by Alison Bruce
‘Thanks.’
She tugged the ring-pull on her own can. ‘I already know Shanie and Meg’s cases are being closed. Dad told me.’
‘I promised him I’d speak to you and Matt.’
Charlotte seemed surprised. ‘You promised my dad?’
He replied, but she’d stopped listening; her thoughts were much further away. When she began to speak, her words were measured. ‘When my mum was diagnosed, I didn’t understand how it hadn’t been found until it had spread so far. I really believed my mum would recover. I couldn’t untie the idea that we were good kids and didn’t deserve to lose her with the fact that cancer’s indiscriminate. All my energy was being eaten up with injustice and anger, but I know I need to let it go.’ Without warning, tears welled in her eyes. ‘It feels . . .’ She struggled for the right word, and her voice wavered. ‘Selfish?’
‘How?’
‘As if I’m choosing myself above loving my mum. As if I’ve got to pick my future over my mum.’ When the first tear fell, the others followed. ‘D’you see?’
Goodhew nodded, and handed her a couple of sheets he’d ripped from the roll of kitchen paper.
‘I knew we were going to lose her, and I couldn’t face it. I wanted her to hang on. I wanted her to be there for me. Even when she was in so much pain, I wanted her to stay. I was with her when she died. The last time she was conscious, she just stared at me and, as her eyes closed, it was me she was still looking at, as if she wanted to remember me as she left.
‘When Rosie and Nathan both died, Matt and Libby were convinced there was a bigger picture, and I wanted to believe them. I didn’t want to accept that life, fate, whatever, was really that unkind. I wanted to find someone to blame. I’ve made it worse, I’ve discussed the possibilities with them, I even asked for Rosie and Nathan’s cases to be re-examined. Basically I remained stubbornly open-minded.’
‘That’s not wrong in any way.’
She shook her head, indignant through the tears. ‘I think I’ve made a mistake. Libby and Matt can’t move forward and I’ve encouraged that. Then, with these new deaths, they’ve gone backwards. For me it’s had the opposite effect: it’s easier to accept them as suicides when those involved are almost strangers.’ Charlotte’s gaze flickered skywards. ‘If my mum’s up there somewhere, I have to trust that I’m moving on with her blessing.’ She wiped the tears from her face. ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re fine.’
‘I don’t know where all that came from.’ She sighed. ‘Of course I know, I just wasn’t expecting it quite then.’ She studied him for a couple of seconds, but it felt much longer. ‘Actually, you’re easy to talk to.’
‘If you do want to ask anything about any of the suicides . . .’
She smiled – sad, reflective. ‘No, thank you. Maybe if you’d offered a while back . . .’ She stopped mid-sentence. ‘I think I’ll do some clearing out at home after this. It feels healthy.’
‘I’ll need to go now.’
‘I appreciate the help.’
He reached the front door just as a knock sounded from the other side. Charlotte wiped her eyes once more and nodded for him to open it. He hadn’t expected anyone to turn up, but when he recognized Marcus Phillips on the doorstep, he realized just how unlikely Phil’s arrival seemed.
‘Why the hell are you here, Phil?’ Charlotte demanded, which summed it up quite succinctly.
There was a step from the street into the house, and just standing higher than Phil might have been enough to make him seem forlorn. One undone shoelace, uncombed hair and panda rings of tiredness around his eyes added to the effect.
‘Who else is here?’
‘No one,’ Goodhew replied.
‘Okay. Doesn’t matter.’ Phil glanced down King Street in the direction of the town centre, and for a moment Goodhew thought he planned to walk away. ‘I wanted to see Oslo most, but I should see everyone else, too. Matt won’t answer my calls so I thought I’d come in person.’
Charlotte replied, ‘If he has your number, I’ll let him know.’
Phil nodded then turned to Goodhew. ‘Look, I wasn’t planning this, but as you’re here can I talk to you?’
‘I was just leaving, so walk with me.’
