Hold Your Tongue Read online

  Deborah Masson

  * * *

  hold your tongue

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Deborah Masson was born and bred in Aberdeen, Scotland. Always restless and fighting against being a responsible adult, she worked in several jobs including secretarial, marketing, reporting for the city’s freebie newspaper and a stint as a postie – to name but a few.

  Through it all, she always read crime fiction and, when motherhood finally settled her into being an adult (maybe even a responsible one) she turned her hand to writing what she loved. Deborah started with short stories and flash fiction whilst her daughter napped and, when she later welcomed her son into the world, she decided to challenge her writing further through online courses with Professional Writing Academy and Faber Academy. Her debut novel, Hold Your Tongue, is the result of those courses.

  To Mum and Dad

  Thank you. I love you, and I know you both would’ve been chuffed to bits.

  Twenty years ago

  The woody, sweet scent of cinnamon punctures the darkness where he sits at the kitchen table. An oversized pot, half full of mulled wine, still lies on the cooker top. Beads of condensation beneath the pot’s glass lid shimmer in the soft orange glow seeping through the window above the sink. He leans forward, reaches over the plate in front of him and picks up the bottle again, his knuckles turning white as he takes a drink and enjoys the silence.

  From where he sits he can see thick icicles hanging from the gutter. Lamp posts, their tops heavy with snowfall, throw shadows against the council houses that line the street. A cold wind drives frenzied snowflakes against glass-encased bulbs.

  His sigh is loud as he turns towards the panelled door leading to the living room. They had sprayed white foam into the corners of its panes and, through the clear glass above the fake snow, he can see the silhouette of the tree in the corner. Its plastic branches are tired, limp ends bowing beneath the weight of handmade decorations – old, but they can’t bear to replace them. The cold wooden chair creaks as he leans back and closes his eyes.

  The moan disturbs him.

  Shifting his weight to the edge of the seat, he looks beyond the small circular dining table to the floor.

  She’s moving.

  The back of her white nightdress looks rust-coloured in the shadows as she drags herself across the linoleum. If only she’d stayed in bed. He reaches towards the plate on the table, his icy finger poking a hole in the cling film, ripping at it before pulling a biscuit from the top of the pile. It breaks easily, a chunk shoved into his mouth before he picks at the small crumbs that have fallen into the buttons of his pyjama top. They taste soft and sickly sweet, the way he likes them.

  As per tradition, they had made them and the wine together that day. Family time, she liked to call it. Pretending everything was all right, as fake as the snow on the door’s glass panes. They forced themselves to smile, trying to maintain a sense of normality. He went along with it to keep them both happy, feeling guilt and a rage that he feared would erupt and scorch them all, knowing who deserved to burn. But he kept it hidden, bubbling beneath.

  She always allowed them one biscuit each; this year only three were taken instead of four. And then she double wrapped them in cling film and promised they could have whatever Santa didn’t eat. Except that now Christmas wouldn’t be coming.

  His teeth bite into biscuit; he keeps biting until there’s nothing left, dark eyes watching her matted hair as she crawls across the cold floor, small movements leaving a black trail in the dark. Glass crunches beneath her.

  When he stands up, he’s careful not to scrape the chair legs against the linoleum. It’s important not to wake him upstairs. He crouches, moves the glass handle away from her side – the only thing that didn’t shatter when he smashed the water jug against her head. Her wet hair feels heavy as he tucks it behind her ear, taking no chances as to whether she can hear him.

  ‘It’s all your fault.’

  Her body resists as he strains to roll her over on to her back, but he does it. She needs to see him, to see that he’s his own man. Her breath comes in short rasps, and her eyes are wide, pleading. He jabs his finger towards the ceiling and puts it to his lips, where the flicker of a smile lies, signalling for her to stay silent.

  The cheap material of his pyjama bottoms rustles as he straightens and goes to the kitchen drawers. In the top one, he sees the pink plastic spoon next to blue, the only ones they kept: a reminder of the baby years. In the next drawer, he curls his fingers around the worn wooden handle of the breadknife. It will do. She has to pay, and today is the perfect day. He sees the kitchen tongs and smiles as he lifts them from the drawer and moves towards her, the knife blade glinting in the gloom.

  ‘Please, I love you.’ Desperate. Breathless.

  He kneels, drops the blade and tongs by his side and clamps his hand over her mouth, stares into her eyes. She’s struggling to keep them open, blood pouring from her head wound. He listens, relieved that he still hasn’t heard movement from upstairs. Nothing.

  He sits astride her, his weight bearing down on her, and prises open her mouth, dirty nails digging into her tongue’s strong, slippery flesh. Pulling at it, he lifts the tongs and holds her tongue fast. With his other hand, he lifts the knife. Her eyes fly open as she bucks against him, trying hard to clamp her mouth shut but unable to as his hands and cold metal fill the space between her lips. Her hands claw at his, legs kicking against the floor. Impressing him with what little strength she has left, using it to jerk her groin upwards in a vain attempt to throw his bulk from her.

