by Alison Bruce
Meet me on Thursday at 12.00 in Market Hill, outside the Guild Hall. I know what you look like. If you wait there, I’ll find you.
The other girl was Helen Neill. She didn’t drown but her death was just the same. Find her file before we meet and tell me if she’s not like Kaye Whiting.
‘Shit,’ he spat. ‘I’ve missed her.’
CHAPTER 35
SATURDAY, 7 MAY 2011
Margaret Whiting clasped her mug with both hands, as if to steady herself. ‘Mother!’ she snapped. ‘Which one?’
Edna remained unruffled. ‘I don’t know his name, dear, but it was the nice one, the one you like.’
‘Goodhew?’ Margaret asked, while forcing herself to sound calm.
Edna shook her head. ‘I told you I don’t know.’ She directed her vacant gaze into her tea as it swilled around in the bottom of the cup.
Margaret rubbed her eyes, still hot and pink from crying. She knew she mustn’t vent her frustration on her mother, therefore fought to suppress the tightness in her voice. ‘When was this?’
‘Oh, a few days ago now – just after he was at yours, I think.’
‘Oh, Mum, why didn’t you tell me?’
Edna shrugged. ‘I forgot, I suppose. My memory’s not what it used to be, you know. I haven’t forgotten it all, though. He asked me your date of birth. And first of all I was muddled between you and Andrew, but then I got it right. He asked me about my own birthday. He was very nice, took a real interest.’ She creaked on to her feet and Margaret waited as Edna fumbled in the drawer above the video player. She returned with a small pile of birthday cards and eased herself back into her winged armchair. ‘I showed him all these, and I said there wasn’t one from Kaye.’
‘Well, he knew that.’
‘That’s what he said, too. But he looked through them anyway, and you should’ve seen his face when he came to our Andrew’s.’ Edna pulled a cotton handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘Poor Andrew,’ she gulped.
Margaret leant closer and placed her hand on her mother’s wrist, squeezing it for her to concentrate. ‘What about his face?’
‘Andrew’s?’
‘No, Goodhew’s. You said I should’ve seen his face.’ Margaret tugged on Edna’s sleeve, trying to drag the answer out of her. ‘Why did you say that? How did he look? Worried, shocked … excited or what?’
Edna paused and closed her eyes, trying to picture his expression, and Margaret found herself holding her breath. ‘Disappointed,’ Edna answered finally. ‘No, actually, I’d say crestfallen is a better word for it. And he took the card with him, so it must have been important.’
Margaret slipped off into the kitchen, and stood with her back resting against the door. Everyone was fallible but if Goodhew thought her brother was guilty, perhaps she needed to listen to what he had to say. Her head spun at the concept.
‘I’ll tidy the kitchen while I’m out here,’ she called out and ran the taps and clattered the dishes, trying to block out the chant now beating incessantly through her head. ‘My mother, my brother, my daughter … My mother, my brother, my daughter …’
The sitting room was warm and the homely sound of washing dishes soothed Edna Burrows so that she drifted into sleep.
She drifted away from the reality of murder and suspicion. She forgot her granddaughter had been killed. She even forgot her only son had been arrested.
Instead she dreamt that she was eight again. She was running along a path through the woods, between giant oaks with bluebells and snowdrops sprouting at their feet.
She was racing towards a five-bar gate; her leather shoes were wet with dew and the skirt of her pinafore flapped around her knees. She stretched out her hand to reach the finishing point. ‘I won, I won!’ she shouted with delight.
Three children chased her, as another walked behind them with a willowy lady in a navy-blue coat. Her heart soared: her mother, brothers and sisters were all here. Silly me, she thought, they were here all along.
She wondered why she’d never noticed how beautiful her mother had been. Edna now picked her a handful of flowers and ran over to present them.
She stretched her hand further round her mother’s waist, knowing she must never lose any of her family again.
When Margaret finally came out of the kitchen, Edna’s skin was grey and already turning cold.
CHAPTER 36
MONDAY, 9 MAY 2011
Goodhew wished he wasn’t in the room. It had been just like sitting in the headmaster’s office telling tales. Kincaide and Marks were directly facing one another, as if ignoring his presence.
