Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  Jack felt sick. It was like the dog he’d found last year. Who were these sickos who enjoyed torturing innocent animals? Then another thought occurred to him. That night in the woods, when he’d heard an animal being slaughtered, that terrible cry. Could it have been a cat? He felt his blood run cold. Evie had mentioned a missing cat.

  But Sara interrupted his thoughts. “Oh God, Jack. That’s not all. There’s more. They found a third grave. It was farther in than the other two. It’s been there a long time. They’re digging it up now, as we speak.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Sara.” Jack was filled with dread. Please, God, it’s not a small child.

  As soon as he’d hung up, Jack dialed Abbie’s cell. “Sara just told me about the third grave.”

  “Thank God they spotted it. I hope there aren’t more.”

  “You know they found a mutilated cat?” Jack paused. “Did Evie tell you her cat was missing?”

  “She mentioned it to me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I believed her.” Abbie sounded distracted. “Can you check with her? I still haven’t spoken to Charlotte. I’m on my way over to her house. I’ll let you know when I reach her.”

  CASEY

  2005 . . .

  It’s always there, the knowledge that you can end it. End the pain, the suffering, the unfairness, because whatever you try, there isn’t always a cure.

  From the moment you’re born, you’re molded into something you have no control over. Forget what people say about how you can change. The best you can hope for is the ability to fool them all, so that they leave you alone and go away.

  I no longer wanted anyone in my life. But to be alone was unbearable in a world where each day was bleaker than the previous one, growing darker, heavier, until I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. It was worse this time. Months passed in which I barely ate, just drank myself into unconsciousness, until there was only one thing I could do.

  Did you know there is beauty in the tides? In their ever-changing color, their ebb and flow, in the pull of the moon, the power of the swell? Forces that we can’t control, that at best we can only harness to our own advantage. Take big-wave surfers. Scientists, athletes, philosophers, who know their element, know their own limits, yet know, also, just how much they can push nature, balancing courage with restraint, science with instinct, in the quest to catch a wave and stay alive.

  They know, also, that there is no margin for error. That the sea is unforgiving. But most people don’t think about how the same knowledge, of storms, rip currents, swell, can help you another way.

  At the right time, when no one’s watching, they can carry you away. A single act of insignificance by just one worthless person who wouldn’t be missed, exerting their right to decide their own fate, to end their unhappiness forever.

  To die.

  42

  CHARLOTTE

  October 25 . . .

  As I turn down the drive to the house, I’m reminded how easy living with Rick was. I take in the view I’ve seen dozens of times—the rocky coastline, the expanse of sea that stretches into the distance, toward the horizon. At this time of year, you get the full benefit of the elements up here—the wind and rain, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below—perilous, but always breathtakingly beautiful.

  As I get closer, I see Abbie Rose’s car parked outside the house, next to Rick’s. She’s still sitting in it, talking on her phone. Hanging back, just out of sight, I wait for her to get out, watch as she tries the front door, then walks round to the back of the house, peers in through the windows. There’s an offshore wind, and the tide is midway. I checked. Rick will be surfing.

  Leaving the car where it is, I walk up to the house, let myself in through the front door. I’ve come back for only a couple of things. The house is definitely empty. After going over to the window, I watch Abbie Rose walk across the yard toward the beach. Then I turn my attention to the view, drink it in, photographing it into my memory. It really is idyllic. Idyllic . . . I savor the word. To be this close to the sea, to have this uninterrupted view, is close to heaven.

  I look across the yard. To my amazement, Abbie Rose is climbing down the rocks to the beach. This I have to see. I run outside and, staying out of her sight, cross the yard, then crouch down where it reaches the cliff edge. I look at the lone figure on the sand, sitting meditatively on a surfboard, gazing out to sea. Rick.

  In her stuffy clothes and leather shoes, Abbie Rose makes it down the last of the rocks and onto the shore. It must be important. I can’t imagine why she wants to talk to Rick. I laugh quietly as I watch her shoes start to sink into the wet sand. She slips them off, leaves them on a rock, before she makes her way toward Rick.

