Dead Silent
Page 1
DEAD SILENT
Mark Roberts
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.headofzeus.com
About Dead Silent
HIS LIFE WAS DEVOTED TO ART.
HIS DEATH WAS A MASTERPIECE.
Leonard Lawson was a respected professor of medieval art. He lived a quiet life in a suburb of Liverpool with his grown-up daughter. As far as anyone knew, he had no enemies.
Louise Lawson watched her father die. Before she blacked out, she saw his body mutilated and deformed, twisted into a hellish parody of the artworks he loved.
Investigating a killer bringing medieval horror to Merseyside, DCI Eve Clay must overcome her own demons to unpick the dark symbolism of the crime scene. A fifty-year silence has been broken – with a message written in blood…
For Kath and Ted, John, Deborah and Chris.
Look back over the past with its changing empires that rise and fall, and you can foresee the future too.
—MARCUS AURELIUS
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
About Dead Silent
Dedication
Epigraph
Map
Prologue: Thursday, 24th October 1985
Part One: Darkness
Thursday, 20th December 2018
Chapter 1: 2.38 am
Chapter 2: 2.42 am
Chapter 3: 2.46 am
Chapter 4: 2.50 am
Chapter 5: 2.54 am
Chapter 6: 2.59 am
Chapter 7: 3.00 am
Chapter 8: 3.30 am
Chapter 9: 3.35 am
Chapter 10: 3.45 am
Chapter 11: 4.00 am
Chapter 12: 4.03 am
Chapter 13: 4.15 am
Chapter 14: 4.25 am
Chapter 15: 5.00 am
Chapter 16: 5.20 am
Chapter 17: 5.20 am
Chapter 18: 5.33 am
Chapter 19: 5.33 am
Chapter 20: 5.44 am
Chapter 21: 5.50 am
Chapter 22: 6.01 am
Chapter 23: 6.06 am
Chapter 24: 6.21 am
Chapter 25: 6.31 am
Chapter 26: 7.15 am
Part Two: Sunrise
Chapter 27: 8.23 am
Chapter 28: 8.23 am
Chapter 29: 8.55 am
Chapter 30: 9.08 am
Chapter 31: 9.23 am
Chapter 32: 9.23 am
Chapter 33: 9.28 am
Chapter 34: 9.28 am
Chapter 35: 9.41 am
Chapter 36: 9.41 am
Chapter 37: 9.42 am
Chapter 38: 9.50 am
Chapter 39: 9.51 am
Chapter 40: 9.58 am
Chapter 41: 10.06 am
Chapter 42: 10.12 am
Chapter 43: 10.14 am
Chapter 44: 10.18 am
Chapter 45: 10.25 am
Chapter 46: 10.35 am
Chapter 47: 10.41 am
Chapter 48: 10.42 am
Chapter 49: 10.46 am
Chapter 50: 10.57 am
Chapter 51: 10.53 am
Chapter 52: 11.03 am
Chapter 53: 11.15 am
Chapter 54: 11.15 am
Chapter 55: 11.30 am
Chapter 56: 11.35 am
Chapter 57: 12.20 pm
Chapter 58: 12.23 pm
Chapter 59: 12.27 pm
Chapter 60: 12.30 pm
Chapter 61: 12.35 pm
Chapter 62: 12.45 pm
Chapter 63: 12.59 pm
Chapter 64: 1.01 pm
Chapter 65: 1.15 pm
Chapter 66: 1.21 pm
Chapter 67: 2.25 pm
Chapter 68: 2.47 pm
Chapter 69: 2.47 pm
Chapter 70: 2.49 pm
Chapter 71: 3.05 pm
Chapter 72: 3.07 pm
Chapter 73: 3.07 pm
Chapter 74: 3.09 pm
Chapter 75: 3.10 pm
Chapter 76: 3.25 pm
Chapter 77: 3.25 pm
Chapter 78: 3.37 pm
Part Three: Sunset
Chapter 79: 3.53 pm
Chapter 80: 3.56 pm
Chapter 81: 4.01 pm
Chapter 82: 4.09 pm
Chapter 83: 4.14 pm
Chapter 84: 4.14 pm
Chapter 85: 4.19 pm
Chapter 86: 4.21 pm
Chapter 87: 4.22 pm
Chapter 88: 4.25 pm
Chapter 89: 4.29 pm
Chapter 90: 4.33 pm
Chapter 91: 4.37 pm
Chapter 92: 4.37 pm
Chapter 93: 4.40 pm
Chapter 94: 4.43 pm
Chapter 95: 4.45 pm
Chapter 96: 4.59 pm
Chapter 97: 5.03 pm
Chapter 98: 5.04 pm
Chapter 99: 6.28 pm
Chapter 100: 6.37 pm
Chapter 101: 6.42 pm
Chapter 102: 7.17 pm
Chapter 103: 7.19 pm
Chapter 104: 7.51 pm
Chapter 105: 8.04 pm
Epilogue: Friday, 21st December 2018
Acknowledgements
About Mark Roberts
The Eve Clay Series
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
Map
Prologue
Thursday, 24th October 1985
‘Eve, thank you very much for coming to see me,’ gushed Mrs Tripp. She smiled from behind her desk as Eve stood her ground at the door of the office.
