A Conspiracy of Silence

by Anna Legat

Genres: General Fiction; Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A totally gripping Wiltshire mystery: the fifth book in the unputdownable DI Gillian Marsh series. Perfect for fans of Lisa Regan and J.R. Ellis. When a body is found in the grounds of a prestigious Wiltshire private school, DI Gillian Marsh takes on the case. The young groundsman, Bradley Watson, has been shot dead, pierced through the heart with an arrow. As the investigation gathers pace, DI Marsh is frustrated to find the Whalehurst staff and students united in silence. This scandal must not taint their reputation. But when Gillian discovers pictures of missing Whalehurst pupil, fifteen-year-old Rachel Snyder, on Bradley's dead body - photos taken on the night she disappeared, and he was murdered - the link between the two is undeniable. But what is Whalehurst refusing to reveal? And does Gillian have what it takes to bring about justice? What readers are saying about Anna Legat: 'Brilliant. I didn't want to put it down! ' 'It's a rare author who can keep me guessing until the end - and t he ending was a shocker ' ' Pl enty of twists and turns' 'A brilliantly complex spaghetti of unrelated sub-plots to challenge any armchair sleuth ' ' I thoroughly enjoyed this book, reading it cover to cover in a weekend' 'I shall look out for more from Ms Legat'

Release date: October 15, 2020

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

Sarah Snyder was waiting in her car. She tapped her blue fingernails in close proximity to the horn, but she held back from sounding it. To kill time, she checked her lipstick in the rear-view mirror and rubbed her front teeth to remove a red smudge. She turned on the radio only to hear the part of the news she wasn’t interested in: sport, followed by the weather. She was restless but she was pleased: Rachel was taking her sweet time.

Rachel was chatting to her friends – Rhiannon and a couple of other girls. Only once did she steal a glance in the direction of her mother’s car – just to check Sarah was there, waiting. Reassured, she turned back to her chums and whispered something into Rhiannon’s ear. Whatever she said, it made Rhiannon laugh.

Rachel laughed too. It was an immeasurable relief to see her child happy, having a conversation with other people, and laughing. She was laughing! Sarah was so relieved she wanted to cry.

Only three days ago the picture had been very different. Head down, eyes boring a hole in the ground, Rachel would clutch her bag to her chest and run for the car as if the hounds of hell were after her. She would slump in her seat and mutter under her breath, Drive, Mum, just drive, and not speak for the rest of the day. She would lock herself in her room and brood.

Sarah winced at the memory and pushed it out of her mind. She waited and counted her blessings, of which there were many. She decided she would cancel the GP appointment. There was nothing wrong with Rachel, just the usual growing pains of puberty.

At last Rachel parted company with her friends, waved to someone hidden inside the school, and headed for the car. Her face, still beaming and full of bounce, appeared in the wound-down window.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘I take it you had a good day?’ Sarah pulled her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and produced an expectant grin.

Rachel made a non-committal noise. She pecked her mother on the cheek and slid into the passenger seat. She was still smiling, addressing her smile to the windscreen and to the view of the tarmac in front of the car, but that was enough for her mother to flick her sunglasses up her nose and start the engine.

‘That good!’

The front right wheel stumbled over the kerb while the rear one rubbed against it as the car lurched sharply across the road to join the line of traffic leaving the school. Were it not a big and sturdy four-wheel-drive, it would have been written off a long time ago. Sarah did not treat it well. She used it more like a bulldozer than a means of transportation.

Accustomed to her mother’s driving antics, Rachel didn’t as much as blink. She bent forward in her seat and began tampering with the radio in search of a music channel. She tuned into the charts – Ed Sheeran was at number six.

Sarah decided to talk over Ed Sheeran. ‘We can go shopping if you like.’

‘Are you feeling generous?’ Rachel was saving every penny for the Jerusalem trip in the summer.

‘I might be.’

‘OK. If you insist.’

‘Cheeky beggar!’

Rachel sat back and relaxed her shoulders. She rolled her head to the right and, again, she smiled, ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘Retail therapy is what we both need.’ Her mother peered at her in that heart-melting way of hers. She leaned forward to pat Rachel’s knee. ‘That’s my girl . . .’

With her eyes on Rachel and only one hand on the steering wheel, she was all over the road. The car veered in and out of the oncoming traffic. A white van sounded its horn, emitting an angry warning shot.

