by Alison Bruce
She shook her head. ‘She should have been there with us last night. She wouldn’t have missed it.’
‘This was the party you mentioned?’
‘Yes, my mother’s eightieth. It was planned for weeks. Kaye rang me from work on Friday, when I was out, but she left a message to say she’d see me the next night.’ Margaret wrapped her hands across her stomach and shivered.
‘And you haven’t seen her at all since?’ he asked.
‘No, I last saw her on Tuesday. She stopped by on her way home,’ she replied.
‘And did she seem OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘And how did she sound on the phone?’ Goodhew had been watching her carefully since she’d opened the door to him. She seemed dazed and vague, and now sat in an odd kind of question-mark position, rocking back and forth with an almost imperceptible motion.
‘Yes, fine.’ A pink blotch coloured the bridge of her nose where her glasses had rested earlier. Her eyes were pink too, but not focusing. Her cheeks had faded to the colour of dusty concrete.
He needed to form a mental picture of Kaye, and Margaret Whiting’s tight-lipped answers clearly weren’t about to provide it.
‘Mrs Whiting, this is going to take a little while. So, if it’s OK with you, maybe we could make some tea while we talk about it.’ He stood up and encouraged her towards the kitchen. ‘It won’t slow us up, I promise.’
She walked ahead of him, along the hall.
‘Was the party held here?’
‘No, at my mum’s. She lives in Redkin Road, just off the other end of Arbury Road.’ Margaret filled the kettle and continued talking as she assembled the mugs and milk and sugar. ‘The party was a surprise for my mum; she’s a bit difficult at times, so we thought she’d only fuss if we let her know in advance. We all see her at least once a week during the day, so it seemed like a good idea for us to get together for the evening. Do you have milk?’
Goodhew nodded. ‘No sugar, though, thanks.’
‘Well, I turned up with Mike and Steve first – that’s my husband and son. We brought all the food with us, and everyone else was expected around seven-thirty.’ She leant back against the worktop. ‘There were supposed to be eight of us – including my mum.’ She counted them on her fingers. ‘Me, Mum, Mike, Steve, my two daughters – Kaye and Michelle – and my brother Andy, and Michelle’s boyfriend Carl. But neither Andy nor Kaye ever arrived.’
‘And no one had heard from Kaye?’
‘No, but Michelle and Carl were late too, so at first we thought they were all coming together. Michelle burst in all excited, and made up to the nines, of course.’ Margaret’s face brightened a little as she spoke of her younger daughter. ‘She’s such a bubbly thing, it always seems like a carnival’s rolled in when she turns up. Just as well …’ She turned aside as the kettle clicked off, and poured the boiling water on to the tea bags in two cups. ‘Just as well, because that Carl’s a real misery and he just slouched by the door, and then Michelle says, “Guess what?”’ Margaret stopped abruptly and pursed her lips as she concentrated on squeezing the tea bag.
Goodhew waited for her to continue but, after a few moments, a tear dripped on to the Formica. He reached across and took his cup of tea from her. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Whiting?’
‘My mum whispered, “Bet Michelle’s pregnant,” but I knew she wouldn’t be.’ Margaret wiped her face quickly and turned back to Goodhew.
‘And she wasn’t. She’d just booked a holiday, that’s all. You see, I knew it wouldn’t be anything bad, because she’d never let me down. And neither would Kaye, so that’s why I know something dreadful has happened.’
Margaret Whiting hesitated then, as though she was waiting for him to reassure her. He knew he should say something, but he’d recognized her expression: the phrase halfway between fear and helplessness slipped into his thoughts.
It felt like an omen.
CHAPTER 4
SUNDAY, 27 MARCH 2011
Cambridge has many open areas interspersed among its city-centre streets, with names like Jesus Green and Midsummer Common. They are mostly clean and safe, criss-crossed with paths used by students and mums pushing buggies.
Parkside police station faces on to one of these: a large rectangular green space known as Parker’s Piece. From time to time, Goodhew wondered who the original Parker had been but he had never bothered to find out.
