The Siren

by Alison Bruce

  A deep-seated longing pressed against Goodhew’s chest as he now sat by the window all those years later. He still understood that he couldn’t go back in time, but even now that understanding left a lump in his throat. All it seemed right to do now was to follow his grandfather’s advice, so Goodhew leant his head back against the wall and half-closed his eyes.

  He ate the second half of the sandwich while, beneath him, Parker’s Piece bustled on just as it had every day of his life. People outside appeared the size of ants, as some wound their way in purposeful trails to and from the city centre, while others played or lounged on the grass. From this distance it all looked so simple.

  His gaze drifted to the car park outside the Parkside Hotel, which was still full of vehicles and looked more congested than anywhere else in sight. He wondered how Kimberly was coping, but didn’t regret staying away. He was still nudged by an instinct that told him she was holding back.

  Gully had called it ‘lying’. But lying was a strong word.

  He let his brain turn it over several times, just to hear how it sounded. So much for his grandfather’s theory, however. Now the problem seemed bigger, and the solution more distant.

  A familiar voice broke the silence. ‘I guessed I’d find you up here.’

  Goodhew turned and greeted Sergeant Sheen, who was carrying a half-inch-thick sheaf of papers. He lifted them closer to his chest as he saw Goodhew try to identify the unfamiliar logo on the top sheet.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get to read it soon enough.’ Sheen spoke leisurely, his Suffolk accent rolling slowly over the words. ‘This is the latest from our Spanish counterparts, concerning their ongoing investigation into the murder of young Nick Lewton.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Goodhew reached out hopefully, but Sheen wasn’t ready to hand anything over just yet.

  ‘Now, I wanted to put this straight into the hands of DI Marks but, since he’s up to his neck over there, I thought I’d trust you to deliver it to him. However, I can also see that leaves you with a minor dilemma.’ Sheen pointed to the pile of papers. ‘I have more downstairs to drop off with you lot, so you’d be best to walk with me while I explain.’

  Goodhew slid his feet from the desk and followed Sheen back into the corridor.

  ‘I know your reputation, son, and I can see that you might not want to hand this stuff straight on to Marks without having a read-through on your own . . .’

  Goodhew shook his head. ‘That’s not really –’

  ‘Gary?’ Sheen shook his head, too. ‘Don’t bother denying it. My job’s local intelligence, remember? You ferret for facts, you do – see, I’ve got your number already. What I was going to say is that you might not have time to read the whole thing, but luckily for you they faxed it. And the fax came through slow enough for me to scan through it page by page, as I was waiting. I couldn’t take in all the detail but there’s an autopsy report and some witness statements. They’re sending the hard copy by express courier.’

  Sheen stopped at the door of Marks’ office. ‘You sit in here and wait for Marks, and you can say I told you that he was on his way back. That way you can read it right now.’

  ‘Why encourage me to get ahead of DI Marks?’

  ‘Simply because that’ll be the quickest way for the most important details to get through to him. I could take them over myself, and find they get put to one side amongst all that press chaos.’ Sheen held out the pages but, before releasing them, added, ‘You might disagree, but if it says what I think it says, I know you’ll put it straight in his hand. You’ll find pages three and four the most helpful.’

  Goodhew sat in Marks’ chair and fanned the pages out on the empty desk. There were too many to read quickly, so he took Sheen’s advice and jumped to page three. The Spanish pathologist had enlisted the help of a forensic anthropologist, and the pages that had been faxed over were a summary of their combined findings.

  The autopsy report was written in English, a translation he guessed since some of the sentences seemed rather stilted. Nevertheless, it was still all clear enough.

  Nick Lewton’s body was severely decomposed, consistent with a corpse that had been submerged in water over a long period. The pathologist had been reluctant to attach any firm dates to this, but estimated that the minimum length of time the body had been down there would be four to five months, and that the earliest date possible should be taken as the night of Nick Lewton’s disappearance.

