The Siren (14 page)

As he returned to work, the envelope in his pocket weighed surprisingly little, but her earlier words kept bothering him. What was it about Kimberly Guyver that was drawing him in? And how would
his grandmother know?

Michael Kincaide had driven away from Parkside Police Station preoccupied by the suspicion that he’d ended up with the short straw somehow, while Goodhew had been handed
a comparative gem. He decided to skip lunch, thinking that perhaps if he got back promptly, Marks would give him something more challenging to tackle.

Hinton bloody Avenue nursing home?

It was less than a mile from Kincaide’s home and he’d often seen their minibus driving through the area. It had wheelchair-lifting gear on the back and as many staff as patients
inside, and he didn’t know why but something about it made him feel uncomfortable. No doubt the whole community-care initiative had a lot going for it, but that did seem like a whole lot on
running around when it was basically a hospital ward in all but name.

Hinton Avenue was a wide road of 1930s bay-fronted houses, of which the nursing home was the most impressive and sat on a plot easily twice as large as its neighbours. He parked up, and showed
his badge to a young Filipino nurse. She asked him to wait but didn’t hurry off to fetch anyone. The reception area was nothing more than a couple of wing chairs placed in a wider part of the
corridor.

Standing at one end gave him a view of the patients’ lounge. ‘Which one is Jay Andrews?’ he inquired.

‘Over in the corner.’

Jay sat in a high, padded hospital chair that tilted back at a 45-degree angle. His body slumped over to one side and his head tipped back further still. He was grinning, slack-jawed and
vacant.

‘He can’t speak, then?’

‘Oh, no.’ She looked apologetic. ‘You can chat to him, though.

Go over and introduce yourself. He’s always pleased to have a visitor. Would you like me to find the manager for you now?’

‘Thank you.’

Kincaide moved closer and watched Jay Andrews for the next few minutes, realizing there was little point in attempting an introduction. Kincaide wouldn’t have known what to say anyway, and
he wasn’t going to risk the embarrassment of being seen talking to himself. One thing was clear: Kimberly Guyver had been telling the truth. Eventually he retreated towards the door.

‘Detective?’ he turned to see a stocky woman with a man’s haircut. She held out her hand. ‘Amanda Tebbutt. You’re here about Jay’s missing son?’

‘That’s right. Was he a regular visitor?’

‘Of course. Kimberly used to visit when she was pregnant, then she brought the baby in after he was born, and at least once a week ever since.’

Kimberly Guyver’s story clearly checked out: the dates, her visits, all of it. He double-checked some of the detail, and finally Amanda Tebbutt invited him to go through. ‘You can
talk to him,’ she confirmed.

‘But he can’t talk to me?’

‘That’s right, but Jay has some eye movement.’

Kincaide declined, deciding he’d seen enough.

DI Marks had spent the rest of his working day in the morgue at Addenbrooke’s Hospital.

If Sykes had been anything but a pathologist, his precise and deliberate way of enunciating words and constructing sentences wouldn’t have held Marks’ attention quite so readily. But
somehow when Sykes was ready to speak, Marks was always ready to listen.

As Marks entered the laboratory, Sykes was opening a drawer in the mortuary refrigerator. He was short and of dainty build, and nodded Marks a greeting from the other side of an obese male
cadaver. ‘Clearly it’s not this one you’re after,’ he said, coming as close to making a joke as Marks could remember. Sykes slid the drawer closed, and gripped the handle of
one two columns back, then one row down. ‘Do you need to look?’

‘
You
tell me?’

‘Only if you’re interested. My report will be sufficient.’

‘Fine by me.’

Sykes had a thick folder ready waiting on one end of the stainless-steel slab. He let the contents slide out into his hands, then set them neatly in a square pile. ‘I suppose you’re
going to want the usual concise version?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘The fire didn’t kill her – no burning to the throat, no smoke evident in the lungs.’

He extracted the first photograph, Marks narrowed his eyes, trying to blur the image enough to pick out the basic shape of her features. After a moment, he gave up and concentrated on an area of
skin that Sykes was pointing out. ‘On television this damage is always exaggerated: the skin trauma is rarely more severe than this here, unless of course there’s an accelerant
involved. If the aim was to disguise the cause of death, it was a bad tactic; particularly in a case such as this. A person with good muscle tone burns far less readily than one with a high
percentage of body fat.’

