The Silent Twin

Book 3: Detective Jennifer Knight

by Caroline Mitchell

Genres: Noir; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

I'm alone in the dark. Please, can you find me?

Nine-year-old twins Abigail and Olivia vow never to be parted. But when Abigail goes missing from Blackwater Farm, DC Jennifer Knight must find her before it's too late.

Twin sister Olivia has been mute since Abigail's disappearance. But when she whispers in Jennifer's ear, Jennifer realizes it is Abigail's voice pleading to be found.

A damp and decaying house set in acres of desolate scrubland, the farm is a place of secrets old and new - and Jennifer must unravel them all in order to find the lost girl. But could Olivia's bond with her twin hold the key to finding Abigail? And can Jennifer break through her silence in time to save her sister's life?

A darkly gripping, page-turning thriller that will enthrall fans of Rachel Abbott, Alex Marwood’s The Wicked Girls and Mark Edwards.

Discover the other books in the DC Jennifer Knight series:

1. DON'T TURN AROUND 2. TIME TO DIE                 3. THE SILENT TWIN

Release date: April 14, 2016

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Sue patted the chair next to her, keeping her voice low, ‘Jennifer, come take a seat.’

Jennifer discreetly returned a greeting before sitting down beside her old colleague. The briefing room at Haven police station was not the time or place for a reunion. Uniformed officers were still piling in, standing with their backs against the magnolia walls. Top brass was present in the form of Detective Chief Inspector Anderson, whose shadow fell like a slender reed against the projection screen. His short grey hair was cut with exact symmetry, his handkerchief folded in a perfect peak as it peeped from the top pocket of his suit. Known for his efficiency, he was the Senior Investigating Officer in the case of the missing twin, which meant police were taking the child’s disappearance very seriously. DI Ethan Cole sat across from his superior at the front of the room, looking polished and focused in his charcoal suit.

Jennifer flipped open her black leather pocket notebook and clicked the top on her pen. On the top of the page she wrote the time, date, her name, call sign, and location, followed by her role: Family Liaison Officer. It was the first time she would put her training into use, and she hoped her presence would be worthwhile.

She scratched the back of her head with a perfectly manicured nail. Her mahogany hair had been tied into a professional bun while still damp from the shower, but after ten minutes in the airless briefing room, she longed to set it free. Every inch of her felt uptight at the thought of being thrown into such a high-risk case.

Sue leaned into her, the smell of spearmint chewing gum filling the gap between them. ‘How’s Will? Honestly, my heart was in my mouth when he disappeared.’

The subject of DC Will Dunston’s disappearance had been the talk of the station, and it was with much relief that Jennifer delivered a positive update. ‘Much better, thanks,’ Jennifer whispered, as they waited for the briefing to begin. ‘He’ll be back to work soon.’

The door slid shut as the last officer crept in, signalling an end to their conversation. The overhead projector whirred from its mount on the ceiling, and as DCI Anderson pressed the clicker, a series of images came into view. His face was serious, and his eyes held a steely determination Jennifer had seen before – during murder investigations. It was enough to make her sit up and take note, and she worked deftly, scribbling down points of interest in her notebook.

After relaying the background information on the case, DCI Anderson’s stretched hand rested on the interactive whiteboard. A map of Blackwater Farm displayed the spot where the nine-year-old child had last been seen at 10 a.m. that morning. A specialist search team had begun searching the house and outbuildings, battling the heavy April showers in their efforts to locate forensic evidence of a potential crime. But there were so many variables. He pointed to the river Blakewater, which ran parallel to the farm, about half a mile down. A request had been put in for the marine unit to attend. His hand swept across the map to Haven woods, thick with forestation and dotted with empty boathouses. Sniffer dogs were being requested, although a local dog handler had already scoped the outskirts of the farm with no luck.

Nobody could criticise the police for a lack of response. DCI Anderson discussed consulting specialist detectives who had worked on high profile cases of missing children in the past. Directions were given with regards to house-to-house enquiries and future press appeals. He pressed the clicker, and an image of an exhibit filled the screen, ceasing the undercurrent of chatter in the room. It was a picture of the little girl’s glasses; Harry Potter style circular frames. A smudge of mud blotted a cracked lens, filling Jennifer with a sense of gloomy foreboding.

DCI Anderson looked grimly at the exhibit. ‘This is why we’re fast tracking enquiries. These were found just outside the farm this afternoon, on a lane leading to the woodlands. Abigail has bad eyesight; she can’t get far without them.’ His voice dropped as he gazed around the room. ‘This information has not yet been released to the press. Given what her parents have told us about their daughter, we do not believe she left the area of her own accord.’

