“I hope you don’t mind.... I let myself in. . . .” He was repeating himself, trying to get her attention, but she seemed out of it. “The door was unlocked. Your police guard’s outside. He saw me come in.” Recognizing Miller in the car, Jack had knocked on the car window but hadn’t stopped. Miller had been talking on his cell. He hesitated. “I’ll put some on a plate, shall I? It’s chicken . . . homemade.”
The gesture of kindness was lost in what was already an obscure landscape of loss and uncertainty, where familiarity was absent, where uninvited people came and went at will. Jack remembered it all too well. Evie didn’t move, and he realized, after the events of the day, how exhausted she must be.
“Are you coming with me?” He made his voice matter of fact. It seemed to stir her. She sat up and slid her feet to the floor.
She followed him back to the kitchen.
“Where are your plates?”
After walking over to a cupboard, Evie bent down, reached for two plates, handed them over, then sat down. It was clearly too much effort for her.
“You didn’t have to.”
After hunting around for cutlery, he dished up the casserole and placed a plate on the table, in front of her. “I know what it’s like. How much effort it takes.” He placed his plate on the table and sat down.
After a couple of mouthfuls, she pushed her plate away. “I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry.”
Jack didn’t say anything, just carried on eating, noticing out of the corner of his eye as she picked up her fork again, picked at what was on her plate.
“Does your wife mind your coming here?”
Her question took him by surprise. He thought he’d told her. “My wife doesn’t live with me. She left me a couple of months ago.”
She stopped, her fork poised midway to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t be. To be honest, our marriage was falling apart long before Josh died. She’d been having an affair. I was going to broach the subject of divorce, only then the accident happened. Josh’s death kept us together—for the wrong reasons. We had grief in common. Nothing else.”
Evie didn’t comment.
Jack wasn’t used to talking about his marriage. Suddenly, he was awkward. “I should go.” She was clearly tired, and he didn’t want to outstay his welcome.
Evie got up. “Thank you. It was really kind.” Her eyes held his.
He left her the rest of the casserole. As he walked down the path to his car, he could feel drizzle on his face. A reminder of what always seemed like the endless rain of winter. He didn’t look forward to it.
Farther up the path, he could make out the shape of a police car, dimly lit from inside, and was reassured to know that someone was watching out for Evie. As he drove away, he couldn’t help wondering what the future held for her. He supposed at some point, her memory would come back. But maybe it wouldn’t.
* * *
That night, he couldn’t sleep; he lay awake as he went over what he’d seen that day. The graves Evie had found . . . He wondered whom the empty one was destined for, who or what had already been buried there.
Evie was at the center of everything; he was convinced of it. His gut was telling him loud and clear that this was far from over.
40
October 25 . . .
At the station the next day, he bumped into Abbie again. She might not be spending her days with Evie anymore, but this case was far from resolved.
“Any news about the graves?” It was too soon, Jack knew, but sometimes, if the identity of the remains was obvious, forensics would give them a heads-up.
“They’re at the site in the woods now. It shouldn’t be long before we know whether we’re looking at human or animal remains.”
“So they’ve found something.”
“Yes. Bones. They haven’t been any more specific.”
* * *
One of the sergeants still working Evie Sherman’s case was Pete Underwood. Jack had worked with him about three years ago, on a case near Bude. He knew him well enough to know he trusted him. Something in his head was telling him not to take chances on the plan he had in mind.
He stuck his head round the door to the office where Underwood was sitting at a desk, frowning at the screen in front of him. “Hello?”
“Hi. Come in.”
After pushing the door closed, Jack came and sat down. He paused. “This is unofficial—for now.” His eyes met Underwood’s.
Underwood leaned forward, listening intently.
“Right now we have four unsolved crimes. We’re trying to find whoever attacked Evie Sherman and killed Tamsyn Morgan. That may or may not be the same person, but we need to consider the possibility the two crimes are linked. I know it’s slightly controversial, but Evie’s daughter is still missing. Then there’s three-year-old Leah Danning’s disappearance fifteen years ago, which was never solved.”
