The Siren

by Alison Bruce

  The press were gathered in the main conference room, some working on laptops, others busy with their mobiles. No matter what occupied them, it seemed they were tuned in to any new arrival, and therefore, as one, eyed Goodhew with renewed interest. Aware of a hunger in the air, he gripped the paperwork a little tighter, just in case they sniffed the possibility that it contained anything offering reason for further delay, and angrily shredded it on the spot.

  ‘DI Marks?’ he inquired of the nearest journalist, and she pointed him towards a small anteroom.

  He found Marks inside, along with Liz Bradley and Bob Trent.

  Marks greeted Goodhew warmly, Liz barely glanced over at him, and Bob Trent totally ignored his arrival. Liz Bradley and Trent sat facing each other across a narrow desk, while Marks stood at one end, giving Goodhew the impression that Marks had been acting as referee. For a behavioural psychologist, Trent seemed strangely oblivious to the expression on Liz’s face, which to Goodhew read as: If you don’t back off, I’m going to leap across this table and rip your stupid head from your sweaty body.

  No wonder Marks seemed pleased to see him.

  ‘Can I have a word please, sir?’

  Marks nodded and said, ‘Walk with me.’ He led Goodhew across the lobby towards the bedroom accommodation. ‘I’d better go and explain the delays to Kimberly Guyver in person, as I would think she’s becoming quite anxious by now. What have you got there, anyway?’

  Goodhew offered his boss the paperwork.

  Marks shook his head at the amount of it. ‘You’ve read this?’

  ‘Not thoroughly. It needs to be gone through in detail, but there are a couple of points worth explaining. Nick Lewton’s injuries are consistent with both Jay Andrews’ and Rachel Golinski’s, involving significant damage to the base of the skull.’

  ‘The same killer? That’s interesting. What else?’

  ‘Police suspect that an amount of money in the region of three hundred thousand euros disappeared from the Rita Club in the months leading up to Lewton’s murder.’

  Marks had taken them to the second floor, which contained fourteen rooms, seven along each side of a straight corridor. He knocked softly on the door of number 37. PC Kelly Wilkes opened it immediately.

  Goodhew’s focus was drawn beyond her to the bright rectangle of light created by a large window at the far end. Kimberly stood almost in silhouette against it and, as she spoke, her voice sounded distant.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m very sorry that we’ve been so delayed, but this isn’t unusual,’ Marks assured her. ‘We have to assess any risks that may be created in making a public announcement of this nature, and our behavioural psychologist has expressed some concerns.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He fears that a public announcement could push Stefan Golinski towards a violent outcome.’

  Kimberly finally took a few steps towards them. Goodhew thought she looked thinner, like the stress was deflating her from the inside. ‘If he killed Rachel, he’s already dangerous.’ She stared down at the stretch of floor between them. Even her voice sounded more frail but the fear in it was still palpable.

  ‘We’ve received information from the Spanish police relating to Nick Lewton’s death.’

  Marks paused, and Kimberly waited. Just the fingers of one hand moved, and they curled into a loose fist that she drew close to her stomach.

  ‘The post-mortem shows that he died from a severe head injury.’

  She raised her head and shot a startled glance at each of them in turn. ‘In the crash?’

  ‘When the car was dumped, he was already dead. We believe he was kicked to death before that.’

  There was a long pause then, and Goodhew realized that they had not even stepped into the room, and Kimberly had not yet come anywhere close to the door. It was an image that would stay with him, a depiction of her isolation and their inability to save her from it. She stepped back towards the window, and dissolved into her own silhouette.

  Although no question had yet been asked of her, they all seemed to be waiting for her to reply.

  ‘You want my blessing, don’t you?’

  ‘Not blessing, exactly. But I feel that abandoning this press conference will not help us find Stefan Golinski, and until we find him we may not know the whereabouts of your son.’

  ‘This appeal for information,’ her voice had suddenly regained its strength, ‘it must go ahead. It’s imperative.’

