The Siren (16 page)

‘I do but it was good to learn something together. I suppose it’s our thing now, and we can have private conversations. He can express emotion with words, before it was just yes, no,
yes, no. Now he can ask me proper questions and I can tell him everything that’s been happening. We’ve always talked a lot, and he’s just the same person, people can’t get
their heads round it.’

She thought Goodhew was about to say something.

‘What?’ she asked, noticing a strange look in his eyes. She wondered who or what he could see when he stared at her.

‘Are you going back in through your bedroom window?’

‘How did you know?’

He shrugged. ‘We have to walk our own path, don’t we?’

That’s when she knew she could ask. ‘If I needed it, would you help me?’

He nodded. ‘In any way I can.’

TWENTY-ONE

It was just after 9 p.m. and Gully was alone in Kimberly’s sitting room. Kimberly had gone to bed and there was one other PC on duty but he was posted out on the
doorstep.

She didn’t want to put on the TV; it would be too tempting to become mesmerized by the ‘breaking news’ banner scrolling along the bottom of the screen. In theory it
wasn’t going to tell her anything vital that she wouldn’t find out first via phone or a visit, but there was always the chance that an apparently unrelated item would turn out to be
linked:
Man commits suicide, two dead after fatal crash, man holds child hostage, child’s body found in the Cam.

Even though she told herself that the idea was far-fetched, that she was merely the victim of her own overblown imagination, she knew that if she switched the TV on she wouldn’t be able to
resist flicking back and forth between the news and whatever programme she might kid herself she was really watching.

Luckily she’d had enough foresight to raid her own small collection of books. It was split roughly into two categories, cookery books and crime novels, neither of which would do now. That
left only one candidate, a battered copy of
Jane Eyre
which she’d started once but never completed. In fact she’d only read the first few pages. She didn’t remember
actually disliking it, so maybe it was the inevitable conclusion she couldn’t face: downtrodden woman saved by dashing hero, feeble female falling into macho arms, forever thankful at
fulfilling her life’s ambition of becoming a wife.

Gully reopened the novel despite feeling sure that her relationship with the ‘heroine’ was going to descend through many degrees of increasing distaste. She frowned as she read it,
and she’d finished almost twenty pages when there was a knock at the door.

It was Kincaide with a carton of tea bags, two pints of milk and a packet of digestive biscuits. Gully wasn’t a big fan of men bearing gifts but this offering was more practical than
flattering.

‘Are you OK?’ Kincaide asked her.

‘Why?’

‘You look pissed off. Is she hard work?’

‘No, she’s gone to lie down. I think the last couple of days must be catching up with her. She’s been prescribed some sedatives, too. What are you doing here?’

‘I was hoping to catch Gary, as he said he might finish off here. And, as I was coming anyway I thought you might need these.’

‘Thanks. I’m not expecting him.’

Kincaide tipped his head in the direction of the stairs. ‘I think he’s got a thing for her.’

‘No, that’s rubbish.’

‘Come on, you know Gary . . .’

All she knew about Gary Goodhew was that he’d warned her about taking Kimberly to the fire scene one minute, then dropped her in it with Marks the next. The point that was even more
evident was that she didn’t really know
anyone
at Parkside. Marks had told her to avoid being ‘too accommodating’ with the detectives, and she had no idea whether that was
a standard warning dished out to all new PCs, or just the female ones. And she certainly wasn’t about to ask. ‘Phone his mobile. I haven’t seen him.’

‘I tried. Don’t worry about it. I won’t wait around for him.’ Kincaide flipped the packet of biscuits over in a half somersault, ‘Where do you want
these?’

She took them into the kitchen. He followed her through and she guessed she wouldn’t be getting the whole packet to herself. ‘Tea?’ she offered.

‘I won’t say no.’

By the time she’d boiled the kettle she’d relaxed a little, and realized that this was an opportunity to find out a little more about Kincaide and maybe also find out how she might
integrate herself into the department a little more quickly. They took their second mug of tea back into the sitting room, where Kincaide moved her book aside so he could sit down.

‘My wife’s into all these, too. Something to do with Colin Firth and a wet shirt apparently.’