‘But you know the cause of death?’

‘Let’s start with the time of death. The fire investigators will be able to give you a better idea of how long it would have taken the building to burn, but off the record I think
it’s almost certain that accelerants were used, so it may have been on fire for a relatively short time before the alarm was raised. Here’s the bad news: the time of death was sometime
before then, and sometime shortly after Rachel Golinski was last seen alive.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Pretty much. I can’t make estimates about the degree the body has cooled, but if you can be sure of what and when she last ate, I may be able to calculate something from the
progress of the food through her digestive tract. Sykes reached for another photograph. ‘This may interest you more.’

It was a skull X-ray.

‘She has two teeth missing from the lower left side of her jaw. Look at the same area in the photograph and you can spot a small cut on her lip.’

Marks peered at the photograph again, and thought he could pick it out.

‘She wasn’t alive for long enough after that for a swelling to appear. Now look again at the X-ray.’ Sykes drew his pointing finger across the base of the skull. ‘From
here to here there is a large cavity at the back of the head, so it appears likely that she was shot in the head, and this is the exit wound. As far as I can see there are no other
injuries.’

‘You’ve run toxicology tests?’

Sykes tapped the pile of pages. ‘It’s all in there: not many results in yet but a full list of every test I ran, and why. The teeth were dislodged by a single blow, the angle of
which was slightly upwards, its momentum and force sufficient to knock her to the floor or stun her. It’s consistent with a punch. She then suffered the second injury.’

‘Why in that order?’ Marks realized the stupidity of his question as he said it.

Sykes rewarded him with raised eyebrows and an extremely patient reply. ‘For two reasons. Firstly, a shot to the face that leaves a saucer-sized hole in the back of the head is very likely
to be fatal. Secondly, unless she somehow remained standing for several seconds after her demise, I’m sure delivering an upwards punch would have been a very tricky feat.’

Sykes tapped the X-rays and photographs into a neat stack, and slid them back into a buff folder which he dropped loudly on to the dissection table.

Marks put his hand on the file. ‘This is for me?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And you’ll let me know as soon as anything else shows up?’

Sykes nodded. ‘Two prints and an enlargement?’ Today he was being positively hilarious.

NINETEEN

Marks wasn’t at Parkside: in fact everyone seemed to be out of the building. Goodhew decided to follow suit, phoned Bryn, and ten minutes later arrived at his workshop.
Bryn’s Zodiac was parked between the open doors, there were no other cars around and Bryn had the look of someone who’d started winding down several hours earlier.

He was sitting astride a Harley Softtail, while pretending to rev the engine and steer.

‘You’re not ten, Bryn.’

Bryn ginned and sat back in the leather seat. ‘My dad’s banned me from even sitting on it.’

‘You
are
ten! Does this mean the end of your love affair with the Zodiac?’

‘No, it’s just a quick fling. It belongs to my dad’s mate, Kevin. We’re keeping it safe here while he’s on holiday.’

‘Are you up for that pint we missed the other night? I thought we could walk down Gwydir Street.’

‘Pick up where we left off?’ Bryn dismounted the bike. ‘Sure.’

Less than ten minutes later they sat in the beer garden of the Cambridge Blue. Gary had bought the first round, a pint for Bryn and a Coke for himself.

The table stood at a ninety-degree angle to the rear wall. Gary wasn’t saying much so far, and at first Bryn wondered whether the burnt-out house nearby was preying on his friend’s
mind.

Then Bryn noticed Gary’s untouched glass. ‘Of all the pubs to choose, funny how we end up in the only one that overlooks the cemetery.’

Gary dragged his attention away from the deepening shadows on the other side of the wall. ‘Of all the pubs in all the world . . .’

‘Yeah, yeah. Who are you looking out for?’

‘No one,’ Gary replied.

‘Bullshit,’ Bryn whispered. ‘I know you’re on duty, and you know I know – and there’s no one else here to convince. So is this
no one
male or
female?’

‘Why?’

‘Just making conversation.’

That was the last sentence spoken for several more minutes, though they both turned their chairs so they were positioned at a better angle to see the cemetery.’

‘Male actually,’ Gary said finally.

‘Young, old?’

‘Teenage.’

‘Junkie?’

‘Possibly, no idea. Why d’you suggest that?’

