Don't Speak

by A.J. Park

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

DEVOTED HUSBAND... OR COLD-BLOODED KILLER?
'A.J. Park is a master of suspense' SOPHIE HANNAH

THE ONE MAN SHE THOUGHT SHE COULD TRUST...

When a teenage girl is found brutally murdered, DS Amelie Davis struggles to keep her own trauma from clouding the investigation. After suffering years of abuse at the hands of her father, Amelie has only ever trusted one man - her husband Edward.

BUT HE MIGHT BE THE MOST DANGEROUS OF ALL.

In the middle of the night, she receives a phone call from an unknown number. The voice at the other end asks:

DO YOU THINK YOU KNOW YOUR HUSBAND?

Suddenly, Amelie fears Edward is not the man she thought she knew. In fact, he might just be the killer she's been hunting...

'Tense, unsettling, and extremely well crafted' SIMON LELIC

Release date: November 25, 2021

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 384

Sample

He knows what she likes to do, has become familiar with her routines, her likes and dislikes. He has watched and waited and prepared for this moment.

For the start.

Time – delaying the inevitable for so many years – has only intensified the anticipation and the excitement that stems from this moment.

It’s Friday night. She always goes out on Friday nights. Always the same nightclub in town and with the same three friends. They’re all undeniably pretty girls, and they dress for one purpose – attention – but he only has eyes for one of them. For her. It’s as if the others aren’t even there when he’s watching them.

In recent days, he’s got closer to her, and she hasn’t been suspicious of a thing. His confidence has increased; now, for the past day or so, he’s been parking his car directly across the road from her parents’ house. He’ll be facing her when she walks out of the front door, while she walks down the path, as she opens the gate and says goodbye to her family for the last time.

He will be only metres from her and she will be clueless about what fate the hours to come will bring.

She always leaves at 9 p.m. and today is no exception. Her front door opens inward, the light from the hallway streaming out, joining the moon’s feeble attempt to light the street. It’s a dark, wet evening. Although it stopped raining an hour ago, the whole area remains covered in puddles. Of course, she’s not dressed for the weather; that would be inappropriate for a nightclub. And of course he’s pleased that she has chosen to leave the house in a state of near undress.

She steps out, slowly, her long slim legs tightly wrapped in a short black dress. She moves carefully along the path, careful to avoid the puddling rainwater.

He follows her as she moves and he imagines how touching her will feel. She opens the gate and steps onto the pavement. While his eyes bore holes into her, she gazes ahead.

As she walks along the pavement, she pulls out her mobile phone. His eyes are able to cast a slow look along the length of her body, absorbing, appreciating, salivating, before she leaves his sightline.

Now it is time to move; he can’t let her get far away from him. This is only the first stage and there can be no delay.

The second and third stages are already planned, so delay cannot be an option.

At the end of the street, he predicts she will turn left. Because of the weather, he’s hopeful she’ll take a shortcut. And, indeed, it looks like that’s what she’s doing, for she turns left instead of right. That means walking through the park. The route home in the early hours is when he thought he’d have his chance to act, but now an unexpectedly earlier opportunity seems to be presenting itself.

His breathing quickens. He won’t have to wait, after all.

He starts the engine and moves slowly down the street, passing her after a few moments. The view afforded him as he approaches her, then the side view, reinforces his feeling that he has made the right choice.

Silly girl, hasn’t a clue. She doesn’t notice him – doesn’t give herself a chance because her eyes are glued to her mobile phone.

An almost immediate right turn, then another left and, about a hundred yards ahead, he spies the entrance to the alleyway that leads into the park. It’s surrounded by trees, and the nearest houses, which are beyond the fences that line both sides of the alleyway, are some distance off; their large back gardens put plenty of space between them and the fences.

He stops the car right next to the entrance to the alleyway and switches off the engine. From the glovebox, he removes a pair of latex gloves, a hand towel and a bottle containing what he calls his magic. After pulling on the gloves, he steps out of the car and pours a good amount of the liquid onto the towel. Its stench is pungent, and he’s pleased he’s outside of the car. He leaves the car unlocked and partly opens the rear door on the passenger side.

