The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4) Read online

  ‘Fucking kitchen’ was accompanied by another smash.

  ‘Making fucking small talk . . .’

  Another smash.

  ‘And leaving me to wash their fucking tea cups.’

  Dad made it across the kitchen before anything else was broken. That was the point where he might have been able to dissipate her temper with a show of compassion or understanding, or even a bit of both. But that had never been his way.

  ‘Why is it all about you, Vicky? I had them here because I want support but, no, all you can do is twist it round so I’ve done something wrong. Just look at yourself.’

  ‘So it’s my fault? I wasn’t the one forever pushing Rosie to do better.’

  ‘No, you were the one holding her back. I wanted her to get a good job, to get out—’

  ‘You pressured her!’

  ‘Encouraged.’

  I looked at Matt, screwing up my nose, knowing we were probably still at the prettier end of the fight.

  He smiled in a way that said he felt sorry for me. ‘We could get out of the house now?’ he suggested.

  ‘We should stay for Nathan.’

  ‘A DVD, then?’

  I nodded, but neither of us made a move for another ten minutes or so. I closed my eyes and listened to my parents, as they became increasingly vindictive. Then, when he couldn’t stand hearing any more, Matt dragged me to my feet. ‘You choose the film. I’ll get Nath.’

  As it turned out, he didn’t need to. I hadn’t even reached the top of the stairs when I heard the back door burst open, then slam shut again, and Nathan’s voice cut right through the house.

  ‘You’re never going to stop, are you? We’ve spent our whole lives listening to your screaming matches. And when you weren’t fighting, we were all holding our breath waiting for the next round. When I was little, Rosie would hear me crying. She was probably only seven or eight years old and trying to look after me.’

  I heard someone moving round the kitchen. I imagined Mum and Dad repositioning themselves, trying to change their body language from confrontational to parental. I knew it was a bit late for that and, with barely a pause, Nathan continued, ‘Always so wrapped up in yourselves. That’s all you’ve ever been, and now you’re wondering what happened to Rosie – whether she killed herself and how each of you can blame the other.’

  ‘Nathan!’ That was Mum, echoed, a moment later, with less surprise, by my dad.

  And Nathan shouted right back: ‘You’re surprised? Surprised I’ve finally spoken out? Or what?’

  Nobody spoke, then I heard Nathan heading towards me. I stepped to one side as he barged past me on the stairs. He grabbed his jacket and pushed past me on his way back down, too.

  There have been times since then when I imagined that he’d later wished he’d touched my arm, or given me some other sign of solidarity, but he didn’t. And I know it would be wrong to paint it into the picture.

  He left the house and, although there were other times after that when we talked, I can’t remember them as clearly. The day of Rosie’s funeral became the last vivid memory I have of Nathan.

  SEVEN

  Dear Zoe,

  This weekend has been strange. I’ve been strange.

  I like having people around me. They don’t tend to die when they’re right in front of you, for one thing. There I go again: dark humour.

  I like having people around me for comfort, and even the ones I don’t like much distract me from the thoughts that stalk me when I’m by myself. But this weekend I chose to be alone, and that in itself was strange.

  It started on Friday with the good intention of shutting myself in my room and working on my assignment, but ended with me splitting my time between messaging you and watching the real world out of my window. I spied on Matt and his sister Charlotte from the end of my bed and then, after he’d gone indoors, I still lay there just listening to my housemates squabbling downstairs and watching the trickle of people who find a reason to potter through King Street late on a Friday night.

  I heard him come up the stairs, so I crept across the room and quietly locked my door, then sneaked back over to my bed and pretended to be asleep when he knocked. I actually lay with my head on my pillow and my eyes shut, as though that made it more believable for him, and I smiled to myself when I realized how farcical it was.

  When I woke up on Saturday morning, it was barely six o’clock as I slipped downstairs and raided the fridge for yoghurt and orange juice. By the time I took my plate back upstairs, it was also loaded with toast and Marmite, two chocolate muffins and an apple.

