No Spoken Word Read online

  NO SPOKEN WORD

  A NOVEL

  BY DAVID MENON

  Silver Springs Publications 2016 – all rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This is once again for Maddie who always inspires me and for all those who talk tough with no spoken word.

  Also by DAVID MENON

  DSI JEFF BARTON series

  Sorcerer, Fireflies, Storms, No Questions Asked, Straight Back, Thrown Down, No Spoken Word.

  ‘Landslide’ will be out late 2016.

  DI STEPHANIE MARSHALL series

  What Happened to Liam?, Could Max Burley Be a Killer?

  ‘Finding Answers for Stacey’ will be out late 2016.

  DCI LAYLA KHAN series

  ‘In the Shadow of the Tower’ will be out summer 2016.

  DCI SARA HOYLAND series

  Fall from Grace, Beautiful Child, Best Friend Worst Enemy.

  OTHER TITLES

  The Wild Heart, The Murder in His Past.

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Short Cuts to Murder.

  www.amazon.com

  David was born in Derby, England in 1961 and has lived all over the UK but now he lives in Paris. After giving up a long career in the airline industry he now writes full-time and takes a great interest in international current affairs. He loves travelling, TV, films, theatre, books and music. He’s a devoted fan of the American singer/songwriter and poet Stevie Nicks who he calls ‘the voice of my interior world’. He loves all kinds of cuisine but especially French and Indian, he enjoys a g and t or two of an evening and a good red wine. And he doesn’t think that makes him a bad person!

  I’d like to especially thank Laura and Ben at CameronPM for their publicity and marketing expertise, and I’d like to thank Joshua Jadon once again for the cover artwork.

  I’d also like to give very special thanks to Armelle Maddison for her translation of my novel ‘Sorcerer’ into French ( Le Sorcier). It sold well on the French amazon chart. She’s currently translating the second in the Jeff Barton series ‘Fireflies’ into French and it should be on sale later this year.

  Some of my Jeff Barton series of novels are also available in Spanish and Italian on www.babelcube.com

  You can contact me through my website at www.davidmenon.com and also through facebook, twitter, linkedin, google plus, and pinterest.

  Could I please ask my dear readers to write a short review on amazon once you’ve finished reading this or any other of my books. Reviews are so important for independent authors like me and I would be really grateful. Thank you!

  And take care of yourselves in this crazy, insane world we live in.

  David Menon

  Paris, April 2016.

  NO SPOKEN WORD

  ONE

  James Matthews had led a reasonably distinguished career as a civil servant attached to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. That’s not saying that his rise up the ranks had been easy. Despite his obvious ability he’d been part of the first generation of Foreign Office mandarins who’d come up through the grammar school system and hadn’t been anywhere near what would be termed as the ‘right’ school. He was one of the first of the working class kids to push through that particular glass ceiling in the heady and optimistic days of Harold Wilson’s late sixties, and get into the kind of job that had previously been reserved for the upper class ‘old boy’ network. But even when those golden days had passed and any progressive thinking person would be right to assume that the days of British class privilege had begun their descent towards death along came Margaret Thatcher with the message that only the possession of money mattered. James detested the Thatcher years. They destroyed everything that Harold Wilson had done for the advancement of the working class as far as he was concerned. Being able to buy your council house didn’t suddenly mean that every door previously closed to you was suddenly swung open. Twenty years later James still didn’t see it as being easy for men and women of his kind of background and it grieved him to think that it was that way. Those he went to Manchester University with and who, like him, had flitted between supporting the Labour party and supporting the Liberals, were all now in that same retirement mentality of ‘well what can we do now to save the world and make it easier for the less fortunate to achieve?’ The evangelical zeal of those sixties days had been replaced by a creeping acceptance that things never really change even when they appear to.