About halfway along the path is a great elm. Residents wanted to cut it down years ago, but its age meant that it had to be protected. They had warned that it added potential danger to the alleyway; it was at its deepest and darkest point, after all.

But no, the local council knew better, and silly teens, unwilling to walk just a little bit further, wouldn’t heed the warnings – this was their favourite shortcut.

Perhaps, after tonight, that might change.

He stands near the end of the alleyway until she appears in the distance. How, even in shadow, her hips sway. He could recognise her, from her shape alone, at a mile’s distance.

Stealthily, he makes his way along the alleyway and positions himself between the elm and the fence. Then he waits, his heartbeat quickening the whole time, as the anticipation becomes so great that he feels his heart might burst out of his chest.

It’s going to happen again. It’s been such a long time.

The time of waiting, of living a lie, is over.

After several minutes, footsteps break the silence. They grow louder, louder, as she gets nearer, nearer.

His heart must surely explode, it’s beating so fast. Racing, pounding so much that, for a moment, he fears she might hear it. Revealed to his victim by his own heartbeat.

One step, two steps, three steps, and then she’s here. She passes him. Four steps, five steps. Eyes still glued to the phone, headphones on, hips still swaying. He counts down, Three, two, one, then he steps out from behind the tree. He can’t resist a grin; he’s never been so pleased. Everything he has planned, it’s all coming together. Nothing can go wrong; he feels invincible.

He takes a step forward, as she does, and within seconds he’s walking in sync with her. They share four steps before she senses something isn’t quite right – a change in the wind, perhaps, or the atmosphere around her, the darkness starting to envelop – for she lowers her phone and lifts a hand as if to remove a headphone from an ear. But before her hand can touch it, his left hand reaches around her neck and pulls her towards him, as the right hand places the hand towel over her mouth and nose, over most of her face. He snatches sharply at her and pushes the towel so hard he might suffocate her, but he’s desperate to keep her quiet, to prevent her from screaming, so he keeps hold and applies all the pressure he can muster, until the few physical struggles she made at the start subside and, finally, she falls limp in his arms.

Removing the towel, he twists his neck round so that he can see into her face. He eyes her from her eyes to her lips, then along the line of her entire body.

I have you now.

He wants to place her on the ground and have his way with her right here, but he can’t risk them being stumbled upon. He lifts her – she’s surprisingly light – and carries her towards his car, a threshold of sorts, one that marks the start of their private time together.

He pulls the car door open with a spare finger and places her on the back seat. It’s an awkward movement, and the car is low, which makes his back twinge in discomfort, but he manages to get her in, placing her comfortably, he hopes, before closing the door. He knows he’ll have at least half an hour to get her into position, before he’ll apply more ketamine to the towel and use that to keep her exactly where he wants her.

Where he will keep her till the very end.

The dark figure steps into the doorway, a shadow cutting off the bright light of the hallway. It’s something she recognises, of course, something that has become familiar; a hulking figure, broad, engulfing.

The blackness spreads wider as it enters the room. Growing larger, it comes closer and nearer to the bed.

She cowers under the covers, the same as always, yet always with nowhere to go. Attempting to hide is futile. There’s no fighting against this. Against him. That she knows what’s about to happen only makes it worse. She knows who it is, why he’s here and what he’s going to do to her.

The silhouette becomes one black mass when he’s within a metre of the bed, and his hand reaches out towards her. A metre becomes inches, becomes centimetres.

And just as he leans down over her body and his hand pulls back the duvet under which she’s taken shelter, her heartbeat quickening, thudding, ready to burst through her chest, his face emerges out of the pitch-dark, becoming clear, surrounded by the light from the hallway.

Then she screams.

She always screams.

The phone ringing startles me awake and I turn to face Edward, knowing that from his face I will always receive comfort.

He isn’t here.

Groggy, I turn to the bedside table where I usually leave my phone for the night.

‘Amelie Davis,’ I say, trying to sound wide awake.

What time is it?

