by Alison Bruce
‘Yes, I like privacy, but this was different. In some ways it was going well between us, but there was always this thing about her coming to the flat that really bothered me. Couldn’t put my finger on it until I booked this holiday. It was going to be a surprise for Claire, but when the tickets arrived I just put them on the top of the fridge and didn’t even bother opening the envelope.’ Goodhew didn’t offer a deeper explanation, just the bare facts he’d already laid out, but Bryn no longer looked puzzled.
‘I get it, Gary. My dad goes on about this: he calls it a moment of truth. Says it can happen at any point, first date, first kiss. Maybe the first lie or first bust-up. At any point really, and in your case the first time Claire came home with you. It’s the moment you realize it’s not going to work – not long-term.’
Goodhew stared at his friend with renewed interest. He’d expected sarcasm or lack of interest, maybe a mix of the two, but definitely not wisdom. ‘I couldn’t give up, not just like that.’
‘Why not? Women go on about men being “commitment phobic”, but that’s not you. You’re too hung up on the fucked-up idea that you’ll find a soulmate. And she wasn’t it, was she?’
He still considered Claire to be as beautiful now as when he’d asked her out that first time, during their first year at university, but she’d changed. They both had. ‘It wasn’t the same, I suppose,’ he conceded – and, if he was honest, he knew it had never been, the second time around. His job had caused some of it; his inheritance too. She saw her progress to becoming an architect as a series of exam/experience milestones that would take her to an ordered but conventional life: modern house, new car, all safe and secure. Nothing wrong with that but, for himself, Goodhew neither saw his life nor wanted it that way.
‘Who else have you spoken to? Anyone at work?’
‘No, they never met her. Look, I don’t need to talk to anyone about Claire.’
‘So who met her, apart from me and your grandmother?’
‘What does it matter? I’ve never met Valerie.’
‘Valerie with the Volvo? That’s different, I wasn’t in a relationship with her. But you could’ve met her, whether or not I thought it was serious. What about Sue?’
‘Gully?’
‘Yeah. I’m sure you could’ve introduced her to Claire without it being awkward.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then you might have talked to Sue instead of keeping it all to yourself for the last few weeks. How many other mates have you got outside work?’
‘What is this? Bryn O’Brien, personal counsellor?’
‘No, it’s Gary Goodhew, sad bloke who gets dumped as soon as his only mate gets a better offer.’ Goodhew followed Bryn’s gaze towards the woman now walking from the main hotel towards the pool. She wore a semi-transparent sarong over her bikini. ‘Nadine’s such a lovely name.’
‘She’s heading for the pool, not you.’
Bryn looked at him in disgust, ‘No, Gary, a woman doesn’t swim in a bikini like that.’ He abandoned Goodhew at the bar and moved towards Nadine, only taking his eyes off her for long enough to throw one last piece of advice at his friend. ‘I’m just saying you should take a risk or two.’
Room service provided Gary with a fresh-fruit breakfast on the balcony of their bungalow at 6.30 a.m. Bryn still hadn’t returned. Goodhew leant over the low balustrade as he ate, watching the sea and allowing juice from the fresh pineapple to drip on to the rocks below.
Sometimes shoals of fish darted in bright-coloured ribbons just below the surface of the bay in the mornings here, and he’d risen early in the hope of spotting them. No luck today, he thought. He took his tray inside, wiped his hands on a napkin. He then took an apple to eat as he sauntered through the long corridors and down to the foyer.
The hotel lobby was deserted apart from the receptionist.
‘Aloha, Jana.’
‘Aloha, Gary.’ She smiled warmly and reached under the counter, producing a Hertz keyring. ‘Your car is here, and I had it brought round already. I guessed you’d be going out early.’
He nodded his thanks. ‘Mahalo.’
He folded back the roof and drove along the almost deserted Kūhiō Highway and then left on to Mā’alo Road, winding up through cane fields towards Wailua Falls.
