The Siren Read online

  Kelvin appeared at the bathroom window, aged seventeen and obviously quite happy to flash his naked body at anyone in sight. From there on, her Boyle experiences deteriorated, till her increasingly frequent trips into the mire of Harvest Path felt more and more like a one-way trip to the battlefront.

  She had visited the family regularly for nine years, learning in gritty first-hand detail what had made the owners of the other four properties so happy to cash in at the first whiff of a compulsory purchase order.

  Then in 1991, with the last of their children safely through their truancy years, and now happily unemployed or pregnant, the Boyle parents divorced, whereupon the pair of houses had remained abandoned for fourteen months. Despite feeling sure that she felt zero sentimentality for the whole mess, Anita found herself visiting first the empty property and then the half-empty sale room. The property market had been dead back in ’92, so she made the only bid and found herself the proud but bewildered owner of a pair of cottages and the two lorry-loads and eleven skipfuls of crap that were finally cleared from every corner, inside and out.

  There were still moments when she wondered about the eventual fate of Darren, Mandy and the five other Boyle siblings. In fact, she knew there always would be such moments and it was her inability to let the worst social cases leave her thoughts that prompted her to wonder what more she could do. Which led her to consider how else she could help, and finally led to her first foster child arriving at the newly painted, freshly decorated and renamed front door of Viva Cottage.

  The arrival of the first, second and every subsequent child had cracked, dented and shattered all her chintz-filled fantasies about the whole escapade. There had been a huge gap between her original good intentions and the harsh realities of vandalism, police visits and foul-mouthed outbursts.

  Two pints of cider on a Saturday night usually enabled her to smile at herself, but right now she felt nothing close to amusement. Throughout the countless times she’d heard ‘Who the fuck are you?’, she’d never once seen herself heading to this point.

  Anita knew that she’d always swum in deep waters, murky in some places, fast-flowing in others, but she’d never seen the danger. That had emerged organically, as a series of developments that had rippled over one another and ultimately carried her too far out of her depth. She was no longer convinced that she could reach the shore, nor even had any idea whether the tide was in ebb or flow.

  The knocked-together cottages allowed Anita a view of the approaches on each side of the building, and her new habit was to thoroughly check in all directions, then to sit with a drink near the upstairs window and watch to see if anyone should come up the pitted driveway.

  As habits went she knew this wasn’t healthy, and she also knew it couldn’t continue for very much longer.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  By 9 a.m. DI Marks was drawing his early-morning briefing to its conclusion.

  ‘In light of the similarities between the attack on Jay Andrews and the attack on Rachel Golinski, we’ll need another statement.’ Marks paused and scanned the room. Gully thought this a slightly theatrical gesture since the only detective waiting to receive instruction was Gary Goodhew.

  ‘Gary,’ he continued, ‘how’s your Morse code?’

  ‘Dash dash dash, dash dot dash, sir.’

  Bloody smartarse, she thought. Then she realized that Marks was looking at her, and hoped she hadn’t mouthed the words.

  ‘Gully, I’d like you to go along with Goodhew.’

  ‘I thought I was going back to Kimberly Guyver?’

  ‘Change of plan.’ There was an edge to his tone that made one or two of the other detectives look interested, Goodhew being one of them.

  For a moment she thought Marks had made a mistake. ‘But you said . . .’ she began, then instantly realized how much worse she’d just made things. When would she learn that sometimes it was better to just nod and do what she was told.

  She spent three of the final five minutes feeling like everyone in the room was thinking up some quip to deliver at her expense, then the last two asking herself whether she really was becoming too self-absorbed. No one cared about any job allocation except their own.

  Marks then dismissed them. By the time Gully left the room, Kincaide was already in the hallway, where he slipped alongside and tapped her on the elbow. ‘Bad luck,’ he whispered.

  Gully stopped and turned towards him. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. She watched him carefully, less than keen to accept anyone just at face value.

  Kincaide seemed earnest and genuinely interested. ‘Did you say something to upset him?’

