by Alison Bruce
‘Right, so either Alice told you or Richard did. They don’t gossip, not really; they just stick to the facts.’
‘How did they know you’d fallen out?’
‘Oh, shit. The whole world knew. We weren’t exactly subtle about it. Well, I wasn’t anyway. That was the big difference between us. With Lorna it was all about getting her own way, and if that meant being two-faced, she’d do it. I couldn’t do that myself. She’d done the dirty on me and I wanted everyone to find out.
‘I’d split up with my boyfriend, and I’m the first to admit that. But she was in there with him, in my bed, within hours. Not days, just hours. Friends don’t do that, do they?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he wanted to make you jealous? It happens.’
‘Not with him. He screwed around while we were together. That’s why I dumped him.’
‘But you wanted him back?’
Her hand flew up into the air in irritation, and remained poised by her ear as if she wanted to slap him. ‘No I fucking didn’t! Wanker.’ Goodhew wasn’t sure if ‘wanker’ was directed at himself or the boyfriend. Either way, he decided not to take it personally, and hoped she moved her hand before her nail decoration got tangled in her hair.
Goodhew sighed. ‘I don’t get it. You dumped him and didn’t want him back, so what difference did it make?’
‘Do you have a serious gap in your education where women are concerned? She was supposed to be my friend.’
‘Oh, I see. You decided he was a bastard and you needed your friend to think so too.’
‘No!’ she snapped indignantly.
‘What, then?’
She sat quietly and thought about it, then corrected herself. ‘You put it across in a pretty tactless way but, fair enough, that is one way to look at it. Just not the way I see it.’
‘Fair enough,’ he echoed. ‘What was his name?’
‘I’m not prepared to say.’
‘You can’t do that. We need to know. This is a murder investigation.’
‘OK, then. It’s John.’
‘John what?’
‘Smith.’
‘Seriously?’
She didn’t answer, just glared at him in full-throttle disdain. He decided to come back to the name question later. ‘And when did you last see him?’
‘Don’t know.’ She thought for a minute. ‘I really don’t know. Way back, I guess.’
‘I’ll need to contact him. Can you let me have his address?’
‘Sorry, no. Like I say, I haven’t seen him since and I lost touch ages ago.’
‘No phone number, email address even?’
‘That’s right. Nothing.’
‘And he stopped seeing Lorna?’
‘He wasn’t seeing her. It was a sex thing. That was Lorna and men, all over. One sex thing after another. By rights she should have been the VD capital of Cambridge.’
‘But her relationship with Richard Moran was different?’
‘Why? Because it’s lasted a few months? Or because he’s richer than most? Or perhaps because he was strung out with jealousy and she liked watching the frenzy it sent him into? Have you asked him about the phone yet?’
‘What phone?’
‘The mobile he bought her. He pays the bill, then gets the calls itemized and sent to his office so he can check on her.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The clinic’s a small place with thin walls; easy to know what’s going on if you set out to.’ She half closed her eyes and stared at the froth spinning on the top of her untouched coffee. ‘Lorna’s old phone, the one she lost – it’s in Richard’s office. You know, I think he’s a good bloke, but she just screwed him up. But on the other hand, I’m a shit judge of men.’
He kept his tone casual, hoping the next question would catch her with her guard down. ‘And how well do you know Bryn O’Brien?’
Victoria’s expression remained unaltered.
‘Ah.’ She blew out another column of smoke, this time with her head tilted back, sending it straight upwards. ‘I suppose it depends on how you categorize what’s relevant. I don’t know his mother’s maiden name or his date of birth, if that’s what you mean. But if good sex and superficial conversation qualify, then I’m in. Or, should I say, he was.’
‘But he’d been seeing Lorna as well.’
‘And?’
‘Why was Bryn fair game when John wasn’t?’
‘No one was going out with Bryn, were they? Lorna was seeing Richard, and I was enjoying being single.’
‘Now I’m confused.’
Victoria looked unimpressed. ‘That, I can imagine. Free-spirited women must be quite an anathema to someone like you.’
‘At this moment, you’re quite right.’ She was grating on him big time now, and he was annoyed with himself for being unable to keep the irritation from his voice. He forced himself to speak more slowly, and he also lowered the volume to make her pay better attention. ‘Let me explain why I’m a bit confused. You and Lorna were out with Bryn in January, correct?’
She blinked her eyelashes slowly. ‘Yup.’
‘But you fell out with her before that, in autumn last year.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Well, did you, or not?’
‘Why not figure it out yourself?’
‘Well, if you did, that would imply you patched things up again, yet now she’s dead you’re happy to admit you hated her. So either you never fell out in the first place, or you fell out for a second time. And if you really did fall out over this John Smith you’ve seen him far more recently than “ages ago”.’
Victoria ran her tongue across the front of her upper teeth. If it was supposed to look at all sexy, it didn’t succeed. Her eyes hardened and she suddenly pointed towards the river. ‘Look over there.’
Goodhew did, but saw nothing.
‘I think I see your next promotion coming over the horizon.’ Victoria stood abruptly, her cappuccino still untouched. ‘I know nothing that can help you, so let’s just leave it there.’
