The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4)

by Alison Bruce

  Lucky Kincaide.

  ‘I actually wanted you here so I could explain something to you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Goodhew wasn’t sure why Marks would want to confide in him.

  ‘I know you feel uneasy about having become overly involved in a case.’

  ‘Sheen spoke to you?’

  ‘I appreciate your concern about how distracted I’ve been lately. Several years ago, I too became over-involved in a case. I took it home with me, literally. I started behaving . . . well, like you, really. And I hadn’t done that for years.

  ‘I then made a mistake. A serious one. And, as a result, a man who should have received a life sentence was jailed for only ten years. He’s now served just over half, and I’ve recently found out that he’s soon going to be released.

  ‘It preys on my mind. I am convinced he’ll re-offend, and someone out there will become a victim because of it. Because of me.’

  Now Marks’s burden finally made sense.

  ‘But there’s another side to it,’ Marks continued. ‘My mistake probably saved someone’s life. I can’t separate them out and have one outcome without the other. When you run around breaking the rules, you risk getting more involved than you should. In those situations, when you make a mistake, you have to learn to live with it. Don’t expect to stay unscathed, Gary. It’s not going to happen.’

  EPILOGUE

  The funeral was today.

  And the last time I’ll write is also today. That makes sense to me.

  I woke up this morning and expected rain, or at least a heavy sky, but the day was beautiful. And, after the constant rain of the last few weeks it felt as though the sunshine had come out just for us.

  Mum hung on until the week before Christmas – 20 December, to be precise.

  She never regained consciousness.

  You could wonder at the point of her having those extra weeks when, despite treatment, prayers and goodwill, we still had to let her go.

  But Dad and I did a great deal, so they weren’t weeks of nothing. We visited her every day. I talked to her and read to her. Dad and I talked properly, too, openly and for hours.

  When he first visited, he held her hand. Initially I think it was out of guilt and duty, but at the end I could tell it was because he wanted to, as though he finally thought enough of himself again that he could allow himself to find comfort in her touch.

  ‘We went through a lot together, didn’t we?’ I was standing in the doorway to her room when he said that. I slipped back out into the corridor and left them for a while. When I returned he’d fallen asleep in the chair, tilted forward with his head on her bed.

  I’m not a stupid romantic who thinks they could have patched things up. They were never a great couple – I reckon they were mismatched from the start. But when it came down to it, either of them would have died to save me – and that’s a real bond.

  We’d been home just about an hour on the nineteenth when they called us back. We played music quietly and talked off and on for those final five hours, and by 1 a.m. she’d gone. We’ll never know whether she heard anything either of us said, but I choose to think she did.

  Dad and I spent Christmas morning alone with the curtains drawn and the phone muted, but we knew we couldn’t carry on like that. Dad looks back at all the other years, and his verdict is that healing doesn’t just happen; you must let it happen, and even help it along sometimes.

  Dad had already decided on a cremation. He said Mum hadn’t cared either way. She’d always said she had no plans to go before she’d lost her marbles, so it didn’t really matter anyway. So much for plans. On the grounds that she’d never expressed a preference, Dad made the choice.

  The crematorium is north of Cambridge, on the A14, close enough to the road so you can see the traffic shooting past. I think Dad chose it simply because we’d pass both the spot where Nathan died and under the bridge from which Rosie fell. It’s right we face these places now. And today we’re saying a proper goodbye to them too. That’s why there were three wreaths on Mum’s coffin.

  The crematorium is six miles outside Cambridge, so it meant we avoided the interlopers who think they can learn something about life by spying on someone else’s misery. They wouldn’t have destroyed it for me, in any case, as the defining moment of today occurred as we turned in at the gate.

  The crematorium reminds me of an old schoolhouse; it is symmetrical, with a circular flowerbed in front and a little tower that could house the school bell just behind. It’s plain and not imposing in any way. The approach is straight up a driveway cut through the apron of grass at the front. Bare trees lined the route, and the sky beyond was an untouched winter blue.