That made her smile; she liked a man who could poke fun at himself. ‘This is the first proper conversation I’ve had with a colleague since I started.’

‘It always takes a few weeks to break the ice.’

‘I know, but I’ve already had a slap on the wrist from Marks.’

‘About taking the princess to the fire?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘Mel told me.’

‘Mel?’
How the hell did she know?
‘Great, that means everyone knows.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Well, I never told her. She doesn’t even speak to me unless she has to.’

Kincaide took a fresh biscuit and snapped it in two. ‘Did she know you’d gone down there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you saw Goodhew down there, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there you go.’ Kincaide looked at her as though he’d just spelt it out in words of one syllable. Which, when she thought about it, he had, but it still wasn’t
clear enough. Kincaide raised an eyebrow. ‘Mel and Gary?’

‘Really?’

‘I’ll be straight with you. Gary and I often work together, but we don’t totally see eye to eye. Sometimes it’s OK, but sometimes we grate. I’m married, a bit
older, more settled. I’m not judging him . . . well, I try not to.’

Gully didn’t know whether she wanted Kincaide to say any more, but he continued.

‘I don’t want to bad-mouth anyone I work with but, now the subject’s come up, maybe it would be fairer for you to know the background.’ He passed her the digestives.
‘Or would you prefer it if I didn’t?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ she replied.

‘They split up a few weeks ago. The problem is Gary doesn’t keep his affairs out of the work place. Mel was gutted and kept trailing after him; now it’s impossible to work out
whether they’re back together or if he’s moved on to someone else.’ Kincaide shook his head. ‘At some point Marks will probably warn you off him – he’s already
got a file on Gary in his office. It’s about this thick.’ Kincaide made a gap of about ten centimetres between his palms. ‘Maybe I’m a bit straight-laced, but I’d hate
you to be caught out.’ He gave her an easy smile populated with beautifully straight white teeth. ‘On the other hand, a quick fling with Gary will give you plenty in common with quite a
few ladies at Parkside.’

Gully wasn’t sure what to think, but this explained quite a few points, like Marks’ comments and Mel’s cheerleading, and Goodhew’s attentiveness to herself and Kimberly
that morning at the fire.

They shared one more cup of tea. ‘Looks like Gary’s not coming.’

‘He does have a habit of getting sidetracked, but I ought to get home anyway.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘My wife’s been away on a course, and I’d like to be in when
she arrives back.’

‘Of course.’

After he’d gone, she went up to check on Kimberly. Her bedroom door was still firmly closed and her breathing obviously too quiet to carry through the walls. She was glad that Kimberly was
finally managing to sleep.

Gully sat herself down on the stairs, because she sat on the stairs at home when she needed to think.

She didn’t entirely believe Kincaide, but all that weighed against what he had said was a belief in her own ability to judge character. There was nothing about Goodhew that struck her as
being anything but ordinary, so she couldn’t imagine him romancing half the station, somehow.

Then, again, there was definitely something about the way Mel looked at him.

In the end Gully decided the real question was whether it was any of her business, and that depended on two things: whether it had an impact on her work or on the reputation of the police. That
sounded a bit self-righteous. No wonder she didn’t have any mates yet.

Time for another biscuit.

As she stood up, she heard a sound, and for a second thought it might have been caused by pressure on a stair tread. She froze, taking care not to alter her balance and risk causing another
creak. Then it came again, and this time she could tell it originated from Kimberly’s room.

Gully moved up to the next step.

The third creak was more distinctive, and this time she identified it as the sash window being eased up inside its snug-fitting frame.

If Kimberly was too hot to sleep and needed the window open, why was she trying so hard to keep it silent?

Gully guessed there might be a rational explanation, but decided she wouldn’t wait to think of one. Kimberly could be out of the window and away by then.

Gully crept two or three steps closer, until she had a firm grip on the handle, then burst the door open wide. The only light in the room came in along with her from the landing. She saw a dim
figure start, and her hand groped around until she found the switch. As she flicked it on, the first thing she saw was a fully clothed Kimberly, her face flushed and very wide awake.

Gully pushed past her, reaching the window in time to see a second figure retreating back over the high garden wall.

‘Who’s that?’ she demanded.

