by Alison Bruce
Goodhew turned his back on the home’s main entrance and took a few steps down towards the river. The air wasn’t actually cold, but a slip of cooler air pressed against his back as he drew closer to the Cam. Colin’s brothers had drowned on 19 April 1984 – and that was the answer to everything happening here. There had been six in their gang: Joey, Len, Tony, Ross, Mandy and Sarah. Only Mandy’s children had escaped. One more to kill. Colin Wren had planned to stay and watch Libby die. He knew he’d been found out and only left when Tony Brett had convinced him he had to kill one more time.
The big question was, who.
Had Brett endangered someone random, and also innocent, in an attempt to save Libby? Right now that was an impossible question to answer.
But Brett had had just one shot to sell the idea to Wren. With only one chance, who would he choose?
Goodhew turned to Marks. ‘I think he’s going to kill Len Stacy.’
FIFTY-NINE
Marks redirected every car in the area towards Len Stacy’s home address, then told Goodhew to take them both there. Goodhew listened to the radio chatter for a minute or so then asked, ‘Has Ross Viney been told about Declan yet?’
‘We found him. Lives in a sheltered accommodation in Slough. Unfortunately he has some long-standing psychiatric problems. He will need support before he’s told about his son.’
‘He needs to know.’ Goodhew nodded to himself. ‘He really needs to know.’
‘What’s on your mind, Gary?’
Goodhew was thankful when the radio cut in and prevented Marks pushing it further.
The helicopter’s thermal-imaging camera had picked up a man approaching the gardens at the rear of Stacy’s house.
The arrest had been made by the time they pulled up. Goodhew saw the footage later, showing how Wren had scrambled over the final fence straight into the grasp of three officers. It seemed simple at the end.
As he was cuffed and put in the back of one of the marked cars, Goodhew stood nearby, and just before the door shut, Wren looked up at him. ‘I should have done him first.’
Goodhew watched the car pull away, lights flashing. The blue flashing left streaks on his retina and gave the impression that colour had been left behind, streaking the night sky. He didn’t notice that Marks was now standing next to him.
‘You were about to say something in the car.’
‘I hate secrets.’
‘Are you talking about Christmas and birthdays, or something else?’
Goodhew turned slowly; a choked feeling had gripped his throat. He didn’t understand where the emotion had come from, and he didn’t know if he could trust himself to speak either. ‘People usually deal with the truth. How can they hold on to terrible lies without it eating away at them?’
Marks stared back. ‘That’s rhetorical, isn’t it?’
‘Probably.’
Marks nodded. ‘I think you should sit in with me while I try to take a statement from Wren.’
‘I reckon he’ll talk easily. Any news from the hospital?’
‘Nothing yet.’
Perhaps he was being over-imaginative, but Goodhew thought he recognized a particular expression that some killers wore straight after their first arrest. They often leaned forward, eyes alert, keen to gauge every expression from anyone looking at them. They knew what they’d done, but the difference now was that other people knew too. Observing this change in other people’s demeanour was part of the transition to their new status in the world.
Colin Wren showed no hint of this. Nor was he deliberately staring away in a show of non-cooperation. Colin Wren was just Colin Wren.
Marks sat directly facing Wren, while Goodhew sat back a little and to Marks’s left. ‘Seven counts of murder.’ Marks let the words sit for a second or two. ‘I’d like to start with the deaths of your brothers.’
Wren gestured at Goodhew. ‘He visited me, we talked about it then.’
Marks looked across at Goodhew. ‘Detective?’
‘You and your brothers lived alone with your mum.’
Wren nodded.
‘How did she take their deaths?’
‘How you’d think?’
‘Devastated?’
‘Of course.’
‘Were you able to talk it through with her?’
The corners of Wren’s mouth gave an involuntary downwards twitch. ‘We tried.’
Goodhew studied Wren for a moment then pulled his chair closer. ‘I don’t think it’s ever been your plan to hide what you’ve done, has it?’
Wren just looked at him in silence.
