Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  He watched a large crow swoop down, dropping below the tops of the tall spikes of maize, before it reappeared. Briefly, it flew toward them, before veering away, but not before he could see something hanging from its beak. Straining his eyes, he tried to make out what it was as it flashed momentarily in the sun.

  “Did you see that?” The woman stopped for a moment. “It looked like a pendant.” She carried on walking.

  Jack had thought so, too. But as he watched the bird, the crow dropped it. His eyes fixed on where he thought the object had fallen, Jack ran across the field.

  “Can you see it?” The voice came from behind him—the woman had followed him. “It must be here somewhere.”

  It would be a miracle if they found it—it was the proverbial needle in the haystack—but then a few feet away, a metallic glint caught his eye. Reaching down, he held it dangling from his fingers.

  “Good work.” The woman looked impressed.

  As they walked back toward where the body was, he wondered where the other attack had taken place. He’d have to read up on it as soon as he got back to the station. A maize field was a perfect environment in which to hide a body—seasonally almost impenetrable, especially now, while the crop was taller than he was and just about to be consumed by monstrous forage harvesters, which devoured everything in their path. If the woman hadn’t seen the birds, the harvesters would have gone through, leaving nothing. The thought stopped him in his tracks.

  “You might have been hurt.” He was addressing the woman, who, once lost in the maize, would have been invisible to the drivers of the forage harvesters.

  She shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t. I think it’s this way. It’s where most of the birds are.”

  Upon glancing up, he saw that she was right. The maize was dense around them as they found their way through, pushing aside the woody stems, every now and then glancing up at the birds circling above. Up close, Jack was astonished at how many there were.

  In front of him, the woman stopped suddenly. “It’s just through there. I’ll wait here.”

  Apprehension had replaced her previous air of self-assurance. Understandably, he thought as she stood back to let him pass her. Jack nodded. “Of course.”

  Just a few yards on, the maize started to thin out. Then, as he glanced sideways through the leaves, he saw a hand.

  14

  “At first, I thought it was the child who was missing. But she’s too old.” The woman’s voice came from behind him.

  He didn’t reply, just took in the full horror of the scene that lay before him. A small section of the maize had been cleared—an area that measured no more than about ten feet square. In the middle of it was a girl’s body, or what remained of it, since the birds had found her. Naked, she’d been brutally murdered, her throat obviously cut, the remains of her blood dried into a darkened crust on her skin. The hand he’d seen had been severed, left on the ground a few feet from her body.

  She wasn’t much more than a child. Or maybe a teenager. She was tall, with thick, red hair, where it wasn’t covered in blood. He felt a sense of relief that he didn’t recognize her.

  The stench of rotting flesh reached his nostrils, making him gag. It had been a long time since he’d been on a scene like this one, of carnage, decay, the rotting flesh a breeding ground for thousands of flies.

  They’d need forensics in here. And a painstaking search through what was left of the maize, though thanks to the harvesters, any evidence had most likely been ground up and lost for good. Quickly, he took a few photographs. Then he went back to find the woman. Her face was pale as she watched him come into view.

  “Do you know her?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s go back to the others.”

  * * *

  “I’ve got their details,” Underwood told Jack. “I’ll just make a note of yours.” He glanced at the woman.

  “I’m Charlotte Harrison.” She was very self-possessed, Jack couldn’t help noticing. Especially considering she’d just stumbled across a dead body.

  Then Underwood said, “Charlotte Harrison? The same Charlotte Harrison who recognized the photo of Evie Sherman?”

  The woman looked irritated. “That’s me.”

  “I took the call.” He looked at her oddly.

  “Small world,” she said blithely. “But I suppose there aren’t that many of you round this neck of the woods, are there? Do you think this has anything to do with Jen . . . Evie? I’m not sure which name you’re giving her.”

  Underwood turned to Jack. “Evie Sherman is the woman who was attacked and found in a maize field. It happened while you were away.”

