The Siren

by Alison Bruce

  Maybe there was another way of looking at it, but if so she’d never worked out what it might be, and she had never understood the fun in being deceived.

  In her young imagination, she’d played out a fantasy where she’d found the courage to speak up right before the climactic ta-da. But even then she’d been smart enough to realize that she would be vilified for spoiling the fun, so instead she’d imagined an unassuming stranger, a man who stepped from the shadows and was content that the only public appreciation he received for unmasking the con should come from her.

  DI Marks had just revealed himself to be that man. But she’d been too stunned to even thank him.

  The door closed behind him and DC Goodhew, and Kimberly sank on to the end of the bed.

  Hope was an unfamiliar luxury, but here it was springing up in front of her and begging her to chase it. She knew she needed time to absorb all the implications, but time was one thing she didn’t have. The situation had already developed too far.

  She drew a deep and calming breath. In fifteen minutes she’d be escorted down to that conference room, and she knew she had to act before then. She just had no idea where to start.

  Kimberly sat just feet from the dressing table, and it was an automatic reaction to stare at her own reflection. She was wearing a small amount of foundation, with brown mascara and neutral lipstick. None of these were items of make-up she would have chosen, but they were what she’d been advised to wear, ‘in order to gain sympathy with viewers’. She had found that laughable: did it mean that Riley’s life was worth less if she didn’t tick all the boxes of responsibility, modesty and respectability?

  Clearly it did, for the next thing had been the arrival of a choice of two outfits, both her own, but from that forgotten section of the wardrobe reserved for interviews and funerals. She hadn’t objected when she realized that someone had searched through her home; she guessed they must have asked her and she’d OK’d it, but she was beyond remembering. Neither did she protest at the idea that she needed a make-over before she was fit to be seen.

  She wondered whether everyone else spent their lives dancing to someone else’s tune.

  Enough was enough.

  A pack of cleansing wipes lay in front of the mirror. She pulled two out and started removing her make-up.

  Maybe PC Wilkes had been watching her all along, for she reacted instantly. ‘Don’t do that. We’ll be going down in a minute.’

  Kimberly shook her head. ‘This isn’t right. I’m not going to be dressed up like some puppet.’ She scooped up the jeans and blouse that she’d removed earlier. ‘This is what I’m wearing. I’m good enough to be Riley’s mum without needing to change my clothes.’ She bit her lip and tears pricked her eyes, because it was the first time she’d ever thought that. ‘I’ll be five minutes, OK?’

  PC Wilkes nodded. ‘I do understand. Be quick, though.’

  Kimberly grabbed her things and darted into the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and sank to the floor with her back resting against it. She pulled her mobile phone from the inside pocket of her jeans and had begun to dial when she heard a loud banging on the outer door. She stopped short of pressing that ‘call’ button and tilted her head so she could listen.

  PC Wilkes was smart enough to keep the door shut. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like a word with Kimberly Guyver.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Can I speak to Miss Guyver, please?’

  ‘She’s not available. I’m a police officer. Please identify yourself.’

  ‘My name is Beverley Dransfield. I’m a reporter and I need to ask Miss Guyver a couple of questions.’

  ‘Please return to the press area.’

  ‘Why has Kimberly Guyver released the wrong photograph of her son?’

  Kimberly froze.

  ‘Please return to the press area,’ Wilkes repeated.

  ‘What’s she hiding? Has she kidnapped her own child?’

  ‘I’m calling security now.’

  Kimberly finally pressed the green button and, as the call connected, she whispered, ‘I need your help. I’ve got to get out of here.’

  Outside, the reporter was still shouting. ‘Did you stage the whole thing, Kimberly? Come on, answer me. Have you killed your son? What is your true relationship with Stefan Golinski?’

  ‘You can help, I know you can,’ Kimberly breathed into the phone. ‘I never killed Nick. Stefan did it.’

  ‘Kimberly,’ the reporter shouted, ‘I can ask you the same downstairs in front of the cameras.’

