The Siren

by Alison Bruce

  By the time Goodhew turned the corner, the other detectives had already reached the top of the main stairs, and he followed them without attempting to catch up. He didn’t feel as though he was being ostracized in any way; he hadn’t been in the department long enough to be in, never mind being back out again. Goodhew kept an expression of downcast humility all the way to the bottom of the stairs while, moving as one, his colleagues headed out the back entrance towards their various vehicles.

  Goodhew himself left by the front door, and set off on foot. And, step by step, his serious expression transformed slowly into a grin. He had little to go on, that was true: just a voice recording, a mobile-phone number and a couple of witnesses. But he’d just realized that the teenager he and Bryn had crossed paths with on the night of the fire was the one he now sought. That made Goodhew one of those eyewitnesses mentioned and, more importantly, he now had some idea which direction the anonymous caller had taken, and what the caller looked like.

  And, to cap it all, Marks had left him alone and unsupervised. This was a chance to prove something to his boss, and Goodhew had no intention of wasting the opportunity.

  It had been two hours earlier when Gully arrived at the station with Kimberly Guyver. The policewoman had pulled back out of Blossom Street just as a local news crew pulled in, and then returned to Parkside with a young man on a small but overly loud moped in pursuit. She suspected him of being another media man, maybe a photographer, and kept checking her rear-view mirror anxiously, not liking the way he kept so close to her back bumper. He remained on her tail until the final junction, when she turned right but he headed straight on, slaloming through the queue of morning traffic and out of sight.

  Gully felt a mix of relief and foolishness. Surplus adrenalin had begun pumping through her veins; fully charged, with no release now but to carry on pointlessly circulating until it burnt out. She made it into the car park with a faultless imitation of composure, then delivered Kimberly to the first interview room, where press officer Bradley and another PC were already waiting.

  Gully didn’t hang around for any further formalities, as the first signs of a headache were gathering around her temples. Instead she sat quietly in the staff kitchen and sipped from a mug of hot water.

  She was reboiling the kettle when DI Marks peered in. ‘Everything all right?’

  She nodded. ‘Bit of a headache, nothing really.’

  ‘How’s your second week going?’

  ‘Fine, I think, sir. Kimberly Guyver’s waiting for you in the first interview room. If it’s all right, I’ll take a break, and get something to eat.’

  ‘You look like you could do with a couple of hours off. Any case like this has the potential of turning into more of a marathon than a sprint. No point in making yourself ill on day one.’

  Gully flushed. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I’ll be fine.’ That wasn’t true: pressure was mounting behind her right eye, and it throbbed with every word she spoke. If it didn’t subside quickly, she’d be facing a full-blown migraine – the hereditary Achilles heel embedded in the DNA of all her father’s blood relatives. ‘I’ll be pleased to stay with Kimberly if she decides to go back home.’

  ‘We’ll review that a little later.’ He opened the door and half-turned as if about to leave, then stopped. ‘Bear in mind the possibility that the mother’s somehow involved.’

  ‘No. She’s distraught.’

  ‘Word of warning, don’t get too close.’ He held up a hand before she could object. ‘You shouldn’t have taken her to the fire scene earlier.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I realize I made a mistake.’

  ‘Second week, so you’re bound to make them. Just don’t be too accommodating. I don’t only mean with the public, but with our detectives too.’

  She couldn’t work out if this last part was a caution for the future or admonishment for other errors that she wasn’t even aware she had made. She couldn’t now trust herself to ask him what he meant, since she could imagine the question coming out with a hostile edge to it, or maybe his answer exposing her in some horribly inexperienced light.

  As it was, she wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

  This time he did leave, making a parting comment that he could manage without her until she felt up to it. Perhaps it was said out of sympathy, but if it was supposed to make her feel better, it failed.