Kimberly stripped down to her underwear before she replied. ‘None of your business,’ she said, glaring. ‘I don’t like being spied on.’

Gully felt her cheeks redden to a hot, dark shade. ‘Are you going to bed now?’

‘No,’ Kimberly snapped, ‘I don’t think I can sleep.’ She took her dressing gown from the end of the bed and slipped it on.

Gully turned away and stomped back down the stairs. Kimberly followed, no doubt moving like some sultry lingerie advert; hot, silent – and hiding something. The last hour had revealed far
more than Kimberly’s 36DD lace bra.

Gully recognized Kimberly’s ‘caught out’ expression. The sexy underwear. Skin aglow with the sheen of perspiration. The mystery man scuttling away.

This wasn’t the behaviour of a worried mother.

Except the man was no mystery. Gully had positively identified him.

And his wasn’t the behaviour of a trustworthy DC.

Goodhew had just affected her job, and her employer, and she didn’t care whether that judgement seemed sanctimonious or not.

She called in to the station and explained that she needed a break, asking for someone to replace her until morning. Bottom line, it was now her business. No doubt she’d be in trouble over
this, too, but sometimes simply doing the right thing outweighed the consequences.

Goodhew returned to Parkside just long enough to discover that there was no new information waiting for him. No emails, telephone messages, or notes from Marks. No clues to
anyone else’s progress either.

Nothing.

He walked home, then drew a chair up close to his window. A small but powerful telescope mounted on a tripod was already pointing at Parkside Police Station. It gave him a clear view of the all
the windows facing on to Parker’s Piece, and a partial view of the nearest adjacent side. He could see his own desk, Marks’ office and anyone who came or left via the main entrance. He
watched the building for several minutes, hoping for the visit of inspiration.

There was nothing to see.

He’d spent an afternoon merely chasing a potential witness, a task which came with the unspoken message that Marks was keeping Goodhew on the periphery. Goodhew wanted to phone him; he
didn’t believe for one second that his boss was at home and asleep. But first he knew he had some threads that needed to be mentally tied down. There were too many of them flapping around,
and they needed tethering before they started wrapping round his brain like a tourniquet.

It had been a little over twenty-four hours since the fire, and, if Stefan had a little luck on his side, Goodhew could imagine that it wouldn’t be too difficult for him to conceal Riley
for that period. Trickier once the child’s photo hit the national press and the public turned hungry for every last detail. Trickier still if Stefan didn’t intend for either of them to
be found.

Goodhew had only a small window into the investigation but he knew that public tip-offs had resulted in police divers searching the Cam out towards Grantchester, and that the police helicopter
had been circling over the farmland backing on to the chalky slopes of the Gog Magog hills.

Other strands of the investigation were less easy to pinpoint. He suspected Kimberly was hiding something. Not to do with Riley’s disappearance – but what then? Rachel, Jay, Anita,
the Celeste, the Lewtons: every other strand was connected to her and it was impossible to guess which of them had any relevance at all.

His attention was drawn away from the station to encompass the whole vista; the darkness was a great leveller, unlit windows were indistinguishable and the lit ones were just glowing geometric
shapes. In the dark there was little identifiable architecture: the buildings constructed of glass and prefabricated slab jarred less than usual against their more traditional neighbours. The cars
were just headlights, tail lights and, once in a while, a glint of chrome. And people were just smudged dots. It was the composite of all these that made up the city.

It wasn’t a question of what elements to include in the picture. It took each house and school and office to make Cambridge. It made sense that it took everything, from the Grand Arcade
and the curve of the Cam right through to the rising bollards and abandoned bikes. Start to remove those things and gradually it would become the wrong Cambridge, or maybe not even Cambridge at
all.

When he’d returned to his flat, it had been with little expectation of going to bed. Sleep never came easily to him and he’d drifted into the bad habit of either flaking out on his
battered leather settee and waking up again in the small hours, when the pre-dawn chill took hold of him, or else lying in bed reading until the small hours and then passing out. Either way he
rarely enjoyed more than five hours’ sleep each night. Just because he couldn’t rest didn’t mean he wasn’t tired. And now he could see how this new thought of his related to
the investigation, but was just too fatigued to translate it into action.