The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4) (22 page)

Instincts
. He’d made a promise to himself to listen to them, and right now that was vital. He needed to clear his thoughts, not muddy them further, and to achieve that he needed time on his own.

He made himself some coffee and sat on the floor with his back against the battered leather settee. His jukebox played quietly, its valves humming almost as loudly as Goodhew’s brain. He cupped the mug in both hands and it was almost cold by the time he started to drink.

As far as he could remember, he’d been about twelve when his interest in understanding people and fascination with crime had crystallized into the desire to become a detective. The job was always full of surprises.

But Lego? He hadn’t seen that one coming. Nor Rob Stone’s sudden and eloquent outpouring. Bryn would undoubtedly come up with some convoluted analogy between alcohol and the fuel supply in a carburettor: too little and it spluttered and didn’t respond, too much and it flooded and wouldn’t work at all. Something like that anyway.

For a few minutes he allowed himself to wonder at Bryn’s apparently simple take on life, and the depths of thought that Bryn’s views sometimes revealed. Then, once in a while, he’d make a throwaway remark that was equally illuminating.
A dazzling smile and rampant curls.
The words flashed back into Goodhew’s consciousness and in his mind’s eye, the image he held of Charlotte took on a new clarity. Suddenly every feature, from the curve of her cheek and brightness in her eyes, through to the sound of her voice as she’d tried to revive him, felt as though they’d communicated far more than he’d first realized.

This was no good. He tried to ignore any further random thoughts of Charlotte but, despite his best efforts, she refused to entirely leave his mind.

Damn Bryn.

Goodhew made a mental note to give his friend a call then pushed himself back to considering the Lego he himself had owned as a child. He’d kept his in a dark blue translucent plastic tub that had started life in the 1960s as either a futuristic umbrella stand or a groovy kitchen bin. It had been relegated to toy storage and could hold so much Lego that Goodhew had never managed to fill it up past the halfway mark.

Rob Stone was right; he too had known exactly which pieces he possessed, but he also knew that the only efficient way to put them together was to tip them into a heap in the middle of the floor.

Goodhew asked himself about his current options. One was to accept that both Shanie and Meg had committed suicide. Marks was the boss and had years more experience. Goodhew trusted him. The first option, then, was to trust Marks’s judgement and let it go. But that didn’t sit right: the picture was hanging together, but he was sure that whatever was holding it in place wasn’t enough to withstand too much shaking.

Linked suicides, or murder?

The whole problem, with both the case and the Lego analogy, was a lack of all the necessary pieces.

And, put like that, it was suddenly simple.

Grab all the pieces, spread them out, and then see what they made.

And, just like that, the doubt, the lethargy, the feelings of floundering in virtual darkness all vanished. He was on his feet, killing the power to the jukebox, grabbing his phone and jacket, and heading out the door.

It was 6.25 a.m. First stop, Sergeant Sheen’s Red Book.

Police stations of any size were never deserted. Maybe the front desk would be briefly unattended or the corridors silent at various times, but there would always be someone somewhere in the building. Goodhew moved quickly and with purpose. He reached Sheen’s desk without crossing paths with anyone.

At first glance, Sheen’s method of information-gathering seemed erratic and incomprehensible, but Goodhew had seen enough of the multi-coloured arrow-happy diagrams to know that nothing would appear on a page without having a connection – no matter however disparate the information appeared. Sometimes just following the arrows led to the answer; other times it only helped when Sheen provided the translation.

Goodhew turned on Sheen’s computer and searched for any details Sheen had logged that cross-referenced with suspected teen suicides, Brimley Close or the Carlton Arms. Then he took down one box-file at a time and began rifling through the physical files. Each time he found a page of interest he slid it out carefully, photographed it with his phone then slipped it back in exactly the same place.

He needed to be both accurate and fast, but each time he checked the clock the hands had jumped forward another handful of minutes. The building would be filling from seven, and absolutely anyone who knew Sheen would smell a rat if someone other than Sheen was seen anywhere near his files.