  ‘Who, Marks?’

  ‘Yeah – why’s he suddenly reallocated you?’

  Gully concentrated on looking unconcerned. ‘I have no idea. Obviously it wasn’t going as well as I thought.’

  ‘Really? Then maybe you should have a word with him.’

  ‘No, I’ll leave it. It’s embarrassing enough already,’ she said although she wasn’t even the first shade of red.

  ‘He’s a decent bloke,’ Kincaide persisted. ‘You should talk to him, just tell him you don’t want to be with Goodhew.’

  She shook her head. Some people could just get too earnest and too interested. ‘Are you winding me up?’

  Kincaide raised his eyebrows. ‘No, let me finish. Think about the resourcing situation. If you say you don’t want to be with Goodhew, where else is he going to put you but back with Kimberly Guyver?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll stick with what I’ve been given.’

  Kincaide’s voice was gentle. ‘Hey, I’m sorry.’ He shrugged and raised his palms to the ceiling. She guessed this was a gesture designed to signify his divine acceptance of her will. Saint Kincaide: patron saint of hapless females. ‘I was just trying to help.’

  ‘Hey . . .’ Gully paused long enough to note how much clarity could be gained from a few hours’ decent sleep. ‘Why do you blokes always say that when you want to manipulate? I’m starting to feel like a ping-pong ball being flipped back and forth between you and Goodhew.’

  Saint Kincaide’s palms got folded into his pockets. ‘No, of course you’re not. And that’s quite insulting, actually. I’ve gone out of my way –’

  ‘Oh, please!’ She said it quietly but with a half-smile on her lips.

  ‘I have, I’m trying to make sure you don’t come unstuck. And all you do is lay into me.’

  Goodhew was finally leaving the briefing room; he loitered in the doorway, having a final word with Marks. She lowered her voice further. ‘You know that’s not the case. I’ll fight my own battles – which means I don’t need you offering me direction any more than I need to get it from him.’ She hooked her head towards Goodhew, just as Goodhew turned and moved towards them.

  Kincaide flashed her his warmest smile. ‘You’ll be fine.’ Then he reached out and squeezed her arm before she had the chance to move away. ‘Have fun,’ he added then left.

  ‘For Pete’s sake.’ She rolled her eyes, then turned to Goodhew. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved, aqua-blue shirt. ‘You look like a Tommy Bahama ad.’

  ‘Not enough palm trees.’

  ‘Yeah, but that colour still belongs on a beach.’

  He started towards the main stairs and she followed. He set a brisk pace and her uniform already felt like she wore too many layers. By mid-afternoon it would feel like one of the hottest places in Cambridge. Maybe it was just the mood she was in, but she couldn’t help wondering whether Goodhew’s current choice of outfit included a small percentage of rubbing her nose in it.

  They walked the length of the building and down two flights of stairs without another word. Gully felt little desire to break the silence, so it was no surprise that Goodhew spoke first. ‘Kimberly’s found you very supportive.’

  They reached the car but she dallied over sorting out her car keys even though there were only two attached to the ring. ‘She told you that, did she?’

  ‘I’ve just been speak
ing to Marks and –’

  ‘Oh, great.’ She rammed the correct key into the lock, but still didn’t turn it.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Goodhew tapped the roof of the car a couple of times, but she still didn’t glance at him. ‘I said, what’s wrong with that?’

  Her better side urged her to find some way of mustering a cool and dignified silence, but her mouthy side won through, after years of virtually undefeated practice. She glared at him. ‘You’re a DC, I’m a PC. You’re new, I’m even newer. I understand that, but how would you feel if someone barely your senior was giving Marks feedback based on his cosy chats with a witness? Huh?’

  Goodhew sighed. ‘Unlock the car, Gully.’

  ‘And why is it you don’t drive yourself?’ She turned the key and they simultaneously opened their doors and climbed in.

  ‘I haven’t slept enough. Wouldn’t be safe.’

