The Silent Children: A serial-killer thriller with a twist

by Carol Wyer

  Sid’s been like a proper father to him. He looks up to the betting shop owner, who played football for Birmingham City in the fifties and who regales him with tales about his time on the squad. Sid didn’t scoff at him when he divulged he too had wanted to play football and still wished he had made it.

  He points the remote control at the large television screen against the far wall and turns it on. It’s Ascot week and there’ll be plenty of bets placed today. He spots a regular punter on the opposite side of the street. He’ll be in later. He comes in every day. He’s one of those addicted to their visits to the shop. Sid treats them all with respect whether they’re winners or losers. That’s the thing about Sid. He has time for everyone, including a messed-up kid who had ambition and just needed a lucky break. He owes Sid big time. He runs his thumb over the shop door keys, presented to him a week before.

  ‘You should get the key to the door when you’re twenty-one, but I’m happy to give you the key to my shop now,’ said Sid, slapping him on the back and then shaking his hand. ‘Congratulations, lad.’

  He’d never felt such happiness. After eighteen months of training, watching how the business operated, swotting up on every possible sport, and sitting with Sid most evenings soaking up every ounce of the man’s knowledge, he was now officially the betting shop manager and had the door keys to prove it. There’s one condition – he’s not yet to accept bets. He’s not old enough to legally do so. He has to direct punters to another assistant if they wish to place a bet. That’s fine by him – he’s still the manager.

  He flicks through the channels and leaves it set up on Channel 4. Sheila, one of the three assistants, arrives quietly through the back door and appears at his elbow.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ she says cheerfully, making him grin widely.

  She bustles about, getting everything ready for the first customers of the day. Now she’s here, he’ll leave her to it and go out back to work on the figures for yesterday. He stops to pick up a paper and takes a quick look at the horses running in the afternoon races, and becomes lost in thought. He doesn’t hear the door buzzer and he only looks up when he hears a cough. The girl on the other side of the counter smiles at him and for a second he’s transfixed by her shimmering, pink, glossed lips. He feels himself redden.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

  The girl pushes a slip towards him. ‘Can you put that on for me?’ she asks.

  She’s about twenty, dressed in a pale purple bandana and loose-fitting drawstring trousers bearing an ethnic print. Her ebony hair is gathered back from her face in a headband. He takes in the glittering, silver-grey eyes, and before he realises it, he’s spoken.

  ‘I have to work on some figures so I’ll get Sheila to take your bet. I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a drink afterwards to celebrate your win?’

  She laughs. ‘How do you know this horse will win?’

  He waves the slip at her with a knowing smile. She’s chosen well. She’s gone for the King George VI race and picked Swain, ridden by Frankie Dettori. It stands a really good chance and won the year before. ‘I’d have made this choice. Swain is going to win,’ he says confidently.

  Her cheeks lift and she observes him, lips tugging into another smile. ‘Okay. If I win, we’ll go out.’

  * * *

  His sister blinks at him and wafts air over her freshly painted toenails.

  ‘It’s a miracle she’s still with you,’ she says. ‘You must bore her rigid. “Football, blah-blah, racing, odds, blah-blah, percentages, commission, blah-blah, profits,”’ she continues in a monotone voice before giggling. ‘Poor Kayley must have had six weeks of torture hanging out with Mr Mega Boring!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he says amiably. ‘Some of us have to hold down a proper job and happen to be interested in it. At least some of us can hold down a job.’

  She sticks out her tongue at him. ‘Not my fault I got sacked in the first week.’

  ‘Course it wasn’t. It’s perfectly okay to tell some stuck-up bitch she’s a scabby cow, even if she’s your supervisor.’

  Her mouth turns down. ‘Well, she is a cow.’

  ‘I agree,’ he says, grinning. ‘Might have been an idea not to have drawn a picture of a cow covered in spots, with her name under it, and then posted it on the office noticeboard though.’

