The Siren (21 page)

‘I think you should consider the priorities here.’

She didn’t like his tone. Literally didn’t. It had turned all serious and superior, and he’d only just started to speak. She wondered what was to come.

‘Kimberly Guyver is traumatized,’ he continued. ‘Her best friend has been murdered and her son is missing. Yet you seem to be sulking because our DI has decided that the most
appropriate use of your time is doing something that’s not as high-profile or as important as you would like.’

‘No, actually, I’m not sulking, and I’m not so stupid that I don’t realize that this job involves plenty of mundane tasks.’ She said
mundane
like it was a
dirty word. She paused until he opened his mouth to reply, then spoke right over the top of him. ‘I just think it’s a pity that a fully fledged DC needs a chaperone.’

She checked his expression and was satisfied to note that he looked appropriately stung.

‘Who gave you that idea?’

‘What do you want me to say? Kincaide? I’m not giving you further ammunition for your petty war with him. I have eyes, and I have a brain. Out of the blue, you need someone to drive
you, and the best you’ve got is you feel a bit tired? Please.’

They were inching past the first Mill Road shops, and Goodhew was now making a point of looking beyond her. He opened his mouth to say something, but looked too pissed off to form a sentence. He
was obviously one of those blokes who gave up part-way through a row, then spent a couple of days brooding in a moody silence.

And he’d accused her of sulking.

In her opinion, an argument needed a clear start, a middle and an end. She was just considering goading him into round two when, without warning, his hand slapped down on the dashboard like it
was a driving test. ‘Stop!’

She hit the brake and he was out of the car and running through the traffic before the word ‘What?’ had even time to leave her lips.

Ahead of him a teenager had taken flight.

Gully pulled over to the kerb, then changed her mind. Instead, she switched on the siren and forced her car through the queue. Traffic ahead of her cleared a path with increasing efficiency, and
by the time she’d crossed the first junction she could see she had a clear run.

What she couldn’t now see was either Goodhew or his quarry.

She pulled over and let the siren die.

Goodhew had run off damned fast for someone feeling too tired to drive.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Goodhew wasn’t finding his car trip with Gully much fun at all. He reminded himself that there were always two sides. Always two, and sometimes more. And Goodhew was
stumbling across a lot of things on Gully’s side that appeared to be symptoms of her choosing to believe the worst about him.

Marks had updated Kimberly Guyver and told her that Gully would be deployed elsewhere for the morning. Kimberly had immediately expressed her appreciation for the support Gully had already given
her.

Marks could have told Gully that himself; maybe if he’d said it at the briefing, it would have diffused her embarrassment and left her in a happier place than her current one. Or maybe
Marks had decided it was time Gully’s skin thickened up a little.

The bottom line was that Marks had intended passing on the compliment via Goodhew, but Gully had leapt to the assumption that they were Goodhew’s own words: a consolatory pat on the head
delivered as a result of his ‘inappropriate behaviour with the witness’.

The verbal exchanges between them were growing increasingly snappy. As far as Goodhew could work out, Gully’s skin was more than thick enough already, and now she was accusing him of
needing a chaperone.

Goodhew turned his attention to the other people on the pavements. Most were alone, most would be silent. Lucky them. He couldn’t see one other person getting an earful.

It was strange how looking for one thing often led to spotting the thing it had previously been impossible to find. Like the teenager talking on the mobile, twenty yards ahead.

With hindsight, Goodhew would wonder why he hadn’t just slipped up behind the lad and quietly taken him to one side. He concluded that it was probably childish to consider whether the
irritating conversation in the car was directly proportional to the speed of his exiting the vehicle.

He had whacked the dashboard, and was out on the road before it was fully stationary.

The kid looked over his shoulder when he heard the door slamming. Goodhew dashed forward. ‘Stop,’ he yelled. It was all that Mobile Boy needed to galvanize him into a sprint.

Mobile’s legs were long and the lollopy walk had morphed into the kind of strides that quickly swallowed the ground.

The kid had a good lead: twenty yards plus another ten that Goodhew had lost by crossing through the traffic.

Mobile was fast and darted away between the pedestrians. His reflexes were keen and he zigzagged easily round A-boards and waste bins.

