Still Small Voice

By Victoria Goddard

One death, two victims – one seen, one hidden

A thrilling rollercoaster, combining a multi-layered crime drama with an emotionally charged family saga, Still Small Voice looks at a fractured marriage and the fatal consequences of love, lust, and obsession.

It’s a sweltering August day in 1998, and the body of a missing woman, best-selling author Nicky Butler, is discovered in an empty house in South West London. DI John Burroughs and his tenacious partner, DS Lucy Burton, are assigned to the case and it is immediately clear that all is not what it seems. Do they suspect Nicky’s controlling husband, James Scott, a hundred miles away in a dreary hotel room, contemplating a grim future, or the mysterious man seen entering the house the previous evening?

As the detectives delve deeper into the investigation without a clear suspect, nothing seems to add up and there is a strong chance they will convict the wrong man. Why was Nicky at her brother-in-law’s house on the night of the murder while he was out of the country? And who is the shadowy figure hovering on the edge of the action, watching and waiting.

The heart-stopping final twist will leave you gasping.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805147190

Victoria Goddard

Victoria Goddard is a fantasy novelist, gardener, and occasional academic. She has a PhD in Medieval Studies from the University of Toronto, has walked down the length of England, and  is currently a writer, cheesemonger, and gardener in the Canadian Maritimes. Along with cheese, books, and flowers she also loves dogs, tea, and languages.

Book preview

Contents

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

PART TWO

1

2

3

4

5

PART THREE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

PART FOUR

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

PART FIVE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PROLOGUE

The road itself is quiet, but when he opens the car window he can hear the distant noise of traffic and a police siren. It had rained earlier and the warm, humid air smells of buddleia and dog shit, a nostalgic scent unique to London streets that he remembers from childhood. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. Anyone walking past at this moment, curious about their surroundings, might be aware of a figure sitting in a parked car and even notice a red glow from within, but it is long past midnight and, for now, the road is deserted.

He has no idea how long he has been there – maybe two hours or more. It seems to him he is in a vacuum with no past or future. For the moment he is safe, but he knows that if he leaves the sanctuary of the car and crosses the road, everything will change.

He glances again at the terraced house across the street. The light is on in the sitting room and, although he can’t see them, he imagines shadowy figures moving behind the curtains. Another light comes on upstairs and a few minutes later is extinguished. He reaches behind his seat, awkwardly, feeling for the plastic bag with his bottle of whisky and, as he unscrews the cap, he knows he is crossing a line. He drinks anyway, feeling the spirit warm him but bringing little comfort.

He has to make a decision, but a strange weariness has overtaken him and he can’t force himself to move. Fifteen more minutes, he thinks, and then I’ll decide. The deadline comes and goes. He lights another cigarette, drinks from the bottle. When I finish this cigarette, that’s it, he says to himself. I’ll either start the car and drive back or get out and cross the road. By the time he stubs out his cigarette on the wing mirror, he has made his decision and reaches for the key on the passenger seat.

When he turns his head, he is aware of movement in his peripheral vision as a figure emerges from the house opposite and walks down the front steps. The man comes towards him and, for less than a second, his face is illuminated by the streetlight.

PART ONE

1

8.37 am, Friday, 28 August 1998

From his corner office on the fourth floor, Detective Inspector John Burroughs looks out across the rooftops of Battersea and beyond. Although he can’t actually see it, he likes to visualise the River Thames snaking its way past Greenwich, winding through the Essex countryside and onwards to the sea. He usually finds this image calming, but today it isn’t working; he feels disoriented and uncharacteristically anxious. Ever since Lynn moved out, the pattern and routine of his life that gave him a sense of completeness has broken apart, like a dismantled jigsaw puzzle.

It’s a Friday morning with an empty weekend stretching interminably ahead of him and he is swamped by an aching loneliness. He has no children to fall back on for company and his only sibling, a younger sister, lives in Canada. The nature of his work and the antisocial hours he keeps mean that the majority of his friends are work colleagues, which he knows isn’t healthy. Lynn was the sociable one in their marriage.

Although it’s still early, the oppressive heat is making his skin prickle and he opens a window to let in the non-existent breeze. He gazes once more into the distance as if expecting to see a different view, then sits down at his desk and reaches for his coffee. He is savouring his first sip when the intercom buzzes and, in the process of putting down his cup and picking up the phone, he sloshes brown liquid all over himself and the pile of papers on his desk. The day isn’t starting well.

‘Burroughs,’ he barks into the mouthpiece as he dabs angrily at the spilt coffee with his handkerchief.

It’s the duty officer.

‘I’ve got a James Scott on the line, sir. He says his wife’s missing.’