  PC Wilkes had stopped trying to negotiate by now, and was using her radio to call for assistance. ‘Ms Dransfield, officers are on their way. Get away from the door.’

  Kimberly felt the first beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. She whispered into her phone, ‘Meet me – Blossom Street entrance to the cemetery.’

  FORTY

  Neither Marks nor Goodhew said a word as they returned to the ground floor. There could have been many things occupying Marks’ thoughts, but it was just a single moment that filled Goodhew’s. When Kimberly had asked how Nick Lewton’s fatal head injury had occurred, her exact question had been ‘In the crash?’ Her tone hadn’t been one of curiosity, but a stronger emotion than that. Shock? Disbelief? It was reasonable for her to feel both those things, but somehow he knew he’d heard the wrong kind of shock in her voice.

  He slowed his step, replaying the words and trying to replicate the precise intonation Kimberly had used.

  Marks glanced back at him. ‘All right, Gary?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll catch you up.’

  Marks gave a quick nod, and was gone. And so, too, for that moment at least, was any chance of pinning down the real emotion Kimberly had expressed.

  His grandmother was always convinced that nothing was ever forgotten, but merely filed in an inaccessible corner of the memory. He had never been sure what the difference was between forgetting and being unable to remember, but he decided to place his trust in her wisdom and left it to percolate in his subconscious.

  Goodhew hurried on down the stairs and into the foyer. Gully was standing at the far end. She was heading towards Marks, then stopped when she spotted Goodhew.

  DI Marks paused as if to speak to her, but she just shook her head and pointed in Goodhew’s direction.

  She carried an envelope, holding it upright between her hands as if they were two brackets displaying an important landscape painting. He noticed she also looked pretty chuffed with herself.

  Goodhew found it impossible not to smile. ‘What have you got there?’

  She passed him the envelope. ‘Have a look.’ She bit her bottom lip like it was a struggle not to blurt out the exciting part. He immediately recognized that the contents was a phone bill but, before he’d had a chance to spot who it belonged to, she grabbed it back again. She turned it to him face-on, then pointed to the number at the head of the sheet. ‘Mikey Slater’s mobile, right?’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Look who he phoned straight after his 999 call.’ She tapped the listing: ‘Kimberly Guyver – he rang her home number and her mobile. That means he already knew her.’

  ‘But why didn’t . . .?’

  ‘Yeah, why not just come clean, eh?’ Gully realized her voice was rising, and she continued in a whisper, ‘I said there was something she was holding back.’

  ‘I need to speak to her.’

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘I’ve still got time now, before the press conference.’

  ‘No, I mean there’s more.’

  Goodhew tried to pull the sheet from her, but she held it tight. ‘Look, he knows Anita McVey, too. In fact he phones her as much as he calls Kimberly.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  She finally released her grip on the pages, and he double-checked everything she’d told him. As he glanced towards the stairs, his instincts shied away from confronting Kimberly with this. It would result in more delay and therefore a greater threat t
o Riley.

  Through the window he could see the first dashes of fresh rain starting to make their hatching pattern on the glass. It seemed to him that everything within the confines of the hotel was under control. The greater prospects, however, lay outside.

  And as though Gully had read his thoughts, she said, ‘Anita’s at home, if you want to see her.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I rang her to check if that was her number?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I said I’d misdialled, so she’d never know it was me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said slowly. ‘Seeing Mikey Slater might be a better bet.’

  Goodhew took the list across to the receptionist and asked for a photocopy to be made, then sealed the original back in its envelope. He turned to Gully. ‘Would you give this to Marks or Kincaide for me?’

  She frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to get stuck in there.’

  She snapped the envelope from his hands and straightened up irritably. ‘I see.’

  ‘And we still have this.’ He held up the duplicate.

  ‘We?’

  ‘What are you supposed to be doing right now?’

  Her frown faded, and she shrugged. ‘Paperwork?’

