The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4)

by Alison Bruce

  Goodhew simply started the round of questions all over again. ‘Tell me about the photos.’

  ‘I did that already.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me everything.’

  ‘They’re private. You broke into my bedroom. You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘There’s no point trying to play that card. The photo was in your room and I had every right to check the house.’

  ‘My room was locked and I rent it as my private area. Just because you have a right to be in the house, doesn’t mean you have the right to enter a room that is mine and mine alone.’ He swung his glare over to Marks. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Marks had deliberately stayed in the back seat on this one, slipping out of the room a couple of times to make phone calls then quietly returning without interrupting Goodhew. ‘If Goodhew forced entry, or if the court were to decide that he should’ve waited for a search warrant, then any evidence he found in your room could be considered inadmissible. DC Goodhew is quite aware of this rule and, as I gave him specific instructions not to enter a room that was locked, I am confident that proper procedures would have been followed.’ Marks’s attention snapped on to Goodhew. ‘Detective?’

  Goodhew concentrated his eye-contact on Gjertsen. ‘I walked straight into your room without any impediment. It seems to me that you’re more concerned with your reputation than with the fate of your housemates.’

  ‘You broke in.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Goodhew had planned to demonstrate endless patience with Gjertsen – to plug away with facts and logical questions until Gjertsen accepted that telling the truth was the most pragmatic thing to go. Goodhew had now gone off the idea. ‘You’re hung up on the thought of your photographs appearing as a headline-grabbing piece of evidence, and I can’t work out whether you’re excited that it would give you some kind of phony kudos as a photographer, or that you’re scared that your disgusting behaviour will be laid out in front of everyone you know.’

  Gjertsen’s expression said it all.

  ‘Right,’ Goodhew continued. ‘So you won’t be pleased if I ask your family, friends, course tutor and classmates whether they were aware of your habit of sneaking into other people’s bedrooms and arranging their personal items?’

  ‘I never damaged anything.’ The first admission so far.

  ‘Can’t you see how intrusive it is?’

  ‘I didn’t break in.’

  ‘No, you had a key.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Goodhew paused to regroup. ‘Why do you like to photograph roadkill?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘That’s not true. You’re sufficiently proud of those pictures that you frame them and display them on your wall. You’re not keeping them secret – in fact, you have a Flickr account. They are on public display so it makes sense that you’ve thought through your arguments.’

  ‘I didn’t kill the animals, you know.’

  ‘Look, I’m not judging – I just want answers. We all have more things to do than sit here for the next forty-six and a half hours while we go backwards and forwards over the same questions.’

  Gjertsen’s gaze wandered towards the high, frosted window.

  Goodhew clapped his hands together. ‘Oslo, this isn’t about you. It’s about Shanie and Meg. They’re dead and you are implicated.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Stop telling us what you don’t know, or what you didn’t do. You have a passion for photography. Good for you. At some point you decided that it was interesting, exciting, artistic or whatever to find dead animals in the street and photograph them. You also fed your voyeuristic streak by breaking into private rooms and photographing people’s personal possessions.’

  ‘I didn’t break in.’

  ‘You broke in. I’m using your words. You thought I had unlocked the door and you accused me of breaking in. I know you have a key. We have a witness who can testify that you have a key.’

  Goodhew kept talking but he knew that Gjertsen had stopped listening at that point. The man’s eyes were flickering like crazy, probably rewinding his denials and trying to find a way to respin them without losing all his dignity. Still Goodhew kept talking, chipping away at him with a stream of incessant questions, hoping to interfere so much with Gjertsen’s thoughts that he just gave in.

  It took about ninety seconds before Oslo raised his hands in defeat. ‘This is a freaking nightmare. Okay, I’ve screwed up. I just want to sort it out now.’

  ‘In your own words then?’

  Oslo nodded. He shuffled his bum back in the seat until he sat fully upright then cleared his throat as if he’d suddenly become the keynote speaker. ‘Everybody needs a niche – well, everybody in the arts at least. I want to be a photojournalist, that’s the plan anyway. But first I need to get a portfolio and I was looking for something different, subjects that were a little controversial. I tried a few things. I thought I was doing okay with urban decay but, when I started to look at other examples, I realized that my photos were like a cliché of a cliché.’

  ‘So you hit on the idea of roadkill?’

  Oslo’s eyes lit up, and sudden his natural enthusiasm was enough to knock some of the pompous artiness from his voice. ‘You saw my fish? Torlyn’s the big one and Holstein’s the small one. He’s actually Holstein the third. When the first Holstein died, I realized I didn’t have a photo of him so, when I bought Holstein the second I made sure I took plenty of them together.’

  ‘Holstein one and two?’

  ‘No, Torlyn and Holstein. Then Holstein the second died. Don’t know why, as I actually care for them really well.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Straight away he looked different. Obviously dead, but as if something else had vanished; as if his personality had left him. And, before you comment, I do realize that fish don’t have one, not exactly. So I photographed him. Then again a few hours later. It was fascinating.’

  ‘The start of your niche then?’