‘Why are you putting this through to me?’ John snaps. ‘You know perfectly well there’s a procedure for reporting missing persons and, as far as I know, that doesn’t involve me.’

‘I know that, sir, but just before I spoke to Mr Scott an anonymous call came in from a man saying he had heard screaming from a house in Bramall Road in the early hours of this morning. I thought it was a hoax as he sounded like a bit of a nutter, but now I’m not so sure.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Mr Scott’s wife was last known to be at that same address.’

‘Fuck,’ John mutters under his breath. This is the last thing he wants to deal with when he’s got a huge stack of files to wade through.

‘Sir?’

‘Okay, you’d better put him through then,’ John says, and waits for the line to click.

Five minutes later, he picks up his notepad, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and walks out of his office into the crowded operations room, nearly tripping over the wastepaper basket that has somehow moved itself into his path. Its contents spill across the floor. A horrible pile of detritus rather like my life, John thinks, as he stoops to clear up the mess.

*

Detective Sergeant Lucy Burton is so absorbed in the Guardian quick crossword that she doesn’t notice her boss walking towards her until she hears the urgent ‘Psst!’ from Matt Harvey, whose desk backs onto hers.

The DI approaches and she folds the paper away furtively, registering the grim expression on his face with a sinking heart. Here we go, she thinks. But he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Burton,’ he says, beckoning to her, ‘I need a woman, come with me.’

From across the room there comes a wolf whistle – not surprisingly from Adam Newman – and some laughter from his colleagues.

‘That’s enough from you, Newman, and clear up your desk, it’s a bloody disgrace.’

‘Sorry, guv. Yes, guv.’

Lucy knows what her boss can be like when he’s in this mood and nervously begins to straighten some papers.

‘No time for that,’ John growls. ‘We need to get going.’

He marches so fast up the long corridor that Lucy has to run to keep up and, by the time they reach the lift, she is panting.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ John asks as he jabs at the down button.

‘Nothing, it’s just that my legs are half the length of yours. You were setting quite a pace there.’

‘Sorry, forgot you were a short-arse.’

Lucy flashes him a disapproving look.

‘You know I was joking, right?’

‘Obviously.’

Lucy grins at him and they both laugh, the tension evaporating.

In the lift, Lucy glances sideways at John, taking in his crumpled and coffee-splattered shirt. He has been very distracted over the last month or two and they are all worried about him.

‘What?’ he says.

‘How are you getting on? I know it must be hard adjusting.’

‘Oh, I’m alright. It’s not much fun going back to an empty house every night but I suppose I’ll get used to it. And I can’t even work the bloody washing machine. The white sheets have turned blue and my favourite T-shirt wouldn’t even fit a five-year-old.’

‘It’s not just men who do that,’ says Lucy, smiling at the idea of John trying to squeeze into a minuscule T-shirt.

The doors of the lift open and John gestures for her to go ahead. They leave the building through the back entrance and walk to the far side of the car park, this time side by side.

‘What about Lynn?’ Lucy asks.

‘She’s moved in with her new friend. Ha! That didn’t take her long.’

‘Really? I can’t believe it.’ Lucy is stunned by this news; she knew that Lynn had moved out a while ago but was hoping it was a temporary blip in the marriage. ‘I didn’t realise anyone else was involved.’

‘Nor did I until last week.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Some guy who came to her for counselling a couple of years ago. Nothing happened at the time, apparently, but they bumped into each other again somewhere and Bob’s your uncle.’

Lucy can hear the bitterness in John’s voice. She feels she should offer some comforting words, but can’t think of anything to say and avoids the problem by changing the subject.

‘So where are we going – fill me in,’ she says as they climb into the car.

‘Long story short, an anonymous caller contacted the station this morning saying he had heard screaming from a house in Bramall Road during the night and shortly after that a man called James Scott rang to report his wife missing, last known to be at that same address. Her name’s Nicky. She was meant to be going back to stay with her friend in Battersea yesterday evening and never showed up. The friend called him in a panic this morning.’

‘Where was Scott calling from, then?’

‘He’s at some hotel in Bournemouth. He’s attending a conference there.’

Lucy listens intently as John recounts his conversation with James Scott and tries to conjure up a mental image of the man he is describing.

‘How did he sound?’

‘He was in a state, speaking fast, stumbling over his words. He asked if he should drive up, but I told him to wait until we’d been to the house.’

‘What sort of person is he, do you think?’

John scoffs. ‘From the way he spoke to me – entitled, white, middle-class, in that order.’

Lucy tuts and shakes her head in mock admonishment.

‘That sounds a bit chippy to me.’

‘I just know the type, that’s all.’