  ‘Firstly, we’re only going about a mile and a half across town and we’ll be lucky to get out of first gear, so no real safety issue there. And, secondly, you never seem to drive anywhere.’

  Goodhew didn’t reply.

  She turned left out of the car park, and left again across the front side of the police station heading towards the junction with East Road.

  ‘Go straight on,’ he advised.

  ‘Quicker if I turn right, then left up Hills Road.’

  ‘No, Mill Road, Devonshire Road, then join Hills Road up by the railway station. Nothing in it.’

  His tone suggested it was now an instruction, not a discussion. She let it go and drove straight on. About two hundred yards after the lights, her mouth decided to have the last word after all. ‘It’s longer this way, but whatever you want.’

  He said nothing but from the corner of her eye she could see his face turned in her direction. After a couple of minutes of this she couldn’t stand the suspense and glanced across at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I think you should consider the priorities here.’

  She didn’t like his tone. Literally didn’t. It had turned all serious and superior, and he’d only just started to speak. She wondered what was to come.

  ‘Kimberly Guyver is traumatized,’ he continued. ‘Her best friend has been murdered and her son is missing. Yet you seem to be sulking because our DI has decided that the most appropriate use of your time is doing something that’s not as high-profile or as important as you would like.’

  ‘No, actually, I’m not sulking, and I’m not so stupid that I don’t realize that this job involves plenty of mundane tasks.’ She said mundane like it was a dirty word. She paused until he opened his mouth to reply, then spoke right over the top of him. ‘I just think it’s a pity that a fully fledged DC needs a chaperone.’

  She checked his expression and was satisfied to note that he looked appropriately stung.

  ‘Who gave you that idea?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? Kincaide? I’m not giving you further ammunition for your petty war with him. I have eyes, and I have a brain. Out of the blue, you need someone to drive you, and the best you’ve got is you feel a bit tired? Please.’

  They were inching past the first Mill Road shops, and Goodhew was now making a point of looking beyond her. He opened his mouth to say something, but looked too pissed off to form a sentence. He was obviously one of those blokes who gave up part-way through a row, then spent a couple of days brooding in a moody silence.

  And he’d accused her of sulking.

  In her opinion, an argument needed a clear start, a middle and an end. She was just considering goading him into round two when, without warning, his hand slapped down on the dashboard like it was a driving test. ‘Stop!’

  She hit the brake and he was out of the car and running through the traffic before the word ‘What?’ had even time to leave her lips.

  Ahead of him a teenager had taken flight.

  Gully pulled over to the kerb, then changed her mind. Instead, she switched on the siren and forced her car through the queue. Traffic ahead of her cleared a path with increasing efficiency, and by the time she’d crossed the first junction she could see she had a clear run.

  What she couldn’t now see was either Goodhew or his quarry.

  She pulled over and let the siren die.

  Goodhew had run off damned fast for someone feeling too tired to drive.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Goodhew wasn’t finding his car trip with Gully much fun at all. He reminded himself that there were always two sides. Always two, and sometimes more. And Goodhew was stumbling across a lot of things on Gully’s side that appeared to be symptoms of her choosing to believe the worst about him.

  Marks had updated Kimberly Guyver and told her that Gully would be deployed elsewhere for the morning. Kimberly had immediately expressed her appreciation for the support Gully had already given her.

  Marks could have told Gully that himself; maybe if he’d said it at the briefing, it would have diffused her embarrassment and left her in a happier place than her current one. Or maybe Marks had decided it was time Gully’s skin thickened up a little.

  The bottom line was that Marks had intended passing on the compliment via Goodhew, but Gully had leapt to the assumption that they were Goodhew’s own words: a consolatory pat on the head delivered as a result of his ‘inappropriate behaviour with the witness’.

  The verbal exchanges between them were growing increasingly snappy. As far as Goodhew could work out, Gully’s skin was more than thick enough already, and now she was accusing him of needing a chaperone.

