by Alison Bruce
At 5 a.m. every day, Riley would wake up and climb into her bed. He slept again then, with his head on her shoulder and one hand on her stomach. It was peaceful and perfect.
Her own agenda was therefore clear: get Riley safely home, no matter what the cost.
SIXTEEN
The walk from Blossom Street to Parkside Station took him no more than five minutes. Goodhew used every second to inhale fresh air: it enlivened him, it took his thoughts away from the inertia of that house, from the smothering wait and the distorted clock that was ticking unpleasantly in the corner of Riley Guyver’s life. Wait, hope, wait, hope . . .
He turned on to East Road, where the air was less clean; bursting instead with street fumes, the smell of petrol, a kebab shop, bus diesel and dust.
It smelt great.
His head was full of his various conversations with Kimberly, the things she’d said and the things she hadn’t. He knew far less about her now than he’d thought he’d already learnt during the few minutes they’d spent watching the blaze.
She had been just one entity then: a mother terrified for her child, a woman fearing the future, a human being in need of help. He knew that there was far more to her than that, like there was far more to everyone than how they might be perceived in one traumatic moment. But he could not shake the feeling that the woman he’d tried to talk to today was different from the one yesterday. Walls had appeared, mirrors, shades, and somewhere amongst them he’d lost sight of her. She had reappeared in kaleidoscopic fragments: a moment of distrust, a flash of openness, a breath of fear and a millisecond of hate. She’d been holding back at the one time no parent could afford to do so. He didn’t yet understand her motivations, didn’t like the possibilities either, but equally couldn’t erase the memory of the first moment he’d seen her at the fire, nor could he shake the instinct that told him that had been the real face of Kimberly Guyver.
He wanted to keep walking – past the police station and on to wherever Stefan was hiding, there to find Riley and bring him home. He recognized a metaphor as he thought one.
He didn’t relish trading the inside of one building for the inside of another, but he knew that Parkside had to be his next stop, and hoped he could make some independent progress before Marks caught him and reeled him back in.
Goodhew switched his mobile to silent and slipped in through the main entrance, past the desk sergeant.
The first stop was Sergeant Sheen. Sheen shared his office with two other officers, but neither of the pair would have dared to call it theirs. In fact Goodhew found it difficult to keep tabs on who was the current incumbent of each of the other chairs. The rule for that room seemed simple: if you weren’t Sheen, you had merely a desk and chair, and no licence for any overspill. If you were Sheen, however, every other square inch was yours for the taking.
The room was small and crammed with box files and ring binders; it had two card-indexing systems, one that was alphabetical and religiously but grudgingly replicated on to his computer, and a second one which only Sheen ever touched. ‘My red box,’ Sheen described it in his strong Fen accent. Since it had now spilled over into six overflow boxes of various colours, its loose title was a fair cautionary hint as to the state of the contents.
Only Sheen ever touched it because only Sheen was half capable of finding or deciphering anything it contained. Mostly it held pages of his own notes: sheets of A4 smothered with the entangled scrawlings of four different colours of ballpoint pen. Here he wrote down thoughts and ideas and random facts, none of which could be considered admissible evidence, but all of which might have had a slight chance of being crucial at some point.
Goodhew had only to mention the name ‘Nick Lewton’ for Sheen to start flipping through those layers of crinkled paper.
‘Now, I know that name. I can see exactly what the page looks like. I’ll find you the official bits in a mo’, but you’ll be wanting this too . . . once I find it.’
After nothing appeared from the first three boxes, Goodhew was starting to fidget. ‘If you like, I could start with the information on file . . .’
‘No, no, here she is. Start with this one. It’s got all the vital notes.’ Sheen held it up, but stopped short of letting Goodhew actually take hold of it. ‘Green notes are mostly cross references, tells me what items might be linked, no matter how tenuous. Here’s your Spanish disappearance.’
The page was written in landscape format, and he tapped the top right corner. ‘There’s young Nick doing his vanishing act.’
Goodhew took the sheet by the opposite corner and, with a combination of earnest interest and firm tug, was successful in extracting it from Sheen’s right hand. He was surprised to discover that it wasn’t actually dedicated to Nick Lewton’s disappearance; instead it was headed ‘Dougie Lewton and Family’.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them?’ Sheen had noticed Goodhew’s expression, and grinned. ‘Don’t take offence at this but that’s because you’ve only been here five minutes. You’re hardly going to know about a family that moved away about the time you were probably doing your GCSEs.’
Goodhew suspected that he was about to learn enough information to pass an exam. He pulled up a chair.
‘The dad, that’s Dougie, he’s a real London boy. He moved out here in the early seventies with enough cash to buy himself into a couple of pubs. Our cousins in the Met told us he was into booze, bets, boxing and boobs. He described himself as a promoter, which just meant he had fingers in lots of pies. They didn’t have anything on him, claiming he could pull his finger out of any one of them pies and it’d be clean. He married Trudy – she was the daughter of a boxer named Noel Dowd. Dougie didn’t want to do anything to upset Dowd, so vowed to keep a low profile with the ladies after that.’
‘And then he had his kids?’