  She wished she’d been honest with Marks about taking Kimberly to the fire scene before he’d heard it from Goodhew. Gully stayed in the kitchen, nursing both her head and her dented confidence, until the second dose of paracetamol kicked in. By then she’d already made her decision: get back to Kimberly and stick with her; she’d then show Marks that she was more than capable of staying detached.

  She was in the corridor heading towards the interview room, when Mel Lake caught up with her.

  ‘Did you notice anyone hanging round the cemetery?’ Mel asked.

  Gully kept walking. ‘Who wants to know?’

  Mel passed her a Post-it note, which Gully glanced at. ‘No, I didn’t, but when you next speak to DC Goodhew, make sure he understands that I didn’t spend all my time at that house staring out of the bedroom window.’

  Mel looked amused. ‘No problem,’ she said, and took back the piece of paper.

  She might not know Mel properly yet, but that fact that she was a chirpy little cheerleader for ‘Team Goodhew’ stood out a mile. Gully had nothing else to add, and found herself returning her own version of a superficial smile, before stepping forward to knock on the interview-room door.

  EIGHTEEN

  The mobile phone that had made the 999 call had been topped up on four occasions in the last two months, and the top-ups had been purchased at three different newsagents: WH Smith in the city centre, and the Star off-licence and Lally’s both in Mill Road. At least the service provider had supplied that much information, but the calls sent and received were unavailable until the morning.

  Goodhew left off visiting the city centre until last, since it seemed far more likely the lad he was seeking was local to the Mill Road area. And infinitely more likely that one of the family-run shops might be able to identify one of their regular customers.

  Two top-ups had been sold at the off-licence, but the woman at the cash desk couldn’t remember arranging either.

  ‘I would have been here, though; if the shop’s open I’m in it, simple as that.’ Her name badge read ‘Jill’ and he quickly realized that this seemed to be the most complex piece of information that she was prepared to divulge. ‘We get loads of people through that door, love, all sorts.’

  He tried rewording his enquiry and she came right back with, ‘Like I said, love, we get all sorts in here.’

  He made one final attempt. ‘He’s quite lightly built, mid to late teens, might have been wearing a baggy grey sweatshirt?’

  Jill behind the till shook her head. ‘Wouldn’t know, darling. The ones like that all look the same.’

  He prayed that Lally’s would prove more fruitful or, more precisely, that a visit to Smith’s wouldn’t be necessary; though that chain probably had some fancy sales system that would pinpoint exactly when the sale went through, and at which of the tills, from which information they’d be able to identify where to search for the customer’s image on their security tape. It would be a long job and too many hours had slipped away already.

  Lally’s was a long narrow shop with the counter situated near the rear wall. No name-badge this time but the owner, a forty-five-year-old man with a quiff and a London accent, introduced himself as Raj. ‘Yeh, I know who you mean.’

  Goodhew asked for a name, but Raj shook his head and grinned broadly. ‘It’s not that easy, I’m afraid. He comes in all the time, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him here with anyone else, so I’ve never heard him being called by name.’

  ‘Any idea where he lives? Which way he goes from here, or from which direction he comes in?’

  ‘Somewhere towards th
e centre . . . I don’t know. I’ve seen him down towards the cemetery entrance. Mill Road Cemetery, if you know where that is? Is it drugs, then?’

  ‘No, why d’you ask that?’

  ‘Dunno, but he seems the type, I s’pose. I guess he could live over that way, but then why come all the way up here when Norfolk Street or maybe even East Road’s shops are closer?’

  The description Raj gave clashed with Goodhew’s own memory of the youth. Raj thought he was a couple of inches taller, maybe five-foot-eleven, only about fifteen years old, and never remembered seeing him without his black baseball cap, ever. Goodhew began to wonder whether they were thinking of the same lad; and, even if they were, he asked himself if he could genuinely recognize him again. He guessed there were many such things you’d never know until the moment came, and this was probably one of them.

  The sky was overcast but the air was warm and static. Goodhew started at a brisk walk but soon broke into a jog, and by the time he reached Mill Road Cemetery he was breathing more quickly and his shirt was feeling heavy against his skin.

