by Alison Bruce
‘The fire crew is in no hurry to go in, and there’ll be several hours of damping down needed before they can assess whether it is structurally sound to enter. At the moment, the fire officer reckons that there is still a strong chance of the roof collapsing.’
Kincaide was the first to comment. ‘And what about the cause?’
‘Again, they’re not committing themselves, but at this stage are happy to label it “suspicious”. And until we know otherwise we need to proceed on the basis that both Rachel Golinski and Riley Guyver are still alive.’ Marks glanced at each of his subordinates in turn. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to emphasize to you the damage false hope can cause, so please remain cautious until we receive some definitive answers.’ He continued speaking for several more minutes, but Goodhew heard very little of it above the tick-tick-tick of his own restlessness. He cared about what Marks was saying, and certainly had great respect for him, but felt the time for standing on the sidelines was almost over.
It needed to be over.
Marks then switched to his in conclusion tone: ‘So speak to the husband, find out whether there’s anywhere else the wife might be, especially anywhere she could have taken the youngster. Be tactful, but also pin down his own whereabouts in the last twenty-four hours.’
Marks turned to Goodhew. ‘And you’ll need to make a statement. I’m happy for you to do that now, or . . .’
Kincaide interrupted, ‘He’s still on holiday.’
Marks raised his eyebrows very slightly, like he was just considering the concept of being surprised. ‘Are you, Gary?’
‘Hopefully not any longer, sir.’
‘I thought not, so I’d like you to go along with Kincaide.’
‘To see the husband?’
‘Yes.’ Marks looked at Kincaide, then at Goodhew, and again at Kincaide. ‘Get on with it, then.’
Kincaide straightened. ‘Absolutely, sir.’
Goodhew didn’t comment, as he turned towards Kincaide’s car. They could drive away from the scene of disaster, but he knew that the ghosts of flames and the stink of bitter smoke would be coming along for the ride. His eyes made one last sweep of the situation, taking in the fear, shock and confusion, the mess and chaos, activity and exhaustion. But nothing stood out more distinctly than the huge question mark that now hung in the air between Kimberly Guyver and her best friend’s burning home.
TEN
The building which housed the Celeste had been a nightclub for more years than Goodhew could remember. Its entrance was in Market Passage, one of several narrow pedestrianized short cuts that connected one central shopping street to another.
As a small boy, his parents had often taken him and his sister to the cafe in the Eaden Lilley department store. They always used the Market Passage entrance, where the Blag Club displayed glossy, two-colour posters promoting events that were consistently ‘unmissable’ and ‘the best in Cambridge’. He’d been about seven at the time, and just realizing how much more he could learn now he could digest the more difficult words. Those posters hinted at the existence of a more dangerous and adult, after-dark world, certainly far more interesting than teacakes and a glass of Ribena in the coffee shop. He had looked forward to the posters like waiting for a favourite page in a weekly comic.
The venue had undergone several name changes, and he’d moved on by another nine or ten years, before he got to discover that the reality was an anticlimax: a hot and deafening few hours that served only to remind him how little he understood most people of his own age. As far as he knew, the Celeste was just another such incarnation.
Market Passage was L-shaped, with the Celeste at the bend. Kincaide now parked the car across the entrance to the short side of the L, with all four wheels up on the pavement. It was impossible to get closer.
There were a few people walking around or loitering, always in small groups, and Goodhew knew they’d been immediately pegged as police. On this occasion it didn’t matter, but he wished that Kincaide could learn to be a little more subtle. It wasn’t feeling alienated that bothered him but the risk of alienating other people. And such unnecessary pavement hogging, especially in a pedestrian zone, undeniably smacked of self-importance.
A group of twenty-somethings glanced over as they passed by. The tallest male in the group kept his eyes on Kincaide for longest, then continued glancing back over his shoulder. Kincaide made a big show of locking the car, and brushing down his suit, returning the guy’s stare the entire time.
Goodhew sighed to himself and headed towards the Celeste, muttering, ‘What’s the point?’
‘Point of what?’ Kincaide was suddenly almost alongside him.
Goodhew hadn’t realized that Kincaide had caught up with him, or that he himself had even spoken out loud. ‘All that macho posturing crap.’
Kincaide shrugged. ‘They don’t know any better. They’re ignorant, that’s all.’
Goodhew smiled to himself, making sure he didn’t reveal his next thought out loud.
The club door was heavy, artificially aged and adorned with rough-cast ironwork to resemble the entrance to some building from the middle ages. Like a church, or a castle. The doormen matched the door, standing beside it in an identical pair.
They simultaneously gave a sideways tip of the head, nodding the pair of visitors through to the woman on the desk. She wore a name badge which read ‘Jodi’ and a T-shirt which identified her as Your Celeste Hostess.
Muffled music sneaked down to them from somewhere overhead.
Goodhew spoke first. ‘We need to speak to one of your staff called Stefan Golinski.’
She gave each of them a shrewd once-over. ‘Blimey, I didn’t ever think he’d really do it.’
‘Sorry, do what?’