  I’ve been on detox days where you have nothing but fresh water for twenty-four hours. I don’t know if it does much but, by the end of it, I have noticed a certain feeling of being refreshed. I made it to the kitchen and back without seeing another soul, and when I shut my bedroom door behind me again I had the idea that it might be nice to just stay in there, completely undisturbed, for the rest of the day. A kind of ‘people detox’.

  Of course, it was nothing against Matt or anyone else in the house, and just to be sure that he didn’t worry about me, like I would worry about him if the tables were turned, I sent him a text which read Gone shopping in London, text me if you need me xxx

  Just to make sure he knew, I sent it to Jamie and Shanie as well. Between the three of them, he’d get the message. He hates shopping, and I’ve made the forty-five-minute trip on the train enough times for him to think I wasn’t acting out of character. He did text me back twice, but once I was confident that his alarm bells were genuinely disabled, I settled down with a book, a blanket and my food stash, and had the whole day to myself.

  Believing that no one realized I was at home left my conscience clear of the urge to be sociable, or domesticated, when I actually felt like neither. For the first time I noticed how the house had its own sounds and rhythm. Even when everyone had gone out, I could still hear the gentle creaking of the nearest tree in the garden, the breeze in the chimneys and the sighing of doors and sash windows.

  In the quietest part of the afternoon I heard footsteps on the stairs, wary and hesitant. They stopped on the landing outside my door, then crept up to the next landing and paused there, too. I moved closer to my bedroom door, standing with my ear close to the jamb. I heard a key turn in a lock upstairs where Phil and Oslo have their bedrooms.

  It hadn’t sounded like either of them. Phil usually trudged while, as often as not, Oslo’s steps were short and hurried. For that reason, I carried on listening. I heard the first door shut and relock – then, to my surprise, I heard the second door being opened, too. I looked up at the ceiling, towards the point over my head where I guessed the person now stood. After a minute he or she moved further into the room, and after another minute back towards the door.

  I heard the door being re-locked, then the footsteps coming towards me as they returned down the stairs.

  Sometimes the obvious only becomes obvious to me, as it unfolds. This was one of those moments.

  My face was still an inch from the doorjamb as the footsteps stopped outside my own room. I saw the magnolia paint smear on my round Bakelite handle wiggle by a quarter of an inch in each direction as the door was tried. Then I heard a key slide into the other side of the lock.

  I drew a sharp breath, but apart from that I didn’t move. I looked longingly at the bolt, but I knew it was noisy. Stupidly, and illogically, I was still pretending to be out.

  The key rattled in the lock, then I heard some jangling, as if there was a whole bunch of them. They tried again – maybe with a different key, I don’t know. But I suddenly realized their problem was my key, which thankfully still sat in my side of the lock.

  After a minute, the footsteps moved on. I heard them enter and leave Jamie’s room, Matt’s and then Meg’s. I exhaled slowly, wondering why I hadn’t just shouted ‘Bugger off, this is my room!’

  Shanie’s room’s on the ground floor and I heard them disappear down there, in and out of her ro
om too. I slowly slid my squealing bolt safely home then, and for the next few minutes I listened for the front door and watched the street outside, but never saw anyone leave.

  Finally I decided that I was alone in the house again so I relaxed and had another hour of peace before gradually everyone returned. Of course, I can’t tell anyone, even Matt, what happened without confessing that I never went out at all. I’ll pretend I’ve read a warning for all students to lock their rooms. I don’t know any more than that, anyway. And I’m not ready to give up spending time on my own, now I’ve found that I’m such good company!

  EIGHT

  Dear Zoe,

  Does it matter that I don’t talk to you about Rosie and Nathan? I hope it doesn’t because I have other things filling my head now, things that I need pushed to one side before I can concentrate on the events that have already taken place.

