by D. S. Butler
Sophie sighed. ‘I know you’re right, but sometimes I feel like I’m just standing still and not getting anywhere.’
Karen smiled at the younger woman’s impatience. It was good to see her showing enthusiasm for her career again. Karen preferred to see this side of Sophie than her earlier sullenness. She was only in her mid-twenties and had a long career ahead of her.
Karen flicked the switch for the windscreen wipers as the rain increased and the splashback from other cars on the road made it hard to see through the glass.
‘You’ve got a good, solid foundation, and now you need to build on it with experience.’
‘Maybe I should do a few more training courses,’ Sophie said.
‘You could. But you need more on-the-job experience. Nothing can compete with that.’
‘I suppose you’re right, but it just feels like the experience is slow in coming. Over the last two days, I’ve spent all my time scanning, photocopying and searching for a suitcase manufacturer. It’s not really what I expected when I dreamed of being a police officer.’
Karen grinned. ‘It could be worse.’
‘It could?’
‘Yes, you could have Rick’s job. He’s been stuck at the hospital for the past two days, and I don’t think he’s finding Albert Johnson’s company particularly stimulating.’
Sophie managed to raise a smile, but Karen sensed she still hadn’t got through to the young officer yet. She tried a new approach.
‘You think you’re having a bad week? You should try living my life for a while. My sister is trying to set me up on a blind date.’
Sophie perked up. ‘Really? Are you going to go?’
Karen wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure yet. It’s not really my cup of tea.’
‘You should do it. It could be fun, and besides, it’s only a date, nothing serious. If it’s terrible, you can leave.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yes,’ Sophie said, brightening further as she warmed to her theme. ‘If you’re having an awful time, send me a quick text and I’ll call you. You can pretend it’s a major emergency and you have to leave straightaway.’
‘I may just take you up on that.’
By the time they reached Bassingham, Sophie seemed almost back to her normal, jovial self.
Karen had explained the direction she wanted to take with the interview, but a lot of it would have to be determined when they got there. There was a limit to how much could be planned in advance. Some interviews required officers to think on their feet. In this case, they weren’t sure how reliable DI Goodfield would be. If Robert Fox had been correct about his drinking habit, his memory could be very bad. And Karen was concerned he would try to hide things from them if he suspected they were evaluating his old case. If his drinking had resulted in shoddy police work, he would probably do his best to cover it up.
‘Is this the house?’ Karen asked, sounding surprised.
‘That’s what the satnav says, and look, it says Riverdean – that’s the address I’ve got here,’ Sophie said, checking her phone.
Riverdean was large. It was constructed from sandy stone, and although Karen didn’t know much about architecture, even she could see the house had been there for a very long time. It fitted perfectly into its surroundings. The roof had a strong curve, and the walls seemed to rise up from the earth as though they had grown there rather than been built. There was a long, sloping driveway leading up to the house. As they got closer, Karen realised the house was even bigger than she’d first thought. It was absolutely massive.
She’d imagined DI Goodfield would be living in a rundown little cottage – she certainly hadn’t been expecting something like this.
‘Looks like he’s got a few bob,’ Sophie commented as she unfastened her seatbelt.
Outside the front of the house were various wooden planters containing pansies and cyclamens, which gave the garden a cheerful splash of colour. A large oak tree, surrounded by daffodils, towered over the left side of the house near the detached double garage, and Karen could make out the long, sweeping branches of a weeping willow behind the garage.
Pausing after she shut the car door, she drank it all in. She could hear the sound of water and guessed there was a brook or stream behind the house.
‘Wow,’ Sophie said, looking around. ‘This is exactly the type of house I think of when I think about living in the country. It’s big, but it’s still got a kind of cottage feel, hasn’t it?’
Karen nodded. It was peaceful – tranquil, even.
The knotted branches of a lilac caught her attention. It would be flowering before long, and would look beautiful in a month or two. Karen pressed the key fob to lock the car, and then turned when she heard footsteps on the gravel.