  He was now in his early seventies and although he’d been retired for several years and was in good health, he was beginning to feel his age just a little bit and sometimes had to remind himself that his time was actually his own to do with as he pleased. He was often in demand from one organisation or another and because of his former posting in Moscow he’d recently been asked for his perspective on the latest financial scandal involving a Russian oligarch and the current Russian president. He wished they’d get the message that he really didn’t want to speculate about goings on in the Kremlin. He thought there was a lot of sabre rattling going on from both sides and he couldn’t for the life of him work out why. What was the point when Russia and the West needed to work together on so many issues facing the world? What did the West gain from looking down its intellectually pious nose at the corruption that was endemic in Moscow? It was like the Cold war being stirred up again and for absolutely no credible purpose as far as James could see.

  He and his wife Diana had come back to Manchester to complete the circle of their lives and though they would both acknowledge that the journey had been incredible, they would also want people to understand that those times were done and they wanted to get on with their retirement. It all seemed to take up time that James would rather spend reading and catching up on the stacks of films on DVD that he’d been saving in some cases for years but had still to watch. James had also read somewhere though that maintaining an active mind was the best way to fend off Alzheimer’s and he often thought of the example of someone like David Attenborough who he’d recently seen on TV exploring the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Queensland in Australia in a new type of submarine and he was almost ninety. Then there were also rock stars of James’s age still playing the stages of the world in what could only be described by others as an age inappropriate manner and actors who seemed to relish continuing to work well into their eighties. So if they could do all that then he could manage an interview here and there on a subject that had been his life’s work. As long as he kept to the message then it would all be okay with his former bosses.

  But today it was about seeing to the things he really did care about. His son and daughter-in-law had asked him to pick his granddaughter up from school and when she saw him waiting at the gates, Harriet’s face lit up. She adored her granddad and the feeling was mutual. She came running up to him and he lifted her up in his arms and they kissed. It was getting to the stage both in terms of her size and his age that he wouldn’t be able to greet her like that for much longer but whilst he still could he continued because they both loved it.

  He let her down and held her hand as they began their walk to his house just a quarter of a mile away. After he’d retired he and his wife had moved back to their roots in Manchester after their married life had been split between London, Brussels, and Moscow. They’d bought a house in the southern suburb of Didsbury that was a block back from the main street. Neither of them had any inclination towards country living and the idea of settling in somewhere like Knutsford or any of the other Cheshire set enclaves made both James and his wife Diana’s skin crawl. They wanted to be in a city suburb living amongst a mixture of people and were lucky in that they’d found a house that they didn’t have to have much done to. They were now
settled back ‘home’. Their son and daughter-in-law were both corporate lawyers in the centre of Manchester specialising in advising local firms on their trade with the rest of Europe, and they also had a daughter who ran her own PR company in London. Both their kids had done well, making full use of the bilingual English and French education they’d grown up in when James had been on his Brussels posting. They were very proud of them. Six year-old Harriet was still their one and only grandchild and the apple of both their eyes.

  ‘Granddad?’ Harriet asked as she skipped along whilst maintaining a firm hold of her Granddad’s hand.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart?’

  ‘What’s Grandma doing for my tea?’

  ‘Well I’m not supposed to tell you really because it’s supposed to be a surprise’.

  ‘Oh Granddad?’

  ‘Well alright then’ he said. ‘It’s your favourite, steak and kidney pie made with Grandma’s own pastry just how you like it and she’s made a trifle for afters’.

  Harriett continued to skip along like little girls of six do when they’re happy but then a most important thought occurred to her and she stopped. ‘Granddad, does that mean that we can’t call in at Maria’s shop for chocolate?’

  James laughed. On the corner of the entry to the tree lined cul-de-sac where James and his wife Diana lived was an ‘organic grocer’s shop’ called after its owner Maria. It fitted in well with the local community who liked to buy fresh produce from farms and other agricultural outlets in nearby Cheshire and Derbyshire along with more exotic items like chocolate that came directly from Belgium. The shop was owned and run by a couple, Maria and Sylvia, who were similar in age to James and Diana albeit slightly younger, and with whom James and Diana were close friends. They shared many an evening of drinks and dinner in each other’s homes and always ended up drinking far more than any of them should but they always thought ‘what the hell’. Maria and Sylvia always made a fuss of Harriett too and she loved their chocolate.

