Don't Say A Word (The DS Jack Townsend Crime Series Book 2), page 1
DON’T SAY A WORD
A DS JACK TOWNSEND NOVEL
ROBERT ENRIGHT
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
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
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CHAPTER ONE
This was the job.
That was what Detective Sergeant Jack Townsend reminded himself as he dropped his phone onto his desk and then rocked back in his chair. His hands clasped to the sides of his face, the palms gliding over the thick stubble as he drew them up over his eyes, and then ran his fingers through his dark hair. It was longer than he’d usually keep it, with his natural curls beginning to twist across his forehead, and along with the thickening stubble, a sign that he’d neglected his usual routine.
He'd neglected a lot recently, and the phone call he’d just received meant it was only going to continue.
The evening had just lurched past seven o’clock, and although he’d wanted nothing more than to march through the Thames Valley Police Station in High Wycombe, hop in his car, and head for home, he was needed elsewhere. It meant that his wife, Mandy, would be tasked with once again putting their precocious eight-year-old daughter, Eve, to bed. It was actually a job Townsend enjoyed. Her constant banter and backchat often causing him to break into a smile.
She was a good kid.
In the five months since they'd relocated from Liverpool to Buckinghamshire, she'd really blossomed, making friends quickly in her new school and letting down her guard more. For a few years, it had been tough, which Townsend knew was his own fault. He was the one who’d gone undercover for over three important years of her childhood, but the little-by-little restoration of their relationship had taken giant leaps over the past few months.
He'd help her with her homework.
Take her to gymnastics, which she was fast becoming obsessed with.
Whenever they went out as a family, it was his hand she would hold.
Mandy was a huge factor in it all. His wife was more than just his rock. She was his gravity, keeping him locked on what was important and constantly reminding him of her pride in what he did. She’d made it work all those years, helping patch up the cuts and bruises, as well as the broken heart that the years of distance had caused. Now, she was flourishing in her new job as a virtual assistant for the CEO of a tech start-up, which were still words that even he, as a detective, couldn’t work out. But she was enjoying being back in the working world, and he often found her sitting on their corner sofa, laptop on the cushion across her thighs, tapping away in the evening.
He wished that was where he was right then.
Walking into his home in Flackwell Heath, a sleepy little village only a few miles from the station. Instead, as he threw his arms into his black parka coat, he knew he'd be heading in the opposite direction. The rest of the Specialist Crime’s Unit were either off shift, or elsewhere, and he blew out his cheeks as he surveyed the quiet room. The new office wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it was bigger than the cramped room they'd occupied in the basement, although the promise of better coffee had been broken when the machine in the hallway offered the same brown sludge as the one underground. His desk was pressed against the wall nearest to the door and the minimal paperwork or stationery was a testament to his belief that his true job was out on the streets. Opposite his desk were both DS Nicola Hannon’s and DS Michelle Swaby’s desks, and on most days, he’d often find them mid-conversation as he entered the room. Hannon had grown in confidence over the past few months, as the young officer had been paralysed by fear after a brutal attack in her early years as a police officer. Townsend had helped her, bringing her along on a number of house calls and crime scenes, but her true talent was combing through archives and documents, and she'd shone in recent months. Swaby was only a few years older than Townsend, and her almost annoying commitment to being bubbly spat in the face of a hard-working detective with two kids approaching their teens. The duo was the hub of the office, and with Hannon off duty and Swaby on personal leave due to a family bereavement, the station was a quieter place without them. Detective Inspector Isabella King was elsewhere. Her diary blocked out for the evening. Undoubtedly sitting in a meeting and rolling her eyes at the dick-swinging as the other senior officers politicked for prominence. Ever since Townsend had saved her life by foiling Baycroft as he lunged to murder her, the two of them had formed a strong bond that had served the SCU well. King may have been as tough as stone, but she was smart enough to read a room, and her command over the unit had seen them become one of the Thames Valley Police Force’s most important functions.
Much to the ire of DCI Marcus Lowe, her ex-husband, and head of CID, whose arrogance was only rivalled by his embarrassment after Townsend had taken him down a peg or two in the boxing ring.
Since then, Lowe had kept quiet, and Townsend had noticed the respectful nods from the younger officer.
As he thought about the final blow that sent Lowe sprawling to the canvas, Townsend smirked.
Good times.
As he marched through the corridors of the station, a few uniformed officers nodded to him, which he reciprocated, as his reputation among them had grown since the summer.
Ever since he’d caught Gordon Baycroft, the delusional old priest who’d embarked on a brutal murder spree through the town.