‘Mule called you, right?’ She waited for them to answer, looking like she was trying to decide whether they weren’t responding because it was none of her business, or because they were too dim to unravel a four-word question. She must have then decided it was the name that was throwing them. ‘I don’t know what he’s really called,’ she added, smiling hopefully.
Kincaide’s tone remained deliberately patient. ‘We just need to speak to Mr Golinski.’
‘Well, he didn’t come back.’ She raised her henna-ed eyebrows. ‘Like anyone thought he would. Went off like a rocket.’
‘OK, so where’s this Mule guy?’ Goodhew asked.
‘Go through.’ She’d been taught that same slight tip of the head as used by the bouncers. ‘Up the stairs, then straight to the back. I guess he’s in the kitchen – they’d’ve wanted him out of sight, eh?’
‘Thanks.’
Lights shaped like lilac rock crystals lit the stairs, and the same theme continued through the building, with the same mellow illumination cast on a variety of coffee tables positioned around the perimeter of the room. As clubs went, it was pretty small, even low-key, but it had one thing that many other local nightspots were missing – plenty of customers.
They headed on into the heart of the club, its dark walls throbbing ever louder with the pulse of the bass. Peering across the dance floor, Goodhew spotted the door to the kitchen.
Kincaide’s focus fell about twenty feet short of target. ‘Pity my wife doesn’t wear underwear that shows off that degree of flesh.’
Goodhew didn’t even look. Maybe it was just him, but there was something about standing in front of a burning house which had now taken away the appeal of bare skin glistening under the hot and distorted beams of light.
The kitchen was just a brightly lit cupboard, measuring about eight feet by ten. It contained a sink and a fridge and a microwave, but something about the lack of any other cooking equipment told Goodhew it was more about securing permission to use the premises as a nightclub rather than a venue for fine dining.
The only occupant was slicing hot-dog rolls with a large bread knife. He looked up, blade in hand, and nodded warily. The man’s hair was shoulder-length and beach-bum blond, but his tanned face
was marred by a swollen lip and large welt that ran from his right cheekbone up to his eyebrow. His right eye was red and almost closed, contrasting with the left one, which was wide with surprise. The overall effect was demonic.
‘You’re Mule?’
‘Yeah, and you’re the police, right?’ He had a distinct New Zealand accent. ‘I told him not to bother.’
‘Who?’
‘Our boss, Craig.’ Mule’s right eye looked like it hadn’t finished swelling.
‘Craig what?’ Kincaide had his notebook out already.
‘Tennison.’
‘And your full name?’
‘Mule.’
Kincaide was about to demand more details, but Goodhew cut in, ‘You should get it looked at.’
‘No point.’
‘Well, an ice pack at least.’
‘Gary,’ Kincaide spoke in a voice that he might save for a small and annoying nephew, ‘if he needs medical help, I’m sure he can get a lift to Addenbrooke’s.’ Then back to Mule. ‘Stefan Golinski did this?’ he asked.
Mule nodded. Goodhew kept quiet.
‘Why did he hit you?’
‘Jealous – thought I was shagging his wife.’
‘Were you?’
‘No, not this time.’
‘So, you previously had a sexual relationship with Mrs Golinski?’
‘No, I mean this time it wasn’t his wife. I’m seeing someone who’s married, and the bloke doesn’t know. Point is, I’m not seeing Rachel Golinski – never was, never would. Rachel and I are friends, but Stefan just doesn’t get it. He thinks she should just look into his eyes and need nothing else from life, if you know what I mean.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘How should I know? He’s not here in the building, that’s for sure. Took off in a rage. Ask Craig – he knows what Stefan’s like, and might know where he goes to cool off. I didn’t touch her, though, but Stefan couldn’t accept that, it was like he’d already decided what the truth was, and wouldn’t listen to anything else.’ Mule tried to make some kind of facial expression of resignation, but it ended in a wince. ‘Look, why not just talk to Craig.’
They left Mule in his kitchen, clutching the bread knife and resolutely slicing open more hot-dogs rolls. Following his directions, they located a plain door set in the wall opposite the bar.
It had a code-operated lock but no buzzer, then again, no one could have been expected to hear it over the constant, pumping music. Goodhew scanned the room for assistance, but he needn’t have bothered. Kincaide dug him in the arm and he turned to see the door had already been opened by a man he immediately took to be another doorman. This one was slightly less imposing than the first two, if only because he actually smiled.
‘We’re looking for Stefan Golinski.’
‘Come on through.’
There was nothing plush about the area they entered beyond the door. Overhead the ceiling was bare concrete, with air-conditioning pipes running along each RSJ, and a single naked bulb hanging from a wire cord in the centre of the room. The furnishing was equally sparse, just a few stacking chairs deposited around a moulded plastic table, and he quickly led them past these towards the rear of the room, where a lightweight wall partitioned off a small area that housed a desk, a PC and a couple more chairs. It was only then that they realized they’d just met the manager.
‘Plush, eh?’ he said.
They introduced themselves.
‘Craig Tennison,’ he announced, and shook hands with each of them in turn. He was aged around the forty mark, with the look of a man who was still too fit to turn to fat but also too laid-back now to keep it all as toned as it had once been. ‘Solid’ would be a fair description.
