Good Girls Don't Die

by Isabelle Grey

  She had intended to walk to Castle Park but now changed direction. So far none of the evidence she had gathered against Danny was any stronger than that against either Matt Beeston or Pawel Zawodny. She needed more than cod psychology if she was to stand any chance of persuading the team to listen to her. Back to basics: Danny had said that on the night Polly had asked him for a lift back to Wivenhoe he’d been drinking with some of his brother’s army friends. It shouldn’t be too difficult to work out which of the pubs near the garrison the paras had claimed as their own.

  It was clear that the Armoury was a venue where local girls on the pull could chat up squaddies to their hearts’ content. Even on a Saturday lunchtime the tight group of tanned, exceptionally fit young men at the bar was already surrounded by a flock of admiring and scantily dressed young women. It was easy to see how the soldiers’ training and experience gave them a glamour reflected irresistibly back at them in the girls’ shining eyes. Grace couldn’t imagine Danny lasting two minutes in such company.

  The landlord, who looked like a former drill sergeant, shook his head and directed Grace to the Dog and Whistle. ‘Ask for Mandy,’ he told her. ‘It’s the army wives who keep tabs on everything around here. Mandy’s the mother hen and if she can’t tell you what you want to know, no one can. And catch the bastard,’ he called after her, waving an arm to encompass the excited girls around the bar. ‘They’re sitting ducks, this lot. No point telling them to go easy because they don’t bloody listen.’

  As Grace made her way to the Dog and Whistle, it occurred to her to wonder if the existence of a brother, too, might simply be another lie, an imaginary friend Danny had conjured up out of his need to belong. The pub, half empty and low on charm, was a featureless Sixties building with big windows along one wall through which the midday sun remorselessly illuminated every mark and stain on the red-patterned carpet. Grace ordered a water with lime juice from the barman, who, after a quiet word, pointed out a whippet-thin woman nursing a half of lager and chatting sedately to a couple of other women. ‘Mother hen’ was not the description Grace would have chosen. Mandy was probably about the same age as Grace but had a smoker’s prematurely aged skin and the sinewy arms of someone used to hard manual work. Grace introduced herself, showed her warrant and apologised for disturbing her. Mandy gave her an undisguised up-and-down look. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, picking up a packet of Silk Cut and a disposable lighter. ‘Mind if we chat outside?’

  Grace followed her out to a small fenced-off area of damp concrete with a picnic table and a rubbish bin. Mandy lit a cigarette and perched up on the table, resting her feet on the grey wooden seat. She wore a gold ankle chain and her toenails were painted a frosted emerald green.

  ‘What d’you want?’ she asked.

  ‘I need to speak to a para serving at Camp Bastion, name of Tooley,’ said Grace. ‘He’s absolutely not in any trouble, but I need to check something with him.’

  Mandy nodded, considering her response. ‘Michael Tooley?’

  Grace gave a slight nod, hoping this wasn’t just coincidence. ‘We think someone’s been using his car without his permission.’

  Mandy raised an eyebrow. ‘His pimped-up Beemer? He won’t be happy about that.’

  ‘I’d rather not hang about waiting for official wheels to turn,’ said Grace, hoping her excuses didn’t sound too dodgy.

  ‘It’s important?’ asked Mandy, turning her head to blow smoke out sideways, away from Grace.

  ‘Yes.’

  Mandy eyed her shrewdly. ‘It’ll be about young Danny, then?’

  ‘Possibly. You know him?’

  Mandy nodded. ‘There’s no harm in him, but he can be a pain in the arse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘So it is about him, then?’

  Grace smiled and sat up on the table beside her. ‘Does he hang out much with his brother’s mates?’

  ‘Hangs on sometimes.’

  ‘Might he have spent an evening drinking with them?’

  Mandy’s laugh turned into a cough, and she never replied. Grace sipped her cold drink, realising she was glad of the refreshment, and waited comfortably for Mandy to decide how much she wanted to say.

