The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4) (17 page)

Goodhew knew where this was going and nodded slowly. ‘But you can think of far more appropriate names?’

‘You leave here on a hunt for the stockists of a purple sweatshirt displaying crests of the various Cambridge colleges, and somehow that turns into one arrest and one hospitalization at the first address you decided to visit, and your own hospitalization at the second. Officially I abhor the way you behave, but I enjoy seeing what gets flushed out in the process.’ Before he could say anything else, his mobile rang. It vibrated on the desk, and wriggled an inch or so before Marks snatched it up.

‘Yes?’ Marks stared at the desk-top for several seconds, then at Goodhew. ‘The same house?’ he asked the caller.

Goodhew strained to hear, but Marks turned away and stood with his attention now fixed on the street below. For several minutes the stillness of the room was punctuated only by monosyllabic questions.

‘We’re coming,’ he said finally and snapped the phone shut.

Goodhew knew instantly that Marks had reverted to his usual official persona. ‘Another death,’ his boss revealed.

‘Who?’

Marks shook his head. ‘In the car.’ Goodhew found himself following him down the corridor, proceeding at slightly less than a jogging pace.

‘Phone Gully and pass the sweatshirt thing on to her. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine.’

‘Right, you’re coming with me. Don’t screw up – or bleed in my car.’

So one of them was dead.

Goodhew waited until they were in the car park before he considered repeating his question. On the way down the stairs he’d gone through the list of occupants.

Which one?

Trying to guess felt like a macabre game, like a game of dead pool where he was the only player. A niggle of superstition warned him against it: would the wrong choice be like willing something fatal on that person? He decided it wasn’t a game he wanted to play but, even so, two names had risen to the front of his mind by the time he and Marks had reached the car.

Libby and Meg.

He told himself he’d just picked the two most fragile-looking housemates. He knew nothing of Meg’s background, but in the last forty-eight hours had become over-familiar with Libby’s.

‘Who died?’ he finally asked again.

‘Meg DeLacy.’

‘How?’

Marks pulled out of the car park and executed the two left turns that took him on to East Road before he replied. ‘From the little I know, it sounds as though there are similarities to the Shanie Faulkner case. She’d been quiet and some of the others became worried so they broke in and found her lying on her bed. They called an ambulance immediately, but she was pronounced dead at the scene. That’s it, so far.’

Her dad was out but Charlotte Stone still answered the knock at the front door without stopping to consider who might be there. She felt her welcoming expression close down and shrink away when she saw DC Kincaide.

He spoke first. ‘DI Marks sent me to take a statement.’

‘Great.’ She was no expert at fake smiles but aimed for something sour and sarcastic and was fairly confident that she pulled it off.

‘You alone?’

‘Unfortunately.’ She stepped back, pushing the door further open with her shoulder, and left him to close it behind him.

She led Kincaide into the kitchen, preferring the formality of straight-backed chairs and a table between them. She directed him to the nearest chair, then bought herself a few minutes’ breathing space by making instant coffee. She didn’t look at him again until she passed him his coffee.

‘So why you?’

‘Luck of the draw.’ He shrugged. ‘So what happened at the Carlton Arms?’

She settled in the seat opposite him, relieved that Kincaide’s focus seemed to be purely professional. ‘I went to look for my dad, but instead I found your mate in a puddle of blood.’

‘Colleague,’ he corrected sharply.

‘So he’s the one you don’t like?’ She knew that the last thing she should be doing was referring, however obliquely, to her past conversations with Kincaide.

He acknowledged nothing further. ‘Let’s get this over with, right?’

‘Absolutely.’ She meant it, as she said it, but there was an added tension in Kincaide’s voice now, and she found it irresistible not to poke at it. ‘So what’s wrong with Goodhew, then?’

Kincaide pretended to ignore the question, so she asked it a second time. He worked his tongue around his top teeth, as though the answer was wedged between his right premolars. Finally he replied, ‘Your dad is a regular at the Carlton, right?’

‘You know that already.’

