‘Was he alive when he went into the water?’ I ask.
‘We believe so.’
I picture the chains wrapped around his chest and over his shoulders. They were padlocked behind him. He would have fought for air, kicking his legs, trying to keep his head above the surface until exhaustion dragged him under.
‘You’re free to go,’ says Fairbairn, ‘but you’re not to talk to anybody about this. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
11
It is past midnight when I get back to the station and the patrol room is emptier than at any other time of day. Sitting at a desk, I stare at the blinking cursor, which seems to be sending me a message in code.
I type in a Google search for Dylan Holstein. The first four pages have dozens of stories with his byline, mostly investigative pieces about miscarriages of justice, political infighting, corruption and organised crime. His biography refers to him as a ‘freelance writer and author’ who has worked for the Guardian for more than fifteen years as an investigative reporter. He has written two non-fiction books, one about gangland London during the sixties, and the other a history of crime reporting called, If It Bleeds It Leads.
Next I type in the name: Imogen Croker. The first pages are media reports about the death of a young woman near Eastbourne eight years ago.
I begin reading:
A London fashion model has plunged to her death from cliffs at Beachy Head in East Sussex, despite her boyfriend’s desperate attempts to save her.
Imogen Croker, 19, and Darren Goodall, 35, were on a footpath above the famous chalk cliffs when a strong gust of wind blew Imogen off her feet and over the edge. Goodall, a police constable, climbed down the treacherous rock face, but became trapped and had to be winched to safety.
Coastguard and police were called to Beachy Head shortly after 4 p.m. yesterday where they recovered the body at the base of the cliff. PC Goodall was taken to hospital and treated for hypothermia.
The couple, who had known each other for eight months, were engaged to be married later this year. They had lunch yesterday at the nearby Birling Gap café and police said that alcohol may have played a role in the tragedy. A report is being prepared for the coroner.
There are more stories, along with photographs. Some are modelling shots and others are taken from Imogen’s Facebook page. In one she is sitting on the back of a motorbike in jeans and a leather jacket. A younger version of Goodall is leaning forward over the handlebars.
I notice the similarities between Tempe and Imogen Croker. Both are tall and slim with upturned noses and wide mouths. Perhaps Goodall has a type, although his wife doesn’t match the template.
Most of Imogen’s modelling work was for clothing catalogues and trade magazines. She was also studying to be a schoolteacher.
The inquest was opened and adjourned at Eastbourne Magistrates Court. I search for the outcome.
A British model fell to her death at Beachy Head after being blown from a footpath by high winds, a coroner said today.
Imogen Croker fell from 250 feet while walking along a well-worn tourist trail at the top of the cliffs. A toxicology report showed Miss Croker had consumed a substantial amount of alcohol, but was described by witnesses as being ‘merry rather than drunk’。
In a statement tendered to the court, her fiancé, Darren Goodall, said the couple were taking photographs only moments before the tragedy, which happened in an area where signs warn tourists to stay away from the cliff edge.
‘I told her not to get too close, but she was holding out her arms, saying she could feel the wind beneath her wings. One minute she was there and the next she had gone.’
Goodall, a police constable, used a lower path to reach her body, sustaining hand injuries and suffering from hypothermia. He stayed with Miss Croker until coastguard and lifeboat crews arrived.
In a statement read out at the inquest, Miss Croker’s mother, Lydia, described her daughter as someone who lived life to the full. ‘She was my beautiful, thoughtful, kind-hearted first-born and I miss her every day.’
Coroner Ressler concluded, ‘This is a very sad and tragic case. My heart goes out to the Croker family, who have lost a loving daughter in a terrible accident.’
I read a dozen more articles. None of them calls into question the findings of the inquest, yet Dylan Holstein said that her family had doubts. He came to me looking for dirt on Goodall and now he’s dead, which is either a terrible coincidence, or a warning that I should leave this alone.
I’m about to close the page down, when I type another search. Holstein knew that I was Edward McCarthy’s daughter, something I’ve worked hard to keep secret. The page refreshes and I begin reading a newspaper feature written eight months ago. It focuses on the Hope Island development, my father’s latest property venture. Three local councillors have been accused of taking more than a million pounds in bribes to approve the rezoning of the former industrial site near Canning Town. One of the men, the chair of the local development committee, was found dead in the garage of his home when detectives arrived to question him.
My father is quoted in the article, pledging to cooperate fully with any investigation and denying any wrongdoing. A sidebar, published beside the main feature, details the potted history of Edward McCarthy, mentioning his two marriages and only daughter, but not my name.
It is two in the morning and my coffee has grown cold. I rub my eyes and turn off the computer.
My father’s birthday is tomorrow – by which I mean today. Now I have a reason to go.
12
‘We should have hired a limo,’ says Henry.
‘Or at least had your car washed,’ I reply, peering through the smeared windscreen. A fallen leaf, trapped beneath the wiper blades, has been there since last autumn.
We are waiting in a procession of prestige cars that are lined up at the pillared gates where security guards are checking registration numbers and IDs. Bulked up with shaven heads, they look like ex-boxers or ex-cons. Nearby a camera crew has set up beside a broadcast van and a pretty TV reporter is doing a piece to camera, touching her hair when the wind blows it across her face. And further down the lane, a handful of freelance photographers are perched on stepladders, aiming long lenses over the wall into the estate. Paparazzi.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asks Henry.
‘You didn’t have to come.’
‘Are you kidding me! I wouldn’t miss this for the world – a chance to meet the famous Edward McCarthy – the enigma, the riddle, the gangster.’
‘Don’t call him a gangster.’
‘That’s what you call him.’
‘I’m allowed. And I’m really only here to see my uncles.’
‘Who are known criminals.’
‘They spent time in prison. That doesn’t mean they’re—’
‘Old lags?’
I give him a dirty look.
‘I’m joking, OK?’
Someone raps hard on my window, startling me. I think it’s going to be a security guard, but it’s Martyn Fairbairn, the detective I met at Bankside Pier.
I lower the window.
Fairbairn looks bemused rather than annoyed. ‘We meet again. Mind telling me what you’re doing here?’
‘I’ve been invited.’