19
‘I’m calling it a day. What about you? Want me to drop you back at the station?’ Bronski was just starting the car engine.
Annie was fastening her seat belt, neither detective in a good mood after striking out twice. They seemed no further forward than a few days ago. Annie decided to comment on the day first, rather than the question she’d just been asked.
‘I know how you feel, but I still can’t get a sense of what happened to Angela Goodman. It seems a case of no one’s in the picture or all three of them – Goodman, the mistress or Jim Moorcroft – are all in there somewhere.’ Annie paused to give Bronski a chance to respond, but he was concentrating on the traffic or maybe he didn’t rate her detective work so far. It was time for her to start proving herself. She decided to make a suggestion.
‘Don’t you live in the vicinity of Mrs Goodman’s?’ The question seemed to surprise Bronski, who looked over at her quizzically.
‘Not too far away, about five minutes in the car. Why? Is there something on your mind?’
‘I’d like to go back to the house. I want to just sit there for a while, look again at her things, try and get more of a sense of her and whether this was random or provoked. Know what I mean?’
Annie realised that this would have been the advice her father would have given her: know the victim, and you learn about the perpetrator. Some days, more than others, she wished she could hear his voice again. That strong Aberdeen accent, the no nonsense approach to his life, to his work. Annie knew that to him, they were part of the same thing. She could still see the smile on his face when she told him that she’d passed all the exams to be a detective and had been offered a position. It was what he had wanted for her, what he had wanted for himself and what his own father had wanted for him. Three generations of detectives. Still, she suspected that if her brother hadn’t been born with Down’s Syndrome, the expectations would have been for him, not her. She didn’t want to be a disappointment to her dad, even though he had been dead for two years.
Bronski took his time answering. ‘Sure I do, but I don’t think it’ll help much. But if you want to, you’ll need a key. Radio dispatch now and get a patrol car over with it. We’ll meet them there.’
It was the same rookie cop, Frank Petersen, who had been on the scene that first day who pulled up in front of the house minutes later. He nodded to both detectives as he got out of the squad car and after handing the keys to Bronski, he took off.
‘So, you want me to come in with you, or what?’ Bronski asked, taking a quick look down the road.
Annie guessed that Bronski would be wondering what the neighbours would be thinking. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll call a cab when I’m finished. Should I keep the keys or drop them back at the station?’
‘Bring them back tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning, then.’ Bronski started to walk back to the car, but then turned around. ‘Look why don’t I just come in with you and then drop you home.’
‘Sir, I would like to do this on my own, if that’s OK with you.’
He tried one last time. ‘Are you sure you’re OK with this?’ Bronski was still lingering.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Annie was pleased when Bronski finally took no for an answer. She wanted to use the instincts she knew she had, but felt she’d demonstrated little of lately. That was why she needed to look and listen to what this crime scene was telling her, alone.
Once she saw his car turn the corner, Annie let herself into the house. She felt herself starting to retch as she shut the door behind her and walked up the stairs. From experience, she knew that the scene would be as bad on the second viewing as it had been on the first, but the reality this time was that it was worse. Scrapings of blood and paint had been taken and somehow that compounded the original violation of the hallway and the bedroom – the marks left behind, the bed stripped bare. This was no longer a place to come home to and Annie shuddered as she sat down on the bed. What were they missing? What had Angela Goodman done to provoke such a vicious assault? This was no random attack.
At times like this, Annie knew she had to go back to basics. Walking back down the stairs, she attempted to recreate what they supposed Angela had done: placing her coat on the coat rack, maybe looking at herself in the mirror. Annie hesitated for a moment at the mirror, taking stock of what she saw, realising that she herself was looking fraught and then chastised herself.
Get on with it. Slowly she opened the door into the kitchen. The glass from the drainer had been removed for evidence and Jim Moorcroft’s prints confirmed. How does someone forget to mention they were in the house? Her eyes scanned the whole room. Angela Goodman was meticulous. Apart from the chaos wreaked by the intruder, each cupboard, when opened revealed a truth about the owner. Everything was in place, jars in neat rows, labels all facing to the front. Every cup had a handle facing in the same direction. No wonder she could be so accurate about things being out of place. If Annie had seen her at home, rather than at the station, she might have taken the whole thing more seriously. Would that oversight cost Angela Goodman her life?
The living room was the same. Minus the vandalism, the couches were tasteful: red background, small yellow flower printed pattern, and each had a beige throw on it, to be pulled down and used to protect against any chill. The coffee table had remnants of fingerprint dust and the magazines had been moved, but the stereo system was intact and the CDs lined up perfectly. Not only were the CDs in alphabetical order, they were also in sections. Annie realised that most were easy listening and female artists. Did these belong to Mrs Goodman, or her soon to be ex-husband? It was hard to tell. There was a standard lamp to the side of one of the couches, the type of lamp that is left on when someone goes out for the evening, but wants to make it look as if they are at home. Had Mrs Goodman come in here and turned the light off before going upstairs? Annie noticed some dust left behind by the forensics team. They’d obviously thought of that and would eliminate her prints.
