Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

‘Oh.’

  After a short pause she says, ‘Do you ever miss the old days?’

  Cody feels a hot flush coming on. He suspects she’s about to bring up the time when they were a couple. Back when she had a say in what ties he wore.

  ‘Which old days?’

  ‘When you were undercover. Do you miss that side of it?’

  Phew, thinks Cody. ‘Yeah, sometimes. This is good too, though.’

  ‘Ever think of transferring back?’

  ‘Why? Fed up of me?’

  ‘No. Just wondering. It used to be such a big part of your life.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Doubt it. I still like doing the occasional small job, but I don’t think I could do it full-time again.’

  ‘Because of what happened?’

  Cody thinks carefully before answering. It’s a natural enough question. For most people, the experience of four men in clown masks forcibly removing parts of your body and then gruesomely murdering your partner would be enough to persuade you to seek other avenues of work.

  ‘Yeah, but not just for the obvious reasons. To be honest, I thought the move to Major Incidents would only be temporary, but it opened my eyes. I thought I’d miss the buzz of UC work, but I don’t. I like our team, and I like the work we do.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the same if I wasn’t on it, though, would it?’ She smiles, and he sees her dimples appear.

  Before he can reply, Webley’s phone rings. She glances at the screen. ‘Footlong,’ she announces, then answers the call.

  Cody looks in his rear-view mirror at the unmarked car parked yards behind them. He can make out the face of DC Neil ‘Footlong’ Ferguson, lit by the glow from his own phone. Alongside him is another DC from the squad, Jason Oxburgh.

  Webley listens, then turns to Cody. ‘He wants to know how long we’re expected to sit here. He wants to know if your CHIS for this op is reliable.’

  CHIS is cop-speak for Covert Human Intelligence Source. An informant.

  ‘Tell him my intel is impeccable,’ says Cody, ‘and that he needs to have a bit more faith.’

  Webley passes on the message, then listens for a few more seconds before ending the call.

  ‘What did he say?’ Cody asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Go on, what did he say?’

  ‘He asked if you’re doing your best to keep me warm in here.’

  Cody turns away, shaking his head in despair, but he thinks that the heat returning to his cheeks should be more than enough to keep both of them warm.

  He’s glad of the distraction when he notices a movement through the car window.

  ‘Aye, aye,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ says Webley. ‘Is it him?’

  Cody continues to observe. He sees a woman at the cash machine. She has her purse in her hand, but has left her bag wide open. A young man in a dark tracksuit has begun moving up behind her.

  Cody lowers his window. ‘Fitzy, get over here!’

  The young man jerks to attention. Hands in pockets, he saunters over to the car.

  ‘All right, Mr Cody. How’s it going?’ He bends to look across at the passenger. ‘All right, love.’

  Cody has to stop himself from smiling. He knows that Webley will be bristling at being called ‘love’.

  ‘What are you up to, Fitzy?’

  Fitzy shrugs. ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Didn’t look like nothing. Looked to me like you took a very sudden interest in that woman at the ATM.’

  ‘Oh, her! No, I was just keeping an eye on her, like, you know what I mean? Doing my bit as a good citizen. I don’t think she realises there are certain types around here who might take advantage of a situation like that. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, right, Fitzy. Glad to hear it. I’ll put you in for the Pride of Britain Awards. Off you go, then. Chasing you through the streets is the last thing I want right now.’

  Fitzy doesn’t budge. ‘What’s happening here, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing to concern you,’ says Cody.

  Fitzy grins, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth should be. ‘Are you waiting for the coast to clear so you can take your missus in there?’ He points behind him at the lingerie shop. ‘It’s okay, you know. These are modern times. No need to feel embarrassed, know what I mean?’

  Webley leans towards Cody’s open window. ‘I’m not his missus. Now do one, before we nick you.’

  Fitzy puts his hands up in surrender. ‘All right, love. Just being friendly.’

  It’s then that the wheels seem to start turning in Fitzy’s mind. He peers along the street towards the other unmarked car.

  ‘They’re with you, aren’t they? What’s going on? You gonna raid the frilly knickers place?’

  ‘Something like that,’ says Cody. ‘Now go and bother someone else, Fitzy. And stay out of trouble.’

  Fitzy shrugs, then saunters away. As he goes past Footlong’s car, he gives the occupants a little wave.

  Cody closes his window.

  ‘God,’ says Webley, ‘I could do with a drink after this. Fancy one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s February. I don’t drink in February.’

  ‘You don’t drink any frigging month. I bet you didn’t even have a drink at Christmas.’

  ‘I’m sure you quaffed enough for the two of us,’ he answers. But she’s right: he didn’t drink at Christmas. He spent Christmas alone, in his flat. While everyone else was carving turkeys and pulling crackers and getting pissed, he was tucking into a microwaved curry and nursing an ankle sprained in the line of duty. He didn’t tell Webley that, of course. He told her that he spent time with his parents and with his ex-fiancée, when in reality neither seemed overly keen to spread the festive cheer in his direction.

  ‘Come on,’ Webley urges. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Nah, I’m knackered. I just want to put my feet up.’

