DEAD SILENT a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  But was it enough? Calladine wanted his daughter to be happy. He wanted her to stay in his life. He was acutely aware that the job got in the way of that relationship too. He was always busy, always going somewhere. But if Zoe suddenly decided to up sticks and return to Bristol, he’d be devastated.

  Zoe, Monika . . . he really had to sort out what to do about the women in his life. If he just let things slide — as he usually did — then he could end up completely alone again, and he didn’t want that, not anymore.

  * * *

  They pulled into the hospital car park.

  “If you like, I’ll go and talk to Stone and you can see if Doc Hoyle has the PM report for us yet.”

  Alexander Stone was sitting up in bed reading a newspaper. He looked a great deal better than yesterday; his face wasn’t so red and inflamed.

  “DI Calladine, Leesworth Police. We met briefly when you were brought in. I don’t know how much you know about what happened yesterday, but a woman’s body was found in the back of your car.” He saw the look of horror cross the man’s face. “We know now it wasn’t you who put her there, so don’t worry; I’m not about to arrest you or anything. I simply want to know what you recall, what you saw. Do you remember seeing anyone else?”

  “Not really, it’s all a bit of a haze. It seemed like a bloody nightmare at the time. I was frantic with pain, and then when he turned up and poured petrol everywhere, I just kept shouting for him to stop, and when he flicked that match I went completely to pieces. To be honest I didn’t know what he was doing. I didn’t even see the woman.”

  “You were very lucky. Things could have been much worse. A combination of heavy rain and the fire crew saved your bacon. Did you get a look at him, the bloke who did this?”

  “No. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even turn my head, but I saw his van. It was small and white. Being white it showed up, even through the fog.”

  Very useful. How many small white vans, he wondered, were registered in Leesworth — if that’s where their man came from? “What time was this, Mr Stone?”

  “I’d been travelling since six, so it must have been about seven thirty; certainly no later.”

  Calladine’s mobile rang. It was Ruth. He nodded an apology to Stone and walked a few feet away to answer it.

  “Sir, I’m with the doc. He wants to talk to you as well, so I’ll wait for you here.”

  What now? The PM must have thrown up something controversial. Calladine told Stone that a detective would be along to take his statement later, and left him in peace.

  * * *

  “Doesn’t make pleasant reading, Tom.” Calladine could see from the pathologist’s face that this one had affected him. The way the body looked; the dreadful possibilities — fair enough, it had got to him too.

  “She was murdered. Garrotted. It’s all in there.” The doctor spoke wearily. “You should know that she was pregnant too, only a few weeks along. The blood on her legs was from a botched abortion attempt. From the state of the uterus I’d say something sharp was used vaginally.”

  Calladine felt his stomach heave. Poor girl. “It’s bad then.”

  “The worst. And the body had been moved very recently, as you thought. There are marks on her feet, particularly her heels where she was probably dragged across the road, possibly from one vehicle to the other. Julian has taken samples of the grit found in the wounds and will compare it with that found on the bypass.”

  Pregnant. And he’d tried to abort it. Doc’s description of what had happened to the girl made Calladine think of a medieval torture chamber.

  “Julian’s also analysing the rust samples taken from her wrists and ankles. It might throw up something. I found fine metal slivers in the wound on her neck, so she was garrotted with a wire. She wasn’t anorexic either: she was starved. Her stomach had shrunk and her muscles show evidence of wasting.”

  “Was there anything about the body that might help us identify her?” Ruth asked. “What about the DNA?”

  “There’s no match on the database, I’m afraid, and no fingerprint match either. But the good news is she had an orthopaedic plate fitted in her wrist.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “At some time in the past — within the last three years, at a guess, extrapolating from the bone development — she’d had a nasty fracture to her wrist. The bones had to be plated together to help them heal. The plate remains in situ; they are very rarely removed. The fixation plate from her wrist has numbers on it — batch numbers. With a lot of research and some luck you may be able to use it to trace her. Details are in the report.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We go back to the station and make a start, that’s what.” Calladine flicked through the report quickly. “Thanks, Doc. Keep me posted on anything else you get.”