‘What about Colin Willis?’
She looked at him in irritation. ‘Who?’
‘The bloke you and she and Bryn played pool with.’
‘I never even spoke to him.’
Goodhew glanced around to make sure there was still no one within earshot. ‘Did Lorna sleep with him?’
Victoria lowered her face closer to his. ‘Lorna wanted something, but not sex. I know that much.’
‘How do you know?’
Victoria straightened. ‘Is my tan fake?’
Goodhew didn’t answer.
Victoria rolled her eyes. ‘It was obvious. But then we’ve already established that you’re a bit retarded on the women front, haven’t we?’
TWENTY-FIVE
The Boat Race stood on the corner of East Road and Burleigh Street and had once been Cambridge’s best-known live music pub. But, in the eyes of the planning office, the arrival of major new shops and Burleigh Street’s subsequent revamp hadn’t left room for such a venue. It was now called The Snug and every trace of its former persona had been eradicated. The place was just a few minutes’ walk from Parkside station, and was where Michael Kincaide had suggested they meet for a drink.
Although Goodhew found its new wine-bar guise about as dynamic as a house full of magnolia walls; he still felt a nostalgia for the building itself and tried to superimpose his memories of local bands like the Frigidaires and Jump, Bump and Boogie over the anaemic pop trickling from the new but gutless sound system.
Kincaide had arrived first and already sat near the door with a glass of red wine and a copy of the Cambridge News. Goodhew just bought himself a coffee.
He had managed to stay true to his word, and had contacted Marks with each new development as the day went along. His penultimate call, revealing the existence of Jackie Moran, had coincided with Kincaide ending his lengthy interview with Bryn, so it had been Kincaide who’d been assigned to visit her. Goodhew
had been disappointed not to go with him, but then again, that had left him with time to see the charming Victoria Nugent.
Hmm.
As Goodhew reached his table, Kincaide held up the front page of the paper. ‘Have you seen it?’
Goodhew tilted his head to match the angle of the newspaper, but he didn’t really need to: there were only three short words in the headline, easy to read, even upside down: Who is Emma?
‘I’d like to know how they got it,’ Kincaide said and passed it across to him. Goodhew started reading even as he sat down. The story was simple: the paper had been tipped off about the message on Lorna’s palms, suggesting that the main line of the police investigation was a theory that Emma was someone known to both Lorna and her killer. Therefore, find Emma and find the murderer. ‘Marks went ballistic earlier. I think he wants to slaughter whoever leaked this.’
‘It might flush out the answer, though. I mean, if I were called Emma, I’d certainly stop and think about any connection I might have with Lorna Spence.’
‘You approve, then?’
‘No, I’m just saying that, with some luck, it may work to our advantage, that’s all. Any idea who did it?’
Kincaide shook his head. ‘Marks said there’s been too much anonymity already and it has to stop.’
‘Whatever that means.’
‘You know what that means. He’s going to be flushing out whoever posted him the evidence on the Airport Rapist, and probably demote or sack him over this.’
‘Oh, I think he’ll calm down.’ Goodhew slid the paper back to Kincaide. ‘How was Jackie Moran?’
‘Not at home, and neither were the immediate neighbours.’
‘But the house looked occupied?’
‘Oh, yes. And I also checked at the local paper shop. She has The Times delivered three times a week and she’s bang up to date with paying her bill. I couldn’t find out where she works, though, or even if she does. Did you ask Alice about that?’
‘Shit, I should have. We could go over now, though – to Jackie’s, I mean. More likely to catch her at home in the evening.’
Kincaide checked his watch. ‘Haven’t you got a life outside work? Tomorrow morning, first thing, will be good enough. We can both go. How was it with Victoria Nugent? Your mate Bryn called her feisty.’
‘He’s not my mate.’
‘OK. But that’s what he called her.’
‘Well, that’s one way to describe her. Personally, I think I’d go for scary. The dates of her falling out with Lorna just don’t add up – right in the middle of it they seemed to have patched things up enough for Bryn to think they were still close friends when they all went out together.’
‘Unless he’s lying.’
Goodhew screwed up his nose. ‘Why would he? No, that doesn’t make sense, because it means he would have to have concocted the story with Victoria.’
‘And?’
‘They don’t know each other that well.’
‘Or so they claim. And the only other two people who were supposedly there that evening are both dead. Then there’s this business of Victoria hating Lorna. No one else admits to hating her, but in Richard Moran’s own words, he felt jealous because she was a slapper.’
‘No, no, he didn’t actually say that.’
‘OK. He said she wanted a more . . .’ Kincaide paused to make little quote signs in the air – ‘. . . open relationship than he did. What bloke is likely to buy into that one? The only reason he’s not going to say anything against her is self-preservation, as we’d be breathing down his throat if he owned up to how he really felt about her. In fact, we should be breathing down his throat.’
‘So, if it’s that simple, how does “Emma” fit in?’
‘Let’s worry about that tomorrow. We’ll start with Jackie Moran first thing.’ From within his pocket, Kincaide’s mobile bleeped. ‘You need a bit of sex to distract you,’ he added as he fumbled for his phone.
