The Siren (12 page)

Goodhew leaned forward in his chair, willing Sheen to move on. ‘And he sold the Rita Club?’

‘You have to remember those were the days when people packed the pubs in the evenings. Come a Thursday or Friday night they were wall-to-wall with customers. Dougie Lewton didn’t
sell it, he just kept buying, opened the Rita, bought two or three more pubs . . . then the Smoke and Light Club. He never off-loaded any of them until the late eighties when he got shot of the lot
just before the property crash. The only one he kept was the Celeste.’

‘The Celeste in Market Passage?’

‘That’s right,’ Sheen raised his hand, ‘but back to Nick first. Just as I’d suspected, he turned out to be a troublemaker. What I’d seen wasn’t the
start of it, and in fairness to Dougie he did try to keep a rein on him, but then there were a couple of nasty fights, and Dougie packed up his wife and kids and left for Spain. Seemed like it
happened overnight.’ Sheen clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that, it was.’

‘So he sold the Celeste?’

Sheen paused and bent across until his face was close to Goodhew’s. ‘My youngest boy is just like you: no pause button, just fast-forward. Now, if you don’t want to be bored
with a long story about my son James, I suggest you let me finish this one at my own pace.’

Goodhew nodded. ‘Sorry.’

‘’Parently he sat on the money until he had the chance to buy a club in Spain. Called it the Rita Club, too, and it’s one of them hot sweaty places, full of boobs and booze,
just like Dougie likes it. Funny way to keep your kids out of trouble, if you ask me, but when I heard that Nick was managing the club, I thought maybe he’d come straight. At least until I
heard he’d disappeared.’

Goodhew wondered how Sheen knew all of this.

‘And the reason I know all of this?’ Sheen continued. ‘Because of the Celeste. I keep my ear to the ground when someone still owns a venue like that. Now I’ll go and find
you all the official details on file.’

Goodhew turned his attention back to Sheen’s sheet of paper, and realized that all the seemingly random names and arrows now made sense. He suddenly hoped that Sheen wasn’t planning
early retirement.

SEVENTEEN

In the end, Sheen sent Goodhew away with just the promise that whatever other documents he had would follow later. ‘I bet your DI’s lookin’ for you,’ he
added sagely.

Goodhew felt his conscience poke at him: he knew he was playing the odds by risking being unavailable when Marks needed him most. He assured himself that nothing urgent could have taken place
over the last hour, but when he retrieved his silenced phone from his pocket and saw that there were six missed calls, his pulse quickened. He headed for Marks’ office, ringing the voicemail
because, if he was being honest, he was too much of a coward to phone Marks direct.

Message one was Mel who, in a hushed voice, hissed, ‘Just to let you know, you’re wanted.’

Message two was Marks himself: ‘Goodhew, phone me.’

Goodhew was skipping straight to number six when Mel announced her presence by thumping his arm. ‘Marks has started a briefing. You’d better get along there, fast.’

He thanked her and nipped along the corridor, picking up the indistinct sound of Marks’ voice reverberating through the thin walls of the large office allocated as the incident room.
Goodhew eased the door open, slipped through and slid into the nearest available seat. The room was stuffy and slightly stale, like the air was just on the turn. There were nearly a dozen people
there already, and not one of them seemed to notice his arrival. Several held coffee cups as if they had paused just before taking a swig. He hoped this was because the coffee was unpalatable, and
not a reaction to the update.

Marks was standing in front of the wipe board, next to which an easel displayed a single oversize photographic print of Riley Guyver. The child wore stonewashed jeans and a royal-blue and red
striped T-shirt; he had looked straight into the camera, so now his gaze seemed locked on to Goodhew’s.

‘This picture is the most up-to-date available,’ Marks continued, ‘and therefore the image that our press officer, Liz Bradley, has issued to the press and television. It will
appear in the later edition of this evening’s newspaper, on the TV news and on most of tomorrow’s nationals.’

Riley’s eyes were darker than Kimberly’s, but Goodhew could see that the child had inherited some of her air of defiance. Maybe the gaze was a little less angry, and a little more
determined, but it was there.