  ‘Michael joined up to get away from home,’ Mandy said after a few drags on her cigarette. ‘Although I’m pretty sure his mum died three or four years back. Whatever, Danny’s not a kid any more. He needs to get a life of his own. Michael’s older and they had different dads, so there’s only so much Michael feels he has to do for him. And I very much doubt that includes letting him chief his car.’

  ‘I need to speak to Michael,’ said Grace. ‘Skype him if possible.’

  Mandy shrugged. ‘He’ll only get so much Internet access a week. And that’s only when he’s on base.’

  Grace fished in her bag for a card. ‘I understand. But is there any way you could get word to him, ask him to get in touch with me?’

  Mandy dropped the remains of her cigarette on the ground so she could take the card and tuck it away. She slipped off the table, sliding her flip-flop over the cigarette to extinguish it. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said, picking up the butt and then looking directly into Grace’s eyes. ‘Danny’s not a bad lad, not at all. But his mum –’ She pursed her lips in distaste as she walked over to the rubbish bin. ‘Poor kid never stood a chance.’

  As Grace hurried back to her flat, she thought about what Danny had said about his mother being ill. Her first impression of him had been that he was poor and undernourished. He’d said in the police interview room that ‘these places’ reminded him of when he was a kid, and that he’d had to leave school to look after his mum. She’d naively assumed that ‘these places’ meant a hospital, that his mother had been disabled or chronically ill. But what if she’d missed the most vital clue of all? Polly and Rachel had both been drunk. Rachel had been violated with a bottle of vodka, Roxanne with a discarded wine bottle. She’d always believed that booze was in some way an important thread in this case. What if Danny’s mother had been an alcoholic?

  Instead of going up to her flat, Grace got in her car. Danny was at the police station so it would be safe to take another look at where he lived. She wanted to focus her thoughts, and she hoped maybe there’d be something about that carefully tended, worn-out little house that would speak to her.

  The main car park in Wivenhoe was full, so she left her car on a side road and took the path through the woods that she and Lance had followed with Jessica the day before. Even though the night’s rain had fed the parched undergrowth, Grace found the trapped air beneath the trees claustrophobic and was glad when the path emerged into a small clearing where three cars were parked. She had not noticed it before when she’d cruised around the block with Lance, but she found that it opened directly onto Rosemead Avenue. Close by was a little row of garages from where she could see Danny’s house. She asked herself what kind of life he lived there, what kind of childhood he’d had. A boy who loved reading yet had given up his education to care for his mum was someone who might plump up a pillow and slip it comfortingly under a woman’s head. But Grace had seen too many chaotic families with kids both scared of and protective of erratic, neglectful, addicted parents to think that could be the whole story. If Danny had grown up forced to take responsibility for a parent lost to substance abuse, might he also be capable of punishing a woman for being drunk by pushing a vodka bottle into her vagina?

  FIFTY-ONE

  When the Child Intervention Team offices opened on Monday morning, Grace was already waiting outside. Over the rest of the weekend, with Lance’s help, she had run what checks she could on Danny’s mother. Retrieving her name from an old electoral roll, they’d learned that Marie Tooley had been arrested three times for being drunk and disorderly. Cursing herself for not having made this vital connection earlier, Grace had done her best to glean what information she could from the Child Protection weekend skeleton staff, and was trying hard not to let the hours she’d spent on hold or
being told she needed to speak to someone who was on indefinite leave colour her attitude when she finally came face to face with an individual.

  Charmaine Worrell’s cramped office had all but vanished beneath a warehouse of dusty brown folders, each one of which Grace presumed must represent a family in crisis. It had been no different in Kent, where the same handful of families was known not only to the social workers but also to teachers, police, duty solicitors, magistrates and prison officers. In many ways Danny had done pretty well just to hold down his job in the bookshop and keep the grass cut in his back garden.