DI Marks stood beside his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Goodhew’s convinced that Andy Burrows didn’t do it.’
Kincaide shot a fierce glance at Goodhew, pink spots of irritation blotching in his cheeks. ‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? Sir. He didn’t make the arrest and it was my idea … sir.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is a murder case, not a playground game of conkers. He was the one that made the link with the birthday card, Michael.’
‘I realize that, sir, but I really think Goodhew’s just jealous. In the same situation as me, he’d be pushing to convince us that the evidence was sufficient.’
Goodhew scowled. ‘He’s been charged so, yes, there does appear to be a case against him, but do you really want him on your conscience if there are any doubts?’
Marks finally turned to Goodhew. ‘Gary, get out. I’ll speak to you afterwards,’ he barked.
Before Goodhew had reached the door, he heard Marks continue slamming Kincaide. ‘If Goodhew’s jealous, then I’ll deal with it, but in the meantime Burrows is under arrest, and his mother’s died not knowing whether or not he murdered her granddaughter. So I bloody well do hope we’ve got it right. Go over the evidence again … and what about these anonymous calls pointing to a suspect, Peter Walsh?’
‘Cranks, we decided,’ Kincaide said. Which was the last thing Goodhew expected to hear clearly, as he closed the door behind him.
Goodhew leant against the outer wall of the office in the hope of catching some more fragments, but such was the level of pique in DI Marks’ voice that every word carried into the corridor.
‘Is that the royal “we” I hear, because Goodhew and Gully don’t share your opinion. Are you aware of the note that Goodhew had pushed through his front door?’
A couple of seconds passed before Kincaide answered. Goodhew filled in the gap with the familiar image of Kincaide gnawing the skin beside his thumbnail.
‘I know he received a note, and I had a quick look.’
‘And what exactly did that “quick look” tell you?’
Another pause, enough time for Kincaide to remove a piece of bitten-off dead skin from the tip of his tongue and flick it to the floor.
‘We need evidence for the prosecution. That’s what I was focusing on.’
‘The last thing anyone needs, and particularly that family, is the arrest of the correct person that fails to deliver a conviction just because we’ve failed to do our jobs thoroughly.’
Goodhew barely caught Kincaide’s next words. ‘I don’t see what the problem is, since we all want the right result, don’t we?’
DI Marks lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper and fired his next words like darts from a blowpipe. ‘Kincaide, get me everything you’ve got on Burrows. That includes each scrap of information I haven’t yet seen. And think of a good reason why you ignored this note and “because Goodhew got it first” won’t wash.’ He slammed his hand down on to his desk. ‘You may feel that there have been instances when I have given Goodhew too much latitude, and on those occasions I have been fully aware of your resentment, for which I apologize. It has been a failing of mine that I need to address, rather than a policy I plan to extend anywhere else within the team.’
A moment later, Kincaide flew through the door as though one of those darts had harpooned him in the buttock. Obviously a septic missile, judging by his ex
pression.
* * *
Goodhew later returned to Marks’ office, where his boss’s expression had returned to its usual state: placid and impenetrable. Marks held up a photocopy of the anonymous letter. ‘I’ve heard the phone calls, Gary, but what makes you think that this letter comes from the same woman?’
‘I visited this Peter Walsh’s house and a girl walked past me in the street. There was something …’ he paused, searching for the right word ‘… I don’t know, something odd about her, I suppose. I looked at her directly and she seemed startled. Afterwards, when I was away I realized she looked just a little bit like Kaye Whiting. This sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, it does seem rather tenuous, but go on.’
‘That’s it, really. I had a feeling she was the anonymous caller, but I didn’t get the note until Thursday night. I was checking out Helen Neill when you called me in.’
‘I know, and I had the details of that case brought in here as soon as they arrived.’ Marks laid his hand flat on a half-inch pile of faxes, emails and other assorted documents. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you a bit more scope to chase up the Peter Walsh lead. Whether Andrew Burrows is the killer or not remains to be seen. Personally, I hope he is because I don’t want to be in the middle of a wrongful-arrest fiasco. But, even more, I don’t want a total balls-up that leaves a killer still roaming around.’
