Good Girls Don't Die (16 page)

The scene would have been magical, thought Grace, had it not been for its tragic purpose – and for the jarring presence of Lance beside her. They were here to work, to watch and listen and be on hand if the surveillance team on Pawel Zawodny needed backup. Since Lance’s interview with the chief con, he had remained so scrupulously polite towards Grace as to be almost deferential; it was wearing her down, and right now she’d prefer open hostilities to this lumbering elephant in the room. She could hardly believe that this tight-lipped creature slowly weaving his way between the candlelit encampments was the same man she’d laughed with only a few days earlier.

At least she felt a little stronger in herself, having decided on the drive back from the old coaching inn that the odds were she probably hadn’t made a drunken idiot of herself at the Blue Bar. On her way to work this morning she’d bought a nice card in which to write an apology to Roxanne. It felt ridiculous not simply to call by her flat and speak to her, but they’d have to wait for this case to
be over before attempting to salvage the friendship face to face.

She glanced sideways at Lance: what was he thinking? Did he still distrust her? Resent her for not sharing his certainty about Pawel? But it was no good feeling sorry for herself. However unjust the media’s relentless scrutiny, they were all now in this together. After the chief con’s early morning visit, even Duncan had confessed that he’d told Joan details he should have kept to himself. He hadn’t needed to spell it out; everyone understood that he’d done it to impress her, to woo her with privileged access to insider knowledge. Secrets were sexy, and all police officers had probably done the same at some point in their careers. And, besides, everyone also knew that Joan wouldn’t breathe a word, so there was no question that Duncan had been dangerously indiscreet. Nonetheless it was humiliating, the way they’d all had to drill down, to use the chief con’s charmless phrase, into their intimate, private moments.

They were all of them trying to do their best, yet failing to satisfy anyone – not this gathering tonight, not the massed media, not the higher ranks breathing down the SIO’s neck, not each other, and certainly not the friends and family of the two victims whose killer they hunted so ineffectually.

Down beside the lake, dozens of Chinese lanterns began to drift upwards, paper globes glowing with light and heat, the naked flames reflected in the tranquil water below. A girl’s lone voice, strong and deep, began to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and gradually voices from all around her joined
in. Grace looked at Lance, gave a little nod of recognition, and the two of them also began to sing. It soon ended – ‘Happy birthday, dear Polly, Happy birthday to you!’ – and was followed by silence, a communally held breath, before Grace made out muffled sounds of people weeping.

Dozens more lanterns were released skywards, rising and drifting until their trapped air was used up and the flames extinguished. Silhouetted against the dark water Grace could make out Phil and Beverly Sinclair clinging to one another, surrounded by Polly’s student friends, who stood gently patting their arms and shoulders. Off to one side, heads bowed, stood Rachel Moston’s parents, Clive and Rosalind.

Grace was keenly moved, and saw that Lance, too, was making no attempt to hide that he felt the power of the moment. His eyes met hers and she felt something between them shift and give way. He must have done so, too, for he nodded and touched her shoulder. ‘We should keep moving,’ was all he said, but she really hoped that now they might revert to being comrades again.

By unspoken assent, they turned away from the lakeside, threading their way towards the raised concrete platforms of the campus. Sitting alone, not far from the base of the sloping path that cut through the grass, his head and hands resting on his raised knees, was Danny Tooley. For an instant he raised his head in order to wipe his forearm across his face and gazed unseeing into Grace’s eyes. She went straight to him, crouching down to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Hey, Danny,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Grace Fisher.’

Lance came up beside her, but remained standing.

‘Danny, I’m sorry you lost your friend.’

He looked up with wet eyes. ‘I can’t bear it!’

‘No, I know. But look –’ She swept her arm around to encompass the hundreds of twinkling lights. ‘You’re not alone.’

Danny’s gaze searched hers, as if unsure about accepting her sympathy.

‘What do you think Polly would make of this?’ Grace asked. ‘She’d be pleased, wouldn’t she?’

‘Yes. It’s good to see how many people care about her.’

