Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

  Webley isn’t helping matters either. She keeps eyeing him up and smirking.

  ‘First thing’s first, Gavin,’ says Cody. ‘What’s with the impromptu jog along the prom?’

  Quigley has trouble maintaining eye contact. His head bobs and twists as he tries to find something else on which to focus.

  While Cody does his best to follow the nomadic gaze, he takes in how much of a tip this place is. It’s littered with cardboard takeout boxes from fast-food chains. The sink is piled high with encrusted dishes. There are food stains everywhere, and the air is rank with the perfume of rotting leftovers and sweaty feet.

  The only things adding a touch of cheer are Quigley’s drawings. Every surface is strewn with his childish pictures in crayon and felt-tip. They lie on the floor, the seats and the worktops. They are taped to the walls and the cupboards. Cody finds it hard to say for sure, but it seems that the local geography has been a huge inspiration for most of them. They contain what appears to be beach and sea, plus the occasional seagull or passing ship. A number of the pictures – presumably Quigley’s favourites – have been given titles. Beneath one that seems to be Leasowe Lighthouse are the words Litehouse by Gavin Quigley. Cody’s eyes linger on another now, yellowed and curled by the sunlight. He guesses it’s of the Leasowe Castle Hotel near to the lighthouse, which does have tessellated walls, but which Quigley has made look far too much like a real castle. Below this one is written Castell by Gavin Quigley.

  ‘You like to draw,’ says Webley.

  No longer in the best of moods, Cody aims a sharp glance at her to let her know he is still waiting for an answer to his question.

  But Webley doesn’t seem to notice. She has morphed radically from the foul-mouthed she-devil on the footpath. In this more controlled setting she has affixed her best calming smile – the one she uses when dealing with distressed and vulnerable people. The sort of smile Cody cannot hope to match given his current state of mind.

  It seems to work. Quigley’s eyes settle on Webley for the briefest of moments, as if he’s trying to decide if she is being genuine.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I like to draw.’

  ‘They’re lovely pictures,’ she says. ‘Happy.’ She points to one on the floor. ‘I like that one with the big sun smiling.’

  Quigley allows his gaze to swoop low, before raising it again. ‘That’s a bird. It’s not a smile.’

  Webley glances across, presumably to check that Cody isn’t laughing at her. He keeps his face straight, so she continues.

  ‘Oh, yes. So it is. I’m too far away, aren’t I? Which is your favourite, Gavin?’

  He looks around, his expression perceptibly brighter. When he points, it’s the emphatic straight-arm gesture of a kid singling out a particular type of confectionary on a high shelf.

  ‘That one. I like the whale.’

  ‘A whale? You saw a whale here?’

  He shakes his head, and his lank fringe curtains his eyes again. ‘No. I drew that one in Wales. That’s why I put a whale on it, because it was Wales. I didn’t really see the whale. I did see some dogs, though. And jellyfish. And dead crabs.’

  ‘When did you go to Wales? Recently?’

  ‘Last summer. When it was hot. I like to go to beaches. I go to lots of beaches, all over the place.’

  ‘All over? How do you get around?’

  ‘Trains and buses. You can get to lots of beaches on trains and buses.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re living here? Because you like the beach so much?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s peaceful here. Quiet.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Don’t you ever get lonely?’

  ‘I like being alone. People are always nasty.’

  ‘Do you ever go back over to Liverpool? To see your mum?’

  ‘Sometimes. But I don’t think she wants me there. She’s got a new boyfriend, and he hates me.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘He calls me bad names. Swearing names, like you did before.’

  Webley blinks. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, Gavin. I got a bit . . .’ She lets the sentence trail off. ‘Doesn’t your mum stick up for you?’

  ‘She doesn’t know about it. He calls me names when she’s not there. She thinks he’s a nice man, but he’s not. I’m in the way there, so I come and live here instead.’

  ‘Whose caravan is this, Gavin?’

  ‘My mum’s friend. She lives near here. She said I can live in it as long as I want.’

