‘Look, how about I take your number and get back to you? All I can say is, unless we have new witnesses or evidence then I doubt we’ll be able to take it any further, but let’s not close things off just yet, eh?’
All of a sudden, I like this young lady. Her tone has switched from jaded to warm and friendly and at this time, it is just what I need. I hope she has sensed my desperation. I will cling onto anything, any shred of hope or any glimmer of interest in this case. Simon may be, in fact is almost certainly, dead, but my hope of finding out what happened to him is very much alive.
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ Tears build. I fight them back. Somebody appears to care, to understand my dilemma and can empathise with me. Nothing may come of this but at least I can say I tried. At least Sergeant Duffield is going to make an attempt at doing something and for that I am and will always be eternally grateful. She is my life raft in a cold sea of uncertainty.
I give her my number and hang up, already wondering when I will hear from her again. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never. I can’t allow myself to become consumed by this. I need to crack on with my usual routine, not clock watch, waiting to hear back. Every second will feel like a minute, every minute an hour. There are other things I can do to take my mind off it. I have a book to write, a brother to find, a room to decorate. My life has suddenly become very full indeed.
Another search on the internet proves fruitless. More supposition and guesswork by strangers who have nothing better to do than write vulgar, trashy articles about my family and pass them off as blogs. Details are thin on the ground, time blurring the facts and erasing anything of note.
It all seems so pointless, precious time disappearing as I spend hour after hour searching, every site a rabbit hole that sucks me in only to throw me out later, disappointed and no further on with my search than I was when I began looking earlier in the day.
The details of the other missing lad are sketchy with no follow up stories, just the barest of facts stating his age and height. Why is this so difficult? Nobody seems to care about missing children. If I don’t make the effort then who will? If Sergeant Duffield doesn’t come up with anything of value, then I have no idea what I will do, how I will shake this feeling that the answer is close by but always just out of my reach.
I am about to give up when I see it – a small article on a blog entitled When Family Members Kill Each Other.
Beneath the headline, I can see Simon’s name and the details of the night he vanished. My eyes mist over. I blink, take a deep rattling breath and read.
We all recall the disappearance of Simon Goodwill over forty years ago, but there are certain details that have never been investigated by the police – details that require closer scrutiny. Some would call them coincidental and circumstantial. I call them evidence of guilt.
Police interviews reveal nothing of note. A child went to bed one night and when his family went to wake him the following morning, he was gone. All the stories given by the family match up. Neighbours saw and heard nothing. Without any forensic evidence or a body, at the time, nothing could be proved.
But then something happened a few months later – John Goodwill, the father of the boy, falls to his death from an upstairs window of the house where his son went missing.
Why was this event not investigated and a connection made? The coroner recorded it as an accidental death but we here at strangedeathsexplained are certain that coincidences such as this don’t happen. Further investigations should have been carried out at the time and now, decades later, after much research and extensive interviews with people who lived close by, we can reveal one startling fact which is this – John Goodwill’s death was no accident.
A quiet and often surly man, John had a reputation as being a stickler for discipline where his family was concerned. After the disappearance of his only son, Mr Goodwill became reclusive, rarely venturing out to the local pub. Many saw this as a sign of him avoiding questions rather than him taking time to come to terms with his loss.
‘Dodging and weaving, he was,’ one local told us. ‘Too afraid to show his face around town.’
A neighbour who knew the man well said Goodwill once confided in him that he had had to discipline the boy harshly on more than one occasion, taking the belt to him and locking him in his room. Other neighbours said they had heard shouts and cries of children as they passed the house but it wasn’t until after the boy disappeared that their suspicions about Goodwill’s guilt became aroused.
‘We told all this to the police but they didn’t seem to show much interest,’ one witness told us.
‘It’s clear that the guilt got to him. That’s why he did what he did. He knew that the local community was onto him,’ said another. ‘Too proud and arrogant to do it properly, he made it look like an accident so nobody would think him guilty or weak, pretending to paint some windows and then falling like that. It screams guilt, doesn’t it?’
I stop reading, find myself gasping for breath. Sensationalistic nonsense. I wait for the thrum of blood that is pulsing through my head to slow down and try again, scrolling to the bottom of the site, seeing plenty of spelling errors and realising that these websites are put there by bored voyeurs with no qualifications or credentials. Nobody mentions that perhaps Dad may have been depressed and that’s why he jumped. Not that he did jump. They all automatically assumed it was guilt.