‘Mum, watch where you’re going!’

Sarah swiftly recovered control of the car and neatly swerved back to her own side of the road. She glared in the rear-view mirror, shooting daggers in the direction of the white van driver. ‘There should be fines for road rage, and three points on their licence.’

‘It was entirely your fault.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ Sarah mimicked a hurt look. ‘Anyway, let’s not split hairs. I’m so glad to have you back.’

‘Back? I haven’t gone anywhere.’

‘Oh, but you have! There was a time when I thought we’d lost you. Dad and I –’ An anxious sigh trembled in her throat. ‘It was as if this stranger had moved in with us. We didn’t know what to make of you. It was that boy, wasn’t it? Did the two of you –’

‘Mum, stop prying.’

‘So it was him?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Well, whatever it was, I’m glad it’s behind us.’

‘It was nothing,’ Rachel muttered.

‘I guess it was. But you pushed us to the limit. We didn’t know what to do. I mean, how do you deal with teenage angst?’

‘I don’t know.’

It was true. Whatever it was it had consumed Rachel. She hadn’t known what to do either. A heavy and malignant weight had crushed her chest, preventing her from breathing. It had nearly killed her. But it was over now – she had put it behind her.

Her mother punched the horn and held her hand down, piercing the air with sharp decibels. ‘Look where you’re going, arsehole!’ she screamed at the car that had zoomed from a side road and cut in front of them.

‘Didn’t you mention fines for road rage?’ Rachel enquired with a wry smile.

‘Idiot!’ Sarah dispatched a final, curt bark to the offending driver in front.

‘And three points on the licence?’

‘I had every intention of letting him in. If only he’d waited his turn. All it takes is a bit of patience and common courtesy.’

All it had taken Rachel was a deep breath and the press of a button: DELETE. Three days ago, finally, Rachel had erased all her online profiles. And once they were gone, it had stopped. The weight had lifted from her chest. Give or take another few days and she would convince herself that it had never happened.

‘I’m exhausted!’ Sarah puffed out her cheeks to illustrate the extent of her exhaustion. ‘Shopping does it to me. It’s all about the choices I can never make . . . Give me hard labour any day.’

They were queuing at the counter in Costa.

‘You didn’t have to make any choices,’ Rachel pointed out. She was the one laden with shopping bags.

‘I was supervising your choices – that does it to me. I’m still unsure about those hot pants. I could see your bum cheeks when you bent down.’

‘Josh’ll like them –’ Rachel spoke without thinking. She bit her tongue, but it was too late to stop her mother. She was going to have a field day with that nugget.

And she did. ‘So you are still together?’

‘On and off.’

‘How can you be on-and-off serious about a boy?’

‘I didn’t say I was serious, did I?’

‘You brought him home to meet us. That used to be considered serious when I was young. I didn’t bring your dad home until after –’ Sarah screwed up her face in comic dismay and waved her hand over her lips.

‘After what?’ Rachel twisted the knife in her mother’s deeply compromised propriety.

Sarah was saved by the barista. ‘What can I get you, ma’am?’

Her mother was lapping the cream off her skinny caramel latte deluxe. God alone knew why she would have it skinny while at the same time demanding all that extra cream and swirls of caramel. Not to mention the flapjack. That was apparently a healthy option, with its fibre-rich oats and dried fruits. According to the gospel of Mother. She swore by its benefits, though none of them were apparent to the naked eye because, in her own words, Sarah Snyder was on the cuddly side. Rachel had inherited her mother’s curves, but had lost most of them in the last two months. She was now working on reinstating them by indulging in a Crunchie milkshake. Josh liked her with a bit of meat on the bone, which was a phrase Rachel had borrowed from her father. He liked her mother the same way.

Rachel hoovered the depths of her plastic cup with her straw and moved onto the chocolate brownie.

‘So, like I was saying,’ she carried on in reply to her mother’s persistent calls for clarification, ‘you can be a couple, and that’s like permanent. For the time being, of course –’

‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’ Her mother licked the cream from her lips.

‘What is?’

‘Permanent for the time being.’

‘Well, that’s how it is. Do you want to know, or not?’

‘Yes, yes . . . go on.’

‘Then you can be on-and-off, like Josh and me.’

‘Right . . .’