  ‘Right. Same as me.’

  ‘And I have the car.’

  ‘I’ll wait here, then?’

  One corner of her mouth curled up into a wonky grin. ‘Thanks.’

  She disappeared towards the conference room and returned in less than a minute. ‘Kincaide’s now got it.’

  ‘You told him what it was?’

  ‘Yeah, and he said he’d pass it to Marks. And I told him I thought it was important.’

  ‘He probably won’t look at it, then.’

  Gully led them out to the patrol car, shaking her head. ‘You two are so childish.’

  ‘I know,’ Goodhew shrugged, ‘but he started it.’ Gully pulled out of the car park, and he turned his thoughts back to the case. ‘Let’s just worry about Mikey.’

  ‘First thoughts?’

  ‘Just how he knows Anita McVey and Kimberly Guyver, and why he held back on that information, might make a few things clearer.’

  ‘I can’t see the three of them being behind Rachel Golinski’s murder, somehow.’

  ‘No, Nick Lewton was most likely killed by the same person, and Mikey would then have been about twelve. And, as far as we know, Anita would have been in the wrong country at the time.’

  ‘Leaving only Kimberly.’

  Goodhew shook his head. ‘There’s something up, but not that.’

  ‘What if Mikey Slater’s not at his home address? Do we phone him?’

  ‘No, we try Anita.’

  ‘We could head there first?’

  ‘No, we’ll be at the Slater house in a couple of minutes, then we’ll decide.’

  Gully’s driving was swift and efficient. She seemed to know the Cambridge streets as well as Goodhew himself, and guided the car to a halt outside a large house in Devonshire Road. It had been converted into flats, and next to the front door there was a panel with nine doorbells grouped in three rows of three.

  The house looked dusty, both the paintwork and window-panes coated in the thin layer of sootiness that came from being located so close to the road. The only thing that shone was a thick chrome handrail bolted to the wall. It ran alongside the two chunky steps rising to the front entrance, and seemed like a very recent addition.

  Goodhew pressed the bell labelled ‘Flat A’.

  No one replied until they buzzed Flat D, then the intercom crackled and a male voice with a thick Scottish accent growled, ‘Willya be ringing ev’ry flamin’ letter of the alphabet till ye get someone?’

  Gully was first to reply. ‘We’re looking for Ms Slater and her son Mikey.’

  ‘Well, in this arse-about-face building, H is on the ground floor so I’d try that one, if I was you.’

  Gully thanked him and stabbed the ‘Flat H’ button just as the front door swung open. The woman that faced them looked as though she was still in her thirties, but her face was gaunt and her frail frame leant heavily on a walking cane. ‘I’m Collette Slater, Miss. I’d have opened the door sooner but I was having words with Mikey.’

  Goodhew stepped forward. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Go through, first on the left.’

  Goodhew wondered whether Mikey would have bolted already, but they found him sitting quietly on the settee.

  Mikey nodded to Goodhew. ‘I wasn’t being lazy,’ he sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘Mum insisted on going to the door.’

  Goodhew brushed his apology away. ‘It’s time to get serious. We need to know how you come to know both Anita McVey and Kimberly Guyver.’

  ‘Anita looks after me sometimes. It’s a kind of fostering. When my mum gets too ill and needs a break or goes in for treatment, then I go to her house. That’s how I met Kim, too.’

  ‘So why keep that from us?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Mikey!’ Collette cut in sharply.

  For a moment he looked mutinous, but his resistance crumbled almost immediately. ‘I just phoned and said it was on fire. All I was thinking was get hold of Kim, quick. Then, when I spoke to Kimberly and Anita, they both said the same thing, told me to keep my mouth shut . . . that it wasn’t safe. That’s all.’

  Collette banged her cane once on the floor, but she looked like her frustration was born more of concern than of anger. ‘That’s not all. There’s more to it, but he won’t tell me.’

  ‘That is everything I know, Mum. I swear it is.’