  ‘Did you see the other Flickr roadkill photographers? They find a body and photograph it once. Very often it’s about the contrast between the dead animal and the landscape: they depict the hostility of life in the wild or maybe the vulnerability of animal against machine. I haven’t come across a single photographer who does what I do. I go back, day after day, and capture the journey the animal’s body makes after death. You saw the fox on the wall, right?’

  Goodhew nodded.

  ‘I chose those photos from about a hundred that I took. I kept going back until it was impossible to tell which smears and fragments originally belonged to the fox. It’s like watching an animal become invisible as it merges back into the rest of the world.’ Oslo looked at Goodhew expectantly.

  Goodhew raised his eyebrows slightly and did his best to nod with an expression of encouragement. He guessed Oslo wasn’t used to being overwhelmed by excited photography fans; the nod was more than enough to keep Oslo talking.

  ‘But it’s no good having only one talent; photojournalism is about capturing the news – that means people, situations, anything really. So I knew I had to get better at the human angle. Poignant shots, shots that told a story . . .’

  ‘Staged photos that invented a story?’

  ‘Whatever. If I’d photographed Libby’s room as it is, then what? It would’ve been dull, so instead I’m showing the real person – outwardly in control, but underneath she’s a conflicted and tortured soul.’

  ‘Right.’ Goodhew got it; photojournalism with most emphasis on the photo and little on the journalism. ‘And you were slipping in and out of everyone’s rooms?’

  Oslo nodded.

  ‘Where d’you get the key?’

  ‘There used to be a bunch hanging in the kitchen. I was one of the first to move in, so I had them copied.’

  ‘I’ll need to take them. Who has that original bunch?’

  ‘One of the dads, Libby’s maybe, but more likely Matt’s dad Rob. He’s fixed
more things round here than Tony has, but at the end of the day that’s who we rent from, so they should know who’s got the keys.’

  ‘How long have you been sneaking in and out of the other rooms?’

  ‘Can I just say I really object to you calling it sneaking – it makes it sound creepy. I totally think they would have been fine about it if they had understood the integrity of my photographs.’

  Goodhew had been aware of a short mantra repeating in his head, telling him to listen, learn and understand. The last statement had overfilled each of the three quotas. ‘Actually, I really, really object to you using the word “integrity”. You are one stop short of claiming to be misunderstood and a victim of circumstance, and if I hear either of those phrases coming out of your mouth, I will do my best to work out exactly how many offences you can be charged with.’

  Oslo briefly looked indignant but swiftly replaced it with a sullen, ‘Fine.’

  ‘So cut the pompous, self-serving crap.’

  ‘I said fine.’

  ‘How long have you been doing this?’

  ‘Since I moved in – whenever everyone else had gone out.’

  ‘And what about Shanie?’

  ‘The same thing. She arrived from the States, crashed out for a few hours then went out. Everyone else was out so I just added her room on to my round.’

  Round? Goodhew only just managed to keep quiet.

  ‘I remember that one, because it was a good shot. I called it American Traveller.’

  ‘Good title.’

  Oslo nodded in agreement and already the enthusiasm had slipped back into his tone. Goodhew sensed the moment was now a good one. ‘When did you find her body?’

  ‘Whose body?’

  ‘Saturday? Sunday maybe?’

  Oslo’s nodding had been replaced by a headshake that was as quick and rhythmic as if he was following world-class table tennis.

  ‘And before you say anything, let me explain. You told me about the photographs, admitted that you have access to every room in the house and that you have been in those rooms trying to build up a portfolio of photographs. If you really want to get this sorted out, answer the question now. Otherwise, I have more than enough to arrange for a search warrant and I will confiscate all your equipment.’

  ‘Saturday. I found her Saturday morning, but I swear she was dead by then. I didn’t plan to mislead anyone, but I thought I’d be under suspicion. The person who finds the body always is, aren’t they? And I started panicking because I thought of all of those cases where people have been wrongly arrested. I knew that no one would believe me if I said I was just taking photographs.’

  ‘Even though you’d be able to show them the rest of your work?’

  ‘Like I said, I panicked.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. That excuse is straight out of the kind of dodgy newspaper that will probably employ you at some point. Yes, you were scared to be caught out but I think you instantly saw an opportunity . . .’

  Oslo’s face began to pale.

  Goodhew continued. ‘Lucky you, because what you now faced was the perfect combination of both photography subjects: all the reasons you photograph roadkill, beautifully incorporating the human angle. I doubt you even let yourself consider the importance of giving Shanie’s family the chance to say a decent goodbye to her.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. She was dead.’ There was no conviction in Oslo’s voice now, but not enough shame either.

  ‘I bet there’s a huge difference between the Shanie Faulkner in your first photo and the state of her body in the last one.’

  ‘You know what? I’ll show you my photos with my blessing. You’ll get them anyway. Yeah, I know I should have reported Shanie’s death, but those photographs are unique. Controversial yes, but cutting-edge too and—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Goodhew spoke slowly and clearly, adopting a tone that sounded overly formal, but it was as much about controlling his own anger as silencing Oslo. ‘Mr Gjertsen, I appreciate your offer of full cooperation, since your statement will form an important part of the evidence into the enquiry surrounding the death of Shanie Faulkner. It will also be used to assess whether or not you can be charged with obstruction.’