I squint in an attempt to clear my vision and the red illuminated numbers come into focus: 5.40.

‘It’s Lange,’ the voice says. Detective Chief Inspector Lange, my superior at work. ‘The body of a young woman, possibly a teenager, has been found in Hampstead Heath. How soon can you get there?’

I sit up abruptly. ‘About forty minutes,’ I say.

‘Okay. I’ll ask Hillier to meet you there. Take charge of the scene, then call me to give me a debrief. I’ll be there as soon as I can, but it won’t be for a couple of hours.’

He’s gone before I can expel a sound.

I lower the phone onto my lap and turn back to Edward’s side of the bed. What day is it? I think. Where is he? I lift up the phone and select his name on the speed dial. My finger lingers for a moment over the call button.

Where are you? Then: Were you with me here last night?

I had a couple of glasses of wine, but that was all. Surely. So why can’t I remember? Why is my head not clear?

I look back at the phone screen and decide against it. I flick the screen and it goes black. I pull myself out of bed and, in the en suite bathroom, wash my face quickly; maybe that’ll help. I dress and head downstairs. When I enter the kitchen, I walk straight to the wall calendar.

Birmingham.

For the last two days. Edward is due back home this evening. How can I have forgotten? There was a time when I had a picture-perfect memory.

I turn away from the wall and stop. On the kitchen counter is an empty wine bottle and, behind that, another bottle, which is half empty.

I lift up the half-empty bottle and stare at its label. I read the words. I sniff the head of the bottle. Its scent is rancid. This is what I drank last night? I place it under my lips and twist the bottle, teasingly. Maybe just a sip to get the day started. I slowly tilt my head back. Just a taste. I let the liquid enter my mouth, but then I stir, wondering what the hell I’m doing. I dash to the sink and spit. Half of what comes out of my mouth ends up on the windowsill. Sighing and appalled at myself, I wipe the surface with a cloth and rinse the sink clean. Then I look again at the bottle.

I have to stop.

I turn the bottle upside down and deposit what’s left of it into the sink.

Hampstead Heath, London

A large corner of the park has been cordoned off by uniformed officers. As I hold up my warrant card and say, ‘Detective Sergeant Amelie Davis,’ one of them answers, ‘Along that path,’ and he points. ‘You should see some activity deep into a wooded bit. You’ll find her in there.’

‘Make sure no one else comes in except for Detective Constable Ryan Hillier.’

‘He’s already in there.’

‘Oh,’ I say, glancing at my watch. That’s when I notice it’s taken me almost an hour and a half to get here. Where did I lose all that time? ‘Good,’ I add casually. ‘No one else comes in, then, until I say otherwise.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

I lift the cordon marker and enter under it. The path is slippery from all the mud and water that has amassed on it. The path curves and I see another cordon marker in the distance. As I walk, I scan left and right. Plenty of escape points for whoever is responsible. A place that’s probably busy in the daytime. Countless footprints, but useless for any investigation purposes due to the sheer volume we’re likely to find.

Which is possibly why this location was chosen.

A slim, tall, dark-haired figure, Hillier, who’s about five years younger than me, lifts up his head and sees me as I approach. I’ve worked closely with him for just over a year now. He’s a good detective and I like working with him very much. He says something to the uniformed officer who lifts a second cordon for me and then steps aside so that I can enter.

Instantly, I spot something on the ground approximately ten metres away. It’s half hidden under some overgrown bushes and vegetation. Four large trees form a sort of perimeter around it.

‘Body dumped or killed here, what are your thoughts?’

Several crime-scene investigators, kitted up in their blue outfits, are on their knees, combing through the shrubbery and mud.

‘Dan thinks killed here.’

‘Amelie.’ Daniel Emerson, the lead crime-scene investigator with whom I’ve worked on and off for the past eight years, appears from behind the nearest tree. He’s bald and very fat, so each step looks like it’s a struggle.

