by Alison Bruce
Fair point. Goodhew thanked him and headed back to his car. Groves followed and Goodhew had opened his door before the caretaker spoke again.
‘Course, Ross Viney’s lad Declan is a pupil at the moment.’
Goodhew turned slowly. ‘His son? How old is he?’
‘Final year, so fifteen or sixteen.’
Goodhew nodded, shut himself inside the car, out of earshot of Groves, and contacted the control room. ‘I need the address for a Declan Viney. Age fifteen or sixteen. Pupil at the Manor School, King’s Hedges.’
‘Hold on.’
‘It’s urgent.’
A pause. Background noise. Hesitation.
‘I’m patching you through to DI Marks.’
‘No! Just give me the address.’
But his call was already being redirected. Goodhew started the engine and spun the car round until its nose was poking out on to the Arbury Road. Come on, come on.
The line opened. ‘Goodhew?’
‘I need—’
Marks cut him short. ‘Control just explained. Where did you hear the name Declan Viney?’
‘We need to find him. He could be in danger.’
‘He’s dead.’
Two simple words but Goodhew couldn’t digest them. ‘He can’t be.’
‘Pulled out of the Cam an hour ago. Possible ID only in the last few minutes – and then you phone. I need you back here fast.’ Goodhew flicked on the vehicle’s lights and sirens, and accelerated towards the city centre.
‘We need to find Libby Brett at once!’ Goodhew shouted.
‘We’re looking for her already, Gary.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Goodhew didn’t make it as far as the next junction before his mobile rang, and the fear in Charlotte Stone’s voice was present from the very first word.
FIFTY
The record for completing the King Street Run stands at fourteen minutes and five seconds. Many, students in particular, suspect it’s not so tough. But most of those don’t make it beyond the third pub in that time and soon realize that the last pub, the St Radegund, may as well be in the next county.
The last of the daylight had gone as Matt leaned his back against the wall of their old student house and slid into a squatting position. It wasn’t the quantity of beer but the combination of adrenaline and an empty stomach that left him feeling happier now that he was closer to street-level.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and waited for Oslo, Phil and Jamie. And, despite knowing she’d gone to meet her dad, he kept watching for Libby too.
For him, the last half an hour had changed everything.
Initially Matt hadn’t really cared whether he made it beyond the second pub, and he didn’t think the others did either. For once they’d united, and saying goodbye to Meg and Shanie was all that mattered. Libby had stood on the pavement – okay, so she wasn’t racing, but she was there and it meant a lot to him.
He had walked across and given her a hug. ‘Thank you.’
She’d shrugged. ‘I’m glad I came. I understand now why this is a good thing.’
He’d hugged her again, tighter this time, relieved that she couldn’t see the inane grin which had just appeared on his face.
‘I texted Aunty Sandra so she knows I’m running late. But I’m only going to hang on until you have run the first two pubs.’
He’d nodded. ‘I’ll text you when I finish.’
‘Finish or give up?’
‘We’ll see, but I’ll carry on as far as I can. I think four pints is the max for me.’
Libby had tapped him on the arm then to remind him that Phil, Oslo and Jamie were standing next to them. She’d been a little self-conscious as she spoke to them all. ‘I’ll be gone by the time you finish, so I’d better say it now. I think Shanie and Meg would be pleased you’ve all done this.’ With Oslo and Phil, the goodbye had been brief and still a little stiff, but as she’d held Jamie tightly, the affection between them was clear. Then she took a couple of steps back and watched as the starting whistle blew and the whole pack ran to pint number one.
When Matt emerged from the first pub, D’Arry’s, Libby was on the same spot. She’d waved and he was able to pick her voice from the rest as she shouted encouragement. The second pub, the Bun Shop, was across the road and the crowd had moved with the bulk of the runners so she’d now been closer. Again she waved.
That was all the pubs and pints he’d needed to do, one for Shanie and one for Meg. Matt’s knew how to drink too much, but usually lager, shots or a combination of the two. Pints of ale were a different game and just the second pint had left him feeling full. But the idea of the third pint being for his mum and the fourth for Nathan had casually entered his head and hadn’t felt like leaving since.
At two of the pubs the runners had to drink two pints to make up the seven, since a couple had closed down. He’d decided that if he could do that at the Champion of the Thames, maybe he could accompany Libby to visit her dad, and then they could both go home.
He’d managed to rush pint three, and swallowed number four as quickly as possible. Suddenly the only person he could think about was Libby. He’d felt himself sway as he made for the door. It wasn’t a stagger yet but it was headed that way. He wasn’t in the right state to see Libby’s dad at all.
He must have been slow getting through the pub doorway; some runners barged in, some barged out but he didn’t think to move and instead drifted back and forth in the opening like a loose strand of door curtain.
He’d studied the spectators with care; he’d known he was drunk and that meant she could be right under his nose and he might not see her.
But no, she’d gone. He’d stepped from the doorway at last; for him the race was over. And the only thing left was realizing how much he hadn’t wanted her to go. He scanned the crowd standing further down King Street, but she wasn’t there either.
It felt like she’d just vanished.