  Her wet eyes never leave his.

  He hears the creak of the floorboards overhead, the unmistakeable soft footsteps making their way down the carpeted stairs. It is the cry that makes him look towards the door, deep into terrified eyes.

  For that, he is sorry.

  Chapter 1

  Thursday, 24 October

  DI EVE HUNTER SAT upright in the leather chair, not even trying to look comfortable. They both knew it was the last thing she felt.

  ‘You’re welcome to use the sofa.’ Dr Shetty, the Police Consultant Psychiatrist, swept an arm over to the corner of the tastefully decorated room, a collection of rainbow-coloured bangles jangling against one
another on her wrist as she did. Her voice was soft, traces of the Indian heritage still strong.

  Eve shook her head, resenting the soothing tone to the doctor’s voice that had lulled her into saying more than she’d meant to over the past twelve months. Even though her leg would have thanked her for the lie-down, she’d rather sit opposite the psychiatrist, both of them in armchairs: more chance of being in control and with her wits about her. That and the fact that if she lay on the sofa, there was no escaping the reality that she was in therapy.

  ‘How have you been?’

  Same question every time. Eve lifted her hand, tucked her long fringe behind her ear, the smell of burning incense almost suffocating. She concentrated. Today was important. ‘Fine.’

  Eve hadn’t been other people’s definition of fine in a long time, but it was the only way she knew how to answer. She shifted, leather upholstery creaking in the silence. ‘It’ll be good to get back to work.’

  She ignored the flash of doubt that passed across Dr Shetty’s face. Eve was used to the doctor displaying a full range of emotions. An open book whereas Eve kept hers firmly shut.

  Dr Shetty smiled. It was that smile that never reached her eyes, the one that set Eve’s jaw on edge. ‘It’s a big day for you next week. But I do feel progress has been made.’

  Eve almost laughed. Since the first period of enforced leave or the second?

  ‘Your resilience was something the first time around, but to then have to go through what you did on your return to work … the injury …’ Dr Shetty stared at her. ‘It’s been a long road.’

  Eve closed her eyes, kept them closed, knowing Dr Shetty was looking for some kind of reaction. Knowing everything she said was designed to prompt an answer that would then be scrutinised and analysed. Eve had learned fast what was expected of her. Shows of emotion, times of reflection, signs of making peace with the past, seeing a way forward. But what Eve really saw was the woman lying there. Lynne. Almost a year ago to the day, slumped on the damp-ridden tenement floor in North Anderson Drive, blood pooling beneath her, the three teeth that had been knocked from her mouth scattered across the shabby vinyl. Brutally battered. Raped. Her long-term partner Johnny MacNeill Jnr the perpetrator, a local hood from a family known for trouble in the city.

  The sound of a car starting had propelled Eve and her partner DS Nicola Sanders from the third-floor tenement and down the stairs, both of them leaping two steps at a time. Eve ran to their squad car, jumping into the driver’s seat, Sanders letting her take the lead. The woman lying there, broken, was a scene too close to home for Eve. It ignited a rage and a need for justice that fuelled the chase as she drove too fast, too hard. Erratic. She could still hear Sanders’ sharp intake of breath, see her hand reaching for the dashboard as the car in front veered off the road, flipping into the air, seeming to pause, Johnny Jnr being thrown around in front like a rag doll before the vehicle crashed to the ground, on to its roof, leaving him with life-changing injuries.

  The subsequent investigation and therapy sessions after the car accident had taken their toll on Eve. Her privacy had been shattered by the invasive questioning to determine her state of mind that night, and to assess whether the events would affect her ability to work effectively afterwards. She was left powerless, with the decision over her fitness to work lying in the hands of others.

  Eve had also been hounded by the press. Local hack Claire Jenkins, in particular, had become a mouthpiece for Johnny’s family, especially his father, who had made it his mission to bang on in the media about the injustice of it all: the police recklessness, their responsibility for his son’s injuries. A joke considering what he did for a living. Eve was eternally grateful to the force’s press man, Elliott Jones, for his attempts to protect her from the onslaught, but the stress and sleepless nights had her at breaking point.

  No one had been as shocked as Eve when she was cleared of any wrongdoing. She returned to work, straight into the wrath of MacNeill Snr, who decided to take matters into his own hands. His actions were to change everything.

  Eve opened her eyes, shook the memories from her mind. Dr Shetty studied her, head cocked to the side, fountain pen poised between forefinger and thumb, hovering above the ruled notebook on her lap. The doctor brought her head to centre, her large hooped earrings swaying as she did.

  Eve hated that she felt as vulnerable as a kid when she was here. She could only blame herself for that. Over time, she’d convinced herself it had been the stress – the relentless intrusion of the media, the pressure of the upcoming investigation findings and the threat she might lose her job – that had seen Eve, to her horror afterwards, telling Dr Shetty the one thing she’d spent her life hiding.

