The Vows of Silence (15 page)

“Who on earth would telephone me here?”

“A Dr Deerbon from Lafferton. Do ring from the office, my dear.”

Thirty-one

“What the hell …?” Serrailler looked out of his office window to see a crowd of television vans in the station car park. The area was taken over by trailing cables, people with cameras and other people talking into them, vehicles with open doors revealing engineers and equipment.

“Get the press officer up here.”

“Sir.”

As the door closed the phone rang.

“Simon, what’s going on? I’ve got press coming out of my ears, I’ve had the chairman of the Police Committee in my office, I turn on the radio and I hear someone talking about an uncontrolled shooting spree in Lafferton. Talk to me.”

“Well, ma’am, the car park here is stuffed with television vans.”

“Sort it. We have four dead women, three separate
shooting incidents, and not the faintest idea who’s responsible. Am I right?”

“Pretty much.”

Elaine Dimitriou was new, charming and, Simon thought, under powered when her job as press officer became, as now, more than local routine.

“I’m really sorry, they just arrived and started setting up. It’s the baby, sir. They all want to run stories about the baby. I’ve issued a press release but they’re being quite aggressive.”

“Have you got what you gave them?”

Simon scanned it. “This tells them what they know and it more or less says we haven’t a clue. Come on, Elaine, this isn’t going to satisfy them. Call a conference for four o’clock. I’ll talk to them and I’ll take questions. Public confidence is draining away and I’m not having that. Get on with it.”

Elaine fled.

“Sir? I’ve got something.”

DS Graham Whiteside looked smug. He’d had that smug look ever since he’d rescued Jamie Doyle from his cot.

“Yes?”

“Someone reported a man on a bicycle. Yester day.”

“Go on.”

“He was cycling past Bethan Doyle’s door and wobbling because he was going slowly and peering at the house. The duty PC noticed him as well. Apparently he almost fell off into the road he was that busy looking.”

“Plenty of people doing that. Cars slow down. People walk their dogs past the crime scenes. People hang about. Voyeurs. Gives them a kick.”

“Got a description.”

“Go on.”

“Fits Craig Drew. Medium build, brown hair, thirties, pale. They remarked on the paleness.”

“Fits Craig Drew, fits half the male population of Lafferton.”

“Not on bikes in Millingham Road. Craig Drew’s got a bike.”

“A lot of people have got bikes.”

“I think I’ll go and talk to him again.”

Simon pushed his hair back from his forehead a couple of times, thinking.

Craig Drew. There was a perfectly likely reason for him to be cycling past another house in which a young woman had been shot dead. He had probably cycled past the
Seven Aces
club and his own house too, a dozen times. It was what people did when they were in shock and a state of disbelief.

“We haven’t got anything else, sir.”

“Not a good enough reason for pulling in Craig Drew. Might as well bring in anybody.”

“I think you’re wrong. Sir. I think we should look at Drew. Hard.”

“You made that plain the first time we went to see him.”

“I didn’t believe anything he said.”

“What? Nothing?”

Simon pushed his hair back again. Fact: he disliked Graham Whiteside, and had been angry at his tactics in
the first Drew interview. Fact: if there was the faintest chance that Drew had shot Bethan Doyle, in front of her eighteen-month-old son, the angry press pack would sniff it out. Fact: the public was alarmed and baying for blood.

“All right, but don’t go wading in.”

The DS half nodded.

Simon went into the CID room.

“Vicky here?”

DC Hollywell was staring at her computer screen with a far-off expression and jumped when the boss walked over to her desk.

“Found any relatives for Bethan Doyle?”

“Not yet, sir. I was just looking again, actually. The ex-partner is the only name we’ve got and he’s working in a bar in Ibiza—police there have tracked him down, they’re talking to him.”

“The little boy …”

“Jamie. He’s in care.”

“I can’t believe he has absolutely no living relatives apart from an absentee father.”

“We’re trying, sir.”

“I know. Bethan seemed a solitary girl without family and without friends, did her job, came home, picked him up from nursery and stayed home alone with him. Was that it?”

“It appears so.”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Get on to neighbours, go to her work, go to the boy’s nursery … everyone. There has to be someone.”

