Fear the Silence (DI Angus Henderson 3)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘She left her car,’ he said, writing ‘no car’ at the head of the list followed by ‘no credit cards,’ ‘no contact,’ ‘female,’ ‘age thirty-four...’

  ‘Hold up. Her exact age isn’t important. If our perp is trying to pick someone up, he’s not likely to ask her for a birth certificate before he smacks her over the head.’

  ‘You’re right and it’s the worst chat-up line I’ve ever heard.’ He rubbed out ‘thirty-four’ and replaced it with ‘35-45.’

  ‘Plus it will be easier for Sally and Phil to work with, as they think anyone over thirty is an old fogey.’

  ‘What does that make me?’ Henderson said in jest, but part of him wanted to know.

  Walters bowed her head and looked at her papers, as if something there suddenly became interesting.

  He finished, threw the pen down on the table and sat down. ‘Take this list and measure it against each of your twenty-eight women and strike out any who don’t meet all or nearly all the criteria. I like being right as much as the next man, but this is one case where I hope my theory is badly wrong.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  The sat nav directed Amy Sandford to Richmond Road in Horsham and Mr Swift’s description of a ‘Victorian gem sandwiched between two modern boxes’ was spot on. She rang the top bell on a bank of three as instructed, and after a brief pause, heard the sound of footsteps coming down the internal staircase. A well-dressed man opened the door.

  ‘Mr Swift? Hi, I’m Amy Sandford from Sandford Properties.’ She stuck out her hand.

  ‘Amy. Good to meet you, Martin Swift.’ They shook hands. His grip felt firm and business like. ‘Come on in.’

  He held the door open and she walked inside. At first she thought she recognised him as one of the parents from school but she met so many people every day, it was easy to make an embarrassing mistake so her rule was to say nothing until sure of the facts.

  ‘I bought the flat three years ago and had it redecorated a couple of months back but now I find I’m using it less and less.’

  ‘It’s a great location and the communal stairway is in good decorative order.’

  ‘Well here it is,’ he said, pushing the front door of the apartment open. ‘Take a look around. There’s a few things I need to finish.’

  Some clients were quick to tell her about their property being decorated, meaning it saw a lick of paint in the last twelve months but this was recent, perhaps a month or two ago as it looked and smelled fresh, the paintwork clean and bright. It was a lovely flat and in combination with generous room proportions, large windows, and the railway station and town at short walking distance, it would be easy to let.

  He was writing at the small table beside the window in the lounge while she set about measuring up, jotting down notes and taking photographs with the small digital camera she always carried in her handbag. She finished her assessment and sat down at the table opposite him and outlined the Sandford Properties letting management service. He listened and seemed to take it in at first pass, which impressed her as many clients asked dozens of questions and got irritated about the most innocuous details.

  He was mid to late thirties with dusky features as if he or his parents came from a Mediterranean country and even though he’d probably shaved this morning, a dark shadow covered the lower section of his face. When he smiled, his blue eyes sparkled. If, at this moment, they were sitting in a taverna in Lindos, a trip she wouldn’t refuse to make if he offered, she might say it reminded her of the gently lapping Mediterranean Sea behind her, but this being Horsham, the only thing sparkling this morning were the remains of last night’s rain on the pavements.

  At the end of the meeting, she lifted her folio case from the floor and placed the signed documents inside. Another satisfied customer she thought with a hint of smugness. She would dump the papers on her husband’s desk and make him eat humble pie. He assumed he was the brains behind the business but she would show him she was no deadweight.

  Mr Swift put his hands on the table and looked at her, causing her to stop what she was doing.

  ‘You know, Amy, I’m really impressed by you and your company.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Swift. We like to think we try harder than the competition and that’s the reason we’ve grown so fast over such a short period.’