He’d shivered apprehensively, but the feeling continued and it remained with him as he finally sank to the ground.
FIFTY-ONE
A silver Vauxhall Astra had almost reached the centre of Cambridge at the same time as the King Street Run began. Nobby was careful to stay one or two miles an hour beneath the speed limit. He watched the road but his mind was full. There were too many questions raising their little mole-like heads, popping up from the darkness too quickly to be dispatched by well-directed answers.
He knew Declan Viney’s body had already been found, but had it been identified?
Connected with the other deaths?
Were the police looking for him yet?
Did he have the time to take Libby?
The questions began to pile up in his head. He couldn’t afford the distraction, but then he realized that only the last question mattered. There had been times when reaching the end had seemed an impossible task, but then he reminded himself of how clearly he knew it to be right when he set out. Now he mustn’t rush, since failure to get them all was failure. So he pressed on and, one by one, they’d all died.
But now that he was close to completion, his mood had changed. He buzzed with anticipation; the final weight would be lifting from his shoulders.
One more death.
Then arrest. But he wouldn’t confess to murder and that would mean the full courtroom circus. The chance to tell his story. To be vindicated.
And to ensure that, he had tried to kill with compassion. There was no need for them to suffer much. People wouldn’t understand if he did that.
Nobby coughed to clear his throat. He felt as though he hadn’t spoken to another human being in an age. ‘One, two, three.’ He sounded a little croaky. ‘One, two, three.’ Better.
He reached the end of King Street, only to find that it was temporarily blocked off. Obvious really: the road was narrow on a normal day, so filling it with drunks would mean emptying it of cars. He hadn’t considered that.
He parked the car as near as he could then typed a tex
t before getting out. He didn’t press ‘send’ until Libby was within sight. He watched her fish her mobile from her pocket and see that her mum had sent her a text. I NEED TO GO TO HOSPITAL. I’M HERE BUT CAN’T FIND YOU. MEET ME AT THE CAR. I’VE PULLED UP ON DOUBLE YELLOWS AT THE START OF SHORT STREET. MUM X
He’d examined her previous texts, and Libby’s mum texted all in caps, with full sentences. She always signed off with an ‘X’.
Looking at Libby hurrying off to find her family’s car confirmed to him that she suspected absolutely nothing. Bless her.
FIFTY-TWO
Tony Brett ran for home – his home, not his sister-in-law’s eight-by-seven charity box but the real thing. He needed to grab the car, work out where Libby was, and get her safe.
He reached his front door and banged on it, for the one thing that hadn’t been returned to him on his release was the door key. When there was no reply, he bent down and shouted through the letter-box.
He looked up the street; he had no doubt that there were noses twitching behind some of those curtains. Neighbours he’d known for years. He didn’t think he could turn to them now.
His own car was outside their house; Vicky’s wasn’t. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she would be out. And his car keys would be hanging up in the kitchen.
He went to the side of the house, picked up a brick and smashed through the nearest window.
Fuck the restraining order.
It was the least of his problems.
He scrambled through, into the kitchen, and grabbed the bunch of keys from their hook. He was heading for the front door when he noticed the answerphone flashing. On the off-chance that Libby had left a message, he went over and pressed ‘play’. A message from yesterday, from Matt: Hi, Libby, it’s me, de-da-de-da . . .
Tony pressed ‘stop’ and listened. He heard nothing, but pushed the door open to the sitting room. Then: ‘Oh fuck, Vicky.’
She lay face down, a pool of blood around her head and a thick, immobile trail of it visible through her matted hair. ‘Vicky, Vicky.’
He reached out and found she was still warm. He put his ear close to her mouth and heard the faint sound of her breathing. ‘I’ll get help. Stay with me, Vicky.’
He eased her into the recovery position, grabbed the house phone and hit 999, saying, ‘Ambulance.’ He gave the details of her injuries but stopped short of telling them who had done it. Whatever he said now, he’d probably still get the blame. Only Vicky could decide whether he deserved it.
This time there’d be no running from the responsibility. He knew it was his.
Her lips moved a fraction. ‘Don’t talk,’ he told her. ‘I know who did this. I need to find Libby.’
She opened her nearer eye a couple of millimetres, and mouthed what looked like a soundless ‘Matt.’
He tried again, but her eye reclosed and stayed that way.
He hurried from the house, leaving the front door wide open. ‘Vicky needs help!’ He shouted it twice, as loudly as he could, and prayed the neighbours really were as vigilant as he believed.
Tony Brett uttered a second prayer as he swung out into the main road and saw the ambulance headed towards him. Time was everything, for all of them, right now.
Had Vicky thought that Libby was still with Matt – was that all she meant? Or was there more? He could have misread the word on her silent lips.
He drove towards the city in any case, instincts pushing him towards Matt and King Street.
Several times, he glanced at his phone which sat beside him on the seat. Could the police really find Libby more easily? They might not even believe him, especially once they discovered he’d just driven away from the home of a seriously beaten woman.