‘So why did you go down there?’

She glared, remembering all too clearly just how much she disliked Michael Kincaide. He had bitterness buried deeply inside him, but he was capable of hiding it well. ‘I worry when he stays out too late. I wanted to be certain that nothing had happened to him.’

‘So you weren’t being controlling?’

‘No, I don’t think so – but then I would say that, wouldn’t I? Why don’t you ask my dad whether he thinks his daughter’s a manipulative bitch.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You didn’t say that
today
.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Charlotte, I just want to know why you were in the car park. I need to find out what happened to DC Goodhew and whether you witnessed anything, however small or insignificant.’

‘Now I know why they sent you. “Let Kincaide go, he’s the expert on small and insignificant”.’

‘You used me.’

Charlotte was on her feet so abruptly that the table trembled and coffee slopped from the mugs. ‘Get out.’

‘Sit down.
Now
.’

‘
You
manipulated
me
. You never had any intention of helping us. You abused your position.’

Charlotte saw his expression change instantly. Gone was the hurt vanity, the dented ego that showed itself in his macho posturing. She’d cut deeper this time. Those last four words had done it: he’d taken them as a personal threat.

A single swift move of his hand and she found herself thrown back into the chair. It rocked back on two legs and for a moment she was sure she was about to go sprawling across the floor. She grabbed at the edge of the table and managed to keep herself upright.

Kincaide remained on his feet, with his right fist close to her head, until she had made it clear she had no plans to get up again.

They stared at each other uneasily.

‘Do you think that’s acceptable?’ Her tone was quiet, cowed even, but she refused to let the moment pass without saying something. Kincaide didn’t react at first, then he dropped back into the chair opposite, and briefly hung his head.

‘I’ve never done that before,’ he said.

‘Well, the trick will be to avoid doing it again, won’t it?’

‘I’m sorry.’

She hesitated, keen not to reignite anything, but at the same time determined that she wouldn’t be left fuming at what she had not had the guts to say. ‘You just came very close to crossing a line. You need to make sure you don’t kid yourself that the line’s moved a bit, next time you get near it.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You’re not stupid. Work it out.’ A short silence followed. What mattered most now was the assault on DC Goodhew. ‘I didn’t see anything,’ she continued. ‘I thought at first that the car park was empty, so I walked towards the main entrance. Then I don’t really know whether I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, or maybe heard something, but I glanced round and saw an arm. And when I moved a little closer, I recognized him. I ran to the pub door, shouted for help. Then went back to him.’

‘And you called an ambulance?’

‘From my mobile, yes. And I assume they called the police or ambulance from inside the Carlton.’

‘We have the time of your call. How soon after discovering Goodhew would you say you made it?’

‘Straightaway. Two minutes at the absolute most.’

‘And you’d say the car park was empty for approximately how long before you found DC Goodhew?’

‘Another minute or so as I crossed the road. Tops.’

‘And where did you find your father eventually?’

‘Back here. When I got home, he was asleep on the settee.’

‘Not worried about
you
, then?’

Charlotte stiffened. ‘You weren’t ever really prepared to help me, were you?’

‘I did exactly what you asked me to do, and there was nothing to tell you. But instead of accepting that, you just kept pushing.’

‘No, you strung me along. How many times did you tell me you were waiting for a chance to look at this, that or the other document? The coroner’s report first. Then results from Forensics, yet another witness interview . . . You dragged it out for weeks, Michael.’

‘You heard only what you wanted to hear. I told you right from the start I couldn’t find anything. How could I, when there was nothing
to
find. Why is that so hard for you to live with? They’re not even your own family.’

‘Matt is my brother.’

‘Yeah, Charlotte, you’ve made my ears bleed over that one already.’

‘Well, you lied to me about plenty of things, but until tonight I still felt you had a common thread of decency.’ This time when Charlotte stood up she was determined that their conversation really was over. ‘There’s so much less to you than meets the eye, Michael.’

She pulled open the kitchen door, then realized that they weren’t alone in the house after all. Matt and Libby stood side by side in the hall.