  Charmaine had bright, intelligent brown eyes, and Grace imagined she ran a tight ship, despite the overload. Grace wasn’t too surprised when she didn’t need to open a file to respond to the name Danny Tooley. ‘His mother was a chronic alcoholic,’ she told Grace. ‘By the time Danny was thirteen he was bathing her, cleaning up her vomit, keeping the house decent and somehow managing to buy her booze for her while she stayed in bed for weeks in a drunken stupor.’

  ‘Why did no one do anything to help him?’ asked Grace, appalled.

  ‘He loved her,’ Charmaine answered with a shrug. ‘We removed Danny from her twice and each time he ran home, so in the end we more or less gave up.’

  ‘What about his brother, Michael?’

  Charmaine shook her head, her eyes straying to the lights blinking on the multi-line handset on her desk.

  ‘He’s older. Had a different father,’ prompted Grace.

  ‘Sorry, no memory of a brother. Maybe he never came to our notice. It’ll be in the file.’ She looked around her office. ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me about the family? About Marie?’

  Charmaine sighed. ‘Only that she loved her booze an awful lot more than she loved her son. There were times when she treated him like dirt, or simply ignored his existence. Every once in a while she’d get sober and try to make it all up to him, but it never lasted more than a few weeks. Only Danny knows which was worse.’

  Grace got to her feet. ‘Thank you. You’ve actually been a great help, and I appreciate you making time to see me.’

  Charmaine also rose courteously, smoothing her suit skirt over her wide hips with neat hands with freshly painted red nails.

  ‘No doubt we’ll be in line to share the blame, if it turns out there’s been another avoidable tragedy,’ she observed with discernable irony.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Grace, smiling.

  Charmaine shrugged, one hand already hovering over her flashing phone.

  As Grace made her way out through the narrow reception area, she came face to face with Ivo Sweatman, who sat in one of a row of beechwood chairs upholstered in a variety of soothing colours. Recognising her, he smiled as if he were pleased to see her. ‘DS Fisher!’

  Grace struggled to make a sound that wasn’t an outraged groan. ‘I don’t want to speak to you.’

  ‘You’re here about Danny Tooley?’

  Speechless, she pushed through the door beside him and headed down the stairs but soon heard his heavy footsteps behind her.

  ‘Wait, please. I’ve spent time with Danny. I can help you. Let me help you.’

  Grace was too angry and confused to listen. She banged on the green knob that was supposed to open the outer door but nothing happened. Ivo caught up with her.

  ‘You have to keep pressing it,’ he said.

  She dropped her hand and stood aside. He pushed his palm against the button and the door swung open. He followed her outside onto the pavement. Realising that he wasn’t about to give up, she turned on him. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she demanded. ‘What gives you the right to go grubbing about in my life? Just so you can sell newspapers!’

  ‘I did it for you,’ he said simply. ‘I heard your job was on the line.’

  She stared at him, not comprehending.

  ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Ivo grinned. ‘I thought it was a nice piece. It was your idiot husband I skewered. And I bet you enjoyed watching your old boss Colin Pitman squirm.’

  ‘I want you to leave me alone,’ she said. ‘Whatever happened to me, it’s none of your business.’

  She walked off, but he followed her again.

  ‘What did you find out about Danny-boy, then? Did they tell you in there that his mum’s favourite tipple was vodka?’

  ‘What?’ In spite of herself, Grace spun around to face him. Ivo nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off hers.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK?’ he said to her. ‘No one likes their dirty linen, and all that. But I was right, wasn’t I? I bet the chief constable lapped it up.’

  ‘How did you find out about Trev and me?’ she asked. Her throat felt tight and she was suddenly afraid that she was going to cry. But she had to know the truth. ‘Did Roxanne tell you?’

  Ivo looked surprised more than surprised, wounded. ‘Only that you knew each other at university, that you’d been with the Kent force. The rest wasn’t exactly hard.’ He must have seen her doubt, for he raised a hand. ‘Scout’s honour. Roxanne never breathed a word of it. Anyway, give me some credit. Finding stuff out is what I get paid to do.’

