Good Girls Don't Die

by Isabelle Grey

  It was only when the Courier’s story had begun to attract attention on Facebook this morning that the two women had connected and shared their experiences. Neither had known Rachel Moston more than fleetingly, but they were deeply shocked by her murder. What made Grace burn with indignation was how each independently wanted to know if Rachel’s death was their fault; whether, if they’d spoken out more forcefully, she might still be alive.

  Grace hated that they should have been left so unfairly burdened. She could admit to herself now that when she’d first seen the Courier’s racy front page she’d almost felt sorry for Matt: the police were only doing their job, but it had been obvious that such coverage of his arrest, even if he were subsequently cleared of any involvement in Polly’s disappearance or Rachel’s murder, must spell the end of his academic career. Now she was pleased. Kim and the emo girl’s stories resonated with her own experience of bureaucratic failure; she knew she was being a bit self-righteous, but she couldn’t help hoping that the media would go on to expose how the authorities – whose duty it was to protect students from an abusive and predatory teacher – had so wilfully ignored these two young women.

  She took time to thank both young women for their courage in coming forward and to assure them that if either decided after all to make a formal statement then she would do everything in her power to pursue rape charges against Matt. He might have used alcohol to subdue them rather than threats of violence, but neither had wanted sex, and his subsequent abuse of power had only compounded the violation. Watching them leave together, she felt glad that they had at least found one another.

  The corridor was quiet as she made her way upstairs, and she stopped to lean against the wall for a moment, as all her rows with her husband came flooding back. She’d argued that Lee had nearly killed that prisoner in the van, was out of control, might do worse next time. For Lee’s own sake, never mind the next guy in the next van, the truth had to come out. But Trev would have none of it: no matter what Lee had done, it could be sorted. Lee was a good bloke, a mate, his best mate. Bottom line, always, is that you don’t grass up a mate. Do that and you deserve what you get.

  Off the record, she’d had a quiet word with Colin Pitman, her DCI, just like the emo girl had with her departmental head. Colin had made his distaste for the van assault pretty plain and assured her she could leave it with him. But Lee’s aggression had got worse, while any complaint that might have become official was shuffled around until it died of suffocation; no one was put in a position where they had to take responsibility. Is that what had happened with Matt? Was that why Polly was missing and Rachel was dead? Grace wondered if the university authorities would ever blame themselves? If Colin ever had?

  Or had Trev been right all along, and it was Grace who’d had a skewed idea of loyalty, Grace who had deserved to be bullied and excluded?

  She’d joined the Job straight from university, fascinated by the courses in criminology and forensic psychology that had been part of her degree. She’d wanted a career where she would need to understand offenders, could simultaneously protect victims and hope to turn around the lives of those who acted out their chaotic, deprived childhoods through crime. Her few short weeks shadowing the uniformed beat officers had soon blown away such misty-eyed idealism, yet also served to strengthen her conviction that the criminal justice system must protect both victim and offender alike. Abandon that duty, and all was lost. Yet not one of her colleagues – not Jeff, Margie or Colin – had offered her a shred of support, not even at the very end.

  At that thought, she pushed herself away from the wall and wearily climbed the stairs to MIT. Keith saw her come in and beckoned her straight into his office.

  He listened patiently to Grace’s summary of the two young women’s accounts of non-consensual sex, then sighed thoughtfully.

  ‘So what do you think?’ he asked at last. ‘Is there an argument here to completely rethink Polly’s disappearance?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What if Matt Beeston treated her like he did these two, and now she’s gone AWOL to escape the humiliation?’

  Such an idea had not occurred to Grace. She thought it over. ‘Her housemate said she was out drinking perfectly happily the following night,’ she pointed out. ‘And presumably she wasn’t too drunk to consent to sex when she woke up with Matt on the Friday morning.’

  ‘All the same, we don’t really know what happened between them. And hurt feelings and fear of embarrassment can both loom very large at that age,’ said Keith.

  Grace nodded. ‘All the publicity about her disappearance isn’t going to make it any easier to reappear and have to explain why she ran off, either.’

  Keith rubbed his hands back and forth through his short grey hair, then stared belligerently at Grace. ‘Is Matt Beeston our man or not?’

  ‘He rendered both these students helpless by getting them very drunk. Given that alcohol is part of his modus operandi, then the half-empty vodka bottle might well carry significance for him.’

  ‘And, from what you say, humiliating his women afterwards seems to be part of the kick.’

  ‘Yes. Except –’ Grace still baulked at the folded jacket placed under Rachel Moston’s head.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The killer took unnecessary time and trouble to straighten Rachel’s clothes, make her appear comfortable. Matt doesn’t strike me as the compassionate type.’

  ‘Maybe those actions have other significance. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of being judged, and tried to make what he’d done look less bad.’ Keith saw the scepticism in Grace’s eyes and laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve heard from perpetrators over the years, the crazy logic that sets in once everything’s gone quiet and matey finds himself all alone with a dead body.’

  Grace nodded. She knew she must guard against having too fixed a view of incomplete evidence, yet couldn’t help fearing that the investigation was getting lost in an over-complicated maze. She looked up to find Keith regarding her shrewdly.