  He walked through to the centre where a circular footpath ran round the site where the chapel had once stood, and sat down at the bench giving him the best view of the cemetery’s southern end. It meant he could cover both the main entrances. Goodhew didn’t have a newspaper to hide behind, so he sat forward, elbows on knees, mobile in hand, and did his best impression of a man deciding what to include in a vital text message. He stayed like that for almost an hour, swapped seats, then did the same, this time facing the north end. The afternoon drew to a close with no progress.

  The number of people passing through began to increase as school ended and offices began to close. He decided to patrol the perimeter and check if there was any other obvious reason that the teenager may have been in the cemetery.

  He didn’t know the graveyard too well but was well aware that one of the more derelict corners was a hang-out for drug users. Dense and neglected shrubbery had turned that area into a green tunnel ending in a cave. He picked his way through a depressing litter of syringes, discarded lager cans and rusting aerosols. Ivy and bramble had swallowed most of the memorials. Next to one stood a moss-covered statue of what appeared to be a headless chorister, one of its hands holding a broken tablet of stone. By its feet the faces of flat gravestones stared up at a canopy of ivy-choked trees, most of the carefully incised words obliterated by time. Mute monuments and the dispossessed; it struck Goodhew that this corner was a place for people who didn’t have much of a voice in the world at large. Debris was strewn deep into the brambles, and he felt it a pity that the people who cared for the grounds never ventured this far, but a greater pity that so many other people needed somewhere like this. He felt heavy with the heat, and with his lack of progress.

  Then he saw it.

  He’d begun to turn away when a spark of recognition flooded his brain. Black cloth amid the tangle of undergrowth. He dropped to his hands and knees and tried to reach into the bushes. He was about a foot short, though he leant into the brambles and felt them snagging on his shirt. He shuffled forwards an inch, then another, ignoring the thorns grazing the back of his outstretched hand. Finally his first two fingers were within touching distance, and with a pincer action he used them to catch hold of it. He tugged it towards him until it was finally free. With his other hand he reached into his front pocket for a clear plastic bag; he shook it open and dropped his find into it.

  Only then did he take a closer look at the baseball cap that he hoped would bring him a step closer to their elusive caller.

  Marks had laughed on seeing Goodhew, at which point Gary realized that his jeans were streaked with dirt and grass stains, burrs were in his hair, and some sort of cobweb was clinging on to his shirt.

  ‘I’d have had an apoplectic Kincaide on my hands if I’d sent him instead. That or no cap.’ Marks had then muttered in afterthought, ‘Take a break, a couple of hours, get cleaned up, have something to eat, then come back. I need everyone pushing this one – it’s taking too long to make headway.’

  On this occasion Goodhew had done just what he was told, in essence at any rate. He showered, changed into fresh jeans and his much loved dark-blue shirt, then hurried across Parker’s Piece to the gym adjoining Parkside Pool. It was now a few minutes after seven and he’d promised to do his grandmother a favour.

  ‘We have a man shortage,’ she’d informed him, following that announcement with a low, husky laugh. ‘The ladies will love you.’

  Evidently that was supposed to sound like a good thing.

  He’d made one, albeit feeble, attempt at making an escape. ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘Of course you can. You just can’t salsa yet, and that’s the entire purpose of the lesson.’

  That conversation was haunting him now as he climbed the stairs and caught the first strains of an upbeat number which sounded like it might be titled ‘Torture with Gusto’. As his grandmother was by far the fittest pensioner he knew, he wondered if any of her elderly friends would have expired by the end of this class. He was surprised when he opened the door and saw that 80 per cent were his age, and about 90 per cent of those were women.

  That equated to an attractive 72 per cent young women, though that was nowhere near being the most attractive figure in the room. His heart sank and he took a step backwards; the best route would be a quick retreat. He heard his grandmother’s voice before he could escape any further.

  ‘Gary, come on in!’