A wave of claustrophobic tension swept through Gary; he wanted to be out working. ‘Are you saying I can get on with it, sir?’
‘Gary, be patient, will you? You’re like my wife the day before the January sales. Ready, fire and aim – you and Kincaide both.’ He sighed a deliberate, long, slow and incredibly irritating sigh.
Goodhew sighed too, and waited.
‘OK, Gary, here’s what I want you to do. Check out Helen Neill. If, and only if, there are reasons to connect the two cases, then investigate Peter Walsh and anyone he knows who may have written this letter. Keep me informed at every step.
‘Remember, there’s nothing to indicate that a man abducted Kaye Whiting, so your letter writer is a suspect.’ He knew he had already stretched Goodhew’s attention span to its brittle limits. ‘I’ll make a resource available to you, if you need it.’
Gary was already lifting the Neill notes from the desk. ‘Gully would be my first choice.’
‘Mmmm, thought it might. Anything I should know about you two?’
‘Yeah, we work well together.’
And, with that comment, Goodhew made the second quickest exit in the history of DI Marks’ office.
CHAPTER 37
TUESDAY, 10 MAY 2011
The 8.57 from Paddington pulled into Gloucester at 10.38. The disjointed journey from Cambridge had consisted of two late-running trains punctuated by a shuffling Circle Line tube.
Gary stepped from the carriage on to Platform One, and jogged past the slow-speed tourists to claim the first black-and-white Cathedral cab on the rank.
‘The Fosters, Gloucester Docks,’ he instructed. ‘How long will it take?’
‘’Bout five minutes, that’s all,’ the driver replied, in a rounded Gloucestershire burr.
Gary checked his watch, he’d be half an hour late.
‘Where’re you from, then?’ the cabbie enquired, and spent the journey extolling the virtues of local tourist attractions. ‘That’s the Docks,’ he announced, at last.
Goodhew saw a cluster of red-brick warehouses perched shoulder-to-shoulder beside the road. Wrought-iron entrance gates opened on to a vista of deserted car parks.
They abutted the shadowy waters of the dock basins, whose surfaces rippled with the undercurrent of poverty and child labour still reflected from the uniform dark windows of the scrubbed-up Victorian grain and timber stores.
The taxi followed the road leading into the hub of the docks and pulled up in a half-empty staff car park. It lay across a narrow inlet from the Merchants’ Quay shopping centre, a huge green and glass conservatory-style building that resembled a do-it-yourself kit interpretation of the Crystal Palace.
The driver pointed to a pub. ‘That’s the Fosters, one of those theme pubs.’
Goodhew paid him and walked across to the front door, aware that he was being watched from inside.
Before the door closed behind him, the landlord nodded to a corner table. ‘Mr Hayward’s waiting for you.’
Ron Hayward, Detective Inspector retired, gave a brief nod and beckoned Gary across. They shook hands.
‘I took the liberty of getting you a glass of Coke.’
‘Thank you.’
Hayward held up his pint. ‘Shame you couldn’t join me in a pint, but you’re on duty and I’m not.’ He chuckled at his little joke. ‘So you’re interested in Helen Neill, then?’ he added, rosy-faced.
Gary nodded. ‘I was hoping to talk to DCI Barnes, but he’s not available.’
‘Dead, actually. Heart attack. But I think you’ll find I’m not a bad second choice.’
Goodhew wondered whether there was an intentioned barb in the comment. He placed his pile of documents in front of him, with a fresh sheet of paper to one side, and removed the cap from his pen.
Many retired inspectors would relish the opportunity to dabble in a serving officer’s investigation, and he was ready for the role of listener.
Hayward launched into his story, unconcerned at being overheard. ‘I remember the Helen Neill murder very well indeed. She was found in the Forest of Dean, a couple of miles from Cinderford. She’d been lying there about a month, we reckon.’ His voice rose to a merry blast. ‘She was as rotten as hell.’
‘Who found her?’ Gary asked quietly.
