The Siren (6 page)

‘I haven’t met Goodhew yet, he was on holiday when I started,’ Gully added.

The two DCs turned away, and DI Marks headed back towards her. He took a keyring from his pocket and pointed the car key at the saloon parked in front of them. It beeped and its lights flashed
twice as it unlocked itself. She knew it was time to leave.

Kimberly looked at the devastated facade of Rachel’s house once more, and silently prayed that it was as vacant as it appeared.

Gully started the car, and they followed Marks’ vehicle out of the road.

Kimberly didn’t and couldn’t blame the DI for the interviews and paperwork that were now taking her away from her vigil. She realized she’d been loaded on to a conveyor belt,
had just felt the lurch as it clunked forward. She didn’t blame the process, but it still made her want to vomit.

NINE

As soon as the police cars began to arrive, Goodhew knew his presence was probably redundant. His boss, DI Marks, had already instructed him to take a holiday, and he’d
been emphatic: two weeks, no excuses. He’d delivered this instruction with a
don’t call us, we’ll call you
diatribe that had started with a few compliments on
Goodhew’s work and ended with a rant about what happens to detectives who have no social life and burn out before they’re thirty.

Marks acknowledged his presence with a single nod, then turned away, busy with more pressing tasks. The fact that Marks knew he was still hanging about and still didn’t invite him back on
duty seemed pretty conclusive.

Bryn was waiting further down the street and Goodhew headed over to him.

‘Didn’t want to stand around gawping,’ Bryn explained.

‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’

‘Didn’t think I should just go and leave you, though.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Was anyone inside there?’

Goodhew shrugged. ‘They don’t know yet.’ He sensed Bryn was uncomfortable at the prospect. ‘Take your car home, and I’ll catch you tomorrow or something.’

Bryn nodded. ‘You’re off, then?’

‘Yeah, I think I need to.’

Perhaps Bryn assumed he’d head home then. Goodhew wasn’t officially on duty, but leaving the scene was also out of the question, and for the next half hour he joined the ranks of the
bystanders.

Like them, he spent most of the time gazing at the fire, fascinated by its terrible beauty. But, unlike them, he also watched, so far unsuccessfully, for the arrival of a woman with a small boy,
and periodically he glanced over at Kimberly as she sat in the back of one of the patrol cars.

Goodhew began to feel restless. It was a feeling he knew well, and it ticked away in an inaccessible corner of his brain: quiet at first, but increasing in volume and frequency. Thoughts and
adrenaline now racing, he needed to be engaged, physically and mentally

This need to be on the other side of the cordon grew rapidly. He decided to wait for the right moment when he could ask to be given something to do, but soon realized that Marks was altogether
too busy. In fact the only person who looked under-utilized was DC Kincaide. A few minutes earlier Kincaide had finished a call on his mobile, and Goodhew hadn’t noticed him do anything
since.

For the weeks leading up to his current holiday he and Kincaide had been working together, since Marks seemed to think there was something beneficial in it for both of them. Neither of them
shared his opinion, and that was probably the only thing they did agree on. Goodhew had hoped that two weeks away from him would allow him to approach Kincaide differently, but here he was at the
halfway mark and automatically assuming that Kincaide was slacking. In truth he had absolutely no reason to consider Kincaide at fault; it was just something about his body language and that
over-manicured appearance that hinted at a sense of self-importance. Equally, Goodhew didn’t want to admit to himself that Kincaide was irritating him just as much as ever.

He knew how ridiculous this seemed; he didn’t need to like someone to have a professional relationship with them, and it shouldn’t be so difficult to set aside personal differences
when there were so many more important things at stake. Like helping Kimberly Guyver find her son. He didn’t need to glance at Kimberly’s expression to confirm how small-minded he was
being. He felt ashamed; it really was pathetic.

He walked over to Kincaide. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I hate fires.’ Kincaide scowled. ‘What are we supposed to do here until it’s put out?’

‘It’s frustrating,’ Goodhew agreed, then paused, using this one second of silence as a comma between one subject and the next. ‘If Marks puts us together again, we should
make more effort to co-operate.’

‘We should, should we?’ Kincaide replied, continuing to scowl.

