The Siren (7 page)

‘You’re Mule?’

‘Yeah, and you’re the police, right?’ He had a distinct New Zealand accent. ‘I
told him
not to bother.’

‘Who?’

‘Our boss, Craig.’ Mule’s right eye looked like it hadn’t finished swelling.

‘Craig what?’ Kincaide had his notebook out already.

‘Tennison.’

‘And your full name?’

‘Mule.’

Kincaide was about to demand more details, but Goodhew cut in, ‘You should get it looked at.’

‘No point.’

‘Well, an ice pack at least.’

‘Gary,’ Kincaide spoke in a voice that he might save for a small and annoying nephew, ‘if he needs medical help, I’m sure he can get a lift to Addenbrooke’s.’
Then back to Mule. ‘Stefan Golinski did this?’ he asked.

Mule nodded. Goodhew kept quiet.

‘Why did he hit you?’

‘Jealous – thought I was shagging his wife.’

‘Were you?’

‘No, not this time.’

‘So, you previously had a sexual relationship with Mrs Golinski?’

‘No, I mean this time it wasn’t
his
wife. I’m seeing someone who’s married, and the bloke doesn’t know. Point is, I’m not seeing Rachel Golinski
– never was, never would. Rachel and I are friends, but Stefan just doesn’t get it. He thinks she should just look into his eyes and need nothing else from life, if you know what I
mean.’

‘So where is he now?’

‘How should I know? He’s not here in the building, that’s for sure. Took off in a rage. Ask Craig – he knows what Stefan’s like, and might know where he goes to
cool off. I didn’t touch her, though, but Stefan couldn’t accept that, it was like he’d already decided what the truth was, and wouldn’t listen to anything else.’ Mule
tried to make some kind of facial expression of resignation, but it ended in a wince. ‘Look, why not just talk to Craig.’

They left Mule in his kitchen, clutching the bread knife and resolutely slicing open more hot-dogs rolls. Following his directions, they located a plain door set in the wall opposite the
bar.

It had a code-operated lock but no buzzer, then again, no one could have been expected to hear it over the constant, pumping music. Goodhew scanned the room for assistance, but he needn’t
have bothered. Kincaide dug him in the arm and he turned to see the door had already been opened by a man he immediately took to be another doorman. This one was slightly less imposing than the
first two, if only because he actually smiled.

‘We’re looking for Stefan Golinski.’

‘Come on through.’

There was nothing plush about the area they entered beyond the door. Overhead the ceiling was bare concrete, with air-conditioning pipes running along each RSJ, and a single naked bulb hanging
from a wire cord in the centre of the room. The furnishing was equally sparse, just a few stacking chairs deposited around a moulded plastic table, and he quickly led them past these towards the
rear of the room, where a lightweight wall partitioned off a small area that housed a desk, a PC and a couple more chairs. It was only then that they realized they’d just met the manager.

‘Plush, eh?’ he said.

They introduced themselves.

‘Craig Tennison,’ he announced, and shook hands with each of them in turn. He was aged around the forty mark, with the look of a man who was still too fit to turn to fat but also too
laid-back now to keep it all as toned as it had once been. ‘Solid’ would be a fair description.

He perched on the edge of the desk and offered them the chairs. ‘Did Mule call you? I know he’s a bit knocked around, but I’d be happier if he dealt with it outside working
hours. It doesn’t help the business to have the police turning up every five minutes.’

‘Every five minutes?’ Kincaide queried.

‘Just a figure of speech. We don’t have much trouble but we don’t want it either.’

‘Tell me, did anyone witness this assault on Mule?’

‘I caught the tail end of it.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘About eight, I guess.’ He paused to think. ‘Yeah, that must be about right.’

‘Then what?’

‘Stefan stormed out.’

From where he sat, Goodhew could only see the back of the PC, but he could hear it whirring quietly and was prompted to speak for the first time. ‘You have CCTV here?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Digital?’

‘Yes, of course. There’s no risk of forgetting to put a fresh tape in these days, so it’s all there. I think you’ll see Stefan storming out, but not the fight itself.
That kicked off once Mule went in the storeroom.’

‘And then you walked in on it?’