A man dressed in a cream knit jumper, faded jeans and a pair of green Wellington boots trudged towards them. He had a ruddy face, greying hair and a healthy, outdoorsy look to him.
‘DS Hart?’ he asked, approaching Karen with his hand outstretched.
‘Yes, and this is my colleague, DC Sophie Jones.’
His large hand enclosed Karen’s, and his eyes crinkled as he smiled. ‘Retired Detective Inspector Goodfield. You can call me Derek. Come with me. We’ll walk around and go in the back door.’
Karen and Sophie followed DI Goodfield along a paved garden path that ran beside the house. The garden was beautiful, and was clearly where he spent a lot of time now that he was retired.
He gathered some of the garden tools he’d clearly just abandoned, and glanced up. ‘I’d hoped I’d get more done before the next shower, but I think I’d better put my tools away for the day.’
The sky was a bruised grey, threatening more rain. They waited patiently for him to lock up the shed. Karen noticed his hands shook as he reached for the spade, fork and trowel, but she hadn’t smelled alcohol on his breath.
He brushed his hands together and smiled at them both. ‘Right, let’s get inside and have a cup of tea.’
He marched ahead and led them through the bi-folding doors into a large conservatory, which looked like it had been added on to the kitchen recently. As they entered the house, they were immediately struck by the warmth and the smell of baking. DI Goodfield paused inside the door, struggling to take off his boots, and then finally walked into the kitchen and stopped by the sink to wash his hands.
There was a large sponge cake cooling on a rack by the cream Aga. It looked delicious.
‘I’m not sure how much more I can tell you about the case,’ he said, scrubbing his hands. ‘I kept notes, of course. But I left them all at the station. We’re not supposed to keep stuff at home, and to be honest, I didn’t want any reminders.’
‘We’ve been going through them,’ Karen said. ‘They’ve been very helpful. We wanted to ask you about your feelings on the case, and what you thought of Oliver Fox. We want your opinion, the sort of thing that doesn’t get filed in a report. As the SIO, you had an insight nobody else did.’
DI Goodfield’s face hardened, and he wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘Well, first let me tell you that the missing persons case wasn’t the first dealing I had with Oliver Fox.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After DI Goodfield finished washing his hands, he led them out of the kitchen and into the hallway. A tall woman was shrugging on her coat beside the front door.
She looked up, and DI Goodfield introduced her as his wife, Sandra.
She smiled at them. ‘Nice to meet you. Sorry I have to rush off. I’m manning the cake stall at the village hall today.’ She turned to her husband. ‘I’ve left you a Victoria sponge.’ She raised a finger and looked sternly at him. ‘Make sure you only have one slice.’
DI Goodfield grinned and kissed his wife on the cheek. ‘See you later, dear.’
Karen noticed he didn’t agree to the one-slice limit. Crafty. She couldn’t blame him. The cake smelled amazing.
After Sandra left, he led them into the living room, which was large but comfortably
furnished. It had a low ceiling with beams, and the large fireplace was the centrepiece of the room. The mantelpiece was covered with photographs. Karen took a closer look, recognising DI Goodfield and Sandra in some of them and guessing the rest were of their children or grandchildren.
‘The cake smells so good,’ Sophie said. ‘I wish I lived with someone who could bake like that.’
DI Goodfield smiled. ‘Is that a hint? Then I’d better head to the kitchen and cut you a piece.’
Sophie’s cheeks flushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean I expected a slice.’
‘You’d be crazy if you turned down the opportunity to sample some of Sandra’s baking. I fell on my feet when I married her. I’ll go and make a pot of tea. Make yourselves comfortable.’
When DI Goodfield left them alone in the room, Karen sunk into the plump sofa cushions beside Sophie.
‘Sorry, Sarge,’ Sophie whispered. ‘I was just commenting on the smell. I know we’re not here to have afternoon tea.’
Karen shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it. It smells absolutely delicious.’