Goodhew left the pavement, sprinting along the narrow gap between the kerb and the traffic. Mobile was still widening the distance.

Goodhew pushed himself faster. All he had to do was keep pace. Mobile was quick, but he couldn’t go on running forever.

There was a right turn coming up, and Mobile glanced back. The approaching corner was busy with people and traffic. Goodhew couldn’t risk losing sight of him if he made a turn first.
Goodhew cut across, charging through the shoppers, following the most direct angle towards the corner.

Suddenly Mobile darted the other way, switching out into the flow of traffic, forcing Goodhew to brake before angling back towards the roadway. Goodhew’s foot clipped a metal sandwich
board, leaving its tubular frame clattering on the pavement. He stumbled briefly, but kept his balance and continued to run.

Mobile was now on the opposite pavement.

Goodhew ran towards him, then halfway over the road he changed his mind and sprinted along the white line until he’d made up ground again.

Ahead rose the carcass of the old Locomotive pub. Sudden instinct told Goodhew that Mobile would take the wide driveway running beside it, leading to Mill Road Cemetery.

Goodhew stayed in the centre of the road, since it would give him more space to make the turn, and he could see that Mobile was getting slower now.

Mobile looked back as he neared the alley, then darted left just as he reached the entrance. Then Goodhew accelerated, across the traffic and towards the same opening. He knew the driveway well:
a long avenue of trees and thick shrubs, with no way out until further along.

Mobile was two-thirds of the way down, his strides becoming less regular, more weary. His flash trainers seemed to have downgraded themselves from running shoes to jogging weights.

By the short pathway leading into the graveyard, Goodhew got close enough to make a grab at the boy, and brought him down. They landed in a heavy heap amongst the long grass and thick nettles by
the boundary wall.

Goodhew stood up and pulled Mobile back on to his feet.

‘OK?’ he asked.

Mobile scowled. ‘I better not have any dog shit on me,’ he panted.

He had a point, but the grass looked clear and they’d both escaped with nothing more than a few grass stains. ‘You’re fine. Might’ve been easier if you hadn’t run
away, eh?’

Mobile scowled. ‘You ain’t even panting.’

Goodhew fished a small notebook out of his back pocket and his phone from the front of his jeans. He showed his ID. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Why?’

‘There was a fire two nights ago in Gwydir Street. I’ve been trying to track down the person who made the 999 call. Fits your description.’

Mobile shifted his weight from foot to foot, and for a moment Goodhew wondered if they were about to have a rematch. But, as the boy was still puffing, Goodhew didn’t feel too worried.

‘Not me, mate.’

Goodhew nodded. ‘Fair enough, I’ll take your details and get them to cross you off the list.’ He opened up his mobile. ‘I’ll phone my boss now.’ He found the
number and pressed ‘call’. It took about three seconds for the phone in Mobile’s hand to start playing a distorted version of some kind of techno-anthem.

Their eyes met and Goodhew knew that Mobile would have tried another runner if his legs hadn’t been so far beyond co-operating.

‘What’s the problem?’ he pressed.

Mobile shrugged. ‘Didn’t want to get involved.’

‘Because . . .?’

Mobile pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged again. And again he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Goodhew pulled a face that said he was capable of patiently waiting through as many renditions of the fidgeting routine as it might take.

Mobile’s attention span was pretty short, however, and it took less than ten seconds for him to start talking. ‘I just know what it’s like, right. You want to ask some
questions. Did I see anything? No. Do I know anything? No. Then you want a statement, and I’ll be down the cop shop for two or three hours telling you a-
gain
that I don’t know
nuthin’. Then I’ll probably have to go to court, sit around for hours just so I can tell everyone a-gain that all I did was see the house on fire and ring 999 like anybody else
would.’

‘Witnesses have said you seemed to think there was someone inside the house?’

‘No, I thought there might be.’

‘You banged on the door and shouted, “Rachel”.’

‘Fucking didn’t.’

‘So you don’t know the people that lived there?’

Mobile did a quick burst of shrug-and-shuffle. ‘Right,’ he said.

Goodhew drew a slow, deep breath. ‘We’ll start from the top then. Name first?’