Breathless, having run from the garden where she had been playing football with the big lads, Eve said, ‘You’re welcome, Mrs Tripp.’
The pleasantness of Mrs Tripp’s manner caused Eve to look down and perform a simple trick to check she wasn’t dreaming. She looked at the black trainers on her feet and told herself, Squeeze your toes. She squeezed her toes and confirmed. She was wide awake and it was all real.
‘Come and take a seat, child,’ encouraged Mrs Tripp, her newly permed hair crowned with an outsized yellow ribbon.
You’re too old and fat, thought Eve, to even try and look like that Madonna one.
As she walked to the chair across from Mrs Tripp’s desk, Eve smiled at the boss of St Michael’s Catholic Care Home for Children, her feet firmly on the ground, her eyes locked on to the fat lady’s gaze, and sat down.
‘I like your Everton kit, Eve.’
She glanced down. Blue socks bunched at the ankles, soil-and grass-stained shins from the sliding tackle she had put in a few minutes earlier, white shorts and blue-and-white top.
‘So do I,’ said Eve. ‘I just wish they weren’t sponsored by Hafnia.’
‘Why’s that, Eve?’
‘Hafnia’s a canned-meat company. In Denmark. Ham. It’s dead sly on the animals.’
‘Oh, Eve, how many times have we had this out?’ Mrs Tripp chuckled, smiling with her face but not with her eyes. ‘You’re a growing girl and you need to eat meat as part of a balanced diet.’
‘As soon as I’m big enough—’
‘Yes, I know! I know...’
Silence descended. Mrs Tripp looked as far into the distance as the four walls of her office would allow. Eve looked out of the window behind Mrs Tripp. In the sky above the River Mersey there were two horizontal red lines, as if a giant had drawn two bloody fingers across the grey autumnal clouds.
‘My, how you’ve grown, Eve. I remember the first time you sat on that very chair across from my desk.’
‘So do I.’ Eve smiled. It was bloody awful. ‘You’re a very busy woman, Mrs Tripp. All those kids. All them staff. How can I help you?’
Mrs Tripp clapped her hands and laughed too loudly. ‘It’s not a questi
on of how you can help me; it’s a question of how we can help you.’
From the corner of the office came a solitary sigh. Eve looked and a tall, thin man with snow-white hair, dressed all in black except for a white dog collar, stepped out of the shadows into the muddy light of the room.
As he walked towards the desk, he closed the cover of a card file bulging with papers, a file Eve recognised as the one they kept on her. Behind his left ear she saw a thin hand-rolled cigarette. She looked back at his face, his unsmiling eyes fixed on her. She stared back but stood up as the priest advanced slowly, observing, thinking, nodding.
He placed the file down on Mrs Tripp’s desk and, with the strangest sensation in her head that she had lived through this exact moment at another point in her life, Eve read the letters of her name in black felt-tip pen: ‘EVETTE CLAY’.
‘This is Father Anthony Murphy. Father Murphy, this is Evette Clay.’