‘Next we have our main suspect, Stefan Golinski.’ Marks remained silent as he spent a few seconds pinning a ten-by-eight enlargement next to the image of Riley. ‘Just to add to
what we already know about him, I can confirm that Golinski has no previous for any offences against children, but he’s not exactly in anyone’s baby-sitting circle either. So
we’re looking at two scenarios, one where two people have disappeared in separate circumstances and the other, more likely, scenario where those disappearances are related. As far as we know,
there have been no sightings of either individual. In Stefan’s case his bank account remains untouched, his known email accounts and mobile phone totally unused.’

DC Charles raised his hand. ‘What about his car?’

‘The car is a little more complicated. For whatever reason, it seems he was not in the habit of correctly registering vehicles and therefore didn’t bother with insignificant detail
such as insurance. All we know is that he’s recently been driving a dark-coloured Toyota saloon. Nothing of that description was left at the Park Street multi-storey last night, but
he’s known to have used it from time to time. The car park has handed over the footage, so a couple of people here are going to have the unenviable job of watching through it until he’s
spotted. Once we have the registration number, we can get the ANPR system to flag up any recent activity.’

Inwardly, Goodhew groaned. ANPR stood for automated number plate recognition, which was efficient at producing data but the task of analysing it could be mind-numbing, and because of his late
arrival he felt sure the job was heading his way. He glanced around at the others, and willed it to fall into someone else’s lap, Kincaide’s for first choice but, beyond that,
anybody’s lap except his own.

Marks pinned up the next photograph, announcing, ‘Kimberly Guyver.’ It was a recent snapshot and definitely not a police photo. The shot was cropped tightly to her face but it looked
like she was somewhere outside, since the light seemed natural and there were patches of green in the background which could be shrubbery. She wore a blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck and maybe was
sitting on the grass, because she was smiling up at the camera, her eyes bright and her teeth looking very white against her tanned skin. The camera had been smiling back down at her, making good
friends with the curve of her cheek and the deeper curves of her cleavage.

There were a few grunts of interest, a couple of muttered comments and one stifled laugh. The collective response was primal, pack-like: that stale smell had to indicate a surfeit of
testosterone. Goodhew noticed the stiffening of Marks’ spine and the beady-eyed look that he cast around the group. Most of them were still too focused on Kimberly’s cleavage to pick up
the warning signals, and still the room didn’t settle.

Marks clapped his hands together twice. ‘Yes, as several of you have already noted, she is an extremely attractive woman. Good powers of observation are certainly part of the job, but far
better directed elsewhere in this case. DC Charles?’

‘Sir?’

‘What exactly is amusing you?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘And you, Young?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘I disagree, you’re both letching down a young woman’s top and giggling like a couple of fourteen-year-olds. I chose this photograph for a reason: to demonstrate the
unpleasantness this young woman will be put through if this investigation is not resolved quickly and she is shown to be anything but the most saintly of mothers.’ He poked his finger at each
of them in turn, ‘That prurient attitude will just be the tip of the iceberg. Remember, Kimberly Guyver is Riley Guyver’s mother, and Rachel Golinski was her best friend. She, too, has
feelings, and do not forget that. Until evidence tells us otherwise, she is first and foremost a victim in this case. Is that clear?’

There were various nods and grunts of assent. Goodhew half expected Marks to repeat his question in pursuit of a more enthusiastic response; but he didn’t. As for becoming the prime
candidate for endless hours of viewing CCTV footage, Goodhew guessed he was now completely off the hook.

It took Marks another ten minutes to conclude, while pressing home the status of the case. ‘Finally, Rachel Golinski’s autopsy report will be with us at any minute. Remember, this is
a murder enquiry until I tell you otherwise.’ Only then did he start allocating tasks. Kincaide and Goodhew were left until last.

‘Kincaide, take yourself down to Hinton Avenue nursing home and find out the extent of Jay Andrews’ incapacitation . . . Does he know his son is missing? Does he even know he has a
son? When did Kimberly Guyver last visit? So on and so forth. If he can’t answer, find out what you can from the staff.’

Which left only Goodhew.