Jennifer glanced at the clock on the wall, painfully aware she had to liaise with the family before evening closed in. She returned her focus to DCI Anderson’s voice, her heart faltering as he pointed in her general direction.

‘Sue, you’ve been with the family today, can you provide us with any further update?’

Sue rose, straightening her posture. ‘Yes, sir. Well, it’s as to be expected, really. Sergeant Duncan, Abigail’s father, is devastated. His wife, Joanna, seems to be taking it in her stride. They’ve only recently moved to the farm, having lived in a townhouse in Haven previously. They don’t have any enemies that we are aware of, but enquiries are being made with regards to friends, family and acquaintances.’ Sue peeked at her notes and continued. ‘Mrs Duncan’s an online parenting guru. She runs a blog with over two hundred thousand subscribers, and has an occasional slot on a local TV channel, which places her firmly in the public eye. She’s very keen to speak to the press, but I’ve strongly advised her against it.’

DCI Anderson peered down his nose. ‘I see from your report that you’ve mentioned some unusual activity in the house. Can you tell us about this?’

‘Yes, boss.’ Sue flushed, the colour rising as her discomfort became apparent. ‘There has been unusual activity in the form of light bulbs blowing, banging on the walls, and . . . um . . .’ She swallowed hard, throwing Jennifer a sideways glance. ‘. . . furniture moving by itself.’ A rumble of murmurs grew in the room. ‘It’s a very old house, in need of renovation,’ she hastily added. ‘DC Jennifer Knight is taking over my role from today, under the remit of Operation Moonlight.’

After a nod from her superior, Sue sat back down.

‘Jennifer, please ensure you sign the paper being passed around the room. I want you to approach this family with the mind of an investigator. You are our eyes and ears on the ground.’

Jennifer located the paper and added her details to the list of hastily scribbled names, ranks, departments and mobile telephone numbers before she left. The list would be disseminated to attendees so they could keep in touch with each other during the course of the investigation. Briefing ended with an image of Abigail, looking happy and relaxed as she played in a field of sunflowers with her identical twin sister, Olivia. But the picture seemed drained, and cast a sombre atmosphere in the room as officers filtered out. Jennifer wondered how many of them would be giving their kids an extra hug that night.

Jennifer took the opportunity to question Sue on the strange occurrences at the house, which were part of the reason that she had been allocated to take over as Family Liaison Officer. Operation Moonlight worked in the same way as normal police departments apart from one aspect: Jennifer investigated crimes with an unearthly edge, and she had been kept busy since joining the covert team.

‘What’s it really like at Blackwater Farm?’ she said, cornering her friend in the corridor.

Sue grimaced. ‘It’s a nightmare. Mum and Dad are at complete discord with each other, and Olivia, that’s the twin, hasn’t spoken since her sister disappeared. She’s so solemn, it creeps me out.’

Jennifer loosened the elastic band around her tightly wound hair. ‘It’s bound to be stressful, given what they’re going through.’

 ’It’s more than that,’ Sue said, her voice low. ‘It’s like the house is alive. Doors slam by themselves, there are footsteps upstairs when there’s nobody around, and there’s this feeling, like you’re being watched.’ Sue shook her head, as if struggling to believe her own words. ‘This afternoon, the light bulb in the kitchen blew. I don’t mean it dimmed, or stopped working. It exploded into a thousand pieces over my head, got in my hair and everything. Frightened the life out of me, it did. I looked across the room and there was Olivia, sitting on the stairs, staring through the banisters with the weirdest expression on her face. It chilled me to the bone.’

Jennifer frowned. Sue was many things, but she was steadfast when it came to her cases. This wasn’t like her at all. ‘Is that why you walked out?’

‘You know me, I’m no quitter. But that house freaks me out. I told the DCI that I was happy to do the investigative work, but someone from Op Moonlight should take the lead with the family.’ She sighed. ‘I know you probably think I’m over-reacting . . .’ Sue said, her eyes searching Jennifer’s for reassurance.

 ’I don’t think any such thing,’ Jennifer said. ‘What do you think is behind it?’

Sue shrugged. ‘All I know is that things are taking on a life of their own in that house. I was totally out of my depth.’

Jennifer mentally picked through it all while driving to the farm. Were the incidents Sue described a diversion for what was really going on at the family home? It was doubtful that Abigail had run away of her own accord, but in such a remote area, it was equally unlikely to have been an opportunistic snatch. Briefing made it plainly obvious. After six hours missing, they were not expecting to find Abigail alive.

