Fear the Silence (DI Angus Henderson 3)

by Iain Cameron

  After knocking, a boy aged about eleven or twelve answered the door. ‘Is your mother in?’ Henderson asked. ‘We’re officers from Sussex Police.’

  ‘Come in. She’s in the kitchen. She’s expecting you.’

  They walked towards a strong cooking smell and as the boy pushed open the door leading to the kitchen, they could see the slight figure of someone he presumed to be Lidia Archer hunched over the stove.

  ‘Mum, the police are here,’ the boy said in loud voice, trying to make himself heard over the noise of an extractor fan. ‘They’re arresting you for feeding your children terrible food.’

  She turned and wiped her hands on her Wines of Italy apron. ‘If I had a cloth in my hand I’d throw it at your head.’

  ‘You can get her for child abuse as well,’ he said as he ran off down the hall.

  She had straw-coloured hair, cut in a short, layered style, highlighting the narrow features of her face and underneath the apron, a stylish red dress. Her make-up was subtle and unsmudged, despite this late hour on a damp Monday evening and working in a hot and clammy kitchen.

  ‘Ah, Inspector Henderson and Sergeant Walters, pleased to meet you,’ she said, walking towards them and shaking hands. ‘Let’s move into the lounge, we’ll be more comfortable there.’

  They declined the offer of coffee, even though this would be the last call of the night, as it was a long drive back to Brighton and there were few service stations on the way.

  ‘Your constable said on the phone you wanted to talk about Kelly Langton’s disappearance.’

  ‘That’s right. These are routine enquiries, we’re talking to everybody who knew her and adding background to the case against her husband.’

  ‘I see. So, which theory are you investigating, the one alleging he murdered his wife or one of the many suggested by The Argus?’

  Henderson and Edwards shouldered the burden of press conferences between them and he knew most of the silly stories. Interest in the case peaked on three occasions, each time flooding the incident room with calls and sightings; firstly, when Kelly Langton disappeared, when they arrested her husband, and the third time with the disappearance of Amy Sandford.

  Many papers tried running the serial killer story again but with no hard evidence and no rumours leaking out of Sussex House on threat of demotion to anyone who did so, it soon ran out of steam. Instead they printed whatever their editor fancied.

  ‘We are sticking to facts as we know them, Mrs Archer, avoiding some of the more fanciful theories some papers are throwing about. How well did you know Kelly?’

  ‘I spoke to her whenever I saw her. Sometimes just to say hello and at other times we would stop and enjoy a good natter. So, I would say I know her quite well.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why she disappeared?’

  She blew a long gasp of air between closed lips and shook her head. ‘None whatsoever, not a clue. She was a happy girl in my opinion. Ok, her husband could be a bit of an arrogant pig when the mood took him, but she was sparky and tough and I believe could cope with anything he could throw at her without running away.’

  ‘Do you take your children to school,’ he asked, ‘or does your partner do it?’

  ‘It’s primarily me but my ex-husband does it once or twice a week, especially when I’ve got an early morning meeting in town.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I run my own public relations company in central London. I work for train companies and the airlines.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘Ex-husband.’

  ‘Sorry, ex-husband.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m at the ‘I don’t give a shit about him’ stage. His name is James. With the money I made from the sale of my first company, I set him up in a furniture making business as he said it was always something he wanted to do, that is, after completing his helicopter pilot licence, a journalist course, a couple of creative writing summer schools and God-knows what else. After the divorce, he kept the business and a flat in Horsham and I kept this,’ she said, waving her arm to indicate the house, ‘and my PR business. He called me a shrewd, conniving bitch among a lot of other things at the time, as he believed he got the sticky end of the pole, but what the hell, I can take it, I’m thick-skinned.’

  ‘Does anyone else live here apart from you and your three children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do we contact your husband?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘I’ll get his details for you but first let me check on the meal, if you don’t mind. The kids hate burnt food, as you can probably tell.’

  For a divorcee with three kids at private school, Lidia Archer wasn’t doing so badly, Henderson thought as he looked around the lounge. It was lightly furnished, minimalist even, but what furniture they had was expensive and high quality, from the floral-patterned sofa they were sitting on, the large Bang and Olufsen LCD television and sound system dominating one wall, to the antique-framed oil paintings hung all around the room, tastefully illuminated by gold picture lights.

  Mrs Archer returned a few minutes later and handed Henderson a business card. ‘This is his business address and phone number and there’s a map on the back. You’re more likely to get him there than at his flat in Horsham. He’s never at home when I call.’

  ‘Why did you move your children from Leapark to Williamson College?’ Walters asked.

  ‘Charlie, my son, is good at maths and when his teacher left Leapark and went to Williamson, he made such a fuss we decided to follow. There’s no way I can take three children to two different schools in the morning, and although my husband could do it as he’s self-employed, but the unhelpful sod said he couldn’t, so they all moved.’

  ‘Before you ask,’ she continued, ‘I know there are plenty of good schools in Horsham, including two within a half-mile of this house, so why don’t I send my kids there? You see, I received a private education, and I don’t see why my children shouldn’t do so as well. I can afford it, so why not?’