  ‘Good. Now this isn’t the only property I own. I also own a large barn near Billingshurst and without too much trouble, it could be converted into a family house but I’m thinking of selling it, as like this flat, I don’t really need it. Our family always used Hamptons but I think I would like to give your company a try. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s kind of you to consider us. Please tell me more.’

  ‘Even better, would you like to come and take a look?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now would be a good time. It’s more or less on the way back to your office in Haywards Heath and would save you waiting two or three weeks until I’m back in the country.’

  Here was a chance to get one over Hamptons and Chris at the same time. It sounded too good to miss.

  ‘No problem Mr Swift,’ she replied, ‘even though I tend to concentrate on the lettings side, I also deal with sales.’

  ‘Good. It’s settled. Shall we go?’

  They descended the stairs and went out the front door. Her ears were immediately assailed by the rumble of cars driving past, kids playing in a nearby park and the voices of people standing on a street corner, noises she didn’t notice inside the apartment, either because of good soundproofing or she had been concentrating so hard.

  ‘Your car or mine?’ he asked.

  ‘Mine, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. Your car it is.’

  If he hadn’t agreed, she would have refused to go, as stories of estate agents being assaulted and raped by clients were perhaps not common, but crept into conversations at meetings and conventions and she believed if it happened, it was the agent’s fault for not taking the right precautions. One doubt appeared in her mind: he was so good looking, her mouth might say something her brain would regret.

  They drove past Horsham railway station, the Capitol Theatre, and Black Jug pub, heading towards Horsham town centre but before arriving there, took a left turn and joined the A281 heading south. She knew her way around Horsham and even though most of their business was based in the Haywards Heath area, she often went shopping there and liked the independent shops with a good range of restaurants for a leisurely lunch.

  They chatted as she drove and while he was pleasant and answered her questions, there was perhaps something on his mind as he seemed distracted, but maybe she did witter on a bit and he couldn’t squeeze in a word. When he said they were almost there, she started reworking her diary, and estimated she would be back at the office before one and could fit in one more viewing before meeting her annoying client at three, and still have time to pick up the boys at four-thirty.

  At the village of Cowfold they headed west towards Billingshurst and a few miles later at Coneyhurst, turned into West Chiltington Lane. She had been to the area a couple of times before, mainly dropping the kids off at parties and yet again, it surprised her how rural and isolated the area felt with only a few houses and farms scattered between large fields planted with cereals in summer, and surrounded by thick woods, but not far from Gatwick Airport and Brighton.

  A few minutes later, he instructed her to slow down and they turned into a small track, which she would have missed if driving alone. It was a tight turn and she concentrated hard to ensure she didn’t clip the stone posts either side of the gate. She made it through without mishap and jabbed the accelerator to surge up the steep slope but lifted her foot off again as the car bounced and heaved over potholes and rutted parts of the track like a small yacht in a big storm.

  At the top she turned into the courtyard in front of a barn and couldn’t help but be impressed by her surroundings, as the barn appeared sympathetically restored and a neat fit into the
surrounding landscape with new windows and new roof and the exterior woodwork treated with a matt black finish. It faced west and the view from the panoramic lounge window would be stunning over gently rolling fields with occasional copses of trees and not a neighbour for miles.

  Sandford Properties didn’t sell many farms or agricultural land as the business focussed on commercial and residential properties, but now Mr Swift’s barn gave rise to an idea of a new agricultural and rural department, managed by you-know-who.

  Her phone rang. She pulled it out of her handbag and looked at the screen. It was Mr Slimeball, her husband checking up. Well, it was none of his bloody business, she thought in a flash of anger. She diverted the call and put the phone on silent before returning it to her handbag.

  Inside, the barn was sparsely furnished but that couldn’t take away from the splendour of the panoramic windows and a huge vaulted roof above her head. What a wonderful blank canvas for an imaginative new owner who could, without too much effort, turn it into a stunning and comfortable home. He offered coffee and as this was her first rural property, she wanted to take her time and make a good job of it, so she accepted.

