The Siren (26 page)

The television was still switched on, stuck on a channel broadcasting an endless stream of US imports. He hadn’t seen the news appear again: didn’t know the latest on Rachel,
didn’t know for sure that she really was dead. He knew he was still angry with her, but somehow couldn’t feel it any more. Didn’t even feel anything for Kimberly or Riley, or the
recriminations they deserved for screwing up his life. It was as if he was letting them go. Facing death did that.

THIRTY-FIVE

They’d barely left the Hinton Avenue nursing home car park before Goodhew’s mobile rang. It came so soon after his conversation with Marks that he hoped to see his
boss’s name on the display, and to hear Marks telling him that he’d be able to interview Kimberly Guyver after all. But it was Bryn, and Goodhew felt a pang of guilt as he remembered
how Bryn had already left one voicemail asking him to call.

‘Can you stop by?’ Bryn asked.

‘It’s a bit tricky right now.’

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘About last night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is it important?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘OK, give us five minutes.’ He hung up.

Goodhew realized how his end of the conversation would have sounded to Gully, and smiled. ‘I need you to drive down Mill Road, on the way.’

This time she made that hissing noise and shook her head at the same time; advanced manoeuvres. ‘I thought we were going straight to the station. We’ve been out of the loop for long
enough.’

‘Marks doesn’t need us right now. In any case, how do you know we’re not still in the loop?
Someone’s
going to make a breakthrough; and it could be us.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure that whatever it is we learn “about last night” will really help the case along.’ Gully continued driving with a frustrating level of accuracy,
keeping the car within the speed limit, changing gears and indicating like she was doing her driving test.

It was 1.45 p.m. when they pulled up outside O’Brien and Sons. Gully scanned the front of the building. Bryn had his back to them as he leant into the engine bay of a fifteen-year-old
Vauxhall Vectra.

‘What are we doing here?’ Gully asked.

‘Semi-social occasion. I was at school with him. Coming?’

‘Why?’ Her face clouded with the kind of deep irritation she’d been demonstrating off and on for the entire day. Somehow he didn’t think she’d be impressed to find
out that he’d enlisted a mate to help with unofficial surveillance.

‘Just to say hi? You don’t have to. I’ll only be a minute or two.’

She looked doubtful. ‘I can’t tell if that’s reverse psychology to get me out of the car, or a double-reverse to keep me in it.’

‘Why go for a single when the double’s handy?’

‘Nah, too confusing.’ She reached for the door handle then changed her mind. ‘Two minutes, right?’

‘Absolutely.’

Bryn still didn’t move. His elbows rested on the front wing and his hands were oily but empty – not a spanner in sight.

‘Are you OK?’ Goodhew asked him, as he approached.

Bryn finally turned. It was as if in slow motion, and maintaining contact with the vehicle seemed pretty crucial. He settled with his back against the car and one elbow resting on the roof.
‘I’m beyond knackered today, thanks to you.’

‘Because . . .?’

‘Because you sent me snooping at the Celeste, and thanks to you I’ve had an hour’s sleep, and rehydrated soup for breakfast.’

Goodhew glanced back at Gully, but the car windows were closed and he was sure she was out of earshot. ‘I have to be quick, so just give me the potted version, anything that might be
relevant to the case.’

‘You realize that’s not much of a bedside manner, right?’

‘So, you went into the Celeste, and then?’

‘OK, OK. I went up, and your girl was nowhere, so I hung around the bar. Didn’t really think that there was any point in it, but I decided to stay for a while longer. I thought
I’d just buy a drink and keep my eyes open for a bit. She had to leave sometime, right?’

‘I saw her come out.’

‘Good, because I sort of lost track of the time. I mean, I saw her leave but by then I was chatting to Star . . . she’s this Aussie girl works behind the bar. She’s been there
since Easter, so she knows Stefan. When she saw Kimberly, she said, “That’s Stefan’s wife’s mate,” so I asked her what Kimberly was like, and she said she didn’t
know. Said her instinct was not to like her just because she’s “built like a stripper”.’

‘That’s not fair.’ The protest was involuntary.

Bryn raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s
not
an insult. She just meant that women are usually suspicious of really beautiful women.’

‘Maybe. Go on.’