Hayward leant forward and whispered, ‘Well, there’d been a bit of a fire on the edge of the forest, about a hundred yards away from her. I reckon it was started by kids. Anyhow this labourer, Jimmy McCue from Pycroft Farm, is cutting through the trees. Using a shortcut down one of the paths, so he says, and he sees the smoke and heads across to investigate. And, bingo, he practically trips over the body.’ Hayward raised his eyebrows and his voice. ‘So he says.’
‘So he says?’ Goodhew queried. ‘He was a suspect, then?’
Hayward drained his glass but continued talking from up at the bar. ‘Well, of course, he was. He found the body. And by the time he’d finished he’d mashed the ground to porridge with his great size elevens.’ He returned with two pints of Tetley. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t get you one. There’s just no point going to and fro like a yo-yo, is there? As for McCue? I hope he still is a suspect. I interviewed him a couple of times, didn’t like him at all. He’s one of them Irish gippo types, call themselves labourers, but they’re unreliable as far as I’m concerned. Bloody dids.’
‘So you didn’t manage to find any evidence against him?’ Gary asked.
‘No,’ he snorted with disgust. ‘We had to let it drop. They stick together, those people.’
‘Hmm.’ Goodhew sipped his Coke, exhaled slowly, then persevered. ‘What about Helen – how did she disappear?’
Hayward rolled his eyes from behind his pint. ‘Usual story. Been out with friends, they lost track of her during the evening, and there you go, Bob’s your jolly old uncle.’ He banged the glass on the table for emphasis. ‘Another silly girl who should’ve been more careful. Not that I’m condoning it, of course, but it’s not like they’ve never been warned, is it?’
‘For God’s sake,’ Goodhew muttered.
‘What?’
‘What are the facts? You know, those little things that definitely happened,’ he growled.
Hayward glared. ‘Well, in my opinion I’m giving them to you. But if that’s not what you want, that’s up to you.’
‘No, no. Sorry, carry on. What leads were there after she vanished?’
‘Well, there was a car, a red Astra Estate, that was sighted around the corner from the Cathedral.’
‘In Cinderford?’
‘No, here in Gloucester. The registration number was
picked up on city-centre CCTV. Registered to a Tony Vitale. Well, it wasn’t right or it was a false number, because Mr Vitale and his car were in Birmingham all that weekend.’
‘And she disappeared on a Saturday?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Can’t remember the dates.’
‘I’ve got them: Saturday, twenty-fifth of April 2009 and her body turned up on Wednesday, twenty-seventh of May 2009.’
Hayward tapped his index finger on the table top. ‘Now, what did seem odd was the body. Not much left, like I said, but the forensics people said there was no sign of any sexual assault. Seems funny, that. Young girl, out for the night, has a few drinks and chances her luck with some bastard who kills her. Well, he’s going to rape her, isn’t he? Or what’s the point? But the report came back “gagged and bound, no evidence of a fight”.’ Goodhew already knew this but the words still made him prickle.
Hayward waggled his finger. ‘But they admitted it was hard to tell. I thought then maybe it was a domestic, but not likely. Nice family, hers, completely devastated. At the end of the day,’ he paused to shrug and give a you-win-some, you-lose-some smile, ‘it’s one we didn’t solve.’
‘Amazing,’ muttered Goodhew drily.
‘So what’s new now?’
‘We had an anonymous call linking this to another more recent case in Cambridge. And there are similarities.’ Goodhew doodled a speech bubble. ‘Did you receive any unusual anonymous tip-offs at the time?’
Hayward shrugged again. ‘Can’t remember now. You’d have to go over the notes.’
‘Yeah, I’ll do that,’ replied Goodhew, standing up and simultaneously gathering his papers. ‘Thanks.’
‘Is that it?’ Ron Hayward rose to his feet and shook hands with Goodhew. ‘I can make the time if there’s anything else you’d like help with.’
‘No, no, I really don’t want to take up any more of your retirement,’ Goodhew replied. ‘You were clearly looking forward to it for a long time,’ he added to himself as he stepped out into the fresh air.