It had not only solidified the SCU as a respectable branch of the police force, but it had given him the belief that he himself could be a good detective.
That he was a good detective.
The desk sergeant threw an obvious comment about the weather as Townsend approached the door, and with a grimace, he hauled it open and stepped out into the bitter chill of the winter’s eve. The wind lashed against him, and he hunched his shoulder and dipped his head as he rounded the station to the private car park behind. Thankfully, rush hour had already subsided, and the route he needed to take to the incident would be relatively clear. As he unlocked his car and pulled open the door, he took one final pause, looking back across the car park to the exit.
If he turned right out of the station, he could head for home. Back to the warmth of his house and the love of his family, lazing on the sofa in front of the television and some bright Christmas film that he wouldn’t remember.
But he knew he couldn’t.
This was the job.
Mandy would understand, and more than likely, demand he do what was needed.
Evie would understand. Some day.
A man had been found in a local estate with his throat cut.
With a grunt, Townsend dropped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and then headed to the exit, turning left and out of the town centre towards the numerous residential areas that surrounded High Wycombe. The first weekend of December was upon them, and already, the majority of the houses were illuminated in a blaze of festive lights, some more tastefully than others.
It was just another reminder to Townsend that he’d made another promise to his daughter. Evie was champing at the bit to decorate the house, but as he gazed through the drizzle that spattered his windscreen, he knew that he’d have to put it on hold.
At least for now.
A few miles up from High Wycombe Station, Townsend turned down towards Totteridge, heading towards the housing estates that bled into Micklefield. They reminded him a little of home, the mean streets of Toxteth where he had been raised by his own police officer father. It was a long time ago, and the edges of those memories had begun to blur, but Townsend held them dear.
Just like the watch that clung to his wrist, that his own father had worn on the beat.
Injuries and then cruelly, cancer, had cut short his father’s career and life, but Townsend always held on to the strong, powerful image of the man who served his community with dedication.
This was Townsend’s community now, and as he slowed the car and turned into the estate car park, he could see the blue flashes of the police cars already on the scene. The officers had done a great job in cordoning off the area, and as Townsend strode through the downpour, he gave a respectful nod to PC Harris, who lifted the yellow police tape for him to pass.
‘It’s not pretty,’ she said, shaking her head solemnly.
Townsend frowned as he surveyed the scene.
Across the car park, two officers were ushering back a gang of youths, all with their hoods up and all with their phones out, trying their best to turn a tragedy into clout. It sickened him that that was where their heads immediately went, but then he couldn’t blame them for the world that he and other generations had cultivated.
Affirmation and acceptance was what they craved, no matter how low they stooped for it.
Beyond them, he could see the ambulance arriving, carefully steering its way through the car park and causing more of an argument amongst the rowdy group.
The far side of the car park was lined with rusty garage doors, all of them belonging to various residences in the tall tower blocks that loomed behind him. The dreary building was a spiralling grey column that was speckled with a few depressingly low-effort Christmas decorations from those who had bothered.
At the far end of the garage, Townsend could see the legs of the prone body, before the edge of the wall obscured the rest of the victim. Another uniformed officer was standing beside him, trying their best to preserve a crime scene that was swiftly being washed away.
With a grimace, Townsend turned back to Harris, who sniffed under her bowler hat.
‘It never is,’ he grumbled, and then with the same purposeful gait that his father had used for years, Townsend marched across the concrete of the dilapidated car park to find out who’d been brutally murdered this close to Christmas, and more importantly, why.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Just stay safe, okay?’
Townsend felt the smile creep across his face as his wife spoke. He looked through the rain-soaked windshield of his car at the address he’d been given and sighed.
‘You know me.’ He chuckled.
‘Exactly.’ He could sense the smile on her face. ‘You want to speak to your daughter?’
‘Is she still up?’
‘It’s Friday,’ Mandy responded. ‘She’s adamant she can stay up at the weekends.’
‘Go on then,’ Townsend said and then listened with a twinge of guilt as his wife called for their daughter. A few moments later, and after a brief rustling sound, the voice of innocence echoed through the phone.
‘Hi, Daddy.’
‘Hello, Pickle.’ Townsend felt his heart thump. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah. I had gymnastics.’
‘Was it good?’
‘Yeah.’ Her enthusiasm was palpable. ‘Can you come and watch me next week? We have a show—’
‘I know, and I have it in my diary.’
‘Can you come?’ Little by little, she'd begun to grasp the severity of his job. ‘Will work let you?’