Goodhew had intended to follow the same route back to the police station, but at the last moment decided to stay on King Street and find somewhere quiet to talk. ‘It’ll be easier to speak if we go in somewhere.’ They were outside the Champion of the Thames and Goodhew reached out to push open the door. Phil chose that moment to retie his shoelace. Goodhew sensed some hesitancy. ‘Something wrong?’
‘No, only if you don’t mind, I’d prefer the Radegund.’
‘Why?’ The St Radegund dated back to the 1880s. It was a crimson, flat-roofed building filling a tiny gap approaching Four Lamps corner, where King Street met Jesus Lane at an acute angle, creating a wedge-shaped plot. As the smallest pub in Cambridge it didn’t take many punters to make it impossible to find a quiet corner. The fact that it was triangular left it short on corners even when empty.
‘It’s appropriate,’ Phil replied.
Goodhew didn’t ask him any more. When they arrived, they found themselves alone apart from one old guy who sat furthest from the door. All the tables were dark-stained oak, several marked with plaques bearing names of deceased customers. This solitary man had picked the smallest table and laid it out with a pint in one corner, tobacco pouch in the other and the crossword page from The Times in the centre; so perhaps they wouldn’t be disturbed after all.
‘Drink?’ Goodhew asked Phil.
‘Shelford Cryer, just a half,’ Phil replied, before disappearing towards stairs that led down to the gents’ toilet.
Goodhew ordered himself half a Pegasus, then chose the table furthest away from the pensioner and his crossword.
The ceiling was marked with names signed in candle smoke, similar to the way that wartime servicemen had signed the ceiling of the Eagle inn, in town. This place though, gave the impression that everyone knew each other. There were boat-club notices, press clippings and a post covered with pinned-on handwritten notes full of scrawls and doodles.
‘So, why here?’ he asked as soon as Phil returned.
Phil took the seat opposite. ‘After Meg died I thought I’d go home for a bit, to clear my head. It’s been tough.’
Goodhew made a non-committal grunt.
‘I changed while I hung out with Meg.’
Okay. ‘In what way?’
‘We didn’t mean any harm, but I think we were a bit full-on at times.’
‘With other people?’
‘Yeah, and when I went home and reflected on it, I think we probably hurt some feelings.’
‘Like Shanie’s?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘It was like the riots, when some people thought afterwards about what they’d done and realized they’d behaved out of character.’
‘And this relates to your boast of having sex with her?’
He nodded. ‘I realize I look like a bit of a shit.’ He stared at Goodhew as if he was waiting for words of understanding.
‘Yes, you do,’ Goodhew replied. ‘So what’s your point?’
Phil shifted uneasily. ‘I actually liked both of them.’
Goodhew didn’t bother to comment, just waited for Phil to continue speaking.
‘Do you know about the King Street Run?’
‘The drinking race? Of course,’ Goodhew replied.
‘We joked about the housemates all entering. Meg said she’d do it if she could drink Sambuca shots instead of real ale. Shanie, Jamie, Matt, Oslo and me – we reckoned we could drink some and still stagger the distance. We decided we’d feel that we were missing out if we didn’t enter, especially when we’d end up watching it going on right outside our own front door, so we all registered and the race is Thursday night. I think we should still do it. For Meg and Shanie.’
Phil seemed too drained to consider participating in any race, e
ven a drinking one, but Goodhew’s slight sympathy for Phil’s dishevelled condition was more than outweighed by the suspicion that any sleeplessness could be put down to Phil worrying about Phil. ‘Why did you feel I should know this?’ Goodhew asked.
‘I didn’t. You obviously wanted me to talk to you, and not to Charlotte.’
Fair point.
‘I imagine Matt’s a bit pissed off with me,’ Phil continued. ‘I don’t know if he’ll even turn up if I don’t speak to him first.’
‘I see.’
‘It would be a good thing to do.’
‘For the sake of your conscience?’
‘That, too. What’s your problem with me?’
Goodhew considered the question. Selfish, inconsiderate, arrogant Phil was another one who reminded him of a young Kincaide. But it wasn’t right to hold that too much against him. ‘You’re a liar,’ he replied.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes. You. Are.’