  ‘Are we getting this all wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, boss.’

  He didn’t seem to mind her candour, and nodded towards the outer office. ‘What do the others think?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Lance is tracking down Pawel Zawodny’s boat. That may give us the break we need.’

  By way of response, Keith got to his feet, went to the door of his office and beckoned for Duncan and Lance to join them.

  ‘Matt Beeston denies any direct contact with Rachel Moston outside of his teaching duties, right?’ Keith asked, as soon as the others had come through the door.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Duncan confirmed.

  ‘And says Polly Sinclair never visited his flat?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘OK. Have a word with his solicitor. Put it to him that we’re going to take his client’s flat apart. A full forensic sweep. If he thinks Beeston might have even the slightest worry about us finding evidence that places either woman in his flat, then perhaps his client could be encouraged to reconsider his statement sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Meanwhile re-arrest and interview Beeston on suspicion of rape.’

  ‘Right.’ Duncan left the room, closing the door behind him. Keith turned to Lance. ‘Where are you up to with the landlord’s boat?’

  ‘It’s listed on the Ship Register,’ Lance told him. ‘A twenty-four-foot cabin cruiser called Daisy Chain. Haven’t found out yet where it’s moored.’

  ‘Make that the priority,’ ordered Keith.

  ‘Pawel Zawodny’s home town is Szczecin,’ Lance continued. ‘It’s a big port up on the Baltic coast. He could well be an experienced sailor.’

  ‘Find the boat and get it secured. See if anyone knows when he last used it, if he had anyone with him. Once you’ve done that, bring him in.’ Keith turned to Grace. ‘Get on to the criminal service in Szczecin. Find out if Zawodny is known to them, or was ever flagged up in c
onnection with any other dead or missing girls.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Grace and Lance replied in unison.

  ‘And the tenants who complained about him to the Accommodation Office: talk to them, find out what was going on.’

  Keith began tapping at his keyboard but looked back up as they reached the door. ‘Nice work by the way, DS Fisher, getting Rachel’s housemate to open up like that.’

  Surprised, Grace looked over at Lance, who, deadpan, made a show of pretending the SIO’s commendation had nothing to do with him. Grace smiled to herself: despite the frustrations of the case, it was wonderful to be accepted as part of a team again.

  SIXTEEN

  Ivo hadn’t had a drink in four years, but attending meetings had become as much a part of his routine as going to the pub had been. Besides, you never knew who you’d bump into. You really never knew. So far, he’d never actually taken advantage of what he’d seen and heard in meetings, although once or twice he’d been sorely tempted. If his editor only knew the twenty-four-carat scandals Ivo had self-spiked, he’d go ape-shit. Mind you, Ivo figured it might not be so very long before his editor began showing up at AA, too, so then he could decide for himself whether or not to keep the faith.

  He arrived at the Quaker Meeting House just before the eight o’clock start. It was a pretty building, one of countless church halls or chapels Ivo had visited in countless small towns. He thought about his personal map of the UK: where other people remembered places by meals out, family attractions, civic monuments, he could only place a location in relation to child killings, multiple rapes, care home scandals or gangland executions. Maybe when he retired he should take an interest in church architecture or something instead. Amazing how much history you could learn from headstones and memorial plaques.

  Despite the charm of the exterior and the pretty entrance hall, the modernised room in which fifteen or so people had already gathered was depressingly bland, with chunky institutional lighting and uncomfortable folding chairs. Ivo had to confess that his choice of venue had been influenced by the stray hope of seeing Keith Stalgood – always nice to see a familiar face, especially if the face felt inclined to give an unofficial lead on how a murder enquiry was progressing – but caught no sight of him. Accordingly, he selected a place at the back where he’d be near the door in case the detective superintendent did manage to slip in late.

  When Ivo first started attending meetings, his choice of a group close by Scotland Yard had stemmed from a genuine desire to avoid fellow journalists yet still be amongst people who could understand the stress of day-in, day-out proximity to violent crime. Not that he waved that around as an excuse any more. He used to. Drove his first wife mad. Especially after Emily was born, when he’d come home sozzled and sit with a glass of whisky in his hand railing about the cruelties of the world while his wife sang lullabies upstairs – or whatever it was mothers did with their babies these days. Fucked if he ever paid enough attention to have a clue.

  Emily must be old enough for university by now. For all Ivo knew she could be here at Essex. That would be a story. Or not. His AA sponsor thought he ought to contact Emily and make amends, but Ivo reckoned her mum would’ve done a good enough job of bringing her up and the best thing he could do for them both was to steer well clear.

  The last few occasions he’d seen his daughter were muddled up in his mind. It was around when his drinking first hit rock-bottom, and Emily’s mum told him to get lost and stay lost. Couldn’t blame her. After the divorce he’d straightened out long enough to marry a second time, before going seriously on the skids. Ah well, that was then and this was now. No question, every so often he still missed those hazy days when the rest of the world seemed one drink behind, but at some point about four years ago he’d decided, to his surprise, that he wanted to live. There seemed to be only one thing left in which he could take pride – being a crime reporter – and he discovered that it truly mattered to him to do it well, which meant beating every other piss-pot on what was left of Fleet Street to the scoop.