  ‘I’ve owned the place for about three years,’ he said, as he leaned against the table in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘I bought it with the intention of living here but too many other things are getting in the way and now I’ve decided to sell it.’

  He walked to the kettle and filled two mugs. After giving them a good stir, he turned and handed one to her. It pleased her to note they had a matching blue geometric pattern and were not a couple of freebies given to him by the company he used to empty the septic tank or his favourite football team.

  She sat on a stool while he talked about the history of the site and later, how he wanted it to be marketed.

  ‘I’ll need to take your advice on whether I should sell it as a shell and perhaps be forced to accept a lower price, or let interior designers loose and make it look pretty.’

  She put down her half-empty cup, it was delicious coffee, although she always thought the first of the day was always the best. ‘I always find...find...find…’

  Oops. That didn’t come out right. Her brain wasn’t connecting with her mouth. How could she be drunk, so early in the day? No, she hadn’t touched a drop. He appeared unfazed, perhaps nothing was wrong and it was her being silly.

  ‘What I…I...I.’

  She couldn’t remember what came next. Her head felt like one of the jellies she made for the kids, random thoughts were floating around in there like pieces of fruit, none of them piercing through. She felt hot, with sweat forming on her brow.

  The room started to move and sway and she found it hard to focus her eyes. His handsome head shifted in and out of focus, but he sat there smiling as if her strange behaviour was the most normal thing in world.

  With fierce determination, she put her hands on the worktop and tried to stand up but as soon as she applied any weight to her legs, they wobbled and she collapsed on the floor. As she fell, it felt like she was floating, lying on a cloud. For a moment, she felt weightless and free and smiled at the beautiful sensation it created but when she looked around to see who else was lying on her cloud, the power disappeared and the barn was cloaked in blackness.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mid-October, the sun shining from a clear blue sky, the sea twinkling with calm serenity, Brighton seafront looked bathed in summer sunshine to DI Henderson; but then he was sitting inside a warm car with the windows closed. Some hardy souls rollerbladed on the promenade, but the illusion would be shattered if he could see over the edge on to the beach; it would be deserted with no one resting on the pebbles to watch the waves or throwing a ball into the water for the dog.

  ‘I hate doing stuff like this so early in the morning,’ DS Walters said, hunched up in the passenger seat with the same grumpy face as a 16-year-old. ‘Not until two large lattes are injected into my bloodstream and I receive the sugar burst from a thick Danish.’

  ‘Do you realise that’s the first thing you’ve said to me since I picked you up at your place, ten minutes ago?’

  ‘I know. I don’t do mornings.’

  ‘Seven-fifteen is not what I would call early.’

  ‘To you maybe, but I should still be in bed, and maybe not asleep but certainly not awake enough to start doing any work.’

  At least he controlled the radio, as the said non-morning person couldn’t be bothered to change it from Radio Four, as she did at other times of the day.

  They drove towards Newhaven Harbour, where early this morning the police launch had brought ashore a dead body, found by the captain and crew of a new fifty-footer yacht. They’d been engaged in sea trials off Cuckmere Haven, a floodplain near Peacehaven where the River Cuckmere flows into the English Channel, and in some respects, the crew aboard ‘Mistral’ were lucky to have found it, as most of the time, they were travelling at great speed.

  When they arrived at Newhaven Harbour, he half-expected to see a phalanx of reporters and photographers, a common occurrence on the Langton case, but he didn’t see a single one, making this incident seem less worthwhile somehow. It was wrong to think like that, of course, as in many ways this new case deserved more attention, as it involved the death of another human being while the other remained a missing persons enquiry, albeit one becoming more suspicious as each day passed.

  The body came ashore at a dock accessible from Riverside and close to The Ark pub, which was thankfully closed at this hour of the morning; a gaggle of curious boozers and a dead body didn’t mix. The body lay on the dock, covered by a tent, and he could tell by the car parked there, a grey Austin Healy 3000 with the fabric top securely fastened, the pathologist was there.