  Chapter 8

  “I know we’re short-handed, but we’ve got a lot on. We’ve several research tasks that need doing urgently. With regards to the murdered girl, it looks like the only way forward at the moment,” Calladine told his team. “Imogen and Rocco drew a blank at the nursery. All of Alton’s delivery notes checked out, so it looks like he’s in the clear. Check Cassie Rigby’s birth details. Make it a priority. The kid’s been missing for over twenty-four hours now. If we don’t find something very soon I’ll have to call time and pass it on.” He sighed. That would be grim — the prospect of an abducted child, possibly worse. He paused for a moment. The team were lively enough, raring to go in fact. But, like him, they needed progress, and at present they were going around in circles.

  “The big job on the murder case is tracing the plate found in the girl’s arm. It could have come from anywhere, any country. But we might start with the NHS first. Imogen — I know you’re on the Rigby case right now, but see what you can do.”

  He knew Imogen was good at ferreting out information that the others seemed to miss, particularly where using the internet was concerned.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do the Rigby checks first though. We need to find the kid.”

  She was right. That had to come first. There was a lot to do, and they were spread very thin. Could DCI Jones offer anything, he wondered? He’d go and discuss it with him when they’d finished here.

  “Okay. We’d better get on. Get to it this afternoon and we’ll resume tomorrow.”

  He picked up the report on what they’d found so far about the murdered girl, and went to find Jones. The man was a shambles. Calladine doubted he had any idea about what really went on at the station, and how short of people they were.

  “Sir!” The DCI was about to lock his office door. Alright for some. He’d appreciate an early dart himself sometimes.

  “We’re a little stretched, sir. I was hoping to discuss it with you.”

  “I’ve got an appointment, Tom. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to. But can I ask you to have a look at this? Perhaps tonight?”

  DCI Jones frowned but took the folder.

  * * *

  “I know there’s no record of the Rigbys having a child,” Imogen told Rocco. But I’ve drawn a blank under Mrs Rigby’s maiden name too.’

  “So what’s going on? She didn’t spring out of thin air. Someone gave birth to her,” Rocco replied.

  “Indeed. But that someone wasn’t Jane Rigby, so it would seem. I think we should go back and talk to them again. Push them a bit like the boss suggested.”

  “Okay. We can go now if you want.” At last Rocco was getting back into it; beginning to enjoy the cut and thrust of an investigation. Right now, the icing on the cake would be finding the child.

  The Rigbys lived in a neat semi on the outskirts of Leesdon. Rocco rang the doorbell and PC Kate Robinson answered.

  “She’s having a rest. But he’s here,” she said.

  PC Robinson led the way into the sitting room, where Robert Rigby was seated, staring out into the gloom of his winter-worn garden.

  “Bad time of year. H
ate it when nothing grows.” He smiled. “Have you found Cassie yet?”

  “No, Mr Rigby, and we’re going to have to ask you some more questions, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t see why. I doubt I can add anything. I wasn’t there, so I can’t imagine what you think I can offer.”

  “Well, you can tell me where Cassie was born for a start.”

  “Well, in the General, down the road.” Rigby appeared to be completely unfazed by the question.

  “No she wasn’t, Mr Rigby. Well if she was, not to you and your wife anyway.”

  He fell silent and studied his hands for a moment or two. “I’m afraid you have me there, Detective Constable.”

  Just as Imogen was about to ask him what he meant by that, there was a noise from the hallway. Mrs Rigby was coming down the stairs to join them.

  “But I don’t see that that matters. Cassie is still missing, and you still need to find her.”

  Jane Rigby came into the room. “Tell them, Robert. They’ll find out in time anyway.” She looked a mess. Her hair was dishevelled and her face was tired and drawn. Robert Rigby remained stubbornly silent.

