Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  Jack stopped reading. The same Charlotte Harrison he’d met earlier, the woman who’d discovered Tamsyn’s body—the woman with attitude. He carried on.

  Evie’s recollections are at best unreliable. The situation is further complicated. Since she and Mr. Abraham separated, it appears she changed her name, having formerly used her real name, Jen Russell. After leaving him, it’s believed she moved to Jessamine Cottage, a house that used to belong to her aunt, now deceased.

  Jen Russell . . . The name rang some bells, but for the life of him, Jack couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before.

  Forensic investigation has so far failed to find any proof that a child lives in Jessamine Cottage. There is no record of an Angel Sherman at local doctors’ offices or preschools. It’s possible that Evie/Jen was living elsewhere, but clothes and food, as well as forensic evidence found there, would appear to suggest the cottage is her home.

  Clipped to the next page were a couple of photos. One was of a girl in her late teens, which, judging from the style of her fair hair, looked as though it had been taken several years ago. The other was more recent. A typical police mug shot of someone looking less than their best, but then, the woman was recovering from a brutal attack.

  Something about her was familiar, though. Her hair was lank, and her eyes were lifeless. When he compared the two photos, it was hard to believe they were of the same person, until you saw the cheekbones, the shape of her mouth. Forgetting his supper, Jack scrutinized them, then leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Neither of her names meant anything to him, but he was sure he’d seen her somewhere before.

  On the last page, however, he found out why. It brought back a memory he’d rather have forgotten.

  When a background check was carried out on Jen Russell, it was found that she’d been involved in the disappearance of another young girl. Three-year-old Leah Danning was in Jen’s care when she went missing from her home one Saturday morning fifteen years ago.

  “Jesus.” Jack remembered the case clearly. Leah’s disappearance had shocked him—Josh had been a similar age. Louise had become paranoid: she’d kept the doors and windows locked, watched everyone with suspicious eyes, terrified to let Josh out of her sight.

  So Jen Russell was the woman who’d been attacked. In a twist of fate, her daughter was missing. And now Tamsyn was dead. But how was any of this connected to Leah Danning?

  It was only as he lay in bed that night, his brain sifting through everything that had happened that day, that a memory flashed into his head. Then it was gone. He sat up, no longer tired. The person in the photos—Jen. He knew where he’d seen her. Right here, walking in the same woods where he walked. He must have seen her half a dozen times over the past year, always at a distance; but after the second or third time, close enough to see her face, her eyes meeting his briefly, startlingly, before she turned away from him. She always turned away. . . . But he couldn’t recall seeing a child.

  16

  October 8 . . .

  “I found this yesterday. It may have come from the body,” Jack said to Abbie the next morning. He placed the pendant on her desk. It was in a plastic bag, ready to be handed over to forensics, but not before he’d carefully photographed it. It was small, childish, probably one that Tamsyn had had for years.

  “Right.” Looking closely at it, Abbie frowned. “Have you had time to read the file?”

  “I read it last night. Actually, I’ve seen her a few times,” Jack told her. “Walking. We’ve never spoken. Is she Evie or Jen?”

  “She calls herself Evie.” Abbie reached across to the shelf behind her. “Here.” She opened the map on her desk. “I’ll show you where Jessamine Cottage is.” She pointed to an area on the edge of Bodmin.

  “I live slightly farther north.” Jack pointed to where his house was.

  “Bit of a trek for you, isn’t it, Bentley? Truro?”

  “I try not to do it too often.” It was true. Whenever he could, Jack worked from home. Coming to the station on two consecutive days, like the past two, was almost unheard of.

  “Did you ever talk to her?”

  Jack shook his head. “No. All I can tell you is she was always alone. There was never a child with her. She had this way of turning aside, as if she didn’t want to be seen.”

  Abbie frowned. “She couldn’t have left a three-year-old alone . . . to walk that far. Surely?”

  “You’d think not.” But people did the most unlikely things, Jack was thinking. Even loving mothers. “Maybe I just didn’t see the child.” He shrugged. “There were trees. I never got that close.”

  Abbie looked thoughtful. “Sara told me you saw Tamsyn’s mother.”

  “Yes.” He got angry just thinking about her. “She didn’t say much.”

  “You can’t always tell how people are feeling, Jack,” Abbie said pointedly.

  He knew that. He wondered if Sara had told her what he’d said. But Tamsyn’s mother had been remorseless about the way she neglected her daughter. She hadn’t cared.

  “We had a call yesterday from a Tina Wells, who runs a farm shop not far from Wadebridge. She says Evie used to supply her with vegetables.”

  Jack nodded. “I’ll go and talk to her.”

  “Thank you. I can’t. I’m due back at the hospital. Here’s the address.” Abbie handed him the piece of paper. “We’ve posted the photo of Tamsyn on our Facebook page, too. We’ll see what comes of it.”

  Back in his office, Jack was deep in thought. If for no other reason than curiosity, he needed to go back over the Danning case.