  And, for the second time in less than an hour, he did exactly what he was told. He considered this further as he found himself stumbling round the floor with Connie, a bossy but gorgeous doubly left-footed Italian who snapped at him every time she herself made a mistake, and again when he shared about thirty seconds of perfect synchronicity with the very toned Nicole. By the end of the class he figured that following orders once in a while could provide some pleasant side effects.

  He walked to the pool’s café with his grandmother, and bought her a pot of tea and a portion of chips for himself, which he doused in salad cream just because he felt like it. ‘I reckon I’ve burnt this off already.’

  ‘You enjoyed it, then?’ his grandmother asked.

  ‘It was OK,’ he conceded.

  ‘Liar, you loved it.’

  ‘It was OK,’ he repeated, but broke into a grin. ‘Fair enough, it was fun.’ But his enjoyment was just a burst of sunshine between the clouds. ‘I will have to go in a few minutes, though.’

  ‘So you’re working on the Riley Guyver case?’

  ‘You don’t miss much.’

  Outside, the grey evening light was fading, leaving their surroundings looking increasingly melancholy.

  ‘Gary, I really want to say something, but I don’t want you to think I’m turning into some manipulative busybody in my late middle age. On second thoughts, however, I think you know your own mind very well.’

  ‘Blimey, this is sounding rather deep already.’

  ‘I can continue?’

  ‘Well, you have to now. That’s too much like only half a story.’

  She wiped a smudge of her red lipstick from her mug and placed it back on the tray, then spread her manicured hands palms-down on the table. ‘Sometimes I can detect a certain expression on your face.’ She held his gaze steadily in hers. ‘Why do some cases make you feel so individually responsible? Like when you get a bee in your bonnet, and start running your own parallel investigations.’

  ‘I haven’t done that for a while.’

  ‘Only because Marks is keeping you so busy. I can completely understand the general urgency of finding this little boy, but has it ever occurred to you that the cases that motivate you to go one step further are the ones that strike a chord with you in some personal way?’

  ‘No, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘You pick out people who need help, because they don’t quite fit – because you don’t quite fit.’

  It was a remark that stung more than
he might have expected. ‘So how does that apply in this case?’

  ‘Describe Kimberly Guyver’s looks.’

  ‘Better than average?’

  She gave a short laugh, ‘Yes, and Cambridge dabbles in adult education!’ She shook her head. ‘Like it or not, in today’s world looks like hers could open doors all over, and what does she do with them but sit at home and paint pictures? She actually wants people to look at her paintings, not at her.’

  ‘And you reckon I want to help her just because she’s good-looking?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ The irascibility in her tone was uncharacteristic. ‘I know very well that’s not the way your brain works.’

  His corresponding moment of irritation was replaced by a sense of curiosity. ‘So . . .?’

  She stared at him thoughtfully. ‘I’m struggling to find the right words, Gary.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound annoyed.’

  ‘No, no, I think I explained it in the wrong way. Forget I said anything.’ She reached forward and squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, and before you go I have a letter for you.’ She passed him an envelope.

  He folded it in half and slid it into his pocket. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You could actually read this one.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It’s confirming the final transfer of all assets left to you by your grandfather.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll have a look.’

  ‘Gary, I understand. Now that it’s all in your name, there’s no need for me to know any more. I’d rather we stayed friends than have this cause a rift between us.’

  That was the moment when he knew conclusively that she truly understood him. ‘Me too,’ he said. He leant across and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  As he returned to work, the envelope in his pocket weighed surprisingly little, but her earlier words kept bothering him. What was it about Kimberly Guyver that was drawing him in? And how would his grandmother know?

  Michael Kincaide had driven away from Parkside Police Station preoccupied by the suspicion that he’d ended up with the short straw somehow, while Goodhew had been handed a comparative gem. He decided to skip lunch, thinking that perhaps if he got back promptly, Marks would give him something more challenging to tackle.