Good Girls Don't Die (13 page)

The house was at the end of a terrace in a back street of Colchester near the old military garrison area. Grace had learned that, as a long-delayed estate sale, it had been empty for nearly a year. Unmodernised for a couple of decades before that, it would need total gutting, which is why Pawel Zawodny had been able to get it cheap. But it was also slightly bigger than its neighbours, with three bedrooms rather than the usual two, which would significantly increase his rental returns. He had only completed on the sale the previous week, gaining possession of the keys the day before Polly’s disappearance.

It had been Grace who had drawn Keith’s attention to Pawel’s passing mention of a new rental property, and at their second interview she had asked him more about it. He had supplied the address and voluntarily instructed his solicitor to surrender the keys; had, indeed, been meticulously helpful throughout, although never offering a word or detail more than necessary. Grace found it increasingly difficult to read him. She guessed his solicitor had told him
it was unlikely that he’d be held for more than twenty-four hours, so it was understandable that he’d shown a gritted annoyance when informed that they’d been granted a twelve-hour extension, and that they could apply to hold him for up to four days. But it was impossible to tell whether the clench of his jaw and the glint of steel in his blue eyes was understandable resentment or renewed determination not to give an inch.

When the team had gathered for this morning’s briefing, there’d been a definite sense of resignation in the air. Lance had taken it badly the day before when Grace had confirmed it had been Danny, not Pawel, whom Polly had approached for a lift, almost as if she’d gone out of her way to thwart him, and he had remained detached and distant when they’d gone together to ask Jessica and Amber if either could add to the picture of their landlord. Meanwhile, forensics had not so far come up with anything useful either from his boat – certainly nothing to show that Polly had been recently aboard – or his truck. Uniform had begun canvassing local sex workers, but none had recognised Zawodny as a punter. And so far the worst said of him by any of the other past tenants they’d contacted was that sometimes he’d use his key to enter the house without letting them know in advance.

But then house-to-house had called in to say that their early-morning enquiries around the moorings had brought forward a witness who had seen the owner of the
Daisy Chain
carrying heavy and well-wrapped bin bags aboard the previous weekend, the day after Polly’s disappearance.
Concealing their jubilation, she and Duncan had immediately put this to Pawel. But he had an answer for everything – seemed almost to be enjoying the cat-and-mouse game between them – and had coolly admitted taking rubbish to dump at sea in order to avoid builders’ fees at the recycling centre. But the witness was solid and reliable, just the type that a jury would take note of, and the earlier mood of defeat had lifted.

And now they were here, on the doorstep of Zawodny’s fourth property purchase. Keen not to attract unnecessary attention, Grace and Lance now sheltered each another from twitching Sunday-afternoon net curtains as they pulled on gloves before opening the half-glazed front door with its chipped and faded paintwork. Keith had been unwilling to extend the budget to a full forensic sweep until they’d seen inside, but had – unnecessarily it seemed to her – impressed upon them that they could be entering a crime scene. Grace had taken the SIO’s over-cautious reminder to be a sign of his heightened anxiety.

The Yale lock was ridiculously loose, and clearly Pawel’s first priority had been to secure his investment by adding a shiny new deadlock. Inside, she and Lance slipped protective covers over their shoes and she took care to follow in his footsteps across the litter of defunct post and fliers for pizza deliveries. Two doors on the right led first into a small, square front parlour with a lethal-looking gas fire and filthy unlined curtains drooping from a broken rail, and then into a near-identical room with a window overlooking whatever overgrown backyard lay beyond. Both
rooms were otherwise empty, and the detectives did not further disturb the thick dust on the uncovered floorboards that bore the evidence of someone, presumably Pawel, walking around in sturdy ridge-soled boots.

The narrow hallway retained its patterned Edwardian floor tiles. They were smeared and grimy, as was the planking of the under-stairs cupboard, and some of the marks looked recent. Not much light reached the back of the hallway, and there was no bulb in the socket of the overhead light. While Lance shone his torch on the dirty paintwork, Grace squeezed past him to open a third door that led into a musty-smelling scullery kitchen at the back. She could see mouse droppings on the floor and reckoned the decaying beige Melamine cupboards must have been put in years before she was born. A battered kettle tarnished with splatters of old paint and plaster sat on a portion of counter that had been cleared and wiped, and two broken chairs were drawn up to an equally clean Formica-topped table.

Grace called to Lance. ‘Look!’ She pointed to the table on which sat an opened economy-size box of tea bags, a bag of sugar, two chipped mugs, a stained teaspoon and an unopened bottle of Fire’n’Ice vodka.

Lance laughed in loud disbelief. ‘And he told us he only drank beer!’

This was the first lie they’d been able to catch Pawel out over, and Grace was happy to let Lance savour the moment, hoping that maybe this small success might encourage him to forget his frostiness.

‘It’s not been opened,’ she pointed out.

‘Could be for future use!’