  The case Abbie had started telling him about. As Underwood took her details, Jack looked around. “Who does this land belong to?” He was addressing one of the drivers.

  “Jim Bellows. He owns about as far as you can see.” He pointed in a westerly direction. “Lives at Lower Farm . . .”

  Jack paused. “How long had you been working in this field?”

  “We started yesterday, around lunchtime.”

  “And did you see anything strange?”

  They both shook their heads. “Don’t think we saw anyone, did we? Not until she ran across the field,” one of them said. They looked at Charlotte.

  Jack turned back to the girl. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before you found the body?”

  “No.” Charlotte shook her head. “I was walking. It was only the birds that made me think something wasn’t right. . . .”

  Jack frowned. “That’s quite a conclusion to draw from a flock of birds circling.”

  She stared at him. “After what’s been going on . . . do you really think so?”

  She seemed touchy. “It’s just as well you did.” He didn’t want to antagonize anyone.

  She thawed slightly. “It’s just that after Jen—Evie—was found in a maize field, and with her daughter missing, my imagination went into overdrive. Anyway, like you said, it’s just as well.”

  He glanced at Underwood. “Have we got everything?”

  Underwood nodded.

  “That’s all for now,” Jack told them. “We need you to leave your farm machinery where it is for now. We’ll be in touch when we’re ready for you to move it.”

  The men looked less than pleased. Charlotte stood there.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “For now.” Jack nodded. “Someone will contact you at some point to take a more detailed statement from you. Unless there’s anything else you can tell us?”

  She shrugged. “Not really.” She turned and started walking away, leaving Jack staring after her. He was thinking of the girl on the cliff edge last night. The one in the silver coat. Could it have been Charlotte Harrison? There was something in the way she carried herself, the way she’d turned and walked off just now. But he wasn’t sure.

  Leaving Underwood to secure the crime scene and wait for more officers to show up, Jack started walking back across the field, unable to shake the image of the dead girl. She must have been there for some time, judging from the state of her flesh, what the birds had done to her—and now the flies. It was obvious from the way the maize had been cleared that the killing had been planned. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure the body was never found.

  Had anyone missed her? The first thing he’d do when he got back was check their database of missing persons. That girl—Charlotte—was a strange one. Intelligent, he guessed. And incredibly self-confident. It took some chutzpah to go into the maize alone to check out what the birds had been circling above, but then, it was unheard of for such a violent crime to happen in these parts, let alone two of them. It seemed like too much to be coincidence.

  He walked faster, wanting to get back to the office and read the file Abbie had given him earlier. All kinds of bells were ringing in his head. But it was more than that, he realized with astonishment. It had been a long time since he’d had a case to get his teeth into, one that would challeng
e even his years of experience. He was fired up in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

  * * *

  Sara was still behind the desk when he got back. “Do you know who the girl was?”

  Jack shook his head. “Would you know if anyone’s been reported missing?”

  “I don’t think so. . . .” Sara looked blank. “I’ll check our records.”

  But Jack wasn’t hanging around. He could access anything but the most recent records online—and the girl had been missing awhile. There was no doubt about that. Not that all missing persons got reported. It was incredible what some people turned a blind eye to, just because it was easier.

  As he sat down, he glanced at Abbie’s file. It would have to wait for now. He switched on his laptop, logged in to the station Web site, and looked for the missing persons list.

  It was a long list. Some of the names had been there for years, which he always found desperately sad. There was always a story—invariably a tragic one—behind someone who decided to abandon their life and their family to just disappear. It was bad enough losing someone when you knew what had happened. He didn’t know how you coped with that—not knowing where a loved one was.

  The majority of the list was taken up by adults or older teenagers—many of them mature enough to make their own decisions. The police had to respect that not everyone wanted to be found. But missing children were rare. They made the national press and television news programs. A missing child was every parent’s worst nightmare—or so you’d think.

  An entry caught his eye. A twelve-year-old girl with red hair. He frowned. The girl whose body they’d found looked too tall to be just twelve. He read on. Her name was Tamsyn Morgan, and she was reported missing a week ago, not by her parents but by one of her teachers.