‘And then there are different variants of non-committal –’

‘As in casual sex?’ Her mother’s eyes became rounded with alarm. ‘I hope you’re using protection . . . And did you know that at fifteen you’re technically a minor and having sex with a minor is technically rape . . .’

‘I didn’t say Josh and I were having sex – technically.’

‘You didn’t have to say it. I’m just watching out for you.’

‘OK, whatever . . .’ Rachel slouched back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest.

‘So . . . are you?’

‘I’m not answering that! And I’m almost sixteen!’

‘Then I’ll have to draw my own conclusions.’ Sarah’s gaze bored into Rachel, her curiosity defeating her gluttony: her flapjack remained untouched.

Rachel laughed. ‘Then go ahead – knock yourself out with your own conclusions!’

‘You’ll drive me to an early grave, you know that?’ Sarah sighed heavily, but it was too theatrical to be believed. It was just Mum – the clown, the drama queen, the spy extraordinaire.

‘So?’

‘So . . .’ Rachel rolled her eyes, ‘we’re not sleeping together. At least, not in the conventional sense.’

‘And that means what exactly?’

‘It means that I’m not stupid, OK?’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

Rachel’s phone went off, its lively ringtone making her jump. Her first reaction was to ignore it. It was safer to pretend she had not heard it. She stubbornly looked out of the window. Her hands folded into fists in her lap.

‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

‘What?’

‘Your phone. It bleeped.’

‘It’s just a text. Probably Rhiannon.’

‘OK,’ her mother nodded, looking unconvinced. ‘Are you going to read it, then?’

‘I suppose I’d better.’

She whipped the phone out of her pocket and checked the sender. ‘Yeah, Rhiannon. We’re doing this soil erosion project for geography. Rhiannon’s keen!’

‘Didn’t you say she fancied Mr Hatson?’

‘Don’t ever say that to her face, Mum! She’d kill me if she knew I told you.’

‘Who do you take me for? Discretion is my middle name.’

‘Hardly!’

Rachel braced herself – of course, it was nothing: gossip or homework. She opened the text message. It contained three unequivocal letters WTF, followed by U @it again, a question-exclamation mark combo – and a link. She clicked on the link and her face turned ashen. She quickly pushed her phone deep in her pocket. Her mother gazed at her.

‘Hurry up, Mum.’ Rachel growled.

‘Oh dear, aren’t we in a mood! Teenage angst?’

Rachel’s phone tinkled away in her pocket relentlessly, announcing a barrage of messages.

‘What’s going on?’ Her mother’s tone sobered. She sounded alarmed rather than just nosy. Her eyes narrowed and scrutinised her daughter’s face as the girl bit her bottom lip and furrowed her forehead. ‘Well?’

‘It’s Rhiannon. I told you, it’s our geography homework. Let’s go. Are you done?’

‘What’s the rush all of a sudden? I haven’t finished my flapjack.’

‘Best you don’t. I’m doing you a favour.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing. I need to go. And get started on it, OK?’

‘Right this very minute?’

Rachel glared at her mother. ‘Yes. Right now.’

‘Let me just –’

Another ping on Rachel’s phone provided a welcome distraction. This time she pulled it out and read the message. It was from Josh.

It had been a while since she had a text from him. This morning he had brushed by her in the cafeteria. It could have been by accident, but somehow it felt deliberate. Her heart had skipped a beat. She had bought the frayed hot pants, hoping that –

She was such an idiot!

She gawped at the unopened text message with Josh’s face next to it, looking back at her. It was a face one could easily fall in love with; with its soft contours and honest gaze, it seemed to be assuring her that he loved her back.

He may have not seen the Snapchat stream.

Rachel’s finger hovered over the button briefly. She had eleven messages. She inhaled deeply like someone who was about to jump naked into freezing water. She clenched her teeth and opened the latest text to see a string of grinning emoticons and the words: Am enjoying ur Snappy output. Rachel’s hands closed over the screen of her phone as she pushed it between her thighs to mute its sound. She shut her eyes.

‘Are you all right, Rachel?’ Her mother’s voice was gripped with tight anxiety.

‘It’s Rhiannon. How many times must you ask!’ she snapped.

‘I didn’t . . .’

‘Please, Mum, stop asking me stupid questions.’