‘She sounds lovely,’ said Grace, thinking of how Danny had tried to warn Polly against going home with Matt Beeston and had comforted her the day after her unsatisfactory hook-up. ‘I’m sorry I never met her.’

‘You let that other man go,’ he said. ‘The one you were asking about the other day.’

‘Her landlord, yes. But we want to find her, Danny. Have you thought of anything else you can tell us? Anything at all.’

Grace was puzzled by the long look he gave her, but before she could coax him into saying more he rolled aside and rose quickly to his feet.

‘I don’t want to talk. I rather be on my own, if you don’t mind.’

Grace let him wander away into the growing darkness. All the light was congregated below them now, and she and Lance turned and made their way down amid the different groupings, tuning into the different sounds of music or
conversation as they passed. Then a voice called out to them from amongst those sitting on the ground. ‘DS Cooper?’

Lance peered into the gloom, then, recognising Polly’s housemate, greeted Jessica kindly. Grace saw that Amber and Caitlin were also part of the circle seated around a grassy carpet of tea lights, candles and lanterns, and nodded to them both.

‘Do you want to join us?’ Jessica asked hopefully.

‘For a moment,’ Lance replied, fitting himself into the space Jessica made for him beside her. Grace made her way round to sit by Amber. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.

‘A bit better,’ the girl replied. ‘Especially now we’ve found other places to stay. The Accommodation Office was really helpful.’

‘That’s good.’ Grace was glad to hear that the university authorities had been supportive after the police had notified all Pawel’s tenants before his release from custody. She’d noticed that the university also had their own security patrols out in force tonight.

‘And it’s good that Caitlin’s back for a couple of days,’ said Amber. ‘Though we never expected it to be like this tonight. So many people. It’s amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Have you seen the Facebook pages we started? Thousands of people have liked them or posted comments to show they care.’

Grace was glad that Amber had found comfort in the curiosity of so many strangers. She held up her phone. ‘Yes, I’m following.’ For the past couple of hours there’d been an
outpouring of support across Twitter, Facebook and other sites, though Grace saw no reason to reveal that the police monitored them all for possible intelligence or signs of suspicious activity.

‘I didn’t think you knew Jessica?’ Grace asked.

‘She came to see me. It’s like, we’re the only ones who really know how this feels.’

Grace chided herself for hearing the slight boast behind Amber’s words. No one was immune to the glamour that attached itself to newsworthy crimes, the specialness bestowed by proximity to the victim. Why else had so many people turned out tonight except for the spectacle and the crowd-surge of borrowed emotion? She and Lance had just felt it themselves as they joined in singing ‘Happy Birthday’.

Across the circle she saw Lance pat Jessica’s hand and then stand up. ‘Better keep moving,’ she told Amber. ‘You look after yourself.’

Grace and Lance walked in thoughtful silence around the perimeter of the lake until they found an empty bench on which they could sit and survey the scene.

‘Our friend must be here somewhere, don’t you think?’ asked Lance.

‘Pawel?’

‘Still not convinced?’

Tired of conflict, Grace wished for some simple human interaction that wasn’t about grief and death. She didn’t want to get into an argument. Not tonight. ‘I don’t know. You and I diverge on what the display was about, but in the end all that is for the barristers to argue over, isn’t it?’ For a few
minutes at least she longed simply to pretend they were just here to kick back, enjoy the end of a summer evening in the park. ‘So who are you when you’re not on duty?’ she asked.

Lance took a moment to reply, and Grace began to fear that he’d refuse after all to mend bridges. ‘My dad’s in the Job,’ he said at last. ‘Retired last year. A PC. My sister’s married to a guy in traffic, also a PC.’

‘So you did good, making DS?’

‘They think I’m a jumped-up little prick.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry. That must be tough.’

‘And you?’

‘The opposite. I was supposed to marry someone nice, give dinner parties and run an interior design shop.’

He laughed. ‘That your mother’s dream?’

‘Stepmother’s. My mother died when my sister was born.’

‘Do you get on with her?’