Luckily for Goodhew, Parkside Pool lay only yards away from the station, just across the corner of Parker’s Piece. He liked to swim one hundred lengths at least four times each week. Not just for the exercise but because he liked the solitude.
The water was cool, and he concentrated on the smell of chlorine and the rhythm of his own breathing until the shouting and screaming of other people sounded distant. For the first eighty-four lengths they were just voices mingling with each other; echoing, booming and rebounding above his head.
Length eighty-five, his concentration broke a little. A teenage girl with wavy red hair and a Celtic tattoo squealed as she fell into the water. Her boyfriend laughed, yelled and leapt after her.
Goodhew swam on, everything else sweeping past him. He stared at the tiled bottom of the pool as he powered through his ninety-fifth length. He always kept himself to the two lanes roped off for serious swimmers, and he always swam front-crawl.
Ninety-six. He thought of Margaret Whiting and her hands trembling as she grappled with the sodden tea bags.
Ninety-seven. He thought of Kaye Whiting, pale and pretty in the photo perched on Margaret’s mantelpiece. Watching him wherever he sat or stood.
Ninety-eight. Michelle, sharper featured, with a strident blonde perm and a mean-spirited boyfriend.
Ninety-nine. Kaye’s uncle Andy, a devoted son who nevertheless had offered no excuse for missing his mother’s birthday.
One hundred. No one knew if a crime had actually been committed, or whether Kaye would even be found.
Gary completed the final length, finishing in the shallow end, and leant back against the side of the pool. He allowed his legs to float in front of him and stretched his arms out along the side.
The pool wasn’t so busy now, and he shared the shallow end with several families accompanying learner children in yellow floats and armbands. A group of four teenagers had since joined the tattooed redhead and her boyfriend, and their horseplay kept the deep end busy while the training lanes were now empty. Things were all winding down at the end of the day.
A brunette emerged from the changing rooms, her towel swinging around her ankles from one slender hand. She walked over to the railings fronting the spectator seats, smiling coyly at a couple of dads watching their offspring from the front row. She draped the towel near their knees. Practising a slinky movement she’d seen on catwalks, she swung her hips as she turned towards the water.
She was absolutely sure every man within range was watching.
Shit, thought Gary, as she slipped into the pool beside him and braced herself against the chill of the water by pressing her fingers around his arm.
She inhaled sharply. ‘Oh, it’s cold in here.’
‘It’s nice enough once you’re in,’ he muttered. ‘Why are you here?’
She massaged his arm as she ran her fingers up it to give his biceps a squeeze. She fixed her gaze on him and smiled playfully. ‘Nice bod, Gary.’
‘Why are you here? I bet that’s the first time that swimsuit’s ever been in the water.’
‘Nice, isn’t it? Suits me, don’t you think?’
‘Whatever, Shelly.’
‘Oh, come on, either it does or it doesn’t? Tell me if you ever think I would look better without it, Gary.’ She pouted and smiled. ‘Won’t you?’
‘I’m not here to flirt with you.’
‘Oh, very serious, Gary,’ she erupted with a spontaneous laugh. ‘Have I offended you?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, good. You see, I wouldn’t want to commit an offence, Officer. That means y
ou’d have to put me in handcuffs, and then …’
Here we go again. ‘Look, Shelly, what do you want?’
‘Whoa, Gary!’ She raised her hands as if in surrender. ‘If you’ve had a bad day, don’t take it out on me.’ She began treading backwards into deeper water. ‘Tell you what, though, if I were a man and you were a woman, I’d say you were frigid.’
She gave up then, and he watched her in silence as the water lapped over her nipples, making her swimsuit slightly transparent.
‘Oh, I remember now – Bryn’s here. He’s sitting in the bar in the Kelsey Kerridge,’ she called out, just as she rolled on to her front and headed up the pool with a slow breaststroke.