  Realising her husband wasn’t going to talk, she cast him a doleful look, and began to speak. “She’s adopted — well, fostered really. Isn’t that right, Robert?”

  He remained silent, his eyes never leaving the window.

  “But long-term, we want to keep her. We’ve had Cassie since she was a baby and she’s content with us. We can give her everything; make her happy. That drug-sodden mother of hers couldn’t do anything for her. Tell me, Constable — if you were Cassie, who would you choose to live with?”

  Jane Rigby sat on the sofa beside her husband and made to hold his hand, but he moved away. She continued:

  “We couldn’t have children of our own. Being able to foster was a godsend, and Cassie was a beautiful baby. We both fell in love with her, didn’t we, Robert? She had blonde hair and big blue eyes, and her natural mother was far too young and wild to cope. We had hoped that we’d be able to adopt, you know, in time, but her natural mother wouldn’t give permission. I can’t understand why she should have any say in the matter. She’s never bothered with Cassie until recently.”

  Robert Rigby cleared his throat. What was going on inside his head? Imogen wondered. What was it he wasn’t saying?

  “Did you want to keep her, Mr Rigby?”

  “Of course he did. How can you ask such a question? Robert loved little Cassie — does love little Cassie . . .” She dissolved in a fresh flood of tears.

  “Did her natural mother want her back?”

  “Well she can’t have her back,” Jane Rigby snapped. “She’s not suitable. She’s a mess and it’d never be allowed.”

  “Does Cassie know her?”

  Jane Rigby nodded. “Yes, she does now. She’s seen both her mother and her maternal grandmother recently. Like I said, during the past few months they’ve come and visited from time to time.” She looked at her husband, her eyes wild with fear. “You think they’ve taken her. You do, don’t you? That’s why you won’t say anything, isn’t it, Robert? Something’s isn’t right — it’s the way we got Cassie in the first place — isn’t it?”

  Imogen’s eyes went from one to the other.

  “What was wrong with the way you got Cassie, Mrs Rigby?”

  “Nothing . . . I’m not sure.” She nudged her husband, but he shrugged her away. “We never saw Social Services for a start. Don’t you think that odd?”

  Yes it was. It was becoming clear that Cassie hadn’t been fostered at all — not in the accepted sense. But what was the arrangement between the Rigbys and the child’s natural mother?

  “Do you think Cassie would go off with her mother?” It would certainly explain why the child had disappeared so quietly. If a stranger had approached and tried to take hold of her, the chances were that she’d have screamed blue murder.

  Jane Rigby nodded, and buried her face in a hanky again. Her husband remained silent.

  “I want her name and address.” There was no answer. “Mrs Rigby, Mr Rigby, if we are to find Cassie, then you are going to have to help us. If you won’t, then I’ll get the details I need from Social Services.”

  Robert Rigby looked up. Imogen could tell from the look he gave her that his wife had been telling the truth — Social Services had never been part of the bargain. The frightened expression on his face said it all.

  Jane Rigby took a pen and notepad from the coffee table, and scribbled down an address. “Now please go. I don’t want you here. I just want Cassie back. You have to find her!”

  * * *

  “So why not just tell us all that in the first place?” Rocco asked, once the detectives were outside. “Sometimes I just don’t understand people. Why all the obstacles? What is it they’re afraid of?”

  “Us — the law, you idiot. They shouldn’t legally have had Cassie in the first place. I bet they’ve made some arrangement with her natural mother, and now one side has reneged on the deal.”

  “You think the Rigbys bought the kid?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll find Cassie first and deal with that bit later.”

  “He did look shit-scared when Social Services were mentioned.”

  Imogen looked at the details Jane Rigby had given her. “With a bit of luck we could have this wound up before close of play.” But when she read the address, she frowned. “She lives on the Hobfield, Rocco. Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Up to it or not, he had little choice. This was his job, and the young DC had no intention of giving it up any time soon.

  “Where?”

