Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

  ‘I don’t understand. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means we need to extend the search. We need to examine the whole property. That includes your personal possessions and documents.’

  Craig stares at him for several seconds. ‘No. I still don’t get it. You mean you’ll be going through our things? The private stuff in our rooms?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll also need to take a look at what’s on your computer.’

  ‘My computer? Why?’

  ‘We have to see if there’s anything that could help us to identify possible suspects.’

  ‘But . . . but Poppy has never been allowed on the computer by herself. She’s too young. It’s not as if anybody could have groomed her online or anything.’

  ‘Even so, we need to check.’

  ‘Why? What’s the point of that? How can that possibly—?’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  This from Maria, who has just brought a hand to her mouth.

  She says, ‘You think it was us, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’ says Craig.

  Oxo raises a placating hand. ‘No, not at all. We just need to—’

  ‘You do. You think we’re responsible. You think we’ve harmed Poppy, our own daughter. Oh, my God.’

  ‘No. Listen to me. I’m not suggesting anything of the kind, but there are people who will. There have been cases like that. You must have heard about them. People who have invented stories about their missing children. And—’

  Craig finally seems to grasp what his wife is saying, and his anger surfaces. ‘Invented? Why the fuck would we invent this? Are you seriously accusing us of—’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything. What I am saying is that there are members of the public, possibly fuelled by the press if we don’t handle things properly, who will try to blame you for this. We have to nip that in the bud. We have to prove to them as soon as we can that you are completely innocent victims of a terrible crime.’

  ‘And to yourselves,’ says Maria.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She wrings her hands as she gathers her thoughts, then looks him in the eye. ‘One of the first things you said to us today was that you wouldn’t lie to us. You might have to keep things back, but you wouldn’t lie. Isn’t that what you told us?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  ‘Then don’t lie to us now. Let’s start as we mean to go on. Do you or do you not suspect us for the disappearance of our daughter?’

  Good question, thinks Oxo.

  ‘We haven’t ruled out that possibility,’ he says.

  Craig’s fury snaps him into a standing position. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  Maria continues to hold Oxo’s gaze. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  Craig looks down at his wife in disbelief. ‘What are you thanking him for? Did you hear what he just said? He thinks we did it. He thinks we did something bad to our Poppy. How can you just sit there and—’

  ‘I’m thanking him for being honest. Look at it from their point of view. They’ve—’

  ‘I don’t want to see it from their point of view. I want them to see ours. We’re the victims here. I want them to be working for us, not against us.’

  ‘And we are,’ says Oxo. ‘Believe me, we fully intend to find your daughter and whoever took her. But to do that—’

  Maria cuts him off. ‘To do that,’ she says to Craig, ‘they need to have faith in us, so that we can work together. Think about it. Think about what they can see from the outside. They see a couple they know nothing about, whose child has been reported missing. They have to investigate everyone who knows the child.’

  ‘But we’re her parents.’

  She reaches up and takes Craig’s hand in hers. ‘Which is all the more reason to look at us under a microscope. Suppose little Sophie Landis across the road had gone missing. Or Katrina Everly. Wouldn’t you think it weird if the police didn’t investigate the backgrounds of their parents?’

  She has sapped Craig’s energy. He collapses on to the seat next to her, tears filling his eyes.

  ‘I just want her back,’ he says. ‘The police should be out on the streets, finding her kidnapper. Not invading our privacy. It’s wasting precious time and manpower. They need to find her. They need to find her.’

  Maria pulls her husband in close, rests his head on her shoulder.

  And suddenly it feels to Oxo as though this raw intimacy drives him out of existence. As though this couple who may never see their daughter again have lost the ability to see him too.

  14

  ‘It’s nice round here,’ says Webley. She’s looking out of the side window of the car. Cody is driving. They are on their way to interview a man called Gavin Quigley, who is of interest to them for two reasons. The first is that his registered address is near to that of Poppy Devlin. The second is that he was once accused of attempting to abduct a young girl. Cody has already spoken to Quigley’s mother, who directed him out into the sticks of the Wirral.

  ‘Nice big houses,’ Webley continues. ‘Wish I could afford to live here.’

  Cody grunts. He’s not sure where this is going.

  ‘Doesn’t Devon live round here somewhere?’

  And now he knows. Devon is his ex-fiancée.

  ‘Yeah. Hoylake.’

  Webley turns and looks at him. He doesn’t look back, but he can feel her eyes trying to see into his skull.

  ‘Big house, is it?’

  ‘Pretty big.’

  ‘Garden?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘On the prom?’

  ‘Not on the front, but pretty close.’

  She nods thoughtfully. ‘Nice.’

  Cody risks a glance towards her. ‘That’s the third time you’ve used the word “nice” in the past few seconds.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘All right, Mr Roget. We’re not all frigging walking thesauruses, you know.’

  They lapse into silence. But only for a few seconds. Cody knows that Webley hates an unfilled gap in a conversation.

  She says, ‘Do you fancy dropping in while we’re here?’

  ‘Dropping in where?’

  ‘Devon’s place. Just for a quick cuppa. You could introduce me.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Well . . . why not? Don’t you think the two most important women in your life should meet?’

