The Siren (23 page)

‘Flashes. Pain and black patches. The sound of my head cracking.’

‘Do you remember where you were?’

‘Police said it was outside some bar I’d never heard of.’

‘But you don’t agree?’

‘Don’t know. I thought I was at her apartment.’

‘Kimberly’s?’

‘Yes. But she said I’d left. It is possible.’

‘And you trust her?’

‘Another dumb question. When’s the press conference?’

‘They just phoned, and it’s being delayed. The police psychologist is worried that such publicity will tip Stefan Golinski over the edge.’

‘He’s no good without Rache.’

‘In what way?’

‘She was his safety catch.’

‘Her injuries were very similar to yours. Could Stefan have attacked you?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘It’s possible, though?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you think he could have killed Rachel?’

‘Absolutely. Like cutting off his own arm, but yes. His jealousy was out of control. I saw him throw a teenager down the stairs for just looking at her. He even hated Kimberly for being
her friend. He only tolerated her because of Nick.’

‘Her boyfriend, Nick Lewton?’ Goodhew corrected himself. ‘Her then boyfriend?’

‘It’s OK. There was some hero-worship shit going on there. Nick was the man, Stefan’s mentor. Rachel and Kimberly’s friendship had put Stefan up there with the bosses . .
.’

Goodhew cut in, trying to be helpful. ‘Nick Lewton and Craig Tennison?’

‘And Tamsin, the sister.’

Goodhew asked several more questions but, without warning, Jay either couldn’t or wouldn’t reply. Goodhew glanced first at Gully then, as his concern grew, turned to Anne.

‘He’s fine,’ she assured them. ‘You just have to wait. Sometimes he needs to think or rest, just like any other person.’

So Goodhew sat back and waited; finally Jay’s eyes started moving again. ‘Going to Spain was Kimberly’s only mistake. None of it is her fault.’

Goodhew leant closer. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell me?’

‘She’s in too deep.’

‘With what?’

‘All of it. She’s scared, but all she wants is Riley’s safety. Promise her that and she’ll talk to you.’

‘How can I promise her something that I can’t deliver?’

‘She thinks you’re OK. Tell her I said it’s time to trust the police. If she won’t talk, then come back here.’

THIRTY

As Goodhew left Hinton Avenue nursing home, he was hit by the impact of fresh air and the smell of newly mown grass. He guessed it had smelt like this on their way in, but he
hadn’t then been aware of it.

Gully was looking around her like she’d just been released from solitary.

‘D’you think they ever take him outside?’ she wondered.

The gardens weren’t large but they were well tended and full of mature shrubs. In the corner was a sycamore which cast a frilled shadow on to the lawn. ‘I’m sure they do. Small
consolation, though, eh?’

She shook her head. ‘What a shit life.’

‘When we find Rachel’s killer, it might help.’

‘Maybe, but he can hardly move on, can he?’ She stared into the middle distance, as though there might be a solution out there that the doctors had missed. He doubted she’d
find one, but it demonstrated that maybe she really did possess a more compassionate side.

It felt like a good moment to clear the air.

She headed to the driver’s side of the car and unlocked the door. The sun was shining into his eyes causing him to squint and making it difficult to see her clearly. He went ahead with his
question in any case. ‘Did you see me at Kimberly’s house last night, then?’

‘I make a couple of polite comments and then you think I’m a pushover?’

Goodhew sighed. ‘No, I thought you might discuss it with me, that’s all.’

‘And how else do you think Marks would know you were there?’

‘Dunno, Kincaide maybe?’

She made a sound like a pressure valve being released, yanked open the door and dropped into her seat. Goodhew followed suit, and was just in time to hear her mutter the word
‘pathetic’.

‘I didn’t accuse Kincaide. I just knew that it had to be one or other of you. And I couldn’t work out why
you
would have said it.’

‘Because it was the truth?’ Her eyes glinted angrily. ‘I don’t understand why it’s such a heinous crime to blow the whistle on a colleague when they’ve been
caught doing something blatantly wrong.’

‘And what was I doing?’

‘Leaving her room.’

‘No, I accompanied her back to the window, but I was never inside her room. And how could you believe she’d be carrying on with anyone when her child is missing? The more I think
about it, the more ridiculous that is.’

