by Alison Bruce
‘Did she threaten you?’
‘No. Just caught me by surprise. It was like she was angry, but not with me. We need to find that reporter. She shouted a load of questions through the door. Like accusing Kimberly Guyver of having a relationship with Stefan Golinski . . . things the tabloids have been hinting at all week. The only other thing she said was that it was the wrong photo of Riley.’
Marks scowled. ‘In what way?’
‘She never said.’
‘Why didn’t you radio this down to me?’
Wilkes paled further. ‘I never had the chance.’
Marks shook his head slowly. The room was silent apart from the crackling of DC Charles’s radio, which reached them from further down the corridor. ‘Make an announcement to the journalists waiting downstairs. We need urgent help in identifying Beverley Dransfield.’
Suddenly Marks straightened and took a few steps towards the window, his focus then seeming to fall on the faded print of an insipid watercolour that hung over the bed.
He turned sharply and pinned his attention on Kincaide. ‘Did anyone verify that the photo given to us by Kimberly Guyver was an accurate likeness?’
Kincaide felt all eyes in the room swivel in his direction. He was trying to recall which officer had taken the photograph from Kimberly, and who else had seen it. He knew Jay Andrews hadn’t. He had no idea about Anita McVey. The kid didn’t go to playgroup or nursery, so who else was there, apart from them, able to verify it?
He knew Marks wasn’t blaming him personally but he willed himself to find an answer that would make him sound well-informed and confident. The silence stretched out until he ended it with a dismal, ‘Don’t know, sir.’
FORTY-ONE
Most things could be cut several ways and Cambridge was no exception. There was the famous side: the colleges, the history and the universal acclaim. Then there was Kimberly’s side: anonymous streets, daily grind and unremarkable people. She knew the score on her side of the city, trusted the honesty of it. Thank God, that was where the Parkside Hotel lay.
She’d slipped down the fire-exit escape stairs until she’d reached the ground floor, then climbed out of an open window just in case the external door was alarmed.
Then, like Brer Rabbit into the briar patch, she’d scuttled through the warren of back alleys and short cuts that would keep her out of sight as she made for her rendezvous in Blossom Street.
Her heart had already been pounding when she left the hotel room. It didn’t let up and she ran with it thumping like a war drum, pushing her on. Her breathing imposed its own rhythm over the top, so the two sounds played together to block out every other noise. She didn’t listen out for sirens; they’d come soon enough but she needed to be gone before that.
The grubby passages gave way to deserted side roads. She broke cover to cross Mill Road, then disappeared into the alleyways on the other side, finally scrambling over a wall into the graveyard. She sprinted the length of the cemetery, through the main body of the guitar and up into its neck. She never even glanced at her own home, nor at the dead eyes of Rachel’s house. She watched for nothing but the Blossom Street gate, and for the flash of familiar dark-green paintwork that would signal his arrival.
She had twenty yards still to run when a Transit van swung into view, its passenger door flying open just feet beyond the gate. She ran through the exit and bundled herself inside the vehicle, pulling the door behind her as it pulled away from the kerb again.
She slid down low in the seat and pressed her left hand against the side of her face, shielding it from the view of any pedestrians they might pass.
She tried hard to speak, but her lungs were still in overdrive, clawing back the oxygen deficit.
He swung the Transit out into the traffic, heading away from the city centre.
‘Just catch your breath,’ he said. ‘Put your head between your knees.’ He reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
She nodded, grateful for the calmness in his voice, and bent forward. It only made her feel queasy, so she slumped back again.
He reached down beside his seat, steering with his knees while he retrieved a bottle of water. He gave the lid a sharp twist, and the seal clicked open: ‘Just in case you’re feeling too weak to open it yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ she still puffed though her heartbeat had steadied, ‘but I’m not quite that feeble yet.’
She swigged from the bottle, glad it was chilled.
He shot her an inquisitive glance. ‘On the phone, you said Stefan killed Nick?’
‘Shit, he’s killed Rachel, too. And beat up Jay, for all I know.’