  Goodhew turned his attention to the other people on the pavements. Most were alone, most would be silent. Lucky them. He couldn’t see one other person getting an earful.

  It was strange how looking for one thing often led to spotting the thing it had previously been impossible to find. Like the teenager talking on the mobile, twenty yards ahead.

  With hindsight, Goodhew would wonder why he hadn’t just slipped up behind the lad and quietly taken him to one side. He concluded that it was probably childish to consider whether the irritating conversation in the car was directly proportional to the speed of his exiting the vehicle.

  He had whacked the dashboard, and was out on the road before it was fully stationary.

  The kid looked over his shoulder when he heard the door slamming. Goodhew dashed forward. ‘Stop,’ he yelled. It was all that Mobile Boy needed to galvanize him into a sprint.

  Mobile’s legs were long and the lollopy walk had morphed into the kind of strides that quickly swallowed the ground.

  The kid had a good lead: twenty yards plus another ten that Goodhew had lost by crossing through the traffic.

  Mobile was fast and darted away between the pedestrians. His reflexes were keen and he zigzagged easily round A-boards and waste bins.

  Goodhew left the pavement, sprinting along the narrow gap between the kerb and the traffic. Mobile was still widening the distance.

  Goodhew pushed himself faster. All he had to do was keep pace. Mobile was quick, but he couldn’t go on running forever.

  There was a right turn coming up, and Mobile glanced back. The approaching corner was busy with people and traffic. Goodhew couldn’t risk losing sight of him if he made a turn first. Goodhew cut across, charging through the shoppers, following the most direct angle towards the corner.

  Suddenly Mobile darted the other way, switching out into the flow of traffic, forcing Goodhew to brake before angling back towards the roadway. Goodhew’s foot clipped a metal sandwich board, leaving its tubular frame clattering on the pavement. He stumbled briefly, but kept his balance and continued to run.

  Mobile was now on the opposite pavement.

  Goodhew ran towards him, then halfway over the road he changed his mind and sprinted along the white line until he’d made up ground again.

  Ahead rose the carcass of the old Locomotive pub. Sudden instinct told Goodhew that Mobile would take the wide driveway running beside it, leading to Mill Road Cemetery. />
  Goodhew stayed in the centre of the road, since it would give him more space to make the turn, and he could see that Mobile was getting slower now.

  Mobile looked back as he neared the alley, then darted left just as he reached the entrance. Then Goodhew accelerated, across the traffic and towards the same opening. He knew the driveway well: a long avenue of trees and thick shrubs, with no way out until further along.

  Mobile was two-thirds of the way down, his strides becoming less regular, more weary. His flash trainers seemed to have downgraded themselves from running shoes to jogging weights.

  By the short pathway leading into the graveyard, Goodhew got close enough to make a grab at the boy, and brought him down. They landed in a heavy heap amongst the long grass and thick nettles by the boundary wall.

  Goodhew stood up and pulled Mobile back on to his feet.

  ‘OK?’ he asked.

  Mobile scowled. ‘I better not have any dog shit on me,’ he panted.

  He had a point, but the grass looked clear and they’d both escaped with nothing more than a few grass stains. ‘You’re fine. Might’ve been easier if you hadn’t run away, eh?’

  Mobile scowled. ‘You ain’t even panting.’

  Goodhew fished a small notebook out of his back pocket and his phone from the front of his jeans. He showed his ID. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There was a fire two nights ago in Gwydir Street. I’ve been trying to track down the person who made the 999 call. Fits your description.’

  Mobile shifted his weight from foot to foot, and for a moment Goodhew wondered if they were about to have a rematch. But, as the boy was still puffing, Goodhew didn’t feel too worried.

  ‘Not me, mate.’

  Goodhew nodded. ‘Fair enough, I’ll take your details and get them to cross you off the list.’ He opened up his mobile. ‘I’ll phone my boss now.’ He found the number and pressed ‘call’. It took about three seconds for the phone in Mobile’s hand to start playing a distorted version of some kind of techno-anthem.