Father Murphy placed the hand-rolled cigarette between his lips, flicked his thumbnail against the red tip of a match and lit the loose strands of tobacco. He took in a huge lungful of smoke and blew it out in a thin stream.
‘Hello, Eve.’ His voice rumbled, his speech posher than a TV newsreader.
‘Good afternoon, Father Murphy.’ She sat down again and Father Murphy remained standing.
‘How old are you, Eve?’ asked the priest.
‘As old as the hills.’ She laughed, alone.
‘So I gather.’
‘Seven and a half, if it’s numbers you’re after, Father.’ She guessed the next question. ‘And I’ve lived here for just over one year.’
‘Up until when, you lived in St Claire’s with Sister Philomena?’
‘Yes.’ Her exuberance deserted her. ‘Did you know Sister Philomena, Father?’
‘No.’ A strand of hope, a connection, faded. ‘Does that disappoint you, Eve?’
‘Just because you’re a priest, it doesn’t mean you know all the nuns in the world. I was just wondering if—’
‘Father Murphy isn’t just a priest, as if that on its own isn’t enough responsibility,’ Mrs Tripp railroaded over her. ‘He’s a fully qualified doctor.’
‘Oh!’ said Eve, mustering as much enthusiasm as she could.
‘I’ve come to see you, Eve.’ Ash dropped on to Mrs Tripp’s desk.
But I’m not ill, she thought, yet said nothing.
‘It’s fair to say, isn’t it, Eve, there have been one or two episodes of odd behaviour,’ said Mrs Tripp. Eve knew what was coming next. ‘When you set off the fire alarm.’
‘That was an accident. Jimmy Peace was there. He vouched for me.’
Mrs Tripp turned to Father Murphy. ‘She’s very popular with all the staff and the children. People make exceptions for her.’
‘No they don’t, they tell the truth,’ said Eve.
‘Christmas morning. You refused to get out of bed and open your presents.’
‘I was sad because I couldn’t stop thinking about Philomena. I did get up by lunchtime. And I’d opened my presents by tea. And then I just did what I do most days. I accepted that she’s dead. And just got on with it. What else can I do?’ The ball of tears behind her eyes threatened to break, but the voice inside her shouted, ‘Don’t you dare don’t you dare don’t you dare!’ And with that, a surge of anger and a beam of light. The memory of the toughest girl she’d ever met in the care system, Natasha Seventeen, and the last piece of advice she’d given her before she left St Michael’s: ‘Don’t act depressed, kid, or they’ll cart you off to the funny farm!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Eve, all the bits and pieces falling into place.
‘Eve, blasphemy isn’t allowed here!’
‘I’m saying my prayers. And I’m asking Jesus to give me strength.’
Eve stood up, turned away from Mrs Tripp and made herself as tall as she could in front of the priest. There was a glimmer of a smile behind the sternness in his eyes.
‘Father Murphy, can I ask you a question, please?’
‘Of course you can, Eve.’
‘Are you one of those head doctors by any chance? What are they called now? Yeah. Are you a shrimp?’
‘I believe the expression is shrink.’ He took a drag on his cigarette, tapped a ball of ash on to the floor. Eve warmed to the man.
‘Am I glad you’re here, Father Murphy.’
‘You are?’
‘Yes. You’re just the man we need round here.’
‘I think it would be a really good idea to talk about the past,’ said Mrs Tripp.
‘Me too, me too,’ said Eve. ‘Thank you, Father Murphy.’ She sat down across from Mrs Tripp. ‘The past. Yes, let’s talk about the past.’
She glanced up at Father Murphy, the lower half of his face concealed behind the hand in which he held his cigarette. She recalled a scene from a TV sit-com she had watched.
‘Mrs Tripp, tell me about your childhood,’ said Eve.
The only things redder than Mrs Tripp’s face were the lines in the sky above the River Mersey.
‘Go and finish your game of football before it gets dark,’ said Father Murphy. ‘I’ve heard about your great loss and I know enough of Sister Philomena to know she’d be completely and utterly proud of the way you are coping at such a tender age. God bless you, Eve. We will meet again. Please know, you will always be in my prayers.’