‘You have proof?’
‘I can prove it wasn’t me, and that’s all that will matter to Dougie. I don’t have to hide from him now.’
‘It might not be that easy.’
‘Why not? Nick died from a huge head injury, because he was kicked to death. I never did that.’
‘What if Dougie doesn’t believe you?’
‘It’s not physically possible. I just don’t have the brute strength to shatter a skull that way.’ Kimberly slammed her hand on to the van’s dashboard. ‘I haven’t come this far just for you to tell me it’s too risky. For the last three years I’ve been waiting for Nick’s body to be found, thinking that it would prove I killed him, and that Dougie would then come after me. Now I just want to square things with him.’
‘And two days ago you were begging me to get Tamsin off your back?’
‘Don’t you see, finding out the truth about Nick has changed everything. Did you call him or not?’
Craig shrugged. ‘Yeah, of course, and he wants to meet you. You and Riley.’
Kimberly calmed immediately. ‘He knows that Riley’s Nick’s son?’ She wasn’t as surprised as she might have been; it seemed somehow fitting that Craig should have told him.
‘I’ll take you to him right now.’
‘Riley’s with Anita.’
‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘And I’ve been watching her place to make sure he stayed safe.’ Just then he turned right, and she knew they were heading for Viva Cottage.
A wave of contentment washed over her at just the thought of holding Riley again. ‘We need to be quick. They’ll already know I’ve gone.’
‘I was worried that you would tell the police everything.’
Kimberly felt the van accelerate. She didn’t bother to reply. She didn’t need to explain to Craig how the police were another species to her, or how much she feared being branded unfit and then watching Riley being sucked into the care system. Dougie was far from perfect, but he knew how to get problems sorted and, now she was no longer one of those problems, she was sure that things would be different.
Craig’s Transit bounced along the track to the allotments, and towards the rear garden of Viva Cottage, coasting to a standstill.
When Kimberly trusted, she trusted absolutely, and to her Craig was the proverbial rough diamond. Heart of gold.
Or so she thought until he reached across and tied her to her seat. She merely smiled because she still felt so calm and contented. She slumped forward and the bottle of water tipped over and trickled on to her leg.
Spiked water. Supposedly sealed bottle.
Damn him. Damn her. She thought she knew better than that.
He reclined her seat just a little, and tilted her head back until she appeared to be dozing. Then, through her half-open eyes, she watched him striding towards Viva Cottage.
He disappeared around the side of the house and she then knew she’d failed them all. Her eyes drooped further and heavy tears fell on to her cheeks.
Anita held out her hand, palm upwards, to check for the first spots of rain. She was grateful for the cooler weather; it saved the worry of reapplying sunblock and trying to keep a hat on Riley’s head. The garden needed the rain, too.
‘I’ve started thinking just like my mother. It’s a bad sign, Riley.’
She’d unwrapped an ice lolly and hel
d it out for him. He was a sturdy little boy, quiet in the house, non-stop when he played in the long front garden. He kicked his football away and ran over to her. His expressions were always open and unguarded, the sight of the ice lolly filled him with delight.
‘What do you say?’
‘Thank you.’ He grinned, and she released her grip on the stick.
‘Good boy.’
She settled on the front step and watched him battle with his orange rocket, he was doing his best to catch every drip, although it soon seemed his T-shirt was better at that than he was.
‘I think it’s going to rain.’ She pointed up to the sky. ‘Look at those clouds.’
He turned and pointed along the side of the house. ‘Rai.’
‘That’s right, rain.’
‘Rai,’ he repeated and ran to the corner of the house and out of sight.
‘Hang on, Riley.’ She jumped to her feet and hurried the few steps to the corner. Craig squatted there, speaking quietly in Riley’s ear. Riley giggled.
Her first response was to smile. Craig had always played the part of the quiet uncle, sending them the occasional toy, dropping by once or twice with sweets. Anita had once wondered if he had a soft spot for Kimberly, later hoping it had been for herself.
