The Siren (29 page)

Goodhew shuffled the papers back into a neat pile and went on the hunt for his boss.

Bev Dransfield knew nothing about either the layout of the hotel or what the protocol might be for dealing with the kid’s mother, Kimberly Guyver. Maybe she was just a
cynic but to Bev a public appeal for information usually involved wheeling out the prime suspect, shining bright lights in their eyes, and hoping they’d crack.

She had no doubt that Guyver was already somewhere in the building, and the consensus amongst the press pack seemed to be that she was currently being briefed in an office adjoining the main
conference room. Bev dismissed this, as the atmosphere amongst the reporters had become increasingly fraught. Tedious waits and last-second delays were part of their job, but so were the vocally
aggressive protests that met each explanatory announcement. Sitting within earshot of their complaints would have rattled all but the most arrogant and media-savvy parent.

And, even if the police had been that insensitive, there was no way of reaching Guyver, so Bev had to assume that she needed to look elsewhere inside the building.

The hotel didn’t look like it had more than twenty-five bedrooms, thirty at most, and all appeared to be located on the opposite side to the public areas and meeting rooms. Using one of
these bedrooms would seem to be a logical choice.

Bev approached the reception desk, where the only member of staff was smartly dressed, with the name
Stella
pinned to her lapel. The counter top was bare apart from a small and
well-polished sign announcing
SORRY, NO VACANCIES.
‘It’s running late.’ Bev jerked her head in the direction of the press scrum. ‘If it goes on much longer,
I’ll need to stay in Cambridge tonight.’

The receptionist looked sympathetic but shook her head, while she pointed to the sign. ‘I’m afraid we have nothing available.’

‘That’s right, but Detective Inspector Marks suggested I should have a word with you. He’s using one of the rooms today, and he thought I could take it for tonight.’

‘Oh, I see, let me look.’ Her fingers flashed through a routine that required hammering a rapid succession of function keys. ‘Yes, yes, it is booked until this evening but, as
long as he’s finished by then, it’s a possibility. The room will be already paid for, so he could just hand you the key.’

‘I don’t think that would be approved – too much red tape, you know.’ Bev rolled her eyes.

‘God, yes . . .’

‘That’s fine, though. I’ll come back and book it once DI Marks gives me the nod. Thanks for your help.’

Stella smiled. Another customer satisfied.

Bev turned away, then back again with what she hoped would sound like a casual afterthought. ‘It’s not on the ground, is it? I can’t get to sleep on the ground
floor.’

Stella was still smiling. ‘No, the second,’ she replied.

‘Great,’ Bev grinned and, a couple of minutes later, when she was sure no one was looking, she headed towards the stairs.

The press were gathered in the main conference room, some working on laptops, others busy with their mobiles. No matter what occupied them, it seemed they were tuned in to any
new arrival, and therefore, as one, eyed Goodhew with renewed interest. Aware of a hunger in the air, he gripped the paperwork a little tighter, just in case they sniffed the possibility that it
contained anything offering reason for further delay, and angrily shredded it on the spot.

‘DI Marks?’ he inquired of the nearest journalist, and she pointed him towards a small anteroom.

He found Marks inside, along with Liz Bradley and Bob Trent.

Marks greeted Goodhew warmly, Liz barely glanced over at him, and Bob Trent totally ignored his arrival. Liz Bradley and Trent sat facing each other across a narrow desk, while Marks stood at
one end, giving Goodhew the impression that Marks had been acting as referee. For a behavioural psychologist, Trent seemed strangely oblivious to the expression on Liz’s face, which to
Goodhew read as:
If you don’t back off, I’m going to leap across this table and rip your stupid head from your sweaty body.

No wonder Marks seemed pleased to see him.

‘Can I have a word please, sir?’

Marks nodded and said, ‘Walk with me.’ He led Goodhew across the lobby towards the bedroom accommodation. ‘I’d better go and explain the delays to Kimberly Guyver in
person, as I would think she’s becoming quite anxious by now. What have you got there, anyway?’

Goodhew offered his boss the paperwork.