  From where I am, I can just about make out her “Hello?” Lost in his own world, Rick doesn’t hear her. As she gets nearer, she tries again. “Hello?”

  The figure turns round. It’s definitely Rick. I see his lips move. “Hi.” He doesn’t move.

  Carefully, noiselessly, I creep down the slope, hidden by fallen boulders and underbrush. Something tells me I need to hear what they’re saying.

  “It’s Rick, isn’t it?”

  I’ve forgotten they haven’t met.

  Then she adds, “I’m Detective Constable Abbie Rose. I’m looking for Charlotte.”

  A faraway look comes into his eyes. “Let me know if you find her, Abbie Rose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s gone, man. Packed up and cleared out.”

  Abbie’s shaking her head. “I don’t understand. Why would she leave her house like that?”

  Rick looks at her. “Is that what she told you?” He has a sad half smile on his face. “It isn’t her house. It never was. It’s mine.”

  The look of astonishment on Abbie Rose’s face is comical.

  “Even surfers can buy houses, lady.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. She seemed so at home. I assumed it was hers.”

  “I always told her to treat it like it’s hers, right from the start. When we met, she didn’t have anywhere else to go. I offered her a bed. We got on.” He turns his head and continues staring out to sea.

  “You miss her.” Abbie thinks he’s upset. There’s sympathy all over her face.

  “Kind of. It was the way we met. I felt it was destiny somehow. There aren’t that many girls who get into surfing the way she did.”

  “How did you meet?”

  Why doesn’t Abbie Rose leave him alone? Suddenly, I feel protective toward him. Rick goes to the beach to meditate or surf, not to talk to people like her.

  “I came down to the beach one day, after a storm. I’d dreamed about a mermaid, Abbie Rose. A beautiful mermaid washed up on the shore. And the next morning, there she was.”

  “What? Here?” Abbie Rose looks puzzled.

  “See that last rock, where the seagull’s sitting?” He points at the rocks to the left of them. “And that crack in the rock over there, which centuries from now, when the waves have battered it long enough, will be a cave?” He points to the other side of the tiny beach, where there’s a vertical crack that’s just beginning to be eroded away. “Draw a line between the two of them. Halfway along it, that’s where I found her. Right here.”

  He places his hands on the sand in front of his surfboard. Suddenly I’m choked up. He’s reliving the moment he found me.

  Abbie Rose doesn’t give up. “Where is she, Rick?”

  He shrugs. “Gone.” He shrugs again. “Don’t know where. Not sure why, either.” He shakes his head slowly. “All I can think of is this guy came to the house the other night. Big guy. Really upset her. I got back, and there was all this yelling going on. I asked him to go. Man, I thought he was going to punch me. When he’d gone, she drank a whole load of wine and went off on one. Ripped me to shreds, then drove after him. She came back the next day, but it’s over. She’s gone. . . .”

  As I look at him, I know what he’s hoping. That one of his big waves will wa
sh his mermaid up again.

  “Maybe she’ll come back,” he says, but he doesn’t sound hopeful.

  “I hate to ask when you’re upset—” She breaks off.

  Rick looks flummoxed. “Jeez, I’m not upset. It’s not like that.”

  Abbie Rose looks dumbfounded. She thinks the heartbroken surfer is mourning the loss of his mermaid.

  Rick’s silent, trying to choose the right words. “It’s just not right,” he says finally. “Karma, man. She shouldn’t have gone. She owes me.”

  Before Abbie can say anything, he’s on his feet, his board under his arm, jogging toward the sea.

  “Why?” she calls after him. The wind carries the word to me. “What does she owe you, Rick?”

  From above the beach, I think I hear him say, “I kept her secret.” Then he’s in the water, the crashing of the waves drowning out Abbie’s voice. The philosopher and his element. Like Charlotte, gone.