‘Shall we bag it up or leave it for the CSIs?’ she asked.

‘Leave it. They may want to photograph it. But we ought to get out of here.’

‘Check upstairs first?’

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Keith, let him know.’

Grace knew it was better if only one of them contaminated the area, but she made her way alone up the steep uncarpeted stairs with trepidation. At the top she called out: ‘Anyone there?’ She did not expect a response, and felt foolish that Lance would have heard her. With her gloved fingertips she pushed open the first door opening off the tiny landing, peered into the front bedroom and only just stopped herself crying out before she realised that what she was looking at was a heap of mouldy carpet that had been clumsily rolled back to expose the floorboards. From the threshold she looked carefully, but could not see how a body could possibly be concealed within its awkward contours.

She cocked her ear, too, for any telltale buzzing: if Polly had been killed here, if she’d been dead for a week, then in this heat there’d be flies – and a really bad smell – but there was nothing.

Swallowing hard, she turned to the next door which opened onto little more than a box room; it was filled with junk, but she’d have to leave that for the CSIs to sift through. The rust-stained bathroom was empty and the door to the back bedroom was locked. Before she could stop herself,
Grace tapped gently with a knuckle. Laughing at her nerviness, she tucked her hand into her armpit, then saw that there was a key below the handle, set into an old-fashioned beaten-metal fingerplate. She turned it, pushing open the door, but closed it again instantly when the movement was met with a scary whoosh and flap of wings that sent a waft of warm, stale air into her face.

Letting her heart rate return to normal, she opened the door again more slowly, looked into the room and guessed at once that it had been locked as a reminder that broken sash cords had left a wide gap at the top of the window through which roosting pigeons had entered. The floor was covered in a mess of dirt, dust and feathers. There were no footprints. No one had been in here for months.

As Grace made her way downstairs, she could see through the banisters the beam of Lance’s torch as he inspected the marks on the woodwork and tiled floor of the hallway. He looked up at her happily. ‘Anything upstairs?’

‘Don’t think so. You got anything there?’

‘Hard to tell. Keith says the CSIs are on their way. We’re to wait here and let them in.’

‘OK.’ She didn’t like it here. She felt suddenly bone tired and wanted to sit down and rest, but knew she couldn’t. ‘Shall we wait in the car?’

Lance looked as if she’d taken away his favourite toy, but then nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

Grace was relieved to shut the front door behind them. In the car, she wished she’d told Lance everything when she’d had the chance that other day, driving back from
Wivenhoe. Though whether it would really have made much difference now she had no idea. Someone else had clearly given him the version of events that everyone in Kent had stuck to, so that in his eyes she was a grass, a sneak, not to be trusted, to be kept at arm’s length, and she’d have to live with that.

But it meant that she couldn’t properly explain to him the power of the memories evoked by this little terraced house – the same as in street after street of little terraced houses throughout England, the same as her former home in Maidstone. Up until now, even when the news had come in about Pawel carrying something heavy and well-wrapped aboard his boat, Grace’s deep-down, gut instinct had whispered to her that Pawel was not a murderer. But the sight of the familiar patterns of those Edwardian floor tiles had been a sickening reminder that gut instinct was not reliable. She’d have sworn blind when she married Trev that never in a million years would he lay a finger on her. Staked her life on it. How wrong you could be. She hoped that Polly’s instincts had served her better.

The girl was a little cracker! She’d done everything Ivo had asked, and more – delivered a diamond as big as the bloody Ritz. Roxanne, of course, didn’t have a clue what she’d got hold of, but Ivo had lost no time in showing the Young Ferret the rabbit hole. Red in tooth and claw, the nimble little predator shouldn’t take too long to report back – ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies – and then Ivo should be able to see every shining facet of the gem. He might even have to pop back to London tonight, as no doubt the lawyers would be wanting to take a gander at this one.

All the same, he must be going soft: he’d been gratified enough to call his news editor and put Roxanne’s name on the list for weekend shifts, and now she was so excited she could hardly sit still. Little Ms Ants-In-Her-Pants. He’d spelled it out to her that he’d go front-page with her big scoop and take sole credit for it. In return all she’d earn would be a few brownie points with Detective Superintendent Stalgood if she ran an inside spread in her own paper on Keith’s tip about fat-cat university bureaucrats. Hardly
a fair trade, but she hadn’t even cared. Oh, to be young!

The room was jam-packed. Even Whatshername from Sky News was here, busy touching up her lipstick while the production assistant with the reflectors got in everyone’s way. Ivo already knew what they’d be running with. They needed more interesting pictures than the stills and talking heads that would satisfy the BBC, so they’d had some specialist ex-SAS tracker out along the creeks all day, plugging his latest action thriller while pretending to search for Polly. Poor old Keith would hate that: it could only make the parents think the police weren’t trying hard enough. A crying shame, really.

