The Silent Girls (32 page)

Matt tailed off. There was more, Lena had rambled on using words that spoke of self-pity and fear and ended the diary in a spiral of confusing motivations that painted her as mad, bad and sad in equal measures. ‘Cad you bloody belieb it?’ Sophie said as she looked at Matt’s dropped jaw and raised eyebrows.

He closed the book and stared at it. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I want to.’

Sophie thought she knew exactly what he was thinking, because it was probably the same thought that was going through her mind too, may God forgive them for it. He gave it voice when she couldn’t. ‘Should we be grateful that Edie never has to know this?’

Sophie’s heart lurched, thinking it was one thing, speaking it another. ‘We dode know she’s deb yet!’

Matt picked up the paper. ‘I think we do – according to this, one of the bodies was a female. If what you say is true, it has to be her. I think she’s gone Sophie, I’m really sorry.’

He looked it too, and as Sophie absorbed his words she started to understand the true meaning of sorrow. For such a hollow, simple little word it carried the power and force of a punch and lingered like an acid fog.
Thinking
it had hurt,
knowing
it… well, that was devastating.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Alice Hale felt thoroughly defeated. Her return to the hospital had yielded the news that Sophie Hedley had done a runner and Lena Campion, a woman whom she sorely wanted to speak to, had suffered a fatal cardiac arrest. Sam Campion was still at large, as was his known associate – a nasty piece of work by the name of Johnno. According to her current intelligence neither of them had been seen since before the fire, and the officers who’d called at Campion’s home address had found the door breached and the apartment turned over. Something much bigger than a spot of arson was going down and there were familiar names popping up all over the place, names that were linking more than one crime. That they were all connected wasn’t the question, but
how
they were connected was
.

She drove back to the office at a more sedate pace than normal, her driving reflecting her subdued state. A breakthrough was needed, something that would tie everything together into a neat little package and make her life easier. Wouldn’t it be nice if life worked out that way? In Alice’s experience it rarely did and she had no choice but to go back and carry on picking through the paperwork until something turned up that would connect the dots into something recognisable. Preferably a bloody great CCTV blow up of Sam Campion’s face, or a reliable witness who’d had the good sense to record something on their bloody mobile phone.

The office was buzzing when she got back in, everyone agog with the news that two of the bodies had been identified. Susan Protheroe, a known sex worker, and Andrew Garvey, a petty criminal and all round pain in the arse. It was sad to say that neither of them would be considered a great loss to anyone and some of her less sensitive colleagues were muttering that their loss was Winfield’s gain, especially as Garvey’s fingerprints had been a match for those found on the petrol can that they believed had been used to fuel the fire.

Personally Alice thought that back patting and celebrating was a little premature, the case was hardly a wrap. The identity of the dude in the other house was still outstanding, Edie Byrne was missing and they might have nailed the culprit, but they hadn’t remotely come near to guessing the motive. Besides, what was a two-bit dodger doing with a not-so-cheap whore? Alice had been reasonably familiar with them both, Garvey had certainly not been a customer and the two of them would hardly have been a love match made in heaven. In fact, Suse Protheroe wouldn’t have pissed on Andrew Garvey if he’d set himself on fire. Alice felt a smile begin to brew at the pun, then kicked herself for being such a callous bitch. Suse had been all right in her way, and there but for the grace of God went Alice.

With her disapproving scowl back in place she sat down at her desk and noticed that the red light on her phone was flashing, letting her know that she had voicemail. By rights she should have linked the phone to her mobile and would have received a slapped wrist if anyone had realised she hadn’t. Still, nobody was perfect, least of all her. She picked up the receiver, casually pressed the message button and swung round in her chair, turning her back on the room and her chattering colleagues lest they realise she had been remiss in missing the call. Matt’s message galvanised her into action and sent her scurrying back out of the office to hoots of laughter and shouts of ‘Hey Alice, where’s the fire?’.

Still smarting from their sarcasm she launched herself into her car, and drove it away in her own inimitable, if demonic, style.