‘Nearly there, nearly, but first he set about making money here in Cambridge. He was smart, built up the pubs, leased them out, bought student accommodation and rented it out, too. He bought property at the right price and sold it at the right price, and all through this there were rumours – stories of competitors going under and students getting shafted.
‘Then came the kids, two of them, Nick and Tamsin. They were in their teens before I first saw either of them. I was patrolling the centre one night after the student clubs had shut. Nick was fifteen, and I caught him shagging a girl in the doorway of the chemist’s down King Street. Cocky he was, told me they were queuing for condoms but couldn’t seem to wait for opening time. I took both their names and told them to clear off. There was something in the way he looked, though, and I thought there’s one to watch.’ Sheen nodded like he was wholeheartedly agreeing with himself.
The pause offered an opportunity for Goodhew to query another name on the sheet. ‘So who was Rita?’
‘Now you’re going back to the eighties, and it’s not who, but what. Cambridge used to have a club called the Dorothy, so Dougie opened a rival one and christened it the Rita Club. Then in about ’85 he moved into the Rose and Crown – used to be on Newmarket Road, a real drinkers’ pub, but shut down after the smoking ban came in a couple of years ago.’
Goodhew leaned forward in his chair, willing Sheen to move on. ‘And he sold the Rita Club?’
‘You have to remember those were the days when people packed the pubs in the evenings. Come a Thursday or Friday night they were wall-to-wall with customers. Dougie Lewton didn’t sell it, he just kept buying, opened the Rita, bought two or three more pubs . . . then the Smoke and Light Club. He never off-loaded any of them until the late eighties when he got shot of the lot just before the property crash. The only one he kept was the Celeste.’
‘The Celeste in Market Passage?’
‘That’s right,’ Sheen raised his hand, ‘but back to Nick first. Just as I’d suspected, he turned out to be a troublemaker. What I’d seen wasn’t the start of it, and in fairness to Dougie he did try to keep a rein on him, but then there were a couple of nasty f
ights, and Dougie packed up his wife and kids and left for Spain. Seemed like it happened overnight.’ Sheen clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that, it was.’
‘So he sold the Celeste?’
Sheen paused and bent across until his face was close to Goodhew’s. ‘My youngest boy is just like you: no pause button, just fast-forward. Now, if you don’t want to be bored with a long story about my son James, I suggest you let me finish this one at my own pace.’
Goodhew nodded. ‘Sorry.’
‘’Parently he sat on the money until he had the chance to buy a club in Spain. Called it the Rita Club, too, and it’s one of them hot sweaty places, full of boobs and booze, just like Dougie likes it. Funny way to keep your kids out of trouble, if you ask me, but when I heard that Nick was managing the club, I thought maybe he’d come straight. At least until I heard he’d disappeared.’
Goodhew wondered how Sheen knew all of this.
‘And the reason I know all of this?’ Sheen continued. ‘Because of the Celeste. I keep my ear to the ground when someone still owns a venue like that. Now I’ll go and find you all the official details on file.’
Goodhew turned his attention back to Sheen’s sheet of paper, and realized that all the seemingly random names and arrows now made sense. He suddenly hoped that Sheen wasn’t planning early retirement.
SEVENTEEN
In the end, Sheen sent Goodhew away with just the promise that whatever other documents he had would follow later. ‘I bet your DI’s lookin’ for you,’ he added sagely.
Goodhew felt his conscience poke at him: he knew he was playing the odds by risking being unavailable when Marks needed him most. He assured himself that nothing urgent could have taken place over the last hour, but when he retrieved his silenced phone from his pocket and saw that there were six missed calls, his pulse quickened. He headed for Marks’ office, ringing the voicemail because, if he was being honest, he was too much of a coward to phone Marks direct.
Message one was Mel who, in a hushed voice, hissed, ‘Just to let you know, you’re wanted.’
Message two was Marks himself: ‘Goodhew, phone me.’
Goodhew was skipping straight to number six when Mel announced her presence by thumping his arm. ‘Marks has started a briefing. You’d better get along there, fast.’
He thanked her and nipped along the corridor, picking up the indistinct sound of Marks’ voice reverberating through the thin walls of the large office allocated as the incident room. Goodhew eased the door open, slipped through and slid into the nearest available seat. The room was stuffy and slightly stale, like the air was just on the turn. There were nearly a dozen people there already, and not one of them seemed to notice his arrival. Several held coffee cups as if they had paused just before taking a swig. He hoped this was because the coffee was unpalatable, and not a reaction to the update.
Marks was standing in front of the wipe board, next to which an easel displayed a single oversize photographic print of Riley Guyver. The child wore stonewashed jeans and a royal-blue and red striped T-shirt; he had looked straight into the camera, so now his gaze seemed locked on to Goodhew’s.
‘This picture is the most up-to-date available,’ Marks continued, ‘and therefore the image that our press officer, Liz Bradley, has issued to the press and television. It will appear in the later edition of this evening’s newspaper, on the TV news and on most of tomorrow’s nationals.’
Riley’s eyes were darker than Kimberly’s, but Goodhew could see that the child had inherited some of her air of defiance. Maybe the gaze was a little less angry, and a little more determined, but it was there.