Everyone else was still in the room, ostensibly waiting until the completion of business, but Goodhew knew it was more about making sure everyone got what they deserved. And for this reason he
wanted them to witness whatever Marks was about to dish out.

‘And last we have our new boy, DC Goodhew, left there on the bench as the team was selected. Why would that be?’

‘Sir, it’s –’ he began, but Marks cut him short.

‘Rhetorical, Goodhew, rhetorical. I don’t actually want to know why. Once again, you felt the need to go off on your own sweet way. I have now just demonstrated how it puts you
outside the team.

‘As you know, the Fire Service received an emergency call alerting us to the fire, while eyewitnesses seemed pretty certain that a teenager who had been trying to access the property had
also rung 999. Perhaps they are one and the same individual, perhaps not. It’s a pay-as-you-go mobile, and I want you to locate it.’

With that, Marks dismissed the team.

PC Wilkes was waiting to enter the briefing room just as they were all leaving. She carried an A3 manila envelope. Goodhew looked back once as he reached the end of the corridor, to see his boss
heading in the opposite direction, same envelope in hand, back to his own office.

By the time Goodhew turned the corner, the other detectives had already reached the top of the main stairs, and he followed them without attempting to catch up. He didn’t feel as though he
was being ostracized in any way; he hadn’t been in the department long enough to be
in
, never mind being back out again. Goodhew kept an expression of downcast humility all the way to
the bottom of the stairs while, moving as one, his colleagues headed out the back entrance towards their various vehicles.

Goodhew himself left by the front door, and set off on foot. And, step by step, his serious expression transformed slowly into a grin. He had little to go on, that was true: just a voice
recording, a mobile-phone number and a couple of witnesses. But he’d just realized that the teenager he and Bryn had crossed paths with on the night of the fire was the one he now sought.
That made Goodhew one of those eyewitnesses mentioned and, more importantly, he now had some idea which direction the anonymous caller had taken, and what the caller looked like.

And, to cap it all, Marks had left him alone and unsupervised. This was a chance to prove something to his boss, and Goodhew had no intention of wasting the opportunity.

It had been two hours earlier when Gully arrived at the station with Kimberly Guyver. The policewoman had pulled back out of Blossom Street just as a local news crew pulled in,
and then returned to Parkside with a young man on a small but overly loud moped in pursuit. She suspected him of being another media man, maybe a photographer, and kept checking her rear-view
mirror anxiously, not liking the way he kept so close to her back bumper. He remained on her tail until the final junction, when she turned right but he headed straight on, slaloming through the
queue of morning traffic and out of sight.

Gully felt a mix of relief and foolishness. Surplus adrenalin had begun pumping through her veins; fully charged, with no release now but to carry on pointlessly circulating until it burnt out.
She made it into the car park with a faultless imitation of composure, then delivered Kimberly to the first interview room, where press officer Bradley and another PC were already waiting.

Gully didn’t hang around for any further formalities, as the first signs of a headache were gathering around her temples. Instead she sat quietly in the staff kitchen and sipped from a mug
of hot water.

She was reboiling the kettle when DI Marks peered in. ‘Everything all right?’

She nodded. ‘Bit of a headache, nothing really.’

‘How’s your second week going?’

‘Fine, I think, sir. Kimberly Guyver’s waiting for you in the first interview room. If it’s all right, I’ll take a break, and get something to eat.’

‘You look like you could do with a couple of hours off. Any case like this has the potential of turning into more of a marathon than a sprint. No point in making yourself ill on day
one.’

Gully flushed. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I’ll be fine.’ That wasn’t true: pressure was mounting behind her right eye, and it throbbed with every word she spoke.
If it didn’t subside quickly, she’d be facing a full-blown migraine – the hereditary Achilles heel embedded in the DNA of all her father’s blood relatives. ‘I’ll
be pleased to stay with Kimberly if she decides to go back home.’

‘We’ll review that a little later.’ He opened the door and half-turned as if about to leave, then stopped. ‘Bear in mind the possibility that the mother’s somehow
involved.’

‘No. She’s distraught.’

‘Word of warning, don’t get too close.’ He held up a hand before she could object. ‘You shouldn’t have taken her to the fire scene earlier.’