  ‘Does she know you’re not looking after it? It’s a bit of a mess in here.’

  Quigley lets his eyes rove around the space, as though this report of its untidiness is a revelation to him. Accepting the news, he merely shrugs.

  ‘She doesn’t care. She was going to get it towed away. She said it’s falling apart.’

  Cody decides it’s time to resurrect his question. ‘Why’d you run, Gavin?’

  As Quigley ventures a momentary look at Cody, his expression becomes more sombre. Cody wonders whether it might have been best to allow Webley to continue with her own line of interrogation.

  Quigley frowns. ‘I didn’t know who you were. You frightened me. I thought you came to hurt me.’

  ‘You always run a mile when someone knocks on your door?’

  ‘Nobody knocks. Nobody comes here. That’s why I like it.’

  ‘Uh-huh. When was the last time you were over in Liverpool?’

  ‘I don’t know. Weeks ago.’

  ‘Weeks? Not yesterday or today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Do you know why we’re here, Gavin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Care to make a guess?’

  ‘I’m not good at guessing.’

  ‘Have you got a radio here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you listen to the news?’

  ‘It comes on sometimes. I don’t really listen. I prefer music.’

  ‘Have you heard any news today? Read any papers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you don’t know about the little girl? The one that’s gone missing?’

  And this is it. The start of the real questioning. He suspects from the look on Webley’s face that she would have taken more time to get here, that she thinks he’s being a bit clumsy in wanting to get straight to the point. But he’s growing impatient.

  It’s as if Cody’s query has landed on Quigley and clamped his jaws shut. His head begins to swivel again, as though he is searching for an emergency exit.

  Cody continues to press. ‘Well, Gavin? Do you know anything about this? Everyone’s talking about it. They’re saying she’s been taken away by someone. She’s only six years old. Just like—’

  ‘NO!’

  The word is fired at them like a cannonball. Quigley’s face has contorted in a display of inner torture. His fingers dance in the air, as if plucking at some invisible musical instrument.

  ‘No,’ he says again. ‘I didn’t . . . It wasn’t . . . They said it . . . They wanted to hurt me . . .’

  Webley takes it upon herself to cut through the rambling. ‘Gavin, you know we have to talk to you about this, don’t you? You know why?’

  Tiny sobs escape Quigley’s lips as his eyes scan the drawings on the walls. It seems to Cody that he is trying to find some inner peace from them.

  ‘I . . . I know why,’ says Quigley. ‘But it wasn’t me. I just want to be left alone. That’s why I live here, so everyone will leave me alone. You just want to hurt me.’

  ‘No,’ says Webley. ‘We don’t want to hurt you. We want the truth, that’s all. Tell us the truth, and then we’ll go away and leave you in peace. All right?’

  Quigley doesn’t answer, but his tics subside a little.

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. But . . . but I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Then th
at’s fine. A few more questions and we’ll be done.’

  Quigley’s head bobs. Could be a nod, or simply a twitch.

  ‘The girl who has just gone missing,’ says Cody. ‘Her name is Poppy Devlin. Have you ever heard that name before?’

  Quigley’s head movement is clearer this time. A definite no.

  ‘Her home is in Otterspool. In fact, it’s just a couple of roads away from where you live with your mother.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t live there no more. I live here.’

  ‘But you know the area, right? You know Larkwood Close?’

  ‘Yes. I know it.’

  ‘Ever go down there?’

  ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like to walk. I like fresh air.’

  ‘I see. Did you ever speak to anyone on that road? A child, perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  Cody reaches into his pocket and brings out an envelope. He’s surprised to find it in one piece, given what he went through during the chase. He opens it up and takes out a photograph of Poppy. He shows it to Quigley.

  ‘Does this girl look familiar to you?’

  Quigley drags his eyes to the picture.

  ‘No,’ he says, with some effort. ‘Never seen her.’

