The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4) (36 page)

‘Empty?’

‘Yes. It is that kind of feeling, almost like I’ve lost something. Is that normal?’

Sheen sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. ‘There are two ideas I’ve never bought into,’ he began. ‘First off, there’s that saying my mum always used:
Least said, soonest mended
. It’s crap. Keeping things bottled up doesn’t work. Whether they’re big things or small, it’s the unspoken ones that cause the damage. Second, this warning that you mustn’t get emotionally involved. Nice idea, but sometimes you can’t block out empathy for other people’s pain, and you wouldn’t be human if you did. So you feel crap about this case? Well, good for you.’

Despite himself, Goodhew smiled. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything quite so new age from you.’

‘New age? It’s common sense, son.’

Sheen’s desk phone rang. He picked it up, then passed it to Goodhew. It was Marks. ‘I want you and Kincaide in my office at eleven,’ he snapped, then hung up.

Detective Constables Charles and Young had been sitting at desks in the incident room while Kincaide was spouting on about his plans for the weekend. Sounded like they even included his wife.

Goodhew was trying his best to concentrate, assuming that Marks wanted paperwork, and the best way to do it was just to do it. Obvious really, and actually less stressful than his previous habit of avoiding it for as long as possible.

Kincaide had been trying out yet another unimaginative and inevitable joke about Goodhew’s topless ten minutes. Sometimes Goodhew just wished the guy would get himself a life.

Then Gully had come in with a stack of papers and dumped them on the nearest desk. She looked uncomfortable and tipped her head in the direction of the doorway.

He caught up with her on the landing. ‘Sue?’

‘Glad you got the hint. I need to talk to you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Not here.’ She’d led him into the nearest empty office, and had started speaking as soon as she closed the door. ‘Charlotte Stone.’

She let the name hang in the air, watching to see his reaction.

He thought he managed to remain expressionless. ‘What about her?’

‘You like her, I see it on your face.’

He nodded slowly then. ‘Yes, actually I do. It’s awkward with the trial coming up, but—’

Sue wasn’t listening. ‘When I went through the messages on Libby’s laptop, I discovered that both you, and Kincaide, were involved with Charlotte Stone.’

Goodhew’s stomach lurched. ‘
Kincaide?
’

‘You didn’t know?’

He shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, then just shook his head again.

‘Well, I feel doubly awkward now. I’m sorry, Gary, but I think it’s fair to let you know I’ve reported you and him to DI Marks. I just handed over the files and he’s going to take it from there.’

‘I see. Didn’t you feel you could talk to me first?’

She looked at her hands. ‘I just felt really let down, because I had this crush on you.’ She blushed a little, not her usual full-on redness but a hint of pink. ‘It’s over now, but I thought you wouldn’t do that.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘But you did.’

‘No. Whatever Libby wrote, she misunderstood. I liked Charlotte, I still do – and too much really, considering. And it had crossed my mind that once the case was over . . .’ He let the sentence drift away. The irony of him finding Charlotte attractive when she’d secretly been seeing Kincaide wasn’t lost on him.

It wasn’t lost on Gully either. ‘You and Kincaide?’

‘Don’t.’ He’d tried to make light of it, but it was too soon for that.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes, then Gully turned to go. ‘I’m sorry, Gary, I’ve really messed up.’

‘Handing that over to Marks is fair enough. I’m just sorry you thought I’d do anything like that.’

And now he sat here alone with Marks. Kincaide had gone in first, and the word
disciplinary
had made it out to the corridor more than once. Now Gary himself was in the hot seat.

Marks looked surprisingly placid, however. ‘Nothing went on between you and Charlotte Stone, I assume?’

‘No, sir.’

‘She came in to see me, assured me it hadn’t. She’s asked me not to put Kincaide through any kind of disciplinary, either. If they both deny any wrongdoing, I’m scuppered. More to the point, she’s had enough. She wants to be left to get on with her life, and I can respect that.’

Lucky Kincaide.

‘I actually wanted you here so I could explain something to you.’

‘Oh.’ Goodhew wasn’t sure why Marks would want to confide in him.

