The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4) (31 page)

It was a dated building, a low-rise development on the King’s Hedges side of the road. A few years back it had had a poor reputation, but its recent fortunes had seen a complete turnaround and, apart from the location, Goodhew doubted there were many similarities between this school and the one Brett, Stone and the others had attended. Even so, he pulled into the empty school car park in order to call Kincaide.

‘Are you still with the Faulkners?’

‘Just leaving.’

‘Tony Brett seemed strangely shocked that Mrs Faulkner was the same person as the Sarah Sumner that he’d known at school. Something rattled him, possibly connected with Amanda Stone.’

‘Did you actually ask him?’

‘Yes, I actually did and he wasn’t up for discussing it. Can you bring up Tony Brett and Amanda Stone with her and let me know whether Brett’s reaction means anything to her? Ring me back as soon as you can.’

Kincaide didn’t sound pleased but agreed.

Goodhew finished the call and stared across the car park to the dimly lit buildings. One of the side doors opened and a short man in a boilersuit raised his hand as he walked in Goodhew’s direction. Goodhew stepped from the car and waited.

The grey-haired man looked about sixty. He wore Buddy Holly glasses and Doc Martens that looked as though they were polished regularly. ‘No evening classes tonight, sir, they’ve been cancelled.’

Goodhew introduced himself. ‘Do you work here?’

‘Caretaker. Harry Groves.’

‘I’m wondering whether there are any teachers here who would have been here in 1984.’

Harry Groves thought. ‘Mr Durant, maths, and Mrs Lawrie, geography. And me, but obviously I don’t teach.’

‘Would you remember pupil names that far back?’

‘Names like Johnnie and Vincent Wren?’

Hearing their names caught Goodhew off guard, Groves gave a small smile and continued without Goodhew saying anything. ‘That’s all that year became. The kids were traumatized, even the ones that didn’t know those boys. It was the worst year we’ve ever had for children changing schools, also for kids fighting with each other.’

‘I’m curious about some of the other pupils who were here at the same time.’ Goodhew reeled off the names.

Groves nodded at each. ‘Yes, can’t get all the faces clear, but Stone and Wren were mates. The two girls hung out together too, sometimes on their own but often with the boys. You named three, there was a fourth. You know they were a particularly tricky bunch.’

‘Tricky?’

‘Let’s just say I’m charitable. I know Joey McCarthy died but I’m not even sure I can put the right description with the right name. Have you got a minute or two?’

Not really.
‘Fine.’

Harry Groves led him into the foyer and flicked on a panel of overhead lights. The walls displayed framed school photos going back about thirty years. Goodhew wondered how the younger students felt if they had to face a dodgy adolescent snapshot of one or both of their parents each time they sat outside the Head’s office.

Groves found the 1984 photo and almost pressed his nose against the glass as he studied the tiny faces. ‘There.’ He had picked out Len Stacy. ‘A thug. Not without his good moments, but liked to talk with his fists. I didn’t have much of a problem with him; I knew where I stood and he was never smart enough to get away with much. That one . . .’

‘Joey McCarthy.’

‘Thought it might be. Nasty boy – and I rarely think that. Most have redeeming features, and maybe McCarthy changed, but I doubt it. Spiteful child. Selfish but charming too. It was the charm I hated. When he wanted something, he had no conscience. The other two were younger.’ He moved his fingers, one in between Len and Joey and the other to a scrawny kid in the row in front. The in-between kid was Tony Brett, the one in front Goodhew was sure he’d never seen before. Groves tilted his head to one side, frowning until the missing answer found its way into the correct part of his brain. ‘Tont Brett and Ross Viney!’ He sounded triumphant. ‘Younger than the other boys. Stone was hot tempered, but not that tough. I could understand why he hung around with the other two, I suppose. No doubt looked up to them in some way, but that kid . . .’ Groves tapped the boy’s face. It was hard to see detail, but it was obvious that Ross Viney had been small for his age and his complexion was the shade of pale pink that went along with freckles. ‘Always so quiet, tagging along with the others like some sort of shadow. I don’t think many people even noticed him.’

‘Any idea what happened to him afterwards?’