  ‘What makes you think that—’

  He stops himself. Just in time.

  ‘Go on,’ she urges.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, go on. You were about to suggest that one of us – either me or Devon – isn’t all that important to you.’

  ‘That’s not what I was going to say at all.’

  ‘Yes, you were. So which of us was it?’

  ‘You misunderstood. What I was about to say was . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was about to ask what makes you think that either you or Devon is more important than Cath.’

  He can almost hear Webley’s jaw landing on her lap. ‘Cath? Who the frigging hell is Cath?’

  ‘The new woman in my life. She’s a barista.’

  ‘A barrister? You’re going out with someone who wears a wig all day?’

  Cody laughs. ‘No. A barista. She works at Starbucks in town. Don’t know if she wears a wig, though.’

  And now Webley’s stare has become positively searing.

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘How do you think? I went in there for a coffee.’

  ‘Hold on. You’re telling me that you went to a coffee shop, and you chatted up the waitress?’

  ‘Barista. There’s a lot more to it than just serving. She even puts those little pictures on my coffee foam.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know what tricks she does with your foam, Cody. And you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Yes, I chatted her up.’

  ‘No. You didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’
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br />   ‘You didn’t. Did you?’

  Cody clams up. Makes a show of looking out for his next turn-off.

  ‘You’re lying,’ says Webley.

  ‘Here we are,’ says Cody. He puts on his indicator, then makes a right turn. It takes them off the main road and onto a street leading down to the promenade.

  They are on the north coast of the Wirral peninsula – the finger of land that is separated from Liverpool on the east by the River Mersey, and from Wales on the west by the River Dee. Straight ahead is the Irish Sea.

  ‘So what’s her surname then?’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Cath’s, you idiot.’

  ‘You won’t know her.’

  ‘I know a lot of people. Try me.’

  ‘She’s a postgraduate student from France. Do you know any French students?’

  Webley’s voice goes up a notch in both volume and tone. ‘Just tell me her sodding name, will you?’

  ‘Okay. It’s Tierre. So do you know her?’

  ‘No.’

  Cody starts his countdown. Doesn’t get very far before—

  ‘You bastard!’ She smacks him hard on the arm. ‘A coffee maker called Cath Tierre! Very fucking funny, Cody.’

  He can’t stop laughing then. Continues laughing for the next few minutes while Webley sits next to him in grumpy silence, her arms tightly folded.

  It’s evening now, at the tail end of rush hour. Being February, it’s already dark. It gets even blacker as Cody takes the car away from the residential streets and onto narrow country lanes. When he reaches a lay-by, he pulls the car in and switches off the engine and lights.

  ‘I’ll bet we’re not the first couple to have parked up here in the dark,’ he says.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Webley. ‘Perhaps you could bring Cath here some time. Hot and dark, is she? Good at perking you up in the morning?’

  Cody smiles at her, then opens his door and climbs out of the car. His feet crunch on the gravel.

  Webley gets out too. ‘Why the hell are we parked here? There aren’t even any houses. Are you planning to bump me off or something?’

  ‘He lives in a field,’ Cody answers.

  ‘Who, Quigley? What do you mean, he lives in a field? Have you brought me all this way to interview a frigging scarecrow?’

  ‘Follow me,’ he says.

  He walks over to a fence and starts to climb it. Notices that Webley is still standing next to the car.

  ‘Coming?’

  She moves towards him. ‘I swear, Cody, if this is another little joke, I will not be amused.’

  Cody starts plodding up the field, not even breaking stride when Webley calls after him.

  ‘Wait for me,’ she says. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for farming. This skirt was expensive.’

  When she catches up with him, Cody audibly draws in a chestful of air. ‘Smell that,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of sea air.’

  ‘I’m more worried about the smell of whatever I might step in. There aren’t any animals in this field, are there?’

  ‘What, like lions, you mean?’

  ‘No, Mr Funny Man. I mean horses or cows or other farmyard residents. Animals that have no second thoughts about where they choose to leave their deposits.’

  Cody laughs. ‘Come on. Nearly there.’

  As they approach the far end of the field, the breeze grows stronger, bringing with it spots of rain and the pounding beat of the waves. The sky is only a shade above black now, but it’s enough to reveal to Cody the rectangular silhouette for which he has been searching.

  He lowers his voice. ‘This is it.’

  Webley squints. ‘This is what? I can’t— Oh, wait! A caravan? He lives in a caravan?’

  ‘Yup. Just like being on holiday again, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I do not. Give me a villa on Skiathos any time. This place gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t spend a night here if you paid me.’

  They walk up to the caravan’s door. Cody cannot hear anything from inside, but he can see chinks of light through the closed curtains.

  Webley whispers, ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We go back to the car. I just wanted to show you what a caravan looks like in the dark. What do you think we do now?’

  Ignoring Webley’s look of annoyance, he raps on the door.

  Nothing.

  He knocks again. Same result. He tries the handle, finds it locked.

  ‘Nice to see you came prepared for every eventuality,’ says Webley. And when Cody frowns, she adds, ‘See, you’re not the only one who can do sarcasm.’