  Dr Shetty. Of all people. The expert at prodding. A stranger. Uncovering the secret that had driven Eve the night of the crash. The resulting rage she had always feared would ruin her one day. So few people knew. She understood the doctor was bound by patient confidentiality but she still hated having to reveal her darkest secret.

  ‘Do you feel ready?’

  What mattered was that Dr Shetty felt she was ready. She needed the doctor’s validation if she were to stand a chance of getting back to work. But the crushing doubts were never far away.

  ‘Eve?’

  Concern was creeping into the psychiatrist’s voice. Eve composed herself, sat a little straighter, ignored the grumbling in her leg. She’d taken extra painkillers to make sure she’d get through the meeting. Everything depended on her answer.

  She nodded as Dr Shetty laid the pen flat against the lined paper, the bangles on her arm clanging together. The doctor balanced the pen and notebook on her crossed knees, stopping the pen from rolling to the ground. Eve was doing the same with her answers, trying to keep them steady, knowing Dr Shetty’s report today would go a long way to stopping Eve’s world from toppling off its axis. She cleared her throat, knew she needed to sound confident. Convincing. ‘Obviously I have concerns about my return. Mostly about how the team will handle it. Whether I’ll still have their respect, their belief that I’m capable.’

  That part, at least, was the truth. Her job was her life. She needed to be good at it, craved the validation from her fellow officers, even though she would never admit or show that. She had a reputation for being a law unto herself, but she did what she had to in order to get the job done. Her and her team. Only the bad guys suffered in the long run. At least, that’s what she used to believe.

  Her team. DS Mark Cooper. He would welcome her back, regardless of the fact he’d been covering her role. Cooper was a solid family man, and he had been a good friend to Eve. He brought out the good in her. The smooth to her rough. They’d always had each other’s backs. She’d never doubted that.

  She wasn’t sure about the new DC who’d been taken on. She didn’t even know her name, only that she was a woman. Then there was DC Scott Ferguson, someone who wouldn’t be pleased to see her return, along with the officers throughout the station who hung around with him. He had little respect for Eve, and their relationship had deteriorated between her return to work after the car chase and then what happened to DC Sanders. Guilt on his part, perhaps, when it came to Sanders. Whatever the reason, there was no disputing he was a good officer. Possessing an uncanny intuition, he played a vital part in her team, even though it sometimes felt as if she was overseeing an unruly teenager. Regardless, if her boss, DCI Jim Hastings, and the management above him sanctioned her return, then Ferguson would have to wind his neck back in.

  ‘How’s the sleep?’

  Eve paused, trying to keep the irritation from her face. The doc was searching for reasons, any reason, to advise she wasn’t ready. How many times would she have to answer the same questions? Hopefully the dark circles beneath her eyes weren’t obvious. ‘I’m sleeping no problem.’

  Dr Shetty looked like she might even believe her. The doctor presumed her difficulty in sleeping after the car accident was the result of misplaced guilt with what had happe
ned to MacNeill Jnr in the crash. A guilt she believed they had tackled in their time together. Eve had let her believe it, had even encouraged it, knowing all the time the real reason was the stress of having to hide the fact that she was to blame for the car ending up on its roof.

  She had never voiced that revelation in this room or anywhere else, and never would. A couple of people had their suspicions, didn’t believe the official line that it was the actions of Johnny Jr himself that had caused the car accident. But not one of them ever had the balls to say it to her face. It wasn’t a confession from her that would either shock or confirm suspicion. It was the fact she had no regrets for taking the vicious sonofabitch out of the picture.

  Her only regret – the thing she could never forgive herself for – was that her actions that night had led to MacNeill Snr’s need for revenge, and then what happened to Sanders. The woman and colleague who had worked by her side for as long as she could remember.

  Eve could take the gruelling rehabilitation and follow-up physiotherapy for her injured leg; her real punishment came from her visits to Sanders. She didn’t know what was worse: seeing her colleague’s devastating injuries or Sanders’ deafening silence, the lack of eye contact, the refusal to forgive. But the difference this time, what made it worse than any car accident or investigation, was that Eve welcomed the guilt and regret. She wanted it to consume her. And that was something no amount of therapy would ever help with.

  Chapter 2

  Monday, 4 November

  The hotel lift, when it came, was empty. Eve pressed the button for the second floor and groaned as the door slid shut. She’d looked better. She tutted, wished she could get rid of the deep shadows beneath her hazel eyes. Eyes she hated. She pulled at the fringe of her choppy bob that had frizzed in the wet wind. Eve straightened her blouse collar for the umpteenth time. It didn’t help. She pulled at the lapels of her fitted grey suit jacket and looked at her trousers, cursing their bottoms, which had sponged the wet from the pavements, the sand from the snow gritters more than likely going to leave a white line behind once they dried. She tried to get her head ready, even if her clothes weren’t up to the job.