by Alison Bruce
The third lorry had jack-knifed and come to rest with its cab relatively undamaged. It was the rear half that had taken the brunt of the impact, decelerating from fifty-five to zero within yards as it tore into the undercarriage of the lorry in its path. The result was a narrowing ‘V’, an acute angle of scrap metal and 36-inch-high tyres.
The whole crash scene seemed overrun with emergency crews cutting, tending and directing, but no one seemed to notice Goodhew. He hesitated, he knew he should tell someone what he was considering, but if they delayed him it might be too late. He wanted to believe that, by some fluke, someone could still be alive under there.
Although the trailer lay on its side, it was no longer entirely rigid, and the impact had buckled it just enough to allow Goodhew a crawlspace. He lay flat on his stomach and, with his mobile phone in his hand, extended his arm in amidst the wreckage and took a photo. The flash lit the space for a moment, then he quickly withdrew his arm. The timer revolved for a few seconds and then the photo appeared. The light had reflected off the wet tarmac, blanching the image, but Goodhew saw what he’d been looking for. It was a smudge of orange, out of focus but clearly fabric.
He folded his hand around his phone and dropped back on to his stomach, then he slid further under the toppled vehicle. The gap was tight, narrowing further in. Every few inches he had to stop and check his route, using the meagre light from the phone’s screen to see for the next couple of feet. As he moved forward, he had to keep his head low, his cheek only an inch from the greasy tarmac.
He made it another yard forward before realizing that the gap between the wreckage and the ground was starting to reduce. It was also becoming more difficult to tilt his face up in order to see where he was heading. If he went much further, it might be impossible to back out again, then he himself would need to be rescued. But equally he felt he’d already come too far to turn back. He took several new pictures with his phone and finally managed to take one that gave him the answer. The orange fabric was clearer now, and he could distinguish part of an arm and her fingers. They were dirty and bloodstained, but still intact.
He held the phone a little further from his face, squinting as he tried to identify anything that might confirm a definite sign of life. Or death.
At that moment Marks’s number flashed up on screen, and Goodhew realized his own odds were not so great.
‘Where are you?’ Marks barked. ‘I’m at the scene now.’
‘I’m under the lorry, sir.’
‘You need to get out right now.’
‘There’s someone under here.’
‘Goodhew!’
‘I’m nearly there.’
‘It isn’t safe, there are procedures that must be followed. And you’re not going to find anyone alive under this mess.’
Silence.
Then the beam of a flashlight swung under the lorry, and hit Goodhew full in the face. ‘Get out now, Gary.’
‘I can’t.’
‘It’s not a request. Out. Now.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t move backwards,’ he lied.
‘Bollocks. I know the position of the lorry, Gary, and it gets narrower as you move forwards.’
‘It’s harder to back up.’ Goodhew drew a deep breath. ‘Shine the torch on her, please, sir.’
‘I can’t bloody well see her.’
‘Stick your arm in further and I’ll direct you.’
‘I can’t see anything if I do that.’
‘It doesn’t matter – I can. Okay, okay, round to your left . . . Stop! Now, slowly, left again. Stop.’
By craning his neck, Goodhew could see the furthest point of torchlight, a narrow beam that clipped the edge of a metal strut, before landing to give him a partial view of a woman’s face. He could see her cheek and ear, her jawbone and neck. ‘I can reach her,’ he called out.
They were still on the phone and, though just yards apart, Marks might as well have been a mile away.
‘That lorry’s not stable, I want you out of there.’
‘I don’t think I can. Look, if I’m with her, they’ll only need to work on one spot and, if she’s not dead, I might be able to help.’
Marks didn’t actually say it, but Goodhew could imagine his boss’s exasperated response: Don’t be stupid, of course she’s dead.
It took Goodhew almost twenty minutes to reach her, pressing himself ever flatter to the ground as he wriggled forward.
He had spoken to her several times during the last ten minutes, but there was no response. Finally he got close enough to touch her. She was over to his right as he lay on his stomach, his face level with the back of her head.
‘Can you hear me?’ he whispered.
He slid his hand over and around her cheek, to feel for any hint of breath. He cupped his palm close to her nose and mouth. But there was something getting in the way. He felt around more urgently, then realized that whatever it was led to her mouth. It went directly inside. He didn’t want to move her, but she needed to breathe, no matter what other injuries she’d sustained. He lifted his own head as far as possible, and turned hers towards him.
And despite the bad light, he saw the thing forcing its way through her open mouth. Not going in but coming out – what the . . .
And that was when he recoiled, pressing his face to the tarmac and struggling to breathe. He wanted to fight his way out from under that lorry, just to escape it. But that was impossible: he was just too exhausted and too tightly wedged in to go anywhere.
His mobile rang again, and he answered. He could hear himself carefully explaining the situation to Marks, his voice on some kind of autopilot and doing a poor impression of calmness.
It took another two hours for the wrecked lorries to be lifted. Goodhew didn’t think he’d moved in all that time; even when he’d spoken to Marks, his face had stayed put, his eyes fixed on the road surface. It seemed like the only thing he was able to trust right then.
