by Alison Bruce
‘Nothing else?’
‘Not yet, no.’
Marks held out his hand. ‘Leave that with me, and you’d better hope I don’t find something you’ve missed.’ Goodhew felt sure he had spotted an encouraging gleam in Marks’ eye. ‘So, how are you proposing to look for a connection to Colin Willis?’
‘Aside from the file here? Maybe she mentioned him to someone at the Excelsior Clinic’
‘And while you’re at it, I suppose you could find out whether she ever mentioned Bryn O’Brien to them.’ Marks leant back in his chair and surveyed Goodhew through narrowed eyes. He tapped his temples as he thought. ‘And you may as well speak to Victoria Nugent, since, after all her name’s popped up a couple of times now. And if anything else does crop up, you’ll be burrowing into that while you’re there, I suppose?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Why do you think I sent you off to trawl through Lorna Spence’s paperwork?’
‘Because—’
‘Because I thought it was time you grasped the idea that I need to know where you are and exactly what you’re doing. I thought you’d be bored to death for a few hours, then you’d come back in happy enough for me to direct you. Instead of that, you bounce in here, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like some frigging Disney bunny, then tell me you’ve got your whole day already planned out. Look at my face – doesn’t this look like a scowl to you?’
Goodhew tried to appear apologetic. ‘I assumed that was concentration, sir.’ Marks gave him a poisonous look in return. OK, so he hadn’t mellowed much after all. ‘I could promised to focus on the Colin Willis link and nothing else?’ he suggested hopefully.
Marks leant forward again and splayed his hands out in front of him on the desk. Maybe to stop his fingers from tapping with irritation. Or maybe this time he really was concentrating. ‘All right,’ he sighed, ‘but I still want regular communication, and don’t decide to go running off at obscure tangents without checking with me first.’
TWENTY-ONE
Old habits die hard, or so they say. Goodhew’s favourite quiet spot at Parkside police station had always been the spare desk on the third floor, in the corner nearest his home. In the days when file servers and hubs had looked like extras from sci-fi sets, the original layout of the building had been modified to accommodate an air-conditioned IT room, thus eating into the open-plan office space and leaving an almost useless little cul-de-sac where a redundant desk had been shunted, out of the way.
Rather than pulling up a chair, Goodhew sat on the desk itself. He leant his back against the wall and faced the window.
It was ten to two.
He opened Colin Willis’ file and glanced at the first few documents, hoping to find the one that would suck him easily into this unfamiliar case. He already knew the bare facts: partially decomposed body dragged from the Cam, no missing person report, ligature still around throat, victim’s car abandoned, death suspected to be debt or drugs related. No leads. No further progress.
His gaze wandered back to the window and was drawn towards the Avery, the pub on the far side of Parker’s Piece.
That’s when he admitted that old habits die hard. Mel was standing there, indistinguishable and Lowry-like in the distance, but he knew her. She was with Toby. Even from that distance he could tell that their body language wasn’t good.
Get over it, he told himself, and looked back down to the file, flicking through it until he felt the gloss of photographic paper. With renewed interest, he slid out a clutch of prints. The first showed the water and the puffed-up clothes covering the torso. It looked like a Guy overstuffed and ready for a bonfire on 5th November.
He glanced through the window again. They were closer to him now. Mel was heading back to work, or trying to, but Toby stood in her path. Goodhew saw her speak, she pointed to her watch, then attempted to side-step him. He blocked her. She stopped and spoke again. Toby reacted instantly, the flats of his hands flew up, connecting with her shoulders so she involuntarily took a couple of quick steps back.
Goodhew found himself on his feet, the photographs making a cracking noise as one edge of the pile hit the floor.
Mel pushed past Toby and, although he reached towards her, he made no attempt to grab her. He appeared to be shouting. He stood facing the police station, And Goodhew was ready to move if Toby did, but in the end it was Mel who hurried back alone.