  Christ, he told himself, better not let the Young Ferret ever catch him out in such rank sentimentality. Better stop thinking about himself and pay attention to what people in the room were saying. But he found his thoughts sliding towards the interview Roxanne had wangled for him earlier today with Polly Sinclair’s parents. Did Ivo feel guilty that he’d shafted Keith Stalgood? Nah, he wasn’t going to lose sleep over that. It was already out there in the public domain. Everyone knew Keith had been disciplined a couple of years ago over a botched enquiry that went tits up in court, and if Ivo hadn’t put the question to Phil and Beverley Sinclair when he had the chance, some bastard at the Mail or the Sun bloody would, and then his editor would be all over him like a rash.

  Phil and Beverley had known nothing about Keith’s background, and the pain in their eyes when Ivo told them had made even him shift uncomfortably in his chair. Damn it, he’d thought, they were still hoping their daughter would turn up safe, and meanwhile their faith in the police investigation was about all they had to cling to. Never mind – their pain was precisely what his readers wanted, raw and bleeding on the page.

  So he’d twisted the knife. ‘Jayden Chalmers was fourteen,’ he’d told them. ‘Reported missing by his mother. Keith Stalgood was a DCI in the Met back then. He thought the kid was a runaway and by the time they found the body vital evidence had been contaminated, jeopardising his killer’s trial. They only managed to get a manslaughter conviction.’ Ivo had thought better of telling them that Jayden’s well-wrapped body was eventually found in the loft where his murderous stepfather had placed it and two police searches had managed to overlook it. They could Google that information for themselves, and he wanted them to focus on Keith.

  Ivo had been impressed by the way Beverley Sinclair had raised her chin, speaking clearly and looking directly into his eyes. ‘We’re not ready yet to believe that our daughter’s gone,’ she’d said. ‘God would never be so cruel.’

  Bingo! Ivo had thought. Tomorrow’s headline! He’d nodded sagely, knowing his face wouldn’t give him away, unlike Roxanne’s naive expression of shock. She’d have to toughen up if she wanted to play with the big boys.

  It was after the Chalmers case that Keith had started coming to meetings. Not that his drinking had had any bearing on the way the enquiry had been handled. The cock-up hadn’t even really been Keith’s fault, though that hadn’t stopped his superiors expecting him to carry the can so they could avoid an official review and move on without too much very public soul-searching over restricted budgets and cuts to manpower. They had enough on their plates, dealing with the utter cock-up of the Stockwell tube shooting. So good old Keith had fallen on his sword, and presumably been rewarded with the pension-boosting promotion of this backwater job here in Colchester.

  The detective turned up just as the coffee urn was wheeled in. Ivo watched him approach: an upright, soldierly man with a careworn face, he’d never looked like a boozer. The secret ones never did.

  ‘Biscuit?’ Ivo offered him the plate. Christ, the man looked like he could do with something sweet to wipe the grim expression off his face. It was a shame, but Ivo could feel in his waters that this case wasn’t going to end well for him, either.

  Keith shook his head. ‘No, thanks. Thought I might catch you here.’

  The back of Ivo’s neck prickled. He fucking loved it when it got all cloak and dagger. They each took a regulation green cup and saucer and moved slightly apart from the rest of the group.

  ‘Provincial life suiting you?’ Ivo asked. ‘Golf handicap improving?’

  ‘Doing about as well as your unfinished novel, I imagine,’ Keith replied drily.

  ‘So, is there something you want to share tonight?’ Ivo was itching to hear what the SIO had to say but, knowing not to push too hard, waited as Keith lifted his cup, became aware of the unpalatable liquid it contained and replaced it in the saucer. What in heaven did the man expect? The kind of artisanal, s
ingle-origin shit served by rock-star baristas that the Young Ferret favoured? Whatever he’d come to say, Ivo wished he’d just spit it out!

  ‘The murder inquiry still has a long way to go,’ Keith began at last. ‘But the story you ran this morning proved helpful in bringing forward new information.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘With a little more information, we might be looking at separate charges.’

  ‘Anything new to add?’

  ‘You might try getting a comment out of the dean of the law faculty. Any students reporting problems with academic staff? What’s the policy on staff–student relationships? That sort of thing.’

  ‘Consider it done.’ It wasn’t urgent enough to update tomorrow’s edition, and besides, Ivo already had his plaintive, attention-grabbing lead, but it would make a good page five filler for Monday. He’d certainly run something: bad idea to spurn inside information in case it went elsewhere next time.

  ‘Otherwise, I wouldn’t get too ahead of yourself on the present suspect in the Moston case, if I were you,’ Keith warned.

  ‘I appreciate the tip.’ Ivo gloated at the thought of spreading a little disinformation around the campfire back at the Queen’s Hotel, where he could encourage the opposition to sprint off the blocks with the wrong story. Not that it would ultimately matter a bean to his competitors if they raced away with the idea that Matt Beeston was the likeliest suspect: journos had proverbially short memories and an uncanny ability to manoeuvre 180-degree handbrake turns when yesterday’s screaming headlines turned out to be 110 per cent wrong.