by Alison Bruce
Gary’s hand was almost touching hers because they’d been highlighting sections of the transcription of the first and latest phone calls.
‘We need to find her, Sue. This call implies that she knew Kaye was still alive on Tuesday.’
‘And she was.’
‘For most of the day, yes. We need to know how she knew that. I need another visit to Kaye’s family, but then I’m going to see Peter Walsh again.’
‘Do you think he even knows who she is?’ she asked.
Gary shrugged and stared at her directly. Or possibly through her, she realized with disappointment.
‘He’s a bit cocky, almost like he wasn’t surprised to see me turn up. That’s not an indication of anything, of course, since too much indignant outrage can be just as suspicious, but I did have a feeling that he might know who the anonymous caller could be.’
‘What if she’s just some crank that sees him regularly at work, or in the street, and is just fixated with him? He might not actually know her, then.’
‘We’ll see.’ Gary ran his fingers along one highlighted line in the first transcript. ‘She talks of “killings”, and that needs some more research. Can you start looking for similar cases while I’m with Walsh?’
Gully strummed her fingers on the desk. ‘What about Marks? Is he OK with this approach?’ she asked.
‘Kincaide’s hot on the family or friends theory, and I guess it’s still the most likely,’ he replied, ‘but Marks was fine about us following up the phone call, and that’s all we’re doing, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is, Gary.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘But you’re not talking about a mere five minutes tapping parameters into a terminal, you know. Have you any idea what you actually want me to look for?’
‘Better make it quite broad to start with. Say women aged between fifteen and forty, bound and gagged …’
‘Sexual assault?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Cause of death, drowning?’
‘Yes.’ He paused and flicked through the pages on the desk. ‘Or maybe exposure or starvation,’ he added.
‘Why?’
‘We don’t know that drowning was the intended cause of death.’
‘We don’t even know that she was supposed to die.’
‘If the killer had no plans to return and reckoned she wouldn’t be found soon enough, then it’s premeditated murder, isn’t it?’
Gully grimaced. ‘I’ve never considered murder by the elements before.’ She realized the search could prove vast. ‘What about geographical area?’
‘Anywhere in the UK, I suppose.’ They both reread the list. ‘Over the last ten years?’ he added. ‘I don’t know, but I’m just trying to think of something to narrow it down without losing what we most need. It’s not very specific.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll see what I can come up with,’ she said, with little enthusiasm.
‘Sure?’ Gary began gathering the notes. ‘Grab me if it’s not working.’
‘No problem,’ she said and blushed again.
‘And if you get bored we can widen the criteria,’ he added.
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I hope you’re being sarcastic!’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, just kidding.’
‘As it is, I’ll be at it all night.’
‘Lucky you!’
She followed him as far as the water-cooler, where she filled a paper cup and held it against her cheek until the hotness subsided.
CHAPTER 24
FRIDAY, 1 APRIL 2011
Carl Watkins’ uniform hung loose on his bony shoulders. Kincaide wondered how strong he was.
‘How well did you know Kaye Whiting?’ he asked him.
‘Quite well, I guess.’
‘She was your girlfriend’s sister?’
‘Yeah. I met her when I was out with a mate. She was with Michelle and we all had a laugh.’
‘Who were Kaye’s closest friends, do you think?’
‘There’s a girl, Debbie – friend from school I think. And Michelle, of course. She’s had mates but no one else she was particulary close to.’
‘What about boyfriends?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
Carl didn’t look him straight in the eye as he replied, but swivelled his head to look down at his hands. He studied the rough ends of his nails for a moment. ‘She wasn’t easy to get close to.’
‘Did you ever try, Carl?’
Carl tilted his head up to stare at Kincaide. ‘I saw her only as a friend. I wasn’t interested in her in any other way. Remember, I go out with her sister.’
‘Ah yes. And congratulations on your engagement.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘Was Kaye pleased?’
