‘In his car?’
‘No, his house.’ Fairbairn glances at his mobile. ‘I can show you, if you’d like.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You seem to have taken quite an interest in Sergeant Goodall – searching the police database, talking to his wife … Perhaps you can help me understand why someone would do this.’
‘He must have made enemies.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Dylan Holstein was investigating him.’
‘You think this is payback for a dead journalist?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘His fiancée fell from a cliff seven years ago. She was drunk. It was windy. The coroner decided it was a terrible accident. Goodall didn’t care if some journalist was sniffing around, digging up dirt.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Stands to reason.’
Whose reason, I want to ask, but let him go on.
‘The chains. The breeze blocks. The swim in the river. That was a gangland hit,’ says Fairbairn. ‘The sort of thing your father might arrange.’
‘He’s a property developer.’
The detective finds this funny. I wait for him to stop laughing.
‘It was odd that you happened to be there when we found his body,’ he says.
‘It was a coincidence.’
‘Coincidences can sometimes take a lot of planning.’
I don’t rise to the bait.
‘How is your father?’ he asks.
‘Recovering from a heart attack.’
‘Yeah. That was a lucky break for us, having you identify him, given your family connections. How is your father?’
‘He had a heart attack.’
‘I heard. Shame. On the mend, I hope.’
‘Yes.’
‘Eddie McCarthy seems to have a finger in every pie these days. Must be handy having a daughter in the Metropolitan Police.’
‘I resent what you’re implying.’
Another smile.
‘Dylan Holstein was investigating the Hope Island development. Two local councillors resigned, another is dead, yet nothing stops Eddie McCarthy – not even a heart attack.’
‘If you have questions, you should ask him. You know his address.’
‘I do. It’s quite the manor.’ He scratches his unshaven chin. ‘Drugged, you say. I can take you to hospital if you’d like a toxicology test. Of course, if it turns out you’ve been taking recreational drugs it will be the end of your career.’
It’s already over, I think, but instead ask if I can take a shower.
Fairbairn waits. In the bathroom I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I have dark circles under my eyes and my lips are bloodless and cracked. I look like a zombie. I feel like a rape victim.
Henry sits on the bed as I get changed.
‘You told me Tempe wasn’t invited,’ he whispers.
‘And you told her where we were.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
I’m about to argue, but he pushes back. ‘I didn’t know where you were going.’
‘Tempe said she called you.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have said something.’
‘I said you’d gone out with your friends.’
‘Because you knew it would hurt her.’
Henry tries to change the subject. ‘Who spiked your drink?’
‘I didn’t think to take down his name,’ I reply. ‘Silly me.’
‘Was there anyone sniffing around you, or buying you drinks?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘To which question?’
I’m annoyed that I have to defend myself. ‘A woman should be allowed to go out without being drugged and assaulted.’
His head jerks up. ‘Were you assaulted?’
‘No. I don’t … it’s complicated … I let my hair down. I drank too much. I danced.’
I get changed, pulling on jeans, a blouse and a short leather jacket.
‘When will you be home?’ Henry asks.
‘When I’m finished.’
49
There are no sirens and little sense of urgency about the journey. Fairbairn has chosen the front seat of the unmarked police car, but looks over his shoulder to talk to me. The driver is a uniformed PC who is roughly my age with a face like a fairground clown, all red cheeks and round mouth.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ I ask, still unsure of what I’m doing here.
‘I’d rather show you.’
‘Why?’
‘A fresh set of eyes.’
‘I’m not a homicide detective.’
‘Tell me what you see.’
I recognise the houses when we turn into Kempe Road where temporary barricades have been erected at either end of the block. Police vehicles and forensic vans have taken up every available parking space, along with a lone fire engine with an extension ladder.
Signatures are given and names taken. I am escorted past firefighters who are rolling up hoses and securing equipment to the truck. The first thing I notice about the house is that the upper windows have been shattered by heat or water. There are sooty marks above the window frames and some of the eaves are blackened.
Crime scene tape has been set up around the house, threaded along the hedges and across the gate. The forensic teams are packing up, having finished collecting samples and dusting surfaces. Lights and cameras are slotted into silver boxes. Tripods are folded. Evidence bagged. Sealed. Labelled.
Having passed an outer ring, we move to an inner one, closer to the house. More signatures are required and I am issued with a set of coveralls, including a hairnet that looks like a shower cap, a facemask, and plastic booties that go over my shoes. The front door of the house is hanging by a single hinge. Fire crews must have battered it down to reach the blaze.
‘Have you been here before?’ asks Fairbairn.
A bubble of air gets trapped in my throat. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Mrs Goodall said you helped her leave her husband.’
‘You’ve talked to her.’
‘I had to break the news.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Her mother did most of the crying.’
We step into the house, where square plastic duckboards are arranged along the hallway. The smell of smoke is thick in the air and the sodden carpet squelches each time I take a step. I glance into the sitting room, where fingerprint powder covers every smooth surface.
Three days ago, I broke into this house. I could have left behind skin cells, clothing fibres, strands of my hair. I should get out in front of this by telling Fairbairn the whole story – how I found Imogen Croker’s sapphire ring, which proves that Goodall lied at her inquest. But that would mean admitting my own crimes – trespass, break and enter, attempted burglary and criminal damage. Perhaps, if they catch the killer quickly, none of that will matter.
‘How did you and Mrs Goodall meet?’ he asks.
‘What did she tell you?’
‘You were at the same yoga class.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Was it a coincidence?’
‘No,’ I say, deciding to stick to the truth where possible. ‘I followed her.’
‘From this house?’