In the end she started to wonder why I was asking so many questions. I told her how I’d seen the murder investigation on the news. I said I was a big CSI fan.’

‘Great.’

‘It was, too. She loves the programme and asked if I was watching the latest series.’

‘Bryn, get to the point.’

‘I am. It was because she watches CSI that she took me back to hers and started telling me her theories. I don’t even watch the show, but she had most of it on DVD. One dismembered
torso later and she’s on top of me, acting like she hasn’t had a bloke for a year. She’s still breathing her ideas into my ear, mostly the same stuff that’s been in the
papers, when she comes out with the one thing I hadn’t heard anywhere else.’ Bryn slid a packet of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit from his top pocket, and offered it to Goodhew.

‘No, thanks. What did she say?’

‘I couldn’t tell her why I needed to phone you, so I slipped into her bathroom.’ He unwrapped the gum, folding it in thirds before putting it in his mouth. ‘You heard my
message, right? “Hi, it’s me. I won’t be back tonight. Ring me tomorrow.” Star heard it too, made up her mind I was phoning my wife or something. I came out of the bathroom,
and she’s standing there in just her underwear. Hands on her hips and livid. Totally fucking livid. Wouldn’t have helped to tell her the truth, would it – “It’s OK, I
was on the phone to my detective mate, thanks for the info.” You screwed up my getting screwed, Gary.’

‘Well, I really appreciate your sacrifice. In fact I’ll appreciate it even more when you finish the story.’

‘Mule’s gay.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes. But think about it. Star’s been there just a few weeks, and she’s known that practically since day one. It’s not information that this Mule guy volunteers openly,
but all the staff know. It’s an in-joke that all the best-looking women go after him but all the best-looking men end up with him.’

‘Maybe he’s bisexual?’

‘Absolutely not. So Stefan must have known . . .’

‘Yeah, I get it. Rachel wouldn’t have been sleeping with him.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So he punched Mule for another reason entirely.’

‘Wow, Gary, you should do this professionally.’

THIRTY-SIX

They tracked Mule down to a lock-up garage behind a house in Victoria Avenue. It was larger than average, and one of several with a pitched roof over properly constructed walls
built from mottled Cambridge brick.

But where the others had their fascias and down pipes conventionally painted either grey or black, Mule’s garage was trimmed in red and cream.

Mule opened the door from the inside, probably using his elbow since both hands were loaded with a pile of six shoeboxes.

He wore boardies and a baggy sleeveless T-shirt. The facial swelling had now subsided and his hair flopped forward over the bruising evident across his right cheekbone.

‘I guess you’re not here for the delivery,’ he smiled warmly at them, looking like the perfect ad for cosmetic dentistry or the New Zealand Tourist Board. ‘Come on in,
then.’

Goodhew glanced at Gully and caught her staring at the back of Mule’s torso with a slightly titillated look in her eye. When he waggled his finger at her jokingly, she tried to look
exasperated but didn’t quite succeed.

The inside of the garage was a revelation: the unplastered walls had been whitewashed, the floor covered with a stark black-and-white striped lino. A six-foot by eight-foot work table stood in
the centre, its surface empty apart from the pile of boxes that Mule had just dumped in the middle.

Instead of legs, the underneath was a solid block of drawers and cupboards. The rear end section of the garage had been fitted out exactly like the interior of a VW campervan, with red and cream
seating, a two-ring hob and a miniature sink. A ladder rested against a roof truss, and Goodhew could see that the low triangle of loft housed a mattress.

‘You live here?’

‘Stay over, sometimes.’

‘We don’t have another address for you.’

‘Either I’m between places, then, or I’m trying to give you an answer that won’t get me evicted.’

‘Fair enough. We’re here to ask a few more questions about the assault.’

‘Shoot.’

‘You led us to believe that when Stefan attacked you, it was because he suspected you of having a relationship with his wife. Is that correct?’

‘Yeah. Pretty much.’

‘But you didn’t tell us you that you’re homosexual.’

‘Yeah, I’m gay. I just don’t feel the need to announce it every time I’m introduced to anyone.’

‘Except it’s very relevant in this case.’

‘No, not really. I mean, Stefan’s the sort of bloke who’ll get an idea in his head, and that’ll be it. You can’t tell him he’s wrong. No point in
trying.’