He perched on the edge of the desk and offered them the chairs. ‘Did Mule call you? I know he’s a bit knocked around, but I’d be happier if he dealt with it outside working hours. It doesn’t help the business to have the police turning up every five minutes.’
‘Every five minutes?’ Kincaide queried.
‘Just a figure of speech. We don’t have much trouble but we don’t want it either.’
‘Tell me, did anyone witness this assault on Mule?’
‘I caught the tail end of it.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘About eight, I guess.’ He paused to think. ‘Yeah, that must be about right.’
‘Then what?’
‘Stefan stormed out.’
From where he sat, Goodhew could only see the back of the PC, but he could hear it whirring quietly and was prompted to speak for the first time. ‘You have CCTV here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Digital?’
‘Yes, of course. There’s no risk of forgetting to put a fresh tape in these days, so it’s all there. I think you’ll see Stefan storming out, but not the fight itself. That kicked off once Mule went in the storeroom.’
‘And then you walked in on it?’
‘Yeah, I’d been looking for Stefan, wanted to know why he wasn’t manning either of the doors. He seemed wound up when he started work – has a knack of creating this kind of tension in the atmosphere. So, anyway, I pushed open the storeroom door just as a load of boxes came crashing down on top of Mule. Then Stefan barged past me . . . and I shouted after him, warned him that if he disappeared this time, his job wouldn’t be waiting for him when he got back.’
‘Is he usually so volatile?’
‘Not really. For as long as I’ve known him he’s had a temper, but today was in a whole different league. I went as far as running after him, caught up with him, but he wouldn’t tell me where he was going . . . which brings me back to my original question – did Mule call you?’
‘No, he didn’t. He might be in need of medical attention, by the way.’
Kincaide smirked. ‘Excuse my DC, but he seems to want to play doctors and nurses today. But we’re not here in relation to that incident. There’s been a serious fire at Golinski’s home address, and we need to discover the whereabouts of both him and his wife Rachel.’
Tennison looked startled. ‘But they’re not there, right?’
Goodhew had shut his mouth after his colleague’s latest sarcasm, and intended to let Kincaide do the rest of the talking. For now anyway.
‘At present we don’t know precisely where they are.’
Tennison seemed to take a few seconds to grasp the implication. ‘Did Stefan raise the alarm?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘I don’t actually think anything. If he had raised the alarm, then it would prove that he’d been home. But chances are he’s letting off steam somewhere. So why did you ask all those other questions?’
‘Because understanding his current frame of mind may prove crucial.’
Tennison stared at the floor, concentrating. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said finally, as he looked up again, his expression more determined. ‘Stefan’s a hard bloke. He can be a nutter, a bastard even – but never to her. When she was around, he was as soft as shit. If you’re thinking that he’s lost it with her, well . . .’ He drew a breath and wagged his index finger. ‘I can’t see him hurting her, no matter what the provocation. But that’s just my opinion, of course -just my own opinion.’
ELEVEN
Back out in the street, Goodhew noticed their joint reflections in a window. He could identify the pair of them like they were part of an old snapshot: familiar faces but made easier to read given the opportunity to view them in detachment. Perhaps that was all hindsight really was: the chance to see clearly what was originally clouded by the emotion of the moment, rather than anything to do with the passage of time. He still felt his irritation at Kincaide: it kept crawling under his skin and it was hard not to scratch it. But in the window he saw the visual confirmation of his own tenseness and Kincaide’s insouciance, the latter too self-aware to be genuine.
What was the point of pretending that Kincaide wasn’t deliberately pushing his buttons, when th
ey both knew the score? ‘I’m not your DC,’ he said flatly.
‘In theory, but who would ever guess?’ Kincaide grinned lazily. ‘We got off on the wrong foot, right?’
‘And I was trying to –’
‘I haven’t finished. I know what you were trying to do – find some way we can have a –’ he paused to make the quote signs in the air ‘– healthy working relationship. There’s nothing in that for me, Gary. Watching you flail around isn’t weighing on my conscience, and the last thing I want is you getting chummy with me and starting to think that you can poke your nose into my private life, too.’
‘Your home life has nothing to do with me.’
‘Yeah, right, so when I have a crack at the new WPC, you’re not going to automatically run to the nearest patch of moral high ground? I don’t think so.’
‘I’m sure she can take care of herself.’
‘And Mel couldn’t?’ Kincaide spat out Mel’s name so it hit Goodhew like a slap in the face.
They’d stopped beside their car, standing square on to each other, neither of them even aware of who might have been passing by.
‘So this is what it’s really about? You latched on to Mel when she was having a bad time with Toby, and you convinced her you were going to leave Jan.’
‘And what are you, some kind of umpire? How’s this clearing the air?’
The conversation had skewed off the narrow path marked ‘civilized’, and it was now threatening to skid out of control. But Goodhew could still see that there was some truth in Kincaide’s point, and hit the brake. He wondered how much of his dislike for the man was fuelled by his latent feelings for Mel. He had no immediate answer. ‘Fair enough,’ he said finally. ‘I guess it wasn’t any of my business.’
