The Siren (28 page)

He let his brain turn it over several times, just to hear how it sounded. So much for his grandfather’s theory, however. Now the problem seemed bigger, and the solution more distant.

A familiar voice broke the silence. ‘I guessed I’d find you up here.’

Goodhew turned and greeted Sergeant Sheen, who was carrying a half-inch-thick sheaf of papers. He lifted them closer to his chest as he saw Goodhew try to identify the unfamiliar logo on the top
sheet.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get to read it soon enough.’ Sheen spoke leisurely, his Suffolk accent rolling slowly over the words. ‘This is the latest from our Spanish
counterparts, concerning their ongoing investigation into the murder of young Nick Lewton.’

‘Oh, good.’ Goodhew reached out hopefully, but Sheen wasn’t ready to hand anything over just yet.

‘Now, I wanted to put this straight into the hands of DI Marks but, since he’s up to his neck over there, I thought I’d trust you to deliver it to him. However, I can also see
that leaves you with a minor dilemma.’ Sheen pointed to the pile of papers. ‘I have more downstairs to drop off with you lot, so you’d be best to walk with me while I
explain.’

Goodhew slid his feet from the desk and followed Sheen back into the corridor.

‘I know your reputation, son, and I can see that you might not want to hand this stuff straight on to Marks without having a read-through on your own . . .’

Goodhew shook his head. ‘That’s not really –’

‘Gary?’ Sheen shook his head, too. ‘Don’t bother denying it. My job’s local intelligence, remember? You ferret for facts, you do – see, I’ve got your
number already. What I was going to say is that you might not have time to read the whole thing, but luckily for you they faxed it. And the fax came through slow enough for me to scan through it
page by page, as I was waiting. I couldn’t take in all the detail but there’s an autopsy report and some witness statements. They’re sending the hard copy by express
courier.’

Sheen stopped at the door of Marks’ office. ‘You sit in here and wait for Marks, and you can say I told you that he was on his way back. That way you can read it right
now.’

‘Why encourage me to get ahead of DI Marks?’

‘Simply because that’ll be the quickest way for the most important details to get through to him. I could take them over myself, and find they get put to one side amongst all that
press chaos.’ Sheen held out the pages but, before releasing them, added, ‘You might disagree, but if it says what I think it says, I know you’ll put it straight in his hand.
You’ll find pages three and four the most helpful.’

Goodhew sat in Marks’ chair and fanned the pages out on the empty desk. There were too many to read quickly, so he took Sheen’s advice and jumped to page three. The
Spanish pathologist had enlisted the help of a forensic anthropologist, and the pages that had been faxed over were a summary of their combined findings.

The autopsy report was written in English, a translation he guessed since some of the sentences seemed rather stilted. Nevertheless, it was still all clear enough.

Nick Lewton’s body was severely decomposed, consistent with a corpse that had been submerged in water over a long period. The pathologist had been reluctant to attach any firm dates to
this, but estimated that the minimum length of time the body had been down there would be four to five months, and that the earliest date possible should be taken as the night of Nick
Lewton’s disappearance.

The vehicle’s windscreen had been destroyed on impact with the water, allowing access for marine scavengers to pick at the corpse. The warmth of the water had then encouraged rapid
decomposition, till both the skull and the hands had become separated from the rest of the corpse.

Lewton’s body, fully clothed, was still in the driver’s seat when the car was recovered, and the clothing had helped to keep the general body structure intact. That meant the larger
bones remained in more or less the expected position, and still retained some of their tendons and ligaments.

The left hand had been discovered still inside the vehicle, whilst an extensive search of the seabed had eventually led to recovery of the skull. There was no indication, however, that the body
had been dismembered in any way and therefore, the report concluded, it would be reasonable to surmise that the missing right hand had either been washed away by the current or carried off by a
larger type of predator.

The bulk of the subsequent findings related to skeletal evidence.

The report came complete with photographs whose originals were undoubtedly clear and in full colour, but these were compressed into grainy black-and-white by the faxing process. The clearest one
was a shot of the skull, reduced to bare bone apart from a few patches of scalp that clung to it, which looked like they were still sprouting unnaturally clean-looking clumps of hair.