Sarah watched as her daughter dropped her shopping bags in the hallway and took off to her bedroom. She recoiled when the bedroom door was slammed. She tiptoed up the stairs, one at a time, not to make any noise, and put her ear to the door. A groan of the bed as Rachel collapsed on it interrupted the relentless pounding of Sarah’s own heart. She could swear she heard Rachel whisper, ‘Oh, God! No, please, no!’

There were more bleeps on her phone, then a crash and clank, followed by a muffled sob.

Sarah pressed her eye to the keyhole. Her daughter was rocking on her bed, her forefinger sliding across the screen of her iPad. Her cheeks were burning red. She looked ill. Perhaps Sarah should keep that GP’s appointment after all.

‘Rachel, are you all right in there?’ Sarah spoke into the keyhole.

Rachel yanked her head up like a spooked horse. Hurriedly and guiltily, she wiped her eyes and held her hand to her mouth.

‘Rachel?’

‘I’m fine! Told you . . . Leave me alone! I’m fine!’

Sarah remained by the door, unconvinced. Slowly she forced herself away from the keyhole, and just listened with her heart in her throat. She was rubbing her chest, looking down at the floor, every inch of her body fixated on what was going on behind the door.

‘I am fine, Mum,’ Rachel repeated. She sounded more composed. ‘I think it’s my period, you know . . .’

Sarah exhaled: she could take that, could deal with that. There was a remedy at hand. ‘Do you want a paracetamol?’

‘No. I’ll be fine.’

Talking through a closed door was tortuous. Once again, Sarah descended to her knees to peep through the keyhole. Rachel was bending down, picking up her mobile phone from the floor. She turned away to face the window. Sarah could not see her face, could not tell if tears were still there. But she could hear her breathless and urgent half-whisper: ‘It’s me. Call me. We’ve got to talk . . . Let me explain. Believe me, I’ve nothing to do with it . . . I don’t know who’s doing this.’

‘Rachel, dinner’s on the table!’ Sarah shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Not now! I’m not hungry!’

‘Rachel! Now!’ Her father sounded fed up.

‘I’m busy! Leave me alone!’

Sarah shook her head. She glared at her husband. ‘Do something!’

Jonathan raised his shoulders and flung his arms in the air. ‘I am! I’m telling her to get the hell down here and sit at the table with us. What else do you want me to do?’

‘She’s obviously not coming down, is she!’

‘Obviously not. Obviously, she feels no need –’

‘For God’s sake, go and get her,’ Sarah hissed.

Jonathan gritted his teeth and, red-faced with anger, stomped up the stairs and banged on Rachel’s door. ‘Rachel! You will come down now! We’re waiting with the dinner!’

Rachel paused with her finger over the SEND button, wishing her father away.

‘Now, Rachel! You don’t want me to come in there!’

‘I’m coming!’ She pressed the button, and flung the door open.

Rachel and her dad stood eye-to-eye on the landing, both seething with emotion. He was taller than her only by a few inches. His mouth was compressed with white fury, his thick brows drawn together. His breath smelt of coffee. He was searching her face for an answer, or an apology. She should be sitting at the table, having her dinner with her parents, without the need for special invitations. This was his rule: the whole family sitting down to dinner together. One of his immovable benchmarks. He didn’t have many of them, and this one wasn’t too taxing. He was seething with sheer irritation. Not in a mood for girly tantrums.

Until he saw his daughter’s face.

‘You’re crying? What in God’s name is the matter with –’

Rachel felt her face. Her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t realised. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘It can’t be nothing.’

‘I’m not keeping up with things at school. It bugs me.’

‘School stuff? You must learn to take it easy, Rach.’ Her father’s shoulders relaxed. He changed his tone. It became the sort of soft, deep murmur it used to be years ago when he would read her stories before bed. ‘It’s not the end of the world – I thought it was something like . . . I don’t know what I was thinking. Who, in their right mind cares about homework? Blimey, I never did! Come down, have dinner with us. You can get back to it on a full stomach. That’ll make a difference, believe me.’

‘OK, I believe you.’ Rachel attempted a smile.

‘Now, downstairs. Don’t make your mum wait.’

They were sitting at the table, discussing Jonathan’s misadventures with the company auditor. ‘He needs a holiday, I said that to him. “You need a break, Aaron. You’ve become a total arse,” pardon my French.’

