Perfect Silence. Helen Fields

we’ve made progress with the case, I’m afraid. I know that’s terribly difficult to deal with but it’s important that we get justice for Zoey, and that means preserving her body in case further investigations prove necessary. Have you spoken to your son about what happened?’

      ‘That’s not been possible. He’s out on manoeuvres away from base. He’ll be contacted as soon as practicable to let him know,’ a man said from the doorway. Christopher Myers was well over six feet tall, with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes. He stepped forward, offering his hand. ‘I’m Christopher. It’s good of you to come out to speak with us. You must be Detective Inspector Callanach. Has my wife offered you a cup of tea?’

      ‘That’s all right, we don’t need anything, thank you,’ Callanach said, sitting back down as Christopher took a seat by his wife, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. She collapsed into him.

      ‘So have you found something? Arrested someone?’ Christopher asked.

      ‘I’m afraid not, but it’s early days. We are following up multiple lines of enquiry, however. That’s why we’re here. What we’d like to do is speak with each of you separately. I hope you don’t mind. It’s important that you recall events individually. Sometimes one person’s recollections cloud another’s, and we miss vital pieces of information.’

      ‘Let me stop you there,’ Christopher said. ‘I know what this is about. It’s no surprise. Zoey made a number of allegations against me when she lived here. To be honest, I was surprised the officers who came before didn’t ask me about it.’

      ‘We’d still like—’ Tripp began.

      ‘She claimed I was violent to her,’ Christopher continued. ‘I’m afraid Zoey suffered a terrible trauma when her father died. She was very emotionally reliant on him. When I arrived, she painted me as the wicked stepfather, and things only got worse during her teenage years.’

      Elsa Myers nodded, tears forming in her eyes as she leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder.

      ‘Please don’t mistake me,’ said Christopher. ‘Zoey was a precious, sweet, lovely girl and we both adored her, however hard that was at times. When she started self-harming we considered calling in outside help, but Elsa was worried that Zoey might end up institutionalised or taken away from us.’ He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief before continuing. ‘Perhaps if we had asked for help sooner, she’d still be alive.’

      ‘When did you last speak to her or see her?’ Tripp asked.

      ‘When Zoey left here a few months ago, she had a sort of miniature breakdown, I guess you could call it. I think a friend had let her down and she took it out on us, screaming and shouting terrible things in the street before walking off, all of her possessions in a carrier bag, without even a coat. It was a dreadful day. I tried to stop her, but the law says she’s an adult. What can you do?’

      He looked tired, Callanach thought. Certainly Christopher hadn’t shaved that morning, and perhaps not the previous day either. His shirt was ironed, though, and the house showed no sign of disruption. It was odd that there were no flowers or cards around the place from family and friends. Usually a couple of days after such a tragedy, the family home was unrecognisable.

      ‘Have you had much support from friends and family?’ he asked. ‘Parents can sometimes feel swamped by the amount of cards and letters they receive, imagining they need to respond to them all. Flowers particularly …’ He let the obvious question hang in the air.

      ‘My wife’s allergic …’ Christopher Myers started to say.

      ‘They’re too morbid …’ Elsa muttered at the same time. There was a moment of silence.

      ‘We made the joint decision not to turn the place into any sort of shrine. It was too painful for my wife, and it seemed rather inappropriate given the lies Zoey had told about me.’

      ‘I understand,’ Callanach said, making brief eye contact with Tripp, who was busy making notes. ‘Did you know where Zoey was living prior to her death?’

      ‘With friends, we assumed,’ Christopher said.

      ‘Mrs Myers?’ Callanach checked. Elsa shook her head. ‘Zoey was in a domestic abuse shelter,’ he continued. ‘The allegations against you were quite detailed, Mr Myers, although Zoey declined to press charges. She had a number of unexplained fractures, old breaks that had healed over, but more than one would expect an eighteen-year-old to have suffered.’

      Christopher Myers looked down at his wife. ‘Tell them,’ he said. ‘They need to know how bad it was.’

      ‘I don’t know why she used to do it,’ Zoey’s mother whispered. ‘Whether she felt she didn’t get enough attention, or that she was trying to punish me for remarrying. It started off small but got bigger. She would pinch herself, mark her body, deliberately bang into furniture to leave bruises up her arms. Once she even slammed her hand in a door. We suspected she’d broken several fingers but she refused to go to the hospital. By then I was too scared of how she’d react to insist.’

      ‘Scared that she might be taken away?’ Callanach checked.

      ‘Or that they would believe her stories and Christopher would be arrested. What sort of choice is that? Lose your husband or your daughter. So I stayed silent.’ Elsa let out a sudden sob. ‘And now she’s dead, and there’s nothing I can do to protect her any more.’

      Christopher rocked her in his arms, whispering soothing nothings into her hair and sniffing back his own tears.

      ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Callanach said. ‘Does Zoey still have a bedroom here?’

      ‘It’s the guest room now,’ Christopher said. ‘We redecorated recently.’

      ‘Do you mind if we take a look around?’ Tripp asked.

      ‘Help yourself. I’ll stay here and look after my wife, if you don’t mind,’ Christopher replied.

      Callanach and Tripp took the stairs quietly, Elsa’s sobs fading as they reached the upper floor of the house and began opening doors. Two of the bedrooms were blank canvases, each with a double bed and standard furniture, ready for guests to arrive and make themselves comfortable. Only the main bedroom showed signs of life. Christopher and Elsa’s room was warm and comfortable. A photo of them on their wedding day sat on Elsa’s dressing table, next to a jewellery box and a hairbrush. The bed was neatly made and a small wooden cross hung above the headboard on the wall.

      ‘Do you think it helps?’ Tripp asked, looking at the cross. ‘When you lose someone, but believe they’ve gone somewhere better?’

      ‘I hope it helps them,’ Callanach said. ‘If it were me, I’d be wondering what sort of god could allow such an atrocity to happen in the first place.’

      ‘What did you make of them?’ Tripp whispered as he poked his head into the en suite bathroom.

      ‘They seem to be genuinely grieving,’ Callanach said. ‘Substantial difference between Zoey and Christopher’s versions of events though.’

      ‘Zoey would have to have experienced serious mental health difficulties to have made up so many stories and maintained them for so long. Especially if she was breaking her own bones,’ Tripp said.

      ‘It’s been done before,’ Callanach said, wondering how much Tripp knew about his own history, and the woman who had inflicted dreadful injuries on herself to bolster her false rape accusation.

      ‘Still, breaking her own fingers?’ Tripp asked. ‘Did Christopher’s record show anything?’

      ‘He’s not on the police system,’ Callanach said. ‘Never convicted of so much as a traffic offence.’

      ‘I can’t see anything relevant up here. Officers checked the house when they visited to notify the mother of Zoey’s death. They said both Elsa and Christopher seemed genuinely shocked, and they were given