  ‘She asked for it,’ she continues, tightening the top on the nail varnish bottle and easing back on the settee. ‘Didn’t she, Johnny? Anyway, I’m going back to Spain with Johnny when he leaves. I’m going to work in bar and get loads and loads of tips from customers, just for being beautiful.’

  Johnny Hounslow has changed beyond recognition. He’s about six foot three, broad-shouldered, with muscular arms and well-defined pectorals. His dirty-blond hair is cut short and spiked, and he wears a permanent look of menace. The boy isn’t keen on his sister going out with Johnny, but she seems happy with the arrangement.

  It’s been almost a month since Johnny turned up at the bookmakers. He’d not recognised Johnny but Johnny had recognised him.

  ‘Bloody hell! What are you doing here?’ he’d said. ‘I thought you’d be a gang leader, a notorious drug dealer or have ended up in the slammer like your old man. You were a right tough nut at school. Look at you now – a pen behind your ear like some accountant and dressed in a shirt and tie!’

  Johnny, suntanned, in jeans and a T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest, now looked like he could handle himself in any dodgy situation. He no longer needed a minder.

  They ran into each other again at the pub later that day. He couldn’t avoid Johnny, sitting beside the bar, slugging whisky. Johnny called him over.

  ‘Come and join me. I’m celebrating. Just back from Marbella. Been working there for over a year and made a bloody fortune on my last job.’

  ‘You been working in Spain?’

  ‘I’m a builder now. Piece of piss it is too. You just need some muscles. There’s loads of work over in Spain. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of Brits who need work done on their villas and want new swimming pools or patios or new kitchens. And the birds love a bit of muscle too, if you know what I mean?’ he said with an empty laugh.

  He never knew quite what it was Johnny was supposed to be celebrating, but after downing almost a bottle of whisky, they’d tumbled out of the pub and back to his mum’s house, where Johnny had crashed on the settee.

  * * *

  He looks across at Johnny now, slumped beside his sister, and wonders when he’s going to return to Spain. He feels uncomfortable knowing what they’re up to in his sister’s room. He hears their noisy lovemaking through the paper-thin walls. He feels responsible when their mum is out, and she’s been working extra shifts at the pub, so they’ve hardly seen her the last month. She’s still his little sister and not even sixteen yet, and he hopes Johnny isn’t using her. He’s voiced his concerns to her but she doesn’t get it, or she doesn’t want to get it. She’s crazy about the new, macho Johnny, and that saddens him. He ought to talk to Johnny and sort it out. Get him out of her life before she becomes even more serious about the jerk. He doesn’t want her to go to Spain. He can’t imagine life without her around.

  He hears a car horn. Kayley’s arrived. She insisted on driving so he can enjoy a few drinks. He smiles at such thoughtfulness. It’s her birthday and yet he gets to drink.

  ‘You’d better go. Don’t want to be late for the all-important football match,’ says his sister. ‘Much nicer than taking her to a romantic restaurant for her birthday.’

  He refuses to be put off by her snide remarks. He’s managed to get his hands on a pair of the much sought-after tickets for the cup final match between Millwall and Wigan at Wembley. Kayley is remarkable and he can’t believe his good fortune. She’s the only woman he knows who can name all the top teams in the league and their playing grounds. Although they’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks, he’s thinking about asking her to move in with him, find a flat together, somewhere nearb
y so his sister can still come around to visit. He checks his pocket for the tickets.

  ‘Go on. Before she drives off without you,’ says his sister, chuckling. Johnny ignores him and begins to kiss his sister’s neck. He wrinkles his nose up at her and leaves them to it.

  Forty-Eight

  DAY NINE – WEDNESDAY, 22 FEBRUARY, MORNING

  * * *

  ‘We need one last push here, folks,’ said Robyn. In spite of all her concerns, not the least of which was no news from Ross about Davies, she’d enjoyed the best night’s sleep in ages, deep and dreamless, and woken to find Schrödinger curled on top of her stomach, like a small, furry hot water bottle.

  She’d also found time for a twenty-minute run before arriving at the station and was feeling more upbeat about the investigation than she had recently. She’d blown Schrödinger a kiss as she left. He’d sat on the window ledge, orange eyes like welcoming beacons, observing her movements. It was comforting to know he’d be there later.