‘I know you feel uneasy about having become overly involved in a case.’

‘Sheen spoke to you?’

‘I appreciate your concern about how distracted I’ve been lately. Several years ago, I too became over-involved in a case. I took it home with me, literally. I started behaving . . . well, like you, really. And I hadn’t done that for years.

‘I then made a mistake. A serious one. And, as a result, a man who should have received a life sentence was jailed for only ten years. He’s now served just over half, and I’ve recently found out that he’s soon going to be released.

‘It preys on my mind. I am convinced he’ll re-offend, and someone out there will become a victim because of it. Because of me.’

Now Marks’s burden finally made sense.

‘But there’s another side to it,’ Marks continued. ‘My mistake probably saved someone’s life. I can’t separate them out and have one outcome without the other. When you run around breaking the rules, you risk getting more involved than you should. In those situations, when you make a mistake, you have to learn to live with it. Don’t expect to stay unscathed, Gary. It’s not going to happen.’

The funeral was today.

And the last time I’ll write is also today. That makes sense to me.

I woke up this morning and expected rain, or at least a heavy sky, but the day was beautiful. And, after the constant rain of the last few weeks it felt as though the sunshine had come out just for us.

Mum hung on until the week before Christmas – 20 December, to be precise.

She never regained consciousness.

You could wonder at the point of her having those extra weeks when, despite treatment, prayers and goodwill, we still had to let her go.

But Dad and I did a great deal, so they weren’t weeks of nothing. We visited her every day. I talked to her and read to her. Dad and I talked properly, too, openly and for hours.

When he first visited, he held her hand. Initially I think it was out of guilt and duty, but at the end I could tell it was because he wanted to, as though he finally thought enough of himself again that he could allow himself to find comfort in her touch.

‘We went through a lot together, didn’t we?’ I was standing in the doorway to her room when he said that. I slipped back out into the corridor and left them for a while. When I returned he’d fallen asleep in the chair, tilted forward with his head on her bed.

I’m not a stupid romantic who thinks they could have patched things up. They were never a great couple – I reckon they were mismatched from the start. But when it came down to it, either of them would have died to save me – and that’s a real bond.

We’d been home just about an hour on the nineteenth when they called us back. We played music quietly and talked off and on for those final five hours, and by 1 a.m. she’d gone. We’ll never know whether she heard anything either of us said, but I choose to think she did.

Dad and I spent Christmas morning alone with the curtains drawn and the phone muted, but we knew we couldn’t carry on like that. Dad looks back at all the other years, and his verdict is that healing doesn’t just happen; you must let it happen, and even help it along sometimes.

Dad had already decided on a cremation. He said Mum hadn’t cared either way. She’d always said she had no plans to go before she’d lost her marbles, so it didn’t really matter anyway. So much for plans. On the grounds that she’d never expressed a preference, Dad made the choice.

The crematorium is north of Cambridge, on the A14, close enough to the road so you can see the traffic shooting past. I think Dad chose it simply because we’d pass both the spot where Nathan died and under the bridge from which Rosie fell. It’s right we face these places now. And today we’re saying a proper goodbye to them too. That’s why there were three wreaths on Mum’s coffin.

The crematorium is six miles outside Cambridge, so it meant we avoided the interlopers who think they can learn something about life by spying on someone else’s misery. They wouldn’t have destroyed it for me, in any case, as the defining moment of today occurred as we turned in at the gate.

The crematorium reminds me of an old schoolhouse; it is symmetrical, with a circular flowerbed in front and a little tower that could house the school bell just behind. It’s plain and not imposing in any way. The approach is straight up a driveway cut through the apron of grass at the front. Bare trees lined the route, and the sky beyond was an untouched winter blue.

The hearse went in front, carrying Mum and our three wreaths, and we followed. I sat in the middle of the rear seat with Dad on one side and Matt on the other. At that moment I appreciated the balance, and I felt hope. I knew I was ready to say goodbye.

The service was short. I gave a reading. I wore that nail polish and my fingers trembled, so I put the notes down and did it from memory. I wasn’t word perfect but I don’t think it mattered either. Plenty of people were there for Mum, and I could see how much that moved Dad.