  ‘You never miss a trick, sweetheart’ said James.

  ‘Honestly Granddad, I’m not daft’.

  ‘No I know you’re not’ said James. ‘I can tell already that you’re destined for great things. But don’t eat the chocolate until we’ve had our dinner. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair on Grandma who’s been cooking for you’.

  ‘Okay, Granddad. And Granddad?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘Why is it only called Maria’s Grocery Shop when Sylvia is there too?’

  James wondered for a moment how he would explain why the women using only one name in the shop title to avoid any potential homophobia to a six-year old and decided she wasn’t ready yet. She was indeed a canny little soul but he didn’t want to overload her sensibilities with too many truths about the world just yet. She’d accepted right from the start that Maria and Sylvia were a couple just like her Granddad and Grandma and she’d never questioned it at all which pleased James and Diana that it looked like she wasn’t going to grow up with any prejudices. But little by little, bit by bit and time for further explanations later.

  ‘Perhaps they ran out of paint?’ James suggested.

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s the most logical explanation my love, yes’.

  As they approached Maria and Sylvia’s shop James looked up just in time to see Mrs. Greenfield who lived three doors up from James and his wife Diana on Pennington Way, come running out screaming and with a horrified look on her face.

  ‘What’s wrong with her, Granddad?’ Harriett asked, more out of curiosity than fear.

  ‘I don’t know my love’ said James. He’d never been that struck on Loretta Greenfield. She was American, originally from Texas, and James’ political perspectives gave him an inbuilt resistance to the usually hard right attitudes of white people from the southern United States. And even ones like Loretta who’d been sensible enough to marry a Brit and make her life over here for the last thirty years. And James would admit that he did find her quite charming in a way although their opinions on world issues were a whole universe apart.

  ‘James, you really don’t want to go in there’ said Loretta as she tried to get her breath whilst holding onto his shoulder. ‘And get darling Harriett right away from here. She certainly must not see inside’.

  James took his mobile out of his pocket and pressed the button to connect with his wife Diana. But she was already running down the path at the back of their house and the others on Pennington Way. She’d chosen this way to avoid having to go directly past the shop.

  ‘Come on, Harriett’ said Diana, taking hold of Harriett’s hand. ‘Come with Grandma. Let’s get you inside’..

  ‘Can’t I go with you, Granddad?’ Harriett appealed.

  ‘No, sweetheart’ said James. ‘It might not be safe for little people like you’.

  Diana told James that she’d heard two shots of gunfire coming from the shop a few minutes before.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ James asked.

  ‘Of course I have’ said Diana who then gave James a look that came up screaming at him from years ago. He hadn’t seen that look in a very long time but he quickly recalled all the danger signs that went with it. He couldn’t avoid them. They’d become part of their current life too.

  ‘Don’t you think you should just wait for the police, James?’ she questioned in a quiet yet determined voice. She was also aware of the growing number of their neighbours who were now gathering round. ‘They’re the professionals here, James, not you. They’ll know what to do’.

  ‘It might be something or nothing’ James replied still reading that look in his wife’s eyes. ‘I’ll see first’.

  ‘James, it would be madness for you to go in there on your own’ Diana continued to plead. All she could hear were those shots that had made her heart stop for a moment.

  ‘I’ll be alright, Diana’ said James. ‘Just take Harriet indoors’.

  Diana knew when she was beaten. She’d experienced these moments before and she’d need two hands with which to count them. But she’d been married to him for over forty years and despite everything she still loved him and wouldn’t want things to end this way.

  ‘What if whoever fired the gun is still in there, James?’

  ‘They won’t be’.

  James proceeded up to the shop and there was blood all over the place. Maria had been shot dead, once in the head and twice in the chest, and her open eyed body was slumped back against the shattered glass shelves where all the hard liquor she sold had been displayed. Many of the bottles were smashed to pieces and there were alcoholic beverages spilling out everywhere. Shards of glass had buried themselves into the back of Maria’s head, her neck, her shoulders and arms.