  43

  JACK

  Jack was waiting for Abbie’s call.

  “I’m still at her house. Apparently, Charlotte’s gone. Rick doesn’t know where. All he could say was that this man had come to the house. He’d upset Charlotte and threatened Rick. ‘A big guy,’ was how he described him.”

  “Xander?”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Rick’s surfing. I thought I’d wait until he’s finished. Try to have a proper conversation with him.”

  “I saw Evie a little while ago. She couldn’t really tell me anything new.” Jack paused. “The mention of Xander’s name really disturbed her, but she couldn’t say why—”

  But Abbie interrupted him. “Jack, I have to go. I think Rick’s just come back. I’ll call you when I leave here.”

  * * *

  Just as Jack got home, Sara Evans called him again.

  “Forensics wants to talk to you or Abbie. They’ve found something in the third grave.” She hesitated. “Jack, they’ve found human remains.”

  “I’ll go over there.” He was already turning his car around. “If I park near Evie’s house, can you get them to send someone to meet me? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  It took another eight minutes, by which time a familiar uniformed policeman was standing there, waiting for him. Jack felt a flicker of unease. It was Miller.

  He got out of his car. “Dan. Thanks for coming. Which way?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Jack thought he knew where they were going. They’d been walking for a good ten minutes when he started to get an odd feeling. It was his gut. Something wasn’t right.

  “How long before we get there?” he asked.

  “Not much farther.”

  The feeling in his gut intensified. He’d spoken to Sara just ten minutes before he’d arrived here. It would have taken Sara another minute or two to contact the team in the woods, then however long for someone to walk back down to the road to meet him. Yet Miller had been standing there, cool as a cucumber. He hadn’t rushed.

  It didn’t add up. He didn’t know where Miller was taking him, but he was almost certain it wasn’t to the graves. Glancing around, Jack noticed a dense area of bushes a few yards away. After letting Miller get ahead of him, he picked his moment and ran as quietly as he could.

  Jack didn’t think he was going to make it to the bushes without being seen. Then he was there, flinging himself down, half expecting Miller to have followed him. But instead Miller was standing there, talking on his phone. Jack had no idea to whom.

  Jack needed to find out what was going on. But it wasn’t over yet. To the side of Miller, he could see a familiar looming shape. It was Xander Pascoe; he was sure of it. Then he heard him arguing with Miller. He strained his ears to listen but was too far away to make out what they were saying.

  Slowly, having no idea where he was going, he crept away, until the crack of a twig underfoot gave him away. Without turning to see if they were following him, he broke into a run, trying to work out where he was. Even so, he could hear them catching up.

  Then he heard another familiar voice close by.

  “Jack?”

  It was Abbie. Sara must have told her where he’d gone.

  “Jack? Are you there?”

  He needed to find her before Miller and Pascoe did. Following her voice, he ran faster. Then, up ahead, through the trees, he saw her.

  Relief filled him. “We have to get out of here.” Jack was so out of breath, talking was painful.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “I was on my way to the graves. We were right about Miller. He’s with Xander. They were following me. Abbie, come on.... We need to keep moving. . . .” He grabbed her hand, pulled her after him.

  The path narrowed, and he jogged ahead of her, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was keeping up. Then they hit a wider path. Suddenly, Jack knew where he was, but Abbie was falling behind. He heard the crashing sounds of the two men not far behind them.

  “The graves are this way.” His voice was low.

  The thought of more police not far away gave them the impetus to keep going as Jack turned off the main path again. Up ahead they could see the familiar police tape, behind which forensics was at work.

  Jack stopped. “Thank God.”

  Abbie couldn’t speak. They both knew that here, surrounded by other police officers, they were safe enough. Once either of them was alone again, Xander would be waiting for them.

  “Look.” Jack hesitated. “This is building to something.”