  The vehicle’s windscreen had been destroyed on impact with the water, allowing access for marine scavengers to pick at the corpse. The warmth of the water had then encouraged rapid decomposition, till both the skull and the hands had become separated from the rest of the corpse.

  Lewton’s body, fully clothed, was still in the driver’s seat when the car was recovered, and the clothing had helped to keep the general body structure intact. That meant the larger bones remained in more or less the expected position, and still retained some of their tendons and ligaments.

  The left hand had been discovered still inside the vehicle, whilst an extensive search of the seabed had eventually led to recovery of the skull. There was no indication, however, that the body had been dismembered in any way and therefore, the report concluded, it would be reasonable to surmise that the missing right hand had either been washed away by the current or carried off by a larger type of predator.

  The bulk of the subsequent findings related to skeletal evidence.

  The report came complete with photographs whose originals were undoubtedly clear and in full colour, but these were compressed into grainy black-and-white by the faxing process. The clearest one was a shot of the skull, reduced to bare bone apart from a few patches of scalp that clung to it, which looked like they were still sprouting unnaturally clean-looking clumps of hair.

  The pathologist and the anthropologist were clearly men with a sense of drama as, rather than working through the body’s bones in any methodical sequence, they’d chosen to list the injuries in ascending order of severity. Goodhew had reached the top of page four and still resisted the urge to skip to the conclusion. Instead, he wriggled into a more comfortable position in his chair, and read on.

  Some minor post-mortem damage was visible on the bones, mainly as surface scratches. These were attributed to the scavenging of the overlying flesh by crabs.

  There were several observations made about older injuries: Lewton had previously suffered cracked ribs, repeated nasal fractures, and a single fracture to the zygomatic – Goodhew paused to Google that one . . . the cheekbone.

  They’d spotted some pitting in the sinuses, and had run chemical analysis on samples of his hair. The results had proved Lewton to be a regular and long-term cocaine user.

  Drugs and violence, what a charmer.

  Their report finally turned to the most recent injuries. Nick Lewton had received a single stab wound to the chest, inflicted with a thin, serrated blade with a pointed tip. The tip of the knife had snapped during entry, so the triangle of metal had become lodged in the lower ribcage.

  From this they’d been able to identify that the knife was of the same make and design as the steak knives used at the Matt Adore restaurant, two doors down from the Rita Club.

  The skeleton also revealed signs of a struggle, with a small notch evident in the bone at the base of Lewton’s remaining index finger.

  Goodhew could not help wondering what injuries the other hand might have sustained.

  The main stab wound would have caused extensive bleeding, but had not been deep enough to hit any major organ. If left untreated it would, theoretically, have been a life-threatening wound but, in this case, death had been caused by a separate set of injuries.

  A long paragraph followed, peppered with technical phrases like ‘delamination of the outer table’ and ‘inward bevelling of the bones’. It concluded with the cause of death as ‘a transverse compression fracture of the occipital protuberance’. Goodhew had perused enough details in the previous few days
to translate this phrase without the need of a medical dictionary, or even Google. Just like Rachel Golinski and Jay Andrews, Nick Lewton had had his head kicked in.

  Goodhew stared at the page for a long minute, then checked his watch: ten to three.

  Sheen had been right, this was vital information for Marks, and while Goodhew wasn’t sure whether it warranted causing further delay to the press conference, he was equally convinced that any decision had to rest with his superior.

  Goodhew tapped the papers back into a neat pile, and only looked back into Marks’ office as he pulled the door shut after him. That was the moment he noticed the key in the lock of the filing cabinet, and he hesitated.

  He gave the office door a gentle push and it swung wide open again, then he glanced along the corridor, already knowing he would find it deserted but double-checking because that was his way.

  The key turned silently, he gave the drawer a tug and it slid out on its runners. The files inside were organized almost exactly as they had appeared when he’d been watching Gully through his telescope. The only difference now was the crucial one: his file had disappeared. To make sure, he checked under the other files, then in each of the other three drawers.