‘Did Kimberly send you?’ she asked.
He looked up at her and her smile faded.
Sue Gully loved to drive and, while she couldn’t fathom Goodhew’s apparent lack of interest in getting behind the wheel, it suited her far more than being the one in the passenger seat.
The first spots of fresh rain to strike the windscreen had fallen with no rhythm, hitting the glass randomly and giving the illusion they might be just spillage from the overloaded clouds. But half a mile later and the skies unleashed their earlier threat of a downpour, hurling the raindrops at them like a volley of tiny bullets.
She turned the wipers to full speed, and pedestrians vanished from the pavements like she’d swished them away with the first two or three sweeps of the blades. Simultaneously, the traffic slowed to a crawl.
If anyone inside the patrol car had been trying to speak, they would have needed to raise their voice over the sound of the water hammering on to the car roof. She reached towards the volume control on the radio, just as Goodhew did the same. They both mumbled an unnecessary apology, then only caught a fragment of the dispatcher’s message: ‘. . . Kimberly Guyver, suspicion of assault . . .’
In the back of the car, Mikey swore.
‘Did you catch all of that?’ Goodhew asked.
The radio was broadcasting non-stop, the voice strangely matter-of-fact.
‘No, all I got was something about Kimberly and an assault. You need to speak to Marks.’
‘OK, OK.’ Goodhew’s phone was already in his hand, but he gave up again after a few seconds. ‘It went straight to voicemail,’ he explained.
‘Contact him with the radio,’ she suggested.
He gave a small shake of the head, and she guessed he was thinking it was better to speak to their DI without being overheard by Mikey. ‘I’ll keep trying.’
She checked in the rear-view mirror: Mikey’s head was lowered but she could still see his face. His eyes were roaming from side to side and whatever thoughts were running through his mind were making his lips twitch with the suggestion of speech.
Suddenly he looked up, alert to the latest update coming from the radio. Riley Guyver still missing. Age correct. Await description.
Gully had stared at the radio, too, then back at Mikey. He’d looked away, into the rain, with no trace of surprise in his expression.
Await description?
‘Meaning what exactly?’ she murmured in Goodhew’s general direction.
‘We disregard the photo, that’s what.’ For a fleeting moment she thought she’d noticed despondency in his tone, but by the next sentence it was either gone or had just been her imagination. ‘She gave us the wrong picture’ he added.
‘Why would she . . .?’ She raised her voice for Mikey’s benefit. ‘Tell us, Mikey, why would she do that?’
He said nothing, but one unpalatable answer had already jumped to the tip of her tongue. Perhaps Riley was dead. ‘What’s she done to him?’
That made Mikey’s head turn. ‘Nuthin,’ he sneered.
‘She must’ve done something or she wouldn’t have lied to us.’
She rephrased and repeated it as a question. She ignored Goodhew whispering for her to stop. She couldn’t now, even though she knew he was right, and that she should wait until they arrived at Parkside before pushing this further. ‘And you, Mikey, you know what it is, don’t you?’ she pressed.
Mikey punched the seat impatiently, leant forward and hissed, ‘She hasn’t hurt him.’
Goodhew twisted around in his seat so sharply that Mikey shrank back in surprise. ‘Right, you just said “hasn’t”, which means you know.’
‘No, it don’t.’
‘Kimberly knows where Riley is.’ There was a new intensity to Goodhew’s tone that she hadn’t noticed before. ‘You both know where he is, because it doesn’t make any sense otherwise.’ Goodhew pointed his finger at Mikey as though trying to pin down an elusive thought. After several seconds, he stabbed the air with it and turned to Gully. ‘Are we slow or what?’
She shrugged.
‘Anita,’ he was close to shouting, ‘Anita McVey. She knows it was the wrong photograph.’
Gully switched on the blue light and spun the car around in the road, shooting puddle water up on to the pavements, and pushed on through the driving rain towards Viva Cottage.