The traffic is crawling along Wandsworth Road and they are quiet for a moment while John navigates a shortcut through the back roads – driving too fast, in Lucy’s opinion – then they both start speaking at the same time.

‘You go,’ John says.

‘I just wondered if you wanted to come over for a barbecue tomorrow evening. I know Charlie would like to see you. I’ve got my sister staying and there’s a couple of other people coming.’

‘You trying to set me up with your sister?’

‘You wish! That’s the last thing on my mind, or hers. She’s going through a messy divorce, but she’s great company and I think you need to get out. I could even give you a lesson on my washing machine.’

‘That’s certainly something I could do with.’

‘And talking of sisters,’ Lucy says, ‘how’s Mary settling into married life in Toronto?’

‘She’s loving it, but I have to say I really miss her, particularly now I’m on my own.’

John’s younger sister, Mary, is an old friend of Lucy’s and it was she who had suggested that Lucy apply for the job at Lavender Hill when it came up three years ago. Lucy’s husband, Charlie, and John have always got on well and the two men meet up regularly at their local squash club. Having a family connection with her boss occasionally makes things awkward, but John goes out of his way not to favour Lucy – addressing her by her last name in work situations – and they both avoid discussing personal issues in front of their colleagues.

John turns into Bramall Road with a slight squeal of tyres before slowing down to a crawl as Lucy scans the house numbers.

‘It’s number six,’ he says. ‘Further down, I think. The house belongs to James Scott’s brother, but he’s away in India.’

‘What was Scott’s wife doing there, then?’

‘It’s complicated – I’ll explain later.’

‘Well, how are we going to get in if nobody answers the door?’ Lucy asks.

‘You’re on the ball on this morning. Apparently the keyholders live directly opposite. I wrote down the name,’ he replies, gesturing to the notebook propped behind the gearstick.

Halfway down the road, Lucy notices a man walking in the same direction. He has a slight limp and, as they pass, he turns his head towards the car and briefly catches her eye. Further on, a woman wearing a sleeveless dress with blue and white stripes is manoeuvring a double pram through a gate and onto the pavement. Her face is flushed and Lucy knows just how she feels; it’s not even nine o’clock and despite the air-conditioning in the car it’s already uncomfortably warm. The brief rainstorm they had last night has done nothing to dispel the humidity and Lucy can feel the dampness on her forehead as she pushes her fringe off her face. As John pulls across the road to park outside number six, Lucy picks up a hint of stale sweat and wonders if he’s forgotten to put on deodorant or has been wearing the same shirt two days running. John has always taken good care of himself but, since Lynn left, he seems to have given up on his appearance. He’s even developing a small paunch.

John opens the rear door and reaches for his jacket on the back seat, but seems to change his mind.

‘It’s too effing hot,’ he says, standing up and looking across to the house on the other side of the road.

‘Let’s see if anyone’s at home.’

*

The peeling paint on the window frames and tired façade give the house away as one of the few in the street that haven’t yet succumbed to gentrification, but what really makes it stand out from its neighbours is the blue window boxes filled with clashing pink, red and orange plastic flowers. There is no bell, just an old-fashioned knocker, which sounds surprisingly loud when it bangs against the door. Out of the corner of his eye, John notices a net curtain twitching in one of the front windows, then a few seconds later the door opens a few inches on the chain.

‘Yes,’ says a woman, speaking through the small gap and looking up at John with two beady eyes.

‘Good morning, madam,’ John says, showing his badge. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Burroughs and this is Detective Sergeant Burton. Are you Irene Hall, by any chance?’

‘Yes, I am, what do you want? What’s happened?’ There is a hint of panic in her voice and John reassures her quickly.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, Mrs Hall. James Scott told us you have a spare set of keys to his brother Michael’s house opposite and we need to get in urgently.’

‘Well, do you have a warrant or something?’

‘We don’t need a warrant,’ John says, trying to hide his impatience. ‘Please can you open the door? As I said, this is extremely serious. Someone may be hurt and we need to get in straight away.’

A shout comes from deep inside the house. ‘Who is it, love?’

‘It’s the police, Vic,’ she calls back. ‘They want the keys to Mikey’s house.’ She closes the door, slips the chain, and then reopens it to its full width.

Irene Hall is a small, rotund woman, not much over five feet by John’s calculation. Even Lucy towers over her as she blinks up at them. Her paisley-patterned housecoat is too tight; it strains against the buttons all the way down her front, emphasising her ample figure.

For a moment no one speaks.

‘The keys?’ John says.

‘I’ll just get them. Do you want me to come across and let you in?’

‘No, that’s fine. We’ll manage.’