Mobile sighed too. ‘Mikey Slater.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘14 June ’94.’

It was the first time Goodhew could remember being ten years older than anyone resembling an adult. Obviously, Mikey was still a kid but he could have passed for eighteen or nineteen, so it
counted – kind of. Goodhew ignored the urge to say ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ or something equally lame. He took down Mikey’s address and double-checked it via
Parkside. Mikey lived with his mum in a flat on Devonshire Road, behind Raj’s shop and in the direction of the railway station. Not closer to the town centre, as Raj had assumed. It was a
minor inconsistency.

‘So what brings you through here?’

‘I cut through here for town, sometimes. If I go to the cinema, or in the Grafton Centre to meet my mates.’

‘What about today?’

‘What about it?’

It was Goodhew’s turn to fidget. ‘Is there some unwritten rule that says you need to make every single question as much work for me as possible?’

‘Dunno what you mean.’

‘There’s a surprise. I’m actually trying to help locate the child that has been missing since that fire. You obviously possess some sense of responsibility, or you
wouldn’t have called the fire brigade in the first place, so please just start by explaining why you chose to come in here today?’

‘All right, all right. I was just walking home from my mate’s house when you started chasing me. That’s the only reason. I thought I had a better chance of losing
you.’

‘And on the night of the fire?’

‘I’d been in town.’

‘With?’

Mikey reeled off a couple of names, no phone numbers, no addresses. He held eye contact much too long, so Goodhew was certain neither would check out. Goodhew didn’t push it, however.

He glanced at his watch, realized time wasn’t on his side. He wasn’t keen to let Mikey just walk away, since there was always a chance that he’d just vanish. The small
inconsistencies were the most telling; only the most accomplished liars had their answers ready for the minor questions. Mikey was a liar, but not much of one.

Goodhew was certain the boy was neither a killer nor a kidnapper, so he asked him a few more routine questions, then decided to let him go. ‘But you’ll need to make a
statement.’

‘Fair enough.’ Mikey had his hands in his pockets and twisted his upper body in the direction of the main gate, ready to go as soon as Goodhew was ready to let him.

But Goodhew had one more question, which he’d kept back until the last moment; a final barometer reading to assess Mikey’s honesty. ‘Oh, and I meant to ask, what’s your
other reason for coming here?’

Goodhew’s tone was deliberately casual, and when Mikey had first turned back towards him he clearly expected to need only an equally casual answer. One look at Goodhew told him otherwise,
and for once in their brief relationship, Mikey didn’t move. Hopefully he had sensed that this question was far more loaded than the previous ones.

He hesitated. ‘What makes you think I do?’

Goodhew took a turn at shrugging, ‘We recovered a cap here. DNA will confirm if it’s yours, I guess. I wondered how you lost it?’

‘Fucking unreal.’

Goodhew decided this was a compliment. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘You ain’t dumb, are you?’ Mikey shook his head. ‘I’ve gotta brother, five years older than me, he is. I heard he goes in there.’ Mikey turned and pointed
along the East Road side of the perimeter wall, then made his pointing gesture bigger and deeper. ‘You know, right in there.’

Goodhew nodded.

‘Mum’s not well, and I thought he might want to know.’

‘Did you find him?’

Mikey shook his head. ‘Not yet – probably a waste of time. Haven’t actually seen him since I was at junior school.’

‘Thanks for your help.’ Goodhew put the notebook back in his pocket, but Mikey kept talking.

‘It’s drugs, innit? He’s addicted.’ He was looking at Goodhew with new interest, as though he’d suddenly decided that Goodhew might have some answers.

Goodhew passed him his card. ‘I’ll be in touch to take a proper statement from you. If you think of anything else that might be important, ring me straight away, OK?’

Mikey looked disappointed but still nodded.

‘Tell me about your brother then, and I’ll see if there’s anything we can do.’

‘Appreciated.’

‘Where are you going now?’

‘Home. No chance of getting my hat back, is there?’

They made their way out through the same exit, walking in silence along the avenue of trees leading back to Mill Road. Mikey gradually lengthened his stride, till he put a gap of about ten feet
between himself and Goodhew.