The absolute deadline would be the arrival of Sheen himself at 7.30.

Twice he heard sounds in the corridor and ducked under Sheen’s desk. No one appeared; thankfully, Sheen had been moved to pretty much the most secluded spot in the station.

Goodhew replaced the last file, switched off the PC and made it into the corridor just as the big hand jerked its way on to 7.25. He checked through the banisters on the second-floor landing: Sheen was crossing the first-floor landing and heading up, so Goodhew hurried to the other end of the second floor and left by the public entrance.

The Kite is an area of Cambridge named for its shape, and Goodhew cut through the back streets from Parkside Station at the Kite’s southern tip to Maids Causeway on the northern edge.

Many of the large houses were still family homes, or had been split into flats but were residential nonetheless. Braeside sat between two of these houses, and from the outside appeared to be the home of a slightly poorer – or possibly more eccentric – relation. In fact, the building was home to several health-related resources, including a chiropractor and more recently an osteopath. Goodhew was looking for Elizabeth Martin, the psychotherapist whose treatment room was situated on the first floor. He looked up at the half-lowered bamboo blind with the half-closed curtain behind; no visible lights, no sign of movement.

He’d come on the off-chance, planning to leave a note if Miss Martin wasn’t available. He had a pen but was rummaging through his pockets for any piece of paper more substantial than a grocery receipt, when he became aware of someone close behind him.

‘The curious detective,’ she said.

And he looked round to see Elizabeth Martin herself eyeing him. She was a woman in her mid-fifties, with grey-flecked blond hair and a passion for knitwear. Skirt, top, scarf; all knitted. Even her boots had a roll-over top that looked knitted too.

Beach holidays must be tricky.

‘Curious? As in nosy?’ he enquired.

‘And slightly odd.’ Unless he was imagining it, there was mild humour in her tone.

‘Thanks.’

She pulled a bunch of keys from her bag and used the largest to open the front door. A second, newer one, opened a door beyond, which led to stairs and the floor above. ‘I have an hour before my first client – will that be long enough?’

‘I should explain why I’m here.’

‘Bit difficult if you don’t. Go up then, explain while I make coffee.’

‘I don’t need one, thanks.’

She followed him up the stairs. ‘To which you hope I’ll say I won’t bother either, so you get the most out of your hour – but if I don’t start with a coffee you won’t get anything from me at all. D’you want one now?’

He decided he did, and in less than five minutes they were seated in her consulting room. It was like he imagined a session might be, with herself in the more upright chair with the wooden arms and high back, while he sat in a lower softer chair, upholstered in a soft green velvet and positioned within easy reach of a large box of tissues.

He had already explained the bare bones of his enquiry while the kettle boiled and now she sat with her pen poised over her notebook as if he was about to give the answers to her rather than the other way around. Maybe she needed to hold the pen and pad in order to think. ‘Epidemics of suicide?’ she murmured. ‘You could just read a book, you know.’

‘I’ve read some – heard comments. I’d just like it first-hand.’

‘Fair enough. So you have four deaths that are possible suicides. They weren’t part of the same group of friends, but each person knew at least one of the others?’

‘Correct.’

‘And you just want general background?’

‘Yes, please. Without knowing specifics, the kind of questions you’d want to ask and the kind of background information that you would take into consideration.’

‘Okay, I understand. Have you heard of the term “suicide cluster”?’

‘It was mentioned at the station.’

‘Well, when I use the word “cluster” I’m talking about both suicides and attempts that are linked in some way. So, for instance, maybe there is a group of suicides at one college or in a particular community.’

‘Geographically linked.’

‘Possibly. They might also be grouped by time, as in impact suicides where an event such as the death of a celebrity or the collapse of a bank seems to provide the stimulus.’

‘So by place or event?’

‘Yes. It’s usually referred to as a link by time or space – space meaning place.’

‘There’s another term I’ve seen mentioned:
contagion
.’