  ‘The lottery draw was on the nineteenth of December and the jackpot of six million was deposited into a bank account set up by this man – Dario Pelligrini. He’s now a person of interest. David?’

  David was also clear-eyed and eager to speak. ‘Got the info on Dario Pelligrini – one of the financial directors working at SFE, Staffordshire Financial Experts, based in Lichfield. He’s been an independent financial advisor for the last twenty years. Lives in Brocton with wife, Ailsa, also a financial advisor at the same office.’

  Robyn’s eyes opened in surprise. ‘Brocton – same village as Anthony Hawkins and Henry Gregson. And his wife works with him?’

  Her mouth twitched involuntarily as a rush of adrenalin pumped round her veins at the news – they’d uncovered another connection between Henry Gregson and the quiz team. She thought back to Juliet Fallows’ comment, that gossip spread in small villages, and considered the likelihood that either Pelligrini, or his wife, had let slip about the lottery win to Henry Gregson. ‘Then we’ll start with them. Matt, you and Anna go to Barton-under-Needwood and do a final check for witnesses who might have spotted anyone suspicious near Tessa Hall’s place the day she died. I can’t believe nobody saw anything. It’s a busy village with over four thousand inhabitants and lots of movements. There must have been people passing through the place to get to the A38, even at that time of the morning. Take Roger Jenkinson’s photograph with you and ask if he was spotted in the vicinity that day.’

  Matt, head propped in one hand, suppressed a yawn. ‘Sure. I could do with a walk and fresh air.’

  ‘Bad night?’

  ‘Every night’s a bad night at the moment. Little’un’s got a chest infection now.’

  ‘Oh, poor little soul,’ said Anna, half-expecting a cheeky retort.

  Matt was rarely downhearted. Instead he threw her a sad look. ‘Yeah. It’s tough seeing her suffer like that, coughing and wheezing. Bit frightening really.’

  Robyn couldn’t help but feel for him. ‘You want to get off for a couple of hours? Check on her?’

  Matt refused. ‘I’ll be no use hanging about the place. Missus is taking her to the doctor later.’

  ‘If you change your mind, let me know,’ Robyn replied. ‘Offer’s there.’

  He gave a grateful tilt of his head.

  Robyn announced, ‘I’d also intended talking to Liam Carrington once more. I’ll leave that until we’ve visited SFE. Mitz, have a word with Anthony Hawkins’ brother, William. Ask how well Anthony knew this Pelligrini chap – and determine once and for all if he could possibly have known Henry Gregson through cricket or football connections. Right. Focus. Let’s nail this. Good luck.’

  She didn’t spot Tom Shearer, who’d entered the office.

  He sidled over to her. ‘Nice. Good rallying of troops.’

  Her positive energy began to drain. ‘You got much on?’ she asked, deflecting him from asking too many questions.

  ‘Yeah. Moving our stuff again. Flint’s allowed us to set up in the briefing room for the next couple of days until our new office is ready.’

  ‘You asked him outright?’

  ‘I figured we’d outstayed our welcome here. Besides, it’s crazy having two of us trying to run several investigations at the same time.’ He smirked. ‘So we’ll take our kit and be off. Thanks for having us.’ He waggled his fingers at her and meandered away.

  * * *

  SFE were based on the top floor of a two-storey, purpose-built office block. The bottom floor had been given over to a small advertising business. A plaque attached to the front door invited clients to buzz and wait. Robyn pressed the button, announced who she was and waited for the door to swing open. She and David climbed the thick-carpeted staircase and were met by a woman, attired in a tight black silk skirt that shimmered as she moved, teamed with a pristine white blouse and gravity-defying, skyscraper-heeled shoes that flashed the trademark red soles of Louboutin. She ushered them into an open-plan office populated by a handful of sharp-suited people, staring at screens and murmuring quietly into hands-free sets.