Everything about where Matt Bastin lived was surprising – from the building’s shabby exterior to its worn interior, not to mention the virtual incident room, which looked all too familiar, except that it contained a bed and a kitchen. While he looked on, embarrassed by her perusal of his “collection”, she surmised that the man either watched too many detective shows, or had better skills than half her colleagues. The girl was equally surprising; a battered, bruised specimen who looked even more diminished in this crazy room than she had when Alice had first seen her in the hospital.

After slowly ascertaining that Matt Bastin was a lonely obsessive and that Sophie Hedley was a trouble magnet, she took the chair that Matt had offered and listened to Sophie’s story about the events of the previous day. As the girl talked – her speech hampered by the swollen, busted nose – all the pieces began to drop into place for Alice. By being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Sophie had managed to pull all the threads together – placing Sam Campion firmly in the centre of a series of crimes that went way beyond arson. This was big, very big, and Alice finally allowed herself the smug smile she tried so hard to keep off her face.

The girl seemed horrified to see it, and despite knowing Alice’s status had no qualms about launching a verbal attack on her. Alice found it hard not to burst into laughter as the indignant girl uttered her incoherent tirade.

‘Dobe you sid dere fuckid smilib! My fred died ib dat fire!’

‘Whoa there miss. Slow down – neither of the bodies brought out of that house were Edie Byrne. We’ve identified both victims. I have no idea what happened to your friend and can only assume that she got out some other way, but she didn’t die in that house, I can assure you of that.’

Alice’s words seemed to rob the wind from Sophie’s sails and cause her to visibly deflate. Much as she had been indignant at the attack, Alice couldn’t help but feel for the kid, she had been through one hell of an ordeal in the last twenty-four hours and Alice hadn’t been exactly the soul of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry Sophie, I didn’t deliver that as a sensitively as I could have. Wherever Edie is, I’m sure we’ll find her.’

‘Youb bedder hab!’ Sophie said grudgingly as she turned her face away and looked at Matt. ‘Dey neeb to fide her Mad’ she pleaded.

‘They will Sophie, they will.’ He smiled at Sophie then turned to Alice. ‘What about the third victim?’

‘We’re awaiting news on that I’m afraid.’ Alice said, hedging her reply. The information blatantly displayed on Matt’s wall hadn’t been lost on her and she knew exactly what he was thinking. To her surprise he passed her a small floral notebook.

‘Read that, then tell me you don’t know who you found in that house.’

While she read, drinking in every word of what was essentially Lena Campion’s confession, he busied himself making coffee. The whole time she was reading Sophie’s eyes never left her face. If what she was reading hadn’t been so shocking, she might have felt unsettled by the attention, but Lena’s diary was a compelling read indeed.

When she had finished absorbing and making sense of the contents, she closed the little book and held it up. ‘Where did you get this?’

Matt handed her a cup of coffee and exchanged a conspiratorial look with the girl. ‘Let’s just say it fell into my hands by accident.’ he said.

‘I suppose you’re hoping that this will form the basis into a re-investigation into your father’s case? One that will result in a posthumous pardon?’

Matt sighed and looked at her. ‘Well I’m not exactly going to get a voluntary apology, am I? Your lot aren’t exactly known for saying “sorry, we fucked up”, are they?’

Alice ignored his question, assuming that it was purely rhetorical. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Lena Campion passed away earlier today. It’s going to be hard for you to prove without her testimony, Mr Bastin.’

To her surprise he seemed remarkably unmoved by the news, as if he already knew. If she hadn’t already been told that Lena had suffered a massive heart attack she might have been more suspicious. His dogged pursuit of what he deemed the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth littered the room, telling her that he was more than a little obsessed. Obsessed enough to drive a woman to her death? Alice didn’t know, and at that moment she had bigger fish to fry, but she’d be keeping a close eye on Matthew Bastin. She turned back to Sophie. ‘You’re going to have to come down to the station and make a formal statement regarding everything you’ve told me, Sophie. When we get Sam Campion, it’s your testimony that we’re going to rely on, do you understand that?’

Sophie nodded, a look of grim satisfaction on her face. ‘Brig id.’ she said in her stoic, comical, stifled voice.