  He read the notes. Apparently, Tamsyn had disappeared before, several times—for as long as two or three weeks at a time, usually in the summer, when she’d lived rough or camped out in farmers’ barns, according to local sources. She was quite well known for such disappearances. The mother didn’t care enough to stop her; she just let her run wild. But since the term started, Tamsyn hadn’t been to school. Apparently, it wasn’t her usual pattern; hence, the teacher had reported it to the police.

  He studied the photo, taking in her bright eyes and the pale skin that often went with red hair. It was the hair that was her most distinguishing feature, and as far as he could tell, it was similar in color to that of the dead girl he’d seen earlier. She was described as tall, independent, and spirited. After getting out his phone, he found the photos he’d taken in the field, compared them with the one on file, then sat back. There wasn’t any question it was she.

  * * *

  He took Sara with him to break the news to Tamsyn’s parents, ignoring her idle chatter as they drove toward Wadebridge, turned onto one of the typically twisty narrow lanes with steep, stone-walled sides, then headed down a bumpy farm track toward a pair of shabby cottages.

  All the time, thoughts of Josh filled his head. He knew what he was about to tell Tamsyn’s parents was the beginning of the most brutal transition anyone could go through. Life as you knew it ended in that moment you were told your child was dead.

  After parking in a turnout outside the cottages, they got out of the car.

  “We want number two,” he told Sara, who was already walking toward a wooden gate hanging off its hinges.

  “This says number one,” she called back to him.

  Jack turned to the other cottage. There was a dim light in one of the windows and a curl of smoke coming from the chimney. Shutting off how this was making him feel, he started walking toward the front door.

  The woman who opened it had a lined face and small, hard eyes.

  “Jack Bentley, Truro police. This is Constable Sara Evans. May we come in?”

  “What’s she done this time?” the woman said abruptly, stepping aside to let them in.

  “Is anyone else home?” Sara asked, walking through into the small front room. It looked unused. It was cold in there; the curl of smoke Jack had seen clearly came from another room.

  “Just me. What’s going on?”

  “It’s about Tamsyn, Mrs Morgan.” Jack paused. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  “For God’s sake, that child’s always in trouble.”

  “When did you last see her?” Jack hadn’t planned to ask the question, but this woman was anything but a caring mother.

  “Tamsyn?” The woman laughed. “Must be a fortnight ago. Why?”

  Even Sara looked shocked. “And you don’t know where she’s been in that time?”

  “Haven’t a clue, love. I gave up years ago. Tamsyn does what she wants.”

  “Isn’t she a little young to run wild like that? How old is she? Twelve?”

  “You police are all the same. You don’t know what it’s like having a child like that,” the woman sneered. “A law unto her bloody self, that one. More trouble than she’s worth.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry any longer, Mrs. Morgan.” Jack couldn’t help himself. “We found your daughter earlier today.” He paused. It was that moment. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”

  * * *

  “That was a bit brutal,” Sara said as they drove away.

  “Yeah. I know.” But Jack was angry. No one had to have a child these days. He hated how reluctant parents like Tamsyn’s mother could be so uncaring about their children, when there were so many couples who were desperate for a child to lavish love on. But there were too many people like Tamsyn’s mother. Life didn’t make sense. If it did, Josh would still be alive.

  15

  By the time Jack was back at the station, it was late afternoon. Abbie’s file lay on his desk, where she’d left it earlier. Rather than stay another hour, he decided to take it with him. He’d read it when he got home, or maybe save it for tomorrow. He planned to work from home rather than face another day at the station. Beamer would be grateful. Since Louise had left, the dog had become his closest companion.

  Sure enough, when he opened the back door, he was greeted by Beamer’s grin and wagging tail. Jack didn’t like leaving him so long, but he had one or two friends who would stop by and let him out for a while. Their help made the situation manageable—and when he could, Jack worked from home.