‘No. Once they’ve left it’s only the spectacularly successful or the spectacularly criminal that we hear about. And sometimes when they die.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s about four hundred and thirty kids in this school and I’ve been here for twenty-eight years now – you work it out. I’m shocked I remember as many as I do.’

Fair point. Goodhew thanked him and headed back to his car. Groves followed and Goodhew had opened his door before the caretaker spoke again.

‘Course, Ross Viney’s lad Declan is a pupil at the moment.’

Goodhew turned slowly. ‘His son? How old is he?’

‘Final year, so fifteen or sixteen.’

Goodhew nodded, shut himself inside the car, out of earshot of Groves, and contacted the control room. ‘I need the address for a Declan Viney. Age fifteen or sixteen. Pupil at the Manor School, King’s Hedges.’

‘Hold on.’

‘It’s urgent.’

A pause. Background noise. Hesitation.

‘I’m patching you through to DI Marks.’

‘No! Just give me the address.’

But his call was already being redirected. Goodhew started the engine and spun the car round until its nose was poking out on to the Arbury Road.
Come on, come on
.

The line opened. ‘Goodhew?’

‘I need—’

Marks cut him short. ‘Control just explained. Where did you hear the name Declan Viney?’

‘We need to find him. He could be in danger.’

‘He’s dead.’

Two simple words but Goodhew couldn’t digest them. ‘He can’t be.’

‘Pulled out of the Cam an hour ago. Possible ID only in the last few minutes – and then
you
phone. I need you back here fast.’ Goodhew flicked on the vehicle’s lights and sirens, and accelerated towards the city centre.

‘We need to find Libby Brett at once!’ Goodhew shouted.

‘We’re looking for her already, Gary.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Goodhew didn’t make it as far as the next junction before his mobile rang, and the fear in Charlotte Stone’s voice was present from the very first word.

The record for completing the King Street Run stands at fourteen minutes and five seconds. Many, students in particular, suspect it’s not so tough. But most of those don’t make it beyond the third pub in that time and soon realize that the last pub, the St Radegund, may as well be in the next county.

The last of the daylight had gone as Matt leaned his back against the wall of their old student house and slid into a squatting position. It wasn’t the quantity of beer but the combination of adrenaline and an empty stomach that left him feeling happier now that he was closer to street-level.

He wrapped his arms around his knees and waited for Oslo, Phil and Jamie. And, despite knowing she’d gone to meet her dad, he kept watching for Libby too.

For him, the last half an hour had changed everything.

Initially Matt hadn’t really cared whether he made it beyond the second pub, and he didn’t think the others did either. For once they’d united, and saying goodbye to Meg and Shanie was all that mattered. Libby had stood on the pavement – okay, so she wasn’t racing, but she was there and it meant a lot to him.

He had walked across and given her a hug. ‘Thank you.’

She’d shrugged. ‘I’m glad I came. I understand now why this is a good thing.’

He’d hugged her again, tighter this time, relieved that she couldn’t see the inane grin which had just appeared on his face.

‘I texted Aunty Sandra so she knows I’m running late. But I’m only going to hang on until you have run the first two pubs.’

He’d nodded. ‘I’ll text you when I finish.’

‘Finish or give up?’

‘We’ll see, but I’ll carry on as far as I can. I think four pints is the max for me.’

Libby had tapped him on the arm then to remind him that Phil, Oslo and Jamie were standing next to them. She’d been a little self-conscious as she spoke to them all. ‘I’ll be gone by the time you finish, so I’d better say it now. I think Shanie and Meg would be pleased you’ve all done this.’ With Oslo and Phil, the goodbye had been brief and still a little stiff, but as she’d held Jamie tightly, the affection between them was clear. Then she took a couple of steps back and watched as the starting whistle blew and the whole pack ran to pint number one.

When Matt emerged from the first pub, D’Arry’s, Libby was on the same spot. She’d waved and he was able to pick her voice from the rest as she shouted encouragement. The second pub, the Bun Shop, was across the road and the crowd had moved with the bulk of the runners so she’d now been closer. Again she waved.