‘He’s just doing his job,’ Sarah pointed out.

‘That’s what he said.’

Rachel was poking her food with her fork, distracted. Her elbow was propped against the table. She was holding her forehead in the cup of her hand. Jonathan and Sarah exchanged looks, Jonathan raising his eyebrows, Sarah shaking her head, Don’t ask . . . He pushed his plate away, threw his napkin on top of his unfinished dinner and planted his hands on the table, palms down.

‘What is the problem now? The chicken not to your liking?’ He rounded on Rachel.

‘I said I wasn’t hungry.’

‘And I said, sit down and eat. I’m sick and tired of your attitude!’

‘Rachel, darling, just listen to yourself . . . I thought we’d put it behind us . . . I try, I really do! Please, Rachel –’ There was a wisp of hair stuck to Sarah’s cheek. She placed her hand on Rachel’s shoulder, but Rachel pushed it away. Sarah got up from the table and started collecting the dishes. A small sniffle escaped her and she turned her head away to suppress it.

Jonathan ignored that. His attention was on Rachel. ‘Are you dieting? Is that what it is? Because I’m not having it!’

‘No. I’m just not hungry.’

‘Is that why people cry? Because they aren’t hungry?’

Rachel sat mute.

‘Speak to me, for crying out loud!’

‘I dare not ask her anything any more . . . She’ll only snap at me,’ Sarah called from the kitchen.

‘She says she’s not keeping up with her school work.’

‘Do you really believe that’s what it is?’

‘That’s what she says.’

They were talking about Rachel in front of her, asking each other questions only she could answer. They were trying to provoke her to respond, but she sat silent and sullen, avoiding her father’s eyes as he attempted to look into hers. Her mother returned from the kitchen, pressing a dishcloth to her nose, like a handkerchief.

‘What are we doing wrong, Jonathan?’

There was a moment when Rachel lifted her eyes, half-opened her mouth and inhaled deeply as if she wanted to tell them something at last, to confess something, to get it off her chest once and for all.

‘Yes? Speak to me, Rach,’ Father prompted her. Mother lowered herself into a chair next to Rachel, stiff with anxiety.

‘I’m not hungry.’ Rachel averted her eyes. ‘And I’ve got a lot to do. Homework . . . May I be excused?’

She rose from the table before they realised what she’d said, and fled.

Her father’s answer chased her up the stairs, ‘Go! There’s no point staying here with us. We’ll only bore you to death.’

The night was cloudless, the stars so high up that he could almost sense the distance of light years between here and there. With no clouds to offer shelter from the cold, he was shivering in his threadbare hoodie. His fingers were red and stiff. Although it was already March, the wind was blowing from the north, bound to bring with it the cold and the rain clouds.

It was an uneventful – and freezing – evening. There were only a few highlights which made it worthwhile for him to hang around. He watched her as she changed from her school uniform into her casual clothes: a virginal white T-shirt and a pair of black-and-white skinny jeans, or leggings. She didn’t flash her breasts. Her shoulders were rounded protectively over her chest, which wasn’t particularly adventurous of her. She was wearing a pair of sensible underpants, white and boring, the sort he believed were favoured by middle-aged women who no longer cared to look desirable for their men. He took a few photographs nevertheless. Her voluptuous curves screamed for attention, whether she liked it or not.

She spent a bit of time on her tablet, her fingers moving frantically over the screen. She scowled, not liking what she saw, and reached for her phone. That, too, she did not like – she hurled her phone across the room.

‘Wow, feisty . . .’ he muttered under his breath.

She left her bedroom for fifteen, twenty minutes, and returned looking even more agitated than before she had left. Straight away, she went for her iPad, but then almost immediately tossed it away. She grabbed her mobile phone and pressed it against her forehead. She stayed in that pose for a couple of minutes, pondering something or other, and then eagle-dived on her double bed and spread her arms limply, still holding on to her phone.

He checked his phone. He had no messages.

He was disappointed. Sitting in the cold, waiting, increasingly convinced that nothing would happen after all, he was minded to pack up and go. It was getting late. Her room was dark but for the little pale green lights illuminating it from the ceiling. Those didn’t offer enough light for any quality photography. She was still on her bed – probably asleep. He unscrewed the lens, resigned that the show was o. . .