  “Here, boy.” He whistled to Beamer. “Walk?”

  The Labrador’s eyes lit up with hope; then he trotted off and came back carrying his leash, a trick Josh had taught him. Jack stood there a moment. There were still times, like now, when the fact that his son was dead seemed unreal. It felt like yesterday that he’d still been here. Part of him still expected to hear Josh’s voice echoing through the house or his feet thundering down the stairs. Would that ever change? He missed his son more than his wife; that much he was certain of. But he and Louise had become a habit. He missed the sound of her in the house, the trivial words they exchanged. But that was what their marriage had been reduced to—familiarity and history. It wasn’t about love.

  He sighed. He was still working through it all in his head. After shutting the door behind him, he set off across the yard with Beamer, heading toward the woods, where the air would smell of damp earth and fallen leaves, and in the solitude, he knew the sadness would lift slightly. He half smiled to himself. He needed to remember that in so many ways, he was lucky.

  As usual, even after an hour of walking, he hadn’t seen a soul. Occasionally, he’d hear someone through the trees—voices or maybe footsteps on dry twigs. He called his dog, waited until Beamer came crashing through the bushes toward him, then turned and headed for home.

  He had to think of the pluses of living alone. The fact that he could play classical music, which used to drive Louise insane. He could eat what he wanted to, as well. Tonight, since he’d been in Spain, the fridge was empty. He’d completely forgotten to go shopping. Oh well. In the pantry were a few cans of beans and the bottle of duty-free whiskey he’d bought on the way
home. He grimaced at the thought of them together, just as he heard a car pull up outside.

  Seconds later there was a knock at the door. Bemused, he went to answer it, but he was less bemused when he saw who was there.

  “I brought you supper.” It was Lucy, from the village shop, holding out a casserole. “Seeing as you’d been away and that.” Pretty, with smiling eyes and full lips, she spoke with a thick Cornish accent.

  “Thanks.” Jack was taken aback, more so as he realized how much make-up she was wearing and as more than a hint of her perfume reached him. Oh God. He liked Lucy, with her blond hair and pink lipstick, but she wasn’t his type. He hoped he hadn’t said anything to encourage her.

  “It’s chicken.” She stood there expectantly.

  Was she waiting for him to invite her in? “It’s really kind of you,” he said at last. “Especially as I have to work tonight, and . . . okay, I have no food in the house, as you probably guessed!”

  Giggling, Lucy winked at him. There was no subtlety about her.

  “Honestly,” he said more firmly, “I’d invite you in, but I really do have to work tonight. But thank you.”

  At last she got the message. “Oh, go on, you. I’ll leave you to it. But don’t forget, all work and no play made Jack a dull boy. . . .”

  She giggled again as inwardly, Jack cringed. Was he now to be the recipient of casseroles from the single women in the village? He sincerely hoped not.

  “I’ll drop the dish back tomorrow. Thanks, Lucy.”

  As she turned and walked away, still giggling, she tripped. Had she been drinking? Sod it. He was off duty—and he wasn’t going to add Lucy to his list of problems. She didn’t have far to drive, and she was old enough to look after herself.

  The casserole was good. So was the scotch. Reinvigorated, Jack fetched Abbie’s file, and as he carried on eating, he started reading.

  On the morning of September 25, two runners discovered a woman’s body lying on an unofficial footpath across a field of maize on Lower Farm. Jack frowned. The second body had been found on land belonging to Lower Farm, too, according to one of the drivers. He’d check. The woman had severe injuries, mainly to her head, and was unconscious. After being airlifted to the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro, she remained unconscious for three days. When she came round, it was clear her memory was affected. On day four, she remembered her name, Evie, and that of her three-year-old daughter, Angel. Evie’s ex-partner, Nick Abraham, was traced but told the police he didn’t know he had a daughter. No one meeting Evie’s description has been reported missing, and with the exception of one woman, no one has recognized her. The name of the woman who knew Evie at school is Charlotte Harrison.