“There was.”

“What?”

“Well, there was someone who killed her. Or was it random like the others?”

“Were they random?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Nor do I, Vicky, and it’s driving me nuts.” He turned round. “Listen up please. I’m doing a press conference this afternoon. I’ve got to give the buggers out there something. I want to defuse this. We need them onside and at the moment they’re not. Meanwhile, as you go in and out don’t say
anything
. Be polite and carry on. I want everyone in the conference room at four. Show of solidarity.”

His mobile rang. Cat’s number. He went into his room and closed the door.

“Where are you?”

“Office. What’s happened?”

“Chris has gone into BG. They’re operating this afternoon. They think it’s a grade-three glioma.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? I mean them operating.”

“It’s to relieve the pressure. He went blind in one eye and the headaches are awful. They’ll try and take some of it out, but it’s in a difficult place.”

“Oh, love.”

“He’ll have radiotherapy. One course, it’s just palliative.”

Cat sounded cold and mechanical, removing herself from her emotions, setting aside the fact that she was talking about Chris.

“I’ll try and come over tonight. It should be OK after the press conference.”

“It’s all right, Dad and Judith are coming over so I can go and see Chris.”

“Oh? You don’t need me then.”

“Christ. Of course I need you. I need everyone. Simon, don’t have tantrums, I can’t cope.”

Someone knocked.

“Have you talked to the children?”

“Tried. I never realised how hard it was just to explain, just to get them to understand even a little. Sam can. In a way. But he doesn’t want to. He put his fingers in his ears.”

His door opened. Elaine.

“I have to go. Hold on in there. I’ll come later.”

He looked up.

“Sorry, sir, but the Chief’s here. She went into the CID room but I thought you’d want a heads-up.”

“Thanks.”

Another head round the door. Vicky.

“The Spanish police came through. Foster Munday, Bethan Doyle’s partner … left his bar job five weeks ago. Left his apartment as well.”

“And?”

“Took a flight to Birmingham.”

“When?”

“Two days before Melanie Drew was shot.”

“Right, we want photographs, full description, get on to the airport, taxis, railway, car hire. I want him in here yesterday.”

Vicky turned and crashed into the Chief Constable. Simon caught a glimpse of their faces, Vicky scarlet and horrified, Paula Devenish thunderous.

“Ma’am. I’ll get someone to go for tea.”

“I don’t need tea. I need some small scrap of evidence that you have moved forward in this investigation.”

Thirty-two

DS Whiteside pounded the front door of the cottage with hammer blows. Inside, dogs barked.

When Craig Drew’s father opened up he looked terrified but said at once, “You’ve got some news? What’s happened?”

“Can we come in?” Whiteside barged through the front door as he was asking. The DC with him, Louise Kelly, hesitated, apologetic.

“What’s happened?” Alan Drew asked her.

She shook her head.

“OK, where is he?”

“Craig? Upstairs, I think. What’s happened?”

“Call him down, will you?”

The DS prowled round the living room, looking at a picture, picking up a photograph, turning the corner of the mat over with his toe. Louise stood in the doorway. He was a sergeant, she was in her first six months as a
DC but she knew that the way he was behaving was out of order. She wanted to say something but if she did he would take it out on her later. She knew a bully when she met one, knew what you should do with bullies but felt powerless. Whiteside brushed her aside and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Drew! DS Whiteside here. I want a word.”

“What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“What’s he doing up there?”

A lavatory flushed. Craig Drew came running down the stairs, still doing up his belt. “Have you got him?”

“I was hoping you were going to tell me that.”

“Sorry?”

Craig stared.

Poor bloke, Louise thought, poor bloody bloke, he doesn’t know what time of day it is. His wife of two weeks was shot dead, he’s a mess of emotion and dread and questions he can’t answer and we’re here to ask more.

“You’ve got a bike, Craig?”

“Cycle. Bicycle. Yes.” He looked bewildered. His father stood beside him. Protective, Louise thought. Even at his age. Fat chance my dad would protect me like that.

“Been out and about on it, have you?”

“He cycles most days,” Alan Drew said. “He needs to get out of here.”

“Where do you go, Craig?”

“I don’t know … all over. Anywhere.”

