The Siren (31 page)

‘OK?’

‘Look who he phoned straight after his 999 call.’ She tapped the listing: ‘Kimberly Guyver – he rang her home number
and
her mobile. That means he already knew
her.’

‘But why didn’t . . .?’

‘Yeah, why not just come clean, eh?’ Gully realized her voice was rising, and she continued in a whisper, ‘I
said
there was something she was holding back.’

‘I need to speak to her.’

‘Wait.’

‘I’ve still got time now, before the press conference.’

‘No, I mean there’s more.’

Goodhew tried to pull the sheet from her, but she held it tight. ‘Look, he knows Anita McVey, too. In fact he phones her as much as he calls Kimberly.’

‘Let me see.’

She finally released her grip on the pages, and he double-checked everything she’d told him. As he glanced towards the stairs, his instincts shied away from confronting Kimberly with this.
It would result in more delay and therefore a greater threat to Riley.

Through the window he could see the first dashes of fresh rain starting to make their hatching pattern on the glass. It seemed to him that everything within the confines of the hotel was under
control. The greater prospects, however, lay outside.

And as though Gully had read his thoughts, she said, ‘Anita’s at home, if you want to see her.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I rang her to check if that was her number?’

‘Oh.’

‘I said I’d misdialled, so she’d never know it was me.’

‘Maybe,’ he said slowly. ‘Seeing Mikey Slater might be a better bet.’

Goodhew took the list across to the receptionist and asked for a photocopy to be made, then sealed the original back in its envelope. He turned to Gully. ‘Would you give this to Marks or
Kincaide for me?’

She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t want to get stuck in there.’

She snapped the envelope from his hands and straightened up irritably. ‘I see.’

‘And we still have this.’ He held up the duplicate.

‘We?’

‘What are you supposed to be doing right now?’

Her frown faded, and she shrugged. ‘Paperwork?’

‘Right. Same as me.’

‘And I have the car.’

‘I’ll wait here, then?’

One corner of her mouth curled up into a wonky grin. ‘Thanks.’

She disappeared towards the conference room and returned in less than a minute. ‘Kincaide’s now got it.’

‘You told him what it was?’

‘Yeah, and he said he’d pass it to Marks. And I told him I thought it was important.’

‘He probably won’t look at it, then.’

Gully led them out to the patrol car, shaking her head. ‘You two are so childish.’

‘I know,’ Goodhew shrugged, ‘but he started it.’ Gully pulled out of the car park, and he turned his thoughts back to the case. ‘Let’s just worry about
Mikey.’

‘First thoughts?’

‘Just how he knows Anita McVey and Kimberly Guyver, and why he held back on that information, might make a few things clearer.’

‘I can’t see the three of them being behind Rachel Golinski’s murder, somehow.’

‘No, Nick Lewton was most likely killed by the same person, and Mikey would then have been about twelve. And, as far as we know, Anita would have been in the wrong country at the
time.’

‘Leaving only Kimberly.’

Goodhew shook his head. ‘There’s something up, but not that.’

‘What if Mikey Slater’s not at his home address? Do we phone him?’

‘No, we try Anita.’

‘We could head there first?’

‘No, we’ll be at the Slater house in a couple of minutes, then we’ll decide.’

Gully’s driving was swift and efficient. She seemed to know the Cambridge streets as well as Goodhew himself, and guided the car to a halt outside a large house in Devonshire Road. It had
been converted into flats, and next to the front door there was a panel with nine doorbells grouped in three rows of three.

The house looked dusty, both the paintwork and window-panes coated in the thin layer of sootiness that came from being located so close to the road. The only thing that shone was a thick chrome
handrail bolted to the wall. It ran alongside the two chunky steps rising to the front entrance, and seemed like a very recent addition.

Goodhew pressed the bell labelled ‘Flat A’.

No one replied until they buzzed Flat D, then the intercom crackled and a male voice with a thick Scottish accent growled, ‘Willya be ringing ev’ry flamin’ letter of the
alphabet till ye get someone?’

Gully was first to reply. ‘We’re looking for Ms Slater and her son Mikey.’

‘Well, in this arse-about-face building, H is on the ground floor so I’d try that one, if I was you.’