  He was lost in thought as he relocked the filing cabinet, then stood facing it for a minute and only stirred as he realized he was no longer alone. He spun round to find Mel with her arms crossed and leaning against the door frame. Her pose suggested she’d been standing there for hours but, while he knew that couldn’t be the case, it was obvious she realized he was doing something he shouldn’t.

  ‘I won’t tell Marks,’ she began.

  ‘I wouldn’t ever ask you not to.’

  ‘Fair enough, but I still won’t. What were you looking for?’ She stepped closer.

  ‘Honestly? I believe there’s a file with my name on it, and I wanted to see what was in it.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, and gave a small but knowing smile. ‘I think that’s a Kincaide myth.’

  ‘You know about it?’

  ‘Kincaide always likes to paint you in a bad light, makes out you’re just one step from career suicide. He told PC Kelly Wilkes that it contains reports on your misconduct, told me that you take bribes, and doubtless Kincaide probably invented something else for Sue Gully’s benefit.’ Her tone was dismissive. ‘He says it’s all here in “The File”.’

  ‘What if it exists? I’d want to check it.’

  ‘You’re no rule-breaker, Gary Goodhew.’ She grinned, gave his arm a reassuring rub and he felt his pulse quicken. ‘I can guarantee it doesn’t exist, so you’re worrying about absolutely nothing.’

  He smiled back at her. ‘You’re misguided, then.’

  Without warning, she reached up and her fingers touched his face. ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied softly. Her touch was firm. She leant closer and her lips brushed his cheek. Maybe he was reading too much into the gesture. Then, again, maybe he wasn’t. He inhaled, drawing in the scent of her hair, and took the hit of heady intoxication that followed. He had no idea why it surprised him, but he pulled away.

  ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘nothing’s ever going to happen between us.’ Then he snatched up Nick Lewton’s notes and hurried away from Marks’ office.

  It was several minutes after he’d left before Mel realized that her hands were shaking. She guessed she was as surprised by what she’d done as he was. It was completely unplanned and spontaneous but, then, so was his response, and it spoke volumes about what he really felt.

  She watched from the window as Goodhew crossed Parker’s Piece, and only then felt comfortable to return to her own desk. She slumped in her chair, with more work coming in than there were hours in the day, but instead of making a start on it she found herself reorganizing the stationery cupboard, where no one ever bothered her.

  Typically, within fifteen minutes, someone did.

  ‘Hi.’ It was PC Gully. ‘Have you seen DC Goodhew?’ She held up an envelope.

  ‘Why would I?’

  Gully ignored her question. ‘Are you all right?’

  Mel nodded.

  ‘You look like you’ve been crying.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure?’ Gully persisted.

  ‘It’s just hay fever.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gully let the excuse settle for a minute. ‘So, do you know where he went?’

  ‘Parkside Hotel.’

  Gully thanked her, then left. Mel closed the door and sank silently on to one of the boxes of photocopier paper. Sometimes it was good to cry, she reminded herself and, later still, tried to tell herself that it was for the best. She failed to feel convinced until it finally dawned on her that the one thing she’d always possessed were choices. That wasn’t an entirely new revelation, but this time it came with a conviction that she could carry it through.

  THIRTY-NINE

  As Goodhew stepped outside, he noticed that the day was cooler, a persistent breeze pushed through Parker’s Piece and heavy grey clouds limped across the sky. People seemed to have rapidly swapped their sandals and T-shirts for trainers and pullovers, and the chill slipped through the thin fabric of his short-sleeved shirt.

  He shivered, then quite deliberately turned his attention back to reading the Spanish report. It wasn’t logical to expend energy or emotion anywhere else, and he wanted to deliver it to Marks with some understanding of the remainder of the contents. He began scanning the rest of the paperwork as he walked towards the Parkside Hotel. On page eleven he slowed his reading to fully digest the background of the Spaniards’ investigation.