The dining room had not escaped the paint and Annie still couldn’t get a sense of what the vandalism in each room meant. The bedroom made some sense, but the other rooms? She walked over to the liquor cabinet. The whisky bottle had been taken away for evidence and Annie remembered that the report didn’t mention Jim Moorcroft’s fingerprints on the bottle. Maybe, only Angela had touched the bottle. Moorcroft hadn’t poured himself a nightcap, at any rate.
The small study off the dining room was the least damaged of all the rooms, as if the perpetrator had decided that enough was enough. Or was there something different about this room? Maybe Angela didn’t even go in there that last night, but Annie still went in wanting to get a feel of the room. Mostly it was bare and Annie suspected that this wasn’t Mrs Goodman’s study, but maybe George Goodman’s. The desk drawers were empty and there was nothing on top of the desk, not even a lamp. The lighting in the room wasn’t very bright, so a desk lamp would have been needed. Did the perpetrator turn this on for some reason and then take it with him? But why, especially if he was carrying paint cans?
There were three filing cabinets, seemingly labelled with household information. Annie opened the first one and flicked through the manila files. Someone, Mr or Mrs Goodman was meticulous about saving receipts. The vacation file revealed that they’d been to the Bahamas, Puerto Rico and Mexico in the last five years. Annie couldn’t find her marriage certificates, which was unfortunate as it would be useful to check out the first husband and see how amicable or not that divorce was. A further filing cabinet, unlabelled was locked. Annie looked around for the key, but couldn’t find it in the room. She made a mental note to look around for it upstairs.
After shutting the filing cabinet, Annie walked slowly up the stairs, instinctively switching on the hallway light, just as she suspected Angela Goodman would have done, especially if she was carrying a drink w
ith her. But the light bulb had obviously blown. Annie stopped at the top of the stairs trying to recall whether she’d made a note of the light not working when they’d made their first visit to the house. The upstairs landing didn’t have any natural light so was considerably darker in the late afternoon. Annie surmised that it would have been nearly pitch black when Mrs Goodman walked up those stairs.
Putting on the bathroom light, Annie stepped back into the hallway to examine the light. It was one of those glass bowl type fixtures, which would have to be unscrewed first to get to the light bulb. It would also take a ladder to reach the fixture. It could have been out for weeks, or if the perpetrator wanted the darkness on the stairs, he could have unscrewed the bulb while he waited for Angela Goodman to come home. At least that was what Annie surmised had happened. The perpetrator must have already been in the house, unless it was someone she knew and she’d let him in, and he’d forced her upstairs. But then why the glass, upstairs on the floor? It seemed more likely that the perpetrator was waiting for her in her bedroom. Annie switched off the bathroom light.
Stepping back into the bedroom, Annie reached for the wall light in the room and then opened her notebook. For the second time, she felt as if she might be sick. It was the pink paint, brash paint, paint that made a statement. Sitting on the bare bed, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what had happened in this room.
20
There was only a mild breeze in the air, not enough to cool the oppressive humidity of the late afternoon. This was a necessary stop, but not the last task of the day. The man got out of his car and walked slowly up to the headstone, looking like any other visitor, nothing to make him stand out. Pausing, he read the whole inscription. It was simple enough, but said it all. The grave wasn’t exactly neglected, although there were no fresh flowers. The basket he was carrying would make a welcome addition and show how much he still loved her.
But there was also the guilt. He hadn’t yet achieved what he had set out to do; what he had promised her all those years ago when he stood at this same place, what he had planned so meticulously.
The job was only partly done. True, he had made her suffer. He had even made her admit that she’d lied all those years ago. They’d always believed her, and because of that, his life and that of those around him was ruined. How could she have done that and still slept nights? He hadn’t slept. All those nights in that cramped cell, and for what? For a bitch that couldn’t get enough of him until she changed her mind and wanted someone else. Nothing he did for her then was enough. He thought of all those times he’d told her how he felt about her, how much he wanted her. Then there were all the gifts, but it was never enough. Why didn’t anyone see her for what she was?
No, instead they misinterpreted everything he did. But now it was almost over. He wouldn’t fail again.
21
Annie froze as she heard a key turn in the lock. For a second she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Who could it be? If it were Bronski, he would have called her to say he was on his way, but then she realised that her handbag was downstairs in the hallway, with her phone on vibrate. Had he tried to call her? As far as she knew she had the only available key, since Jim Moorcroft and Jackie Winters had handed theirs into the station. But surely, Bronski would shout out. Heart pounding in her chest, she looked around the room for anything to protect herself with, but there was nothing.
