by Alison Bruce
‘What’s happening?’ she gasped.
‘Do you live here?’ he asked.
She shook her head, but didn’t answer. Instead she pushed past him as if taking in the full extent of the blaze for the very first time. ‘Is there anyone round the front?’
‘Is this your house?’ Goodhew wasn’t sure if she’d heard, because she never took her eyes from the upstairs window. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he explained, then repeated, ‘Is this your house?’
She darted forward, but instinctively he grabbed her arm.
‘There’s someone inside,’ she yelled, and fought to free herself.
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw someone move. I saw them,’ she screamed. ‘Up there, look.’ She pointed to the left one of the pair of upstairs windows.
‘No, no.’ He held on to her. ‘It’s just how the flames look.’
‘Someone walked past that window. I saw them.’
He paused, eyes fixed on the void that had once been a bedroom window, then he saw it too. But it wasn’t a person, just a ghost, created from smoke and shadow and flame, that calmly stepped through the inferno. That was no longer a bedroom, or the place for any living creature. The building’s only remaining role was to burn.
‘There’s no one,’ he shouted.
She stopped struggling to escape him, and he then knew that she believed him. ‘I need to find my son,’ she gasped. ‘Have you seen a little boy?’
‘No, I haven’t. Where should he be?’
‘He was here . . .’ She averted her eyes from the house. ‘He must be out at the front,’ she replied decisively.
Goodhew understood how she was more than aware of the alternative statement but wasn’t willing to consider it. Smoke hung round the passageway, a faint but regular flash of blue light penetrating it from the far end. He now held on to the hope that they would find her child safe and probably in the care of the emergency services. ‘I’ll walk round to the front with you, but we’ll never get through here.’
They started to climb over the wall together, but by the time he’d managed just a few steps over the uneven ground, she had covered twice the distance. As he scrambled after her, only the pale gravestones were visible, yet she wove her way between them with surefooted ease. He knew that somewhere along this perimeter wall there was a gate that would lead through the car park of some small business units, and back out on to Gwydir Street. He only knew its approximate location, but she found it at once, and was halfway over the adjoining wall when he finally caught up with her.
‘The gate’s locked,’ she explained, then swung her other leg over and dropped to the ground behind.
He followed, inquiring, ‘How old is he?’
‘Two,’ she replied, but didn’t wait for him.
He caught her again as she turned through the car park, towards the street. The houses facing them were ominously well lit by the colours of emergency.
‘His name’s Riley,’ she added.
‘And who’s he supposed to be with?’
‘My friend, Rachel . . .’ Perhaps she might have added a surname, perhaps not, but at that moment she turned the corner and saw the full chaos of firemen, residents, smoke, water and devastation. She stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh fuck,’ she whispered, then began shouting to the people standing closest. ‘Have you seen a little boy? I’m looking for my little boy, Riley. He’s with my friend, Rachel. I’m looking for Rachel and Riley.’
A few people shook their heads, while a few others just turned away.
Goodhew grabbed her arm and guided her through the crowd. ‘What’s your friend’s last name?’ he asked quickly.
‘Golinski.’
‘And your name?’
‘Kimberly Guyver.’
‘Stay right there,’ he instructed her.
The fire officer gestured for him to stay back. ‘Behind the cordon. It isn’t safe here.’
Goodhew quickly explained the situation. The fire officer shook his head and instinctively they both glanced back towards Kimberly Guyver.
She, too, ducked under the tape. ‘They can’t be in there. Why wouldn’t they have just got out? Oh, shit. Shit. Riley, Riley!’
Goodhew reached her first. ‘They’re doing everything they can.’ He hated the words even as he said them. They sounded so ineffectual but they were all he had.
‘And they’re searching the house, aren’t they? Who’s gone inside?’
‘They can’t go in,’ he replied quietly.
Kimberly drew a long breath, and then fell silent.
EIGHT
The fire blazed ferociously, and for a time it seemed that the fire brigade’s attempts to quench it would not put it out far ahead of its natural end.
Kimberly waited.
Four police cars soon arrived, the first bringing a man she guessed must be a more senior officer. She watched as he spoke to various people. He glanced over at her once, but she read nothing in his expression.
She felt the urge to approach him, to ask him for news, but she gave in to a greater urge that told her to stay where she was. Keep still and quiet like that would fool fate into moving on and leaving herself and Riley untouched. Like those plane-crash victims she’d read about, dead in the wreckage but with their fingers still crossed in hope.
She didn’t notice who came with the other three vehicles; she studied each as it arrived, but only to see whether a small boy might be staring back at her. Everything else seemed a silent and timeless blur. She had no idea how long she’d stood there before she was gently led over to one of the cars. Nor had she any idea how long she sat in the car before the flames and smoke cleared enough to reveal the dead features that had once been her friend’s home. Someone had put a cup of tea in her hands; her fingers were woven together to cradle the cup. It looked full still, but felt almost cold.
Mr Senior Officer was talking on his mobile. He looked like a serious type, a man obliged to deliver bad news many times in the past. She studied him, wondering what he would say to her. He tilted his head slightly to one side or he was listening, but apart from that seemed contained and neat, not one to waste time or energy on any unnecessary movements. Someone who could keep his feelings to himself. She guessed that’s how it had to be, in a job like that.