‘Next we have our main suspect, Stefan Golinski.’ Marks remained silent as he spent a few seconds pinning a ten-by-eight enlargement next to the image of Riley. ‘Just to add to what we already know about him, I can confirm that Golinski has no previous for any offences against children, but he’s not exactly in anyone’s baby-sitting circle either. So we’re looking at two scenarios, one where two people have disappeared in separate circumstances and the other, more likely, scenario where those disappearances are related. As far as we know, there have been no sightings of either individual. In Stefan’s case his bank account remains untouched, his known email accounts and mobile phone totally unused.’
DC Charles raised his hand. ‘What about his car?’
‘The car is a little more complicated. For whatever reason, it seems he was not in the habit of correctly registering vehicles and therefore didn’t bother with insignificant detail such as insurance. All we know is that he’s recently been driving a dark-coloured Toyota saloon. Nothing of that description was left at the Park Street multi-storey last night, but he’s known to have used it from time to time. The car park has handed over the footage, so a couple of people here are going to have the unenviable job of watching through it until he’s spotted. Once we have the registration number, we can get the ANPR system to flag up any recent activity.’
Inwardly, Goodhew groaned. ANPR stood for automated number plate recognition, which was efficient at producing data but the task of analysing it could be mind-numbing, and because of his late arrival he felt sure the job was heading his way. He glanced around at the others, and willed it to fall into someone else’s lap, Kincaide’s for first choice but, beyond that, anybody’s lap except his own.
Marks pinned up the next photograph, announcing, ‘Kimberly Guyver.’ It was a recent snapshot and definitely not a police photo. The shot was cropped tightly to her face but it looked like she was somewhere outside, since the light seemed natural and there were patches of green in the background which could be shrubbery. She wore a blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck and maybe was sitting on the grass, because she was smiling up at the camera, her eyes bright and her teeth looking very white against her tanned skin. The camera had been smiling back down at her, making good friends with the curve of her cheek and the deeper curves of her cleavage.
There were a few grunts of interest, a couple of muttered comments and one stifled laugh. The collective response was primal, pack-like: that stale smell had to indicate a surfeit of testosterone. Goodhew noticed the stiffening of Marks’ spine and the beady-eyed look that he cast around the group. Most of them were still too focused on Kimberly’s cleavage to pick up the warning signals, and still the room didn’t settle.
Marks clapped his hands together twice. ‘Yes, as several of you have already noted, she is an extremely attractive woman. Good powers of observation are certainly part of the job, but far better directed elsewhere in this case. DC Charles?’
‘Sir?’
‘What exactly is amusing you?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘And you, Young?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘I disagree, you’re both letching down a young woman’s top and giggling like a couple of fourteen-year-olds. I chose this photograph for a reason: to demonstrate the unpleasantness this young woman will be put through if this investigation is not resolved quickly and she is shown to be anything but the most saintly of mothers.’ He poked his finger at each of them in turn, ‘That prurient attitude will just be the tip of the iceberg. Remember, Kimberly Guyver is Riley Guyver’s mother, and Rachel Golinski was her best friend. She, too, has feelings, and do not forget that. Until evidence tells us otherwise, she is first and foremost a victim in this case. Is that clear?’
There were various nods and grunts of assent. Goodhew half expected Marks to repeat his question in pursuit of a more enthusiastic response; but he didn’t. As for becoming the prime candidate for endless hours of viewing CCTV footage, Goodhew guessed he was now completely off the hook.
It took Marks another ten minutes to conclude, while pressing home the status of the case. ‘Finally, Rachel Golinski’s autopsy report will be with us at any minute. Remember, this is a murder enquiry until I tell you otherwise.’ Only then did he start allocating tasks. Kincaide and Goodhew were left until last.
‘Kincaide, take yourself d
own to Hinton Avenue nursing home and find out the extent of Jay Andrews’ incapacitation . . . Does he know his son is missing? Does he even know he has a son? When did Kimberly Guyver last visit? So on and so forth. If he can’t answer, find out what you can from the staff.’
Which left only Goodhew.
Everyone else was still in the room, ostensibly waiting until the completion of business, but Goodhew knew it was more about making sure everyone got what they deserved. And for this reason he wanted them to witness whatever Marks was about to dish out.
‘And last we have our new boy, DC Goodhew, left there on the bench as the team was selected. Why would that be?’
‘Sir, it’s –’ he began, but Marks cut him short.
‘Rhetorical, Goodhew, rhetorical. I don’t actually want to know why. Once again, you felt the need to go off on your own sweet way. I have now just demonstrated how it puts you outside the team.
‘As you know, the Fire Service received an emergency call alerting us to the fire, while eyewitnesses seemed pretty certain that a teenager who had been trying to access the property had also rung 999. Perhaps they are one and the same individual, perhaps not. It’s a pay-as-you-go mobile, and I want you to locate it.’
With that, Marks dismissed the team.
PC Wilkes was waiting to enter the briefing room just as they were all leaving. She carried an A3 manila envelope. Goodhew looked back once as he reached the end of the corridor, to see his boss heading in the opposite direction, same envelope in hand, back to his own office.