The pathologist and the anthropologist were clearly men with a sense of drama as, rather than working through the body’s bones in any methodical sequence, they’d chosen to list the
injuries in ascending order of severity. Goodhew had reached the top of page four and still resisted the urge to skip to the conclusion. Instead, he wriggled into a more comfortable position in his
chair, and read on.

Some minor post-mortem damage was visible on the bones, mainly as surface scratches. These were attributed to the scavenging of the overlying flesh by crabs.

There were several observations made about older injuries: Lewton had previously suffered cracked ribs, repeated nasal fractures, and a single fracture to the zygomatic – Goodhew paused to
Google that one . . . the cheekbone.

They’d spotted some pitting in the sinuses, and had run chemical analysis on samples of his hair. The results had proved Lewton to be a regular and long-term cocaine user.

Drugs
and
violence, what a charmer.

Their report finally turned to the most recent injuries. Nick Lewton had received a single stab wound to the chest, inflicted with a thin, serrated blade with a pointed tip. The tip of the knife
had snapped during entry, so the triangle of metal had become lodged in the lower ribcage.

From this they’d been able to identify that the knife was of the same make and design as the steak knives used at the Matt Adore restaurant, two doors down from the Rita Club.

The skeleton also revealed signs of a struggle, with a small notch evident in the bone at the base of Lewton’s remaining index finger.

Goodhew could not help wondering what injuries the other hand might have sustained.

The main stab wound would have caused extensive bleeding, but had not been deep enough to hit any major organ. If left untreated it would, theoretically, have been a life-threatening wound but,
in this case, death had been caused by a separate set of injuries.

A long paragraph followed, peppered with technical phrases like ‘delamination of the outer table’ and ‘inward bevelling of the bones’. It concluded with the cause of
death as ‘a transverse compression fracture of the occipital protuberance’. Goodhew had perused enough details in the previous few days to translate this phrase without the need of a
medical dictionary, or even Google. Just like Rachel Golinski and Jay Andrews, Nick Lewton had had his head kicked in.

Goodhew stared at the page for a long minute, then checked his watch: ten to three.

Sheen had been right, this was vital information for Marks, and while Goodhew wasn’t sure whether it warranted causing further delay to the press conference, he was equally convinced that
any decision had to rest with his superior.

Goodhew tapped the papers back into a neat pile, and only looked back into Marks’ office as he pulled the door shut after him. That was the moment he noticed the key in the lock of the
filing cabinet, and he hesitated.

He gave the office door a gentle push and it swung wide open again, then he glanced along the corridor, already knowing he would find it deserted but double-checking because that was his
way.

The key turned silently, he gave the drawer a tug and it slid out on its runners. The files inside were organized almost exactly as they had appeared when he’d been watching Gully through
his telescope. The only difference now was the crucial one: his file had disappeared. To make sure, he checked under the other files, then in each of the other three drawers.

He was lost in thought as he relocked the filing cabinet, then stood facing it for a minute and only stirred as he realized he was no longer alone. He spun round to find Mel with her arms
crossed and leaning against the door frame. Her pose suggested she’d been standing there for hours but, while he knew that couldn’t be the case, it was obvious she realized he was doing
something he shouldn’t.

‘I won’t tell Marks,’ she began.

‘I wouldn’t ever ask you not to.’

‘Fair enough, but I still won’t. What
were
you looking for?’ She stepped closer.

‘Honestly? I believe there’s a file with my name on it, and I wanted to see what was in it.’

‘Ah,’ she said, and gave a small but knowing smile. ‘I think that’s a Kincaide myth.’

‘You know about it?’

‘Kincaide always likes to paint you in a bad light, makes out you’re just one step from career suicide. He told PC Kelly Wilkes that it contains reports on your misconduct, told me
that you take bribes, and doubtless Kincaide probably invented something else for Sue Gully’s benefit.’ Her tone was dismissive. ‘He says it’s all here in “The
File”.’