  The hearse went in front, carrying Mum and our three wreaths, and we followed. I sat in the middle of the rear seat with Dad on one side and Matt on the other. At that moment I appreciated the balance, and I felt hope. I knew I was ready to say goodbye.

  The service was short. I gave a reading. I wore that nail polish and my fingers trembled, so I put the notes down and did it from memory. I wasn’t word perfect but I don’t think it mattered either. Plenty of people were there for Mum, and I could see how much that moved Dad.

  The police were there too. We appreciated that more than they could have known. DI Marks, PC Gully and DC Goodhew – the one who tried to save my sister. Their presence showed respect, and as Rosie said, it’s the only thing of value you can give the dead.

  I carried Mum’s wreath to the memorial garden, Dad carried the other two. At the last moment Dad called Goodhew and asked him to take Rosie’s wreath.

  Right now we’re back home. Everyone’s gone except Matt.

  When I came out of the coma Matt was there. When I came out of hospital he was there. We discussed how we felt about each other, and agreed that we shouldn’t risk wrecking our friendship by dating. Then we kissed because the truth was, we’d gone beyond being only friends a while ago.

  He and Dad are downstairs, and I’ve slipped upstairs to write this, to remind myself of the good things I feel today, in case I have days when I forget.

  Requiescat in pace.

  Enough tears now.

  Goodhew had picked the St Radegund, and they’d been lucky enough to get a table before the main onslaught of customers. It seemed to Goodhew that whenever his grandmother and Bryn were in the same room, Goodhew himself was the wallflower. The other two talked cars, or played pool, but this evening they’d gone over to the bar and ended up shouting answers in an impromptu trivia quiz set by one of the regulars.

  He didn’t mind at all.

  He was grateful for the company, but glad of the space. And maybe they’d worked that out.

  Today was the first time he’d seen Charlotte Stone since the day after Wren’s arrest. They’d both known they had feelings for each other, but maybe because they’d never been expressed, it made it easier for them to say goodbye.

  It’s because of Kincaide, isn’t it? she had asked.

  It wasn’t just that, but that alone made it impossible. Goodhew had nodded apologetically. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered some people, but there was no point in pretending he was someone he wasn’t.

  He was glad he had attended the funeral. Marks had decided it would be appropriate, and had invited him and Gully along. They still had the court case to face, and they’d be seeing most of the key mourners again in court. There would be two trials: one for Len Stacy and the other for Colin Wren, if he proved fit to stand.

  Goodhew had noticed Colin Wren’s agitation bubbling through, but mostly he’d been calm and forthcoming in making his confession – until it came time to give details of the death of Declan Viney. The psychiatrist said it could have been the trauma of killing him in the same spot where his brothers died. Goodhew himself was convinced that it was because Colin Wren had broken one of his own rules by killing a child.

  Of all the victims it was Rosie he thought about most often. In his dreams he saw Colin guiding her to the parapet an
d Rosie too drugged to resist. Time and again he watched helplessly as she toppled into the traffic. Still crawled under the lorry to reach her, but when he spoke to her she spoke to him. And when he woke later, he still felt bereft. He missed his grandfather now more than at any time since his death all those years ago.

  ‘Vera Lynn?’

  He looked up and realized his grandmother was there with a glass.

  ‘It’s a Vera Lynn . . . Lynn for gin,’ she explained. ‘Bit of a speciality in here, apparently.’

  Bryn stood just behind her, pint in hand and a go-on-indulge-her expression on his face.

  Goodhew obliged. ‘Happy now?’

  ‘Anything to cheer you up a bit,’ she replied.

  ‘I don’t even like gin, so how’s that going to cheer me up?’

  Bryn held up his glass. ‘We’re shaking you out of your comfort zone. And we’ve invited Sue to join us.’

  ‘Gully?’

  ‘Why not.’

  He shrugged – there was no reason now why not. Once they’d started speaking again he had sensed that, through the awkwardness, their friendship had been cemented. She still blushed regularly, but less often around him.