‘Thank you, Father, for understanding.’
He smiled, made the sign of the cross over her head.
The silence in the room behind her as she made her way to the door felt like treacle.
Eve closed the door after herself, checked the corridor. It was empty. She waited.
‘You flicked ash on to my desk and my carpet!’ complained Mrs Tripp.
‘And you have wasted my time,’ replied Father Murphy. ‘Which is the larger sin? She’s perfectly sane in spite of all the things she has had to endure. She’s a credit to Sister Philomena, who saved her from the powers of darkness and moulded her into the child she is.’
Silence. As Father Murphy’s footsteps approached the door of the office, Eve absorbed his words.
She hurtled down the corridor, running faster than she ever had.
Running. Running. Running like the Devil was at her heels.
Part One
Darkness
The Tower of Babel (2)
by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (1563)
There is no mercy at work in the universe.
The First Born knelt at the foot of his bed, staring at a big shiny picture of a painting in a book resting on the top blanket. Just as he had been ordered to do. He looked at it through the splayed fingers and thumbs of both hands, one digit for every year he had been alive.
The Tower of Babel (2) 1563. He rolled the words around in his head.
P-i-e-t-e-r Br-u-e-g-e-l. He spelled out the painter’s name printed underneath the title.
He knew he had to get it right or the voice would be angry with him again. The voice swam inside his head, an awful voice that he was forced to listen to every day, for as long as he could remember.
‘There is no mercy at work in the universe. God will never be pleased with man’s achievements. Nor will God ever tolerate being outshone by man. Look at the darkness of the earth from which the tower rises up.’
The First Born tried humming to drown the noise inside his head but it only caused the voice to rise up louder, stronger, angrier.
‘Look at the way the darkness of the earth spills on to the water and engulfs the boats. There is no escape. The people who built the tower cannot be seen because they are hiding in the structure that they have built. Look at the arches of the many, many windows that run along each level of the ascending tower.’
The First Born felt the blood drain from his legs, arms and head. He clutched at the blanket on the bed to stop himself falling sideways on to the floor.
‘Speak the truth!’ commanded the voice inside his head.
The First Born knew the w
ords he had to speak off by heart. ‘God can come down at any moment and punish me for my sins just as he came down and punished the people who built the Tower of Babel. They tried to hide. But there is no hiding place from God.’ He felt something thumping inside his chest, the swelling of tears behind his eyes.
And then there were more words that the First Born didn’t grasp, a question that the voice asked over and over again.
‘Look at the picture. Is this the beginning of babble?’
The First Born looked at the picture, even though it scared him.
‘Look at the way the tower reaches into the sky, sending the handiwork of mankind into the skirt of heaven. Look at the way it pierces the clouds. Look at the way the top of the unfinished tower glows red like fire.’
The First Born removed his fingers from the picture and looked again. The clouds at the top seemed like smoke pouring from a burning building. He tried to see people hiding in the blackened windows, to find some sign of human life, but all he saw was darkness. It was so lonely there. He shivered.
‘This is what God does to mankind when mankind works together and builds a unified structure. In the eyes of God, this is sin. You are a sinner. And you have shown me you understand that sin has one consequence. Death.’
The First Born closed his eyes and gave the expected reply. ‘True Language died. Babble was born.’
The other voice was now calm and even. ‘There is no mercy at work in the universe.’
Thursday, 20th December 2018
1
2.38 am
‘He’s been slaughtered.’
The old woman’s words rolled around DCI Eve Clay’s head as she sprinted from her car to the Sefton Park entrance of Lark Lane, where Scientific Support officers had already sealed off the scene of the crime.
‘DCI Clay!’ she told the constable running the log at the top of the lane.
‘He’s been slaughtered.’ That’s what the old woman had apparently said to the witnesses who had discovered her wandering at the junction of Pelham Grove and Lark Lane. But that was all.
The moon hung low in the clear sky. Sharp light fell on the glass façades of the shops and restaurants on either side of Lark Lane and, for a moment, Clay imagined she was running down a locked-in corridor of ice.