‘I saw you both: you scampering away and her half undressed.’

‘Well, lucky you.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It just came out.’ Goodhew regretted starting the conversation. ‘You did whatever you felt was appropriate.’

‘So why wouldn’t I go to Marks and tell him? You were taking advantage of a witness. You could jeopardize our entire investigation just to get your fingers in the cookie
jar.’

‘And if you’re so right, why am I still at work?’

Gully glowered at him. She really did possess an impressive selection of angry expressions.

‘Well, maybe,’ Goodhew continued, ‘maybe that’s because Marks knows me well enough to spot a crock of shit when he hears one.’

‘Yeah, and I’m so full of shit that he’s asked me to spend the entire day holding your hand.’ She started the engine. ‘Maybe Marks simply knows that he can’t
prove anything yet. When this is over, I’m sure he’ll suggest to Kimberly that she should make a complaint.’ She made a clumsy attempt at finding reverse, and the gearbox made a
chunking noise in protest. ‘And you can keep your cracks about women drivers to yourself,’ she snapped.

So much for clearing the air.

Goodhew picked up his mobile and phoned Marks.

THIRTY-ONE

DI Marks had started the day with a clear plan: first briefing, then press conference. At half-past ten he had met with Liz Bradley, the force’s press officer. A petite
woman in her early forties, she always dressed in suits which consisted of a hip length jacket and a skirt which stopped an inch above the knee. These suits seemed to be colour-coded to the
information she would be imparting; paler shades for good news, like improved crime statistics; fawns and greys for public information announcements; anti-speeding campaigns and the like; then
increasingly sombre shades for anything more serious. Today’s code was very dark navy-blue.

Marks had worked with Liz for at least fifteen years, therefore knew she possessed a great capacity for public relations, made wonderful eye contact, had an authoritative voice and the kind of
calmly logical brain that could make the most of any media opportunity. To back up her good points, she also had a fierce temper and a keen ability to sour the air if things didn’t go her
way.

She’d hurried into his office, as if propelled by the urgency of Riley Guyver’s plight, holding a sheaf of papers which he knew would be press releases and several drafts of the
statement that Kimberly Guyver would eventually read out loud.

Bradley was always highly efficient, even when working right in the middle of an ongoing police investigation, so he’d never known her to be thrown by an unexpected question, and guessed
that part of this was due to the groundwork she always put in. So, frustratingly slow as it might be, he knew that his meeting with her now would ensure that the final versions of the documents she
carried would become public only once they contained precisely the right messages.

Even so, he hadn’t expected it to take them an hour.

When she’d caught him glancing at his watch, her expression became stern. ‘The conference room at the Parkside Hotel is available. It’s being set up even as we
speak.’

‘Is 1 p.m. still possible, then?’

‘I’ll schedule it for 12.45.’

‘And they’ll get here in time?’

‘If they want the story, they’ll have to, won’t they,’ she replied, her voice suddenly cooling by several degrees. ‘I have already pre-warned them that it’s
likely to be early afternoon.’

He nodded slowly, reminding himself that he should have more faith in her organizational skills, having seen them in action often enough.

She mistakenly took his silence as a sign of hesitancy. ‘Let me explain. When the time is fixed for quarter to the hour, the obvious sub-text is ‘Every fifteen minutes
matters’, and as long as we’re under way by one prompt, then there will be just enough time for the story to be posted in the
Cambridge News
’s final edition . .
.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Let me finish.’ She held up her hand. ‘However, if you prefer we can shift the briefing to somewhere nearer three. It won’t then make the evening papers, just the
television and radio evening-news bulletins.’

‘The sooner the better.’ He passed some of her papers back across the desk. ‘Make sure it’s clear that Stefan Golinski could pose a threat to the public, then redraft
what you’ve got and let me see it as soon as you can.’

She’d left the room before he risked sighing. He had the feeling it was going to be all uphill today.

At noon, Marks was standing in the function room of the Parkside Hotel, a small commercial establishment which lay within sight of the police station, just across the busiest
edge of Parker’s Piece.