“You don’t know. All over. Anywhere.”

“I just go out.”

“Lafferton?”

“Yes. Or—just around. Villages. Nowhere in particular.”

“Dulles Avenue?”

“I went there.”

“What for?”

“We—I live there. I went to my flat.”

“On your bike?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t carry much on a bike, can you?”

“I didn’t have anything to carry.”

“Didn’t go to pick anything up, stuff you needed, clothes and so on?”

“I’d have taken the car.”

“I’d have gone with him as well. What’s this about, Sergeant, what’s with all these bike questions?”

“Know the
Seven Aces
club, Craig?”

“No. I mean, I heard about it, those other girls. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Someone just shooting for no reason.”

“How do you know it’s the same?”

“Well, I thought … it’s got to be the same, hasn’t it?”

“Has it? We haven’t said so.”

Craig Drew looked both confused and as if he were about to cry. He glanced desperately at Louise.

“Do you know the
Seven Aces
, Craig?” she asked gently.

Whiteside shot her a look.

“No.”

“Have you ever been?”

“No. We—I … clubs are not where I go. We don’t. Mel didn’t like that sort of place. It’s new, isn’t it?”

“You’re telling me you’ve never so much as been past it?”

“I don’t think I have but I can’t swear to it. Of course I can’t, can I?”

“Why not? I’d have thought it was perfectly simple. Have you been past the
Seven Aces
or haven’t you?”

Craig sat down and dropped his head.

Whiteside went on. “Did you read about Bethan Doyle, Craig?”

“Who’s Bethan … Oh, God, her, the one with the baby. Christ.”

“You know about it, then?”

“You’d have to live on the moon not to know about it, wouldn’t you?” Alan Drew. He had crossed the room to stand beside his son, put a hand on his shoulder for a second.

“Craig?”

“Yes.”

“Know where she lived, do you? Where it happened?”

“Yes.”

“Not far from your place.”

Silence.

“You went down there, didn’t you, Craig?”

“No.”

“Really? I heard you did. Biked along the street. Had a good look at the house where it happened. Didn’t you?”

Craig looked up, his eyes seemed to have sunk back into his head, still bewildered.

“I might have. Yes. I did. I was on the bike round there. I was trying to take it in. I can’t take it in, you see.
I keep expecting her to walk in the door here and she doesn’t.”

“Melanie?”

“Yes.”

“Why would that make you cycle past Bethan Doyle’s place?”

“It didn’t. I mean, I don’t know why. I wanted to see. I suppose. Maybe it would help me take it in. I just don’t know.”

“So you did cycle past the house where Bethan Doyle was shot in front of her eighteen-month-old baby?”

Craig shrank back into himself as if warding off a blow.

“Craig?”

For one second they were all of them frozen in the small room but to Louise the second went on for hours, became timeless, as if the shutter on a camera had stuck, keeping them all there.

Then Whiteside said, “Get your coat. I’m asking you the rest down at the station.”

Craig Drew looked up. The bewilderment in his eyes had become fear.

“What?”

“You heard. Coat.”

Alan Drew moved. Froze again. Looked from one to the other for an answer. Found none.

“I’m sorry,” Louise said, so quietly they probably didn’t even hear her.

“I don’t have one.”

The DS turned from the doorway.

“A coat. My wax jacket’s at Dulles Avenue. I don’t have a coat. I don’t need a coat.”

Whiteside jerked his head towards the door.

Don’t go, Louise thought, don’t be bullied, you’ve got rights.

But Craig Drew, head down, got up and walked meekly out of the room, Whiteside behind him.

Thirty-three

“Hey, petal, how you doin’?”

“Don’t call me petal.” DC Louise Kelly waited for the machine to pour its coffee sludge into the plastic cup.

“Didn’t think you were one of those feminist birds.”

“I’m not.”

“Right, well, petal is only what my teacher would have called a figure of speech.” Clive Rowley watched while she struggled with the cup which had stuck in the grip of the metal holder. “I’m afraid to offer help, now.”

Louise sighed and stepped back. “Please,” she said.

He snapped open the holder and wriggled the cup of hot liquid out sideways. “There’s a knack, you see.”