‘If I have to lock every bad guy up in the country.’ He heard her giggle. ‘You be good, okay? I’ll be home soon.’
‘Goodnight, Daddy.’ She paused. ‘I love you.’
‘You too, Pickle.’
As he heard the sound of Eve passing the phone back to his wife, the front door of the house opened, and DS Rebecca Ramsey leant out and beckoned him. With a grimace, he threw open the car door, just as Mandy returned to the call.
‘Sorry, love,’ Townsend said through gritted teeth as he stepped out into the rain. ‘I have to go.’
‘Go get em, Jack.’
With his wife’s endorsement ringing in his ear, Townsend marched through the downpour and headed towards the house. He pushed open the rusty gate that was hanging from its flimsy hinges, and then walked up the small concrete path that was lined with potted plants that had long been forgotten. The house was one of many that were crammed into a long strip of cheap, affordable housing projects that lined the outskirts of High Wycombe. While Flackwell Heath was hardly the beacon of affluence in the way places like Marlow was, his street seemed a world away from this one. Nearly every house was in disrepair, crying out for the love or attention that the property developers would never hear. The council-assigned residence was just as ambivalent, seeing it as a place to live as opposed to a home to make.
As he approached the door, DS Ramsey greeted him with a handshake and a smile.
‘Jack.’
‘How you doing?’ Townsend said as he stepped in, sliding off his drenched jacket and folding it over his arm. DS Ramsey was one of the most experienced Family Liaison Officers within the force, and she'd been a valuable asset in their pursuit of Gordon Baycroft back in the summer. Now, in the home of the murder victim from the car park, Ramsey had already established a connection with Jamal Beckford’s grieving family.
‘I’m fine.’ She ran a hand through her short, cropped hair. ‘Simone’s in the front room. She’s pretty cut up, as you can imagine, but she said she’s ready to take any questions.’
‘Do I need to ask her where she was this evening?’ Townsend said with a sigh.
‘No. She was here, and her son, Tyler, can corroborate her story. He was upstairs on his computer,’ Ramsey said with a firm nod. Townsend smiled and then placed his jacket over the one that was already hanging from the bannister. He ran a hand through his wet hair and then pushed open the door to the modest living room. It was a little cramped, with two large sofas fighting for space against the walls, and a large TV loomed over the room from its bracket on the wall. On one of the sofas, Simone Beckford sat, her eyes red from tears, and she shook a little as she tried to compose herself. A cup of tea was on the coffee table in front of her.
It was stone cold.
Beside her, her son sat, his eyes locked on the ground before him, clearly lost in his own grief.
As he stepped in, both of them both turned their attention to him, and Townsend offered them a comforting smile. Simone took a deep breath while her son looked away.
‘Mrs Beckford. I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Townsend. My colleague told me you were willing to answer some questions.’
‘Yes,’ Simone stated, clearly trying to encourage herself. She seemed less on edge when Ramsey appeared in the doorway, gave them a nod, and then pulled the door closed. ‘You’re not local, are you?’
‘It’s hard to hide, huh?’ Townsend said with a grin. His Scouse accent always drew attention. ‘First off, let me say I am very sorry for what’s happened to your husband. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’
‘Thank you.’ Simone choked, another wave of tears brewing.
‘I just need to ask a few questions to help with my investigation. How long have you been married to Jamal?’
As Simone took another breath, her son fidgeted in his seat.
‘Two years. Well, coming up to it.’
‘And what did Jamal do for a living?’
‘He worked for Amazon. He was a delivery driver.’ She sighed. ‘He actually really loved his job.’
‘He must have been busy,’ Townsend said as he scribbled on his pad. ‘My wife has a delivery every day. Did he mention anything that was bothering him? Any problems at work? Or with friends?’
‘No. None.’
Again, Simone’s answers seemed to agitate her son.
‘Are you sure? Maybe something he mentioned in passing?’
‘I’m sure of it. He told me everything. We had a good marriage.’
That comment drew a scoff from her son, and Townsend turned his focus to him. As he did, Simone pulled her cardigan tight to her body.
‘Tyler, right?’ Townsend said warmly. ‘How you holding up?’
‘I’m fine.’ The boy shrugged dismissively.
Teenagers.
‘How old are you, Tyler?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘I wasn’t too much older than you when I lost my dad and…’
‘He wasn’t my dad.’
The venom in the young boy's voice took the whole room by surprise, and as Simone turned to comfort her son, her cardigan slipped slightly to reveal a dark bruising at the top of her arm. Against her brown skin, it was hard to notice, but Townsend did.