  Marks gave a small nod, ‘Thank you.’ He turned to address PC Wilkes. ‘I’ll send someone up to fetch you both’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘assume twenty past.’

  PC Sue Gully waited in the foyer of the Parkside Hotel and tried to remain patient.

  The envelope in her hands contained records of the calls and texts made from the mobile phone owned by Mikey Slater.

  Marks had been waiting for these since the night of the fire, and she failed to understand why communications companies involved had taken so long to hand them over. Despite having the rules regarding privacy explained to her on more than one occasion, it still baffled her why there were so many bureaucratic hoops to jump through just to see details that any member of their staff, however unreliable, could probably access instantly.

  The pages had arrived by courier and, since all the other officers working on the investigation were occupied outside the station somewhere, she herself had signed for the envelope. She tried to deliver it to Goodhew but even he had gone, leaving a tearful Mel in his wake.

  She’d decided that taking an initial peep was nothing more than showing initiative.

  She emptied it out on a desk top, and smiled as she ran her finger down the list of dates and times. This was a document that deserved to go into a time capsule as a record of the social habits of the British teenager circa early twenty-first century. A ratio of at least ten texts for each phone call made, few before ten in the morning and most sent after eight in the evening.

  Her gaze had run down the various numbers, all to other mobiles or local Cambridge calls, her finger stopping at ‘999’. The detail read

  'CALL CONNECTED – EMERGENCY SERVICES.’

  That should have been the only familiar number except, as she’d glimpsed the line below, she could see it wasn’t. Her eyes widened as they picked it out again and again. It was Kimberly Guyver’s home telephone number.

  Gully pulled out her notebook and checked Kimberly’s mobile number. It, too, was on the list, and even more frequently than the home number.

  She looked back to the minutes after the 999 call and saw it there too, along with a third number. This was a Cambridge landline, and the final four digits were a memorable ‘0101’. She returned to the pages of her notebook. She had definitely heard it before.

  Nothing in the notebook.

  In the end she dialled it.

  On the fifth ring it was answered. ‘Hello?’

  It was Anita McVey’s voice and she sounded nervous.

  ‘I’m so sorry, wrong number.’ Gully replaced the handset and realized that her own voice had trembled too.

  Yes, she’d sensed there was something about Kimberly Guyver, but her foster mother too?

  The idea unsettled her.

  She had failed to reach Marks by radio, so she’d hurried from her desk and driven the short distance to the hotel, with the blue light flashing. As she saw the TV vans and the cram of parked vehicles, she felt her conviction weaken. If she was about to make a fool of herself it would be hard to find a larger or more embarrassing audience. Perhaps she’d overlooked something, misread the detail in some way, and now Marks would dismiss her findings as a waste of his time.

  She brushed these reservations away. This was a vital lead.

  And if Marks was too busy to see her, she’d find Goodhew and ask him to take it to their DI. Gut feeling told her that he would oblige.

  She found only Kincaide.

  ‘I’m looking for Goodhew.’

 
; ‘He’s here somewhere. I saw him go off with DI Marks.’

  ‘But you don’t know where?’

  ‘Nope, but considering the stress level in there . . .’ Kincaide jerked his thumb towards the main conference room, ‘I wouldn’t bother Marks unless it’s really urgent.’ His hungry gaze fell on the envelope. ‘Do you want me to take that in for them?’

  Gully shook her head and replied ‘No’ a little too sharply. ‘This is mine. I just needed a word with him.’

  Kincaide shrugged unhelpfully. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Now she waited in the foyer, clutching the inconspicuous business envelope that potentially held so much. She would deliver it personally either to Marks or Goodhew, but no one else. It had to be passed into safe hands.

  The realization sank in.

  Despite his secrets and despite her doubts about Goodhew, she suddenly knew that he wouldn’t let her down.

  Anita McVey had locked all the external doors and double-checked the window locks, at teatime the previous day. Mikey had dropped off two bags of groceries but, apart from opening it enough for him to pass them inside the house, the front door had remained firmly sealed.