‘Look, I don’t want ever to screw up because my attention’s being diverted by a bad atmosphere between us. And I can’t imagine that’s what you want, either. It
doesn’t achieve anything, does it?’

Kincaide stared at Goodhew as if searching for a hint of insincerity. Finally the last remnant of the frown left his face. ‘No, it doesn’t.’ He slipped the mobile into his
breast pocket and held out his hand for Goodhew to shake.

Shortly afterwards, Kincaide returned to his vehicle, claiming he had something to do, leaving Goodhew standing where he was. That handshake had been too firm, and it had felt both fake and
forced. Goodhew could have tried to convince himself that this assessment was still being petty, but he didn’t.

A few minutes later, DI Marks approached Kincaide, and Goodhew walked over to join them. Marks’ face was lit by the street lamps that cast light at an unflattering angle, adding several
years to his actual forty-three. Goodhew’s boss had a fifteen-year-old daughter called Emily, and maybe parenthood could provide an additional perspective to a situation like this one. Marks
looked tired, weighed down by the night, and perhaps he wasn’t joking when he claimed that Emily had caused so many of the grey flecks in his once glossy black hair.

‘The fire crew is in no hurry to go in, and there’ll be several hours of damping down needed before they can assess whether it is structurally sound to enter. At the moment, the fire
officer reckons that there is still a strong chance of the roof collapsing.’

Kincaide was the first to comment. ‘And what about the cause?’

‘Again, they’re not committing themselves, but at this stage are happy to label it “suspicious”. And until we know otherwise we need to proceed on the basis that both
Rachel Golinski and Riley Guyver are still alive.’ Marks glanced at each of his subordinates in turn. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to emphasize to you the damage false hope can
cause, so please remain cautious until we receive some definitive answers.’ He continued speaking for several more minutes, but Goodhew heard very little of it above the tick-tick-tick of his
own restlessness. He cared about what Marks was saying, and certainly had great respect for him, but felt the time for standing on the sidelines was almost over.

It
needed
to be over.

Marks then switched to his
in conclusion
tone: ‘So speak to the husband, find out whether there’s anywhere else the wife might be, especially anywhere she could have taken the
youngster. Be tactful, but also pin down his own whereabouts in the last twenty-four hours.’

Marks turned to Goodhew. ‘And
you’ll need
to make a statement. I’m happy for you to do that now, or . . .’

Kincaide interrupted, ‘He’s still on holiday.’

Marks raised his eyebrows very slightly, like he was just considering the concept of being surprised. ‘Are you, Gary?’

‘Hopefully not any longer, sir.’

‘I thought not, so I’d like you to go along with Kincaide.’

‘To see the husband?’

‘Yes.’ Marks looked at Kincaide, then at Goodhew, and again at Kincaide. ‘Get on with it, then.’

Kincaide straightened. ‘Absolutely, sir.’

Goodhew didn’t comment, as he turned towards Kincaide’s car. They could drive away from the scene of disaster, but he knew that the ghosts of flames and the stink of bitter smoke
would be coming along for the ride. His eyes made one last sweep of the situation, taking in the fear, shock and confusion, the mess and chaos, activity and exhaustion. But nothing stood out more
distinctly than the huge question mark that now hung in the air between Kimberly Guyver and her best friend’s burning home.

TEN

The building which housed the Celeste had been a nightclub for more years than Goodhew could remember. Its entrance was in Market Passage, one of several narrow pedestrianized
short cuts that connected one central shopping street to another.

As a small boy, his parents had often taken him and his sister to the cafe in the Eaden Lilley department store. They always used the Market Passage entrance, where the Blag Club displayed
glossy, two-colour posters promoting events that were consistently ‘unmissable’ and ‘the best in Cambridge’. He’d been about seven at the time, and just realizing how
much more he could learn now he could digest the more difficult words. Those posters hinted at the existence of a more dangerous and adult, after-dark world, certainly far more interesting than
teacakes and a glass of Ribena in the coffee shop. He had looked forward to the posters like waiting for a favourite page in a weekly comic.

The venue had undergone several name changes, and he’d moved on by another nine or ten years, before he got to discover that the reality was an anticlimax: a hot and deafening few hours
that served only to remind him how little he understood most people of his own age. As far as he knew, the Celeste was just another such incarnation.