  “Heron Tower. Isn’t that where . . . ?”

  “Where I got clobbered? Yes it is. But I’ve got to move on, and I don’t want to be mollycoddled. So it’s fine. We’ll just do our job, okay?” Rocco buttoned his overcoat and turned the collar up. What was the use? It was bound to happen one day. Things being what they were around here, he couldn’t avoid the Hobfield forever.

  * * *

  The curtains were pulled tight shut. Rocco banged on the door of the flat and called her name, but there was no reply. Imogen put her face to the glass and could just make out a shadow flitting past. She was in there.

  “Janine! I’ve seen you. I know you’re there.” She banged on the door again. Several minutes passed, and finally the young woman came to the door.

  “Miss Felton? DC Goode and DC Rockliffe from Leesworth CID. Can we come in and ask you a few questions, please?”

  Janine Felton didn’t reply. She led the way in silence into a small sitting room. The place was untidy — downright dirty in fact, and Imogen wrinkled her nose at the smell. The place was a sharp contrast to the Rigbys’ home.

  “The dog. How am I expected to take him out when I live on the seventh floor?”

  “Do you know where Cassandra is, Miss Felton?” Rocco was growing impatient.

  “Course I do. What sort of parent d’you think I am?”

  He didn’t really want to answer that.

  “She’s with my mother in Scarborough.” She lifted a phone off the table and keyed in a number. “Here — ask her yourself. You don’t have to take my word for it.”

  She handed Imogen the phone as a woman answered.

  “Are you Janine Felton’s mother?” Imogen exchanged a few words with the person on the other end of the line, and then nodded and handed the phone back. “Thank you, Janine. You have no right to take Cassie like that. You could at least have said something to the Rigbys. They have been out of their minds with worry. I presume it was you who took Cassie from the café? You do realise that it could be classed as kidnap?”

  “They’ve sent you, haven’t they? No — it’s her. She’s the one sent you. Stupid bitch knows nothing about our little arrangement because he was too bloody scared to tell her.”

  “Too scared to tell her what, Janine?”

  “About our little arrangement. He stopped paying, so I took Cassie back.
It’s that simple. No crime’s been committed, so I don’t know what you lot are involved for. It’s down to him. All he has to do is make the payments as arranged, and I’ll leave well enough alone.”

  “Are you telling us that Mr and Mrs Rigby were paying you for Cassie?”

  “Too bloody right I am. What use is a kid to me? This is no place for anyone, never mind a child.”

  Imogen looked gobsmacked. She shook her head and glanced at Rocco, groping for a way forward.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. My mother wanted her. When he didn’t make this month’s payment, she insisted I get her back. And they did know, the Rigbys — well he did. So don’t look at me like that. She’s my child, for fuck’s sake, so get off my case. Anyway, they were supposed to be handing her back for a couple of days before Christmas, so what difference does it make?”

  “So why is Cassie with your mother now?”

  “I just told you, stupid! Because we’re both going to stay there for Christmas — get away from this hell hole.”

  “So Social Services know nothing about this? Cassie is not officially fostered with the Rigbys?”

  “No, she damn well isn’t, and isn’t likely to be if I have anything to do with it.”

  Janine Felton lit a cigarette and swore under her breath.

  “My mum wants to keep her. It’s nice where she is, by the sea. Cassie is fond of her.” Janine handed Imogen a scrap of paper with an address on it. “I have no problem with Cassie being with my mum — so that’s that. Not a bloody thing you can do about it.”

  Imogen rang the station. A quick conversation with Joyce, and the Scarborough police would give the grandmother a visit. So that was it: an argument about custody. Imogen decided they should return to the station and confirm what Janine had told them. She’d tell Social Services too. But what to do about the Rigbys? Perhaps that’d be better left for the experts to sort out.

  “Resolved,” Rocco announced with a shake of his head. “I’m going to ring the boss and tell him the kid’s safe — it’ll make his day. Then can we get out of here, please? I hate this place.”