  On the pretence of stretching his legs, Henderson walked to the window where he could see an extensive garden of dense, mature shrubs at the back of the house but no outbuildings. He could think of no reason why Lidia Archer would kidnap Kelly Langton or Amy Sandford and he mentally crossed her from the list.

  However, her husband sounded a more interesting prospect and joined a small but growing band of husbands and ex-husbands who owned separate business premises or other properties where kidnap victims could be held.

  If this was the good news, the bad news was they all needed to be checked out and assessment reports finished by Thursday morning, three days time, as Edwards was impatient for a result. His sleeping hadn’t improved and with the work piling up, it was unlikely to do so any time soon.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Since the formulation of her escape plan earlier in the week, Amy Sandford made sure she stayed strong. She ate every scrap of food and drank every drop of juice irrespective of the hideous consequences and while the CCTV camera would record her lying on the bed reading a magazine, in reality her mind buzzed like a bluebottle as she went over the details of her plan, searching for flaws.

  She tried and failed to recall much of the terrain around the workshop; when she first arrived she was driving and concentrating on not scratching the car’s bodywork on the posts either side of the entrance and then negotiating the bumpy drive, and as a result, had seen little. The only bit she could remember was standing beside her car and looking at the view, at a seemingly endless row of fields, dotted with the odd farmhouse and the occasional copse of trees, but she didn’t have much of a clue what lay the other way.

  Two questions remained. On her arrival here, Swift had taken her into a barn, the one he said he’d wanted to sell, but she didn’t know if she was still there, or had he moved her somewhere else? The ceiling in her room suggested the high vaulted roofs often found in barns, but for the purposes of her plan, it would be an unsafe assumption to make. />
  The second question, another she couldn’t answer, was, when she escaped from this room would the main door of the barn be locked? If so, she would be trapped and forced to confront Swift, who would be less than pleased by what she was planning to do to him.

  Tonight, Amy put on two pairs of trousers and several layers of blouses and cardigans, all taken from the wardrobe and she would fret about their origins in the safety of her bedroom when safe and at home. The additional layers were not there to make Swift’s nightly rape more difficult, but to keep warm when she was outside.

  The drug he put in her food to knock her out sometimes left her a little disorientated, but it soon wore off and she could think clearly. There had been some sunshine over the last few days, but night time temperatures were cold with clear, crisp nights, as she could see the stars through the upper window, and frost clinging to the glass in the mornings.

  Ten minutes later, the hatch rattled with the evening meal. She took her time, waiting for Swift to get bored and bugger off, and so she did a bit of extra stretching before ambling over to remove the tray. She smiled when she saw bangers and mash with a banana for dessert. She didn’t like sausages at the best of times and missing out on such a culinary delight wouldn’t be a hardship, but she could eat the banana, an unanticipated bonus, as she hadn’t expected to eat anything tonight.

  She spent more time than usual getting comfortable and looking for a magazine, all designed to waste time and to make sure he didn’t see the next bit. Charade over, she put down the magazine, picked up her plate and walked to the wardrobe, opened the door and scraped all the food from the plate into the corner and covered it with clothes. She closed the door and walked to the sink and poured out the fruit juice, rinsed the cup out and filled it with tap water. The first stage of the plan complete, she sat down beside a clean plate and slowly ate the banana.

  Her meal finished, she put the tray on the floor and read the magazine for five minutes before faking tiredness and sprawling over the bed. The kidnapper seemed to think of everything. The cutlery, cups and plates were all plastic, giving her no chance of using them against him, and all the furniture was bolted to the floor or wall so it offered nothing to hit him with or throw. Then, through a combination of drugs and a camera, he could do anything he wanted. That is, until he met Amy Sandford.

  Five minutes later with nothing happening, she wondered if he was taking the night off or had fallen and injured himself. Negative thoughts raced through her head like wild birds trapped in a cage and it took all her willpower to muffle the scream of frustration forming in her throat.

  Everything buzzing around her head came to a sudden halt when the door opened. She kept her eyes closed, listening hard for every movement and sniffing the air discreetly, trying to identify any new smell to give advanced warning of something new or different; as this could be the night he decided to kill her.

  The items on the tray rattled when he picked it up and carried it outside. She’d considered attacking him at this point but decided against it as he was standing and she knew she would be no match for him. She could tell even from their brief encounter at the house in Richmond Road he looked strong and kept himself in shape.

  In truth, she would like nothing better than to take him as he was about to slip his dick inside. With a quick flick of the wrist she would break the one-eyed trouser monster and damage his balls so irreparably, he would never be able to inflict such a degrading humiliation on anybody else. This plan did not make the final cut as she would be left half-dressed, if not naked, and in panic would run straight out of the room, as she didn’t want to be in here a second longer than necessary and shuddered at the prospect of flagging down an unsuspecting motorist without at least her bra and knickers on.

  He came back inside the room and closed the door. ‘You’re not wearing a skirt or a dress this evening Amy? Tsk, tsk. What a pity, I only want a quick fuck before I bugger off home as I’m starving. No matter.’

