‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I heard a recording of an emergency call made by Nathan, her little boy, during a domestic dispute. The case was covered up.’
‘What business was that of yours?’
‘After what happened to Tempe Brown, I suspected that Goodall had abused women before. When Holstein told me about Imogen Croker I decided to dig a little deeper.’
‘You accessed the police database without permission.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you discuss your concerns with your superiors?’
‘I was told to leave it alone.’
‘But you didn’t.’
We are climbing the stairs, turning on the landing.
‘When did you last speak to Alison Goodall?’
‘I went to court with her on Wednesday. She applied for a DAP notice.’
‘You encouraged her to leave him.’
‘She made that decision.’
We have reached the main bedroom, which reminds me of those rooms uncovered in ancient Pompeii after Mount Vesuvius buried the city under volcanic ash. Everything is covered in an oily black soot that has created a perverse shadowland. The room is devoid of colour except for the duckboards and our blue coveralls and a small clear patch of fabric on a cushioned chair near the window.
Fairbairn speaks. ‘This is exactly as we found it. Only the body has been moved.’
A new smell assaults my senses – the sweet, cloying stench of burnt flesh. It sticks to the inside of my nostrils. My stomach heaves, but I have nothing left to bring up.
Despite the damage, I recognise the room – the queen-sized iron-frame bed, the matching sets of drawers and the antique dressing table. I have searched those drawers and seen my reflection in the mirror.
‘This was the ignition point,’ says Fairbairn, pointing to the bed.
The mattress is so badly burned that I can see the inner springs and melted foam that has solidified into coal-black clumps.
‘He was handcuffed to the bed.’
‘Police-issue handcuffs?’
‘Yes. One wrist. His right one.’
‘What was the accelerant?’
‘Lighter fluid.’
Fairbairn steps onto the duckboards. I follow tentatively, my arms tightly folded, as though frightened of touching anything.
‘A neighbour who lives across the road heard the sound of breaking glass and looked out her window. She saw the flames in the upstairs window.’
‘Did she see anyone leaving?’
‘A figure dressed in dark clothing and white sports shoes.’
‘Male? Female?’
‘She couldn’t tell. Goodall had company last night. We found a half-finished bottle of wine downstairs and two glasses.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Wiped clean.’
‘That suggests he knew his killer.’
The whiff of burnt flesh catches in my throat again and my stomach spasms.
‘He must have been gagged,’ I say, glancing at the bed.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You said the neighbour heard the sound of breaking glass, but nothing about anyone screaming. Goodall would have been yelling the house down if he was burning.’
‘He had something stuffed in his mouth.’
‘What?’
Fairbairn seems reluctant to tell me. ‘Women’s underwear. We’re hoping to get DNA from them.’
‘That’s unlikely.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Anyone who went to the effort of wiping down a wine glass wouldn’t make a rookie mistake like leaving her DNA on underwear.’ I nod towards the dressing table. ‘Could have come from the drawer.’
‘How do you know that’s where Mrs Goodall kept her underwear?’
‘It’s the obvious place.’
‘You think it was a woman?’
‘Don’t you?’
Fairbairn makes a mumbling sound deep in his chest, and I silently admonish myself for offering too many thoughts.
‘Where was Alison last night?’ I ask.
‘At her parents’ house. Her little boy was awake most of the night with an ear infection. She took him to the doctor first thing.’
I glance at the walk-in wardrobe, remembering the suitcase and Imogen Croker’s sapphire ring.
‘Has anything been removed?’ I ask.
‘No. It’s exactly as we found it.’
Stepping between duckboards, I edge closer to the wardrobe and glance inside. The door must have been closed when the fire took hold because less soot covers the shelves and hanging clothes.
‘Did Alison tell you about the suitcase?’ I ask.
‘What suitcase?’
‘When she was leaving, she packed her things in two suitcases, but had to leave one of them behind.’
‘Is that important?’
‘I showed her a photograph of a sapphire ring that Imogen Croker was wearing on the day she died. She told me Goodall had given her a similar-looking ring.’ I step into the walk-in wardrobe and glance behind the door. The suitcase is still there.
‘It was in a jewellery pouch.’
Fairbairn grunts dismissively. ‘Goodall wasn’t murdered over a piece of jewellery that went missing eight years ago.’ I want to argue, but he’s still talking. ‘This is payback for something more recent.’
I think of the woman he was with three nights ago. I didn’t see her face but she sounded like someone who was new to the house. A first-timer. A date.
Fairbairn is still talking. ‘Someone tampered with the alarm system. They forced the lock and unhooked the leads, which doesn’t fit with the bottle of wine and the wine glasses.’
‘It could be unrelated,’ I say.
‘Or the killer had an accomplice who broke in earlier and was waiting in the house.’
‘You think two people did this?’
Fairbairn rubs at his cheek as though removing his freckles. Again, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
‘Explain to me again your relationship with Darren Goodall.’
‘We didn’t have a relationship. He was stalking Tempe Brown. Sending her threatening messages. He vandalised my car with acid. He painted insults on her front door.’
‘Did either of you call the police?’
‘I was the police, remember?’ The comment is too glib and cursory.
‘When you say vandalised … ?’
‘With acid. I took photographs.’ I reach for my phone and remember. ‘I lost my phone last night,’ I say, aware of how lame that sounds.
‘Where?’
‘At a nightclub, I think, or maybe in an Uber on the way home.’
‘That’s unfortunate. Perhaps we can track it down for you.’
He doesn’t believe me.
‘Where is your car now?’ he asks.
‘I’m having it resprayed.’
Fairbairn sighs in frustration.
I was wrong to come here. I should have refused and clammed up, told him nothing about myself, or my impressions of the crime scene. Clearly, I’m a person of interest, peripheral or otherwise, and this is a fishing expedition.
Fairbairn motions to the stairs and leads me outside, where I peel off the latex gloves and step out of the coveralls. The detective tosses his into a waiting pile, but mine are kept separate. He’s collecting my DNA. He opens the rear door of a patrol car that will take me home.