‘She never knew. We only announced it on Saturday, at her grandmother’s party. You know, before we knew about Kaye.’
‘I see. And what were you doing before the party?’
Carl glared at him then. His top lip curled slightly, forming the beginning of a scowl. He’d clearly had enough by now and spat out the words defiantly. ‘I worked in the morning, drove the van to Bedford and back – had sex all afternoon. With Michelle, of course.’
‘And the night before?’
‘Stayed in, watched TV.’
‘Is that what you usually do on Friday nights?’
‘Sometimes.’
Carl stood up and faced Kincaide direct. ‘Nothing personal but I’ve got a problem with what I think you’re implying.’
Kincaide stood up and held his hand out to him. ‘You’re right, Mr Watkins, it is nothing personal. Thank you.’
Kincaide was still smiling as he parked in front of Andy Burrows’ flat. He’d given Carl Watkins something to think about. Now for Andrew Burrows.
Since the first brief, when he’d been ridiculed for picking Burrows as a suspect, he’d liked the idea of proving him guilty.
Andy Burrows was the antithesis of Carl. Middle-aged, drawn, tired, there was no fight in him as he opened the door, seeming to sag inside his crumpled clothes.
Kincaide kept all expression from his face and narrowed his eyes to disinterested slits designed to out-psych Andy Burrows from the first. Burrows tried to smile as he spoke, but the attempt was faint and watery. ‘Come in. Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks.’ Coffee would have been very welcome but Kincaide was now too busy. On entering the living room, Kincaide wondered whether tea or coffee had been the drink in question. Two bottles of Jack Daniel’s sat beside the TV, and Burrows scooped a tumbler into his hand and drained it.
‘Mr Burrows, I need to gather as much background information on your niece Kaye as possible. I know this is difficult so soon after her death, but I’d appreciate any help you can offer us.’
Burrows nodded with a small twitch of his head. The corners of his mouth flickered and, for a horrible moment, Kincaide thought he was going to cry. The thought of a forty-five-year-old man blubbering repulsed him slightly.
Burrows’ reply was hushed: ‘Of course I’ll try to help.’ He took a deep breath and the crisis passed.
Kincaide started with the easy question. ‘When did you last see Kaye?’ Burrows stared back with such vacancy that Kincaide wasn’t sure if he’d taken it in at all. So he prodded gently, ‘Can you remember the last time you saw your niece?’
Andy nodded. ‘Last week, at my mother’s house.’
‘Did you talk to her about her plans for last weekend?’
‘We all had the same plan. Mother’s party.’
‘Why didn’t you yourself go?’
‘Not my thing.’ Burrows poured some more Jack Daniel’s into his empty glass.
‘But you just said you were planning to?’
‘I might have felt like it on the night itself – but I didn’t, so I stayed at home.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what did you do at home?’
‘Drank and slept, what do
you think? I’ve hardly got much company here, have I?’
‘And Kaye, did she have company?’
‘Like a boyfriend? No, I don’t think so. Not recently and not anyone serious that I know of. She was a lovely girl – I thought the world of her, really I did.’ For the first time Burrows placed the tumbler on the table and slid it away with his fingertips. Kincaide was sure this was a gesture that preceded an important statement and he leant forward a little, silently encouraging Burrows to speak, eager for his confidence.
Andy Burrows struggled to find his voice, gulping back the lump in his throat. Finally, he spoke. ‘Did she suffer much?’ he whispered and simultaneously tears ran down both cheeks. ‘Did she?’ he gasped.
Kincaide glowered at him in disgust. Burrows knew enough about the case to also know the answer. The only reason for asking was to make Kincaide couch the truth in white lies; to give Burrows a cosy fantasy of painless death to hang on to, and in the process burden Kincaide with guilt. Contempt made his nostrils flare and he clenched and unclenched his teeth several times before replying.
‘Considerably, I’d say, Mr Burrows,’ he hissed.