Gully thanked him and stabbed the ‘Flat H’ button just as the front door swung open. The woman that faced them looked as though she was still in her thirties, but her face was gaunt
and her frail frame leant heavily on a walking cane. ‘I’m Collette Slater, Miss. I’d have opened the door sooner but I was having words with Mikey.’

Goodhew stepped forward. ‘May we come in?’

‘Go through, first on the left.’

Goodhew wondered whether Mikey would have bolted already, but they found him sitting quietly on the settee.

Mikey nodded to Goodhew. ‘I wasn’t being lazy,’ he sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘Mum insisted on going to the door.’

Goodhew brushed his apology away. ‘It’s time to get serious. We need to know how you come to know both Anita McVey and Kimberly Guyver.’

‘Anita looks after me sometimes. It’s a kind of fostering. When my mum gets too ill and needs a break or goes in for treatment, then I go to her house. That’s how I met Kim,
too.’

‘So why keep that from us?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Mikey!’ Collette cut in sharply.

For a moment he looked mutinous, but his resistance crumbled almost immediately. ‘I just phoned and said it was on fire. All I was thinking was
get hold of Kim, quick
. Then, when I
spoke to Kimberly and Anita, they both said the same thing, told me to keep my mouth shut . . . that it wasn’t safe. That’s all.’

Collette banged her cane once on the floor, but she looked like her frustration was born more of concern than of anger. ‘That’s not all. There’s more to it, but he won’t
tell me.’

‘That is everything I know, Mum. I swear it is.’

‘No.’ She sounded weary. ‘You probably think you’re trying to help them, but now’s not the time, Mikey. Think of Riley, son.’

He shook his head. ‘Please, Mum, I know what I’m doing.’

Goodhew shook his head, too. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Slater, but I’m going to need to take Mikey to Parkside Police Station to make a statement. Will you be able to accompany
him?’

It was Mikey who replied. ‘All that waiting ’round down the cop shop would be too much for my mum, physically I mean. There’s nothing for me to say anyhow, so can’t you
just get one of those social-worker people to sit in, instead.’

Whatever else Mikey was, he was certainly a pragmatist. He saw no reason to argue about his inevitable trip to the station, and equally saw no reason to inconvenience his mother.

They loaded Mikey into the back of the patrol car and, until they pulled away, Collette stood at the window with an expression set in a fixed but watery smile.

Once they were out of sight of Devonshire Road, Goodhew twisted round in his seat to check that Mikey was OK. He caught a moment’s uncertainty in the boy’s expression and realized
that behind Mikey’s swagger was a teenager who seemed to care deeply about the people in his life.

Goodhew suspected that Mikey was lying for no other reason than a misplaced sense of loyalty. That didn’t diminish the problem; blind devotion could be a very dangerous thing.

Kincaide knocked on the door of room 37 and waited. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he muttered, then rapped harder and called out, ‘Make-up time’s over,
ladies.’

No doubt Kimberly was being zipped into something impossibly staid, right this moment, but then again he doubted she could wear a hospital gown without giving the impression that she’d
slipped it on over lingerie from Agent Provocateur. He leant back against the opposite wall and waited, feeling impatient for more than just professional reasons.

It took a few more seconds before his ears picked out the sound of running water and, beyond that, the sound that it was all but drowning out: a muffled ‘
mmm mmm mmm
’.

He rattled the handle, then threw his shoulder at the door, but it held solid. ‘Hang on,’ he shouted, looking up and down the corridor for anything that could substitute for a
crowbar. ‘Wait there. I’ll get help.’

There were plenty of officers already in the building, so he radioed down to them, then sprinted towards the stairs. He waited on the landing, holding the door leading to the stairs open, but
still keeping room 37 within sight. He kept cursing the valuable seconds that he felt he’d already wasted.

DC Charles appeared first, taking the stairs three at a time, and dashing past Kincaide. Other footsteps followed.

Kincaide released the intervening door and ran after him. ‘We need the key,’ he shouted.

‘Got the master,’ Charles panted, as he reached number 37. He pushed the card in and out of the lock, and the little light obediently turned to green at the first attempt. Charles
pushed down the handle and used his fingertips to push the door open.

