The Silence (Dc Goodhew 4) (29 page)

‘I don’t drink tea.’

‘I’m the one who needs it.’ It was meant as a light-hearted comment but instead her voice sounded shaky still.

She pressed her face close to his chest and put her arms around his waist. Now was the right time to come clean about Zoe, but she didn’t want him to let go of her, so she stayed quiet. Which meant keeping the chat messages to herself too. She couldn’t remember exactly what they said now, just the words
speak to me
– the words Matt had just used. And she knew better than to suspect him of anything. That was fear playing tricks on her.

Even as she drank her coffee and her gaze fell on the back door, she said nothing. Hadn’t she checked? Hadn’t it been locked? She was sure it was a yes to both, but she tried and it opened – and doubt spoke loudly in her mind. So she didn’t comment, simply gave the key a turn to lock it once more, keeping her added fears to herself.

Libby considered logging on as Zoe and then changing her password. In the end she didn’t do it.

She wouldn’t send Zoe any more messages now, but she kept the dead girl’s Facebook page open and checked the inbox repeatedly, even though the volume on her laptop was turned up to maximum, so it seemed impossible for her to miss any kind of audible alert.

Her two-way communication with Zoe might have been fictitious, but it had felt
real
. There now had to be another way.

In the end she slipped into Nathan’s room, trying to be as briefly there as possible, because dead teenagers’ bedrooms were dangerous, too full of the kind of junky mementoes that could only belong to someone busy with the act of living. She pulled an unused notepad from one of the drawers in the base of Nathan’s bed, then retreated into her own bedroom.

If the pad had meant anything at all to her brother, at least some of the pages would have been used, but that didn’t stop her running her hand gently across the plain navy front cover before opening it. She sat down on the bed and contemplated writing on the unmarked first page.

It wouldn’t be the same as messaging Zoe but yes, she could see this would work.

I’m back home again. How d’you think that makes me feel? But then what choice do I have?

Mum’s here; her face is a mess of bruises and all she goes on about is reasons to excuse Dad for what he did. Illogically, it’s him I feel sorry for. I’m not stupid – I know you can’t go round hitting people every time it gets too much, but I understand how he feels. You get to the point when you run out of words and then you want to act it out – you want to find a way of demonstrating how much it hurts. Demonstrating how impotent it feels to be standing here and watching people around you dying.

Oh shit. I’m hoping it’s over with them now. I want them to get divorced and stay away from each other, and not use me any longer as a go-between – or a weapon. But you know how likely that is – not one bit.

For my sanity I would have to choose one or the other, or split my life in two and refuse to let the time I spend with my mum influence the time that I spend with my dad, and vice versa. Eventually I’d have to turn away from them both. It wouldn’t be about choosing between them but about choosing self-preservation over being ripped in two.

I wanted to go back to the house in King Street, but that too is over now. There’s no way our parents are going to rent another home and no way we could go back to this one. One death is bad enough, but two will start to feel like ‘Shit, who’s next?’

No.

And I can’t stay round Matt’s. What would I do? Sleep on their sofa or share a room with Charlotte?

Or end up sharing a bed with Matt, and ruining things forever.

The pedestrian bridge that crossed from Chesterton Road to Jesus Green clattered with a steady stream of footsteps and the click-click-click of unridden bicycles being walked over its span. It was like that most hours of the day, though first thing in the morning and last thing at night, the lack of road noise made every creak of the bridge more pronounced. Declan Viney knew it well.

Now it was late afternoon as he sat in its shadow, fishing in the weir. It was a secluded spot, just him and the swans and an uninterrupted view across to the city. The sides of the bridge were a shoulder-high lattice of welded steel, and they reminded Declan of the kind of walkway he’d seen between platforms at old London stations. Its geometry rippled in the reflection in the water. Sometimes he would see the smudge of a face reflected too, but he never felt that anyone up there noticed him and that was just one reason that he chose to sit in this spot when he should have been in school.

Year 11. And for Declan that meant the last days of classes were finally within sight. From there he was supposed to sign up for some form of higher education. He hadn’t told his mum yet, but that battle was definitely on the near horizon.

