When You Are Mine(24)

‘Why?’

I hesitate, unsure of how much to say.

‘He asked me about an arrest that I made a few weeks ago. It was a domestic dispute. A woman was beaten.’

‘Why was he interested?’

I sip the water. Fairbairn senses that I’m holding out. He waits.

‘I arrested a police officer, Darren Goodall.’

The name doesn’t seem to mean anything to Fairbairn.

‘He’s the hero cop. He stopped the knifeman at Camden Market.’

‘I remember. Why did you arrest him?’

‘He took a swing at me.’

I can almost see Fairbairn’s mind working. He’s picturing the minefield I’ve asked him to walk across.

‘Why would a journalist from the Guardian be interested in a garden-variety domestic? It sounds more like tabloid fodder.’

‘I didn’t talk to him.’

‘He must have said something.’

‘Apparently, Goodall had a fiancée who died in East Sussex eight years ago. Imogen Croker’s family believe she was murdered.’

I can’t believe I remember her name.

‘Why did Holstein approach you?’

‘I have no idea. Maybe he thought I might help him.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘No.’

My shoulder radio is humming. The control room is asking for my location. They’ll be worried about overtime. Across the waterfront, forensic teams are still moving behind the white canvas and a drone hovers above the pier, taking aerial footage for the investigators.

Fairbairn has left me alone in the car while he makes a call. He returns.

‘Dylan Holstein didn’t show up at his office today, but we won’t be releasing the name until a formal identification.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Is that important?’

‘It makes it sadder.’

He tilts his head to the side, as though baffled by my reaction.

‘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.