He told himself to look at her again, to try to understand what he thought he’d seen and silently offer her body the respect it deserved. Instead, he didn’t lift his head again until he felt a hand tugging at his shoulder, and heard the firm voice of the paramedic he’d spoken to earlier.
‘Gary.’ Her voice was insistent, as if it wasn’t the first time she’d spoken his name. ‘Come on. That’s right.’ She spoke as though he was being coaxed from a ledge. She helped him to stand.
He did exactly what he was told, but beyond that struggled to gather his thoughts. It was as if some part of his brain had switched off and would take several attempts to reboot.
He muttered something.
‘You weren’t under a bed.’ She laughed – a false noise that didn’t suit her. ‘That’s your shock talking.’
She had one hand on his elbow and the other pressing into the small of his back, manoeuvring him towards a waiting ambulance. By the time his head began to clear, he was sitting inside the vehicle with a thermal blanket draped around his shoulders. Marks was there too, with an expression of angry relief written on his face.
‘Strickland’s examined the body, taking her back for autopsy . . .’
Goodhew wasn’t really listening. ‘Did you see her?’
‘Strickland told me. He’s insisting on having a word with you. Ah, here he comes.’
Goodhew nodded. As far as he knew, Strickland was the most humourless and pedantic man on the planet, but he was also a very thorough police surgeon who would never waste any of his time just to hand-hold a junior officer.
Strickland was to the point. ‘DI Marks thought it important that you had some kind of understanding of the condition of the body. One of the injuries sustained by the young lady was a huge crushing force sustained to the abdomen. Certainly, I would say, enough to cause death – although it is possible that she had already been fatally injured at that point. Needless to say . . .’
Gary hung his head and stared into his filthy hands.
‘. . . it was likely to be the re
sult of the wheels rolling over her, and simple physics tells us what that kind of enormous pressure will exert on soft tissue. Her diaphragm would have ruptured and her oesophagus would have compressed a little, but intestines are extremely plastic. The first time you witness intestines expelled through the mouth, well, it’s certainly weird but with the forces involved, not as improbable as it would seem.’
Goodhew had his hand raised, willing Strickland to stop. He’d understood as soon as Strickland had mentioned simple physics. It was Strickland’s favourite phrase when he wanted to demonstrate the frailty of the human body.
But Strickland had continued with his explanation, while Goodhew pumped hand-sanitizer on to his palms, and tried to expunge the feeling of raw intestines against his skin.
Three years on and it was a memory he had never chosen to revisit, until forced on him now by the realization that he had ended up face to face with Rosie Brett’s little sister and the remains of the family home. Until then the memory had been lodged in the part of his brain called forget-it-ever-happened.
Goodhew’s dinner was virtually untouched, but Bryn was gone and in his place sat Gully.
‘I’ve only been here a couple of minutes,’ she began. ‘Bryn rang me because he was worried.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know why you’re surprised. You didn’t even see him leave or me arrive. He made a good call. He said you’d become totally vacant, like you weren’t here at all.’
‘No, I was just thinking.’
‘Bollocks, it was more than that. I just saw it, remember? Most of us don’t go that far away, even when we’re on annual leave.’
Goodhew managed to smile. Gully was a good antidote to self-pity.
He went over to the bar and returned with a pint of lager and a large glass of Bacardi and lemonade. ‘Cheers,’ he said. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Libby Brett’s brother and sister both killed themselves.’
‘Yes, I know. I found that out this afternoon when I went to visit her course tutor. I thought he might be in a good position to arrange some extra support.’
‘There’s a big heart under that uniform, after all.’
‘Yeah, right. I was actually thinking more about our workload. Less witness trauma probably equals a clearer statement, which probably equals less paperwork.’
‘That big heart?’
‘Yes, I know, it’s made of granite.’
The waitress approached their table holding a dessert bowl, napkin and spoon. ‘Hot chocolate orange pudding?’
Goodhew pointed to Gully’s side of the table. ‘It’s a treat for your soft side.’
She took a mouthful, then paused before the second. ‘I’m concerned for Libby because she’s been through so much, but I wouldn’t joke if I really thought she was a risk.’
‘See, you’re as soft as they come.’
‘Piss off, Gary. If this wasn’t Jaffa Cake heaven, I’d walk out now. Just go back to thinking. I’m not interrupting this just to talk to you.’
EIGHTEEN
I’ll tell you one thing, Zoe. I never expected all of this when I started emailing you.
We’ve been allowed back into the house.
I wasn’t expecting that. I thought it would remain sealed, with tape across the doors and the PC on guard at the front step, at least until the end of the investigation.
So much for TV and my imagination, I guess.
And at college I seem to have gained this weird kind of notoriety. The favourite question seems to be whether I find it creepy going back to a house where someone killed themselves.
And, no, I don’t.
Each time I reply as if that’s the first time it’s been brought to my attention, I never go on to say that being back here is a comfort. It is, especially here in my room with all my own things.