Meanwhile his fellow cowboys had opened a book on how long it would take for Whatshername to bonk the ex-SAS tracker. From what Ivo had heard, he’d need every survival skill he could muster to come out walking upright after that little adventure. Good luck to her!

He could imagine that Hilary Burnett, too, was probably sliding off her chair. He bet she’d never faced this kind of full-on buzz in her previous job over the launch of some new anti-ageing potion. But if she reckoned this mob were going to queue up nicely for their goodie bags and then be grateful, her lifespan here would prove to be brutal and short.

Ivo was looking forward to seeing the Ice Maiden again, too, now that he knew so much more about her. She wore her travails lightly, he’d say that for her. The Young Ferret had managed to get him a copy of the police surgeon’s report, and her delight of a husband had done a pretty thorough job. Ivo probably wouldn’t use it, but it was dandy
back-pocket stuff: always useful to have an angle, something to give a filler a bit of thrust.

Keith, Hilary and the Ice Maiden finally put in an appearance, and the room quickly settled down. Everyone had deadlines and no one wanted to string this out longer than necessary. He caught a quick little smile of greeting from DS Fisher to Roxanne, who sat starry-eyed beside him, but the flash was gone as soon as it came. Ivo waited impatiently for Keith to announce that they had arrested a thirty-four-year-old man on suspicion of murder, then heaved a sigh of relief; with any luck, thanks to Roxanne, the
Courier
would be the only paper to lead with the man’s identity: Pawel Zawodny, a Polish carpenter and the girls’ landlord.

Ivo loved having the edge over the opposition. He could exclusively reveal not only that Pawel Zawodny would’ve had keys to both Polly and Rachel’s rented houses – and could sneak in and spy on them in the shower whenever he had mind to – but had a boat, too. Ivo had been just in time to organise a shot of the little cabin cruiser before the police got it covered up and sealed off. ‘Watery grave’ might be a bit premature but it had a certain ring to it as a future headline.

Even though Ivo knew the police had been making themselves busy in Wivenhoe all weekend, Keith was giving nothing away, which made it all the more imperative that Ivo seize ownership of this new suspect before anyone else got wise to him. Give him a moniker, that was the trick. And besides, a good nickname always increased circulation. In his own head, Ivo had already dubbed Zawodny ‘the
Ferryman’, but he feared the reference might be too classical to play well with his readers. Oh, the perils of a minor public school education.

The detective superintendent went on to say that they’d been granted a thirty-six hour extension for further questioning, and then wisely left it to his communications director to confirm that Dr Matt Beeston remained of interest to them but had been released on police bail. There wasn’t much point concealing
his
name any longer, and Keith had made it pretty plain the other night that this was one he
wanted
thrown to the wolves. The ‘campus sex pest’ had found the media camped out on his doorstep when he got home, and the images of him trying to escape from them, looking furtive and unkempt in his shorts and football shirt, would doubtless dog him for the rest of his life.

Dr Beeston really should’ve known better than to run and hide. Had no one told him that the worst sin in Fleet Street is to refuse to talk to the press? After all, no one appreciates getting the door slammed in his face. Roxanne had told Ivo that the Internet trolls had already latched on to the lecturer, despite his having deleted all his social media accounts. And he still had the joy of faeces in Jiffy bags and over-elaborate death threats to look forward to.

Keith was now appealing directly to camera for anyone who was in Colchester town centre from midnight onwards on the relevant nights to come forward, regardless of whether or not they thought they’d seen either of the two young women. His team, the superintendent explained, wanted to build as full a picture of events as possible.

Ivo had known Keith long enough to recognise the confidence in his voice, but Ivo was also damn sure that this appeal meant they still didn’t have the clincher with which to charge Zawodny. Ivo had seen this kind of ‘let’s saddle ’em up and ride out’ certainty before, and knew just how very wrong it could go. It’s a great day, Ivo thought to himself. Now just watch some bastard like me spoil it.

He also spotted that Hilary was at pains not to mention Polly more than necessary, despite the promising lead of her landlord’s boat. It would not be long before the number of days Polly had been missing – the number printed every day in heavy black type in the top-right corner of the
Courier
’s front page – reached double figures. That was unlikely to play well with the SIO’s lords and masters, especially not with the spin Ivo would put on it. Polly, the golden girl with the golden retriever, whose golden future lay in the balance, ‘Our Polly’ – Ivo had seen to it that she was no longer merely Phil and Beverly’s beloved daughter, but
everyone’s
daughter. It was so predictably simple to whip up an entire nation over the fate of a single child, and then to conjure up an urgent need to find someone to blame for all the borrowed outrage and grief. Still, after all, he’d only be doing what his readers wanted.

So who would the target be this time? The university authorities? The Home Secretary? If the police didn’t manage to charge this second suspect very soon, then the answer would be horribly easy: ‘Clueless Keith’. Even his bosses would take care to distance themselves the moment they saw what was in tomorrow’s paper.