Slowly, she approached the bedroom doorway, hoping that the floorboards wouldn’t creak and give away her position. For now she was still hidden from view. In the poor light, she screwed up her eyes trying to see who had let themselves in. Whoever it was had enough illumination from the outside to realise that the hallway was like the scene out of a movie.
‘Christ, what the hell?’
Before he could say anything else, Annie appeared at the top of the stairs and started to walk down.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The words were firm but the accent was one she remembered from a few days ago. The man wore an army uniform and Annie could just see that his badge said Capt. Hegarty. He was about 6 foot 3 and considerably younger than Angela Goodman. The front door remained open and Annie could see that his bags were still outside.
‘I’m Detective Annie Macpherson from the Westford Police.’ Annie showed her ID, as she reached the bottom of the staircase. ‘We spoke on the phone yesterday. I was expecting you to telephone to let us know you’d arrived back.’
‘I just got in from Montana. I rented a car at the airport and came straight here. God this place looks awful.’ He couldn’t stop himself staring at the hallway and then opening the door to the living room. ‘What bastard would do such a thing?’
Annie followed, keeping her counsel as he made his way into the kitchen.
‘Where was she attacked?’
‘Look, why don’t we bring your bags into the hallway? I’d like to shut the front door, if you don’t mind. Then I can fill you in with more details.’
Mrs. Goodman’s brother brushed past her and picked up two very heavy looking duffle bags and deposited them in the hall.
Annie shut the door. She was sure that he would’ve seen worse than this scene in combat, but this was his sister’s house after all, so the emotional impact would be severe. She wanted him to take his time to digest the state of the downstairs before he had to face the bedroom.
They stood awkwardly in the hall before he broke the silence, repeating his earlier question. ‘Where was she attacked?’
‘The main crime scene was in the bedroom.’ Hegarty hardly looked at her as he rushed past up the stairs. Annie followed but missed his initial reaction to seeing the bedroom. His distress was obvious as she reached him seconds later. Annie remembered her own reaction seeing the bedroom the first time. At least he was spared the blood on the bedclothes and the complete disarray.
‘Was she raped?’ he mumbled, as he tried to take in the bedroom scene, mesmerised by the paint on the walls.
Annie hesitated. What brother wants confirmation that his sister has been raped? ‘We’re still awaiting test results from the hospital, but it does seem likely.’
‘Have you seen her? The hospital told me she’s in a critical condition.’
Annie decided she would have to be frank with him. ‘I saw her yesterday and spoke to her doctors. She’s in intensive care. They are doing everything they can, but the assault was vicious.’
‘I need to see her.’
‘Of course. I could come with you, if you want.’
But Hegarty was too distracted to take in what Annie was saying. ‘I need to book myself a room. I can’t stay here like Angie and I had planned. There is a motel near the hospital. I need a shower and a change. I’ve been travelling for hours.’
Annie realised that he was just stating the plan, not reacting, just saying what the drill was. She had seen other people in shock and knew she would have to state the options for him to decide. ‘I don’t have a car, so I could come with you and wait while you get ready and then go with you to the hospital. Do you want me to do that?’
Hegarty picked up his duffel bags. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
Annie picked up her handbag and then checked the kitchen light was off before locking the front door. By then Hegarty had put his bags into the boot of the car.
While Hegarty had a shower and changed out of his military uniform, Annie telephoned Bronski at home to let him know that she was with Angela’s brother and would accompany him to the hospital. Annie wanted the opportunity to find out more about Angela Goodman’s background, although she wondered how forthcoming Hegarty would be. There was something off hand about him that Annie couldn’t quite put her finger on. But then, of course, there was the shock of seeing his sister’s house in such a state. Soon he would be seeing her, which would be even more traumatic.
22
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Gus Wojinski was having his second cup of coffee and contemplating the tasks he had promised to do. The first was mowing the lawns. Then he needed to check the filtration system on the outdoor pool. Last night Carol had said that the chlorine seemed too concentrated. She would know, using the pool every day as she did in the summer. ‘My little dolphin’ was his term for his wife.
When the phone rang he knew it would be her, checking that he was out of bed and focused on the day’s chores. ‘Hi sweetheart,’ he said as he picked up the phone.
‘Hi Gus. Gee, I wish my husband picked up the phone with that greeting for me,’ said the familiar voice.
Gus laughed. ‘Sorry Sandra. I was expecting it to be Carol, checking that I’m doing the chores, but I’ll have a word with Pete if you want.’
‘Yes please,’ came the quick reply.
‘So, what’s up? Don’t tell me Carol has forgotten the keys again?’ Sometimes Gus was surprised at how absent-minded his wife could be. He anticipated having to look for them in the house and then driving to the bookshop.
‘That’s just it, Gus, she’s not here. I was wondering if she’d decided on a sleep in and was coming in later.’
‘She’s not there yet? She must have set off at the usual time. I was still asleep, but she left a note.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe she did forget the keys and has had to drive back home.’
Det Annie Macpherson 01 - Primed By The Past Page 9