Market Passage was L-shaped, with the Celeste at the bend. Kincaide now parked the car across the entrance to the short side of the L, with all four wheels up on the pavement. It was impossible
to get closer.

There were a few people walking around or loitering, always in small groups, and Goodhew knew they’d been immediately pegged as police. On this occasion it didn’t matter, but he
wished that Kincaide could learn to be a little more subtle. It wasn’t feeling alienated that bothered him but the risk of alienating other people. And such unnecessary pavement hogging,
especially in a pedestrian zone, undeniably smacked of self-importance.

A group of twenty-somethings glanced over as they passed by. The tallest male in the group kept his eyes on Kincaide for longest, then continued glancing back over his shoulder. Kincaide made a
big show of locking the car, and brushing down his suit, returning the guy’s stare the entire time.

Goodhew sighed to himself and headed towards the Celeste, muttering, ‘What’s the point?’

‘Point of what?’ Kincaide was suddenly almost alongside him.

Goodhew hadn’t realized that Kincaide had caught up with him, or that he himself had even spoken out loud. ‘All that macho posturing crap.’

Kincaide shrugged. ‘They don’t know any better. They’re ignorant, that’s all.’

Goodhew smiled to himself, making sure he didn’t reveal his next thought out loud.

The club door was heavy, artificially aged and adorned with rough-cast ironwork to resemble the entrance to some building from the middle ages. Like a church, or a castle. The doormen matched
the door, standing beside it in an identical pair.

They simultaneously gave a sideways tip of the head, nodding the pair of visitors through to the woman on the desk. She wore a name badge which read ‘Jodi’ and a T-shirt which
identified her as
Your Celeste Hostess.

Muffled music sneaked down to them from somewhere overhead.

Goodhew spoke first. ‘We need to speak to one of your staff called Stefan Golinski.’

She gave each of them a shrewd once-over. ‘Blimey, I didn’t ever think he’d really do it.’

‘Sorry, do what?’

‘Mule called you, right?’ She waited for them to answer, looking like she was trying to decide whether they weren’t responding because it was none of her business, or because
they were too dim to unravel a four-word question. She must have then decided it was the name that was throwing them. ‘I don’t know what he’s really called,’ she added,
smiling hopefully.

Kincaide’s tone remained deliberately patient. ‘We just need to speak to Mr Golinski.’

‘Well, he didn’t come back.’ She raised her henna-ed eyebrows. ‘Like anyone thought he
would
. Went off like a rocket.’

‘OK, so where’s this Mule guy?’ Goodhew asked.

‘Go through.’ She’d been taught that same slight tip of the head as used by the bouncers. ‘Up the stairs, then straight to the back. I guess he’s in the kitchen
– they’d’ve wanted him out of sight, eh?’

‘Thanks.’

Lights shaped like lilac rock crystals lit the stairs, and the same theme continued through the building, with the same mellow illumination cast on a variety of coffee tables positioned around
the perimeter of the room. As clubs went, it was pretty small, even low-key, but it had one thing that many other local nightspots were missing – plenty of customers.

They headed on into the heart of the club, its dark walls throbbing ever louder with the pulse of the bass. Peering across the dance floor, Goodhew spotted the door to the kitchen.

Kincaide’s focus fell about twenty feet short of target. ‘Pity my wife doesn’t wear underwear that shows off that degree of flesh.’

Goodhew didn’t even look. Maybe it was just him, but there was something about standing in front of a burning house which had now taken away the appeal of bare skin glistening under the
hot and distorted beams of light.

The kitchen was just a brightly lit cupboard, measuring about eight feet by ten. It contained a sink and a fridge and a microwave, but something about the lack of any other cooking equipment
told Goodhew it was more about securing permission to use the premises as a nightclub rather than a venue for fine dining.

The only occupant was slicing hot-dog rolls with a large bread knife. He looked up, blade in hand, and nodded warily. The man’s hair was shoulder-length and beach-bum blond, but his tanned
face was marred by a swollen lip and large welt that ran from his right cheekbone up to his eyebrow. His right eye was red and almost closed, contrasting with the left one, which was wide with
surprise. The overall effect was demonic.