‘My stepmother? Yes. Dad died ten years ago, ten years after he married my stepmum. She could’ve walked away, and she didn’t, so I appreciate that. But you should have seen her face when she thought I’d have to wear a uniform. Not what she had in mind.’

‘I have to say, I can’t quite imagine you in blues and flat black lace-ups, either!’

‘No.’

Everyone from the Major Investigation Team here this evening had been instructed to blend in, and Grace had chosen skinny jeans, canvas shoes and a loose blouse. She’d always hated the swagger of a uniform: another significant difference between her and Trev, who loved the identification
with the status and authority of the uniform and, though he would always deny it, felt diminished in civilian clothes. His work shirts had to be washed whiter than white, and he used to whistle with contentment as he blackened his shoes to a polished sheen before each and every shift.

‘And it’s your stepmum who’s friends with Hilary?’

Grace came back to the present with a jolt. ‘You’ve a good memory.’

‘I thought about what you said.’

Grace waited to see if he’d say more, but he seemed to judge it sufficient. ‘They were in corporate PR together,’ she told him. ‘Beauty products.’

Lance laughed once more, not loudly but it sounded genuine. ‘That figures. So Hilary wants you to wear the same shade of lipstick as her?’

Grace smiled. ‘More or less. Though she
was
kind to me. I’m not backtracking on that. She gave me a break when I needed one.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘And there’s a big place in this world for beauty products.’

‘Sure.’

They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the diminishing points of light around them. People were starting to make their way home now and the crowd was thinning out. Fewer lights were reflected on the surface of the lake and, despite the warm night, the widening expanse of dark water sent a sudden shiver up Grace’s spine.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’ Lance spoke into the darkness.

‘So long as we stick together,’ Grace agreed quietly.

Ivo was looking for Roxanne. He’d spotted her earlier, all smiles and cleavage, in a short gypsyish skirt, ankle boots and a denim bomber jacket, chatting to the aftershave advert who fronted for ITN. That was another black mark against her: fraternizing with the enemy. Ivo had kept tabs on her all evening, reckoning her source also had to be here tonight. He was determined to discover the identity of whomever it was she was so zealously keeping away from him. He was beginning to doubt after all that it was the Ice Maiden: so far tonight she’d gone nowhere near Roxanne, and anyway she appeared to be glued to the side of some fellow cop. So who else had Roxanne found to exchange billets-doux with?

But then he’d been diverted by the astonishing sight of the prime suspect, Pawel Zawodny, marching bold as brass towards the lakeside where a makeshift shrine had been set up to the two girls, one of whom wasn’t even supposed to be dead, for fuck’s sake. Zawodny was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, had to be a hundred quid’s worth at least, and Ivo had got straight on the blower to the
Courier
’s
photographer, ordering him to get his arse over here yesterday and get the fucking picture.

It wasn’t great, but the snapper at least got something before the police moved in and discreetly hustled Zawodny away. Ivo went after them. It had to be worth a punt at trying to persuade Zawodny to tell his side of the story. Ivo calculated he could risk going to at least thirty grand for an exclusive before clearing it with his editor. But the plain-clothes escort didn’t seem any too keen on letting that happen, and Ivo had to content himself with sticking his card on the suspect and begging him to call the number, any time.

Then he had to find a quiet spot to phone in an extra two hundred words of new copy to accompany the shot of Zawodny and his flowers. The night editor, uncharacteristically cheerful, agreed it was never too late to make room for a good splash.

But now Ivo had completely lost sight of Roxanne. He circled around the lake, stopping once or twice to exchange pleasantries with fellow hacks, taking a gloating delight in hinting at what a great photo op they’d just missed. One of them mentioned that he’d seen the local reporter not so long ago, mingling with a group of students and no doubt collecting tributes to Polly and Rachel. Ivo had no problem crashing that party so made his way towards where the hack had pointed.