  ‘She never told you about me and Trev?’

  ‘Not a word. And I tried, believe me.’

  Grace nodded, relief washing over her. She took a deep breath and blew it out again slowly.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me you weren’t in there asking about Danny Tooley?’

  As Ivo looked at her quizzically, she thought that he must have been a good-looking man when he was younger. His eyes shone with intelligence and, despite the broken veins in his cheeks, the sagging chin and the bald patch, he wielded his charm as if, once upon a time, he’d been used to women falling at his feet.

  ‘So how far have you got?’ he asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you!’ She set off again along the pavement, but he fell in beside her, tucking a hand lightly under her elbow. It was an old-fashioned gesture that reminded Grace of her father, and she didn’t shake him off.

  ‘I realised something this week that I’d never thought about before,’ he told her. ‘I don’t generally give a shit about who did the crime. I don’t come at it from that angle. That’s your job. But this one got personal. She was a sweet kid, your friend, and I owe it to her.’

  Grace asked herself if he was spinning her a line, feeding her the irresistible bait that would persuade her to drop her defences. If so, she wasn’t rising to it.

  ‘Truth is, I’d been coasting on this story,’ he went on, ignoring her silence. ‘Roxanne did all the work and I took all the credit.’

  She nodded to show that she was, after all, listening.

  ‘I think Danny Tooley killed her.’ Ivo said it so quietly that at first Grace thought she’d misheard. ‘I reckon you think the same,’ he told her. ‘Why else would you be talking to Child Protection first thing on a Monday morning?’

  Grace stopped and drew back against a shop window to let other pedestrians go past. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you start?’

  ‘As the actress said to the bishop.’ Ivo dug in a pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped and swiped and then handed it to her. On the little screen was a faded colour image of a small boy sitting cross-legged beside a thin, dark-haired woman in white leggings and an oversize pale-blue sweatshirt who sat hugging her knees on the floor of some kind of small outdoor wooden structure, like a toy fort in a children’s playground.

  ‘Is this Danny?’ she asked.

  Ivo nodded. ‘With his mum. Fifteen years ago. Probably his only picture of her. It means a lot to him.’

  Grace looked at it again. Danny and Marie each held a packet of crisps, and Danny was smiling with pure happiness. Marie, too, smiled for the camera, but not enough to hide the strain in her eyes. ‘Did Danny really tell you she drank vodka?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Ivo with a wink. ‘I made that up. But I hit the bullseye, didn’t I?’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes,’ said Grace, intrigued that someone else had come to the same conclusions. ‘Polly and Rachel were both drunk. I think that’s what this is all about.’

  ‘I know more than a little about what it’s like to live with an alcoholic,’ he told her. ‘Two wives and a daughter all really believed they could help me beat this thing.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t happen like that. You’d be amazed how many times you have to let someone down before you finally convince them you’re not worth it.’

  ‘Are you still drinking?’ asked Grace.

  ‘No. But I had a long chat with Danny-boy. His mum obviously did her best, gave that vodka bottle some real welly and still couldn’t get him to wipe his hands of her. Unlike his older brother. He saw sense and scarpered as soon as he could.’

  ‘So when Danny wanted to take care of Polly, but she got drunk and slagged him off, he –’

  ‘He lost it.’

  It gave Grace confidence to hear someone else so perfectly in tune with her own thoughts, but there was no way she was about to get into an involved discussion with the chief crime correspondent of the Courier about a suspect in an ongoing murder inquiry. ‘I need to get back to work,’ she told him.

  ‘I don’t blame you for not trusting me. But I meant what I said before. If you ever need my help, it’s yours.’

  ‘Will you send me that photo?’ She nodded towards the phone still in his hand.

  ‘Sure. But don’t forget, young Danny-boy isn’t who he wants you to think he is.’