Phil glared at him, his eyes fixed with a go-on-then-prove-it expression.
Goodhew told him, ‘Shanie Faulkner had made a conscious decision to remain a virgin. How come the word virgin makes you wince when you can happily sit there swearing? It was a commitment she had made to herself, yet you think nothing of boasting to others about sleeping with her.’
Phil shrugged. ‘A bit unsubtle, if you put it like that, but she didn’t say no.’
‘It never happened – and the fact that she was proud to wait makes your claims highly offensive.’
Phil tried to bluff it out with a smirk, until he saw Goodhew wasn’t joking.
‘She really was a virgin, Phil.’
‘Says who?’
‘Little thing called forensics.’
‘What, she’d never done it? Ever?’ Phil was clearly finding the concept of virginity a tricky one to grasp. ‘And I thought she just wasn’t into me.’
‘And Meg? Was Meg your girlfriend?’
‘No, but at the same time we wound each other up when we went with other people.’
‘But your relationship was sexual?’
‘Yes.’
‘Purely sexual?’
‘No, we went out together too.’
‘But she wasn’t your girlfriend?’
‘That’s right.’
Goodhew centred his empty glass on the beer mat and frowned. Now it was his turn to find a concept tricky to grasp.
FORTY
Gully had showered, and dressed as far as jeans and a bra. She’d bought three new tops in the sales, then a fourth at full price and wanted to decide which one to wear before choosing how to style her hair.
She laid them out on the bed, then picked a stone-coloured blouse, the front embroidered with two panels of small red flowers, one on each side of the buttons. She left the top two buttons open and the mandarin collar stood up against the back of her neck.
She sat down at her dressing-table and combed her damp hair so that it settled softly on her shoulders. She had make-up ready too; there was no particular purpose to any of this except to occasionally remind herself that she could be feminine, and wasn’t actually a police officer 24/7.
Her mobile rang just as she’d started on the mascara. She leaned forward to read the display: Gary. It would ring for about ten seconds before diverting to voicemail and she spent most of those trying to guess what he’d want. Only one way to find out.
‘Hi, Gary.’
‘Are you busy? Could you come over?’
She waited for an explanation, there wasn’t one. ‘Why?’ she asked sharply. She sounded abrupt but in the mirror she didn’t look anything but a silly blushing girl.
‘I need some help with something.’
‘Where are you?’
‘My flat. Get over here and come straight in.’
It wasn’t like Gary to ask for help or invite anyone round to his flat. So much so that even Kincaide would have been there like a shot, and she was pretty sure Michael didn’t have any kind of crush on Goodhew.
‘Twenty minutes, okay?’
She stared at the phone after she’d ended the call, thinking he’d call back at any moment and cancel. When he didn’t, she changed into a T-shirt and baggy jumper, pinned her hair up into a pony-tail and headed back towards the centre of Cambridge.
Goodhew lived alone, occupying the top flat in an end-terraced property facing onto Parker’s Piece. It had once been a single house, three storeys plus attic and basement. The correct description was no doubt townhouse, but it always felt like a mansion to her with its high ceilings and the huge empty rooms she’d glimpsed on the few occasions she’d been inside.
She’d never asked Goodhew whether he owned or rented, why he lived there and why no one else did. She knew it was none of her business.
But that hadn’t stopped her delving into public land registry records either. The discovery that Gary’s house was inherited answered very little. Why he confined himself to the smallest and least accessible corner of the building for one. Her best guess was that he probably couldn’t afford to heat the rest of the place. And she could imagine that he liked his privacy too much to sell up and move into a three-bed semi like any normal person might.
She hadn’t tried to find out more, with hindsight she’d felt sorry that she’d discovered anything.
Pushing open a front door and walking right in felt like intruding, even though that was exactly what she’d been invited to do.
She closed the front door behind her. ‘Hello? Gary?’
There was no reply. Perhaps she’d said it a little too quietly.