The long imposing track to Blackwater Farm wound like a snake through the desolate marshlands, past the woodlands bordering the river. The countryside consisted of dips and hollows, which scooped up the wind on stormy nights, producing echoing gusts rendered in ominous howls.

Jennifer had once been given a panoramic view courtesy of the police helicopter, as her colleagues had demonstrated their thermal imaging cameras used to locate cannabis factories below. It had been fascinating to see the contrasts in the town she had lived in all her life, all taken in during a twenty-minute trip.

Nature had divided Haven. On one side of the river bridge were the newly developed flats, which housed the commuters to London. This development was embraced by local businesses such as fine eateries, shopping centres and designer retailers. The helicopter had cut through the air to the other side of Haven, over the housing estates, the boarded-up shops and derelict streets you did not walk alone at night. It had then turned away from the town and flown over a plethora of Victorian houses on a pretty tree-lined street. Jennifer had picked out her own home, grateful that none of the neighbouring abodes came up on the expensive heat-seeking equipment. The pilot had taken the scenic route as they returned to base, driving the deer into the forest, which was dotted with Lego-like wooden lodges, and over the river, where small boats bobbed on the surface of the unpredictable water, so dark it had earned itself the name Blackwater. This had since been changed to Blakewater in an attempt to shake off negative connotations.

Jennifer wondered if there would be any such connotations attached to Blackwater Farm, which was looming into her vision as she negotiated her car around the twisty road. People usually didn’t build this far out, as the acres of marsh lands made for a risky investment. Blackwater Farm had been there as long as Haven itself. As Jennifer approached the stone farmhouse, she could see the attraction. It was pretty, in a wild, untamed sort of way.

Jennifer slowed down as she steered her car onto the rough terrain leading into the yard. A narrow dirt track, it was flanked by strands of rusted barbed wire, with room for only one vehicle at a time. She bounced in her seat as her car suspension was tested, driving through the open gateway past the moss-covered perimeter walls. They stood strong against the backdrop of the scrub farmland, and surrounded the old stone house. A leafless vine encrusted the building like rain-whipped hair. Pulling up between the parked cars, she glanced around for signs of life as she opened her door, expecting a muddy dog to come bounding up, at the very least. But the only sound was the wind whistling through the outbuildings, and a loose sheet of galvanized metal flapping against a wall. Spring weather was yet to make an appearance in Haven, and Jennifer shivered as a slice of cool air crept under her suit jacket. The delapidated building became less attractive with every step Jennifer took, and her heart felt heavy as she strode across the foot-worn flagstones. She promised herself she would not become emotionally involved, or at the very least, that this was the impression she would portray. But crimes against children got under her skin. It was the reason she had never joined the child abuse investigation team. She took in a strengthening breath as she stood before the chipped green wooden door, its age defined by the heavy metal knocker. She gave it three stout raps, then tapped her foot, willing them to hurry up and answer. No response. She took a couple of steps back to look through the old sash windows. Her eyes crept up to the right, and saw a pale-faced girl with large moon eyes fixed directly on hers. It was the face of someone who had lost a part of herself. Wearing the same glasses pictured in briefing that morning, the girl was the mirror image of her missing sister. Jennifer smiled and raised her hand to wave, then paused mid-air as the front door creaked open. She glanced back up one more time, but the child had gone. Stepping forward, she braced herself to cope with the distraught family member and was taken aback to be greeted by a pretty blonde woman wearing a hint of a smile on her lips.

The wind howled, and Jennifer mentally cursed her lip gloss as she pushed back some sticky strands of errant hair.

‘I’m DC Jennifer Knight,’ she said, flashing her warrant card, before shaking the hand of the woman before her.

‘I’m Joanna. We’ve been expecting you.’

The woman’s hand was firm and warm. Jennifer raked her mind as she wondered if she had got the name wrong. Was this happy smiling woman the mother of a missing child? Joanna was toned and well dressed, wearing just enough make up to give her a healthy glow – and not a mascara streak in sight. Her blonde hair was beautifully pinned back in a retro hairstyle, making Jennifer feel underdressed for once in her life. Her clothes were vintage; bright and quirky, perhaps purchased from an upmarket charity shop. Another whoop of wind swept past Jennifer, stealing her composure as particles of dirt flew into her face, making her blink.

‘Where are my manners?’ Joanna said. ‘Please come inside.’

Jennifer’s role was to act as a go between, deciphering the police jargon and updating the family on the case. But more importantly, she was also there to observe and gather information, whatever it may turn out to be. She closed the door behind her, pushing it against the wind squealing through the cracks. It was thick and heavy, and as the hinges groaned shut there was a sense of finality, as if she had committed herself to this family. This house. She wondered if her colleagues had felt it too.

