Hold Your Tongue Read online

  ‘Yeah, said he didn’t deal with the shop floor, put me on to her supervisor, Lydia Clark. Seems our Melanie was destined for bigger things than working on the make-up counter in Boots.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘As you know, she’d done a fair bit of modelling locally, was starting to do all right. Lydia said she’d got some professional shots done, won that competition mentioned in the headline. It was a UK-wide competition that was getting her some attention. She planned to send her portfolio to agencies in London.’

  Eve thought back to the photos she’d seen at Melanie’s parents’ place, the originals not going anywhere now.

  ‘What else did this Lydia have to say?’

  ‘She was in bits. Mr Jobsworth let me use his office. She and Melanie were good friends, socialized a lot out of work. Sounds like Melanie was a bit of a good-time girl but conscientious in her job. Lydia flagged it straight away when she didn’t show and wasn’t answering.’

  ‘She have any clue to what might’ve been happening?’

  ‘You mean with Ryan? No, she didn’t mention it, and I made sure that I dropped family into the conversation.’

  Eve finished fastening her blouse sleeves, glanced again at her fitted suit jacket hanging over the chair and thought of the pills. She was desperate to take them, to dull the pain, but determined not to do so in front of her colleagues – especially Mearns. ‘Our Ryan’s managed to stay off the radar.’

  Mearns cut in. ‘Do you believe his flatmate?’

  Eve had updated her on the visit to Forbes’ flat while they were waiting for Cooper to return. Mearns’ tone was abrupt, as if she was challenging Eve, testing how Eve would dissect the situation.

  ‘No. He’s pissed off, but I think it may be more to do with his affections for Ryan.’

  Mearns’ blue eyes widened. ‘You think he’s got anything to do with Melanie?’

  ‘Honestly? No.’ Eve inhaled sharply, pain piercing at her thigh.

  Cooper stepped forward. ‘You OK?’

  She nodded, offering nothing more.

  Mearns stood, looking awkward in the moment. ‘I got one of the tech guys to do a check through social media. Unless he uses an alias, you’re right, Ryan likes to stay off radar.’

  Eve couldn’t help but be impressed: she’d not long updated Mearns. ‘Good call though. Jesus—’

  Eve slammed her backside into the chair beside her, grasping at her leg, unable to hide the pain as her face scrunched. Cooper rushed forward.

  Eve lifted her hand, the sharp pain subsiding. ‘I’m OK.’ She took the bottle from inside her jacket pocket, not caring any more who was watching. She shook out two tablets. Mearns turned on her heel and left the room. Eve turned to Cooper. ‘What the hell …?’

  She was silenced, surprised, as Mearns returned with a plastic cup of water from the machine outside. Eve took it, gulped the pills. ‘Thanks.’

  Mearns said nothing, her face blank. Maybe she’d shocked herself.

  Eve stayed seated, the cup in her hand, keen to move on. ‘Did Lydia mention any other boyfriends, Cooper?’

  Cooper looked like he wanted to make sure she was OK first but knew better. ‘No. She said Melanie got hit on all the time but didn’t want to be tied down, reckons she would’ve known about any guys, especially if there was someone serious. Wasn’t aware of anything out of the ordinary at work either. Dead end, I think. Got her details if you want to follow—’

  The door burst open. The three of them jumped. Hastings was in full throttle, with Elliott Jones, Police Scotland’s North East Divisional Headquarters’ media guru, and DC Scott Ferguson by his side. Eve reddened as she stood, looking to make sure her blouse was definitely buttoned. She tutted and finished tucking it in but didn’t miss the slight smirk on Mearns’ face, the moment of kindness forgotten. Elliott stepped in front of Eve and cupped her shoulder.

  ‘Good to see you, Eve.’

  Ferguson, who was now standing next to Mearns, said nothing. Eve stared at him. Nothing about him had changed. His trendy, straight-out-of-bed haircut was still perfectly gelled to say he’d actually been up a good while, the goatee on his chin still trimmed with precision. She waited for eye contact. He didn’t even try.