  ‘Are you sure? Take a good look.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’

  Cody suppresses a sigh as he puts the photograph back in his pocket. He doesn’t relish what has to come next, and guesses that Webley will be happy to let him continue to play the role of bad cop.

  ‘Do you ever talk to any other young children, Gavin?’

  He detects the agitation building again. Quigley is looking like a newly caged animal.

  ‘I don’t talk to no one. I live by myself now. Nobody likes me.’

  ‘What about when you’re outside, when you’re on the beaches? You must see people then. You must see kids playing.’

  ‘I see them. But I don’t talk to them. Not allowed.’

  ‘Not allowed? Why isn’t it allowed, Gavin?’

  ‘You know. You know why. You’ll hurt me again. That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘Why do you think that, Gavin? Have you done something that needs to be punished?’

  ‘No. But that’s what you think. You won’t believe what I say. You didn’t believe me last time.’

  Cody nods thoughtfully. ‘Let’s talk about last time, Gavin.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘It was about two and a half years ago, wasn’t it? Down by the lighthouse. In the car park there.’

  Quigley remains silent.

  ‘Her name was Courtney. You remember her, don’t you? You remember what you did?’

  And now Quigley is making small whimpering noises. His fingers are plucking the air again.

  ‘You took her, didn’t you, Gavin? Why did you do that? Why did you take that little girl?’

  Quigley jumps to his feet. Cody tenses, expecting him to do a runner again.

  ‘Sit down, Gavin,’ he orders.

  ‘I didn’t do nothing. I’m not a bad person. I was just trying to . . . to . . .’

  ‘To what? What did you intend to do with that child?’

  ‘I . . . nothing. I wanted to protect her.’

  ‘Her parents were close by, Gavin. She didn’t need your protection.’

  Quigley is still on his feet. He twists and turns on the spot, scratches at his greasy hair.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t know that. I thought she was in danger. I thought someone might hurt her. I was going to take her somewhere safe. They . . . they attacked me. They called me names and hit me. They said I was a bad person. I’m not a bad person. I just want to be left alone. I won’t ever try to help anyone ever again.’

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t going to do something bad to Courtney?’

  ‘No. Please. I wasn’t.’

  ‘And what about the girl in the photo? Poppy Devlin. Someone took her, Gavin, and we’re going to find out who did it. She lives near to your house. Are you still saying that you’ve never seen her, that you know nothing about her?’

  ‘No. I mean yes. I don’t know her. I don’t hurt children. I don’t hurt anybody. Everybody hurts me.’

  Cody exchanges glances with Webley. Sees that she’s in agreement.

  He lowers his voice. ‘All right, Gavin. Take it easy. We’re going now.’

  Quigley looks at each of the detectives in disbelief. ‘No more questions?’

  ‘No more questions.’

  Cody stands up, squelches across to the door. Webley follows.

  ‘If we find out you’ve lied to us, though,’ Cody adds, ‘we’ll be back. Do you understand that, Gavin?’

  Quigley nods. He folds his arms, as though embracing himself to calm down.

  And then Cody and Webley leave. Back out into the cold February wind.

  *

  Only when the police have gone does Quigley allow himself to sit down again.

  He sniffs heavily. Uses the sleeve of his sweater to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

  He thought he was safe here. Thought he’d never be bothered again. He just wants to be left in peace. To walk by the sea and create his drawings. That’s not asking too much, is it?

  He hopes they don’t come back. They frighten him. Most people frighten him. Even when they just look at him it’s like they think he’s weird.

  The girl in the photo was pretty, with a pretty name. Poppy. Like the flower. He likes flowers. Lots of girls are named after flowers. There’s Rose and Lily and Iris and Pansy and Violet . . .

  And Daisy.

  He’s glad they didn’t ask him about Daisy.

  He knows a lot about her.

  16

  She’s terrified of him.

  It’s understandable, he tells himself. He appeared in her bedroom in the middle of the night. He drugged her and took her away from her home. And then he smothered her until she almost died. She has every right to be afraid.