He pulled over into a layby on Victoria Avenue, next to the dome-roofed public toilets. He was within sight of Four Lamps Corner and the end of King Street, but he could see the crowds there. It made more sense to ring Matt, one final shot at working out what Vicky had meant; after that he’d call the police despite his misgivings.
He opened his contacts list, sure that he still had Matt’s number in there. He wasn’t like Vicky with her lilac iPhone and consistent formatting of every name and number. He’d rung Matt and was waiting for it to connect. It was all he could do to sit still. Vicky’s phone even had a photograph against each contact. He thought of her picture of Matt, a sunny day and the rarity of his smile.
It switched to voicemail. That didn’t matter. Tony now knew where Matt’s photo had been taken and knew why Vicky had tried so hard to whisper his name.
Tony swung the car round in a wide arc. He knew exactly where he was headed and the idea of calling the police was instantly gone.
FIFTY-THREE
Goodhew had spotted Charlotte the moment her house came within sight; she was standing next to her front door, bare armed, with a laptop clutched across her chest. She’d hurried to the kerbside as soon as she saw the blue light. Her first words were, ‘Libby’s missing.’
‘We’re already searching for her,’ he’d told her, but doubted that did anything to ease her fears.
Now she sat in the seat next to him, laptop open, as they wove through the streets. ‘I can’t open her emails until I get on the Internet.’
‘It’ll be easy at the station. Just tell me what you’ve found.’
‘Messages between Libby and a girl named Zoe. Doesn’t matter about Zoe right now – she was a fake profile Libby set up on Facebook just so she had someone to talk to. There are pages of it, and that’s all Libby was doing, talking – like you would to a therapist, I suppose.’
He asked again, ‘What did you find?’
‘That’s just it – I don’t know. Her dad phoned me, panicking because she hadn’t turned up. I couldn’t get hold of her or Matt. I didn’t know what to do so I went on to her computer and found this. I started reading, but there’s so much and I knew there wasn’t time. It’s too much for me, too impossible. I rang you because I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘Where’s Matt?’
‘In town. Phil wanted them all to join in the Run.’
‘Phil told me that too, but said no one would speak to him.’
‘Right.’ She pulled a rueful face. ‘Phil phoned our house and I answered. I actually thought it was a good idea. I talked them round.’ She paused. ‘Saying goodbye’s important.’
Goodhew glanced away and concentrated on the road again, but he could clearly hear the distress rising in her voice.
‘So Libby went too?’
‘Yes, but only to meet them beforehand. She must have decided she’d show her support. But if she found out her dad was being released and she’d promised to be there, she wouldn’t let him down.’
‘How would she travel from King Street to home?’
‘Bike – but, no, not today. She and Matt came into town together, and his bike’s still at home.’
‘Bus, then?’
She nodded.
‘D’you think she’d accept a lift from anyone she didn’t know?’
‘Absolutely not. She’s very careful that way.’
He considered that for a moment: being careful was such a dangerous game.
Safer to be a lone pedestrian at night, or take a lift with a friend who might be driving drunk? Safer to meet a stranger in public or secretly meet someone you think you know? Safer to keep it secret than feel embarrassed, in case the friendship is misconstrued? Sometimes it took luck as much as judgement. Especially with people you barely know.
More so when, like Shanie, you’re thousands of miles from home.
The police station was in sight now, meaning little time for a major switch of topic. ‘Shanie said she met someone for a drink but they never turned up. Any idea who it was?’
‘No,’ Charlotte shook her head, ‘but Libby and Matt talked about it. Shanie said she’d wasted her money . . .’
‘. . . because she’d bought a drink for the person already?’
‘Yes, so
they reckon it would have been someone she knew quite well . . .’
‘. . . otherwise she wouldn’t have known what type of drink to buy.’
‘Exactly. Don’t keep finishing my sentences.’
Goodhew didn’t reply. He pulled up to the front of the station instead of driving into the car park. The image of Shanie buying an extra drink was floating in his head, and somewhere in the back of his mind was the other half of that picture, the anchor that would hold it all still long enough to tell him where to go.
Charlotte started to speak but he turned his head away. He stared at the lamp-post in the centre of Parker’s Piece.
Reality Checkpoint was the name given to this lamp-post that stood on the spot where the paths crossed; its four curled arms pointed to every boundary to the city. The ancient buildings, the research, every possible subject, the edge of science. Past, present and future. A small city that touched the whole world. All the answers were here and he just wanted one, one snippet of Cambridge Trivia.
The Rain Check Tree.
He grabbed Charlotte’s wrist. ‘Take that in, ask for PC Sue Gully. Only her. Tell her I need her to read it all now.’ He leaned across her and opened her door. ‘I have to go.’
Goodhew floored the accelerator and cut through the lights on red; he then drove up East Road, riding the white line and trusting the siren to clear the way through the next three sets of lights too.
The next left took him on to Maids Causeway, and from there he’d have a straight run to the end of King Street and the St Radegund. The traffic was busy but moving freely, and he had no trouble weaving through the cars all the way to Four Lamps, the closest spot to the pub. He jumped out and dashed into the throng of competitors and spectators who were filling the pavements outside the pub doors.