  And it was so quiet.

  NO SPOKEN WORD

  TWO

  DSI Jeff Barton wasn’t in the best of humour when he was called out to the crime scene in Didsbury. He hated picking up a case in the late afternoon because it always meant that you could kiss goodbye to the evening you had planned which in Barton’s case meant being with his son Toby. They’d been planning to play some games on the xbox together but now he’d have to rely on their live-in child minder and housekeeper Brendan to do the honours for him. Neither of them would mind. Toby had struck up a close bond with Brendan and was just about getting past the stage of getting upset when his Daddy had to ring to say he’d be late home. He’d just turned seven years old and was growing up pretty fast which in some ways was a relief to a single parent like Barton. The more independent Toby became the less his father worried about having to let him down when the job demanded. Brendan was a godsend too. Any misgivings Barton may have had initially about employing a young man to keep house and be there for Toby, as opposed to a young woman, had been quickly dissolved by Brendan’s easy personality and tremendous work ethic. He was in his early twenties but he could relate to Toby because of his own little brothers and sisters. He could play xbox with him when Barton couldn�
�t be there himself although he still couldn’t make dim sum like Toby’s maternal Chinese Grandma could which was a continuing source of light hearted complaint from the little bloke.

  Barton pulled up just short of the cul-de-sac of Pennington Way and parked outside ‘Maria’s Grocery Shop’. Several members of what he took to be the local community had come out onto the street and they were huddled together in groups of varying size. Judging by the kind of neighbourhood he was in, Barton thought they were probably defined by those who belonged to the book reading group, the golfing set, the mumsnet.com group, the retired group and probably several other middle-class obsessions that escaped his cynical and slightly condescending mind at that point.

  He parked next to the mobile scene of crime unit that was being set up for people to go to if they remembered something that might be useful to the police. For the moment everyone was being kept back by uniformed officers who’d ring-fenced the immediate area with scene of crime tape. Barton knew that property was expensive round here and it looked it. The shop was detached and it looked like there was a flat above and a yard at the back. Improbable as it may seem amongst all the trimmed hedges and rose bushes, somebody had committed an act of murder in this innocuous looking corner of aspirational Manchester.

  He walked up to the shop and was immediately handed a plastic suit to slip into so as not to contaminate the crime scene. The shop was fairly small and crammed to the rafters with merchandise that included all manner of food and household items, mainly of the organic and therefore, to Barton, the more expensive and decidedly middle-class obsession variety. He certainly wouldn’t be able to find sugar free wholemeal bread mix imported from Germany in a corner shop next to a Salford tower block. But maybe that was the trouble.

  Dark crimson blood was splattered everywhere along with the shards of broken glass that had pierced their way into the flesh of the victim and were making the scene look decidedly grisly to say the least. Shooting someone at close range does tend to make this kind of a mess but when the area was tight for space and the victim falls against glass it made it look even worse. The almost startled and shocked look on the victim’s face was also what Barton had come to expect. Unless you live in a different kind of world to the rest of us you don’t usually come into work expecting to get shot. The woman had strong features, pierced ears with small silver studs in them. Round her neck was one of those short necklaces made of large wooden balls that were painted black. There was a touch of dark red lipstick and what looked like a thin application of moisturizer on her face. She had the high cheek bones of someone who could betray their real age with a natural genetic tendency to stay looking young. Her eyes were large and could probably tell you everything if they’d still been able to work in tandem with her voice. Her forehead looked strong reflecting to Barton an intelligent personality who was not given to overly dramatic reactions to life’s ups and downs. Shoulder length brown hair cut shorter at the sides and with a delicate wave taking it over to the right side of her head, Barton could see in her ravaged face that she had stories to tell. Shame she couldn’t tell it to him herself. It was such an obvious truth and he’d come up with it long before the BBC ever made ‘Silent Witness’.