Toby continued to shout something, but she didn’t acknowledge him. She was about to cross the road directly in front of the station when she looked up at Goodhew. He had to be standing three or four feet back from the glass, yet he knew she could see him. Her stare was defiant, like she was demanding that he back off, telling him to interfere at his peril. He didn’t move for the first seconds, fixed to the spot by increasing discomfort. She glanced to her left, checking for traffic.
He stared down at the splay of photographs, now lying at his feet, and fixed his attention on the least pleasant shot of Colin Willis’ unnaturally pale skin stretched across his bloated corpse. The last body Goodhew had seen recovered from water had been dead for over a year, deliberately weighed down and wedged beneath an abandoned jetty on the Ouse. Flesh kept under water for that length of time reacts to form a soapy substance called adipocere. It stinks, worse than any normal decaying matter. Willis had been nowhere near that far gone, but Goodhew let memories of the stench of the other corpse seep back into his mind.
It was more than enough to jar him to action.
He bent on one knee to gather up the photos, and once he had them back on the desk he started again.
The cause of Willis’ death had been strangulation: a dog’s chrome choke chain, still lodged around the throat, had exerted sufficient pressure on the windpipe to crush it. No one seemed to have missed Willis, and therefore identification might have taken longer if Mill Road’s community beat officer, PC McKendrick, hadn’t recognized him from one of the morgue shots.
On the scale of parasites and predators, Willis had been somewhere between house mites and head lice: a persistent but manageable irritation. He’d been a dabbler; he’d dabbled with handling stolen goods and with selling cannabis, and when money became short he’d even dabbled with work. Once or twice, he’d tested the water by offering the police tip-offs but, despite his bold talk, Willis knew very little, and was taken into people’s confidence even less.
An exact date of death had never been determined but, according to the pathologist, the body had been left submerged for several weeks. Willis’ landlord hadn’t received rent for all of February, not in itself unusual, but he’d stuck to his routine of weekly visits to every tenant who owed him money and had not seen Willis since the first Friday in February.
On the 21st of that month, the residents of Fen Ditton had reported an abandoned vehicle, and on the 26th, the untaxed and inaccurately registered van had been impounded. It was only proved to be Willis’ after his DNA was matched to the DNA found in the pick-your-own snot collection Willis had been accumulating in the driver’s side door pocket. This narrowed the time of Willis’ disappearance and death down to weeks two and three of February.
Goodhew searched the file for any connection to Lorna Spence, or even any mention of Bryn O’Brien, but, much like the investigation itself, he drew a blank. The popular theory among the investigating team was that Willis had pissed someone off badly. Amazing the results a couple of centuries of police expertise can produce.
It turned out that Colin Willis had no friends or relatives pushing for answers, and it was clear that the killing had been considered a one-off. The perpetrator was assumed to be someone busy committing other offences: the type of criminal that would either get grassed up at some point, or drop himself in it when committing another unrelated crime. Therefore the case remained open and active. But clearly not that open and not that active.
Once Goodhew was sure that there was nothing in the file to affect his immediate plans, he turned his attention to his first visit of the day: Richard Mor
an.
TWENTY-TWO
Twenty minutes later, Goodhew left Parkside station for the short walk towards the city centre and another visit to Moran’s home.
Faith Carver, the Excelsior Clinic’s stern-faced receptionist, had informed Goodhew that Mr Moran had not been into work all day, and had cancelled his imminent appointments.
Goodhew decided not to phone ahead to the house, but to take his chances on finding Richard at home. As he approached the front door, two scenarios flashed into his mind: one where Alice was also home and he might struggle to speak to Richard privately, and the other where Alice was out and he was faced with dealing with Richard alone. As he waited for the door to open, he tried to imagine how he would deal with Richard’s histrionics if they kicked off again while the two of them were by themselves.
Goodhew checked his thinking: histrionics maybe wasn’t the right word. It hadn’t felt like watching a display of over-acting; there had been nothing false about the amount of emotion that had poured out, perhaps just its cause. Richard Moran possibly felt sorry for himself, and elements of the relationship had clearly troubled him, but did he really seem genuinely upset at Lorna’s death? Goodhew had no answer to that.