  Anita was now thankful she’d spent extra on the security, imagining at the time that the worst she’d have to repel would be undesirable teenagers. And, of course, they would have been bad enough.

  She’d gone to bed early the night before, but watched television into the small hours, scanning the Teletext and all the local channels, penduluming between searching for the latest news and seeking any kind of diversion. When the TV schedules had dwindled to a choice between phone-in competitions, world news headlines or reruns of murder dramas, she switched it off. Then she lay in the dark staring into the speckled blackness, wondering why she hadn’t called a halt to it when Kimberly had begged her to. Dawn had broken sometime around 5 a.m. and Anita was sure she’d had no sleep. The skin around her eyes felt bruised and her mouth tasted sour, but, most of all, the sleeplessness was adding to her rising sense of panic.

  She switched on the TV in her bedroom, keeping the volume just loud enough so she could still hear it, and stop to listen if the local news team began to report anything relevant. She tried to tidy up the room but after an hour was sure she’d made no progress.

  She wanted to call the police but instead decided to stay upstairs and as isolated from the real world as possible.

  The landing at Viva Cottage was nearly wide enough to warrant boxing it off at one end and calling it a study. Anita preferred it as it stood though: an airy space with a large picture window overlooking the front garden. It was there that she always chose to do the ironing, and now sorted a basket of her most crumpled clothes and set up the board facing the only item of furniture on the landing.

  That was Kimberly’s favourite seat, an early Victorian rosewood nursing chair, or at least that’s what the label in the Antiques Barn had said. She wouldn’t have guessed so in a million years. It sat low to the ground, with a high back, a deep seat and no arms, and she couldn’t help thinking how plenty of new mums must have slid off it to either side, and found themselves an exhausted heap on the floor.

  Anita herself had stripped and varnished the wood, then had it reupholstered in a buttermilk damask, before putting it into the landing corner to stand there on its fat little scroll legs as a robust piece of art. Something about it had attracted Kimberly so that, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d drag her duvet from her bedroom and sit in that chair to watch the night sky.

  Anita wished Kimberly was here. Perhaps she’d feel calmer if she were able to discuss it. She stared at the chair, then asked herself whether it really mattered if she didn’t get a reply, maybe the talking alone would help her clear her mind. She switched on the iron and, while she waited for it to heat up, tried a couple of tentative sentences. Her voice sounded unnatural, hollow and self-conscious.

  She never left the iron unattended whilst it was reaching temperature, but even that seemed oddly slow today. She began turning the smaller items of clothing the right way out, smoothing them and straightening the sleeves. By the time she’d finished preparing the second shirt, her attention had strayed to the window.

  It looked like rain but, aside from that, nothing seemed to have changed. ‘So, what’s different?’ she murmured. At the start of this she’d been adamant that her plan was the safest. Where was that resolve now?

  She tried to run through her logic once more but, now that the initial eureka moment had faded, she could see too many unmapped steps along the path. She turned back to the chair and, instead, pictured Kimberly sitting in it. She tried again. ‘Nothing’s changed. The plan is fine. It is fine.’

  The iron’s thermostat clicked and almost simultaneously the telephone rang. She picked up the hands-free from the windowsill, but it only gave a double beep and died. Shit, it had been beside her bed all night, when it should have been put on charge again.

  She knew the iron was still visible from the bottom of the stairs, so ran down and snatched up the handset there on the fourth or fifth ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was a pause at the other end. Anita heard a sharp breath, then a woman’s voice apologized for dialling the wrong number. When the caller hung up, Anita dialled 1471 and was told ‘We do not have the number’.

  She walked back up to start on her pile of laundry.

  The voice had belonged to a young woman and Anita thought it sounded familiar, but she couldn’t dismiss the possibility that it was just her rising paranoia that led her to suspect that.

  She ironed the first T-shirt, then pressed too hard on the second and felt the hot metal of the iron begin to singe the soft jersey fabric.