I shake my head, rub at my eyes. I have to stop this, getting sucked into other people’s fabricated stories. They have nothing better to do with their time, these uneducated, wicked individuals who think they know all about my life and the lives of my family.
…he had had to discipline the boy harshly on more than one occasion, taking the belt to him and locking him in his room.
I bend over and rest my head in my hands. Everything feels heavy, my brain screaming out for a reprieve from all of this.
Do I have any recollections of Simon being beaten by our father? It occurs to me that memories of Dad are hazy. He was either at work or doing jobs in the garage or in the shed. I was young when he died. I have clearer memories of Simon. We walked to school together, walked home again. We talked, played. We were friends. Siblings and good friends.
Maybe Kim is right and I need to give up on this. As soon as that thought enters my head, I am awash with shame. Give up on it and leave Simon alone, wherever he is? I can’t do that. I won’t.
I stand up, my strength returning. It’s easy to get knocked off balance by gossip and lies and toxicity. Because that’s all it is. I know it. Deep in my gut, I know that I will unearth this mystery. It may take me a month or a year or even a lifetime but the one thing I do know is this – after seeing these measly little sites, I need to prove them all wrong. I’m not going anywhere and won’t settle until I find out where Simon went that night. I’m in this for the long haul.
17
I can hear something. Whispering. It’s coming from close by. I shiver. It’s cold in here, a chill passing over my skin. Everywhere is dark. Everywhere is silent. No sounds that I can hear. Apart from the murmuring, that is. The ghostly voices of invisible people. Invisible people that are everywhere and nowhere. A low hiss, the talk of the invisibles concealed somewhere near but not here. Not in my room. But somewhere near here. Upstairs in the house.
A shadow slips past me, melting across the floor, a grey, vague shape that suddenly disappears as the moon slips behind a cloud. The large tree outside. That’s what it is. I can see its big branches, craggy, long fingers that sway in the breeze. I pad over to Simon’s bed. It’s empty, his covers pulled back. My hands touch the sheets – still warm.
I spin around. Where is he? Where is Simon? More whispers. I turn again, my footfall a soft, shushing sound against the rug, my eyes wide as I scan the room, desperation tugging at me. I need to find him. I need to find my brother. Where has he gone?
Then it comes again, clearer this time, audible but only just – voices. Soft murmurs coming from beyond this room.
Exhaustion tugs at me, gravity pulling me down to the floor. My limbs are heavy as I turn and leave, following the noise, eager to discover where Simon is. I have no idea what time it is but I am tired and it’s dark and the noises are scaring me a little.
I shuffle along the landing to Kim’s room, push open the door, wincing as the creaking grows louder, seeming to fill the house. The whispering stops as soon as I step inside. It’s coming from in here. I know it is. I can sense it. It’s still so dark. Too dark to see anything clearly. Too dark to work out what is happening.
The murmuring may have ceased but I can hear something else, a rustling, quiet yet sharp, like the crackle of a fire. We once had a campfire at Brownies. It reminds me of that time, the smell of burning, the slight fluttering in my belly as the flames grew higher and higher.
My knees crack as I step back from the bed and crouch down, my fingers clinging onto the edge of the mattress. There it is again – that sound of wood groaning and squeaking. The crackle of the fire. Except it’s not a fire. It’s somebody moving, wood bending and shifting. Flesh scraping against a carpet, the bristle of it instantly recognisable to me.
‘What are you doing in here? You have to leave and go back to bed. Now!’
I try not to shriek but the shock of hearing Kim’s voice cuts through me and I let out a short scream. Air passes next to my feet, a cold, swirling sensation that makes me shiver. A head peers out from under the bed, two bright eyes staring up at me, a shock of dark, tousled hair that touches my bare leg.
‘Simon, get back under there. I told you to stay put!’ Kim is hissing again, angry. Frantic.
The pair of eyes looks from me to Kim then back at me. I can hardly breathe. Kim’s anger is intense, the room thick with it. I can’t move. My feet are glued to the floor, my body refusing to follow the commands of my brain.
‘Now, Simon!’
