The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (6 page)

I notice darkness is starting to fall. Glancing at the clock in the car, I see it’s nearly half past five. The car comes to a halt in front of the large concrete police station. The police officer that drove us turns the keys and the engine dies. None of us make a move to get out. I feel Charlie’s eyes burning into the side of my face but can’t bring myself to look at him. His sympathy is too much to bear.

Unsure what to expect, I push open the passenger door. The cold wind is the first thing that hits me. Looking down at my feet, I realise I am still in my slippers and feel foolish.

A young policewoman hurries by, offering a small friendly smile as she passes. Her kindness hits me like a slap in the face and I lean against the car for support. Charlie appears at my side and slips his arm through mine.

‘You can do this. I am with you.’ The warmth from his body soothes me.

The detective who drove us here gestures for us to go inside. But before I am ready to move, I need some answers.

‘What is going to happen?’

‘I suggest we go and sit down. I have a few more questions. Then…’ He looks at the floor

‘You want me to look at the bodies, don’t you?’ I ask meeting his eye.

‘I’m afraid so. Yes. But that won’t be until later tomorrow. There needs to be a post mortem first.’

‘I want to see now.’ I tell the detective.

‘We need time to prepare.’ He leaves the sentence unfinished.

‘I am not going to answer any questions until I know it’s them.’ The detective and Charlie share a look, shocked by my determination.

‘Come on love, let’s at least go in and have a cup of tea first. Give yourself some time to prepare.’

‘How can I ever be prepared for this?’ I swing round to look at him. ‘Either it’s them or there has been some huge misunderstanding. I need to know before we talk anymore.’ The detective steps closer to me and I notice for the first time how lanky he is.

The darkness is deeper now, looming overhead a charcoal sky and indigo clouds gather and I half expect the four horsemen of the apocalypse to appear galloping through the sky, breaking through the clouds.

‘I understand, but I am afraid there is a procedure to follow. We cannot risk contaminating any evidence. The earliest you will be able to view them is tomorrow. I suggest you come in and have that cup of tea.’

March 17th

It’s just after midnight. At the police station, I drink tea from a polystyrene cup. It’s nearly too hot to hold but the uncomfortable heat is soothing somehow. The room is small and brightly lit. A blanket that Charlie requested sits on my shoulders but still I feel shivery. Every time the fabric brushes against my skin, it feels itchy. I wonder how many criminals and victims have been wrapped in it before me.

My hands tremble as I grip the cup. I suppose I am suffering from shock. Numbness keeps me in a bubble, unable to cry, unable to feel anything.

We are waiting for the detective to return. He has some questions. He is not the only one. I wonder how I can help. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see anything. This is all so surreal.

‘Where the fuck is he?’ Charlie wriggles in his seat. He’s never been very patient.

I put the cup down and fold my arms on the table in front of me, slumping my head down.

‘I’m tired.’ It’s all I can manage.

‘Right, that’s it.’ He stands up puffing out his chest.

‘Leave it.’

‘No, they can’t keep you in here. This is ludicrous.’ He starts pacing around the table. Watching him doing laps makes me sick with dizziness.

‘Please Charlie,’

‘This is totally out of line…’

‘Please,’

‘Either they come now or I’m taking you home and they can wait…’

‘Shut up! Shut the fuck up!’ I blurt out as rage surges around my system. Charlie comes to a sudden halt. He looks at me as if I am a stranger and I bury my face in my hands.

‘I can’t do this. Not now.’ I feel the tears well up. ‘I don’t need you to fight for me. Just, please, just sit down.’

‘Ssshhh.’ Charlie moves closer and pulls up a chair.

‘Just sit with me, please.’ My voice wobbles as my throat closes up and I feel the blood drain from my face. ‘I think I’m going to be sick…’

Retching, all I manage to bring up is the tea. My stomach is empty since I had no lunch. I have no idea what time it is but decide it must be late as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. On the lino floor, a small puddle of frothy tea pools at my feet.

‘I’ll get something to clear it up.’