  ‘No.’ She sounded weary. ‘You probably think you’re trying to help them, but now’s not the time, Mikey. Think of Riley, son.’

  He shook his head. ‘Please, Mum, I know what I’m doing.’

  Goodhew shook his head, too. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Slater, but I’m going to need to take Mikey to Parkside Police Station to make a statement. Will you be able to accompany him?’

  It was Mikey who replied. ‘All that waiting ’round down the cop shop would be too much for my mum, physically I mean. There’s nothing for me to say anyhow, so can’t you just get one of those social-worker people to sit in, instead.’

  Whatever else Mikey was, he was certainly a pragmatist. He saw no reason to argue about his inevitable trip to the station, and equally saw no reason to inconvenience his mother.

  They loaded Mikey into the back of the patrol car and, until they pulled away, Collette stood at the window with an expression set in a fixed but watery smile.

  Once they were out of sight of Devonshire Road, Goodhew twisted round in his seat to check that Mikey was OK. He caught a moment’s uncertainty in the boy’s expression and realized that behind Mikey’s swagger was a teenager who seemed to care deeply about the people in his life.

  Goodhew suspected that Mikey was lying for no other reason than a misplaced sense of loyalty. That didn’t diminish the problem; blind devotion could be a very dangerous thing.

  Kincaide knocked on the door of room 37 and waited. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he muttered, then rapped harder and called out, ‘Make-up time’s over, ladies.’

  No doubt Kimberly was being zipped into something impossibly staid, right this moment, but then again he doubted she could wear a hospital gown without giving the impression that she’d slipped it on over lingerie from Agent Provocateur. He leant back against the opposite wall and waited, feeling impatient for more than just professional reasons.

  It took a few more seconds before his ears picked out the sound of running water and, beyond that, the sound that it was all but drowning out: a muffled ‘mmm mmm mmm’.

  He rattled the handle, then threw his shoulder at the door, but it held solid. ‘Hang on,’ he shouted, looking up and down the corridor for anything that could substitute for a crowbar. ‘Wait there. I’ll get help.’

  There were plenty of officers already in the building, so he radioed down to them, then sprinted towards the st
airs. He waited on the landing, holding the door leading to the stairs open, but still keeping room 37 within sight. He kept cursing the valuable seconds that he felt he’d already wasted.

  DC Charles appeared first, taking the stairs three at a time, and dashing past Kincaide. Other footsteps followed.

  Kincaide released the intervening door and ran after him. ‘We need the key,’ he shouted.

  ‘Got the master,’ Charles panted, as he reached number 37. He pushed the card in and out of the lock, and the little light obediently turned to green at the first attempt. Charles pushed down the handle and used his fingertips to push the door open.

  As it swung wide, the first thing Kincaide noticed was steam pouring from the bathroom, and the sound of the shower. He pushed his way past Charles, and rushed forward. He found PC Kelly Wilkes sitting on the tiled floor, handcuffed to the bath’s handrail and gagged with a pair of tights. Water sprayed from the shower hose, and she was drenched but appeared otherwise unharmed.

  He leant forward and tugged the gag out of her mouth and over her head.

  ‘Kimberly’s gone,’ were her first words.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  Behind him, he heard DC Charles urgently contacting dispatch.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘The key’s sitting on the basin. Where’s DI Marks?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Kincaide glanced over his shoulder. There were now other officers in the room, but standing aside in order to let Marks through. Kincaide quickly found the key and released Wilkes.

  Marks reached forward and pulled her to her feet. ‘What happened?’

  Wilkes’ face looked washed-out and her voice trembled. ‘A reporter, Beverley Dransfield, came to the door, wanting to ask questions. I called for assistance, but then she left, so I cancelled it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Before that, Kimberly Guyver was fine.’ Wilkes spoke so quickly she was in danger of falling over her words. ‘Straight after that she turned. I’m so sorry . . . she was so fast, and stronger than I would have guessed.’