by Iain Cameron
Fear
the
Silence
IAIN CAMERON
Copyright © 2015 Iain Cameron
ISBN: 978-1514757048
The right of Iain Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
To find out more about the author, visit the website:
www.iain-cameron.com
Dedication
To those who made my first two books so successful, my heartfelt thanks, you know who you are.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
About the Author
Also by Iain Cameron
ONE
Voices were raised and it took several seconds before he realised the loudest was his. ‘Brad was crap in Ocean’s Thirteen. There’s no story and he couldn’t act for toffee.’
‘Of course he can act,’ Jack Monaghan said in his soft Dublin drawl, more pronounced than ever after numerous glasses of red wine. ‘He and the rest of them only made the film so the studios would let Clooney direct Good Night and Good Luck. It was a bloody put-up job.’
‘I loved him in Fight Club,’ their host Brian Langton said, the wine glass engulfed in his big hand. ‘I went to a couple of bare knuckle fights and I think they caught the raw, aggressive atmosphere about right.’
Ricky Wood sat back and lifted his glass; he’d said enough. He’d probably drunk enough as well, but what the hell. From across the table his beautiful girlfriend, Celia, looked radiant in a summer dress, revealing plenty of cleavage. He found it an arousing spectacle, in spite of the distance and range of obstacles between them: empty and part-empty glasses, candles, plates, a roll basket and a large plant thing, more suited to a garden centre than a dinner party table. She gave him ‘the look’ and mouthed something, but if it was a criticism of his drunken behaviour, he didn’t care.
While the men dissected the movie careers of Brad, George and Matt with a fine toothcomb or a ragged fence brush, as they were all too pissed to think straight, the women talked about schools. Correction, Brian’s wife, Kelly, talked about schools while Celia and Jack’s girlfriend, Olivia, listened with a little more interest than was good for two single women.
In so many ways, Kelly and Brian Langton were a modern, ‘post-celebrity’ couple. He used to be the rude television interviewer who shoved a microphone into the faces of gang bosses, corrupt police officers and drug dealers, exposing their dirty deeds to the nation. Less than a decade later, he had been pushed aside by perkier and scruffier lads who were said to relate better to their younger audience. He now owned a television production company with a number of successful shows under his belt and was making way more money behind a camera than in front of it.
Since the age of seventeen, ‘Kelly,’ as she was known then, was a constant presence in newspaper and television ads as the jilted woman in a stylish car advert, the body for a well-known maker of tights, and the main model for a high street store’s clothing collection. She gave up her career for much the same reasons as Brian and now spent her time managing her fashion and perfume businesses under the ‘Kelly Kreations’ brand name.
Despite the intervening years, their fame remained undiminished. Rarely a week went by without her face adorning the weekend magazines or appearing in a feature in the Sunday supplements talking about her dogs, make-up and children, or the pair of them being photographed at the races or watching polo at Goodwood.
‘So what do you do, Ricky? I don’t think Celia mentioned it.’
He turned. For the first time, he looked closely at Kelly Langton and even though the lights in the dining room were dimmed, he could see tanned skin, straw-coloured hair, all neatly trimmed and curled, with deep green eyes twinkling in flickering candlelight. Bloody gorgeous for a 38-year-old mother of two, but how did a rough diamond like Brian Langton, twenty-odd years her senior with a pockmarked face and bags under his eyes, manage to snare such a beauty? His mother used to say attraction was more than skin-deep; here was the living proof.
‘I’m a journalist.’
‘What kind of things do you write about?’
‘Oh, I investigate respectable people with dark pasts or those openly involved in doing something illegal.’
‘You won’t find anything like that around here.’
He laughed. ‘I didn’t think I would and anyway, I’m not on duty.’
‘When people say ‘journalist’ to me, I assume they must be a feature writer or a gossip columnist, as that’s the only sort I ever seem to meet.’
He picked up his glass; good food, good wine, and chatting to a beautiful woman, what more did a man want? ‘I couldn’t do it, I’m not empathetic enough, according to my editor.’
‘Maybe not, but I bet there is a good book in some of the subjects you investigate.’
‘You think so? I’ve often thought of writing one.’
‘You should. I read a lot, especially when Brian’s away and the children are in bed.’
‘What type of books do you read?’
‘Everything and anything,’ she said, laughing and showing two rows of even, pearly white teeth; amazing. In early pictures of her, about the age of eighteen, he remembered she had a noticeable gap between the two top incisors with a protruding lateral incisor on the left side.
‘I like romance and crime novels, but now I’m into relationship thrillers, although some people call them Domestic Noir.’
