The Siren

by Alison Bruce

  Their eyes met and Goodhew knew that Mobile would have tried another runner if his legs hadn’t been so far beyond co-operating.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he pressed.

  Mobile shrugged. ‘Didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘Because . . .?’

  Mobile pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged again. And again he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  Goodhew pulled a face that said he was capable of patiently waiting through as many renditions of the fidgeting routine as it might take.

  Mobile’s attention span was pretty short, however, and it took less than ten seconds for him to start talking. ‘I just know what it’s like, right. You want to ask some questions. Did I see anything? No. Do I know anything? No. Then you want a statement, and I’ll be down the cop shop for two or three hours telling you a-gain that I don’t know nuthin’. Then I’ll probably have to go to court, sit around for hours just so I can tell everyone a-gain that all I did was see the house on fire and ring 999 like anybody else would.’

  ‘Witnesses have said you seemed to think there was someone inside the house?’

  ‘No, I thought there might be.’

  ‘You banged on the door and shouted, “Rachel”.’

  ‘Fucking didn’t.’

  ‘So you don’t know the people that lived there?’

  Mobile did a quick burst of shrug-and-shuffle. ‘Right,’ he said.

  Goodhew drew a slow, deep breath. ‘We’ll start from the top then. Name first?’

  Mobile sighed too. ‘Mikey Slater.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘14 June ’94.’

  It was the first time Goodhew could remember being ten years older than anyone resembling an adult. Obviously, Mikey was still a kid but he could have passed for eighteen or nineteen, so it counted – kind of. Goodhew ignored the urge to say ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ or something equally lame. He took down Mikey’s address and double-checked it via Parkside. Mikey lived with his mum in a flat on Devonshire Road, behind Raj’s shop and in the direction of the railway station. Not closer to the town centre, as Raj had assumed. It was a minor inconsistency.

  ‘So what brings you through here?’

  ‘I cut through here for town, sometimes. If I go to the cinema, or in the Grafton Centre to meet my mates.’

  ‘What about today?’

  ‘What about it?’

  It was Goodhew’s turn to fidget. ‘Is there some unwritten rule that says you need to make every single question as much work for me as possible?’

  ‘Dunno what you mean.’

  ‘There’s a surprise. I’m actually trying to help locate the child that has been missing since that fire. You obviously possess some sense of responsibility, or you wouldn’t have called the fire brigade in the first place, so please just start by explaining why you chose to come in here today?’

  ‘All right, all right. I was just walking home from my mate’s house when you started chasing me. That’s the only reason. I thought I had a better chance of losing you.’

  ‘And on the night of the fire?’

  ‘I’d been in town.’

  ‘With?’

  Mikey reeled off a couple of names, no phone numbers, no addresses. He held eye contact much too long, so Goodhew was certain neither would check out. Goodhew didn’t push it, however.

  He glanced at his watch, realized time wasn’t on his side. He wasn’t keen to let Mikey just walk away, since there was always a chance that he’d just vanish. The small inconsistencies were the most telling; only the most accomplished liars had their answers ready for the minor questions. Mikey was a liar, but not much of one.

  Goodhew was certain the boy was neither a killer nor a kidnapper, so he asked him a few more routine questions, then decided to let him go. ‘But you’ll need to make a statement.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Mikey had his hands in his pockets and twisted his upper body in the direction of the main gate, ready to go as soon as Goodhew was ready to let him.

  But Goodhew had one more question, which he’d kept back until the last moment; a final barometer reading to assess Mikey’s honesty. ‘Oh, and I meant to ask, what’s your other reason for coming here?’

  Goodhew’s tone was deliberately casual, and when Mikey had first turned back towards him he clearly expected to need only an equally casual answer. One look at Goodhew told him otherwise, and for once in their brief relationship, Mikey didn’t move. Hopefully he had sensed that this question was far more loaded than the previous ones.

  He hesitated. ‘What makes you think I do?’

  Goodhew took a turn at shrugging, ‘We recovered a cap here. DNA will confirm if it’s yours, I guess. I wondered how you lost it?’

  ‘Fucking unreal.’

  Goodhew decided this was a compliment. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘You ain’t dumb, are you?’ Mikey shook his head. ‘I’ve gotta brother, five years older than me, he is. I heard he goes in there.’ Mikey turned and pointed along the East Road side of the perimeter wall, then made his pointing gesture bigger and deeper. ‘You know, right in there.’

  Goodhew nodded.

  ‘Mum’s not well, and I thought he might want to know.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  Mikey shook his head. ‘Not yet – probably a waste of time. Haven’t actually seen him since I was at junior school.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’ Goodhew put the notebook back in his pocket, but Mikey kept talking.

  ‘It’s drugs, innit? He’s addicted.’ He was looking at Goodhew with new interest, as though he’d suddenly decided that Goodhew might have some answers.

  Goodhew passed him his card. ‘I’ll be in touch to take a proper statement from you. If you think of anything else that might be important, ring me straight away, OK?’

  Mikey looked disappointed but still nodded.

  ‘Tell me about your brother then, and I’ll see if there’s anything we can do.’