She shuffles off down the hall, opens a cupboard and lifts some keys off a hook.

‘Here you are, then,’ she says, making a point of handing the keys to Lucy.

John smiles at her small act of defiance.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hall. I’d be grateful if you didn’t go out for the time being, in case we need to speak to you again later.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she says.

John and Lucy exchange a look. They have met a hundred Irene Halls.

*

As the woman closes the door behind them, John and Lucy stand on the pavement looking across at Michael Scott’s house. With four storeys, it’s one of the larger properties on the street and, in stark contrast to the Halls’ house, looks as if it has been recently renovated. There is no trace of London grime on the scrubbed pink brickwork and the gloss paint of the navy-blue front door and the white frames of the sash windows are gleaming in the sun. The mature wisteria growing up the front of the house reaches almost to the third floor and a late-season lilac, with its abundant purple flowers, stands to the right of the front steps, shielding the basement window. Apart from the closed curtains on the ground floor, it all looks very innocuous.

‘Come on,’ John says, tapping Lucy lightly on her arm. ‘Let’s see what’s happening over there.’

Approaching the pavement on the other side of the road, Lucy jumps with fright as John grabs her arm and pulls her to one side. She scans the road quickly, wondering what he has seen.

‘Watch out,’ he says, pointing to a flattened dog turd by the kerb.

John opens the gate and Lucy follows him up the steps to the front door. He rings the doorbell, keeping his finger pressed on the button for a few seconds before bending down and pushing open the brass flap of the letterbox. He peers through the narrow gap, but the angle is such that he can only see the carpet with a few letters scattered across it.

‘Hello,’ he calls. ‘Hello, anyone there?’ He listens intently but no sound comes from inside.

He climbs onto a low wall to the right side of the front steps and, putting his hands on the adjacent windowsill, manages to look through a gap in the curtains into what is clearly a sitting room. Everything looks normal.

When he is standing in front of the door again, Lucy hands him the keys. He slides the long key into the lower lock, but it is already open so he tries the smaller key in the top latch and feels it give. He pushes the door open.

With Lucy close behind, he steps through the door and they find themselves looking down a carpeted hallway. John gasps and Lucy’s hand flies involuntarily to her mouth as they simultaneously see a body lying at the bottom of the stairs, a dark halo of blood surrounding the head.

‘Christ,’ John says. ‘Wait there.’

He goes forward slowly and bends over the woman’s body, feeling for a pulse. Her wrist is cold and he has seen enough dead bodies to know there won’t be one.

‘Call the station,’ he says to Lucy, who is standing rigid by the door. ‘Get the team round.’

John takes some latex gloves out of his pocket, slips them on and, carefully stepping over the body, walks into the first room on the right, the sitting room, and has a quick look round. There is no sign that anyone has been in there, so he goes back into the hall and carries on into the kitchen at the back of the house where two glasses, an empty champagne bottle and a bowl are neatly placed by the sink. A set of keys is lying on the sideboard next to a suede handbag, which he gently opens with one finger and takes out a red purse. Inside it he finds some cash, a few cards and a driving licence. He removes the licence and, admonishing himself for forgetting his glasses, holds it up to the light of the window at arm’s length, and is only just able to read the small writing: Nicola Anne Butler. He notes the different surname, but it doesn’t particularly bother him since James Scott had given him a detailed description and he had seen the birthmark on her wrist when he felt for her pulse. There is no doubt that the woman lying in the hallway is Scott’s wife.

Stepping back over the body, John goes upstairs and has a quick look inside every room. The chances of there being anyone else here are remote, but you never know what you might find. He hears the sirens just before Lucy shouts up to him and goes outside to join her.

*

As soon as everyone has gathered, John holds a short meeting on the front steps. Lucy listens intently, trying not to think about what she has just seen inside. Despite her years of experience, she is always shocked by how much blood there is.

‘Right, everybody,’ John says. ‘This is now a potential crime scene. James Scott reported his wife, Nicky, missing this morning and I believe the body inside to be hers. Tape off the street for fifty yards either side of the house and only let residents through if they have ID. And Burton, see if anyone’s in the basement – it looks like a separate flat – then go and speak to Irene Hall and find out if she saw anything; I’ll talk to the other neighbours. And one more thing: get hold of James Scott and ask him to come up to London as soon as he can. I’ll need to ask him some questions and we can’t break the news to him over the phone. I’ll meet him at the station.’

He rips a page out of his notebook and hands it to her.

‘These are his numbers. Okay, to work, everyone.’

Lucy turns to Detective Constable Karen Williams, who is hovering nearby.

‘Karen, the photographer and doctor are going to be here soon. Can you stay here and deal with them?’

The