‘Dan.’ I realise there’s a pointlessness to our greeting, but it’s part of the process we go through, after these years of working together in usually horrific circumstances. Saying each other’s names helps, somehow; it makes the unfamiliar, which each murder most certainly is, a tiny bit familiar, providing an odd sense of comfort when it’s most needed.

‘Ryan says you think she was killed here.’

‘I think so. Six to eight hours ago, I estimate. There’s a big mess around the body. Signs of lots of activity.’

‘Such as?’

‘Intercourse.’

‘Intercourse?’

‘Yep. Knee marks from when he was on top of her, I’d guess. Traces of semen, both inside and out.’

‘He’s brazen.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Emerson says.

‘Which likely means no criminal record,’ I tell Hillier. ‘Certainly no samples on file. Otherwise he’d practically be announcing himself to us and there aren’t many people that foolish or stupid.’

‘Ready to have a closer look?’ Emerson asks.

Ready as I’ll ever be. It never gets any easier.

‘Sure,’ I say. After I have kitted up, I follow Emerson along a narrow police-made path to where the body is.

‘Remember to keep inside the markers,’ he says, telling me what I already know. There’s something reassuring in hearing the familiar.

I stop several feet away from the body. It’s as though a brick wall has appeared in front of me, which won’t let me pass.

I can see her from here. I can see exactly what she looks like.

Long blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes, raised cheekbones. A slim figure. Curvy for her age. Long legs, nicely tanned. Black high heels. A short black dress, the bottom of which has been lifted and lies scrunched around her pelvis. I can see semen stains on her outfit. Black underwear is wrapped around her neck.

‘Any clue as to who she is?’

‘No ID on her.’

‘Wright and Anderson are trawling missing persons’ reports,’ Hillier adds, ‘but it’s probably too early to find anything. They’re going to keep tracking anything that comes in.’

I approach. Slowly, tentatively, cautiously.

I don’t want them to see my apprehension. It’s not because I’m afraid – I’m used to seeing all kinds of horrors. It’s just …

Arriving by the body, I stand next to her feet.

So pretty.

I look deep into her eyes. She looks so peaceful. Whatever he did to her, he was careful not to harm her face.

Her beautiful face. Lovely smooth skin. A good sense of fashion. Lots to show off, which she clearly understood, judging by how she is dressed. So much potential. So much life ahead of her.

Taken from her in an instant.

I draw my gaze along the corpse. ‘When will you be able to get her in the lab?’ I ask Emerson.

‘By late afternoon, I hope.’

‘Give me a buzz when you’re ready.’

It’s almost 4 p.m. when I arrive at Emerson’s workspace, the morgue in Charing Cross Police Station. I haven’t had lunch, even though I’m famished, and that’s probably a good thing under the circumstances; years ago, I learnt the hard way that morgues aren’t places to visit after a filling meal.

Daniel Emerson’s office is located deep in the bowels of the police station. It’s closed off by a heavy wooden door. There isn’t a pane of glass in it, so it cuts him and the secrets of the morgue off from the rest of the building.

I knock and his voice calls out something indecipherable. Tentatively, I enter and ask, ‘Are you decent?’

‘Always,’ he answers.

Placed before him on the inspection slab is the young woman. Perhaps girl would be more appropriate – we still don’t know who she is or how old she is, but she’s definitely young. There’s a sheet covering her body from the waist down. Her skin is pale, her long blonde hair fanned out beneath her head and shoulders, almost like a pair of angel’s wings, and her eyes are now closed. I walk towards her, slowly, trying not to look too closely at her, unable not to.

‘What have you found?’ I ask.

Emerson is entering some details onto a computer, which sits atop a desk against the wall nearest to the slab. He pushes back, rolling on his chair, and stands. ‘High levels of ketamine, according to initial test results, so she was incapacitated when he killed her.’ No chance to fight back. ‘We’re currently running a more detailed toxicology analysis and will hopefully have a more complete picture in a day or so. Semen in the vaginal tract.’

‘As we thought.’

‘Nothing that matches anything on the database yet, but here’s where it gets interesting. I found two different semen samples.’

‘As in two men?’