That was all the pubs and pints he’d needed to do, one for Shanie and one for Meg. Matt’s knew how to drink too much, but usually lager, shots or a combination of the two. Pints of ale were a different game and just the second pint had left him feeling full. But the idea of the third pint being for his mum and the fourth for Nathan had casually entered his head and hadn’t felt like leaving since.

At two of the pubs the runners had to drink two pints to make up the seven, since a couple had closed down. He’d decided that if he could do that at the Champion of the Thames, maybe he could accompany Libby to visit her dad, and then they could both go home.

He’d managed to rush pint three, and swallowed number four as quickly as possible. Suddenly the only person he could think about was Libby. He’d felt himself sway as he made for the door. It wasn’t a stagger yet but it was headed that way. He wasn’t in the right state to see Libby’s dad at all.

He must have been slow getting through the pub doorway; some runners barged in, some barged out but he didn’t think to move and instead drifted back and forth in the opening like a loose strand of door curtain.

He’d studied the spectators with care; he’d known he was drunk and that meant she could be right under his nose and he might not see her.

But no, she’d gone. He’d stepped from the doorway at last; for him the race was over. And the only thing left was realizing how much he hadn’t wanted her to go. He scanned the crowd standing further down King Street, but she wasn’t there either.

It felt like she’d just vanished.

He’d shivered apprehensively, but the feeling continued and it remained with him as he finally sank to the ground.

A silver Vauxhall Astra had almost reached the centre of Cambridge at the same time as the King Street Run began. Nobby was careful to stay one or two miles an hour beneath the speed limit. He watched the road but his mind was full. There were too many questions raising their little mole-like heads, popping up from the darkness too quickly to be dispatched by well-directed answers.

He knew Declan Viney’s body had already been found, but had it been identified?

Connected with the other deaths?

Were the police looking for him yet?

Did he have the time to take Libby?

The questions began to pile up in his head. He couldn’t afford the distraction, but then he realized that only the last question mattered. There had been times when reaching the end had seemed an impossible task, but then he reminded himself of how clearly he knew it to be right when he set out. Now he mustn’t rush, since failure to get them all was failure. So he pressed on and, one by one, they’d all died.

But now that he was close to completion, his mood had changed. He buzzed with anticipation; the final weight would be lifting from his shoulders.

One more death.

Then arrest. But he wouldn’t confess to murder and that would mean the full courtroom circus. The chance to tell his story. To be vindicated.

And to ensure that, he had tried to kill with compassion. There was no need for them to suffer much. People wouldn’t understand if he did that.

Nobby coughed to clear his throat. He felt as though he hadn’t spoken to another human being in an age. ‘One, two, three.’ He sounded a little croaky. ‘One, two, three.’ Better.

He reached the end of King Street, only to find that it was temporarily blocked off. Obvious really: the road was narrow on a normal day, so filling it with drunks would mean emptying it of cars. He hadn’t considered that.

He parked the car as near as he could then typed a text before getting out. He didn’t press ‘send’ until Libby was within sight. He watched her fish her mobile from her pocket and see that her mum had sent her a text.
I NEED TO GO TO HOSPITAL. I’M HERE BUT CAN’T FIND YOU. MEET ME AT THE CAR. I’VE PULLED UP ON DOUBLE YELLOWS AT THE START OF SHORT STREET. MUM X

He’d examined her previous texts, and Libby’s mum texted all in caps, with full sentences. She always signed off with an ‘X’.

Looking at Libby hurrying off to find her family’s car confirmed to him that she suspected absolutely nothing. Bless her.

Tony Brett ran for home – his home, not his sister-in-law’s eight-by-seven charity box but the real thing. He needed to grab the car, work out where Libby was, and get her safe.

He reached his front door and banged on it, for the one thing that hadn’t been returned to him on his release was the door key. When there was no reply, he bent down and shouted through the letter-box.

He looked up the street; he had no doubt that there were noses twitching behind some of those curtains. Neighbours he’d known for years. He didn’t think he could turn to them now.

His own car was outside their house; Vicky’s wasn’t. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she would be out. And his car keys would be hanging up in the kitchen.

He went to the side of the house, picked up a brick and smashed through the nearest window.

Fuck the restraining order.

It was the least of his problems.