Kincaide had never allowed himself to become emotionally embroiled with victims, their relatives or the dismal array of mitigating circumstances that seemed to have put many wrongdoers and do-gooders on the same team. Kincaide was capable of feeling sympathy but it was a route he had chosen not to follow; he wasn’t aiming for popular, just efficient, and he knew such emotional impenetrability would ultimately save him from the trials of trauma counselling.
Kincaide pulled up in front of Mike and Margaret Whiting’s house. He checked his expression in the mirror, setting his features in a hard man’s glare. Leaving Kaye’s brother Steven until last was deliberate; he wanted to visit when he knew the man would be home alone.
He was going to make the lazy bastard squirm. Give him the treatment that would keep him awake and sweating in the night; make him get off his fat backside and do something with his pathetic life.
Kincaide was going to do him one hell of a favour.
He checked his hair and nodded at himself before pushing the rear-view mirror straight.
Kincaide hated being messed around, he hated having the truth hidden and he wasn’t going to let any of them get away with it. He rang the bell and squared up to the front door, ready for the squealing little runt to open it. Mess me around and I’ll knock your fucking head off. Verbally, of course.
Kincaide was therefore very unhappy when it was Margaret Whiting who invited him inside.
Steve sat in one armchair and Margaret seated herself in the other. Kincaide was left with the settee, a pink frilly affair. He was not going to look tough sitting on a pile of chintz padding. He let out an angry snort. It was all very wrong: Steve’s chair was in front of the window so the bright daylight was shining straight into Kincaide’s eyes.
What followed was forty-five minutes of ‘dunno’ and ‘s’pose so’, interspersed with regular interjections from his mother.
Apparently the kid hadn’t been particularly close to his sister, and apparently he’d been at home all Friday and Saturday, until he went to celebrate his grandmother’s birthday with his parents.
And apparently he wasn’t particularly interested in girls at present. So, very apparently, Kincaide wasn’t the lucky recipient of the whole truth.
He decided to leave it. For now.
Kincaide stayed long enough to drink his coffee. He accepted his cup without a smile or a word of thanks. Margaret and Steven Whiting watched him silently, and that suited him. He wanted them to understand that the investigation was well under way, and to feel control and confidence oozing from him.
He hoped this would give Margaret genuine comfort, and provide quite the opposite for her son.
He knew it was a fact that in eight out of ten murders the victim knows the killer. He had studied books on domestic crime and had therefore selected the three most likely suspects, based on average statistics. Statistics that included age, marital status and career type.
And, now that they had been re-interviewed by him, he remained confident that one of these would emerge as the clear favourite. But which one?
Carl Watkins, sharp-featured, smart-mouthed and arrogant?
Andy Burrows, flaky, alcoholic and probably frustrated?
Or Steven Whiting, selfish and petulant and jealous?
Kincaide wasn’t interested in the sensibilities of the innocent two: all three were sufficiently flawed that he was sure a brush with the law would ultimately do them good.
Bunch of shits, he decided as he thought of them.
He drained his coffee and passed the empty cup to Margaret Whiting. ‘Thank you very much.’ He smiled softly, then turned to Steven Whiting with only a slight modification to his expression. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.
CHAPTER 25
FRIDAY, 1 APRIL 2011
Margaret Whiting opened the door and let Goodhew make his own way in.
He settled on the chintz settee and she sank into the opposite chair.
He left a couple of seconds of silence before speaking. ‘How are you today, Mrs Whiting?’
‘Good, bad,’ she shrugged, ‘can’t say. The doctor’s packed me full of drugs, sedatives or antidepressants, don’t know actually. And it’s all passing me by. Do you know that feeling?’
‘Like you’re watching someone else’s life?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’ The end of a tissue protruded from her sleeve and she pulled it out, ready. ‘Just in case I get a burst of reality.’ She attempted to smile and her glassy eyes welled with tears that subsided. ‘Someone’s been around already – for Steve, actually.’