  Henderson stopped to put on his protective over-suit and boots and Walters did the same.

  ‘Morning sir,’ the officer standing at the entrance to the dock said to him. ‘Morning DS Walters.’

  ‘Morning Ed. I’m afraid it’s too early to get much of a response out of Ms W yet. What time did you get the call?’

  ‘Just after six.’

  ‘Was it still dark?’

  ‘Yeah but not pitch, I could see a bit of sun coming over the horizon.’

  ‘Did ‘Mistral’ stay out all night, or did they go first thing this morning?’

  ‘All night I believe, sir.’

  ‘Where are the crew?’

  ‘They’re all sitting in the little hut over there, if you can believe it.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Eight. I kept them together as I reckoned you and Sergeant Walters would want to talk to them.’

  ‘Good man. We’ll speak to them after I see the body. I don’t imagine the interviews will take long, so they’ll soon be out of your hair.’

  ‘Thank God, they’re a painful bunch. Public schoolboys, to a man.’

  ‘The reason you’re standing out here?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Cheers Ed, catch you later.’

  They walked towards the tent and ducked inside. The pathologist was so engrossed in his work, he didn’t look up if he heard their footsteps, or maybe their approach was masked by the noisy hammering and sawing taking place in one of the apartments behind them.

  ‘Morning doctor,’ Henderson said, as he bent down beside him.

  ‘Ah, morning Angus, how are you today?’

  ‘Not best pleased to see this guy to add to all the other work we’ve got on but we all have our crosses to bear.’

  ‘I’m none too pleased either, the mortuary is full to bursting, what with the recent bout of ‘flu and that bad smash on the A27 the other day.’

  Boy Wonder, Grafton Rawlings, finished top of his class at death school and in Henderson’s experience, after dealing with him for three months, was a top-notch pathologist; but he still looked like his sixteen-year-old self. His body frame was thin so any suit he owned hung loosely, as if bought by his mother at an oversize shop, while the
glasses with thick black frames and long, floppy hair gave him the air of an Oxford don. In fact, if he didn’t carry a medical bag and ID, coppers like Ed would think him a chancer and tell him to sling his hook.

  Henderson inspected the body. It once was a heavily-built male with large hands, someone who perhaps did heavy manual work, but equally a man of such size and build would be a welcome member of many criminal gangs.

  ‘How long has he been in the water?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘Going by the loss of skin on the lower torso and the deterioration of the facial skin which you can see is flaking off, I would say a couple of weeks.’

  ‘You can see here,’ Rawlings continued, indicating deep gouges on the arms, ‘this is where I think his tormentors tied him with ropes, possibly to something heavy like a cement bag, and then dropped him into the water. Clearly they didn’t go to Boy Scouts as I think the knots came undone.’

  ‘You don’t think it might have been a boating accident or a suicide from a cross-Chanel ferry?’ He said the words more in hope than belief, as the pathologist’s manner indicated he believed they were now dealing with a murder. That was all he needed.

  ‘It’s not all guesswork, Angus, as I found this little clue trapped in his jacket,’ he said, picking up a sealed bag with a length of rope inside.

  This type of rope could be found on any yacht, grey nylon with red flecks, one that didn’t lock-up when wet and very hard to snap.

  ‘If you’re still not convinced, maybe this will seal it for you.’

  He turned the body over and Henderson was appalled to see a deep indentation to the side of his skull, gashes to the face, probably caused by a fist or boot, and knife punctures on both thighs.

  ‘He’s been tortured?’ Henderson asked, his face aghast.

  ‘I would say so.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Henderson leaned closer to take a good look at the head wound, trying to imagine what sort of weapon had done the damage, maybe the round edge of a boating hook, baseball bat or iron bar. The face lacked any colour, as pale as a ghost in the vampire movies Rachel liked, even down to peeling flesh.