  His hand ran up her leg and he pushed it between her legs. He rubbed hard against the thick material of her trousers for several moments, a sharp nip almost forcing her to shout out, before turning her onto her back. He pulled her legs apart, and climbed on the bed and knelt between them.

  ‘Fancy a fuck now Amy? I know I do. Let’s see what nice knickers you’ve got on today, shall we?’

  He fumbled for the catch on her jeans, his fingers digging sharply into her skin. She could smell him now, a pungent mix of garlic and expensive aftershave. With the top clip undone, she half-opened an eye to see where he was positioned, before bringing up her knee and whacking him hard on the side of his face.

  He fell to the side, more in surprise than from the force of the blow she suspected, but before he could react and attack her, she pushed him in the chest with both feet. His arms were flailing in the air as he struggled for balance, but lost it and disappeared over the side of the bed; she heard a loud crack. She leaned over. This where she wanted him to be but to her surprise, he was out cold with a large red mark on his forehead, the result of a collision between him and the edge of the wardrobe.

  She was caught in two minds, should she rush outside and find a piece of wood or a hammer to bash his brains in and make sure he never woke up again? All her instincts were screaming, RUN GIRL, RUN!

  She put on her shoes, fastened up her trousers and leapt from the bed and ran out of the room. She found herself in an open area, bright and warm, and realised she was inside the barn, the place Swift said he wanted to sell all those days ago. Great. Now she knew which way to go.

  She reached the door and pulled the handle hoping against hope it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t. The fresh, cold air hit her like a wet towel and it took several moments for the giddy feeling in her head to disperse and her bearings to return. She had seen the place only once but as an estate agent, she had a good memory for property and knew which way was out. She took a deep breath and ran.

  Away from the shadow of the barn, it was lighter and she could now see the access road leading down the hill, the wide-open space of a field to the right and the silvery thread of the road at the bottom of the hill. The track she remembered was rutted and uneven with long grass growing in the middle and she needed to be careful not to trip over some of the potholes and loose rocks lurking there.

  Halfway down, she didn’t feel too out of breath or tired, but concerned about the lack of food over the last few days which would leave her with not enough energy to run for long, but this was probably balanced out with her new, fitter shape, and overall she felt good.

  The next stage of her plan was being formulated as she ran. At the road, she would turn left and head towards the first house not guarded by impenetrable gates and looking occupied, and start banging on the door. What they would make of a bedraggled and frightened looking woman at this time of night, she couldn’t tell, but she was gifted with a persuasive tongue and she would persuade them to help her.

  Just then, she heard the sound of a diesel engine firing up in the courtyard behind her. For a moment, she regretted not going back and bashing his head in with a stick, but was mystified as to how he’d recovered so quickly. She had a choice to make. She could either carry on running and hope to beat him to the door of the first house, or climb the fence into the field and hide in the bushes and long grass.

  She glanced back and saw the lights of the car dancing over the tops of the trees as it moved across the courtyard, and felt a wave of panic course through her being, and the confidence to reach the road before him evaporated into the cold, night air like warm breath. She stopped running and climbed the fence. Thankfully there was no barbed wire and she got over easily and jumped into the damp field, before flattening herself in the long grass behind a small bush. Seconds later, the car raced past.

  She waited a few moments before looking up. The car, a noisy, clattering Land Rover Defender, was now at the bottom of the driveway and about to turn in to the road. She desperately wanted to jump up an
d run, but a voice in her head told her to wait, there was still a chance he could see her in the rear view mirror. She lay there panting, her heart pounding against her chest, red cheeks warming her face despite the chill of the cold, damp air.

  The car turned and disappeared from sight and without hesitation, Amy jumped to her feet and started running across the field in the opposite direction. It was a large, open field and she could make out a copse of trees about a half-mile distant and the twinkling lights of a farmhouse, the same distance on the other side.

  She ran and ran, her pace slower than on the access road due to the uneven terrain, which seemed to be full of rabbit holes and thick divots. Five or six minutes after leaving the track, she heard a car.

  She stopped to catch her breath and look. It was travelling along the road in the same direction as her, and for a moment she considered running down the hill to try and stop it, but it was too far away. When she looked closer, she realised it could only be him. She could hear the clatter of the diesel engine and could see in the moonlight the square, boxy shape of the Land Rover. Cars like this were popular in the country, used in the main by farmers, landowners, and rich people trying to look like farmers, and it was possible it belonged to a local, but in her heart she knew it was him.

  She started running again. In a few minutes, she reached the shelter of the small copse of trees she’d seen from the track and stood in their shadow, gasping for breath. In truth, she only went to the gym to keep her weight down and admire the physiques of the young body builders who went there, so any improvements in her cardiovascular fitness and strength were accidental. She regretted it now, as over a week on light rations had sapped her energy levels and she knew it would take an enormous effort to get her legs moving again.

  When her heavy breathing subsided, she stood there listening. To her right, and somewhere over the brow of the hill, the faint hum of cars moving on a main road and up above, the slow rumble of planes as they made their way in and out of Gatwick Airport. It was a cloudy night, the sliver of a crescent moon obscured by thick, cloud formations, which helped hide her presence and stopped temperatures falling too low, but with all the clothes she’d put on, she now felt hot and sweaty.