Miss Martin nodded. ‘When talking about suicides, the words “contagion” and “cluster” both relate to a situation of multiple suicides, but are actually quite different. The cluster is the way the group is related, while contagion is a theory about cause. As the name implies, it’s the idea that a suicide has been triggered in response to an earlier suicide.’

‘It’s catching, you mean?’

‘In essence, yes. But I must stress that it’s a complicated subject, and as far as I’m concerned, the contagion idea is unproven. There are key groups that tend to be more vulnerable: students and psychiatric patients, for example. But these people may naturally gravitate towards grouping with similarly minded individuals, and my personal view is that it is the propensity for depression amongst those connected to the first victim that puts them at risk. In the sense that the initial suicide acts as a catalyst, that could be argued as being contagion – but any notion that a person who has never before suffered from depression or suicidal tendencies would be suddenly overtaken by a desire to kill themselves is nonsense.’

Elizabeth Martin offered to talk Goodhew through some published papers on the subject. He declined. He was just about keeping up with her, but had the feeling he ought to find a few medical students to hang out with before he tried keeping pace with a fully fledged consultant again in the near future.

‘This case I’m dealing with . . .’

‘The one in the papers?’

He nodded. He hadn’t seen any news for several days but knew Shanie’s death had been referred to on the billboards. Unless he had a specific reason to check a media report on an active case, he kept well away from the press. It was hard enough to keep his thinking straight without tripping up on other people’s supposition.

‘And there were two cases before, and one since?’

‘Potentially, yes. There’s a gap of over two years between number two and number three, though.’

‘But numbers three and four are just days apart?’

‘Correct.’

‘Unless number three was particularly close to either of the first two and had, for example, been finding it difficult to cope since their deaths, I’d feel sceptical about considering that they might be linked. Incidentally, I saw no mention of related suicides in the paper.’

‘I don’t believe they’ve made a connection yet.’

‘Better if it stays that way. Once the media starts with the dramatic headlines, these things take on an identity of their own. Boredom, lack of belonging and impulsivity can make people do things they won’t then live to regret . . . But, more crucially for your case, I think you should consider Shanie Faulkner as an unconnected case.’

‘Okay.’

‘With number four, you need to consider whether the third death alone provided sufficient stimulus to link them.’

‘Possibly two pairs of suicides, then?’

Elizabeth Martin nodded, but had suddenly become distracted. She rose from her chair and crossed to a small oak writing desk next to the door. With a tug the front opened to reveal four bundles of newspapers, each held together with a thick elastic band. ‘I like to keep the previous four weeks; it’s surprising how much local news is discussed during sessions. Here we are.’ She pulled the band from one bundle and flattened the copies out on the writing surface. She had her back to him so that the pages were partly obscured by her body.

As he hadn’t been invited to join her, Goodhew stayed where he was.

‘Do you always separate work from work like this?’ she asked him casually.

He wished he had joined her then, as he would have liked to witness her expression as she spoke. ‘Like what?’

She poised, with a page half turned. ‘Take tasks away from the job then come back with them later.’

Even though she wasn’t looking at him, Goodhew shrugged, then replied, ‘Sometimes.’

‘Don’t you think I recognize avoidance when I hear it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You, question after question, but still avoiding giving me a straight answer. Obviously you’ve heard of a square peg in a round hole? Well, you’re potentially a peg of many shapes; you may still develop in many different ways. Interesting to see, when so many dies are already cast.’

Goodhew fidgeted. Might have even reddened slightly. Certainly didn’t know how to reply. ‘The suicides—’

She waved him quiet, then turned to face him. She held one particular copy of the
Cambridge News
in her hand, but her attention was directed fully towards Goodhew. ‘Have you considered some counselling yourself?’

‘For what?’

He imagined her emitting a tut.

‘For the things you find difficult.’

He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t expected a sales pitch.’ And he knew he would feel disappointed if that was where this was heading.

‘So cynical. Seems to me you’re split between wanting to fit in and feeling drawn to challenging the status quo. Am I right?’