‘You would be telling me everything if you felt you’d finished, wouldn’t you? But in your eyes there’s one more to go.’
Wren nodded slowly.
‘Please, start with your mum.’
Wren thought for a moment, and when he began speaking, his words were measured. ‘It was hard for her. She couldn’t understand how it had happened. Why they’d even go in the water. But when the police found that bag containing the Walkman, I knew what had happened. I couldn’t tell her though.’
Goodhew shook his head. The handles of the plastic bag had been twisted around Johnnie’s fingers so he’d found it before he drowned. Goodhew wondered if Wren knew.
‘I was sixteen. That lot bullied me at school. Those aren’t excuses but sometimes I was harder on Vince and Johnnie than I should have been. I thought then that they’d been so scared of me, they’d risked their lives . . . lost their lives . . . just for a Walkman.’
‘Is your mum still alive?’ Goodhew asked even though he knew the answer.
Now Wren shook his head. ‘Stayed at home all day with the curtains closed, eating, watching TV, and not much else until her heart packed up.’ He pressed his lips together for a moment before adding, ‘Yep, killed her too, I think. I kept my head down, working on people’s gardens. I never considered a family of my own – didn’t think I had the right.’
‘Until Amanda Stone was diagnosed with terminal cancer?’
Wren glanced across at Marks. ‘Doesn’t miss much, does he?’ Then back at Goodhew. ‘Go on then, tell me how it was.’
‘I can’t put words in your mouth.’
‘No one’s going to do that.’
‘Amanda is married to Rob, and Rob was your best friend from school. You’ve been part of her whole marriage, and the guilt has weighed on her throughout, so when she realizes she’s going to die, she decides to tell you the truth. Just to clear her conscience.’
‘Yes, putting her house in order they say, don’t they? Her house always was, because she was a really loving, decent woman. She loved Rob and their kids. Going round theirs was like sending a hungry man to sit alone at the best table of the best restaurant, then only letting him watch the other diners eat.’ He tapped his fingertips on the table-top, the first sign of agitation they’d witnessed. ‘I wasn’t in love with her, nothing like that, but I too could’ve had all of that if . . . if . . . if . . . if . . .’ He sucked in a long hard breath. ‘I’d like a drink of water, please.’
Afterwards, he put the empty plastic cup back on the desk. ‘They’d all of them been there, hanging out in the rain on Jesus Lock Bridge, when Johnnie and Vince had come walking back from town. Joey picked on them just because he picked on me. He threw the bag in the water because it was mine. Amanda told me he shoved Johnnie in after it.’ Wren paused, then made a fist and pressed it against his sealed lips. ‘I could see there was more she wasn’t telling me, but I think she looked at me and decided I couldn’t take any more either. I killed Joey that same evening. I don’t even think I planned it – something just snapped. And when I woke up the next morning, I realized that I was still suffering – but Joey wasn’t.’
‘And what better way to make someone suffer than leave them thinking their child has killed themselves? You gave them just what they’d put you through, all those doubts and feelings of responsibility.’
Wren tapped his finger on the desk. ‘They we
ren’t children when I killed them. Except Declan, but I was running out of time.’
‘Fair game once they’re eighteen?’
Wren looked off to one side, frowning at the same time as his eyes widened. For the first time he wasn’t looking so comfortable with what he’d done. His gaze pivoted back to Goodhew and his head slowly followed. He stared, unblinking.
‘What did Tony Brett tell you?’ Goodhew asked.
Wren shook his head. ‘You ask him.’
‘I can’t if he dies.’
‘He’s not dead – because you said seven. Joey and the kids – they make seven. You would have said eight, or nine with Connie.’ Goodhew noticed Wren’s speech pattern was changing.
‘Connie?’ Marks frowned, writing the name on his notepad.
‘No last name. A woman I saw a few times; I met her on a dating website. Collected strays – like me I expect.’ He didn’t smile. ‘She had insulin for her diabetic dog. I injected her and watched what happened. I needed to make sure I knew what I was doing.’