As it swung wide, the first thing Kincaide noticed was steam pouring from the bathroom, and the sound of the shower. He pushed his way past Charles, and rushed forward. He found PC Kelly Wilkes
sitting on the tiled floor, handcuffed to the bath’s handrail and gagged with a pair of tights. Water sprayed from the shower hose, and she was drenched but appeared otherwise unharmed.

He leant forward and tugged the gag out of her mouth and over her head.

‘Kimberly’s gone,’ were her first words.

‘Are you hurt?’

Behind him, he heard DC Charles urgently contacting dispatch.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘The key’s sitting on the basin. Where’s DI Marks?’

‘I’m here.’

Kincaide glanced over his shoulder. There were now other officers in the room, but standing aside in order to let Marks through. Kincaide quickly found the key and released Wilkes.

Marks reached forward and pulled her to her feet. ‘What happened?’

Wilkes’ face looked washed-out and her voice trembled. ‘A reporter, Beverley Dransfield, came to the door, wanting to ask questions. I called for assistance, but then she left, so I
cancelled it.’

‘And then?’

‘Before that, Kimberly Guyver was fine.’ Wilkes spoke so quickly she was in danger of falling over her words. ‘Straight after that she turned. I’m so sorry . . . she was
so fast, and stronger than I would have guessed.’

‘Did she threaten you?’

‘No. Just caught me by surprise. It was like she was angry, but not with me. We need to find that reporter. She shouted a load of questions through the door. Like accusing Kimberly Guyver
of having a relationship with Stefan Golinski . . . things the tabloids have been hinting at all week. The only other thing she said was that it was the wrong photo of Riley.’

Marks scowled. ‘In what way?’

‘She never said.’

‘Why didn’t you radio this down to me?’

Wilkes paled further. ‘I never had the chance.’

Marks shook his head slowly. The room was silent apart from the crackling of DC Charles’s radio, which reached them from further down the corridor. ‘Make an announcement to the
journalists waiting downstairs. We need urgent help in identifying Beverley Dransfield.’

Suddenly Marks straightened and took a few steps towards the window, his focus then seeming to fall on the faded print of an insipid watercolour that hung over the bed.

He turned sharply and pinned his attention on Kincaide. ‘Did anyone verify that the photo given to us by Kimberly Guyver was an accurate likeness?’

Kincaide felt all eyes in the room swivel in his direction. He was trying to recall which officer had taken the photograph from Kimberly, and who else had seen it. He knew Jay Andrews
hadn’t. He had no idea about Anita McVey. The kid didn’t go to playgroup or nursery, so who else was there, apart from them, able to verify it?

He knew Marks wasn’t blaming him personally but he willed himself to find an answer that would make him sound well-informed and confident. The silence stretched out until he ended it with
a dismal, ‘Don’t know, sir.’

FORTY-ONE

Most things could be cut several ways and Cambridge was no exception. There was the famous side: the colleges, the history and the universal acclaim. Then there was
Kimberly’s side: anonymous streets, daily grind and unremarkable people. She knew the score on her side of the city, trusted the honesty of it. Thank God, that was where the Parkside Hotel
lay.

She’d slipped down the fire-exit escape stairs until she’d reached the ground floor, then climbed out of an open window just in case the external door was alarmed.

Then, like Brer Rabbit into the briar patch, she’d scuttled through the warren of back alleys and short cuts that would keep her out of sight as she made for her rendezvous in Blossom
Street.

Her heart had already been pounding when she left the hotel room. It didn’t let up and she ran with it thumping like a war drum, pushing her on. Her breathing imposed its own rhythm over
the top, so the two sounds played together to block out every other noise. She didn’t listen out for sirens; they’d come soon enough but she needed to be gone before that.

The grubby passages gave way to deserted side roads. She broke cover to cross Mill Road, then disappeared into the alleyways on the other side, finally scrambling over a wall into the graveyard.
She sprinted the length of the cemetery, through the main body of the guitar and up into its neck. She never even glanced at her own home, nor at the dead eyes of Rachel’s house. She watched
for nothing but the Blossom Street gate, and for the flash of familiar dark-green paintwork that would signal his arrival.

She had twenty yards still to run when a Transit van swung into view, its passenger door flying open just feet beyond the gate. She ran through the exit and bundled herself inside the vehicle,
pulling the door behind her as it pulled away from the kerb again.