  No one has seen Shanie since poker on Friday. I wasn’t in the room so I only know what happened second-hand, but it sounds as though a bit of banter exploded and Shanie stormed out. Meg was pleased to see the back of her, but when Shanie didn’t come back for a second night I’m sure that even bitchy little Meg felt a pang of conscience. Let’s face it, Shanie is thousands of miles from home, so unless she’s found a friend we’ve never heard of, it’s a choice between coming home to us or . . .

  Well, I don’t know what I’d do.

  I don’t think she’s the type to randomly pick up a guy just for convenience, and she said the guys on her course were ‘all zit-ridden geeks’. It didn’t seem to occur to her that she herself is about as geeky as a girl could get, cute though in a kind of my-dad’s-a-history-professor type way. I don’t think she’ll be with a bloke for anything less than being hit by a bolt of true love, and if she really had found ‘the one’ she would have stopped sulking about Meg and told us not to worry.

  Actually, I wasn’t worrying, not until today. She never turned up at college, according to Jamie, and Shanie always looks down on our frequent truancies. She thinks we’re showing disrespect to the opportunity for education. I can hear the twang of her accent as I type these words. I’ve explained that they factor in 10 per cent pissed days and 10 per cent just-can’t-be-arsed days as part of the curriculum. Lighten up! We’ve all told her that one way or another but she won’t budge. She’s evangelical about it, so when Jamie texted me to say she didn’t know where Shanie was and had found out that she hadn’t shown up at class today, I did feel the first twinge of something uneasy.

  I phoned Jamie and tried to get her to come back here, so we could talk about it, but she was adamant that something bad has happened.

  ‘I need to go to the police.’

  The first time she said it, it shocked me. I never again want to see a policeman standing on our doorstep. As she spoke the words, my stomach lurched just like it does on a fairground ride. As if I was being thrown back in my seat and then propelled forward into some unseen drop.

  ‘I need to go to the police.’

  She said it again. Obviously I had not reacted the first time. So I muttered, ‘No, it’ll be fine.’

  Then she rattled off all the reasons why it wouldn’t be fine – why Shanie’s disappearance could not be anything but serious. Her final words were, ‘I am going to the police,’ and by then I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  She’s there now, and I am here holding my breath, and wondering how far Matt and I are about to plummet.

  NINE

  PC Sue Gully didn’t smoke. She had tried it a couple of times but it felt unnatural, like she was playing at being someone else. She’d been about sixteen at the time and it had never appealed to her since, though once in a while she found herself slightly envious of the smokers’ routine. It looked like a good excuse for a ten-minute break, some fresh air and a chat with a clique of mates who shared the same habit.

  She returned now to Parkside Station after having spent the first six hours of her shift waiting to give evidence in a shoplifting case, only to have the case adjourned when the defendant claimed she was pregnant and about to faint.

  Caitlin Finch had also been pregnant and about to faint ten months ago when she’d been cautioned for a breach of the peace, eight months ago when she’d received a second caution, and five months ago when charged with stealing six litres of vodka from the local off-licence. Stuffing those inside her coat had been the nearest Caitlin had ever been to displaying a pregnancy bump.

  Sitting through the farce of Caitlin’s melodramatics, and the court’s politically correct show of taking her seriously, had made Gully want to spit. She considered standing up and making an honest comment about the stupidity of the situation, but it seemed to her that a sudden outburst of the truth would have been considered a bigger no-no than the entire pile of Caitlin’s lies.

  Gully’s first thought now was to attempt to salvage a few hours of valuable work and to cram as much into them as possible, but on her way back into the building she had passed the usual clutch of regular smokers and realized that, had she been one of them, the first thing she would now be doing was lighting up, and then expelling some of her frustration along with the cigarette smoke.

  She couldn’t imagine getting away with just wandering around outside for ten minutes here and there; she’d look like a skiver and, more to the point, would feel like one too. She didn’t have anything against smokers, not really, but at that precise moment it seemed as though the bad habits were the ones most likely to get rewarded.