She would throw the college prospectus at him yet again and demand to know why he now considered himself above any of the courses.

Truth was, he didn’t.

And he didn’t hate school either, because he’d selected the subjects that played to his strengths: art, literature, design and sport. And when that prospectus had first arrived, he’d immediately circled half a dozen possible courses. All of them interested him, but none grabbed him sufficiently to result in a completed application form.

Maybe if his mum hadn’t suggested a second interview with the careers’ advisor . . .

No, nothing had been put in his head that wasn’t already there, though the words
Think about what you really feel most passionate about
had been the trigger.

Over and above the choice between graphic design, sports therapy or any qualifications in media studies, the thing he wanted most was to get to know his father.

There were questions that only his dad could answer. Questions of identity. He needed to know whether he’d inherited his dad’s personality along with his wiry curls, skinny frame and aptitude for art. And, if so, was it inevitable that Declan would find himself similarly adrift in twenty years’ time? What, then, would be the purpose of another two years of education?

It had been about ten months since he’d last seen his father and, even by his dad’s erratic pattern, the man was overdue for a visit home. Last time, he’d stayed for a whole month, claiming he had a gap between contracts.
Contracts?
Declan had never worked out whether that was a euphemism for being between sofas or actually between jobs. When his dad was home they talked a lot but Declan never forgot that their conversation drifted seamlessly between fantasy, reality and wishful thinking.

And his dad was another reason for choosing this spot. It hadn’t been the last place Declan had seen him, but it was here where they’d last spent time together. His dad had fallen silent as he often did, but this time Declan spotted
the
look in his father’s eyes.
Resignation? Defeat? Loss?
He’d never found the exact words to describe it, but he knew it invariably meant that his dad would soon be moving on.

Whenever Declan sat here alone, he found it easy to imagine that his dad was sitting quietly next to him. Or would slip into view between the trees and join him here again one day. Declan had no idea what drew his father back to this spot time and again. The urge to be here was one more thing he himself had inherited.

He sensed someone approaching along the riverbank and glanced up. It was a man about his dad’s age.

Declan dropped his gaze back to the water, but from the corner of his eye could see the legs of the man’s jeans as he stopped walking, then took a couple of hesitant steps forward.

‘Caught anything yet?’ The accent was local, and the man used the low tone people adopted when they wanted to show you they had no intention of disturbing the fish.

‘Couple of perch – small ones . . . Nothing else.’

‘Is this a good spot?’

‘I like it.’ Declan screwed up his nose. ‘I’ve caught rudd and roach in here. My dad got a big pike once.’

‘Did he?’ There was an edge now to his voice.

Declan turned, studying him a little more carefully. ‘Yes, he did. There are plenty of pike in here.’ The stranger didn’t look convinced, or perhaps there was some other reason for his obvious tension. Declan turned back to his rod, suddenly hoping he would move on.

‘Tell me,’ the man persisted. ‘Why is this such a good spot?’

Declan decided to take the path of polite responses with no embellishment, no eye-contact and therefore no encouragement for any conversation longer than the minimum. He shrugged. ‘Dunno really, just is.’

There were voices on the bridge above; they sounded like a couple of teenage girls, and he suddenly felt compelled to excuse himself, pretend he knew them, wave and chase after them. Before he thought it through he stood abruptly and called the first two names that entered his head. ‘Lucy! Jess . . .’ He grabbed his rod. ‘I need to go.’

The man ignored his ploy. ‘I think I know your dad.’

Declan hesitated.

‘Ross Viney?’ the man went on.

Declan nodded.

‘Sorry, you caught me off-guard with the mention of pike. Took me a minute to place you.’

Declan studied the stranger’s face again. Perhaps he did look a little familiar.

‘You’re the image of your dad.’

Declan forgot about the girls. ‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Not for years. We were at school together.’

‘Oh.’ Declan didn’t know what else to say, but he sensed there would be something more. Maybe something that might help him understand his dad a little better? He turned back to the water and concentrated on delivering his most expert cast, aiming downstream of the rushing weir.