  ‘Check the windows,’ he says.

  He goes one way, Webley the other. When he meets up with her at the rear and she shrugs her shoulders, he realises he’s in for a lot of stick on the drive back to Liverpool.

  And then everything changes.

  The crash is the sound of the door being flung open and hitting the side of the caravan. Cody races around to the front, Webley hot on his heels.

  He sees the figure of a man – presumably Quigley – racing through the field towards the sea wall, and he gives chase.

  ‘Police!’ he calls. ‘Stop!’

  But Quigley keeps on running. Sprinting as hard and as fast as he can, as though his life depends on it.

  Cody picks up the pace. He’s fit, but his quarry is no slouch either.

  He sees Quigley fling himself over the boundary fence. A few seconds later, Cody tries the same manoeuvre, but the jacket of his suit catches on a jagged piece of wood, and he winces as he hears the cloth rip apart.

  By the time he has untangled himself, Quigley has already scrambled across the dunes and disappeared over the wall. Cody gets to the same spot as quickly as he can, bounding over the wall without even thinking about how deep the drop might be on the other side. The last time he made such a foolish decision he sprained his ankle. This time, he is relieved to find that the drop is only a couple of feet.

  He is on a concrete pathway, often used by walkers, joggers and cyclists, but fairly deserted now. Ahead, the concrete slopes down into the lapping sea, its cold blackness punctuated in the distance by the winking red lights of wind turbines and, beyond those, the fierce burning of gas platforms.

  But Cody has no time to lament the passing of the more natural vista that once existed here. He is running again, accelerating along the path towards Leasowe lighthouse. He thinks, but isn’t sure, that Webley isn’t that far behind.

  The gap closes. He can hear Quigley now. Panting, yes, but is that the sound of sobbing too?

  They are separated by a distance of just a few yards. Cody digs into his energy reserves. Reduces the gap to mere feet. Then almost touching distance . . .

  And then Quigley suddenly changes course. Leaves the path to head down the slope. Towards the sea that threatens to swallow him whole.

  ‘No!’ Cody shouts.

  But Quigley continues, and Cody has no choice but to follow. He needs to stop the man before this ends so, so badly.

  He considers attempting a leap, a rugby tackle – anything that will bring this to an end. But the risk is too great: the pair of them would end up barrelling into the sea’s icy clutches.

  And then the decision is taken from him.

  Just above the waterline, a large stretch of slimy algae robs his shoes of their friction. Cody loses his footing. Suddenly he is no longer running but falling.

  He hits the concrete hard, but his momentum keeps him sliding across the algae. He knows what’s coming, and he tries to flatten himself out to brake, but still he plunges down to the sea edge.

  He braces himself, takes a deep gulp of air in readiness for going under.

  His feet break through the waves. He closes his eyes as he prepares himself for the punch of cold and the terrifying embrace that will deny him sight, sound and breath.

  And then his feet hit solidity and he comes to a stop. He realises that the water is less than two feet deep here, just up to his knees.
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  If he had time to feel both relieved and foolish, he would, but behind him there is a lot of noise, and he turns to see that Quigley is slipping and sliding in the algae himself, while above him Webley is shouting all kinds of things he cannot quite make out.

  It takes Cody several seconds to pull his feet free from the sucking grip of the wet, oily sand. By then, his prey has managed to scramble back towards the path.

  But not before Webley can head him off.

  She leaps at Quigley like a woman possessed, knocking him to the ground and firing a salvo of expletives at him.

  Exhausted, Cody inches himself through the algae on hands and knees, daring to stand only when the ground feels dryer and more secure. He looks down at his sodden legs, but cannot see very much. Not, that is, until he is suddenly bathed in a pool of light.

  He lifts his gaze to see a man who has been walking his dog along the path, but who has now stopped to sweep his torch alternately between the two spectacles in front of him: a suited figure who has just emerged from the sea like the creature from the Black Lagoon; and a woman who is sitting astride another man while she curses at him and applies a painful arm lock.

  ‘Evening,’ says Cody, raising a hand in greeting. ‘Looks like rain again.’

  15

  They huddle around an old Calor gas heater on the floor of the caravan. Cody thinks it looks dangerous – like it could suddenly burst into flames or even blow up. But at least it kicks out some heat.

  Gavin Quigley is twenty-four years old. Physically, that is. His mental age lags some way behind.

  His dark hair is short at the sides, long on top, and looks as though it hasn’t been washed for at least a week. He keeps flicking his head to shake the fringe out of his eyes. He is wearing a grubby woollen polo-neck sweater and jeans that are shiny with grease. His leather boots have been tied with one white lace and one blue.

  It suddenly hits Cody that he’s not in a good place for throwing stones right now: his own appearance is hardly straight out of a menswear catalogue. His jacket was almost ripped in two by the fence he climbed, and looks as though it could part company with him any time soon. The rest of his attire is covered in a slimy green stain, as though crawled over by a gigantic slug. To top it all, his shoes squelch when he walks, and the gas heater is turning his drenched trousers and socks into generators of considerable steam.