‘Something’s just come up and I decided to come straight here. It’s a lead,’ he added quickly, in case she expected an arrest so soon. ‘It appears that Kaye was shopping in Woodbridge last Saturday. We have a witness who also thinks that she was waiting for a lift from there, either to head home or to somewhere else.’
Margaret gazed at him, misty-eyed. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t understand why that’s important.’
The sun streamed in through the window, so it might have been just the two of them in the whole world. ‘Mrs Whiting, it’s important to us that we pinpoint her last known movements.’
‘I know that, but it happened on Tuesday, didn’t it?’
She couldn’t say ‘died’ – not yet, maybe never.
‘She wasn’t there all that time since, was she?’ Her expression was open wide, as if ready to be slapped.
Goodhew wondered why no one had yet told her; why she was two steps or more behind speculation in the press. The left hand not knowing what the right was doing, most likely. ‘I’m sorry, but we are working on that theory.’
Margaret stared down at her tissue and turned it over several times before she looked back up at Gary. ‘It’s better to know what’s going on. I lie awake thinking about all the possibilities.’ She shuddered, then continued, ‘When on Saturday?’
‘Mid-afternoon, just before three. To your knowledge has Kaye ever visited Woodbridge in the past, Mrs Whiting?’
‘I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t really have any idea. I don’t remember hearing the place mentioned before, but you can’t keep up with everything they do once they’ve left home.’
‘And do you know who might have given her a lift from there?’
Margaret shook her head slowly. ‘It feels neglectful of me to know so little, but you never expect you’ll need to answer all of these questions.’
The back door clicked open and Goodhew heard voices in the kitchen. He looked questioningly at Margaret.
‘Andy and my mum,’ she answered.
Edna shuffled into the room, leaning heavily on her cane. Her rheumy gaze flickered beneath thin, vellum-like skin. She had aged since he’d met her, and she kept saying, ‘I don’t understand’.
Gary expla
ined the Woodbridge sighting to Andy Burrows, too. ‘Do you know whether she’d ever visited that area in the past, Mr Burrows?’
Andy shook his head. ‘No, she never mentioned it to me, if she did.’
‘We have some CCTV footage to check, but at the moment we have no idea who offered her a lift. Do either of you have any suggestions?’
Andy watched his mother shake her head, then began to shake his too.
Gary looked at the three of them, all fragile and brittle and faded. Like a plastic set of the three wise monkeys. Perhaps they’re not ‘all wise’. He scribbled down his mobile number on a slip of paper, and handed it to Andy before he left. ‘Call me if you think of anything – or if there’s anything you would like to ask me.’
Margaret took him to the door. ‘Thank you, Mr Goodhew.’
‘I’ll be in touch, Mrs Whiting.’ He shook her cold hand. ‘Oh, just for our records, what’s your date of birth?’
‘It’s 22 December 1961.’
As soon as he reached his car, he wrote the date on his notepad. He let scraps of intuition and facts guide him, and he now knew that the Happy Birthday, Mother card hadn’t been bought for Margaret Whiting.
CHAPTER 26
FRIDAY, 1 APRIL 2011
The day was drawing to a close. A bank of grimy cloud had swamped the earlier sunshine and the light was beginning to fade amid a dull blanket of constant rain.
A man parked his car in Hanley Road and banged on Peter Walsh’s door.
He didn’t care about the weather. His hair and skin glistened in the wet, and when the door didn’t open he scanned the street for his quarry.
From the lobby of the studio flats she watched him, and reached into her pocket to jiggle the remnants of the pub landlady’s pencil sharpener with restless fingers. From her vantage point she studied him with interest, and in turn asked herself, ‘Who is he?’
He was tall and slim and, although it wasn’t possible to see his features clearly, she could pick out an angularity to the line of his jaw and nose, and an intensity of demeanour.