  She was clutching a two-inch-thick folder containing paperwork regarding Caitlin Finch, and the first thing she did was to return it to her desk, slotting it back in its own section of the deep drawer containing a zigzag of suspension files. She gave the front of the drawer a hard push and it slammed home with a satisfying snap. But that did nothing to dissipate her deep-seated frustration.

  ‘Good day then?’

  The voice belonged to DC Kincaide. She turned to find him standing in the doorway, with a fairly convincing look of concern slapped on his face. Perhaps this was one of those rare moments when he was genuinely interested.

  Unlikely.

  She continued to scowl. ‘Crap, actually.’ She avoided any further eye-contact and squeezed past him into corridor.

  ‘I’ve got time for a coffee?’

  She pretended she hadn’t heard and just kept walking, hoping to make it out of earshot before he offered the almost inevitable jibe about women and their PMT. She might have felt compelled to retaliate. Gully decided she needed a cigarette, even if it was just a metaphorical one.

  Outside was overcast and cold, but the air felt clearer for it. She stood by herself and leaned against the brickwork, a few feet away from the wall-mounted ashtray. There she let herself seethe for as long as it would have taken to smoke two Rothmans King Size.

  Frustration ruled her some days; she didn’t know how to tread the fine line that ran between saying too little and too much, and sometimes found herself embarrassed by her own abruptness. When she remembered, she stayed quiet until she had thought her words through, but there were always people, like Kincaide, who made her feel pressured into saying the wrong thing.

  Like the court officials too. From the moment today when the delays started, she’d had that same anxiety; if she’d attempted to make a case for proceeding, she was nervous of it exploding into a full-scale rant about Caitlin Finch being a liar and wasting everyone’s valuable time. So instead she had spent most of those six hours stewing.

  She shot a dirty look at the ashtray, and the slot underneath it where genuine smokers posted their half-extinguished dog-ends. So much for a cigarette break: perhaps it was the lack of nicotine, but it really hadn’t done very much for her at all. She turned towards the rear entrance and spotted Gary Goodhew entering the car park from the footpath on Warkworth Terrace.

  ‘You look happy,’ he said. In essence it was the same comment as Kincaide’s, but Gully knew that this time it would have no side to it.

 
‘Wasted a whole day in court. That Finch girl had everyone running after her.’

  ‘Come on, Sue, that’s exactly what you were expecting.’

  ‘No, I said I wasn’t looking forward to going to court, and you said, “What’s the worst that can happen?” I wasn’t willing it. I was so wound up that I came out here.’

  ‘The virtual cigarette break?’

  Gully must have looked bemused, so he carried on without waiting for her to answer.

  ‘Don’t we all do it at some time or another? You know, taking ages to get coffee, or a lost twenty minutes in the records archive or standing out here trying to imagine a bad day disappearing up in smoke. There’s a bench just across the road from the station, on Parker’s Piece, and I used to sit there regularly, until Marks moved his office and gave me a rocket for looking like I wasn’t busy.’

  ‘I suppose you told him you were out there thinking?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And he bought that?’

  ‘Not for a second. And I promise you, you don’t want one of his lectures on the shortage of police resources and the impact caused by wasted man-hours.’

  ‘But Caitlin Finch wasted more of them.’

  ‘You know my grandmother?’ It was a rhetorical question. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘she’s a big fan of all that karmic balance stuff. She would argue that Caitlin Finch is wasting everyone’s time because she is wasting her own, and that your wasted day will be rebalanced by something worthwhile.’

  ‘And you buy into all of that?’

  ‘I can’t decide. Logically no, but I don’t feel comfortable totally dismissing the concept either.’ Goodhew smiled, while simultaneously managing to look serious. ‘Especially when it provides such a useful tool for avoiding the virtual fag break.’