  ‘Christ, Cody. You sound like my nan, and even she manages to get out to t’ai chi and bingo every week. Are you sure you’re not ninety-six beneath that boyish exterior?’

  ‘Another time, Megs. Okay?’

  She smiles at him.

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘Megs. You used to call me that all the time when we were going out.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No. It’s nice.’

  Hot flush time again. Cody is grateful when Webley’s phone blares into life once more.

  Webley answers the call. Listens. Says, ‘Footlong again. Thinks we should knock this on the head. His suggestion is—’

  ‘He’s here,’ says Cody.

  ‘What?’

  Cody points. ‘He’s going in now.’

  He watches as a dark-haired man puts a key into the door of a shop front to open up, then disappears inside. Cody starts to get out of the car.

  ‘We’re on!’ says Webley into her phone.

  The four detectives assemble on the pavement, then head briskly in the direction of the shop.

  Cody pushes open the door. Inside, the man he has been waiting for turns to stare at the new arrivals.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ the man asks.

  Cody listens to the action taking place in the back room. He breathes in the odours.

  His mouth waters in anticipation.

  ‘Fish and chips four times, please. And can you make my batter extra crispy?’

  *

  Cody pulls rank and insists they eat in Footlong’s car. The food is excellent, the company even better, but when the topic of a few beers is raised again, Cody declines. He drives back to his flat alone.

  Home is the top floor of a Georgian building on Rodney Street, above a dental practice. The practice is closed now, so Cody has the building to himself. He could have invited his colleagues back here. He could have suggested they buy some alcohol on the way. Could have put on some music.

  He did none of those things.

  In his kitchen, he puts the kettle on, empties
his pockets, and removes his jacket and tie. When he has brewed his tea, he takes a seat at the small breakfast bar.

  He thinks about Webley. There have been a couple of occasions in recent weeks when she has suggested going for a drink. Sometimes he wonders if she has an agenda, but then he worries that he is being arrogant. She’s probably just being friendly.

  Besides, there are barriers. Too many things in the way. The job, for one. Cody and Webley have to work together, to rely on each other.

  Then there are the partners. Okay, ex-partners. Cody doesn’t think there is much chance of his own ex-fiancée taking him back, but he expects that Webley will hook up with her bloke again. They have been apart only since Christmas. Time yet for a reconciliation.

  And then, of course, there is the other matter. The thing he can’t talk about.

  Webley touched upon it earlier. The event that caused him to abandon undercover work. She knows how traumatic it was for him. How it led to horrific nightmares, hallucinations and a loss of control.

  What she doesn’t know is that they are back in his life.

  The clowns.

  They have made contact. They have been sending him weird messages. They have even been here, in his flat.

  They have been quiet since Christmas, but he knows they’ll come again. And when they do, it won’t be pretty.

  That’s the real reason he can’t allow Webley, or anyone else for that matter, to get too close.

  3

  Malcolm checks his watch. Just a few minutes more. Soon it will be four o’clock, and that’s when he has decided he will go in.

  He thinks that four in the morning is a good time. Most people are in their deepest slumbers then. Nobody hears a thing. And if they do, they just turn over and go straight back to sleep.

  Harriet will be awake, though. She will be too excited to sleep. She will be perched at the bedroom window right now, anxiously awaiting his return.

  It’s a quiet road, this. A leafy cul-de-sac of semi-detached houses near Otterspool Promenade. Not much chance of traffic down here at this time of the morning.

  He has parked here before, at various times of the day. Watching the comings and goings. Taking countless photographs and videos. Listening to the chatter of the residents as they amble past his van, oblivious to the man sitting in the rear of it, behind the dark tinted windows.

  Yes, he has done his research. Tons of it. You can’t rush these things. Not if you want them to go smoothly.

  He knows that there are just the three of them in this house. Poppy and her parents, Craig and Maria. At about eight o’clock, Craig will leave the house, get into the Mondeo, and drive to work. Maria and Poppy will exit a few minutes later and drive away in the other car, a red Polo. The house will be empty for most of the day, until Maria returns with Poppy at about four o’clock.

  But an empty house is no good to Malcolm. He needs what’s inside. He needs Poppy.

  He has considered other options. He knows, for example, which primary school Poppy attends. He has sat outside that school on several occasions, looking for openings, for opportunities.

  It would be too risky. Maria always arrives on time, before the school bell. And the teachers stand guard with the young ones in the playground, releasing them only when a parent is clearly visible on the other side of the gates.

  He has tried following them to the shops, too. Maria never lets her daughter out of her sight. Most of the time they hold hands. It would be impossible to snatch Poppy in those circumstances.

  And so this is the only way of doing it. Not without its obvious dangers, of course, but he downplays those for Harriet. She shouldn’t have to worry about such things. There is no need to dull the edge of her anticipation.

  It’s not as if he’s awash with choice. Yes, there are plenty of other children who would be much easier to take – he is constantly amazed at how cavalier and inattentive some parents are – but none of them fits the bill. Candidates like Poppy don’t crop up very often. It has to be her, and it has to be now.

  It’s four o’clock.

  He gets out of the van, taking with him the black sports bag that was on the passenger seat. He closes the van door as gently as he can, leaving it unlocked. Then he walks down to the house and onto the driveway.