While DI Goodfield was out of the room, Karen took the time to study her surroundings and to try to work out what sort of man he really was. Detective Superintendent Robert Fox had told them the man was a drunkard and had been terrible at his job, but Derek Goodfield seemed to live in domestic bliss, spending his time gardening while his wife baked cakes. The house was attractively decorated and had to be worth a lot of money, so the couple had obviously done well for themselves. She guessed Sandra was retired now, too, and wondered what she’d done for a living while she was working. Perhaps she was the one who’d earned the money to pay for this huge house.
When DI Goodfield came back into the room, proudly carrying three slices of cake on a tray, along with teacups and saucers, Karen stood up. ‘Can I help you with that?’
He put the tray down on the coffee table. ‘Nope, I’ll just pop back into the kitchen and grab the teapot. You two tuck into that cake. I guarantee it’s the best you’ve ever tasted.’
Karen and Sophie helped themselves. He was right. The crumbly, buttery sponge melted in Karen’s mouth, and she imagined the calories going straight to her hips. But it was worth it.
Sophie closed her eyes after the first bite. ‘Oh, wow. I think I could eat the whole cake.’
DI Goodfield returned, carrying the teapot in one hand and a little jug of milk in the other.
He set out the cups and poured the tea. ‘Like I said, I fell on my feet when I met Sandra. Her family had money, too. That’s how we could afford this place. It certainly wasn’t from my salary!’ He smiled and passed Karen her tea. ‘I got stuck at DI. You probably think that’s due to the drink, don’t you?’
He raised an eyebrow and looked at Sophie.
She flushed again and began to stammer. ‘Well, no . . . I mean . . .’
‘Don’t be embarrassed. I bet DCI Fox made you aware of my drinking problem. In fact, I’m pretty sure he made sure you had that information sharpish, didn’t he?’
Karen hesitated. There was obviously some history between the two men. She didn’t know the full story, so she opted for a non-committal remark. ‘He’s retired now, but he reached the rank of detective superintendent.’
DI Goodfield made a tutting sound and shook his head, passing a cup of tea to Sophie. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. He was always good at climbing the greasy pole, that one.’
Neither Karen nor Sophie replied.
‘I see you’re not going to partake in gossip,’ DCI Goodfield said, chuckling. He carried his own cup of tea to a chair near the fireplace, moving a few cushions before sitting down. ‘It’s sensible of you, but the truth is, Oliver Fox was a horrible man, and I won’t pretend I wasn’t happy when he disappeared off the face of the earth. I didn’t think much of his brother, either.’
Karen, who had been about to take a sip of her tea, froze and looked steadily at DI Goodfield.
Sophie began to cough and splutter. ‘Sorry, a bit of cake went down the wrong way,’ she said, before taking a large gulp of her tea.
‘That’s a very interesting comment, DI Goodfield,’ Karen said. ‘Why do you say that? What made you think badly of Oliver Fox?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure his brother would prefer I didn’t mention it.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, but you’re going to tell us anyway, aren’t you?’
A broad grin spread across DI Goodfield’s face. ‘Yes, I think if you’re looking into his disappearance, you need to know the whole story. There is a tendency to put people up on a pedestal when they’ve been gone for a while. But I never went in for that. I don’t care what connections people have, how much money they earn, that’s not important to me. At the end of the day, we’re all people struggling to get by. Some of us are bad, and some of us are good, but most of us lie somewhere in between. Oliver Fox was one of the bad ones.’
‘What did he do?’ Sophie asked, unable to bear the suspense.
Karen had the measure of DI Goodfield now. He liked to tell a story. And he liked to do it in in his own time. But Sophie was impatient.
Karen knew if they gave him the chance to explain in his own way, rather than getting him to answer a set of questions, they’d get a lot more from him. Nuances and details that might otherwise be left out could tell them a great deal.
‘Tell us in your own words everything you can remember, DI Goodfield,’ Karen said. ‘We need to know as much about Oliver Fox as possible.’