  Getting out her phone, Abbie nodded. “I’m worried about Evie. She called me earlier. She told me there’s something that doesn’t make sense to her. She wasn’t talking about her lack of memory. It was something someone had said to her that didn’t ring true.”

  She called the police station. “Sara? I’m with Jack. We need backup down here.” She looked at Jack. “Yes, we’re at the graves. Miller’s with Pascoe. We need to arrest them.”

  She turned back to Jack. “Even if we hold them for twenty-four hours, it’ll buy us time.” But time for what? To find Charlotte? For Evie to remember something else that might not be reliable?

  He nodded. “You should stay here and wait for backup. Then someone needs to go to the Pascoes’ farm.”

  “I’ll go. What about you? Where are you going?”

  “To Evie’s. I don’t trust Pascoe.”

  “Be careful, Jack.”

  He should wait, Jack knew that. But there were lives at risk, and when you couldn’t trust your fellow officers, it wasn’t your usual investigation.

  Whatever was going on, Jack would bet his life that Xander Pascoe was behind it.

  44

  When Jack got to Evie’s, the house was quiet. Peering through the windows, he spotted her curled up and asleep on the sofa, but there was no sign of her police guard. Not wanting to disturb her, he made his way down the path to where his car was, then called PC Sara Evans as soon as he was inside it.

  Jack didn’t give her a chance to talk. “Who did you speak to when I asked you to arrange someone to meet me?”

  Sara sounded baffled. “One of forensics? I’m not sure. It’s been nonstop today. You wouldn’t believe—”

  Jack interrupted her. “Was it Miller?”

  Sara’s shocked silence echoed down the phone. “Miller? How did you know? Actually, I was on the phone to him when you called. I put him on hold, and then he asked what was going on. I told him how busy I was. He said that he had to call forensics, anyway, that he’d pass on your message. I was just grateful for some help. Honestly, Jack, all kinds of shit has been going on. You’ve no idea. . . .”

  Jack tuned her out. He’d always suspected Sara’s inability to deal with pressure. Today she’d proved him right—she’d inadvertently made the biggest mistake of her career. He wondered what other evidence Miller had withheld from them.

  “Sara? Can you get on to forensics and ask them to resend their reports from Evie’s house?”

  What if Miller had
somehow prevented them from seeing any references to the presence of a child? Jack was kicking himself. He should have thought of this before. But it was done now. The question was, what next?

  “Do you know who’s scheduled to be at Evie’s the next few nights?” he asked.

  “Hold on and I’ll tell you. . . .” He could hear her typing on the keyboard behind reception. “Miller for the next couple of nights, then Underwood.”

  Miller again. “Get someone over to Evie’s. Now, Sara. And I want them to stay with her. Twenty-four-hour protection. Anyone except Miller. I don’t want him anywhere near.” Not that Miller would volunteer. Now that he knew they were on to him, he’d be keeping away.

  It had never been Jack’s job to oversee this case, but no longer sure who he could trust, he wasn’t taking chances. He went on. “Sara? I want you to have someone ready to go with Abbie to the Pascoes’ farm. More than one person . . .”

  “There isn’t anyone. They’re all out.”

  “Then call Newquay. Tell them we need backup.” Jack was raising his voice. Sara knew the drill. He shouldn’t have to tell her, least of all now, when time was running out.

  “Underwood’s just walked in.”

  “Perfect,” Jack said. “Tell him about Miller. Tell him I told you to tell him. And find someone else to go to the Pascoes’.” Then he hung up.

  The uneasy feeling was back. In his gut, not just letting him know something was wrong, but twisting, screaming at him. What if more police were involved? How did he know Miller didn’t have an accomplice? Like Underwood? What if Sara was involved, too? What if she didn’t call for backup, and Abbie was on her way to the Pascoes’ farm, and Xander was waiting for her?

  His hands were sweaty on the steering wheel as he tried to tell himself he was being paranoid. Underwood was a good officer, but it wasn’t helping. Right now he couldn’t trust anyone.