  He doesn’t pause, doesn’t dawdle. The less time spent out here, the better. Instead, he continues straight to the wooden gate that closes off the route to the rear of the property. The gate is closed and bolted, but it’s a simple matter for him to scale the fencing and drop down on the other side. He might be in his fifties, but he keeps himself in pretty good shape.

  Before pressing on, he slides back the bolt on the gate, to make his escape easier. Then he waits and listens, just to be sure his arrival has gone undetected.

  When he is satisfied, he moves into the garden, keeping close to the walls to avoid activating any light sensors.

  The house isn’t a new build. Late thirties, probably. It has a conservatory, but even that must have been added at least twenty years ago. Which is welcome news for Malcolm.

  Malcolm is a plumber by trade. Doesn’t do so much of it now – just the occasional boiler repair, or the moving of a radiator. He’s a family man now, with commitments.

  He has learnt a lot in his time – not just in his own specialism, but others too. He has worked with a number of building firms and double-glazing companies who have called on his services. Along the way he has picked up a fair amount of knowledge about home security. In particular, he knows how to circumvent it.

  Malcolm sets his bag on the ground and unzips it. He reaches in and brings out the first of the tools he needs: a short length of metal pipe that fits snugly over the protruding key barrel of the conservatory door.

  A few seconds of effort later, he has removed the barrel. It takes just another minute to insert a screwdriver into the hole and retract the locking bars.

  And then he’s in.

  He’s inside somebody else’s home. The place where they feel safest.

  They have no idea.

  4

  Poppy comes awake.

  She has no idea what time it is. Actually, she doesn’t really know how to tell the time. She thinks she should learn soon, because she got a Disney watch for Christmas and she hasn’t used it yet. She doesn’t think it’s time to get up, though. Her parents always get up first, and she can still hear them snoring in the next room.

  It’s very dark in here. She doesn’t like the dark. She worries that night time is when monsters come out. And rats. And burglars. Even on Christmas Eve she was alarmed by the idea of a strange man rooting around in their living room, presents or no presents.

  She considers putting the light on. But since she doesn’t have a bedside lamp, that would involve getting out of bed, and it’s too cold for that. Too scary, as well. And besides, if she did put the light on, she would probably never be able to get back to sleep again.

  So she tells herself to close her eyes and think of nice things, just like her mummy told her.

  She thinks about her friends at school. She thinks about how much they laughed the other day when one of the boys split his trousers.

  She starts to drift . . .

  And comes instantly awake again when she hears a noise.

  At least she thinks she heard a noise.

  She blinks furiously, but can hardly see a thing. Raising her head, she looks down the length of her bed to the outside wall. Her curtains aren’t very thick, and so she can just see the outline of the window. But she can also make out a shape silhouetted against one edge of it, and now she’s wondering what it could be. Try as she might, she cannot work out what is blocking the meagre light.

  It’s nothing, she tells herself. It’s always there. If I get out of bed and put the light on, I’ll see that it’s only furniture or toys.

  But the more she stares at the shape, the more she believes that it’s moving.

  Nothing significant. Just a few milli
metres or so. To the left, and then the right. As though . . .

  As though it’s somebody standing there, trying to keep statue-still but not quite managing it.

  Poppy ducks under the covers. Her hands reach down for Huggles, her teddy bear, and she pulls him into her, crushing him against her chest.

  You’re being silly, she tells herself. There’s nobody there. It’s just a shape, and it’s not moving at all. And if you start calling out for Mummy or Daddy, they’ll be really cross with you for waking them up.

  But now she can’t sleep. Not until she knows for certain. Not until she can prove to herself that there isn’t a monster or a burglar in her room.

  Get out of bed now, she commands herself. Go to the light switch and put it on and show yourself how silly you’re being. Go on!

  She throws back the duvet. Sits up. Looks again towards the window. Sees . . .

  Nothing.

  There is no shape there now. Which would have been a comfort the last time she looked. But not now. Because now she knows the shape has moved. It definitely was there before, and it definitely isn’t now. So it’s moved. And there’s a smell here, too. An alien smell.

  She opens her mouth, ready to yell.

  The call doesn’t reach the air. It is cut off when something is clamped over her mouth and nose. It feels like cloth – cold and damp. And it stinks. The strange smell, but really intense now. She tries again to cry out, but all she can manage is a muffled noise.

  She flails her arms. They slap ineffectively at someone – or something – large and powerful behind her. Her legs kick out, but they get tangled up in the undersheet. And all the while, the smell seeps into her. It enters her brain, and her thoughts quickly become fuzzy. She forgets her reason for panicking, and a curious calm descends.

  The blackness and the silence become total.

  *

  When she wakes up again, she knows instantly that she is in the back of a moving vehicle. She can hear the roar of the engine, feel every bump of the road. Her hands and feet are tied up, and the movement tosses her around like a plaything, making her feel sick.

  And she cries.

  This is beyond her understanding. She cannot reason about this. She knows only that she has been snatched from her bed, her parents, her home. Only fear is in her mind now – an overwhelming dread of the situation she is now in.