  It stung more than she wanted to admit, but she chose to focus on Elliott. ‘Thanks.’ His sentiment was genuine. The guy had been a lifeline for her when things got messy before her leave of absence. Immaculate in his tailored suit and polished shoes, the day was young enough that his prematurely salt-and-peppered hair was still neat. Facial stubble nowhere to be seen. ‘You’ll be battling it from here on in, Elliott. If it helps, you won’t need to track that headline article: we got a copy from the mother.’

  Elliott put his thumb up.

  Eve didn’t envy him his job. Elliott oversaw a press team covering a large territory comprising a mixture of urban and rural communities in the north-east of Scotland – Aberdeenshire and Moray, the City of Aberdeen and its suburbs. Eve had enough to deal with in the office.

  He’d be working into the night, the tie around his collar loosened by then, shoes kicked off under the desk and hair dishevelled after raking his hands through it in frustration. But he was good at the job.

  Elliott shook his head. ‘Bloody nightmare. Press has got wind of it already. No surprise. I’m waiting for the Rottweiler to attack.’

  Claire Jenkins. Local hack. The woman had haunted Eve’s dreams and her waking hours for the last year as she dissected Eve’s professional life in the press. After all, there was nothing to tell about her personal one. Jenkins hadn’t cared whether anything she unearthed from a ‘reliable source’ was true or not, conveniently forgetting all the times over the years that Eve had dealt fairly with her where other officers hadn’t.

  Elliott knew she wouldn’t want to hear the actual name, especially on her first day back. They’d always had a mutual professional respect for one another, but during Eve’s recovery they’d become friends of a sort.

  Hastings dragged a hand across his forehead. ‘Right. Press briefing’s been organized for first thing tomorrow morning.’ He looked at Eve. ‘I’d appreciate a word. My office in five.’

  DCI Jim Hastings sat behind the cheap office desk and waved at Eve to come in, mobile jammed against his ear, his voice so loud it was debatable whether he needed the phone. The office hadn’t changed, neither had her boss. More the pity for Hastings. Still too thin, a faint smell of sweat in the air. The saggy skin on his face looked dead – yellowish, green under certain light. Only his nose seemed to fight against gravity, turned up at the end as if some imaginary hand was pinching it: excessive amount of nostril on show, unnaturally high above the wispy white whiskers of a moustache and what might, on a bad facial hair day, pass as a beard. They called him the Grinch. Not to his face, but he probably knew and, if honest with himself, wouldn’t dispute it.

  Eve put down one of the vending-machine sludges that she’d brought in with her. Hastings’ stare was on her and had been from the door to the table. She was conscious of her walk, glad she’d managed to take the painkillers and hadn’t spilled the coffees. She found a space in between the paperwork littering the desk and put the other cup down. Brown-nosing wasn’t her style, but today it wouldn’t do her any harm.

  She took the seat opposite Hastings, the springs beneath the burst upholstery squeaking and tilting to the side when she sat. Nope, nothing had changed. The framed photo on the desk had been knocked out of position by files and sheaves of paper. It half faced Eve where it lay. Hastings’ wife was beautiful in a strong kind of way – not small and dainty but assured, her confidence evident in the way she held herself, the fashions she wore. Thankfully, Hastings’ teenage daughter had taken after her mother. Rumour was that Hastings had been a catch in his younger years too. Eve had never seen a sign of that and wondered if that’s what the job would eventually do to them all.

  Her boss threw the phone on to his desk, laced his spindly fingers behind his hea
d and pushed back in the cracked black leather chair. ‘Incompetent bastard.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Never mind. Usual shit around here.’

  Welcome back.

  ‘OK.’ Hastings slouched forward, picked a manila file from beneath the organized chaos and flicked through it. ‘Six months you’ve been off the job. We’ve got the reports.’

  ‘We covered all this with the board.’

  ‘No, you know we danced with the board, led them around the floor and bowed when the time was right.’