“You think they’re related?”
Jack went on. “Possibly. There’s one person we haven’t checked out yet—Xander Pascoe. The police suspected he was involved with Leah Danning’s disappearance, but he had an alibi. According to Charlotte Harrison, Xander was involved with Leah’s older sister, Casey. Then we’re back to Evie, who used to babysit Leah. The only way Tamsyn fits into this is if she saw something.” Jack sighed. “I’d like you to come to the Pascoes’ farm with me. I want to talk to Xander.”
Underwood shook his head. “I’ve already tried. Twice. Both times, there was no sign of him.”
“I know. No warning this time. We’ll just drive up there. If he’s not around, we’ll talk to his mother.”
Underwood frowned. “Is there something going on I should know about?”
Jack’s answer was evasive. “Right now I don’t know any more than you do.”
* * *
The drive to Chickens Farm, where the Pascoes lived, took thirty minutes along winding lanes edged with stone walls overgrown with grass and bracken. The grayness of earlier had turned to drizzle. From everything he knew about her, Jack wasn’t expecting Janna Pascoe to be welcoming.
He was right. As they drew up in the farmyard, a light flickered on inside the house and he saw a face pressed against a window. After ringing the doorbell, they stood there for several minutes before hearing the sound of a heavy bolt being pulled back.
“Yes?” The woman in front of them was in a wheelchair.
“Janna Pascoe?” Jack held out his police badge. “Detective Inspector Jack Bentley.” Jack didn’t often use his full rank, but dealing with Janna Pascoe merited it. “This is Sergeant Underwood. May we come in?”
The woman glowered at them. “If you must.” Leaving the door open, she spun her wheelchair round and disappeared inside.
After they walked in, Underwood closed the front door behind them, and the sound echoed throughout the cavernous hallway they found themselves in. Looking around, Jack studied the paintings.
He tried to strike up a conversation. It wasn’t likely to work with someone like Janna Pascoe, but it was worth a try. “Are these your family?” He nodded toward the ornately framed paintings on the walls.
“You didn’t come here to talk about my paintings.” She had a heavy West Country accent. Her eyes bored into Jack. “What do you want?”
“A word with your son.” Jack stopped looking at the paintings. He’d dealt with the likes of Janna more times than he could remember.
“Xander?” Janna seemed to smirk. “Sorry. He isn’t here.”
“Could you tell me when he’ll be back?” Jack kept his calm.
“I haven’t a bleeding clue. He’s a grown man. Comes and goes as he pleases. Now, if that’s all . . .” After turning her back, she started propelling herself toward a doorway.
“Actually, that’s not all. Can you tell us where your son was on the night of the twenty-fourth of September?” Jack paused briefly. “Or how about the eighteenth of June, fifteen years ago?”
Janna Pascoe’s
head came up as her hands froze on the wheels of her chair. When she turned around, she wore an expression of pure malice. “Now, what makes you think I can?” she said icily. “I can’t remember last week, let alone fifteen years ago. The accident affected my head. Haven’t been the same since.”
“We’re not here about your accident, Mrs. Pascoe.” Jack held the woman’s hostile gaze. “We just want to know about your son.”
“And I can’t help you.”
It was a standoff. Nothing to be gained by trying to push her further. Jack reached into his pocket for a card, held it out to her. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to ask him to call me?”
When she refused to take it, Jack walked over and left it on top of a large oak chest. Glancing at Underwood, he started walking toward the front door.
“You can see yourselves out . . . ,” Janna Pascoe shouted after them.
Neither of them replied.
They were still standing outside the closed door when they heard the heavy clunk as the bolt was slid back into place.
“Makes you wonder who she’s afraid of.” Underwood glanced at Jack, but he was looking across the yard at some farm buildings.
“Shall we check them out?”