‘Yes, as in. And as if that’s not disturbing enough, there’s one more tabloid shocker headline to share with you. I need to carry out some more testing to be certain, but the signs are that there are both pre-mortem and post-mortem deposits of semen,’ he says.

‘You’re kidding? I’ve never encountered such a thing.’

‘I have,’ he says simply.

I step to the side of the slab, standing only inches from her. I bend down, running my eyes up and down her body. So young. So much like …

It’s hard to take.

I bend close to her and study her face.

‘Show me her eyes,’ I request.

Emerson carefully lifts the lids.

Yes, just as I …

Blue eyes. Big oval eyes. So pretty. I stare intently, so intently I get lost in them.

Just like …

Dead eyes.

Just like …

Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall, slim, leggy.

Everything about her, just like …

And, in an instant, dead, her life ripped away. Once so full of vibrancy, now lifeless on a slab in the basement of an old rundown building in London.

‘How can someone do this, Daniel?’

He leans back, hands on hips. ‘Remember, I spend more of my time with corpses than with people. They make more sense to me now. People don’t make any sense at all. I arrived in hell a long time ago and don’t understand what’s upstairs.’

‘You’ve got to give me something more I can work with. Hairs, anything?’

‘Several. We’re running everything through HOLMES.’ HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, has the ability to explore names, dates, details and connections, however small, between a crime and all the others on its database.

‘And –’

‘We can only wait. We’re being patient. Like every other time we have the pleasure of standing here together.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I just need something.’

‘And as soon as we have it, you’ll be the first person I let know.’

‘So you’ll call?’

‘You know how lonely I get,’ he jokes.

I don’t smile. All I can muster is a nod.

I take one more look. Dead eyes. They look just like …

I back away. ‘I’ve got to do something,’ I say.

Just like me, years ago.

‘I’ve got to find him.’

I’ve returned to the major incident room of the MIT. The MIT is the Major Investigation Team. There are desks spread sporadically throughout the large open space. At the far end is DCI Jonathan Lange’s office. I knock on the closed door.

A sound emanates from within. I take that as a sign to enter.

‘What’s new?’ DCI Lange says without looking up at me, reading documents and signing them. He’s in his mid-sixties with grey-white hair on the sides of his head and slight wisps of what seem to be streams of cotton crisscrossing over the top’s shine.

Knowing how tetchy he can be, I remain standing so that I can leave sooner rather than later. I explain everything I’ve just learnt from Emerson.

‘That all?’ he says, offering a quick, casual glance in my direction before resuming his reading and signing.

‘At the moment, yes.’

‘Well, then,’ he says, signing and dotting something on a page, ‘drop by when you have something more to tell me.’

‘Sir,’ I say and start to leave.

‘Oh, and Davis,’ he adds as I pull open the door.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I thought you said forty minutes this morning.’

I hesitate, my back to him.

Before I can respond, he adds, ‘Ninety minutes seems a little long to drag your slim behind out of bed. You haven’t suddenly put on a lot of weight from what I can see.’

I turn to face him. ‘Traffic,’ I say. ‘It was, erm, worse than I expected.’

‘Of course it was,’ he says. ‘But, next time, find a way around it. Make sure forty minutes means forty minutes. Imagine if Hillier had had a coffee waiting for you. It would have gone cold. Would have been a shame to waste it.’

And with that, he lowers his head and continues reading and signing.

Taking this as an indication of conversation over, I return to the main MIT workspace. The office space I have, which I share with Ryan Hillier, is a small area off the end, opposite Lange’s office. Next to my office is a large boardroom, which is where I head next. I spend time gathering all the paperwork we’ve generated, then pile it on the long rectangular table so that I can sort through it, displaying what I think is necessary on the large wheelie whiteboard that’s pressed up against the largest of the walls. On the whiteboard, under the heading Unidentified, I’ve displayed a map of Hampstead Heath, with the location where the body was found circled in thick red marker, and I’ve penned up details including when she was found, by whom, along with a description of the body and the scene around it, as well as Emerson’s estimated time of death. I display on it pictures that have just been sent over by the crime-. . .