The smile slid from DI Goodfield’s face as he reached for his cup of tea, and Karen noticed his hands shaking. She wondered whether it was due to nerves or a craving for alcohol.
‘Before all this happened, I worked on a bad case. We all have them. The case that works its way inside you. The one you really want to solve but can’t. It centred around a boy called Mark Bell. His mother came to me, to report one of Mark’s teachers. I spoke to the boy about it. He was embarrassed but told me his maths teacher held an after-school football club. After the boys had finished training, he would do things in the changing room that made them feel uncomfortable. On one occasion, Mark said he’d been made to strip naked and do push-ups when he was alone with the teacher. I was sure there was more to it, but Mark was scared and embarrassed. He wanted to forget all about it, and who could blame him? He was angry with his mother for coming forward in the first place. I did what I could to make Mark aware he wasn’t the one at fault, but I’m not sure I did enough.’
He paused to take another sip of tea. ‘I was angry enough to take it further. In those days, things were different. You certainly needed a lot of evidence before you brought charges, and Mark swore blind that he’d been made to feel uncomfortable but nothing else had happened. I wanted to investigate and talk to the other children who attended the football club. I spoke to my boss about it, but he ordered me to drop it. I’ve never been happy following orders without an explanation, so I confronted him. I said unless this teacher was investigated, I was going to go over his head.’
He looked down at the cup in his hands and shook his head. ‘I was naive. It turned out his boss was best buddies with DCI Fox, so of course it was in their interest to cover it up.’
He looked up to see both Karen and Sophie watching him intently. ‘I spoke to DCI Fox. I confronted him and told him exactly what I thought of his brother. He told me I was imagining things, making it all up, and if I didn’t drop it, he was going to get me fired.’
‘Did you drop it?’ Sophie asked.
DI Goodfield shook his head. ‘No. I went to see Oliver Fox. I waited until after football training on a Thursday and confronted him.’
‘He admitted to abusing Mark Bell?’ Karen asked.
‘Of course not, but I know guilt when I see it. I warned him off. Told him I’d be on his case permanently from that point on and told him to watch his back. I couldn’t do anything officially, so I threatened him. I’m not proud of that, but I felt powerless to do
anything else. I kept in touch with Mark’s mum and tried to help out, but I didn’t do enough. Mark’s dad had walked out on them a couple of years before, so the boy was vulnerable. I told her and Mark to come to me if anything else happened to make the boy feel uncomfortable.’
DI Goodfield turned to look at the rain streaking down the window. ‘Nothing happened, and for a while I thought my little visit had worked. I’d assumed I’d scared some sense into him. I’d let him know in no uncertain terms that I would be watching him like a hawk.’
He swallowed hard and turned away from the window to look down at his lap. ‘But then, I got a phone call from Mark’s mother. I’ll always remember it. It was the day of that big storm, do you remember? October fifteenth, 1987. She was calling to tell me that Mark had hung himself in the garage after school. And when the hurricane descended, it felt like the heavens were angry at what had happened to the boy. I’ll be the first to admit the drink got the better of me after that, but I never drank when I was on duty.’
The room was quiet. The brass clock on the mantelpiece ticked as the seconds passed. Even Sophie stayed silent.
After a moment, Karen asked, ‘What did Mark’s mother say? Did she blame the incident with Oliver Fox for her son’s suicide?’
This could certainly be a new lead. A devastated mother, blaming the teacher for her son’s death. It was a powerful motive for murder. Karen thought it unlikely the woman would have been able to carry Oliver Fox’s body in a suitcase and hide it in Albert Johnson’s loft, but perhaps she’d had help.
‘She was devastated. I went to the funeral and tried to talk to her a couple of times afterwards, but she didn’t want to discuss it. She had nothing left to keep her in the area after Mark died. She sold the house and moved to Nottingham, I think.’ He looked up at Karen, one fist clenched in his lap. ‘The worst part was, she thanked me for trying to help him. I did nothing. I let the boy down.’