  Oslo looked shocked.

  Goodhew didn’t react. ‘We will conduct a search of your room at 42A King Street, Cambridge, for the purposes of obtaining the photographs you have offered to hand over. But I also warn you that our search will extend to the recovery and confiscation of any photographs and digital images that are being held on your behalf.’

  It was enough. Oslo had already worked out that it was better to hand over every copy of the photos he had taken inside the King Street house in return for keeping his collection of roadkill shots.

  Goodhew hoped Oslo would be charged with at least something, anything to subdue that arrogance. He reminded himself that everyone had redeeming features, but he still couldn’t convince himself that Oslo possessed any trait more charming than a slightly creepy affection for Torlyn and Holstein III.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Marks had gathered together the key members of the investigation team in the incident room. Amongst them were DCs Kincaide, Young, Charles, Clark and Goodhew himself, and PCs Sue Gully and Kelly Wilkes.

  Sometimes when Marks gave a briefing he used the full array of flipchart, wipe-board, notes and photographs. Today he was taking a more minimalist approach and although he held a clutch of A4 sheets in his hand, they remained folded in half, as though he had no intention or need to refer to them. Goodhew thought he knew what the announcement would be.

  ‘As of this morning, the deaths of Shanie Faulkner and Meg DeLacy have officially become suicide investigations. Toxicology results confirm that Shanie Faulkner died from heart failure directly attributed to an overdose. Initial tests on Meg DeLacy indicate a very similar scenario, and her medical history supports the likelihood that she took her own life.’

  So that’s it, then? Goodhew wondered.

  No one else in the room looked surprised. In fact, the typical reaction was: Box Ticked, Case Closed, Move On.

  Kincaide spoke next. ‘I took the statement from that Charlotte Stone girl, who claims she doesn’t know anything about the genius who cracked Goodhew on the head.’ He paused to allow the quip a moment to settle in. DC Clark obliged with a short snort of a laugh. ‘And, as there is no reason at all to connect the incident with the other deaths, the assault on Goodhew will form a separate investigation which has yet to be assigned. I want to point out that I have nothing else to tie down on the Faulkner case and, therefore, I am immediately available to work on another case.’

  Usually this kind of manipulation fell on deaf ears with DI Marks, but today was clearly different. ‘That’s fine.’

  Kincaide hesitated. ‘It was just a suggestion, sir. I don’t actually mind continuing.’

  ‘You do mind. You’re just not sure whether you want it now I’ve agreed so easily.’ That amused Clark too.

  Marks wasn’t about to dwell on any of it. ‘Clearly with our caseload I intend to move all but a handful of you on to other investigations. Despite all the coaching and attempts to change attitudes, some of you are woefully lacking in enough tact to be trusted with families of suicide victims. Yes, Kincaide and Clark, you hear your names. At the other end of the scale we have DC Goodhew who secretly wants to adopt every bereaved family he encounters. Gully?’

  She reddened instantly. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re staying on it, also Charles and Young. The rest of you . . . Goodhew, what now?’

  ‘I can’t remember what happened just before I was attacked, but I know I was talking to Rob Stone and planning to take a formal statement from him, so I thought it might be a good idea if I still did that.’

  ‘You’re not about to add “for closure” I hope?’

  ‘No. I thought that when the conversation started to cover similar ground it might help me to recollect something about the minutes before I
was knocked out. Equally, it might remind Rob Stone of something.’

  ‘He’s a piss-head,’ Kincaide muttered. ‘He won’t remember anything.’

  Goodhew didn’t argue, instead waited for Marks to speak, and was grateful when, ‘Okay, that’s fair enough,’ came back as the boss’s less than enthusiastic response. Marks hesitated, then added, ‘Nail that today then – you’re rostered off tomorrow. When you get back on Wednesday, I’ll have something entirely different for you.’

  The meeting broke up a few minutes later, and Goodhew caught up with PC Gully in the corridor.

  ‘What’s got into Marks?’ she whispered.

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘You always know more than I do.’

  ‘Not this time.’ He tried to catch her eye but she kept walking without looking once in his direction. ‘I’m surprised you picked up on it.’

  ‘You think I suffer from perception myopia or something?’

  ‘No. You’ve worked with him less than I have, that’s all,’ Goodhew said.

  ‘If I’d only worked with him twice, I’d have spotted the difference. He’s . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘At the end of his tether? Irritable?’

  ‘No. It’s like whatever’s bugging him is to the exclusion of everything else. Could be anything. Maybe it’s a family matter,’ Gully said.

  ‘That was my first thought, but I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  Goodhew shrugged. ‘Perception incompetence, I expect.’

  Finally Gully stopped and turned to face him. ‘Actually, I was being serious.’

  ‘Okay – well, so was I. Marks has occasionally mentioned his family without a trace of anxiety. It’s at work that he doesn’t seem himself. That’s all.’

  ‘Isn’t it more interesting if it’s work related?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You might think it’s morally unacceptable to snoop into his private life, but anything connected with Parkside’s fair game. Right?’