  By the end of the evening they’d found a pool table, and Bryn started trying to help Sue improve her game.

  Goodhew smiled to himself at the sight.

  His grandmother sat opposite him. He’d asked her twice more about her sister’s death. It was a long time ago, Gary. I should never have mentioned it.

  ‘I think I hate secrets,’ he’d said.

  ‘So do I, but some exist for good reason.’

  ‘You do realize I know nothing about my family tree beyond you and Grandad?’

  ‘But you know who you are, and that’s all that matters.’

  He left it there. She was wrong but also right at the same time; and for someone who found closeness to other people so challenging, he’d done well.

  He glanced across to the pool table in time to see Gully slam the black into an end pocket. ‘Your round, Bryn.’

  Bryn demanded a rematch. Goodhew’s grandmother demanded a game of doubles.

  And so it went on for the rest of the evening. It was a good night.

  Then he walked home alone, with the blur of streetlamps illuminating his way through the icy Cambridge fog. He knew every step of the way, so visibility could have been zero and Cambridge would still be there, clear and bright in his mind. It was other things, things he couldn’t quite see, that fed his insomnia, or visited his dreams once he managed to sleep.

  Tonight, he knew, he’d stay awake.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My first thank-you is to Jacen, Natalie, Lana and Dean for all your encouragement, good company and music in the workplace.

  There are many friends I’d also like to thank for small favours and great kindness at various times: Claire and Chris Tombs, Sue Gully and Gary Goodhew, Richard Reynolds, Christine Bartram, Jon and Gabrielle Breakfield, Kelly Kelday, George Wicker, Jane Martin, Rob and Elaine Watson, Elaine McBride, Liz Meads, Genevieve Pease, Charlotte Prince, Martin and Sam Jerram, Tim and Diane Slater, Alison Hilborne and Kimberly Jackson.

  During the writing of The Silence I was lucky enough to be able to have some great support from the Royal Literary Fund and specialist knowledge from several generous and helpful people including Dr T. V. Liew, Dr William Holstein and Tony Ixer.

  Thank you to the team at Constable, in particular Krystyna Green, Rob Nichols, Jamie-Lee Nardone and Jo Stansall. And my thanks also go to Joan Deitch, whose comments were greatly appreciated.

  I’ve had great fun at events this year, with talks at libraries, reading groups and literary events, and the opportunity to meet so many readers in person has made it a very memorable one. Also, to the readers and other authors I’ve met during my first year on Twitter, @Alison_Bruce; it’s been a joy getting to know you all. One person deserves singling out for a special mention: @milorambles; Miles, thank you for all your support.

  And finally a huge thank-you to my lovely agent Broo Doherty, whose kindness, common sense and words of wisdom I truly value.

  THE SOUNDTRACK FOR THE SILENCE

  When I write a book I find there are songs that can inspire me as I write a particular scene or chapter. By the time I finish I have a playlist that belongs to that book alone and some of those tracks will have been played several hundred times. These are the twelve songs I listened to most as I wrote this book, my soundtrack to The Silence.

  ‘Change Your Mind’ – The Killers

  ‘Find My Love’ – Fairground Attraction

  ‘Have Love Will Travel’ – Hot Boogie Chillun

  ‘Hot Love’ – Brian Setzer

  ‘Indigo Blue’ – Jacen Bruce

  ‘Long Black Shiny Car’ – Restless

  ‘In Dreams’ – Roy Orbison

  ‘Nobody’s Guy’ – The Blue Devils

  ‘Perfidia’ – The Ventures

  ‘Someone Like You’ – Adele

  ‘Tail of a Rattlesnake’ – The Blue Devils

  ‘You Don’t Love Me’ – Bo Diddley

  For more information please visit www.alisonbruce.com.

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Fourty

  Fourty-One

  Fourty-Two

  Fourty-Three

  Fourty-Four

  Fourty-Five

  Fourty-Six

  Fourty-Seven

  Fourty-Eight

  Fourty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  The Soundtrack for the Silence