Goodhew looked down at his coffee. He didn’t care for his colleague’s phraseology, but had to admit that it was a fair point.
He glanced up in time to see Kincaide unlock his phone, then smirk as he read the message on it. ‘And speaking of which,’ he said, dropping it back in his pocket, ‘I’d better go.’
Somehow Goodhew knew that Kincaide’s text hadn’t been sent by his wife. He took his time finishing his coffee and he wondered how it was that the Bryns, Kincaides and Victorias of the world seemed to have no qualms about entering into casual liaisons, whereas he couldn’t seem to separate the physical from the emotional.
He guessed that those were the signals he gave out too; the women he attracted weren’t the one-night-fling kind. And even looking back at school, he could see that the ‘Just Say No’ anti-drugs campaign had been wasted on him; he oozed so little irresponsibility that, until he was eighteen, he’d never even been offered a cigarette.
Goodhew counted the months back to the last of the half-dozen or so dates he’d shared with Tasha, a gap student from Sydney. More time had passed than he’d realized; no wonder he’d even had a moment of finding Victoria attractive. And the idea of indulging in a quick fling had a certain appeal, but he knew it wouldn’t be happening. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a time where it would ever be his thing.
On top of that, he couldn’t totally grasp the concept of opening up that much to just anyone, so for the time being at least, he knew that any desires he felt were illogically attached to Mel.
He checked his watch and saw it was time to track down his grandmother. Perhaps he could even admonish her for saddling him with a rogue sexual ethics gene.
He dialled her mobile and, as it rang, it occurred to him that she was far more likely to urge him to make the most of still being single. In which case the gene must have come from his granddad, because it certainly didn’t come from his mum’s side of the family tree.
TWENTY-SIX
His grandmother lived on the first floor of a two-storey art deco block of eight flats on the Fen Causeway. The building was white with curved windows, sweeping balconies and rooms so large that they would have dwarfed even the bulbous deco furniture they’d been designed to house. Connaught Villas lounged across a plot big enough to accommodate two streets of ‘affordable’ housing and, although the road outside was often clogged with city-bound cars, the main view was of the lush marshy fields of Newnham Common. This was undoubtedly high-quality city dwelling.
Goodhew arrived there within ten minutes, and having his own key, let himself into her apartment. A small lobby led into the single large reception room.
‘Hello, Gran, it’s me,’ he called out as he entered. The room was warm, feeling slightly humid but not in an unpleasant way. A yucca tree thrived in a large pot halfway between the kitchen door and the french windows, enjoying both the steam from the kitchen and the sun from the south.
He draped his jacket across the back of his favourite armchair and checked the time on the grandfather clock as it clunked through the seconds. It struck the hour with a single dainty chime. As a child he’d wondered why it didn’t count out the total hours like every other chiming clock he had encountered, and that began a thought process that led him to wonder why most things in his childhood seemed to be so different to other childhoods.
Then he’d grown up to discover that his best friend was his grandmother, and even if that was unconventional, it really didn’t matter.
And, as if on cue, his grandmother appeared in the kitchen doorway with a tray of tea and biscuits. She was still wearing the black cocktail dress that she’d obviously worn that evening to the Felix.
He smiled at her and settled back into the cherry leather wing-chair. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘Good quality meals on wheels,’ she joked.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, my favourite Chinese restaurant has started home deliveries.’
She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat in the chair facing him. She then reached underneath an
d produced a black box from the magazine shelf. ‘Backgammon?’
‘Of course.’ Goodhew opened out the board and slid the red and black counters into place. He held out the red dice for her, and she opened her hand for him to drop them in. ‘Oh, and before I forget . . .’ He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. ‘Your rent.’
‘Thanks,’ she said and pulled an expression that he couldn’t place, but suspected was in the region of ‘You’re not going to want to hear this.’
The flat he lived in was hers, in fact the whole building was, and Goodhew guessed that, apart from her own apartment here, it was the last of his grandparents’ assets. Paying market rate for renting the flat was something he’d insisted upon, and he assumed that if she ever started to struggle financially, the logical step would be to rent out the vacant floors below his.
‘Is it about my flat?’ he asked.
‘In a roundabout way, yes.’ After that she fell silent, and Goodhew guessed there was something that she was waiting for him to say.
‘If you need the building back, I can easily move out. I don’t mind,’ he added, hoping he wasn’t the completely useless liar that she claimed he was.
She took one of the dice and twiddled it between her thumb and forefinger. He smiled to himself as he noticed how precisely its colour matched her nail polish; she had a talent for such detail. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but it’s nothing like that. I visited Mason, my solicitor, and I’ve come away with some documents. I’d like you to look over them.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’d like us to play first.’ She offered him the plate of biscuits.
They fell silent for a few moments, and each picked up a dice and threw them simultaneously. He scored six, she scored one. He moved the pieces, then looked up.
‘How’s work?’ she asked.
‘Fine. Why?’ A mischievous smile darted on to her face.
He grinned. ‘What?’
‘I think romance often blooms in the workplace, don’t you?’