  Having located the file, he made a coffee and then closed the office door and started reading. About the Danning family—Michael and Sally, the parents, and their two daughters, Casey and Leah. He knew where their house was. He wondered if any of them still lived there. He made a note to himself to check it out. He remembered going there, a newly fledged police officer, far too young and too naive to have any idea about the impact of losing a child.

  The senior investigating officer had been a Chief Inspector Rhodes, an imposing man, whose procedure had seemed chaotic to Jack at the time, but they’d been dealing with two overwrought teenage girls: Casey, the missing girl’s sister, and, of course, Jen, who’d been babysitting. The mother had been the first to come home—she’d been understandably distraught, while the father had been angry—or so it had struck Jack.

  Rhodes had seen it all, it seemed to Jack, who’d hung on to every pearl of wisdom his boss had uttered. One in particular came to mind. Feral children know where to hide. By feral, he’d meant wild, free, instinctive. It also meant not abiding by the rules, such as they were. Instantly, he thought of Tamsyn. From everything he’d heard, she was the epitome of feral. Had she known where to hide? Until someone had found her?

  He turned his attention back to the Danning file. There was a whole lot more he’d read later—interviews with the teenagers, references to other cases. They’d launched a huge search and got dogs in, but no trace of Leah was ever found.

  * * *

  The farm shop was easy to find. Like many farms, it had diversified in an attempt to catch more of the tourist trade. Just selling locally produced meat and vegetables wasn’t enough anymore. There was a kids’ playground and, beyond, a number of small accessible pens containing animals. Farming was tough. You did what you had to in order to survive.

  As he walked inside, Jack couldn’t help but be impressed by what the shop sold. As well as locally grown fruit and vegetables, there was a range of meats and cheeses. Then, around the corner, a display of work by local craftsmen. But he wasn’t here to browse. He walked over to the desk.

  “Is Tina Wells here?”

  The girl behind the desk blushed slightly. She looked about seventeen. “I’ll just get her.”

  Jack hovered around the desk. The shop was deserted, though he’d bet in summer it was a different matter. If Jen had brought her vegetables to sell here, surely someone must have seen her daug
hter.

  “Hello? Are you looking for me?”

  Jack turned around to find an older woman standing there, with wavy, fair hair loosely pinned back and wearing an apron covered in flour. After dusting off a hand, she held it out to him. “I’m Tina Wells. Sorry. We’re making Christmas cakes.”

  “Jack Bentley, Truro police.” Jack regarded her with amusement for a moment. “I’m here to talk to you about Evie Sherman.”

  “Yes. Poor Evie.” She paused for a moment. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what had happened to her. Shall we sit down? Would you like a coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Good coffee was a luxury when Jack was working. At the police station, it was dire.

  “Over here?” Tina nodded toward a group of tables that Jack hadn’t noticed. “How do you like it?”

  “Black.” He followed her over. “I like your shop.”

  “Thank you. We like to support local growers and farmers. It’s quiet just now, but the summer months more than make up for it.”

  “Evie was one of your suppliers?”

  Tina nodded. “I met her early this year. It was still winter. I remember thinking how small and cold she looked, as though she needed a square meal or two. She told me she had a huge vegetable garden and some hens.... Was I interested in buying what she didn’t need? At first, I wasn’t sure. We’re quite selective here. People don’t mind paying a premium, but they expect good quality. But she was persistent, so I gave her a chance. She didn’t let me down, either. I was wondering why we hadn’t had a delivery from her.” Tina frowned. “I suppose that with the shop quieter, I didn’t give it much thought.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  Tina shook her head. “I really didn’t. After she delivered her first boxes of vegetables, she always used to come here early and leave them stacked on the shelves outside. You may have seen them when you came in. It’s what a number of our suppliers do. It’s easier that way.”

  “So how did you pay her?”

  “Cash. I have a book of all the payments made. I can show it to you if you like.”

  But Jack shook his head. “There’s no need. When did she pick the money up?”

  “The night after she delivered, I’d leave her boxes outside for her, with the money in an envelope. That way she could pick it up when it suited her.”

  Jack nodded. It sounded chancy, but it didn’t surprise him. This was Cornwall, after all. People were considered trustworthy, until proven otherwise.

  “So far, there’s never been a problem. The arrangement works both ways.” Tina paused. “How is she?”

  “Her memory is slowly coming back.” Jack looked at her. “Her injuries were serious. She was unconscious when she was found. But at the moment, our greatest concern is for her daughter.”

  “Of course.” Tina looked anxious. “Where is she?”

  “We’ve no idea. I was wondering if you’d seen her any of the times Evie had been here.”

  But Tina shook her head. “To be honest, until I read the police Facebook post, I didn’t even know she had a daughter.”

  * * *

  It was another wild-goose chase, the kind that police investigations were full of. But you always had to try; had to believe that someone, somewhere, knew something. Evie must have gone out for groceries sometimes, no matter how secluded her life. The trouble was, there were so many remote village shops, and such a high turnover of tourists, that unfamiliar faces didn’t stand out. It was the familiar ones that did.