Side by side they walked toward the old stable block, the doors of which were closed, with the exception of one top door, which was missing. The building looked unused, neglected, with an uneven corrugated roof where the wind had caught and lifted round the edges.
“It doesn’t look like they do much farming.” Jack peered in through the missing door, where dead leaves were scattered on top of the filthy floor.
“They’re empty.” Underwood was checking out each of the stalls. “They don’t look like they’ve been used in a while. Hang on.... Not this one, though . . .”
“What have you found?” Jack looked inside. At the sight of a slaughtered deer strung up by its hind legs, he immediately stepped back. “If someone around here’s a deer hunter, I’m guessing it’s not Janna. . . .”
Beside him, Underwood stared at the carcass as a voice behind them spoke.
“Looking for something?”
It was a cold, calculating voice. They turned round. It was Xander Pascoe. It had to be. He had Janna’s eyes, full of hostility.
“That’s yours, is it?” Jack nodded toward the deer.
“So what if it is? It’s not a crime to shoot deer on your own farm, Officer. Bloody nuisance, they are.”
So it was him. “Xander Pascoe?”
“Yes. And what the fuck are you doing, nosing around my farm? Got a warrant?” His manner was as aggressive as his words.
So he knew they were the police. He’d obviously been there all along, while they were talking to his mother.
“I thought I heard a cry coming from one of these stalls.” Jack spoke calmly, pausing often, frowning slightly as he looked at him. “A woman, I think. Or maybe it was a child. I’m not sure.” He stared at Xander, watching for the smallest giveaway sign.
Xander didn’t say anything. Then he threw back his head and laughed, an evil sound that gave Jack the chills, reminding him of the laugh he’d heard in the woods.
“You think?” Xander said nastily. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think. It’s dangerous out here. First an attack, then a murder . . . It would be safest if you got in your car and left.”
“Before we go, I’d like to ask you one or two questions.” It took all Jack had to ignore Xander’s poorly concealed threat. “Can you tell us where you were on the night of the twenty-fourth of September?”
“Probably in the pub, with my friends. Any one of them will vouch for me, as will the landlord. The Smugglers Rest . . . I’ll even give you their number. Next question?” He hooked his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and started scrolling down the screen.
“We have the number.” Jack stared at him. “Where were you on the eighteenth of June fifteen years ago?”
Xander’s mouth dropped open; then he pulled himself together. “How do you expect me to remember fifteen bleeding years ago?”
“Oh, but you do.” Jack’s voice was dangerously quiet. “Remember little Leah Danning, Xander? She was three years old when she disappeared from her yard. The police talked to you about her, only funnily enough, you had a whole load of friends who vouched for your whereabouts. You were in a pub, if I remember correctly. The Smugglers Rest. Like I said, we have their number.”
Xander’s eyes narrowed. “I’d be very careful about what you say if I were you, or you’ll end up looking as stupid as the last cop who tried to pin the kid’s disappearance on me. I had nothing to do with Leah Danning, and I had nothing to do with whatever went on last month. Will that be all?”
“For now,” Jack said brusquely. “If we need to talk to you again, we’ll be in touch.”
* * *
As they drove away, neither of them spoke.
“He knows something,” Jack said at last. God, he was relieved to be away from the man. “He knows we know, too. We need to watch him, see where he goes, who he’s with. I’ve a feeling Xander Pascoe’s guilty as hell.”
“But why? Why would he be?”
“Charlotte Harrison told Abbie he had his own Cornish mafia. And because he’s obviously a psychopath. He has no feelings. Who knows what his motivation is—or if he even needs one.”
“Money?” Underwood asked.
“I was thinking that, too. But did you see those paintings in the farmhouse? I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure there was a Turner among them.”
“Blimey.” Underwood sounded shocked.
But Jack’s gut feeling was growing stronger. “So if it’s not money, what the hell is it?”
41
When he got back to the station, Abbie was waiting for him with the forensic results for the blood on the leaves they’d found in the woods.