Charlie leaves the room pulling the door closed quietly behind him just as my body begins to shake uncontrollably. I have lost all control of my muscles and slump onto the floor convulsing as gradually the walls around me close in and everything turns black.

When I regain consciousness, a smiling, Asian face greets me. The blanket that was around my shoulders is now tucked under my head. It smells of cheap washing powder. Behind the brown face, I can make out Charlie’s silhouette, dark and looming, similar to my nightmares – a faceless threat.

I feel like I’m drifting through the sky in an air balloon. The oxygen is thin and my chest is tightening. I’m scared. Waiting to fall, expecting to crash into the hard, cold ground. But this is not
me
. It is someone else. I am behind a mask living someone else’s life. A fraud.

That is how I feel as I come to.

Instantly, the drama of the situation wraps its arms around me and I feel the grip tighten.

The halogen lights in the station hurt my eyes and the role I am expected to play bears down over me with crushing weight.

Wake up.

Wake up.

My eyes open and I fix on Charlie.

He is here, so encouraging.

‘I think she’s waking up,’ someone says, the words bringing me back into the present as I carefully sit up.

‘You OK, love?’ Charlie steps forward. I don’t respond. ‘Get her some water,’ he barks at the young, kind faced policeman who has stepped back. ‘Let’s get you onto a chair.’ His attention is focused on me once again and I nod in agreement, as he lifts me carefully from the ground and guides me towards a blue plastic chair. ‘Sit.’ It is as though he is speaking to someone with dementia, but I do as I’m told.

Once safely seated, the room of unfamiliar faces begins to clear until the only people who are left are Charlie and I.

‘You gave me a bloody fright.’ He says, bent down on his haunches.

‘Sorry.’

‘I’m going to take you home. This isn’t right. Not being here now. We can come back tomorrow if they want but I’m getting you out of here.’

‘We can’t go back to London,’ I prompt, ‘I need to be here.’

‘Fine, then we’ll check into a hotel.’ He is always the practical one. ‘I’m going to speak to that detective. Just sit here, all right? Don’t move. I’ll be back in a flash.’ He takes my hand, kisses it and places it back in my lap before he struts out of the room, an intent figure.

I am left alone in the soulless interview room and I have a sudden urge to run. All I want is to get up out of the hard chair and run as fast as I can away from the police and the horror inside my head. No more reality. I’ve had enough to last for one day. My brain wages a battle - accept reality or deny it.

A noise snaps me out of it as the young Indian policeman comes through the door, carrying a glass of water. His deep brown eyes smile with sympathy as he places the cup on the table.

‘You should drink this.’ He rubs his neck with the palm of his hand. Looking up at him, I realise how young he is, probably only in his early twenties...

‘Thanks.’ I pick up the glass and take a sip of water. It feels good. Then I turn back to the officer. ‘Is this your first murder?’ I am genuinely curious. He fidgets on the spot and nods nervously. I didn’t mean to spook him and realise he thinks I am judging him. That was not my intention. In order to put him at ease, I say the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Mine, too.’

March 18th

‘It’s alright to be scared.’ Charlie reaches out a hand and rests it on my shoulder.

‘I just want this over and done with.’ I feel like shrugging him off but resist the urge to push him away. This is not his fault. I stand up and tell him I need the loo, an excuse to put some distance between our bodies.

‘I’ll be right here,’ he says as I dash out of the room.

Finding myself in the vast corridor, I feel lost. I don’t belong here. The morgue is a grim, sober place. I realise I don’t know where the loo is, so just stand in the corridor for a while, taking some deep breaths.

Can I smell blood?

Then someone appears from one of the rooms wearing forensic overalls and takes a step towards me.

‘I just want to go to the loo.’ I sound pathetic. Before the man can reply, I hear a familiar voice behind me and spin around to find the detective.

‘We are ready for you now, Madam.’ His hands are grasped together and I notice his knuckles are bony and white. ‘This way please.’

Charlie appears from the waiting room. I’ve never seen him look so solemn. I can guess how he feels. His heart has always ruled his head.