  On impulse, Jack took a different way home, wanting to take a look at the house where Jen lived, Jessamine Cottage. It was late, dusk seeming to fall early on this overcast afternoon. The road to the house was rough and unkempt, mostly through woodland, and after half a mile, he was starting to think he’d taken a wrong turn, but round the next corner, a roof came into view.

  As he pulled over, he noted that no other cars were parked beside the overgrown hedge that bordered the property. When he got out of the car, the silence had the same quality as it did at home. Raw and untouched, pure.

  The gate was open, and Jack was struck with irritation that whichever officer was here last hadn’t bothered to close it properly. Probably PC Miller. He’d spent a lot of time going over the cottage with the forensics team. Then Jack saw that the latch was broken. He carried on round the side of the house, where the yard opened out. It was quite something, the stretch of open grass edged by towering oak trees. The path took him across the grass, through a gap in a more neatly maintained beech hedge, the other side of which was a vegetable garden.

  No wonder Jen was selling to the farm shop. It was vast, far too prolific for even several people. Beyond, he could hear chickens, and as he walked farther, a large run came into view. About a dozen birds came running over. Unsure who was feeding them, he found a bin of corn in a shed and fed them some, then topped up the empty container in the run, hoping it would last awhile.

  There were no kids’ toys in any of the outbuildings. It had started to drizzle. He walked over to the back door of the cottage, felt on the ledge above the frame, hoping for a key, amazed to find there was one. After letting himself in, he took his shoes off, then started looking around. The house was sparsely furnished and uncluttered—no photos, either, unless forensics had taken them. Upstairs, he checked the three bedrooms, but it was exactly as Abbie had said. There was no sign whatsoever that a child had lived here.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Jack drove back down toward the road. The drizzle that had started while he was outside had turned to a steady downpour. The house was out of sight behind him and he was still some distance from the main road when something in the woods caught his eye. It was an intermittent beam, possibly from a single flashlight. Slowing down, he switched off his headlights and watched as it was joined by another, then another, as they made their way toward each other.

  After everything that had happened, he didn’t like it. He pulled over, then switched off the engine and got out.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he started to make his way toward the lights, moving from tree to tree as quietly as he could, lucky that by now the rain was heavy enough to drown out any sound his feet made. As he got closer to where the flashlights had gathered, his concern was growing. It was unlikely anything serious was going on, but he had to check. That was all. It was probably just kids, he told himself. Only it wouldn’t be kids, would it, not in this rain, and not when there was any number of deserted barns around?

  After the attack on Jen, then Tamsyn’s murder, he wondered if whatever was going on here could be related. An uneasy feeling filled him as he felt in his pocket and turned his phone to mute, his imagination getting the better of him. There was probably some perfectly reasonable explanation for a group of people with lights gathering in the woods in the rain. Even so, he stayed hidden.

  Through the darkness, he watched the flashlights cluster together, too close for him to think about getting away, and too many for him to think about a confrontation without backup. His only choice was to stay out of sight—and wait.

  Minutes passed while nothing happened. Then, in the distance, he heard someone else coming. Another light approached the group, but rather than being steady, the beam moved erratically, as though the holder was struggling with something.

  Through the rain, Jack heard a man’s laugh. Loud and cruel, it was a sound that was full of evil, that chilled him to the core. There was a cry, a pure, high-pitched one filled with fear, followed by more laughter. Then silence.

  He had a sick feeling in his stomach. Presumably, whoever was out there had done what they’d come here to do. Soon they’d leave; then he’d give them a few minutes and get out of there.

  But just seconds later, he knew he was wrong. The high-pitched cry he’d heard was just a prelude to the piercing scream that filled the air, louder than before, terrified, filled with pain, going on and on before faltering, then fading into silence.

 
; In reality it could only have lasted seconds, but Jack was in no doubt that he’d just witnessed a drawn-out and painful death. Fighting the urge to throw up, he knew he had to find out what they’d done. His conscience wouldn’t let him leave without knowing. Trying to convince himself that the victim was probably an animal, he knew, also, it could be a child.

  Edging closer, he tried not to think about it, slowly feeling his way, each footstep as calculated as it could be in the dark, until, despite his best efforts, he stepped on something.

  At the familiar cry of a pheasant startled into flight, all the flashlights swung round in Jack’s direction. Crouched behind a dense patch of brambles, he froze, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Danger was all around him. Jack trusted his instincts. Then from the opposite direction came a crashing sound, which saved him. As he watched, the lights swung all over the place. Straining in the darkness, Jack tried to pick out faces but caught only glimpses of eyes, mouths, hands, scored them into his mind, nonetheless, though he did not recognize them.

  The crashing continued. He’d no idea if it was human or animal, but the group with the flashlights disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived, blending into the trees, until silence fell. Holding his breath, Jack waited, slowly filled with relief. Then apprehension. Something had happened, and he needed to know what.