Joanna walked briskly down the hall. The oil burners on the small oval table failed dismally to mask the smell of damp plasterboard. Jennifer blinked to adjust her eyes after walking in from the light, feeling like she had entered a long narrow cave. Her sixth sense spiked as she entered the bowels of the house, and other-world whispers streamed into her consciousness.

‘You’ll have to forgive the state we’re in,’ Joanna said, bringing her back to reality.

Jennifer was about to reply that it was only natural her emotions would be all over the place, when she realised Joanna was talking about the decor, and not her missing child.

Joanna grasped the brass door handle. ‘I’ll take you to my husband. I believe you’ve met.’

Jennifer paused as a floorboard creaked overhead. ‘I’d really like to speak to Olivia first, if I could.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Joanna said. ‘Olivia hasn’t spoken a word since her sister’s disappearance.’

‘But . . .’ Jennifer said, taking a step back as she caught a glimpse of the little girl on the landing. ‘I’d like to see her, just the same.’

‘All in good time,’ Joanna said, leaning against the door and pushing it open. Jennifer masked her expression of disbelief as she entered the spacious kitchen. It was bigger than her hall, kitchen and living room put together. The room was milling with people, huddled together in small groups. It could have passed as a social gathering, if it were not for the attire of muddy boots, duffle coats and wax jackets. Her eyes danced over each group, picking out faces as they glanced in her direction. She immediately recognised Karen Corbett – the latest addition to Nick Duncan’s team at Lexton CID, having recently come through her probation.

Jennifer felt a pair of eyes bore into her, and caught the gaze of a bearded man standing on his own in the corner. The tallest person in the room, he was middle-aged, with a weathered face which spoke of the outdoors. Throwing the remnants of his tea into the sink, he pulled up the furred hood of his parka and made towards the door. Joanna gave a blanket introduction to the rest of the mumbling herds of people as ‘family and friends’, as they knocked back their dregs of tea, ready to recommence searching the lands.

‘Who was that man in the parka?’ Jennifer said, unable to shake off his mistrustful stare. She had recognised him from somewhere, and hoped it was from a social setting, rather than one of her many arrests.

‘That’s Charles Radcliffe. Radcliffe, for short. He’s been helping out on the farm,’ Joanna said. She squeezed past the people to a large oak table, where her husband was sitting.

Nick was a complete contrast to his wife. He sat with his head lowered, threading his fingers through his greying hair. He had barely noticed Jennifer enter the room, he was so engrossed in his misery.

Joanna gently called her husband’s name, and he snapped his head up in response. His chair scraped against the black stone tiles as he pushed it back, almost knocking it over in his haste to extend a clammy hand and squeeze Jennifer’s fingers in a firm grip.

‘DC Knight. Have you any news?’

Jennifer looked into his puffy red-rimmed eyes, wishing she had something positive to give him. ‘Call me Jennifer, please. As soon as I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

Nick’s gaze dropped to the floor, his eyebrows dragging his furrowed brow. This was the response Jennifer had expected; a man barely able to keep it together. Her eyes flicked to Joanna, who was humming to herself as she lifted a whistling kettle from the Aga. Something wasn’t right about this scene. The kitchen window abruptly burst open, and a cold breeze rode the goosebumps rising on her flesh. The sudden activity reinforced the urgency of her investigations. Abigail was out there somewhere, lost and scared in the wilderness. That’s if she was still alive. At just nine years old, she was blinded by bad vision, with no witnesses to her disappearance. Yet missing children were not an uncommon occurrence in the UK. The figures from morning briefing returned to haunt her, and the fact that over 140,000 children go missing in the United Kingdom each year. She recalled Olivia’s face, silent and forlorn as she stood at the rotting timber window frame – waiting for her twin. Jennifer made a silent promise. One way or another, she would bring Abigail home.

I wanted to hurt myself today. To slice through my skin and watch the life flow out of me in a red river of madness. It’s my madness. I know that. It’s why my mother nicknamed me Jekyll and Hyde. One moment I would be calm, serene, a perfect child. Then without any warning I was a typhoon, ripping through the room, upsetting anyone in my path. She didn’t understand. And those that did said nothing.

I’m much better at hiding my feelings now. Diaries are therapeutic, a way of bleeding all the poison and frustrations onto the page. What was it the counsellors said? Imagine filling a balloon with all your torment, and watch as it floats up into the sky. But that never worked for me. The only pressure valve to my emotional turbulence was inflicting physical pain. It’s not my fault. Besides, I always begin with myself. My body bears the scars to prove it. But some days the slash of a razor or burn from a flame just isn’t enough. I try not to allow it to take over, but it builds like a powerful wave. I feel myself being submerged in its darkness, gasping for breath as it consumes me. On those days I can barely recollect what happens.