“It was animal, not human. Thank God. After what you told me, I was worried you’d witnessed a murder.” She paused. “There’s nothing more on the body,” she added.
“How about the results for the fabric I sent off?”
She shook her head. “They haven’t come back yet.”
It shouldn’t take much longer, Jack was thinking. “We didn’t get anything out of Xander Pascoe.”
“I didn’t think you would. Maybe I should talk to Charlotte again—and Evie, too. There has to be something we’re missing.”
“If you talk to Charlotte, I’ll go round to see Evie,” Jack offered. It made sense. He’d do it on his way home. “I’ve been thinking about Miller.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t trust him. There’s the fact that he didn’t report the incident in the woods. And have you noticed how often he’s at Evie’s?” Jack had certainly noticed. More often than not, it was Miller parked outside overnight.
“Spending the night shift in one’s car isn’t exactly popular,” Abbie told him.
“That’s my point. Underwood’s been there a couple of times, that’s all. Check the rosters.”
Then Jack had another thought. It was a long shot, but it could make all the difference in the world.
* * *
He saw Abbie again briefly later on, just before he left the station.
“I tried Charlotte,” she told him. “But it went to voice mail. I left a message, but she hasn’t called back.”
“Keep trying her.” Jack could sense they were on the verge of something. And if Xander was involved, after his visit, time wasn’t on their side. “I’m going to call in on Evie on my way home.” He knew she was going to ask about the graves.
“Hopefully, by tomorrow, we’ll have something more from forensics.”
* * *
“Would you like to come in?”
Jack nodded. “Thank you. How are you? You look better.”
“I’m okay.” Evie sounded wary. “I seem to be stuck where I was when you were last here. A few more things have come back, but not much.”
“I’
m sorry.” He’d hoped for more. “I’ve been to see Xander Pascoe. Do you remember him?”
Evie shrugged. “Vaguely. From school.”
“He and Casey were an item for a while. Do you remember that?”
Evie paused. “All I can tell you about Xander is that when you mention his name, for some reason, I feel embarrassed. I feel ashamed, too. I also know I don’t want to talk about him. It makes me uncomfortable. And I have no idea why.”
Jack frowned. “There must be a reason.”
“You know more about me than I do.” Evie shrugged. “Yes, there probably is, buried with everything else someplace I can’t get to.”
He had to ask. “Has anything at all come back to you about when Leah went missing?”
Evie frowned. “There are things that don’t make sense. I couldn’t begin to tell you why.” She looked at him. “I’m no help, Jack.”
“You know what I think?” He fixed his eyes on Evie. “It makes sense that you came here to get away from Nick and your old life. And if you hadn’t moved into your aunt’s old house, you might have gone unnoticed, but I think either someone saw you or you saw them. Either that, or you know something that could harm them. And the most likely explanation is it’s linked to Leah.”
“Why?” Evie frowned at him. “How can you say that?”
“I’m still working it out. I’m sure it’s to do with Xander Pascoe, too. We have other leads we’re following up.” Jack didn’t want to tell her about how hostile Xander was, or about what he’d seen and heard, or about the traces of blood in the woods. He changed the subject. “Have you seen Charlotte recently?”
Evie shook her head. “She came round the other night. She said something about man trouble, but she didn’t say what.”
* * *
As Jack drove away, he was deep in thought. Evie had told him nothing new. He was pretty sure she wasn’t intentionally hiding anything. In spite of what Nick had said, she didn’t strike him as devious. He was halfway down the drive when his cell buzzed. He glanced at the screen. It was PC Evans.
“Hi, Sara.”
“Jack, Abbie thought you’d want to know. It’s about the graves. They’ve dug one up and found a cat buried there. I’ll forward you the e-mail. It’s not good reading, but I thought you’d want to know. The cat’s throat was cut, and it was mutilated in various ways.”
Part of the Silence Page 23