The door swung wide, and it was Richard himself who held it open. Today he wore a suit. White cuffs, collar, and a small triangle behind his tie were all that showed of his shirt. It looked cleaner and better pressed than any new shirt Goodhew had ever seen.
Goodhew imagined Moran making meticulous efforts with his appearance, perhaps now determined to keep control of the façade he put up between himself and the world. Did he know he’d failed? And failed dismally, at that. He looked brittle, like he was suffering the human equivalent of metal fatigue, and the next breath of bad news would make him crumble. He’d certainly been crying, and not sleeping much.
Richard mumbled something about an office, then headed upstairs and Goodhew assumed he was supposed to follow. Neither of them spoke until Richard opened the door to a room at the rear of the second floor and motioned for Goodhew to go in.
‘Have a seat,’ he said flatly.
The room was large and square, and the most true-to-life depiction of the Cluedo library that he could imagine. Bookshelves ran along two facing walls, packed mostly with sets of matching leather-bound volumes. The major item of furniture was a large oak desk positioned ninety degrees to the window. Its surface was bare, apart from an ornate letter opener lying near one edge. Goodhew didn’t bother trying to spot the lead pipe, but thought he’d keep one ear open for revolving bookcases and secret panels, just in case.
Richard sat down at his desk, leaving Goodhew to occupy a low-slung Chesterfield-style armchair on the other side of it. Goodhew’s line of vision was now somewhere level with the middle of Richard’s chest, therefore not ideal for questioning; it made Goodhew feel he was supposed to raise a hand and wait for permission to speak, but he left his hands where they were and waded in regardless.
‘Does the name Emma mean anything to you?’
Richard was leaning forward with his weight resting on his elbows and his hands interlaced at the fingers. He stared into his palms. ‘Because of that writing?’ He shook his head. ‘No.’ There was no sign he wasn’t telling the truth but he still looked nervous.
‘She never mentioned anyone with a similar name? Maybe Emily or Gemma?’
‘No, never.’
‘And there’s no one connected with yourself and not Lorna, a patient perhaps?’
‘I’ve already been asked about all this, and I’ve been right through my files. There’s nothing. I asked Alice, too, but her friends and contacts are mostly the same as mine, so she couldn’t suggest anything either.’
Goodhew changed tack. ‘Has your sister ever been married?’
‘No.’ Richard unclasped his fingers and leant back in his chair, a gesture perhaps designed to exude relaxation. Perhaps he didn’t realize that the fingers of his right hand were now tightly gripping the edge of the desk, as if to stop it sliding away from him. ‘If she had ever been serious about anyone, she’d still be with them; that’s the sort of woman she is. I remember my father describing her first encounter as an aberration, and that was soon the end of that.’ He raised his head, jutting his chin out, as if daring Goodhew to comment. Goodhew, however, said nothing, and one corner of Moran’s mouth began to tremble.
‘Parental pressure,’ Richard added, as though just those two words provided a fully comprehensive explanation for all such failed relationships in the Moran family.
‘What sort of pressure?’
Richard blinked twice. ‘The same sort I’d have been under when I was seeing Lorna, if they’d been alive.’
‘Which is?’
Richard was gripping the desk with both hands now. ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’
‘I’d still like to know.’
‘My father decided Alice was precocious, and so he kept us isolated from other families. Their rules seem ineffectual now, but when you’re a child, they seem omnipotent, and you don’t realize they’re only human like the rest of us.
‘This room was my father’s study. He was a well-known figure in his day, the umpteenth generation of Moran doctors, but the first to make his mark in treating the wealthy of Cambridge. He achieved success through his determination rather than by any exceptional medical skill. Not the type to take any prisoners, as they say. I found him a terrifying man, and if I’d done something wrong, he would summon me in here and I’d have to sit in your chair, right there, and wait silently until he was ready to speak to me. Now I’m the one behind the desk, fancy that.’