The Kelsey Kerridge sports centre stood next-door to the pool complex, and Gary found his friend at a table overlooking the badminton courts. Bryn sat in a low armchair, with a bottle of Becks in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. The only sign of activity was speed texting by Bryn’s right thumb, and he didn’t look up or speak until he’d hit the send button. ‘You saw Shell, then?’
Goodhew shook his head. ‘I look pale enough, don’t I? Your sister’s a bloody nightmare.’
Bryn reached down beside his chair and produced a second bottle of lager.
Goodhew took a couple of swigs. ‘Cheers.’
‘She knows you’re not interested, but she does like a challenge.’ Bryn waved the phone. ‘Just like her big brother …’
Goodhew dropped into the chair opposite. ‘The woman with the clapped-out Volvo?’
‘Valerie? Not clapped out, just high mileage.’ Bryn paused. ‘I mean the car. She left it at the garage yesterday – wants me to hang on to it there until I can sell it. I said it wouldn’t go overnight, and she said that was OK. Apparently she’s happy to keep popping in.’ Bryn then raised his eyebrows sagely. ‘Popping in suits me fine. Not much incentive for me to find a buyer, except she wants it gone within a couple of weeks. I told her I had a mate who might be interested, though.’
‘Not me, I hope?’
‘You don’t have one.’
‘I don’t need one.’
‘What about work?’
‘I get to the station and the basics like a desk, a chair and transport are provided. It’s called an unmarked car.’
‘Sarcasm now from the guy who suggests us meeting up ’cos he wants a favour?’
‘’Fraid so. But it’s a small favour.’
‘Ask away.’
Goodhew paused to put his bottle down gently on the glass table top, suddenly feeling at odds with the previous minutes’ banter. Bryn hadn’t queried where Goodhew had been for the last four weeks, or commented on the slightly terse voicemail he’d been left the last time he’d texted Goodhew about meeting for a drink. He just waited until Goodhew was ready to say more.
‘I split up with Claire at the start of the month.’
Bryn studied Goodhew’s expression for a good few seconds, then drew a breath. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘I’d booked a holiday, wondered if you wanted to come.’
‘Me and you in a double room?’
‘It’s a three-bed bungalow in the grounds of a hotel …’
‘Sounds boring.’
‘Coming or not?’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Like what?’
‘The basics – like where, when, how much it’s going to cost me, and what the hell happened to Claire.’
‘Two weeks at the seaside, start of May, all already paid for.’
‘And Claire?’
‘Are you coming or not?’
‘Gary, you don’t really do off-hand conversations and you definitely don’t do easy-in, easy-out relationships. You and Claire went from zero to serious like that.’ Bryn snapped his fingers. ‘Not my thing, Gary but …’
‘Hang on,’ Goodhew began, ‘you don’t want to know the ins and outs of anyone’s relationship, so you don’t give a toss about mine, do you? Your concern is noted and appreciated, that’s it.’
Bryn thought for a moment, ‘OK, here’s the holiday deal: no conversation about Cambridge, about work, or about any women who aren’t immediately within sight.’
‘OK.’ Goodhew managed a wry smile and clinked their drinks together in agreement. For another hour, they watched the players on the badminton court and made sporadic comments about the game.
It was like practice for the holiday conversation, and their kind-of silence was good.
Gary finished off his bottle and swung it between his forefinger and thumb like a pendulum. He made a conscious effort to clear his thoughts of everything but the badminton match in front of him. Each time his mind wandered, he pushed such distraction away. He succeeded every time until his thoughts settled on Kaye Whiting.
How was he supposed to put her out of his mind in favour of watching a sport he didn’t understand and between competitors he didn’t know? Between the badminton and his beer bottle Bryn, however, seemed to have achieved total immersion. Maybe switching off thoughts of work just took more practice.
Goodhew reminded himself that his phone was switched on, and in his pocket, just in case he was suddenly needed. Doing nothing didn’t suit him.