  ‘Appreciated.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘Home. No chance of getting my hat back, is there?’

  They made their way out through the same exit, walking in silence along the avenue of trees leading back to Mill Road. Mikey gradually lengthened his stride, till he put a gap of about ten feet between himself and Goodhew.

  Gully was waiting in the patrol car, which was parked on double yellows at the end of the path. As Goodhew opened the passenger door, Mikey crossed the road ahead of their vehicle. He glanced at Goodhew, with little more than a casual movement, but Goodhew definitely detected a small nod of his head and sensed the word ‘Cheers’ grunted through unmoving lips.

  Mikey Slater didn’t stay on Mill Road for long. As soon as the patrol car was out of sight, he darted back into the cemetery and towards the exit on its opposite side.

  He had things to do.

  He’d finally realized something that should have smacked him in the face from day one; and that was the very reason he couldn’t now phone ahead. At some point soon the police would know every number that he’d called; every number that had called him.

  Clearly they didn’t have the information yet, but how long would it be before they knocked on Kimberly’s door?

  Mikey felt the net closing, and he had no idea which way was out.

  He broke into a run. Things to do . . . things to do.

  Identifying the anonymous caller was one tick off Goodhew’s ‘to do’ list. Running round Mill Road had been unplanned exercise, but it had allowed him enough distance from Gully to see that he needed to straighten things out with her before they went any further.

  She glanced towards him and, even from the kind of distance that made her face resemble a few abstract smudges of light and shadow, he could tell that she was glowering. As he drew closer, she turned her head so she was looking away from him.

  He refused to spend the remainder of the day fighting against her; it had to stop, now.

 
; Goodhew opened the passenger door, and she started the engine. She looked like she was about to ask for the details, but he beat her to it.

  ‘His name’s Mikey Slater. He made the original call for help,’ Goodhew informed her.

  Gully pulled out into the traffic and, as they drove, he filled her in on his conversation with Mikey. He twisted around in his seat till his back faced the angle between his seat and the door. He watched her closely, but if she was interested in Mikey Slater she showed no sign of it. He guessed she was too busy dwelling on the wrong things to be able to focus her thoughts where they should be.

  When he spoke again, his tone was far more matter-of-fact. ‘Did you let the nursing home know we’d be late?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Gully changed gear, she seemed to be concentrating on her driving but Goodhew spotted the red patches suddenly blossoming across her cheeks.

  ‘Why not?’ he pushed.

  ‘I didn’t think I needed to.’

  ‘We made an appointment.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, her voice suddenly quiet.

  ‘You didn’t think we needed to because Jay Andrews is not going anywhere, right?’

  She nodded and bit her bottom lip.

  ‘He’s fully aware of everything around him, though unable to move or ask questions, and you assumed that he didn’t really need to be kept up to date, and didn’t really need any common courtesy.’ He kept his voice on one level, quiet and firm, free from any apparent anger. She looked over at him quickly and he could feel her embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she turned her eyes back to the road, ‘I usually do better than that.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK? You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I said OK.’

  ‘No, you said it like you really meant ‘If you say so’ or ‘In your dreams’, or something.’

  ‘Want to know what I actually think?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  There was a long pause then, and he hoped she was battling with the urge to have the final word. She stared at the road ahead just a bit too intently, her posture unnaturally correct and each mirror-signal-manoeuvre just too self-aware.

  They’d travelled another half mile before she finally cracked. ‘Go on, then. You obviously need to get it off your chest.’

  The corner of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile, but luckily it went unnoticed.

  ‘So, tell me, what do you think about Kimberly Guyver?’

  Gully looked surprised. ‘She’s lying about something.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘If I knew, I think I would have already told Marks, don’t you?’

  ‘So you just have a feeling?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Come on, it must be more than that. Get it out in the open, Sue.’

  Gully gave a small smile.

  He knew that if he kept pushing, he really was going to get it. So he kept pushing and as they turned into Cherry Hinton Road, the floodgates burst.

  ‘Maybe she’s not quite as cut up about Riley as some people seem to think. Maybe she has someone else to take her mind off it.’ Gully laughed, but it was hard and humourless. ‘I saw you leaving her bedroom, and I can’t think of one legitimate reason you’d be up there. Did you think she needed a shoulder to cry on? That’s an abuse of your position . . . such an abuse.’ Her face screwed up into an expression that bordered on hatred. ‘But maybe she’s playing you. The fact is that at least one of you is making a fool out of the other. Either that or you’re both cooking something up together.’

  Goodhew said nothing, remaining silent for the length of Cherry Hinton Road, also the short drive along Hinton Avenue, and even while she manoeuvred the car into the last available space in the nursing-home car park. He waited until she’d cut the engine.

  ‘Wait, don’t get out just yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ Her face was an angry red, and she was beyond caring who else saw it. ‘We’re already late.’

  ‘Another two minutes won’t matter.’

  ‘Fine.’ She pressed her lips shut and waited with her hand on the door handle.

  ‘I can see you have a dilemma, since you genuinely think I’ve behaved inappropriately, don’t you?’

  She levelled her gaze with his. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And then it’s compounded after you tell Marks, and he appears to do nothing as a result?’