  Here came the chat. Payback time for what Hastings had done. It wasn’t that Eve wasn’t grateful – she didn’t know what she would’ve done if he hadn’t let her return to work. But she wasn’t sure she had the answers her boss was looking for. It wouldn’t help her case to tell him that she didn’t sleep well since the attack on her and Sanders, that she still saw the men in her nightmares, the spider’s-web tattoo sprawled across one of their temples, or that the specialists weren’t sure whether she’d have a permanent limp. Nor would it do anything for her to confirm that she visited DS Sanders regularly, and that, no, it wasn’t out of guilt, though that’s what she felt every minute of every day. And telling the truth, that what those scum got would never be enough, that she dreamed of getting in a sealed room with them, wouldn’t keep her on the job.

  ‘How am I feeling about things? Ready, sir.’

  Hastings stared at her over the lip of the folder. ‘How did you find the psychiatric assessments?’

  Eve lifted the plastic cup to her mouth and sipped, playing for time. ‘To be honest, sir, I was a little disappointed.’

  Her boss snorted, dragging his nose even further up his face.

  ‘I was expecting to be lying on a red-velvet chaise longue, listening to whale song while we explored the depths of my mind. All I got was a chair and a desk.’

  Hastings’ mouth hinted at a smile. ‘Eve, I’m serious.’

  ‘Look, sir. I’m sure you can imagine what I’ve gone through. I’m not going to lie to you.’ Eve shrugged. ‘It affects you. Nobody’s going to be the same after something like that. Physically, my leg’s still a work in progress. Broken femur, pins, and there’s still pain there that they say should go in time with regular physio. Hopefully the limp too. But I’ve passed everything else they’ve thrown at me. I’m deemed fit for work, subject to regular reviews and ongoing physio. You said all that yourself. You sent me to the hotel today.’

  Hastings laid the file on the table and walked over to the window, snow melting to water and sliding down the glass of the second-storey window. The concrete monstrosity of Marischal Square, which had climbed into view day by day the year before, lay where the old Aberdeen City Council buildings once stood.

  ‘Eve, you’re one of my best. That’s why I fought the board. But it’s about the team.’ Hastings clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Look, I don’t give a shit what they’ve thrown at you or what you’ve managed to wing. You need to prove I was right to fight to get you back here.’

  The team. Ferguson and Mearns weren’t going to be an advert for how to be a team player, but it was her job to manage that, to be a team leader. She couldn’t show any hesitation or doubt about whether she should be back.

  ‘Sir, after DC Sanders, there’s no way I’d take any risks with the team. I need this. I’m ready. I swear I am.’ Eve hated the needy whine that had crept into her voice.

  Hastings turned to face her, pity on his face. A look she didn’t appreciate. He dropped his hands to his sides.

  ‘What happened to Sanders was not your fault, I believe that. That’s why I did what I did on Friday. But you have to make peace with it, move on.’

  Eve opened her mouth, shut it again, the grip of shame spreading its icy fingers over her. ‘I’ll try. But either way, I won’t let it affect my work.’

  Hastings sighed. ‘You were under a lot of stress, as well as the expectations you put on yourself. But I know what you’re capable of. It’s why I put you on this case.’

  ‘What? To redeem myself or to see if I screw up?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Eve wasn’t expecting the honesty.

  ‘But it’s on my terms, and as long as I have your word that you’ll be upfront with me. No bullshit.’

  ‘I can do that. I—’

  ‘I said no bullshit. No pretending you’re coping.’ Hastings paused. ‘You won’t be able to anyway. We’ve had to agree to weekly meetings between you and the force quack.’

  Eve bolted forward in her seat. ‘What? Dr Shetty? But I’m fine. Monthly, they said.’

  ‘That was before they agreed to let you return. They want weekly reports from me and a face-to-face between you and Dr Shetty.’

  ‘But, sir, I …’

  Hastings glared at her. Eve wanted to say more, but she knew when to shut up – when to take what was being offered. She nodded, stood and shook Hastings’ hand.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday, 5 November

  The small press room was warm and full of chatter as the reporters took their places, the fusty scent of cold, wet coats slowly drying in the heat. Eve spotted the odd spare seat, small pools of muddy water collecting around the chairs’ rubber-stoppered legs.

