  “Do you remember another girl who the Ogilvy’s fostered; Zara Jessop?”

  “Our paths crossed when she lived with Andrea for a few months. Zara was one messed up girl. From a really good background, not like mine at all.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  “As I said, our backgrounds were very different. Zara thought of herself as better than me. She was quite a trouble causer too and made life difficult for both Gordon and Andrea.”

  “And Fiona Jenkinson?”

  “Of course. She was round all the time.”

  “Would you say she was good friends with the Ogilvy’s?”

  “She came for dinner quite often and they seemed to laugh together a lot. Fiona even brought her boyfriend a few times. Nice guy, cold hands, though.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Ben.”

  “Clough?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure.”

  “Have you heard of a Section 47?”

  “Means nothing to me.”

  “You said Gordon and Andrea were very important to you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So why did you complain about Gordon to Social Services?”

  Hudson stopped in her tracks, stared at Gray. “Excuse me?”

  “I read an investigation report carried out by them stating you had issues with Gordon Ogilvy.”

  “Like what, specifically?”

  “Like he propositioned you.”

  “That’s ridiculous! When was this supposed to have occurred?”

  “Before you moved out.”

  “Never, ever happened.” Hudson shook her head.

  “The report says otherwise. And there was a period of about a year between the apparent events and you reporting them.”

  “I didn’t report anything.”

  “Zara Jessop made the complaint first. Social services then approached other girls for confirmation.”

  “Somebody is lying.” Hudson leant back against the fence; her arms crossed. “Was this complaint the Section 47 document you referred to?”