‘Couple of lads presently heading for Crack Corner, over there.’

‘No, not them.’

‘So you know who you’re looking for?’

‘That’s what I’m hoping. Actually,’ Gary turned so he could watch Bryn’s expression as he spoke, in case his words resonated, ‘I think we both saw him. When
we were running down Gwydir Street the other night, you know, towards the fire, there was a teenager coming the other way.’

Bryn’s mind was blank, and he guessed his expression matched, because Gary now tried describing the precise moment in several different ways. He wondered how anyone could ever remember
this kind of detail. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ he confessed at last. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it. It was a long shot.’

Bryn was about to add some quip about his own lack of observation, but instead he blurted out, ‘Riley Guyver’s mum is climbing over her own back wall.’

Gary was on his feet in a moment. ‘Funny how
you
can spot the women every time,’ he muttered. By the time Bryn decided to follow, Gary was already over the nearby wall.

Kimberly had tied her hair into a ponytail. As disguises went it wasn’t anything much, but she had noticed how the media only seemed to be using photographs where her
hair hung loose. Her plan for avoiding detection involved slipping out of her bedroom window, across the flat roof and over the wall into the cemetery, then making it as far as the nearest exit,
without being spotted. Once she was safely in the city, she doubted anyone would look twice.

East Road was ever busy, so she hung back until there was a decent gap in the traffic, then sprinted across and kept running. Up the pedestrianized Burleigh Street and through Fitzroy Street,
slowing only to catch her breath as she passed along the deserted New Square footpath that took her towards the open greens of Christ’s Pieces. She wore jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, making
her look like just another runner. As soon as she thought she could make it the rest of the way without taking another breather, she bolted again, her strides lengthening across the close-cropped
lawns, and it seemed just a matter of seconds before she was dashing over the cobbles of St Andrew’s Street.

It was good that she’d kept fit. Normally running just made her feel liberated but today that training would also allow her to arrive at the Celeste without feeling dishevelled or burnt
out.

As she strode through the entrance, the doormen stepped quickly aside. Jodi glanced up in surprise, but Kimberly didn’t even slow. ‘Tell Craig I’m coming up,’ she
ordered. She took the stairs at a run.

Her employment at the Celeste had been brief but the familiar smell of spilt alcohol and stale bodies hit her hard. But, then, what was the Celeste but an extension of her time out in Spain? The
Celeste had brought her home, and had seen the last days of a role she’d briefly played.

Outside Craig’s office, she raised her fist to bang on the door but it opened straight away. She followed him through to the back. He still had the plastic table and chairs.

He offered her one. ‘Classy, I know.’ He didn’t smile.

‘I’m fine.’ She looked at him and wondered what she’d been expecting, and why he thought she’d come here.

‘I’m sorry about Rache.’

She dipped her head in agreement. ‘Me too.’

‘And Riley.’

Without any warning, Kimberly found herself fighting tears. She didn’t want to cry any more, but for a moment there was an awkward pause.

Craig pulled one of the chairs closer to them. ‘If you sit, I’ll sit.’

She managed to thank him.

‘You know me, ever the practical one.’ He looked too big for his chair, like the average adult on a kid-size seat. ‘Which is why I finally threatened to call the police.
I’d had enough of Stefan.’

‘So why didn’t you?’ she asked.

‘One last chance, I suppose. You know how it is.’

She ignored the comment. ‘Tamsin came.’

‘To see you?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘No, not on club business, then? I guess it was about Nick.’

‘So you saw the news?’

‘I didn’t need to. Dougie rang when they first found the sunken car. It was long odds that it was going to be anyone else.’

‘Guess so.’

‘I’m glad they found him. It’s better for everyone, especially his family, but you too, Kim. It ends all that speculation. It was unhealthy.’

‘I know. I’m sure it’s been really tough for them.’

Talking to Craig made Nick seem real again. She didn’t know why, maybe it was because she’d seen Craig and Nick together every day she’d worked at the Rita Club, so just
talking to Craig made it seem as though Nick could come walking through the door at any moment. Complaining about the staff, or the customers, or his family, or the money. ‘You’re
right, it is the not knowing.’ Kimberly knew she was ready to say what she’d come to say. ‘In fact that’s why I’ve come, sort of. I don’t want anything hanging
over me.’