  She stood at the front of the room by Hastings’ side behind the table, a whiff of BO wafting from her boss’s jacket, even at this early hour. Cooper, Ferguson, Mearns and Elliott were seated off to the side. Melanie’s father sat beside them, adamant he was attending even though they’d advised otherwise. Her mother had stayed at home with Sarah, the family-liaison officer.

  Eve pulled back the plastic chair, careful not to bump into the vertical blue Police Scotland banner that had been erected behind her for the benefit of the cameras. She wondered if she looked as tired as she felt after the restless night she’d had.

  The men and women slouched before her had notepads, pens and phones in hand, faces saying they’d nothing better doing. There was a lone cameraman, not even one of the big guns, the large furry microphone looking like a stuffed cat sitting on his shoulder.

  Eve sweated beneath her jacket, and not with the heat. Somehow they’d landed lucky, keeping the story contained and, by some small miracle, off social media. If they hadn’t, the press bodies would’ve been spilling into the corridors. Still, it was busy, considering. There must’ve been a lack of news overnight. That was about to change. Hopefully she and Hastings had made the right decision. Let the games commence.

  She cleared her throat, stopped mid-croak as she was blinded by the flash of a camera, blinked and tried again. ‘Yesterday, we found the body of a young woman in a suite of the Malmaison Hotel in Queen’s Road. She has been identified as Melanie Ross, aged eighteen and local to the area. We are awaiting post-mortem results, but the incident is being treated as suspicious. We would urge potential witnesses or those with any information to come forward as soon as possible. An incident room has been set up, contact details are as follows …’

  Eve barely finished her statement before being drowned out. They were on their feet, had something better to be doing now, questions coming like bullets from a shotgun, reporters reloading with professional speed.

  ‘How was she murdered?’

  ‘Was she sexually assaulted?’

  ‘Have you made an arrest?’

  Eve looked across at James Ross, the loss of his daughter evident in his red-rimmed eyes and gaunt expression. Had he expected this when he’d expressed a wish to talk to the press? Eve wanted to usher him to one side, tell him he didn’t have to do it. But instead she leaned towards the microphone.

  ‘Please. Melanie’s father, James Ross, would like to say a few words. I ask that you respect his feelings during this difficult time.’

  Mr Ross stood and moved towards the front of the room, cameras clicking and flashing as he walked. His eyes blinked rapidly, white light striking his face over and over, making his movements look like one of those flip-book animations. Eve could see he
was trying to hold himself upright, to stand strong and proud. The room hushed as Mr Ross pulled back the empty chair by Eve’s side. He sat, the chair squeaking as he pulled himself closer to the table. He unfolded a crisp white sheet of paper and leaned towards the microphone, looking unsure as to how close his mouth should be, never raising his eyes to the reporters in front of him.

  ‘The last time I saw my daughter she left the house for work just like any other day – leaving a pile of wet towels and dirty breakfast dishes in her wake.’ The tremor in his voice could be heard throughout the room. He coughed. ‘Melanie is …’ Now he did lift his gaze, the pause as he did, deafening. ‘Melanie was so young. Independent, beautiful, her whole life in front of her.’

  The television camera whirred as it zoomed in.

  ‘But someone took all that from her, and in the most terrible of ways.’

  Eve watched the paper shake in his large hands, wondering if he was thinking of Ryan, knowing that he wouldn’t be mentioned here, not by her or Mr Ross. She waited, along with everybody else in the room, as Melanie’s father gathered himself. When he did, he lifted his gaze again, stared hard down the lens of the camera. The cameraman looked like he’d struck TV gold.

  ‘If you, if anybody watching this right now knows something, anything, I urge you to come forward. Did you see something? Hear something? Has someone you know been acting differently? Disappeared? Help me to stop this torture, for both me and my wife. Because if you don’t come forward, you are letting Melanie’s killer go free.’

  Eve wondered what the press would make of it when they found out Melanie had a brother – no mention of his torment. She didn’t, couldn’t, stop looking at Mr Ross. Her and every other person in the room.

  He raised his voice, still fixed on the camera. ‘It’s up to you. Please.’ He sat back.