CHAPTER 5
MONDAY, 28 MARCH 2011
Kaye Whiting stared, unblinking, into the night. A thinning patch of cloud had revealed the ghost of a half-moon, while the cold night air pricked her eyes and made them water. She watched as the moon’s familiar face appeared to fly across the sky, but she knew it was only the clouds that moved, and they’d soon blot it out again.
Tearing her gaze away, she forced herself to scrutinize her alien surroundings. She strained against the rope as she tried to free her fingers, but her wrists were bound tightly behind her, and lashed to her similarly tied ankles.
Kaye lay close to a large lake; three feet in front of her the grass fell away and the bank shelved down to the water’s edge. For the first time since dusk, she could see the ripples and their polished-pewter tips but, beyond that, the far bank lay swathed in shadows.
Another sharp gust of wind sliced through her jumper and grazed her skin. As she started to shiver again, she forgot the distraction of the moonlight and screwed up her eyes and clenched them shut. She tensed herself against the uncontrollable shaking that rattled through her bones.
The gag stopped her teeth from chattering, but made her dribble, leaving her mouth dry. She’d given up trying to scream, though she couldn’t stop the involuntary whimpering that accompanied her spasms of shuddering.
When she opened her eyes again, the moon had disappeared behind the clouds, and all she could see now was the outline of the nearest bushes hanging over her.
Why have I been left? And why here? And for how long?
She questioned herself and at the same time blamed herself. Because of her anger, she’d chosen to make her own way home and thus ended up in an unidentified street in an unfamiliar town, with no mobile and no idea where to find any transport back to Cambridge. As her temper cooled, she’d begun to appreciate her dilemma and it was then that she’d made the crucial error.
The sight of a familiar face had made her drop her guard. Somehow it felt wiser to step into that car than invite attention from whoever else she’d imagined might be lurking nearby. The window had lowered and she’d smiled in recognition. She felt disbelief at that now, but it was true: she’d actually smiled. They’d both smiled. And logic had told her that she’d be safer than with a complete stranger.
But what else was someone who’d done nothing more intimate than browse the same aisle of the same shop? Even killers bought apples and yogurt and ready meals. She’d known nothing about this person, just snatched at the link to home.
It had rained heavily during the first night. The initial drops had been cold, but she noticed that a little less as her sodden clothes became plastered to her skin. In the fullness of the subsequent downpour she’d made the decision to wet herself, trusting it to continue long enough to wash away an
y humiliating stains.
She’d promised herself that there wouldn’t be a second time, but now her bladder was aching and her distended belly pressed against the waistband of her jeans. She twisted around in the mud, just enough to inch her knees towards her chest and provide slight relief.
Eventually she dozed, and jerked awake only as the tentacles of dawn poked their way across the sky. Increasing daylight cast cold shafts of light across the lake, and Kaye prayed for warmth.
Her fingers and toes throbbed with cold and her back ached from constant shivering, but Kaye had progressed beyond the panic she’d felt when she’d first been abandoned here. And even being able to fall asleep had been an achievement, she told herself. She’d never slept outside before, and in the blackest part of the night her fear had escalated to hysteria. She’d thought she might die of fear but, of course, she hadn’t.
She watched the grey morning light lift higher and turn to day. She lay on a patch of mud broken up by the odd tuft of coarse grass, and was shielded from the rest of the world by clumps of nettles and hawthorn. Between her and the water, the slope of the bank was sand and gravel, and Kaye guessed that she had been deposited beside a flooded quarry.
She’d been in the car for an hour at most, so she could still be in Suffolk. But, for all she knew, she could also be in Essex, or even back in Cambridgeshire.
She needed food and water, and most of all she needed to be found. She focused her gaze on the far bank of the lake and watched.
At noon, she saw a grubby gull dip towards the water, then buck skywards with an angry squawk.
Later she took comfort from the warmth of a trickle of urine as it seeped through her jeans and into the ground. She tilted her head in what she guessed was a westerly direction and stared at what she hoped was the night sky over Cambridge. That was her only link to home now.
CHAPTER 6