Marks shook his head at the amount of it. ‘You’ve read this?’

‘Not thoroughly. It needs to be gone through in detail, but there are a couple of points worth explaining. Nick Lewton’s injuries are consistent with both Jay Andrews’ and
Rachel Golinski’s, involving significant damage to the base of the skull.’

‘The same killer? That’s interesting. What else?’

‘Police suspect that an amount of money in the region of three hundred thousand euros disappeared from the Rita Club in the months leading up to Lewton’s murder.’

Marks had taken them to the second floor, which contained fourteen rooms, seven along each side of a straight corridor. He knocked softly on the door of number 37. PC Kelly Wilkes opened it
immediately.

Goodhew’s focus was drawn beyond her to the bright rectangle of light created by a large window at the far end. Kimberly stood almost in silhouette against it and, as she spoke, her voice
sounded distant.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘I’m very sorry that we’ve been so delayed, but this isn’t unusual,’ Marks assured her. ‘We have to assess any risks that may be created in making a public
announcement of this nature, and our behavioural psychologist has expressed some concerns.’

‘Such as?’

‘He fears that a public announcement could push Stefan Golinski towards a violent outcome.’

Kimberly finally took a few steps towards them. Goodhew thought she looked thinner, like the stress was deflating her from the inside. ‘If he killed Rachel, he’s already
dangerous.’ She stared down at the stretch of floor between them. Even her voice sounded more frail but the fear in it was still palpable.

‘We’ve received information from the Spanish police relating to Nick Lewton’s death.’

Marks paused, and Kimberly waited. Just the fingers of one hand moved, and they curled into a loose fist that she drew close to her stomach.

‘The post-mortem shows that he died from a severe head injury.’

She raised her head and shot a startled glance at each of them in turn. ‘In the crash?’

‘When the car was dumped, he was already dead. We believe he was kicked to death before that.’

There was a long pause then, and Goodhew realized that they had not even stepped into the room, and Kimberly had not yet come anywhere close to the door. It was an image that would stay with
him, a depiction of her isolation and their inability to save her from it. She stepped back towards the window, and dissolved into her own silhouette.

Although no question had yet been asked of her, they all seemed to be waiting for her to reply.

‘You want my blessing, don’t you?’

‘Not blessing, exactly. But I feel that abandoning this press conference will not help us find Stefan Golinski, and until we find him we may not know the whereabouts of your
son.’

‘This appeal for information,’ her voice had suddenly regained its strength, ‘it must go ahead. It’s imperative.’

Marks gave a small nod, ‘Thank you.’ He turned to address PC Wilkes. ‘I’ll send someone up to fetch you both’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘assume
twenty past.’

PC Sue Gully waited in the foyer of the Parkside Hotel and tried to remain patient.

The envelope in her hands contained records of the calls and texts made from the mobile phone owned by Mikey Slater.

Marks had been waiting for these since the night of the fire, and she failed to understand why communications companies involved had taken so long to hand them over. Despite having the rules
regarding privacy explained to her on more than one occasion, it still baffled her why there were so many bureaucratic hoops to jump through just to see details that any member of their staff,
however unreliable, could probably access instantly.

The pages had arrived by courier and, since all the other officers working on the investigation were occupied outside the station somewhere, she herself had signed for the envelope. She tried to
deliver it to Goodhew but even he had gone, leaving a tearful Mel in his wake.

She’d decided that taking an initial peep was nothing more than showing initiative.

She emptied it out on a desk top, and smiled as she ran her finger down the list of dates and times. This was a document that deserved to go into a time capsule as a record of the social habits
of the British teenager circa early twenty-first century. A ratio of at least ten texts for each phone call made, few before ten in the morning and most sent after eight in the evening.

Her gaze had run down the various numbers, all to other mobiles or local Cambridge calls, her finger stopping at ‘999’. The detail read

'CALL CONNECTED – EMERGENCY SERVICES.’

That should have been the only familiar number except, as she’d glimpsed the line below, she could see it wasn’t. Her eyes widened as they picked it out again and again. It was
Kimberly Guyver’s home telephone number.