She knew the ground and first floors were unoccupied, and when she peered up between the spiral of ascending banisters, the top floor looked unlit. She didn’t call out again, just walked up the stairs quickly and quietly. She expected him to be in his flat behind its closed front door; instead she found an open door at the bottom of the final flight. Goodhew stood with his back to her, and was writing something across a large section of the end wall, the emulsion already defaced with lines of small block lettering.
‘Hi, Gary. I’m here.’
‘I know.’
‘You could’ve answered.’
‘I thought I did.’
Okay, move on. ‘What’s up?’
‘Hang on,’ he murmured, and carried on writing. It was only as she moved closer that she realized all the notes on the wall were related to Shanie Faulkner’s suicide.
‘What are you doing, Gary?’
He didn’t reply, just continued to add names and dates, lines and arrows. Some were taken from the notebook in his left hand, but most seemed to be from memory.
The chairs had been turned to face the wall where Goodhew was working, and the coffee table and floor were strewn with photocopies of case-notes and duplicates of photographs.
She crossed the room and stood close to the wall itself so she knew he could at least see her in his peripheral vision. She slapped her hand on the paintwork and repeated: ‘What are you doing?’
‘Hang on,’ he snapped, and scribbled two final names on the wall, then turned to face her. ‘Remember your deal? I give you the gossip on Marks . . .’
‘And I update you on the King Street deaths?’
‘Well, I’ve had a change of plan.’ His eyes shone darkly, the pupils dilated until the green of the iris was barely visible.
‘You look angry.’
‘It’s wrong – that’s why. Marks is wrong. There are too many reasons not to write this off as suicide yet. Do you remember Elizabeth Martin?’
‘Of course.’
‘She doesn’t buy the idea that there’s any connection between Shanie’s suicide and the first two.’
‘You went to see her?’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Of course. She thought Shanie’s suicide would need to be related to a traumatic incident.’
‘Gary, she’s not working on the case. Elizabeth Martin could be world class, but she doesn’t have all the inform
ation.’
‘She didn’t pretend to know the case in detail, but her opinion is still valid. I’ve checked with Shanie’s course tutor and fellow students. What they’re doing is cutting edge, and Shanie was immersed in it all. Several of them, including Shanie, were already working online together and planned to continue to do so.’
‘Doesn’t mean she didn’t do it.’
‘Why does everyone come back to that? I want to talk to her parents, but I can’t go in unofficially when I’ve never met them before and the case is as good as closed.’
‘No, you can’t. And if a conversation with Elizabeth Martin is all you’ve got, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Don’t forget there was a note.’
‘Sue . . .’ He looked and sounded disappointed. She blushed then, surprised it had taken until now for it to happen.
‘I’ll admit I’ve allowed myself to become involved in the details surrounding Nathan and Rosie Brett, but I’m still thinking clearly, you know,’ Goodhew said. ‘Phil claimed to have slept with Shanie. Libby overheard him rowing with Meg.’
‘Hearsay, then?’
‘At the moment.’
‘Marks will lose it if you start questioning these people.’
‘I don’t want to. Phil also had a sexual relationship with Meg – that adds up to a good reason to interview him in relation to both. And on top of all that, Shanie was meeting someone who stood her up.’
‘And what are you expecting me to do, Gary?’
‘It’s too soon to write Shanie’s death off as suicide.’
‘So go and see Marks. Tell him that. Then stop looking for something that’s just not there. What makes you think that all four of them didn’t individually decide they’d had enough?’
‘Too much of a coincidence.’
‘Fuck it, Gary, didn’t you do the maths degree? Throw enough coins, and heads will come up ten times in a row. That’s not coincidence, it’s just a statistical fact.’
‘No.’
‘No? Just like that? Rosie dies, Nathan killed himself – why not Shanie and Meg too? Come on, Meg was textbook.’
‘Textbook?’
She’d regretted it as soon as she said it. ‘I don’t mean she ticked all the boxes therefore that’s okay.’