  Identifying voices had never been a talent of hers. She wondered if it had been Tamsin who’d just phoned? And what would it mean if she had? A stray jet of steam blew out and stung Anita’s fingers. She pulled the iron’s plug out of the wall, deciding this wasn’t a good day for her to be in charge of a hot and heavy electrical implement.

  She took the laundry basket and set it in front of the rosewood chair, smoothing and folding each item while she talked to an imaginary Kimberly.

  ‘I admit it, I didn’t have a plan to get us out at the end of it, but I’m not concerned about that. The first thing we need to do is get to the end. That’s still the plan, right? Hold firm and get to the end.’

  Kimberly made no argument.

  ‘Once we get that far, I could own up and say it was all my doing. I wouldn’t care as long as you’re both OK. Hang on, though.’ Anita raised her hand as if for silence, and a news reporter’s voice reached her ear. Still delayed? She wasn’t sure what that implied, or even whether it lay in the ballpark of good or bad.

  Her stomach gave a queasy shift, as if offering her the answer. She leant towards the banister stairs and looked over, wondering whether she’d heard something from downstairs too.

  Her pulse quickened, but downstairs nothing moved.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she whispered at last. ‘It’s just us two.’ That didn’t stop her from creeping to each upstairs window in turn, and checking the ground outside. The skyline of Cambridge city centre stood in the middle distance, and she paused to study it, trying to pick out familiar rooftops and work out exactly in which direction Kimberly might be now.

  Anita had been cooped up indoors for too long – they both had – but it wasn’t fair to ask Mikey to help them any more. She turned back to the nursing chair, but this time stopped pretending it was Kimberly who was actually sitting there.

  ‘I love you.’

  Riley looked up and held out his empty plate. ‘Gone.’

  ‘Good boy. D’you want some yogurt now?’

  He nodded. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  Anita tried to sound cheerful: ‘We’ll see her soon.’ She lifted Riley on to her hip, holding him close. He had perfectly functioning little legs, so she was aware that the cuddle was more for her own benefit than for his. S
he carried him into her bedroom. ‘Let’s turn off the television.’

  ‘Riley do it,’ he told her.

  She swung him in the direction of the ‘off’ button. At the last moment, his pointing finger changed course and waved at the screen in excitement. ‘Look!’

  The photograph that Kimberly had given the police flashed on to the screen. The voiceover announced ‘growing concern for the safety of two-year-old Riley Guyver’.

  Riley beamed up at her. ‘Daddy.’

  ‘That’s right, sweetheart. You love that photo, don’t you?’ Anita smiled back at Riley, and the bleakest edges of her anxiety softened. As long as they were looking for a child resembling a two-year-old Jay Andrews, Riley would remain hidden. And as long as Kimberly stayed with the police, they’d all be safe.

  As soon as Jay’s photo disappeared from the screen, Riley happily turned off the set. Anita tickled him in the tummy and he giggled.

  ‘We should play in the garden. Would you like that?’

  Riley nodded and wrapped his arms around her neck, gripping her tightly as they descended the stairs.

  The second floor corridor was relatively short with the lift and stairs at one end and a fire exit at the other. Bev Dransfield had made it around the corner and into the alcove housing the fire-door with no time to spare.

  Despite the close proximity of the bedrooms, the building’s acoustics killed sound very efficiently, and by the time DI Marks and his sidekick left again Bev had discovered just two facts: Kimberly Guyver was in room 37, and there were only fifteen minutes available for her to nail the story.

  Bev pulled a small Dictaphone from her inside pocket. Sometimes just two facts were plenty.

  Kimberly had always hated magicians: those satanically charming men whose relationship with the audience consisted of controlling their thoughts and receiving their adulation.

  And that same flock of people who were inexplicably happy to buy into the concept of a world where subjects could vanish and the mysterious appearance of the odd garish trinket warranted amazement.

  Magicians took their bows, facing the audience with a smug flourish and a superior glint in the eye. They were nothing more than tricksters, liars essentially, rewarded for practising trickery until it was flawless. Kimberly was well aware that magic was a myth.