  ‘I’m Ailsa Pelligrini,’ she said, holding out an elegant hand and flashing an enormous diamond cluster ring.

  ‘DI Carter. You’re expecting us.’

  ‘Yes, my husband will be with us in a moment. He’s just speaking with a client.’ She directed them to the far end of the room, past the desks and computers revealing graphs and flashing dots and lists of names with which Robyn was not familiar.

  The glass office was furnished simply with an oval, glass-topped table and six cream leather chairs. A water cooler stood at one end and next to it, a table of glassware.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink of anything?’

  Robyn declined. She and David sat down on the plump cushions and waited in silence. They didn’t wait long. Within minutes, the door opened and a suntanned man with striking Mediterranean looks strode in.

  ‘Dario Pelligrini,’ he said, his clipped southern accent similar to his wife’s. He drew out the seat at the head of the table and studied the officers.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us. It’s in connection with Anthony Hawkins.’

  ‘Ah. We suspected as much, didn’t we, Ailsa? I won’t beat about the bush. This is slightly awkward for us.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, you’ve undoubtedly discovered we handled a substantial amount of money for Anthony and have come to question the legality of the situation.’

  ‘Are you saying you didn’t adhere to the financial code of practice?’

  ‘Far from it. We did everything by the book. It was, however, an unusual set-up. I took it on because I’ve known Anthony for years. I’m sure other financial advisors would have asked more questions than we did, and spent longer on it. Anthony wanted accounts set up fairly quickly and we obliged.’

  ‘Tell me what exactly happened.’

  ‘Anthony dropped by the office last December. Said he and some friends had won a fortune on the lottery. They didn’t want the lottery money to be paid into individual bank accounts. I went through a series of options and we settled on opening a holding account. From that, funds were to be distributed into individual offshore accounts. Now, I’m guessing that’s why you’re here, but I can assure you, we did nothing illegal. We merely exploited some loopholes in the British tax system, set up companies and sent monies to the new accounts. We are a reputable firm, and fully aware of our country’s laws and tax rules. Anthony chose to invest his share in what we call a fixed-rate bond, allowing him to draw down a percentage of the fund, tax-free each year. It was an excellent rate of income that would have afforded him a good lifestyle for many years to come.’

  ‘So, Mr Hawkins came to you for advice and then he and the other members of the lottery syndicate employed you?’

  ‘In a nutshell. Both Ailsa and I worked on setting it all up. There was a significant amount of paperwork to prepare.’

  ‘Did you know who else was involved in the win?’

&nb
sp; ‘I met up with the other syndicate members soon after Anthony told me about the win. I explained the options to them, but after that initial meeting I didn’t see them again. Everything we needed from them to set it up came via Anthony – signed paperwork, relevant details, passports, proof of ID, all the things we have to check to prevent fraud. He thought it’d be easier for everyone if he dealt with it.’

  ‘You’re undoubtedly aware he died on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes. Very sad we were to learn about it, too. I’ve offered our condolences to his brother. They weren’t the greatest of friends, but he’s the only surviving relative, and because Anthony died intestate, he will inherit the fortune. Anthony had drafted a will and was going to leave the money to charity. I was an executor, that’s how I know of its contents. He hadn’t yet made it official. Anthony will be turning in his grave now – all that money and no time to enjoy it, and worse still, his brother will get his hands on it.’

  ‘Would you say you were close to Mr Hawkins?’

  Dario’s head tilted from side to side quickly. ‘Not close exactly. We’d known each other a long time. Used to play cricket together, many moons ago. That was before I did my knee in. Can’t play any more. I go along and support the youngsters these days.’

  Robyn’s pulse quickened slightly at the mention of the cricket club. ‘Are you acquainted with a man known as Henry Gregson? He helped with the junior teams.’

  Pelligrini gave a quick nod. ‘I know him. Poor fellow got murdered. We visited Lauren two days ago. She was in such a state. Ailsa took her round some lasagne but I doubt she ate it.’

  Robyn looked at Ailsa, her hands folded in front of her on the desk. ‘You knew Lauren well?’