‘Tell me what Tony Brett said.’
‘No.’ Colin Wren leaned forward. ‘Sarah, Tony and Ross were all there. Hearsay from me will mean nothing in court. My brothers deserve this to be done properly.’
SIXTY
Tony Brett’s bed was the only one in the hospital room. He lay with the head of it raised by several inches and with two bags attached to his drip. Goodhew and Marks moved two visitor chairs over to the same side of the bed.
Marks spoke first. ‘We’ve just checked on Libby. She’s stable, that’s all we know.’
Tony Brett mouthed, ‘Okay.’
Goodhew pulled his chair in closer. ‘Mr Brett, you said something to Colin Wren that made him leave suddenly.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Libby told us. You wanted him away from Libby, because there would be no risk of him intervening to hurry things along, then. Right?’
Brett gave the smallest of nods.
‘Sarah Sumner is mid-flight, Ross Viney is ill. Right now, I think you are the only one who can tell us what really happened to Johnnie and Vince.’
‘We were only kids, old enough to know right from wrong. But still kids.’ He told them the same story they’d already heard from Colin Wren; there were parts that tallied with the police report and plenty that didn’t. ‘Joey dropped the bag through the metal trellis on the side of the bridge. Johnnie and Vince ran to the bank. They were on the side where the hotels are facing the river, but there are bushes and trees between the road and the river, so no one could see them unless they were coming from the Jesus Green side. And no one was over there because of the rain. Joey and Len followed them down. Joey was wired by then, just full of it, and he pushed Johnnie into the river.
‘We laughed at that.
‘All of us.
‘Johnnie could swim – no one thought he was too far from the bank to reach it – but he didn’t just want to get back out: he wanted that bag. That bridge goes over the lock and the weir – it’s a dangerous spot. Len and Joey wouldn’t help; I was too scared – Ross was too. It was little Vinnie that couldn’t stand it any more. He flung himself from the bank and splashed over towards Johnnie.
‘The rain had got heavier, and even though Ross and I were just over the other side of the bridge, we couldn’t hear everything. Mandy and Sarah were further back still, huddled by the trees. I remember them hanging on to each other.
‘Seemed like Vinnie had been in the water for ages when he finally made it back to the bank. Johnnie still hadn’t come back up. He looked at Joey and Len. They were standing beside each other, just staring at him. I couldn’t hear what he said. They never reached out to help him and I could see Joey start to panic. Then suddenly Len knelt down and I thought he was about to help.’
Tony’s speech had accelerated, but now he stopped and just stared across the room. He took a breath, then another. He closed his eyes then finally gave a sob. ‘Len drowned him. He held him under and none of us moved. None of us talked about it again, ever. We just pretended we weren’t there.’ Tears ran from his eyes. ‘Len drowned him, and we all kept quiet.’
SIXTY-ONE
Goodhew’s grandmother reckoned a good night’s sleep put things in perspective. For the first time in days, Goodhew felt rested – but no more. The case had saddened him in a way he’d never experienced.
He arrived at Parkside Pool before its official opening time and completed his regular one hundred lengths by 7.30 a.m. He then went to the station, straight up to the second floor, and plonked himself into the chair opposite Sheen, who was sitting at his desk.
‘I hear that was a tough one?’
‘It wasn’t good.’
‘Nice line in understatement, Gary,’ Sheen said. ‘Len Stacy’s been charged, I hear.’
‘Tony Brett’s making a statement, so is Shanie’s mother, Sarah Faulkner. Ross Viney can’t, but you know what? He’s spent most of his adult life receiving psychiatric care, and each time he’s been released he comes back to Cambridge. He’s drawn back to Jesus Lock Bridge, then bang! The whole cycle starts all over.’
Sheen nodded then held out his hand. ‘And more importantly, I assume you’ve brought my files back.’
‘No, actually they’ve gone into evidence.’
‘The whole lot?’
‘Yep, they were that good.’ The comment was supposed to sound jokey but he just sounded worn. ‘Mostly closing a case feels positive, there’s a sense of progress, but this time . . . I don’t know how I feel.’