Alice couldn’t help but like the girl, despite her comedy accent and the fact that she looked like something the butcher had thrown away. ‘Come on then Miss Gumption, let’s get this done.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

Since arriving at the woman’s house Johnno had been sent out once for whisky and a second time for pizza. Sam was in the posh kitchen feeding his face on it now, while he, Johnno, like some bloody gopher, had been sent out to search the garage for rope. Like someone would have left a coil of rope in an empty garage.

Johnno considered himself to be a resourceful type, good in a fix and able to think on his feet. He knew that Sam thought he was a fuckwit, and it suited him to keep it that way. What Sam didn’t know, Sam couldn’t worry about. For instance, what Sam didn’t know was that the minute he had called Johnno from Beaconsfield services telling him to start the fire and demanding to be picked up, Johnno had rung Pascoe. As far as Johnno was concerned Sam had royally fucked up and right royally fucked
him
over. His life in the square had been sweet as a nut and now it was gone. Johnno knew he could never go back, not even with Pascoe’s blessing. Pascoe had a lot of power, but he didn’t have the law in his hand, gone were the days of bent coppers turning a blind eye. Johnno had thought it through; Sam had robbed everyone through his own stupidity – Pascoe wanted justice and so did Johnno. Their kind of justice. An eye for an eye.

He wandered back into the kitchen and watched the man who thought he was in charge chow down on another slice of pizza. Sam didn’t even look round when he came in, just carried on troughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. The whisky bottle stood on the worktop, still half full. Greedy bastard hadn’t even offered him a glass of that, not that Johnno was a whisky fan. Foul stuff. The bottles came in handy though. In one deft movement he swept it up, braced its neck in his hand and brought it down on the back of Sam’s neck. He didn’t go down with the first blow, it took two more, but he went down. And when he did, he went down like the sack of shit he was.

There hadn’t been any rope in the garage but there had been an indoor washing line. Johnno had severed a few strands with the knife he ritually carried, just enough to hog tie the bastard and hold him firm until Stefan came to pick him up. The deal had been that he gave them Sam, and he got to go free. The problem was, there was nowhere left to go.

***

In an empty house you hear everything; when your hands and legs are tied and your mouth is covered and all your functional senses are on adrenaline-fuelled high alert, you hear even more. You heard people talking about how they were going to kill you, and you heard the indifference in their voices. Edie had heard the door through to the garage open and shut, she’d heard a series of sickening thuds and grunts and now she could hear the heavy tread of someone ascending the stairs. She could hear him breathing in short, determined breaths and she could feel her own fear emanating from her in pulsing waves. This was it, her time to die. Strange that it would be in this house, and yet it was fitting. Years of her unhappiness had already soaked into the walls, tingeing the paint. To Edie, magnolia was the pale shade of misery.

He entered the room, his heavy shoes leaving marks on the good carpet. Simon would not have liked that: the rule had always been no shoes indoors. The thug had a knife but she wasn’t worried, you didn’t need a knife for a hanging.

The knife sliced through the duct tape he’d used to bind her feet – she sighed with relief as her aching limbs sagged, and winced as the pins and needles began. He hauled her to her feet by the front of her T-shirt and propped her against the wall, aware that for a moment or two her legs wouldn’t hold her.

Then it began, the frogmarch along the landing. She slowed as they reached the bannister, unwilling but ready for the inevitable.

‘Move!’ he said, pushing her in the back. She didn’t understand but did as she was told and stumbled forward towards the stairs. He forced her down, twisting the back of her T-shirt in his big hands, presumably to stop her falling as she couldn’t use her hands for balance. At the bottom she turned to him, the question on her tape silenced lips conveyed through her eyes as she looked at him, then up at the bannister.

‘Change of plan.’

There was no sign of Sam and no sound to betray his presence. As they passed through the kitchen she spotted the greasy remains of a pizza sitting in its box, and a whisky bottle – a smear of blood miring the glass and trapping a few wisps of hair. Her stomach lurched, sending bile into the back of her throat where it lingered for a moment, acrid and bitter, until she swallowed it down because there was nowhere else for it to go. He pushed her on, through the back door, which he locked with his free hand, leaving the key on the step. Clearly he wasn’t concerned about anyone getting in, only about Sam getting out.