The trees grew more closely here, and he thought it would be safe to nip behind one and take a leak. Enough silvery light from a waning moon filtered down between the branches for him to make out where he was going. As
he finished cursing his prostate, and his eyes grew accustomed to the shadow under the summer canopy, he thought he could make out the figure of someone lying further off in the grass. At first he thought perhaps it was a young couple making out, but then realised it was a woman alone. She was lying sedately, presumably looking up at the stars or whatever soppy stuff it was girls liked to do. Then he recognised the thick dark curls. What was she doing? Surely this wasn’t some bizarre attempt to hide from him?

‘Hey, Roxanne!’ he called. She didn’t move, so he zipped himself up and moved closer. ‘Roxanne!’

He thought perhaps she was asleep and moved gently to her side, not wanting to startle her. Her arms were by her sides and her short skirt lay in a neat fan shape over her bare, straight legs. Her eyes were open and her head seemed turned at a funny angle. Shit! Ivo jumped back, his heart pounding. He looked around wildly but could see no one anywhere near. He was about to shout out, but some ancient war-horse instinct strangled the cry in his throat so that all that came out was a stifled grunt of fear and shock.

He bent down, trying to leave as little imprint in the grass as possible, and looked into her eyes. ‘Roxanne!’ He gave her shoulder a little shake but her face remained impassive. The girl was dead. Fuck! Oh fuck, no!

He made himself look again at her face. Her cheeks appeared swollen and puffy, but then he realised that something, some kind of fabric, had been stuffed into her mouth. His instinct was to yank it out, but he restrained himself: a reporter never lets himself become part of the story. All
the same, he knew what he had to do, even though his hands shook so much that he had trouble holding his phone still enough to take the photos. He doubted the lawyers would ever let the paper print them, but he didn’t want a bollocking from his editor for passing up such a golden opportunity. He moved to get a different angle; perhaps if he took the picture here, from her feet, her eyes would be facing away and it would work better. The phone’s flash went off, throwing her slim wrists and delicate hands into sharp relief against the grass. Something between her thighs glinted underneath her skirt.

Ivo looked over his shoulder, seeing himself in his mind’s eye for what he was – a foul scavenger picking at carrion, then lifted the fabric with two fingers and, with his other hand, pressed the light on his phone. Her hips were bare, her pubes waxed into a neat black line, and the neck of an empty wine bottle had been inserted into the soft embrace of her labia. Swallowing hard, he took the photo, then dropped the skirt, stifling the urge to straighten it again as demurely as he could. There was only so much explaining he was prepared to do later to some nerdy forensics expert.

So
this
was why Keith had got in such a strop over his piece about the bottle! Even the Young Ferret hadn’t been able to unearth this half of the story, merely that a vodka bottle had been recovered from the scene and processed for prints and DNA. Now he knew the darker secret and could quite see why Keith would guard it so fiercely. Why the fuck would anybody do a thing like that?
Who
the fuck would?

In the gloom under the trees Ivo could hear his own
laboured breathing. The sound unnerved him. He hoped he wasn’t about to have a coronary. But fuck it, he’d taken this kid under his wing, and now she’d been murdered and this vile thing done to her: that made it personal. He was going to have to expose this twisted little bastard before he died! He straightened up and took a deep breath. His pulse was racing and he hadn’t felt this invigorated in years.

Ivo checked the time on his phone. If he called it in now, they’d likely be the only paper to get this into the early editions. Which meant that to stay ahead of the game he had to get the story safely tucked up
before
he called the police. Once the plods got here, he’d be stuck at the station all night making a statement while every other cowboy in town was free to ride around collecting background before they filed their copy. He couldn’t have that.

The police would check his phone, of course; they’d know what he’d done. But so what? What could they do to him? It wasn’t a crime in this country for an honest man to do his job. Not yet, anyway. Ivo looked down at Roxanne and shuddered. The sight of her made him want to weep. No question, it was a crying shame; she was a sweet kid, a good girl, but it wasn’t going to make the slightest difference to her now whichever call he made first. Besides, he owed it to her to tell it right. This was her big story, and now it was his crusade. He must do it before his adrenaline crashed and he lost his nerve. If he let that happen, he knew for sure that there’d only be one outcome: he’d have to find a drink. A double. Just to get him started.

He made the call.