Celia was trying to attract his attention above the hubbub and this time her demeanour seemed warm, evidence perhaps that he had not yet disgraced himself in front of her friends, but on turning back a minute or so later to resume his conversation with Kelly, the seat lay empty.
She was on her feet, clearing away plates with the assistance of Irish Jack, who was not only helpful, handsome, and ruggedly unshaven, but also the owner of an IT business. He didn’t know what he did but obviously it paid well as he had arrived at the Langton house tonight in a Porsche and wore a gold Rolex.
Ricky missed his chance to help the delectable Ke
lly, perhaps just as well, as he could be a clumsy sod when it came to crockery, and instead went to the loo. Like everything else in this house, set in its own grounds in a beautiful location on the fringes of Hurstpierpoint, a village to the north of Brighton, the ‘smallest room in the house’ was large and well appointed, down to the well-stocked bookcase and thick towels which could double as pillows, useful if he couldn’t make it all the way back to the dining room.
Ablutions complete, he walked into the hall and for a moment he felt disorientated, or that’s what he would say if anyone asked him why he was snooping around. The study was the size of his lounge with a substantial light oak desk, leather chair and an Apple Imac with a massive screen, making his pokey alcove with rickety Ikea desk and old laptop seem poor by comparison.
He ignored the sitting room, as they all had sat in there earlier, and since the conservatory appeared unused he headed for the kitchen. With the door closed, he decided to open it slowly, as he didn’t want to scare anyone and cause them to drop those big, fancy dinner plates. He looked in, and looked again to make sure his eyes did not deceive him.
Yes, Jack Monaghan was in there helping Kelly, but not in the way he expected. The Irishman’s arms were around her waist, his hands fondling those famous breasts and his tongue exploring the deep recesses of her throat.
TWO
She guided the car between two stone pillars either side of the entrance to Williamson College and drove above the 10 mph speed limit up the long drive. To Kelly Langton it felt as if she had been doing this all her life, as not only did she take her own kids to this school, she used to be a pupil here too, starting in Year 2 and leaving after her GCSEs.
There was nothing wrong with the place, how could there be, with such caring teachers and excellent sport and music facilities? Either she was in one of her black moods or suffering the effect of another Monday morning.
She parked and got out. She buttoned her coat and tied her scarf but still no movement from Ben, Josh or Ollie, sitting inside the car and doing God-knows what.
‘Out you guys,’ she said. ‘You’d think we were half an hour early the way you boys dawdle.’
Josh got out and stretched, as if reaching the end of a long journey in an old, uncomfortable jalopy instead of less than nine miles cocooned inside the sumptuous leather interior of a six-month-old BMW X5.
‘I’m tired,’ he said, just in case she didn’t spot his lethargic movements.
‘Well, you wouldn’t be if you didn’t stay up all hours playing your PlayStation game. You should get to your bed earlier.’
‘Wouldn’t make any difference,’ he said, hauling his sports kit, school bag and water bottle out of the boot.
‘What wouldn’t?’
‘Going to bed early. If I go early, I don’t sleep and I would feel even more tired in the morning.’
‘Don’t talk wet.’
Her son Ben, and Ollie, a boy who lived nearby, as Kelly shared driving duties with his mum, dragged rather than lifted their stuff out of the boot before she closed it, and at last they walked towards the school. She tuned out as morning-person Ben tried to get a response from his brother, who at thirteen displayed the surliness, laziness and strange sleeping patterns of older teenagers, it would only end in bickering. Oh the joys.
Goodbye from her kids amounted to no more than a wave of the hand, like the queen from the deck of the Royal Yacht, the days of hugs and sloppy kisses long gone. She walked back to the car and despite owning and managing a couple of businesses and having what most people would regard as a busy job, this often felt like the lowest point of her day.
Her phone pinged. She fished it out to find a text from Jack Monaghan asking if she would like to go out for a drink. She texted back: ‘No, not a good idea.’ He came back, seconds later with, ‘Why not?’ Oh, because she’d drunk more than intended on Saturday night and regretted all her actions the next morning? Standing beside the car, trying to compose a suitable reply in her head, a familiar voice called her name.
‘Ah Kelly, I’m glad I caught you.’
Stefan Pearson strode towards her, the perfect embodiment of a modern man: self-made, confident, handsome, with a thick head of black hair and straight, white teeth. He might have been a model and to look at the clothes he wore and the way he carried himself, it was easy to think he was, but instead he chose the arcane world of mercantile financing.
‘Hello Stefan.’
‘Kelly, it’s great to see you. Did you give any more thought to the weekend away I mentioned?’