He smiled to himself, no longer uncomfortable with the presence of this man who said he knew his father. The two of them said nothing for a while; voices from the bridge faded and he welcomed the coming lull of early evening. He would need to return home soon, but right now Declan was in no hurry to leave.

This was the closest he’d felt to his dad since he’d been gone. ‘What was he like at school?’ he asked.

The man didn’t reply at first and Declan was considering repeating the question. But that thought was overtaken by the realization that the man’s response was not about to come in words.

If the shops on King Street had shutters, some of them would have been locked down for the duration of the Run. The word
notorious
had often been applied to the event, but
chaos
was more apt. A crowd of students, a dash from end to end of a short, narrow street while consuming seven pints of beer each wasn’t the formula for a sedate night out.

Shanie had liked the St Radegund pub, and as the last stop on the Run, it seemed fitting to Phil that they should meet there prior to the run. He suggested 5 p.m. even though the race wouldn’t start for at least two hours. He wanted to be able to phone or text any no-shows and still have time to persuade them to change their minds.

After the first half-hour of waiting alone, Phil had been relieved to see Oslo walk through the door. Amazingly, the others had all soon followed – Jamie first, then Matt and Libby together.

Libby was the only one who seemed reluctant, but he hoped she’d at least show interest in what he planned to say. She meanwhile had one elbow on the table and her head bowed over her mobile, poking at it with the fingers of her other hand. Texting probably. She didn’t look up when he started to speak, but thankfully the others did.

‘When our idea of competing in the Run first arose, I don’t think it was anything more than a joke.’ He paused, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and hoping he wasn’t misrepresenting Meg or Shanie in anyone’s eyes. But now wasn’t the moment to cave in. ‘Okay, I’ll be honest: I was fond of Meg, and I didn’t know just how much until the last few days. I did some things I’m not proud of, and I wanted to do something to say goodbye to her.’

Libby glanced up, but her eyes were back on her phone by the time she actually spoke. ‘And getting pissed is a good way to say goodbye? They both overdosed and your best idea is to get drunk?’

Matt reached over and put his hand on the arm of her chair. ‘Libby’s not running, but you know I’m up for it.’

Phil jumped back in at the first opportunity. ‘Libby’s right, my first thought
was
how inappropriate it might seem, but listen: can we ever think about living on King Street without remembering the girls?’

Jamie and Oslo both shook their heads. Jamie spoke: ‘We were all there when we joked about entering. I didn’t plan to come back, but I can remember both Meg and Shanie talking about it. It feels right to me.’

Libby didn’t comment either way.

‘I’ve thought hard about this,’ Phil continued, ‘and there were seven of us in that house, and there are seven pints to drink in the Run. One pint for each pub even though there are only five pubs left. So I’m thinking that it doesn’t matter if we finish, as long as we drink the first two – one for Shanie, one for Meg.’

The briefing had begun closer to 11.30 than 11 a.m., and it had filled a full hour. Goodhew’s usual restlessness had deserted him and, like everyone else in the room, his gaze kept returning to the nine photos

– Joey McCarthy and the four pairs of victims, pinned up to one side of DI Marks. Marks himself pointed to the corresponding photo each time he mentioned one of the names, and by the end of the briefing, Goodhew had the names and dates and faces fully memorized.

Marks’s final announcement was the news that Tony Brett was about to be released from custody. ‘We have no reason to continue holding him so he has been granted bail, but subject to the condition that he stays well away from his wife. He will be living with relatives in the area and has been made aware that we are reviewing the cases of Rosie and Nathan Brett. Goodhew, I would like you to accompany him and
tactfully
gather any questions that he’d like to ask. Kincaide, same for you with Sarah Faulkner. She and her husband will be heading back to the States as soon as they can arrange a flight. I’d like you to reassure them that we will maintain full communication and that they can contact me directly at any point.’ Kincaide and Goodhew both nodded. Marks turned to address everyone else in the room. ‘I think it is safe to assume that none of you will be seeing home anytime soon.’