  ‘He told you?’

  ‘No, I found out myself.’

  She let go of the handle. ‘And now you’re trying to get me into your corner?’

  ‘No, I’m trying to make sure that we can work together. I don’t want either of us to miss anything important because we’re too distracted by details that don’t matter.’

  ‘Of course they matter.’

  ‘Not to Riley, they don’t. Look, Marks will investigate me; he’s a thorough man and fair, and he’d never just take my word for it. I wasn’t following protocol, that’s true, but my conversation with Kimberly Guyver was case-related, nothing more. It’s the wrong time to drag her into anything else, so Marks will wait. I really am sorry that I seem to have put you in a difficult position.’

  Goodhew didn’t feel at all perturbed by the possibility of being investigated, and maybe that showed. For the first time, Gully’s expression relaxed and became more thoughtful.

  ‘What do you think of Michael Kincaide?’ she asked.

  Goodhew knew it wasn’t the right time to be evasive, but a brutally honest answer wasn’t going to promote his theory of working in harmony. ‘Michael and I don’t get on well, and it’s partly a personal clash because –’

  ‘Because you dumped Mel?’

  The question was so abrupt that it caught Goodhew off-guard. And the information behind it was so wide of the mark that he didn’t want to begin explaining how he’d never at any time gone out with Mel. And how, if he actually had, he could never imagine abandoning her.

  He took a breath. ‘Not exactly.’ Then his mobile rang, ending the possibility of adding anything further.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The lobby of Hinton Avenue nursing home was light and airy, decorated with an assortment of artwork ranging from prints of traditional landscapes to hanging plates decorated by the residents.

  Goodhew was studying a rather dark but striking abstract when the manager, Amanda Tebbutt, joined them. She must have followed Goodhew’s gaze. ‘Painted by a former patient.’

  ‘He’s good.’

  ‘He died. Unfortunately that’s how most of them become former patients.’ She pointed towards another, less artistic, work, ‘Our patients have a tough time physically, so for many holding a paint brush is a major achievement, which makes any small success worth a great deal.’

  Maybe she also said that to those she interviewed about taking care of potential patients, but it still sounded totally genuine.

  ‘How many residents do you have here?’

  ‘Maximum of twelve, ten at the moment.’

  ‘With similar needs to Jay Andrews?’

  ‘Oh no, a few like him need twenty-four-hour attention, but the others have some movement and at least limited capacity for speech. Often, over time, we see small improvements, but in most cases their physical limitations stem from limitations in the brain’s ability to function.’

  She glanced at Goodhew to make sure he was still interested. ‘What I mean is, there’s a correlation. In most cases the physical signs are a reflection of how the patient also has a difficulty in understanding and thinking to full capacity. Jay’s injury was devastating, so it took us a long time to comprehend that he still possessed the same mental capacity as ever.’

  ‘You mean locked-in syndrome wasn’t diagnosed immediately?’

  ‘No, no, what I’m saying is that there’s a huge difference between being told that someone is trapped inside their body and actually breaking the automatic association betwee
n outward appearances and the way one should treat them. I had to constantly remind myself that I didn’t need to speak to him slowly or simplistically; that he wants Radio 4 and the World Service, not just background music and daytime TV. He still has very clear recollection of all the things he used to be able to do. It really is the cruellest of conditions.’ She finally drew a breath and, when she spoke again, she sounded apologetic. ‘Just thought I’d explain, as it might help when you start to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  ‘Now, if you’d both like to follow me.’

  Gully had become so quiet that Goodhew had almost forgotten she was with him. Amanda Tebbutt now led them through the patients’ lounge into a ground-floor corridor that had two doorways along each side.

  ‘I understand he communicates by Morse code? Why doesn’t he have anything more sophisticated? I’ve read about equipment that responds to eye movement.’

  ‘It took a while to assess him; then, when it was first offered, he refused. He couldn’t bring himself to accept the idea until he’d accepted that his condition was permanent. Now that he wants it, it’s –’ she made the quotes sign and rolled her eyes,‘– in the pipeline. Delivery next month is the latest promise. Ridiculous.’

  ‘Do you know Kimberly Guyver?’ he asked.

  Amanda nodded. ‘In my opinion she and the little boy have been wonderful. Family support is usually extremely good for morale.’

  ‘Does she just sit and talk to him?’

  Amanda Tebbutt stopped outside the second room to the right, and smiled knowingly. ‘Now, you see what I mean – you can ask him yourself.’ The door was already open, and they saw Jay Andrews propped up in a bed positioned to face them diagonally from the opposite corner. A thin blonde woman in her early thirties was waiting by the window.

  ‘This is Anne, I’ve asked her to sit in, just in case Jay requires anything. If you need me again, I’ll be in my office.’

  Anne nodded and greeted them in a strong Irish accent.

  Jay stared at them directly but with the slack-faced expression that Goodhew recognized from his previous experience of visiting geriatric wards. Jay had clearly once been handsome: his eyes were hazel with long dark lashes, and his skin was that shade of olive which still looked like it glowed from a recently acquired tan even in the middle of winter. Or in a hospital bed, under artificial light.