‘Empty?’
‘Yes. It is that kind of feeling, almost like I’ve lost something. Is that normal?’
Sheen sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. ‘There are two ideas I’ve never bought into,’ he began. ‘First off, there’s that saying my mum always used: Least said, soonest mended. It’s crap. Keeping things bottled up doesn’t work. Whether they’re big things or small, it’s the unspoken ones that cause the damage. Second, this warning that you mustn’t get emotionally involved. Nice idea, but sometimes you can’t block out empathy for other people’s pain, and you wouldn’t be human if you did. So you feel crap about this case? Well, good for you.’
Despite himself, Goodhew smiled. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything quite so new age from you.’
‘New age? It’s common sense, son.’
Sheen’s desk phone rang. He picked it up, then passed it to Goodhew. It was Marks. ‘I want you and Kincaide in my office at eleven,’ he snapped, then hung up.
Detective Constables Charles and Young had been sitting at desks in the incident room while Kincaide was spouting on about his plans for the weekend. Sounded like they even included his wife.
Goodhew was trying his best to concentrate, assuming that Marks wanted paperwork, and the best way to do it was just to do it. Obvious really, and actually less stressful than his previous habit of avoiding it for as long as possible.
Kincaide had been trying out yet another unimaginative and inevitable joke about Goodhew’s topless ten minutes. Sometimes Goodhew just wished the guy would get himself a life.
Then Gully had come in with a stack of papers and dumped them on the nearest desk. She looked uncomfortable and tipped her head in the direction of the doorway.
He caught up with her on the landing. ‘Sue?’
‘Glad you got the hint. I need to talk to you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Not here.’ She’d led him into the nearest empty office, and had started speaking as soon as she closed the door. ‘Charlotte Stone.’
She let the name hang in the air, watching to see his reaction.
He thought he managed to remain expressionless. ‘What about her?’
‘You like her, I see it on your face.’
He nodded slowly then. ‘Yes, actually I do. It’s awkward with the trial coming up, but—’
Sue wasn’t listening. ‘When I went through the messages on Libby’s laptop, I discovered that both you,
and Kincaide, were involved with Charlotte Stone.’
Goodhew’s stomach lurched. ‘Kincaide?’
‘You didn’t know?’
He shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, then just shook his head again.
‘Well, I feel doubly awkward now. I’m sorry, Gary, but I think it’s fair to let you know I’ve reported you and him to DI Marks. I just handed over the files and he’s going to take it from there.’
‘I see. Didn’t you feel you could talk to me first?’
She looked at her hands. ‘I just felt really let down, because I had this crush on you.’ She blushed a little, not her usual full-on redness but a hint of pink. ‘It’s over now, but I thought you wouldn’t do that.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘But you did.’
‘No. Whatever Libby wrote, she misunderstood. I liked Charlotte, I still do – and too much really, considering. And it had crossed my mind that once the case was over . . .’ He let the sentence drift away. The irony of him finding Charlotte attractive when she’d secretly been seeing Kincaide wasn’t lost on him.
It wasn’t lost on Gully either. ‘You and Kincaide?’
‘Don’t.’ He’d tried to make light of it, but it was too soon for that.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes, then Gully turned to go. ‘I’m sorry, Gary, I’ve really messed up.’
‘Handing that over to Marks is fair enough. I’m just sorry you thought I’d do anything like that.’
And now he sat here alone with Marks. Kincaide had gone in first, and the word disciplinary had made it out to the corridor more than once. Now Gary himself was in the hot seat.
Marks looked surprisingly placid, however. ‘Nothing went on between you and Charlotte Stone, I assume?’
‘No, sir.’
‘She came in to see me, assured me it hadn’t. She’s asked me not to put Kincaide through any kind of disciplinary, either. If they both deny any wrongdoing, I’m scuppered. More to the point, she’s had enough. She wants to be left to get on with her life, and I can respect that.’