‘What if it exists? I’d want to check it.’

‘You’re no rule-breaker, Gary Goodhew.’ She grinned, gave his arm a reassuring rub and he felt his pulse quicken. ‘I can guarantee it doesn’t exist, so you’re
worrying about absolutely nothing.’

He smiled back at her. ‘You’re misguided, then.’

Without warning, she reached up and her fingers touched his face. ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied softly. Her touch was firm. She leant closer and her lips brushed his cheek.
Maybe he was reading too much into the gesture. Then, again, maybe he wasn’t. He inhaled, drawing in the scent of her hair, and took the hit of heady intoxication that followed. He had no
idea why it surprised him, but he pulled away.

‘No,’ he muttered, ‘nothing’s ever going to happen between us.’ Then he snatched up Nick Lewton’s notes and hurried away from Marks’ office.

It was several minutes after he’d left before Mel realized that her hands were shaking. She guessed she was as surprised by what she’d done as he was. It was
completely unplanned and spontaneous but, then, so was his response, and it spoke volumes about what he really felt.

She watched from the window as Goodhew crossed Parker’s Piece, and only then felt comfortable to return to her own desk. She slumped in her chair, with more work coming in than there were
hours in the day, but instead of making a start on it she found herself reorganizing the stationery cupboard, where no one ever bothered her.

Typically, within fifteen minutes, someone did.

‘Hi.’ It was PC Gully. ‘Have you seen DC Goodhew?’ She held up an envelope.

‘Why would I?’

Gully ignored her question. ‘Are you all right?’

Mel nodded.

‘You look like you’ve been crying.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sure?’ Gully persisted.

‘It’s just hay fever.’

‘Oh.’ Gully let the excuse settle for a minute. ‘So, do you know where he went?’

‘Parkside Hotel.’

Gully thanked her, then left. Mel closed the door and sank silently on to one of the boxes of photocopier paper. Sometimes it was good to cry, she reminded herself and, later still, tried to
tell herself that it was for the best. She failed to feel convinced until it finally dawned on her that the one thing she’d always possessed were choices. That wasn’t an entirely new
revelation, but this time it came with a conviction that she could carry it through.

THIRTY-NINE

As Goodhew stepped outside, he noticed that the day was cooler, a persistent breeze pushed through Parker’s Piece and heavy grey clouds limped across the sky. People
seemed to have rapidly swapped their sandals and T-shirts for trainers and pullovers, and the chill slipped through the thin fabric of his short-sleeved shirt.

He shivered, then quite deliberately turned his attention back to reading the Spanish report. It wasn’t logical to expend energy or emotion anywhere else, and he wanted to deliver it to
Marks with some understanding of the remainder of the contents. He began scanning the rest of the paperwork as he walked towards the Parkside Hotel. On page eleven he slowed his reading to fully
digest the background of the Spaniards’ investigation.

Whilst Nick Lewton lived in Spain there had been several unproven accusations of assault against him, and police in Cartagena had drawn pretty much the same conclusions as Sergeant Sheen had
formed during Nick Lewton’s years in Cambridge.

From time to time, investigations had probed the Rita Club, trying to confirm suspicions of drug dealing, money laundering and even tax fraud. In each case, however, they had drawn a blank.

But those same avenues had provided initial lines of enquiry after Nick Lewton’s disappearance, and had led the police to formulate two broad theories. Either Lewton had been murdered
because of his criminal activities or he had done a runner for exactly the same reason.

Goodhew stopped reading long enough to cross East Road in safety. He’d be at the hotel in less than a minute, so reverted to skimming the remaining pages. As he shouldered open the door
into the foyer, he flipped to the penultimate sheet. Nothing jumped off the page like a long row of zeros.

On performing an initial audit, the Rita Club’s finances had seemed in order but a more detailed review had discovered large quantities of alcohol which had been purchased off the books,
and therefore a sizeable discrepancy between the revenue reported and the actual bar takings.

A conservative estimate suggested that over three hundred thousand euros was adrift from the Rita Club’s accounts. It hadn’t gone with Nick, so where was it?