The police were there too. We appreciated that more than they could have known. DI Marks, PC Gully and DC Goodhew – the one who tried to save my sister. Their presence showed respect, and as Rosie said, it’s the only thing of value you can give the dead.

I carried Mum’s wreath to the memorial garden, Dad carried the other two. At the last moment Dad called Goodhew and asked him to take Rosie’s wreath.

Right now we’re back home. Everyone’s gone except Matt.

When I came out of the coma Matt was there. When I came out of hospital he was there. We discussed how we felt about each other, and agreed that we shouldn’t risk wrecking our friendship by dating. Then we kissed because the truth was, we’d gone beyond being only friends a while ago.

He and Dad are downstairs, and I’ve slipped upstairs to write this, to remind myself of the good things I feel today, in case I have days when I forget.

Requiescat in pace
.

Enough tears now.

Goodhew had picked the St Radegund, and they’d been lucky enough to get a table before the main onslaught of customers. It seemed to Goodhew that whenever his grandmother and Bryn were in the same room, Goodhew himself was the wallflower. The other two talked cars, or played pool, but this evening they’d gone over to the bar and ended up shouting answers in an impromptu trivia quiz set by one of the regulars.

He didn’t mind at all.

He was grateful for the company, but glad of the space. And maybe they’d worked that out.

Today was the first time he’d seen Charlotte Stone since the day after Wren’s arrest. They’d both known they had feelings for each other, but maybe because they’d never been expressed, it made it easier for them to say goodbye.

It’s because of Kincaide, isn’t it?
she had asked.

It wasn’t just that, but that alone made it impossible. Goodhew had nodded apologetically. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered some people, but there was no point in pretending he was someone he wasn’t.

He was glad he had attended the funeral. Marks had decided it would be appropriate, and had invited him and Gully along. They still had the court case to face, and they’d be seeing most of the key mourners again in court. There would be two trials: one for Len Stacy and the other for Colin Wren, if he proved fit to stand.

Goodhew had noticed Colin Wren’s agitation bubbling through, but mostly he’d been calm and forthcoming in making his confession – until it came time to give details of the death of Declan Viney. The psychiatrist said it could have been the trauma of killing him in the same spot where his brothers died. Goodhew himself was convinced that it was because Colin Wren had broken one of his own rules by killing a child.

Of all the victims it was Rosie he thought about most often. In his dreams he saw Colin guiding her to the parapet and Rosie too drugged to resist. Time and again he watched helplessly as she toppled into the traffic. Still crawled under the lorry to reach her, but when he spoke to her she spoke to him. And when he woke later, he still felt bereft. He missed his grandfather now more than at any time since his death all those years ago.

‘Vera Lynn?’

He looked up and realized his grandmother was there with a glass.

‘It’s a Vera Lynn . . . Lynn for gin,’ she explained. ‘Bit of a speciality in here, apparently.’

Bryn stood just behind her, pint in hand and a
go-on-indulge-her
expression on his face.

Goodhew obliged. ‘Happy now?’

‘Anything to cheer you up a bit,’ she replied.

‘I don’t even like gin, so how’s that going to cheer me up?’

Bryn held up his glass. ‘We’re shaking you out of your comfort zone. And we’ve invited Sue to join us.’

‘Gully?’

‘Why not.’

He shrugged – there was no reason now why not. Once they’d started speaking again he had sensed that, through the awkwardness, their friendship had been cemented. She still blushed regularly, but less often around him.

By the end of the evening they’d found a pool table, and Bryn started trying to help Sue improve her game.

Goodhew smiled to himself at the sight.

His grandmother sat opposite him. He’d asked her twice more about her sister’s death.
It was a long time ago, Gary. I should never have mentioned it
.

‘I think I hate secrets,’ he’d said.

‘So do I, but some exist for good reason.’

‘You do realize I know nothing about my family tree beyond you and Grandad?’

‘But
you
know who you are, and that’s all that matters.’

He left it there. She was wrong but also right at the same time; and for someone who found closeness to other people so challenging, he’d done well.