Matt didn’t want to come back, but I think he did it for me. He’s been in my room a bit more than usual, talking about Shanie mostly. We both worry in case she was alive for a while, and trying to get our attention, but we’re also determined not to dwell on that until we’re told more. DC Goodhew had a quiet word and reassured me, saying that it looked like she’d been dead for most of that weekend.
He talked to Charlotte, and I know she would have told him all about Rosie and Nathan. They went for a walk somewhere, and he was white faced by the time they returned. He looked at me as though he felt sorry for me.
Thanks, Charlotte.
No, that’s not fair. I’m genuinely pleased that she told him, and thankful for everything Charlotte has done to try to convince people that Rosie and Nathan would never have killed themselves. I’m just angry that, in the end, she seemed to reach the conclusion that they did. And now she wishes Matt would accept it, too.
And Matt does waver about it sometimes.
‘If they didn’t kill themselves, Libby, what are you saying?’ That’s been a question that he’s asked with increasing frequency.
The word ‘murder’ sounds so extreme that I hesitated before using it. Could that really have happened? I sat on the fence a bit with my reply: ‘Someone made it happen,’ I said.
‘Someone made them kill themselves?’
I’d only made it sound even more unlikely.
‘No, someone killed them,’ I said quietly. It sounded as improbable as a fairy sneaking into your room at night and taking teeth from under your pillow, leaving money behind. Was I just a kid wanting to believe the fanciful over reality?
‘Who?’ Matt asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered miserably. I could feel that I would regret it if I lost my nerve. ‘They were murdered.’ I voiced the thought, and realized it didn’t sound ridiculous at all. ‘They were murdered and I don’t know why, or who would have done it.’ My strength of conviction alone has been enough to keep Matt on side.
But, for all Charlotte’s doubts, she is determined to find something that might give me conclusive proof. She understands that it’s the only way I will let it drop and, more importantly from her point of view, my own peace of mind will give Matt the answer he needs so that he can begin to get on with his life.
Charlotte is strong and single-minded, and ‘conclusive proof’ is all I want, too. But I reckon it will give a different answer to the one she expects.
She believes DC Goodhew can help, but wouldn’t say any more than that. I can guess what she’s thinking. I hope she genuinely likes him, as I don’t want to see her make the same mistake twice.
As far as this house goes, I feel like I’m on suicide watch. Jamie scares me, she’s taken it so badly. Of all the people here, I do wonder why she returned. She averts her head from Shanie’s door whenever she walks down the hall and lowers her voice if she needs to say Shanie’s name. I can hear her crying in her room, and listening to an endless stream of angsty music. If I hear her listening to Coldplay, I’m calling an ambulance.
The others aren’t so bad and, yes, they all came back. Oslo’s gone on one of his sick photography expeditions. I would have thought he might have given that a rest in the circumstances. Funny, really – when the police let us back in, he was crapping himself in case either of his precious goldfish had died.
Meg and Phil are together even more than usual. I don’t understand their relationship. They have this way of acting around each other that makes me feel they’re part of their own private club. I can be in a room with them, and then leave with a feeling that I’m the subject of a private joke between them.
I thought that sounded paranoid until Jamie said she felt like that too.
I don’t think I like either of them very much, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’d like them to like me. It’s a shame I’m not studying psychology: none of this is on the accountancy syllabus!
Hang on, now their two-person club is not sounding quite so happy. Shit. I’m not staying here to listen to this. Why don’t they remember that Phil’s room is straight above mine? Perhaps no one realizes how much I can hear in this ho
use.
Or maybe we can all hear the same, but I’m the only one who’s actually paying attention.
NINETEEN
Phil’s room was small with just a narrow strip of carpet on either side of the double bed. At its foot was a slightly larger area of carpet where a chest of drawers stood with its back to the wall. In the narrow space left between that and the bed, Meg and Phil were standing almost toe-to-toe.
She was shocked at the fury she felt towards him. ‘I told you to leave her alone.’
‘It’s none of your business,’ he snorted.
‘I had to find somewhere else to sleep, while the police were going through our house.’
‘For fuck’s sake, that’s not my fault.’
‘Nothing’s your fault in your eyes. Has it occurred to you that you hurt her? That this whole mess might be your fault?’ She knew she was goading him now, but she didn’t care.
But he came straight back at her. ‘Just as likely you pushed her to it.’
‘Fuck you, Phil.’ Meg wanted to leave, but she wanted an explanation even more. ‘I did nothing to her that she didn’t do to me.’
‘Meg, you picked her up on everything, every chance you had. If you couldn’t bitch at her, you blanked her or sidelined her.’
‘At least I didn’t screw her.’
‘Since when do you care?’
‘She wasn’t even pretty.’ Meg’s mouth pulled itself downwards. ‘There was something about her that made me cringe. I’d just look at her and want to vomit.’
‘That’s pathetic.’
‘Why? She made no effort with her looks, her hair was a mess, she dressed like a slob . . .’
‘Meg. Just give it a rest.’
‘No. You can screw who you like, Phil, but I don’t have to like them too. And you didn’t have to do it here. In this house. In that bed.’ Meg’s voice began to waver. She didn’t want to cry, she just wanted him to know how angry she was.