‘Yeah, I’d been looking for Stefan, wanted to know why he wasn’t manning either of the doors. He seemed wound up when he started work – has a knack of creating this kind
of tension in the atmosphere. So, anyway, I pushed open the storeroom door just as a load of boxes came crashing down on top of Mule. Then Stefan barged past me . . . and I shouted after him,
warned him that if he disappeared this time, his job wouldn’t be waiting for him when he got back.’

‘Is he usually so volatile?’

‘Not really. For as long as I’ve known him he’s had a temper, but today was in a whole different league. I went as far as running after him, caught up with him, but he
wouldn’t tell me where he was going . . . which brings me back to my original question – did Mule call you?’

‘No, he didn’t. He might be in need of medical attention, by the way.’

Kincaide smirked. ‘Excuse my DC, but he seems to want to play doctors and nurses today. But we’re not here in relation to that incident. There’s been a serious fire at
Golinski’s home address, and we need to discover the whereabouts of both him and his wife Rachel.’

Tennison looked startled. ‘But they’re not there, right?’

Goodhew had shut his mouth after his colleague’s latest sarcasm, and intended to let Kincaide do the rest of the talking. For now anyway.

‘At present we don’t know precisely where they are.’

Tennison seemed to take a few seconds to grasp the implication. ‘Did Stefan raise the alarm?’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘I don’t actually think anything. If he had raised the alarm, then it would prove that he’d been home. But chances are he’s letting off steam somewhere. So why did you
ask all those other questions?’

‘Because understanding his current frame of mind may prove crucial.’

Tennison stared at the floor, concentrating. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said finally, as he looked up again, his expression more determined. ‘Stefan’s a hard bloke.
He can be a nutter, a bastard even – but never to her. When she was around, he was as soft as shit. If you’re thinking that he’s lost it with her, well . . .’ He drew a
breath and wagged his index finger. ‘I can’t see him hurting her, no matter what the provocation. But that’s just my opinion, of course -just my own opinion.’

ELEVEN

Back out in the street, Goodhew noticed their joint reflections in a window. He could identify the pair of them like they were part of an old snapshot: familiar faces but made
easier to read given the opportunity to view them in detachment. Perhaps that was all hindsight really was: the chance to see clearly what was originally clouded by the emotion of the moment,
rather than anything to do with the passage of time. He still felt his irritation at Kincaide: it kept crawling under his skin and it was hard not to scratch it. But in the window he saw the visual
confirmation of his own tenseness and Kincaide’s insouciance, the latter too self-aware to be genuine.

What was the point of pretending that Kincaide wasn’t deliberately pushing his buttons, when they both knew the score? ‘I’m not your DC,’ he said flatly.

‘In theory, but who would ever guess?’ Kincaide grinned lazily. ‘We got off on the wrong foot, right?’

‘And I was trying to –’

‘I haven’t finished. I know what you were trying to do – find some way we can have a –’ he paused to make the quote signs in the air ‘– healthy working
relationship. There’s nothing in that for me, Gary. Watching you flail around isn’t weighing on my conscience, and the last thing I want is you getting chummy with me and starting to
think that you can poke your nose into my private life, too.’

‘Your home life has nothing to do with me.’

‘Yeah, right, so when I have a crack at the new WPC, you’re not going to automatically run to the nearest patch of moral high ground? I don’t think so.’

‘I’m sure she can take care of herself.’

‘And Mel couldn’t?’ Kincaide spat out Mel’s name so it hit Goodhew like a slap in the face.

They’d stopped beside their car, standing square on to each other, neither of them even aware of who might have been passing by.

‘So this is what it’s really about? You latched on to Mel when she was having a bad time with Toby, and you convinced her you were going to leave Jan.’

‘And what are you, some kind of umpire? How’s this clearing the air?’

The conversation had skewed off the narrow path marked ‘civilized’, and it was now threatening to skid out of control. But Goodhew could still see that there was some truth in
Kincaide’s point, and hit the brake. He wondered how much of his dislike for the man was fuelled by his latent feelings for Mel. He had no immediate answer. ‘Fair enough,’ he said
finally. ‘I guess it wasn’t any of my business.’

‘I don’t give a shit what
you
do outside work.’

It was another very good point.