  When he took up their evening meals, he noticed how Poppy shrank away from him. She didn’t yell or cause a fuss, but it was obvious how much she didn’t like him being so close to her.

  He decides it’s time to do something about it. To start building some bridges.

  When he has washed the dishes and made a cup of tea for Harriet, he gives the children a few more minutes to relax before he heads back upstairs. He goes to his study first, then to the girls’ room. Unusually, he knocks gently on the door before unlocking it and entering.

  Daisy and Poppy are sitting on the bed, staring at him. Daisy has an arm around Poppy’s shoulders, comforting her. Poppy is wiping her face, as if trying to hide the fact that she has been crying again. He guesses it’s because she fears it may lead to punishment, and he feels a pang of guilt.

  All he wants is for everyone to be happy.

  ‘Hi, girls,’ he says. ‘Everything okay?’

  Poppy says nothing. She just stares back at him defiantly.

  Daisy breaks the silence. ‘Yes, thank you. We’re fine.’

  ‘Good, good. I, er, I thought we might play a game together. What do you think?’

  Poppy turns her face away. Presses it into Daisy’s shoulder.

  Malcolm’s mouth twitches with annoyance. Look, he thinks, I’m trying here. I’m making an effort. The least she can do—

  ‘Great!’ says Daisy. ‘That would be fun. What could we play?’

  Malcolm raises a finger. ‘Wait. Just one second.’

  He goes out onto the landing. Returns with the items he brought from his study.

  ‘Look what I’ve got.’

  ‘Darts!’ exclaims Daisy. ‘Look, Poppy. A dartboard.’

  Poppy twists her head slightly, just enough to get a glimpse of the board in Malcolm’s hands.

  She’s interested, thinks Malcolm. I know she is. This is going to do it. A game of darts always breaks the ice.

  He hangs the board on th
e nail in the wall, then moves back to the bed and opens up the plastic case he brought. The darts it contains are cheap, with gaudy plastic flights, but good enough for the kids to use.

  ‘Pick a colour.’

  ‘Green, please,’ says Daisy.

  ‘And what about you, Poppy? What colour darts would you like? . . . Poppy? . . . Poppy?’

  ‘She’ll have red,’ says Daisy. ‘To go with her name.’

  ‘Red it is,’ says Malcolm. ‘Come on, then. Let’s play. I’ll go first.’

  He takes three yellow darts from the case, then moves to a position as far from the board as the room allows. Taking aim, he says, ‘Highest score wins, okay?’

  He throws his darts, deliberately hitting one, then seven, then four.

  ‘Well, that’s a rubbish start, isn’t it? I think you’ve already beaten me. Come on, Daisy, show us what you can do.’

  Daisy takes up her own position, somewhat closer to the board than Malcolm. Her first dart misses the board completely, bouncing off the wall and landing on the carpet.

  ‘Nice try. Don’t bring your arm back so much before you let go of the dart.’

  Daisy throws again. Her second dart hits the board, but lands outside of the scoring area. By some miracle, though, her third missile beds itself solidly in a treble seventeen.

  ‘Nice throw! What are three seventeens, Daisy?’

  She thinks for a few seconds. ‘Fifty-one?’

  ‘Spot on. A tough score to beat.’ He turns to look at Poppy, who is now lying face down on the bed. ‘Your turn, Poppy.’

  She doesn’t stir.

  ‘Come on, Poppy. I said it’s your turn now.’

  Still no response. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He doesn’t like this kind of insubordination, especially in front of Daisy. Daisy is such a lovely child. He doesn’t want her to get ideas. Doesn’t want her thinking this kind of behaviour will be condoned.

  ‘Poppy, did you hear what I said? I’m doing my best to cheer everyone up here. We’re all supposed to be having fun. Don’t you want to have fun? Don’t you want to be happy here?’

  But she just lies there, ignoring him. He would find this easier to deal with if she would get angry, or at least explain what she’s feeling. But this idea of pretending he doesn’t even exist – well, that’s just plain rude. That’s unacceptable.