As the road climbed further above sea level, the gentle breeze swept up the sounds of gushing water and Gary caught his first glimpse of the waterfall. Recent rain had swelled the mountain streams, and three freshwater cascades leapt from the eighty-foot cliffs, diving into the deep cup below.
He pulled on to a dusty patch of verge and scrambled down to an old path, marked with knotted rope, that would eventually take him to the water’s edge. The first time he had walked to the falls had taken the longest, since he’d struggled to follow the route whenever the path vanished, but now he recognized its landmarks: the muddy twists and turns, the giant swaying grasses, and finally the driftwood thrown down by the waterfall itself.
He clambered over broken branches and on to a rocky ledge some thirty feet above the edge of the pool. The sun blazed down on to his back as he removed his shirt and threw off his shoes. He inhaled deeply, drawing the perfect morning into his lungs. Cambridge seemed another world, a world he rarely left for long and missed deeply whenever he did. Even so, he was now filled with the sense of a perfect moment, as he dived in. Before he even hit the water, the perfect moment had been replaced by the guilt of forgetting, however briefly, the suffering of Margaret Whiting.
His body sliced through the dark surface, the cold cutting right through him, like flying shards of glass. The thought of Kaye came with him.
He swam underwater with his eyes open, watching the sun’s rays twinkle on the surface and pick out plumes of tiny bubbles gliding up from the bottom.
It was stimulating: a different kind of cold to the lifeless gloom that she had met. He turned into the current and swam towards the base of the Wailua Falls, where it was colder and the water darkened and it rumbled like distant thunder. He stayed under until lack of oxygen made his lungs begin to strain.
But he wondered what it was like to drown, and forced himself to swim deeper. The churning torrent buffeted him and his chest ached against the pressure. He tried to swim deeper still, until the weight of water threatened to pin him down. Stop it! He rolled away and propelled himself upwards to the surface.
The waterfall now spilt on to the rocks to his left, shooting jets of spray upwards like ribbons dancing in the air and the sunlight refracted into tiny rainbows. Droplets showered Gary’s hair and face as he paused, treading water. He was gasping as his lungs struggled to refill.
In his mind, Kaye’s skin had dried slowly, repelling the water as if she were made of wax. She’d stared up at him with dead eyes that no one had bothered to close.
Spray saturated his face and he felt it trickling down his nose and over his cheeks. His pulse was still racing but he ducked under again anyway, and swam slowly towards the tranquil waters further away from the falls.
With a sudden jolt, he broke back up again through the surface and threw himself into front-crawl, panting hard as he struck out for the path to where he’d left his clothes. There he hauled himself out of the pool and up the bank.
His shorts and shirt clung to him damply and he shivered, but not from cold.
Instead, Gary shivered with excitement as he dashed back up the steep path, clutching at the undergrowth for support. Running, wherever possible, back to his car.
He could see it now: the girl in the street resembled Kaye. That was the way she looked, too; pale skin and mesmerizing blue eyes just like Kaye’s.
I should’ve followed her right then. I’m such a stupid git.
He revved the Chevy’s engine, swung it around in the roadway, and sped back towards Po’ipū.
He’d been determined not to become blind to other possibilities, and he wondered if that was why he’d been so quick to doubt his own judgement. Follow one’s instinct:
it sounded like an excuse to favour wishful thinking over facts. His grandmother disagreed, of course, arguing that instinct was the conclusion the brain reached after processing a lifetime’s learning.
From now on he’d listen to his instinct more.
He grabbed his bag from the hotel and drove straight to the airport. He had to get home immediately. He had to find her and ask her why she had made those anonymous calls.
CHAPTER 33
FRIDAY, 6 MAY 2011
The wardrobe doors had been lying open for half an hour now, and each time she returned to the room she picked through another few items. A first date was always so difficult.
Her elder sister Chloe caught her holding up her Christmas party dress. ‘Don’t do it, Donna,’ she laughed. ‘Whoever he is will run a mile if you turn up for the cinema like you’re going off to the Oscars.’