‘What’s funny?’ snapped Kincaide.

Goodhew turned away. ‘Let’s just go.’

The anger had left him, and Kincaide seemed to sense this. They headed back to Parkside Station, and would have made the journey in complete silence if Kincaide’s mobile hadn’t rung.
He switched it to hands-free and they were both greeted by the voice of DI Marks.

‘Any progress, Michael?’

‘Nothing yet, sir.’

‘Goodhew with you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No news here either,’ Marks continued. I’m leaving Kimberly Guyver’s house now, and PC Gully will stay with her. I want you two to knock it on the head for tonight and
meet me back at the station at 8 a.m. All of us will be better for a fresh start.’

Goodhew was glad he wasn’t driving, as he didn’t want to have to keep his eyes at road level. Instead he stared up above the rooftops towards the tangerine glow
that bled from the streetlamps, staining the indigo background of the sky. He then looked in the direction of Mill Road, but was unable to distinguish any difference in the light visible from that
part of the city. He wondered whether the blaze was finally over.

Their car journey was short but claustrophobic; the city seemed huge by comparison. It always held the answers for him, so it was inevitable that he chose not to make the short walk home but
instead found himself walking in the opposite direction at 3 a.m.

Every irrelevant thought regarding Kincaide was left behind in the dusty car park of Parkside Station. He knew he would end up at the Golinski house but didn’t hurry; he wanted to enjoy
the company of his thoughts along the way. They came tentatively at first, too fleeting to grasp or analyse.

A breath of unease.

The shadow of loss.

The distraction of sirens blotting out every other sound, demanding to be observed and obeyed.

A taste of fear. Not a taste for it. The pedestrian who had run towards him earlier had manifested more of it than any of the idle bystanders had displayed. And Kimberly Guyver also, before
he’d known her name. In his mind’s eye she appeared paper-thin with it. Distressed. Taut. Beautiful and brittle.

He pulled himself up short before he stepped off the kerb.

What was it that jarred?

A taxi was the only vehicle in sight, and he had plenty of time to cross the road before it reached him, but he was aware of it only in the abstract, he had no sense of its speed or distance
from him. Its headlights shone steadily and ever closer. He watched it intently, like it was delivering the answer.

A light went on, but it was nothing to do with the taxi.

Yes, Kimberly Guyver was beautiful, but with relief he realized that this adjective hadn’t come to him in the distorted glow of the fire. He’d seen her before sometime, when her
black hair had shone in the sunlight and her bare skin was tanned and radiant. Her dark and petulant features had turned many heads, including his own. But the memory was translucent, dissolving
into nothing as soon as he tried to identify it. Tonight he’d only seen her desperation, but without doubt he recognized her from somewhere else. For now he just couldn’t remember
where.

This shifted his priorities so that he never turned into Gwydir Street, instead following his new thoughts until they took him in a full circle back to Parker’s Piece, and towards the
empty building that stood on the far side. The first three floors were in darkness but a single light shone from his attic window. No one else lived in any part of the building, and the light
worked on a timer, set to switch on from 7 p.m. until whenever he eventually made it home and turned it off.

Weariness caught up with him as he climbed the silent flights of stairs to his front door. He turned off the light in the window, then sat down in the nearest chair, feeling strangely reluctant
to cast off his smoke-impregnated clothes. He only meant to stay there for a minute or two, but was still in the same place when he fell into an exhausted sleep.

The television set had a seven-inch screen, and a small aerial like a tilted halo. The picture was poor, but as long as Stefan didn’t move the sound remained clear.
Stefan didn’t move at all.

A reporter was at the scene, using a lot of words, a lot of meaningless spiel best interpreted as ‘We know nothing’.

She stood to one side of the camera shot, and over her shoulder was his house. He watched the smoke, then her mouth move, then the smoke again. Smoke, mouth, smoke, his gaze flicking back and
forth across the screen until it got boring.

He knew what they’d find there: a lesson in what happened when betrayal overstepped the point of possible forgiveness.

Sometimes it wasn’t enough for people to suffer pain; sometimes it was more important to show everyone else the price that must be paid. Those were the unwritten rules. The unfair part was
the notion that not everyone would be made to pay.