I know how I should feel. But I can’t get there. I’m not even scared. Not really, although I know I should be. I’m waiting for it. No doubt it will come. It’ll grab me by the throat and choke me until I wake up and realise this is actually happening.

As we make our way towards the room where my parents are, I realise a nightmare would be easier. I could wake up and comfort myself that it never really happened, that it was just my twisted imagination going for a wander. But that is not the case. I am really here, each step taking me closer to the two bodies that lie in wait.

Will I see blood? Will their eyes be open? Is it them?

I’ve never seen a dead body before. Mixed with fear is a lingering fascination.

As we reach the door, I feel Charlie’s hand on my shoulder.

‘I am going in by myself.’ I say and he releases his grip, stepping back. The detective, whose name I struggle to remember, pushes the white door open and beckons me in.

Inside, the room is luminous white and I feel exposed by the bright lighting that prevent any shadow.

Looking to my right, I see a figure in robes standing next to two tables that have bodies laid out on them. The pair lay covered in white sheets so I cannot see their faces but already I know it is
them
.

My father is unmistakable. Even concealed, the size and figure are unmistakable. My blood run colds as I remember him living. He is,
was
, a great hulk of a man with a large belly and double chin. Portly, some would call it, but in truth, he was plain fat.

My dry eyes turn to look at the veiled body of the woman. Tall, slender, neat. Just as she was.

The pathologist clears his throat and our eyes meet. I nod and he moves over to the male body first, carefully peeling back the sheet. But he doesn’t show me his head. Just the body. The head remains covered.

‘There was too much trauma to the skull.’ He speaks in a muted tone. I try not to imagine what is hidden beneath the sheet.

Dad.

Then, silently, the next figure is revealed. This time, I see the face.

Mum.

I stare at the corpses. She looks the same as she once did, but somehow different. I can’t put my finger on it. Without realising it, I move closer to my mother.

The coroner steps closer and tells me not to touch anything.

Then it hits me. Her hair. They have styled it all wrong. She would hate being seen like this.

‘It’s them,’ my feet are carrying me backwards towards the exit. ‘It’s my parents.’

April 12th

The next few weeks drip by and I survive it all on autopilot. Faithful Charlie remains by my side, helping me sort through all the endless piles of paperwork that accompany death.

      
We stay near the house I grew up in.
My parents’ were so proud of the place
. Even at the B&B,
I see ghosts round every corner and sometimes think I hear footsteps in the night.

      
      
The police have assigned me a counsellor, who tells me this is normal. She’s a large woman with kind blue eyes that sit roundly in her pudgy face. I’ve only seen her a handful of times but the only thing I can ever concentrate on is that she smells strongly of instant coffee. It’s as though the scent is coming from her clothes.

      
My best friend, Sophie, has been wonderful. She calls everyday to see how I’m coping. She’s a high-powered prosecution lawyer in the city, so she has a greater interest in the case than most. Last time we spoke, I asked her to take her law cap off, as I need friends now, not legal advice.

      
We met at school when we were thirteen. She got to know my parents well. Sometimes, she came to stay during the holidays. Her parents are also well off. You had to be to go to our school. Rich was a prerequisite; clever was not. But Sophie was smart and she was going to do well at whatever school she was sent to. Meeting her was the best thing that came from being there.

      
I used to hate them for sending me to a single sex school. I was a tomboy who liked riding my pony, Foxy, and climbing trees. I
missed Foxy so much when I was away. That was the worse thing about being at boarding school. It all seems so long ago now.

      
Detective Woolfson, (I’ve finally remembered his name) is in regular contact. He is a strange man, shy and uncomfortable around people. I’m told they are doing everything they can to find the people/person responsible but as the days pass, it is looking less likely. They appear to have no leads, have found no helpful clues and no evident motive. Robbery gone wrong is suggested to me, but I can’t help thinking that the brutal nature of it makes it something else. It feels more personal than the police are admitting. But I just can’t think why anyone would want to kill my parents. No one has any reason.