‘Yeah, you’re right, but it’s that first-date problem again. I want to look good, but not too over the top, or he’ll think I’m up for it.’ Donna grinned mischievously ‘… Even if I am.’
Chloe studied the open wardrobe. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, then.’
‘That’s s’posed to be his line.’
‘You’re a tart, Donna. You’ll come unstuck, you know.’
‘OK, I won’t overdo it. I wasn’t going to anyway. Just check out the underwear.’ On the bed lay a black lacy Wonder Bra and some pink knickers with daisies printed on the front. Chloe picked them up and held them in the air. ‘Oh, my God, these must have been a Christmas present, they’re so bloody hideous. That will kill it all stone dead.’
‘It’s a safety device. The bra’s a turn-on but I won’t be letting him get too carried away when he could come across knickers like these.’
‘Bad choice of words, Donna.’ They both giggled.
‘Yeah, well, thought I’d better make sure I’m gonna see him again, before I let it go that far. After all, I see him every day at work, so it could be embarrassing. But, anyhow, I thought something different from what I wear at work. Nothing too dressy, but at the same time I thought jeans might be too restrictive.’
‘No, I’d wear the jeans. What about these black ones with the pink Lycra top? It shows off your cleavage, but it’ll look like it’s accidental.’ Chloe winked. ‘Trust me, he’ll be hooked, and you’ll have a great time. If you don’t want to do it with him, you can still tease him to death!’
At five to eight that evening, Donna stepped through the door of the Regal pub. She quickly felt the back of her fair hair to check that it still lay smooth against her neck. As her hand dropped, it ran along her collarbone and lightly stroked her breast. A buzz of anticipation sent a tiny smile to her lips.
She stared straight ahead, absorbing the atmosphere of Friday-evening entertainment. Peter Walsh sat alone at a table near the bar. He looked up then, and she waved.
He smiled easily. ‘You look nice, Donna. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thanks, half a lager.’
She watched him as he stood waiting to be served. She’d liked his body since she’d first noticed him at work, but dressed casually was an improvement still. She imagined herself creeping up behind him and pressing herself against his back. She imagined him thinking of her right now, and hoping that she fancied him.
He returned with the drinks, and watched as her gaze smouldered at him from beneath a little too much mascara. ‘You have lovely eyes, Donna. I bet you look good with no make-up.’
Like first thing in the morning? she thought, but didn’t say it. Too corny. Too forward. She just smiled.
He returned her smile briefly. ‘Who else is going to the pictures, then?’
‘Just a couple of mates and their boyfriends.’ She watched his reaction, hoping to see him relax.
‘Oh, so it’s a couples thing?’ He didn’t seem worried by that, but she remembered his comment of ‘nothing serious’ and wasn’t sure of the right answer.
‘Just the way it worked out,’ she offered brightly, ‘but I don’t mind if we miss it. We could just go and have a drink somewhere.’
He smiled and nodded. ‘Much better idea.’ A knowing look flashed between them. ‘But I could do with dropping my car off at home if I’m going to have any more to drink.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Donna and Pete. She liked the sound of that, she decided, as they drove to his house. She looked forward to seeing where he lived, seeing how she might fit in.
She shivered nervously as she waited for him to unlock his front door. He held it open for her to step inside. ‘I’ll order us a taxi in a minute.’
‘Could we have a coffee first? I’m a bit cold.’
He boiled the kettle, and she curled up catlike in the armchair opposite the kitchen door, watching him attentively until the kettle boiled.
As he turned away to rinse a cup in the sink, Donna unwound herself from the chair and quietly entered the kitchen. She placed one hand on each shoulder and ran them leisurely down his back. ‘Want a hand?’
He turned slowly, so that her hands remained in contact with his waist. He leant forward and his lips parted as they met hers. She teased her tongue between them, and ran it behind his open teeth, drawing his mouth more tightly against her own. He responded instantly, sliding his hand inside her top and swiftly unclipping the catch on her bra. The suddenness aroused her further, and she was relieved that she’d taken a minute to pop into the pub’s Ladies and remove her pink knickers.