FORTY-TWO
Anita McVey’s eyes were open, but beyond seeing anything through the thickening blood and dirt that was swallowing up each of her senses. She felt it warm and wet on her cheek, then being drawn up into her nostrils by her laboured breath. The blood smelt like rust and filled the back of her throat, coating the back of her tongue like treacle.
Her hearing survived the longest, sending delayed messages to her brain, echoing back the sounds of being kicked, telling it that her skull was broken, that her eye socket was cracked.
Then finally informing it that somewhere in the distance was a siren.
For the last few minutes of the journey, Goodhew was overcome with a feeling of urgency, which had temporarily washed away every other concern about the present case. Visibility was poor, and he knew that Gully was pushing through the downpour as quickly as possible, but every sense told him that it still wasn’t fast enough.
The patrol car skidded to a halt and Goodhew threw open his door, leaping from the vehicle and dashing towards Viva Cottage. As soon as he had a clear view of the front door he spotted the body. She lay on her back, her face tilted skywards but half hidden by tattered curls of her dark hair. Her clothes were sodden, and clung to her like strips of papier mâché. She didn’t move.
Behind him he heard the car doors slam. ‘Call an ambulance,’ he shouted.
It was only the rainwater, splashing down on her, washing the blood across the garden path in heavy purple trails, that showed there had ever been life within this pile of rags. He knelt beside her and began pushing the hair aside from her face. Her lips were parted, but her features seemed to have caved inwards.
Facial fractures.
For the first time he caught a gurgling noise, a rasp of air dragging through a broken airway.
‘Anita, can you hear me?’
He slid his fingers into her mouth, probing for an obstruction.
‘Call an ambulance,’ he yelled again.
‘It’s coming,’ Gully’s voice responded, from somewhere close beside him.
He heard Mikey there, too, sobbing. ‘Is she dead? Help her, please help her.’
Goodhew shut them both out.
Anita’s breathing stopped with the next trickling intake of air. He put his ear to her mouth. Silence. His hands were cupping her face at the temples, and instinctively he slid them down her jawline, until hi
s thumbs were on her chin and his first two fingers were positioned on each side, at the angle of the jaw.
Keeping his grip as firm and steady as possible, he hinged the lower section of her face up until he was sure that her airways had sufficient space to open. He watched the blood around her nose and mouth, tried to blot out Mikey’s screams and the deafening rain. Instead he willed Anita to breathe, willed her to make any sound that would reach him.
‘I need help here,’ he shouted.
‘Tell me what to do.’ It was Mikey.
‘Hold the jaw just the way I am now. I need to give her mouth-to-mouth.’
‘It’s impossible,’ Mikey mumbled. But, without hesitating, his hands reached down to try to replace Goodhew’s, then suddenly retracted. He exclaimed, ‘Look.’
A bubble of blood and saliva had formed and now burst on her tongue.
‘She’s breathing,’ Mikey gasped.
‘Anita, listen to me. There’s help coming.’ Goodhew watched her chest rise and fall for the next few seconds. ‘Hang on. Just hang on.’ Goodhew snatched a look over his shoulder. Their patrol car still stood alone out in the lane. Where was that damned ambulance?
He turned back to Mikey, as though he might provide the answer. Then Goodhew heard the uneasiness in his own voice as he shouted, over the rain, ‘Where’s PC Gully?’
‘She went round the side.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno. She just walked off.’
‘Shit. Hold Anita’s head, just like I’m doing. Watch her breathe, shout for me if she starts struggling at all.’
Mikey took over from him.
‘Got it?’ Goodhew snapped impatiently.
Mikey nodded dumbly. He looked terrified but his hands were steady.
Goodhew dashed to the corner of Viva Cottage, grabbing the downpipe to swing himself through the turn, and then went running down the side of the house. He pulled up short before he drew level with the rear corner.
Gully’s radio lay on the ground, still crackling. Above it the wall was smeared with an arc of blood and closer still to the furthest corner, there was a single palm print – too small for a grown man’s, but too big for a child’s.