Gully pulled out her notebook and checked Kimberly’s mobile number. It, too, was on the list, and even more frequently than the home number.

She looked back to the minutes after the 999 call and saw it there too, along with a third number. This was a Cambridge landline, and the final four digits were a memorable ‘0101’.
She returned to the pages of her notebook. She had definitely heard it before.

Nothing in the notebook.

In the end she dialled it.

On the fifth ring it was answered. ‘Hello?’

It was Anita McVey’s voice and she sounded nervous.

‘I’m so sorry, wrong number.’ Gully replaced the handset and realized that her own voice had trembled too.

Yes, she’d sensed there was something about Kimberly Guyver, but her foster mother too?

The idea unsettled her.

She had failed to reach Marks by radio, so she’d hurried from her desk and driven the short distance to the hotel, with the blue light flashing. As she saw the TV vans and the cram of
parked vehicles, she felt her conviction weaken. If she was about to make a fool of herself it would be hard to find a larger or more embarrassing audience. Perhaps she’d overlooked
something, misread the detail in some way, and now Marks would dismiss her findings as a waste of his time.

She brushed these reservations away. This
was
a vital lead.

And if Marks was too busy to see her, she’d find Goodhew and ask him to take it to their DI. Gut feeling told her that he would oblige.

She found only Kincaide.

‘I’m looking for Goodhew.’

‘He’s here somewhere. I saw him go off with DI Marks.’

‘But you don’t know where?’

‘Nope, but considering the stress level in there . . .’ Kincaide jerked his thumb towards the main conference room, ‘I wouldn’t bother Marks unless it’s really
urgent.’ His hungry gaze fell on the envelope. ‘Do you want me to take that in for them?’

Gully shook her head and replied ‘No’ a little too sharply. ‘This is mine. I just needed a word with him.’

Kincaide shrugged unhelpfully. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Now she waited in the foyer, clutching the inconspicuous business envelope that potentially held so much. She would deliver it personally either to Marks or Goodhew, but no one else. It had to
be passed into safe hands.

The realization sank in.

Despite his secrets and despite her doubts about Goodhew, she suddenly knew that he wouldn’t let her down.

Anita McVey had locked all the external doors and double-checked the window locks, at teatime the previous day. Mikey had dropped off two bags of groceries but, apart from
opening it enough for him to pass them inside the house, the front door had remained firmly sealed.

Anita was now thankful she’d spent extra on the security, imagining at the time that the worst she’d have to repel would be undesirable teenagers. And, of course, they would have
been bad enough.

She’d gone to bed early the night before, but watched television into the small hours, scanning the Teletext and all the local channels, penduluming between searching for the latest news
and seeking any kind of diversion. When the TV schedules had dwindled to a choice between phone-in competitions, world news headlines or reruns of murder dramas, she switched it off. Then she lay
in the dark staring into the speckled blackness, wondering why she hadn’t called a halt to it when Kimberly had begged her to. Dawn had broken sometime around 5 a.m. and Anita was sure
she’d had no sleep. The skin around her eyes felt bruised and her mouth tasted sour, but, most of all, the sleeplessness was adding to her rising sense of panic.

She switched on the TV in her bedroom, keeping the volume just loud enough so she could still hear it, and stop to listen if the local news team began to report anything relevant. She tried to
tidy up the room but after an hour was sure she’d made no progress.

She wanted to call the police but instead decided to stay upstairs and as isolated from the real world as possible.

The landing at Viva Cottage was nearly wide enough to warrant boxing it off at one end and calling it a study. Anita preferred it as it stood though: an airy space with a large picture window
overlooking the front garden. It was there that she always chose to do the ironing, and now sorted a basket of her most crumpled clothes and set up the board facing the only item of furniture on
the landing.

That was Kimberly’s favourite seat, an early Victorian rosewood nursing chair, or at least that’s what the label in the Antiques Barn had said. She wouldn’t have guessed so in
a million years. It sat low to the ground, with a high back, a deep seat and no arms, and she couldn’t help thinking how plenty of new mums must have slid off it to either side, and found
themselves an exhausted heap on the floor.