‘I did and Brian’s all for it.’
‘The dates are ok, both of you can get away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent news. I’ll call Sebastian and get it all fixed up. He’s looking forward to meeting you… and Brian of course. Why the glum face earlier? It’s not because of me or something I said, is it?’
‘It could never be you, Stefan. No, I’m being hassled by someone.’
‘A woman in your position should be used to it.’
‘My friends say the same but I hurt like everyone else.’
‘Well, a weekend away at a top spa hotel might be just what you need.’ He glanced at his watch, a thick, chunky timepiece, well-suited to his broad, hairy wrist. ‘Must go, train to catch.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. His face felt smooth and warm with the strong scent of sandalwood. If they were not standing in the school car park, but under the porch outside her house, in a cinema or inside her car, she would stroke it and kiss him on the lips, but seconds later the conversation ended and soon his sports car disappeared into the distance.
She drove to Burgess Hill with the radio playing loud, a reflection of her renewed enthusiasm for the day ahead and a method of drowning out the wicked thoughts swimming around inside her head like a tank of tropical fish. What she could get up to while relaxing in the Jacuzzi and the steam room at this spa hotel with only Stefan for company was the stuff of fantasy, but it needed to be put on the back burner for the moment if she didn’t want to have an accident.
Arriving in Burgess Hill, she turned into Albert Drive and moments later, into the Sovereign Business Park. She stopped at the second building along, the one bearing the logo, ‘Kelly Kreations’ in squiggly, pastel-coloured writing, and parked in a space reserved for the Managing Director. She felt a sense of pride whenever she saw the name of her company, her idea and vision, encased in concrete and glass, but running a business was a lot harder than it looked from the outside.
The building consisted of only two floors but it was modern with large rooms, which suited the needs of the business. The ground floor housed the showroom and provided hanging space for finished articles such as dresses, skirts, blouses, and jewellery. Upstairs, it accommodated a small number of seamstresses to take care of alterations, her style guru Jacques who designed all the clothes, and at the back, the Accounts team and her office.
‘Good morning, Mrs Langton,’ receptionist Katie Ogden said as she pushed open the front door.
‘Morning Katie. How are you? How’s your brother?’
‘I’m fine but Harry’s taken a bit of a downturn. The chemo’s knocking him for six.’
‘It gets worse before it gets better, from what I understand. Tell him I’m thinking about him.’
‘Will do.’
‘Is Jacques in?’
‘Yes, he’s upstairs.’
‘Thanks Katie. Catch you later.’
She could listen to other people’s problems as much as the next woman, but Katie’s family were the world’s worst for falling into manholes, walking into doors, getting knocked over by cars, and now her brother with cancer. Dwell too long at her desk, and the litany of her family’s troubles could easily eat away the following half hour.
She walked into her office. She didn’t come here every day, as there were many other things requiring her attention, mainly the licensing agreement with L’Oréal for the fragrance range, a job she could do from her ho
me computer, the swimwear collection, also produced under license, and a book she was in the process of writing for which she needed perfect peace.
‘Good morning, Meess Kelly,’ Jacques Fournier her deputy and chief designer said, breezing into her office without knocking, on a cloud of expensive shaving soap and aftershave and without giving her a chance to sit down. He spoke flawless English but for some reason could not pronounce the words ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs’.
‘Morning Jacques. How are things today?’
‘The delivery from China of all our summer dresses is expected today–’
‘They’ll need to hurry up, or before we know it, they’ll be telling us it’s Christmas and nothing’s moving.’
‘I agree, I’ll chase them up if it does not arrive by lunchtime. The new seamstress started this morning and I think she is good, she is going to work out.’
‘At last some good news, we’ve been short-handed for too long.’
So he went on, a long list of systems, people and product issues. It never ceased to surprise her as it was only a small company, but as Jacques never failed to remind her, they were in the fashion business and it moved quickly and if they didn’t move with it, they were dead. He departed ten minutes later, and as her accountancy night school teacher often said, he left his monkeys with her, as all the problems he brought into the office with him belonged to her now.
She worked all morning, ate lunch at her desk, and a few minutes after two called Chief Accountant, Ed Hardacre into her office.
‘Af’noon Kelly,’ he said, sitting down and placing the ubiquitous blue folder he always carried with him on the desk. Aged the wrong side of forty, with wonky teeth and untidy hair, he was bolstered by a gregarious personality and generous spirit, but for all the women he claimed to have bedded, he didn’t seem to like them much and resented having a female boss.
‘Afternoon Ed.’
‘What’s the big issue today then, margins or sales?’ He reached for the folder.