His mouth moved away from hers and hungrily tasted the soft pale skin beneath her right cheek. She tilted her head back to allow him full access to her bare neck.
Her breathing quickened as his hands explored her breasts and, as the fingers on one hand reached her nipple, he pulled back slightly and withdrew the other hand from beneath her top.
His gaze locked on to hers as he pushed his two middle fingers between her lips. She sucked them eagerly, drawing them under her tongue and running her teeth lightly over the knuckles. Her unwavering gaze met his challenging stare.
She pressed her fingers flat against his chest and ran her hand down to his belt. Her fingers working deftly, flicking open the buckle and the shirt buttons.
She pushed him gently back into the corner between the sink and the fridge, and kissed the triangle of skin that now showed at the neck of his shirt.
One hand cupped each of his hips and she slid well-practised fingers down inside his clothing.
His bare flesh felt cool against her palms as she worked her hands further downwards. Her face skimmed his torso as in one fluid movement she dropped to her knees and enveloped his penis in her mouth.
She clutched the back of his thighs as she pulled deeper still. Fuck, I want him, she thought, as she massaged him with her tongue.
She felt his excitement suddenly increase, with an almost electric jolt that fused them together. She responded with increased frenzy. He grabbed the back of her head with both hands, holding her face hard against him. She took quick gasps of air, struggling for breath.
He pushed himself deeper towards the back of her throat. Trying not to choke, she dug her fingers into his thighs, stopping him from going deeper. And also stopping him from pulling back.
His fingers pressed hard, bruise hard, against her scalp and then he came. Gasping and shuddering.
She slid her teeth back along his penis, slowly releasing him from her mouth.
She stood up and again her eyes met his. She smirked, then smugly and deliberately she swallowed and licked her lips.
She pulled her clothes straight, and flicked the kettle on again as he refastened his trousers.
‘Mine’s with milk and one sugar, thanks, Pete.’
She didn’t stay the night. Instead she returned home, sure now that he would want to see her again.
After all, he now knew that she wasn’t the kind of girl to sleep with a man on their first date.
CHAPTER 34
FRIDAY, 6 MAY 2011
Gary flew from L
ihu’e airport to Honolulu on the next available Hawaiian Airlines flight, then by American Airlines to Los Angeles, and back to Heathrow with British Airways.
He took a black cab from the airport to home, and opened his front door at 8 p.m.
The evening light illuminated the hallway just enough for him to spot the solitary item of mail lying on the doormat.
He dropped his rucksack inside and flicked on the hall light. As he bent to pick it up, his attention was drawn to the front of the envelope. It was cream Challenger stationery, face up and with no stamp. Three words in careful blue handwriting jumped out at him: ‘GARY GOODHEW – URGENT.’
He jerked his hand away and flicked the door shut with his heel. He stepped over the solitary letter and hurried up the stairs, flicking on the interior lights on his way to the kitchen. There, from the second drawer beneath the sink, he produced a pair of gloves, some tweezers and two evidence bags.
He knelt beside the front-door mat, picked up the envelope by one corner and opened it carefully along the short edge. The writing paper inside matched the envelope, and Gary extracted it with the tweezers. He unfolded it and slid it into one evidence bag, then dropped the empty envelope into the other.
He returned to the kitchen and placed the unfolded letter face-up on the worktop. It read:
Please help me. I feel I’m going mad. I’ve tried to do the right thing, but it’s all gone wrong. Kaye’s uncle didn’t kill her. I phoned and no one listened, and now Kaye’s dead.
I feel like it’s all my fault. I can’t stand it on my conscience. Kaye’s not first and won’t be the last, so please believe me when I say I want it to stop.
I need you to help me. I’m not going to give you my name because I don’t want you to hand this over to anyone else. I don’t want to talk to anyone else.