‘Does he know you’re gay?’

‘I guess. Everyone at the Celeste seems to have worked it out.’

‘But you’ve never had a relationship with Stefan?’

‘No way. Sometimes I’ve suggested he’s too homophobic to be totally straight, but it would take a lot more than that to make him my type. He races dirt bikes for a
start.’

‘Did he mention Rachel when he attacked you?’

‘Yeah . . . or maybe not by name.’ Mule’s eyes half closed as he thought back. ‘No, not by name. It was one of those alpha-male
Get your hands off my woman
outbursts, something like
Don’t touch what ain’t yours
plus expletives, of course.’

Gully spoke next. ‘You’d have known Rachel since she started work at the Celeste?’

‘Yeah – and Stefan and Kimberly, of course.’

‘And could you notice any recent difference in Rachel’s relationship with Stefan?’

‘They were always volatile, but Rachel always insisted that no one knew him like she did. He had a “really sweet side”, or so she said, but Kim was worried. She herself had
been through all kinds of shit with that Nick, reckoned it was only a matter of time before Stefan and Rachel would implode too.’

‘So you know Kimberly well?’

‘She’s bloody reserved, even for a Pom, but we’d talk sometimes. You know we share the same stall at the craft market, right? We do alternate Sundays, because it gives her more
time with Riley that way. Means we don’t see much of each other, but we get to chat every week.’

‘What do you paint?’

‘Heels, uppers, whatever – but I design the whole thing, too.’ To demonstrate, Mule flipped open the nearest box and lifted out a gold shoe with a Perspex wedge heel. A series
of tiny Mardi Gras masks had been painted in a ribbon that curved from the toe and around to the back of the heel. ‘Primarily, my customers are drag or burlesque acts.’

‘You design shoes?’ Gully asked, as though seeing the opened box hadn’t been evidence enough for her.

‘That’s why they call me Mule.’

‘Oh,’ Gully mumbled, with just the hint of a smirk in her eye.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Marks wasn’t the only person at the Parkside Hotel who was keeping a close watch on the time, for amongst the gathering press pack stood the robust figure of Bev
Dransfield. Aged forty-three, with twenty-one years’ reporting experience under her ever expanding belt. She liked to think her coverage of news was efficient, but her specialty was sport.
She felt passionate about everything from football and cricket to Formula One and the annual boat race, but her specialty was horse racing.

Throughout the year the racing fixtures gave her enough stories to fill a whole edition of the
Daily Star
, and she’d carved out her niche so distinctly that it was rare for her to
be expected to cover anything appearing in the front two-thirds of the newspaper.

Rare and, to her, unwelcome.

She’d been hammering up the M11 towards the Newmarket race meet when details of the press conference had come in, and therefore she’d landed it for no other reason than her editor
noticing she was already in the area and deciding that a female take on the story would work better. And where was a serious-minded, non-pregnant co-worker when needed? She soon discovered there
was no one available for her to dump this on. And why the editor, Barry, had thrown it at her rather than one of those family-minded ‘new men’ in the department was anyone’s
guess.

Barry was taking the piss, that was for sure. Bev never had kids, never would, so she was sure that Kimberly Guyver’s take on being female would have been shaped by radically different
experiences to her own.

Her first job as junior reporter had landed her with the nickname ‘Geezer Girl’, more recently shortened to Geez. She had seen first hand that some people had doors opened in their
path, while others got them slammed in their faces. Through her own career she’d had to earn every success.

Bev had felt the injustice of being judged every time she’d been hit by the door handle of bigotry, but in this case it was a dead cert that no one had ever pinned the dyke badge on
Kimberly Guyver, or complained that she didn’t project the ‘right image for the company’.

Once it became clear that the conference was delayed, Bev slipped outside to phone her editor. The call was routed straight to his mailbox. ‘It’s been delayed until three,’ she
informed him. ‘My entire bloody day’s down the pan thanks to this.’ She ended the call, and was about to phone back into the newsroom and get swapped to another assignment, when
she happened to spot her Peugeot. She’d taken one of the parking spaces closest to the hotel, and her car was now trapped behind two other rows of vehicles. If Anglia TV’s outside
broadcast unit had got any closer it would have looked indecent.