  Whilst Nick Lewton lived in Spain there had been several unproven accusations of assault against him, and police in Cartagena had drawn pretty much the same conclusions as Sergeant Sheen had formed during Nick Lewton’s years in Cambridge.

  From time to time, investigations had probed the Rita Club, trying to confirm suspicions of drug dealing, money laundering and even tax fraud. In each case, however, they had drawn a blank.

  But those same avenues had provided initial lines of enquiry after Nick Lewton’s disappearance, and had led the police to formulate two broad theories. Either Lewton had been murdered because of his criminal activities or he had done a runner for exactly the same reason.

  Goodhew stopped reading long enough to cross East Road in safety. He’d be at the hotel in less than a minute, so reverted to skimming the remaining pages. As he shouldered open the door into the foyer, he flipped to the penultimate sheet. Nothing jumped off the page like a long row of zeros.

  On performing an initial audit, the Rita Club’s finances had seemed in order but a more detailed review had discovered large quantities of alcohol which had been purchased off the books, and therefore a sizeable discrepancy between the revenue reported and the actual bar takings.

  A conservative estimate suggested that over three hundred thousand euros was adrift from the Rita Club’s accounts. It hadn’t gone with Nick, so where was it?

  Goodhew shuffled the papers back into a neat pile and went on the hunt for his boss.

  Bev Dransfield knew nothing about either the layout of the hotel or what the protocol might be for dealing with the kid’s mother, Kimberly Guyver. Maybe she was just a cynic but to Bev a public appeal for information usually involved wheeling out the prime suspect, shining bright lights in their eyes, and hoping they’d crack.

  She had no doubt that Guyver was already somewhere in the building, and the consensus amongst the press pack seemed to be that she was currently being briefed in an office adjoining the main conference room. Bev dismissed this, as the atmosphere amongst the reporters had become increasingly fraught. Tedious waits and last-second delays were part of their job, but so were the vocally aggressive protests that met each explanatory announcement. Sitting within earshot of their complaints would have rattled all but the most arrogant and media-savvy parent.

  And, even if the police had been that insensitive, there was no way of reaching Guyver, so Bev had to assume that she nee
ded to look elsewhere inside the building.

  The hotel didn’t look like it had more than twenty-five bedrooms, thirty at most, and all appeared to be located on the opposite side to the public areas and meeting rooms. Using one of these bedrooms would seem to be a logical choice.

  Bev approached the reception desk, where the only member of staff was smartly dressed, with the name Stella pinned to her lapel. The counter top was bare apart from a small and well-polished sign announcing SORRY, NO VACANCIES. ‘It’s running late.’ Bev jerked her head in the direction of the press scrum. ‘If it goes on much longer, I’ll need to stay in Cambridge tonight.’

  The receptionist looked sympathetic but shook her head, while she pointed to the sign. ‘I’m afraid we have nothing available.’

  ‘That’s right, but Detective Inspector Marks suggested I should have a word with you. He’s using one of the rooms today, and he thought I could take it for tonight.’

  ‘Oh, I see, let me look.’ Her fingers flashed through a routine that required hammering a rapid succession of function keys. ‘Yes, yes, it is booked until this evening but, as long as he’s finished by then, it’s a possibility. The room will be already paid for, so he could just hand you the key.’

  ‘I don’t think that would be approved – too much red tape, you know.’ Bev rolled her eyes.

  ‘God, yes . . .’

  ‘That’s fine, though. I’ll come back and book it once DI Marks gives me the nod. Thanks for your help.’

  Stella smiled. Another customer satisfied.

  Bev turned away, then back again with what she hoped would sound like a casual afterthought. ‘It’s not on the ground, is it? I can’t get to sleep on the ground floor.’

  Stella was still smiling. ‘No, the second,’ she replied.

  ‘Great,’ Bev grinned and, a couple of minutes later, when she was sure no one was looking, she headed towards the stairs.