Her brain created a half-formed picture: his face remaining expressionless as his words dragged her down into darkness and loss. She stopped herself from taking that thought further, since it was disloyal to Riley. It felt like she’d lost faith in him, even though nothing that was happening could have been within his control.
For the first time she realized that she wasn’t alone in the vehicle. A WPC sat in front of her, in the driver’s seat. She must have become aware that Kimberly was now watching her, for they suddenly made eye contact via the rear-view mirror.
The policewoman turned. She had large dark eyes which seemed to assess Kimberly’s face before she spoke: ‘Are you warm enough?’
‘Yes.’ Realizing, as she replied, that she was shivering. ‘Tired, I think,’ Kimberly added.
‘Sure. But this isn’t necessarily the best place to wait. I can arrange for us to be inside somewhere nearby. ‘Somewhere warmer, more private?’
Kimberly shook her head. ‘How long before they can carry out a search?’
‘I don’t know – but not yet. I’ll ask them in a minute.’ She reached over the back of her seat to the one next to Kimberly. ‘Put this round yourself, at least.’ It was a thermal blanket.
‘Is that clock correct?’
‘Yes.’ It read five minutes past midnight.
‘And I’ve been here all this time?’ Kimberly wondered how those vital hours had slipped past, unnoticed.
‘It’s the shock, but don’t worry. When you said you wanted to stay, we asked one of the paramedics to check you over.’
Kimberly remembered then, the green uniform, a firm voice, and her shaky replies. ‘And you’re my babysitter?’
‘I’m
new, so I don’t know my way round well enough to be anywhere else right now.’ The young woman hesitated, then reddened slightly; clearly the words hadn’t come out quite the way she’d intended. Not that it mattered. ‘Constable Sue Gully,’ she added.
‘You already introduced yourself, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sorry. I wasn’t sure if you remembered.’
‘Only when you said it.’
PC Gully looked awkward for a moment. ‘I’ll get that update, then.’
Kimberly watched her climb out of the vehicle and approach Mr Senior Officer. They seemed to continue speaking for several minutes, though it could have been less, then they headed back together.
Kimberly hoped fate wasn’t paying attention. She crossed her fingers, in any case.
Gully opened the door. ‘This is DI Marks, and he needs to talk to you.’
He’d stopped about six feet back from the car. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘I’m OK.’
‘Good. I need to check some more details. All right if I sit in the car with you?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. Gully returned to her seat in the front, while Marks walked round the car and joined Kimberly in the rear. ‘You said that your friend Rachel was looking after Riley?’
‘Did I?’
‘You did. And is that correct?’
‘Yes, since late this afternoon.’
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ Marks corrected, his expression remaining impenetrable. ‘And you’ve had no contact with her since?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did she often look after the child for you?’
‘Sometimes, yes. She’s very fond of him.’
‘And her husband, Stefan Golinski, what else can you tell me about him?’
Kimberly wondered what else she’d already revealed. Gully was meant to be taking the notes, but instead she looked questioningly at Marks.
‘The people we’ve already asked think he does some kind of night shift and, based on that information, I’m working on the assumption that he was probably not at home at the time of the fire. If you can tell me where he works, I’ll send a couple of officers over to speak to him, being Mrs Golinski’s next of kin.’
Mrs Golinski. Kimberly never thought of Rachel by her married name, just as Rachel – or sometimes as Rachel Hurley. Eleven years old still, with white school socks, and the shape of her AA cup bra showing through the thin cotton of her white school shirt. How had they travelled so many miles through the eleven years since?
I’ve known Rachel exactly half my life. Rachel Hurley, not Mrs Golinski.
She felt suddenly and inexplicably defensive. Like making her think of her best friend in such a formal and unfamiliar way was merely his attempt to pull them apart. Unless it was those other unwelcome words – next of kin – that she was reacting to.
‘He’s a doorman at the Celeste. It’s a nightclub down Market Passage, just off Sidney Street.’
‘Yes, we know it.’ He opened his car door again. ‘I have to speak to a couple of my officers. It will only take a few minutes, then we’ll be leaving for Parkside Station –’
Kimberly interrupted him even before she discovered whether this was the end of his sentence. ‘I need to stay here,’ she insisted.
‘The fire brigade will be on hand to make sure the fire is fully extinguished, but they won’t be able to start making the building safe enough to search until dawn at the earliest. There’s nothing else that can be done at present. PC Sue Gully is going to stay with you.’
His tone was firm but empathetic. He broke off eye contact, then moved on to his next task, before she could engage him in any argument.
She saw him go and talk to an officer wearing plain-clothes. He had jet-black hair and listened carefully to Marks, nodding agreement frequently. He’d now been joined by the young officer who had first helped her, he wore jeans and a casual shirt, and spent more time watching the fire crew than paying attention to his superior. The one with the black hair was older, therefore probably more senior, and it certainly looked like he had far more to say.
‘That’s DC Goodhew and DC Kincaide,’ Gully informed her. ‘Kincaide’s the smart one.’
Kimberly didn’t inquire whether she meant smart by nature as well as appearance. Instead, she preferred to assume they were all going to be equally astute, and that she and Riley were in safe hands. She vowed to set aside her ingrained distrust of the police.
‘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.