If Richard was enjoying his position on the throne, it didn’t show.
‘So you’ve lived here all your life?’
‘Yes. I even took my degree at Cambridge. We all grew up here and inherited the house last year when he died. Alice and I are very attached to the place.’
Goodhew empathized with the sentiment, although he wasn’t sure he’d want to live with his own sister – but then, he only had one bedroom.
‘Besides, I’m not . . .’ Richard stopped.
‘Go on.’
Whatever Moran had almost said was now firmly shut away again.
‘You were about to say something,’ Goodhew pushed.
‘It was nothing.’
‘It won’t hurt to say it anyway.’
‘No, I was just rambling – I keep doing that. Then, mid-sentence, I flash back to the way she looked at the hospital. Everything’s become so insignificant since she died. I feel so naïve, plodding along, thinking we were going somewhere together. I should have known.’
‘That she was going to die?’
‘That things would go wrong. Do you really think that anyone’s life progresses on the up and up?’ Richard finally released his double grip on the desk. ‘You’ll find out for yourself, just when you least expect it.’ He punched one fist into the other palm. ‘Fair enough, you don’t see it coming the first time, but once you realize that’s what life’s about, it’s naïve not to expect it.’
Goodhew raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s your philosophy on life then?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Based on?’
‘Everything – from the first time I was stamped on in the playground onwards.’
Ah, the Chicken-Licken school of positive thinking. No wonder Richard was a nervous wreck.
Goodhew tried another change of direction. ‘Did Lorna have a dog?’
‘A dog?’ Richard repeated. His eyes flickered, his focus darting away and up, as if hunting for paw prints on the ceiling. ‘Maybe as a child, but I have no idea.’ He kept his voice level and dragged his attention back to Goodhew. ‘Why do you ask?’ He sounded genuinely baffled.
‘We have a possible lead; some dog hairs. They could be nothing, though.’ He managed to stop himself from punctuating the sentence with ‘Excuse the pun.’
‘Do you know any more? What colour of dog, or br
eed?’
‘At this stage we just need to know of any dogs she might have come into contact with.’
‘I certainly don’t know of any.’
‘Did she talk about anyone she knew owning a dog?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘No one at the clinic?’
‘No. Still no.’ Now he was starting to sound irritated, but every time Goodhew had seen him, Richard had hovered permanently in the uneasy zone: uncomfortable, anxious or distressed. Goodhew couldn’t read him well enough to identify which behavioural signs counted for anything. Not yet, at least.
Deciding it was time to leave, he stood up and extended his hand. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed at all tactless when I visited you last night.’
They shook hands. Richard’s grip was firm. ‘Thank you.’
‘And I’m sorry for your loss.’
Richard managed a small smile. ‘I know. I can see you have compassion. But then you’re young – in fact, about the same age as Lorna. She knew all about compassion too.’
‘I didn’t know it was age-related.’
Richard half-turned towards the window. ‘Do you know which way this faces?’
Goodhew took a second to get his bearings. ‘North-west?’
‘It faces towards Shire Hall, and the site of the county jail. Between here and there is Castle Mound – you know it?’
Castle Mound was a large grass-covered hillock which had been part of the original city defences in Roman times, and, like every other person who’d been resident in Cambridge for more than five minutes, he knew it.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘You’d be amazed who doesn’t.’ Richard had become suddenly erect and firm-voiced. ‘All right then, do you know what happened in 1855?’
‘You got me there.’
‘The last public hanging occurred over the gates of the jail. Castle Hill was crowded with spectators, including many women and children. A man and his sister-in-law were executed for poisoning his wife. That’s her own sister. There were estimates that thirty thousand arrived to watch; they packed the streets. You see, people want to see justice done, and they want to educate their children by having them see it too. My father used to stand at this window and complain at the abolition of the death penalty. He said it allowed people to get away with murder.’