A couple of uniformed officers were controlling access to the building, but apart from that they had the function room all to themselves.

A row of four meeting-room chairs stood behind two tubular-steel-legged tables butted together and draped in a twenty-foot length of navy-blue banqueting cloth. Behind the tables, the
Cambridgeshire Constabulary’s insignia was mounted on a free-standing, royal-blue display board, and in front were ranged seven rows of chairs.

Liz Bradley had just explained the seating arrangement to DI Marks. Kimberly and Liz herself would occupy the middle two chairs, with Liz sitting on Kimberly’s right. Marks would sit on
Kimberly’s left.

Liz had redrafted everything in her usual succinct style, and behind her own name card she’d left a pile of half-a-dozen index cards with one key point written on each.

‘Is Kimberly Guyver in the building yet?’ she demanded.

Marks nodded. ‘I wanted her here well before the press, so she’s upstairs. PC Wilkes is with her.’

‘Good, good. I’ll go up just before it starts, for a ten-minute run-thorugh, then bring her down for 1 p.m. How does that sound?’

‘Ten minutes is enough?’

Liz Bradley managed a smile that was evenly split between disbelief, amusement and mockery. ‘If I spend too long over it, she’ll get the jitters. I thought you’d have known
that by now.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it’s the same in every case.’

‘It’s the procedure I follow, and I wasn’t aware you had any issue with the way I conduct these events.’

‘I don’t.’

‘So why are you so nervous about this one?’

‘I’m not,’ Marks replied, simultaneously wondering why he felt as though he needed to justify himself to her. ‘I’m conscious that this briefing could be crucial,
and therefore it needs to be right, and I know it will be.’

That seemed to placate her, or maybe she was nervous too, because, despite his denial, he was conscious of how very much rested on this single event, minutes that the media would cut and
compress down to a few crucial soundbites.

Behind him he caught the sound of someone pushing open the door with a heavy thump on the wood panel. Liz looked past him and exhaled, and murmured involuntarily, ‘Oh.’

Marks turned to see Bob Trent, behavioural psychologist, bearing down on them. His face was an unhealthy Merlot shade, and by comparison Liz Bradley suddenly seemed timid.

‘This doesn’t look good,’ she muttered in Marks’ ear.

The press was now gathered in the main conference room. One of the doors led to a cramped meeting room adjoining, spacious enough for two people to pore over a single document,
but not so good with the addition of Bob Trent, specially now he’d broken into a heavy sweat.

A faulty thermostat had pushed the radiator up to maximum. Liz had tried opening the window but the road noise coupled with the risk that some over-eager reporter would find a handy spot in the
flowerbed from which to eavesdrop had proved too much of a distraction.

So they’d convinced themselves that they’d put up with it; after all, how much longer could it take? Currently seventy-five minutes and counting.

Marks glanced at his watch again, and this time Liz didn’t take it personally.

‘How much longer will the press hang around?’ he asked.

‘I’ll keep the refreshments coming. Meanwhile they’ll sit it out. As time goes on, they’re probably expecting an increasingly significant announcement.’

‘This is significant.’ Bob Trent’s jaw jutted with determination.

Marks considered himself to be a tolerant man, but Call-Me-Bob Trent occupied a hefty and irritating spot right on the outer limits. The most annoying thing about him was his professional
competence, since it made it hard for Marks to find an excuse for using anyone else.

Call-Me-Bob’s job had been to give Kimberly’s statement a final once-over, and so far that alone had taken him an hour and a quarter. Marks had worked with him since 2004 and,
although Marks didn’t like to own up to the idea that he jumped to conclusions based on looks alone, there was plenty about Call-Me-Bob that instantly got his back up. This included beige
polyester trousers, bri-nylon shirt, a whiff of mothballs, slight hint of urinal, and short but greasy hair that hung with discs of dandruff like décor for head lice. Needless to say,
Call-Me-Bob did plenty of work by phone, letter and email.

Marks knew that today’s hold up was important, since Call-Me-Bob’s insights had the potential to make a vital difference to the outcome. Whilst Call-Me-Bob was notoriously
opinionated, he could be equally reluctant to pin his name to a decision and at that moment seemed in imminent danger of impaling himself on the fence.