When You Are Mine(90)
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?’
‘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.