Matt peered beyond Charlotte, into the kitchen, then back at her in disbelief. ‘What the hell did you do, Char?’

But, behind him, she was certain that she saw Libby give her a small but definite nod.

Dear Zoe,

I know I do all the talking, but it helps me, it really does.

Sometimes Charlotte seems in denial. Sometimes I truly did believe that she thought Rosie and Nathan had killed themselves. The problem with all of this is wondering if I would believe the full truth if I came across it. In my mind it’s a conspiracy, like Marilyn and Kennedy and Presley all rolled into one.

I take people’s words at face value, the first time I hear them, then repeat them to myself and find another stance and, finally, they are turned over so many times that I eventually discard them as nothing more than static in the bigger picture.

Tonight I saw that Charlotte and I really are on the same side. She probably doesn’t favour one truth over another the way I do, but the fact is there is only one truth and she knows we haven’t had it all revealed yet.

I didn’t hear everything that went on between her and the policeman, but I was there for longer than she realized.

And I’m not going to make any moral comments. As far as I’m concerned, if she slept with him it shows her determination. And I think he’s not the kind to go out of his way without getting something out of it for himself, but I know Matt will dwell on it even if I don’t.

Matt dwells on everything.

Should I tell him that I know he slept with Meg? And why should it bother me? Because, if I’m honest, it does – but then the other part of me wonders why it doesn’t bother me more.

Maybe I don’t have feelings for him, or maybe I’m no longer capable of having a normal range of feelings for anyone, or anything. Is it possible that emotional reserves are like eggs? It’s one of those mind-blowing facts that I was born with all the eggs I’ll ever produce already inside my body. What if all the feelings I’m capable of having were there from birth, too, and I don’t have any left for the rest of my life because they were all used up on my family.

My family?

My dad put my mum in hospital today. That was supposed to be the first thing I should write; instead, it’s lower on the list than my fertility.

Joke.

Actually, I don’t know what to think. It’s not the first time he’s hit her, but this time he was arrested and charged. I’m relieved, I suppose. I don’t want Mum hurt. Neither do I want them to split up. Sometimes I wish someone would thump
me
– it might be a relief to hurt for some other reason, and at least with a
physical
injury I could watch myself heal.

Well, that’s kind of a joke, too. Not a very good one, I suppose, but like the rest it has a sliver of truth in it.

Matt was coming with me to the hospital tonight to visit her. I wanted to visit my dad in custody, too, but I don’t know whether I’m allowed to yet. Matt didn’t want to visit my dad, not even to keep me company, not even as far as the door. He’s more black-and-white than me; he won’t make it up with his own dad so I guess he’ll hate mine forever too.

Anyhow, it seems like the visit to the hospital is out of the question now. Matt and Charlotte are having some kind of heart-to-heart and that detective is still attempting to pin down her statement on the injured officer. He was attacked not long after arresting my dad; if my dad had any friends left I think that one of them might have done it out of warped loyalty.

Funny thing is though, one of Dad’s only mates was attacked at pretty much the same spot. I hadn’t thought of that until this very second. Mind you, he wasn’t a close mate, because the really close ones gave up after the second funeral.

Oh fuck. I hate my life.

Sometimes I really wish for something significant to happen, but it would take something pretty huge to pierce this constant numbness. Yet I have days when I think that I want it to happen, no matter how bad it is. Anything to move me somewhere else.

Then I remind myself that this isn’t numbness. It’s an overload of self-preservation and I really
don’t
want something bad to happen, even when I think I do. I just thought it, but I didn’t mean it. Sorry.

Marks felt there was little doubt that Meg DeLacy had committed suicide and, up to a point, Goodhew couldn’t help but agree. It definitely looked that way.

Megan lay mostly on the bed, one arm dangling over one side, and a foot protruding from the other. She’d managed a partial suicide note. It began as a status update on her Facebook profile:
hey guys, I no wot u all think but I neva meant 2 upset Shanie. Soz babes.