Being Jekyll and Hyde isn’t such a terrible thing. Because if I have two separate identities, then the bad thing happened to my alter ego, not me, and I don’t have to take responsibility for what follows. Lately I’ve been finding it harder to cope. The masses of people coming to the house make me feel dizzy and confused. Oh Diary, I wish you were a real person. Someone I could turn to who would understand without judgement. What made me was an evil so great that I had no choice but to embrace it. There is no redemption for me. And making it my ally has given me the strength I need to survive. Sometimes, when the anger is rising, I fantasise about grasping a poker, white-hot from the fire. I imagine the smell of my burning flesh filling my nostrils as the pain seeps through to every nerve ending. I envision myself striking it down on the people who betrayed me. On those occasions, the pain is good. The strength, the control. But I’m not ready to talk about the past yet. It’s like vomiting in your own mouth; tasting the bile that partially digested long ago.

A detective has come to the farm. She is strong and determined. She wants to integrate herself into our lives, like a beautiful dark spider weaving a sugared web. You can talk to me, tell me how you feel. Her eyes are hypnotic, and her words lure you in. But I know what she is and I won’t allow her a viewing into my soul. I’ve become an expert at allowing my eyes to glaze over in a disinterested way. Sometimes I blurt out a giggle when nobody is looking – seeing them all running around, crying, shouting, a disgusting outpour of human emotions. I have all the power. Because I know things that nobody else knows. I feel the hysteria bubble up inside me, and I stifle the giggles, camouflaging my response as shock or despair. Am I inhuman, to be without compassion? Devoid of empathy? There was little compassion or sorrow for me. I think of Abigail. So beautiful, and so full of life. Her long flowing white-blonde hair, her loud giggles and whoops as she ran through the house, filling the empty spaces with laughter. But then I think of my childhood. And I wonder, is it fair to choose Abigail’s life over mine? I remember my pact and know I have no choice.

‘Are you a tea or coffee drinker?’ Joanna smiled. ‘I’ve got some nice pastries from the bakery this morning, I drove into Haven especially. Would you like one?’

‘Just coffee, thanks,’ Jennifer said, picking a floppy-eared toy rabbit up off the floor and placing it on the table. She returned her gaze to Nick, watching his expression of disbelief as he stared at his wife.

A jagged vein at the side of his forehead began to pulsate as he spoke in cold, hurt tones. ‘Make the coffee if that’s what you want. We’re going into the living room.’

‘Of course, darling, you and your police talk. I’m sure it’s all above my head anyway.’ A dainty laugh passed her lips as she slid out the box of sugar lumps from the cupboard.

‘Come with me,’ Nick said, taking Jennifer by the elbow, not quite forcefully, but hard enough to take control. He steered her out into the hall, guiding her down the corridor into a door on the right.

Each room seemed more oppressive than the last, and she fought to acclimatise herself to the leaden atmosphere. The ceiling creaked overhead, driving a shiver up Jennifer’s spine. In Haven, old houses didn’t settle. They carried a life of their own, and Blackwater Farm was no exception. This was a house that would never be a home. The best they could hope for would be to co-exist with the ghosts of the past.

‘Take a seat,’ Nick said, pointing to an old leather chair. Most of the furniture seemed to have woodworm. A plasma television flashed with the sound turned down, ill suited with the other furnishings.

Jennifer stood, rooted to the spot. She didn’t appreciate being manhandled, and was not about to allow him to take his frustrations out on her.

‘With all due respect, Sergeant, I’ll sit when you do.’

Nick rubbed his hand across his stubble as he breathed a terse sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t handle Joanna right now. Our daughter’s missing and she’s making tea. Fucking tea!’ With one swift kick he sent a spindly coffee table skidding across the threadbare carpet.

Jennifer took two steps forward and grasped his forearm. His sinews were tense in her grip. ‘We’ll find your daughter. But you’ve got to stay focused and calm the hell down.’

Nick broke away and turned to face the window. ‘I just feel so helpless. I need to be out there, looking for Abigail.’

Jennifer understood his frustration, but to her mind, answers could be nearer than they imagined.

‘I was wondering if I could spend some time with Olivia. I know she’s not talking, but she might open up to a stranger . . . Nick?’

But Nick wasn’t listening. Evening was drawing in, bringing with it the prospect of his little girl being alone in the dark for the very first time.

Jennifer followed Nick’s gaze to the bleak fields, and to the left, . . .