Cambridge Blue

by Alison Bruce

He shook his head. ‘Only when it’s mutual. And if anyone ever shows a flicker of mutual interest, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

  ‘But you like her?’

  ‘I made something out of nothing,’ he sighed. ‘I didn’t even misread the signals, because there weren’t any. And now I don’t know what I was thinking. She has a boyfriend, she wouldn’t still be with him if she’d had enough of him.’

  ‘Some people just don’t leave.’

  ‘She’s made it clear she’s not interested. Even if that wasn’t the case, it’s not the way I’d want to start a relationship.’

  ‘So that’s that, then?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replied firmly.

  Goodhew leant over and picked up his cup while his grandmother had set hers to one side, preferring to concentrate fully on the game.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘things don’t work out the way we want them to.’

  He glanced across at her and found her shrewd gaze waiting to meet his. ‘We’re not still talking about Mel now, are we?’

  ‘No’, she said.

  He shook his dice on to the board and then took his turn.

  She turned over the doubling dice. ‘I’m doubling the game,’ she announced. She liked raising the stakes.

  He waited until his turn before speaking further, and turned the doubling dice again. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ he murmured. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘I’m aware of the boundaries you set for yourself, Gary.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The terms on which you’re prepared to start a relationship. Or work on your own initiative. Or refuse to pass judgement on Kincaide. The way you push yourself to stay fit. I could go on and on.’ He was aware that she watched him as he stretched across the table to move several pieces from her side of the board. ‘It is clear to me that you’re now ready . . .’ She threw her dice and made her move, tapping the pieces on the board as she counted,‘. . . to inherit your grandfather’s money.’ She kept her tone casual, but it was obvious to both of them that her smile was an apologetic one. Without further explanation, she reached behind a cushion and pulled out several sheets of paper, then tried to pass him the top copy. Her voice was hushed. ‘I can take you through all the major assets in more detail, but this is a summary.’

  Goodhew refused to take at it. ‘No,’ he said, then realized how sharp his voice had sounded. ‘No, thank you,’ he said more softly.

  ‘One of your properties is the house in Park Terrace.’

  ‘I own my flat?’

  ‘Yes, and the rest of the building beneath it.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  She selected a different sheet and tried to pass it to him. ‘This is the current valuation.’ She waved the paper. ‘I know you’re phobic about money, but just read it. Please.’

  ‘I’m not phobic, I just don’t want it,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It’s already yours. And it’s part of your grandfather’s legacy. Not taking it would be letting him down.’

  ‘What about Debbie?’

  ‘That’s your half only. She’ll receive a similar settlement when I think she can deal with it.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought everything was left to Mum and Dad.’

  ‘No, only some of it, otherwise we couldn’t be sure that any of it would ever reach you and your sister.’

  ‘Because of my mother?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter why.’

  Goodhew collected the dice and returned them to the backgammon box. It was obvious that they would not now be completing the game. He fought to overcome the lump in his throat and waited until it felt safe for him to try to speak. ‘I interviewed a witness yesterday, his name’s Bryn O’Brien and we were at primary school together. As we were talking, I suddenly had this huge flashback. I was in maths class. I loved maths normally, but I couldn’t concentrate and I knocked my pen on to the floor. I watched it bounce then roll under the next desk. I went to get it, then looked up and the headmistress was at the classroom door. I knew at once something terrible had happened, and I was sent home because Granddad was ill.’

  His grandmother nodded, as if she remembered too. ‘And you never went back.’

  ‘Then you went away.’

  ‘It was the best way for me to deal with his death.’

  ‘We understood that. Yesterday reminded me of how much damage that money caused. Once Mum started spending, she stuck us in that school. Debbie and I barely saw each other, and when I did manage to speak to her, she just cried all the time. We were homesick and didn’t fit in with the other kids.’

  ‘But that’s just it, Gary. It was your mum in combination with the money that caused the problem.’

  ‘We lost touch with all our old friends, then at the end of term we came home to find Dad on the edge of a breakdown, while Mum and the money were getting up to who knows what. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t the response you wanted, but I’m very conscious of the parts of my life that are going well and I’m not going to jeopardize them just for money.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to change anything,’ she said.

  But her expression betrayed her, for they both knew that wasn’t true. He scratched around for the right words and, in the meantime, heard himself say, ‘You hid it from me.’ It was a thought he shouldn’t have spoken, since he already realized that she knew how he felt and he knew that she was sorry.

  She placed one page on the table and left him alone then. Afterwards all he could remember was the clock ticking loudly and his stomach growing tighter and tighter. He rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his face into his cupped hands. He stayed like that for almost a minute, then blew out a long breath, and looked at the paper. As far as he was concerned, money was trouble.

  He suddenly remembered Ratty’s theory about trouble: Touch it and it stains you.

  He pushed the paper away, so it slid off the far side of the table and drifted to the floor. He then let himself out of his grandmother’s flat and headed back to the station, deciding that right now the only person’s trouble he was interested in was Lorna Spence’s.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Colin Willis’ file had been left on Goodhew’s chair, and a sheet of paper lay on the desktop. He dumped the file right next to it and the downdraught he caused sent the page floating towards the desk’s edge. He caught it just before it fell. The message was written in marker pen, and the note was headed ‘Gary Goodhew’, underlined twice.

  ‘10.15 p.m. Faith Carver called from the Exelsior Clinic, wanted to speak to you only. Please call her.’ Followed by her phone number.

  He glanced at his watch. She was likely to already be asleep, but that was tough luck. Murder was murder.

  He took up the cordless handset from his desk and dialled, then flipped open the front of the Willis file, expecting a wait while Mrs Carver stirred. A photograph of the interior of the victim’s flat lay on top, looking in a similar state of decay to the body.

  Faith Carver, however, answered on the first ring, proceeding in the old-fashioned way with a recitation of her number. Goodhew instantly closed the file and responded. ‘It’s DC Goodhew here. I’m sorry if I’ve woken you.’

  ‘No, no, it’s perfectly all right. I decided to wait up for you to call me.’ Her voice had an official crispness. ‘I wanted to speak to you directly because I hate gossip, and what I want to say sounds as if it’s exactly that. Also, I’m hoping I can trust you to be discreet if this turns out to be irrelevant.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Victoria Nugent seemed very agitated after you left her today. Obviously I only met her for the first time this week. I know she can be petulant, but she’s never seemed the nervous type. So I made a point of keeping an eye on her and after about fifteen minutes she slipped out of the building.’

  ‘Did you see where she went?’

  ‘Yes and no. She walked to the far side of the punting station and stayed there for ten minutes or so. I couldn�
�t actually see her, but she would have had to walk back past me to go anywhere else. When she reappeared, she was closing her mobile phone, so I assume that she’d been making a call.’

  ‘And how did she seem when she returned?’

  ‘Back to normal, I’d say.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Cold and borderline rude.’

  ‘But a moment ago you described her as petulant.’

  ‘I said I know she can be. She was like that on Monday. She had a bad atmosphere hanging about her like a robe all day, and she was not the least pleased when I told her that Lorna was late getting in.’

  ‘Do you know what she wanted from her?’

  ‘That’s what Lorna asked. She seemed put out when I didn’t know the answer. The gist of it was that it was very urgent.’

  ‘And no idea what?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘You said Lorna was late in. How late was that?’

  ‘Just before ten, between quarter to and ten to. I know because I checked the clock.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t approve of lateness. I believe you can tell the sort of person someone is from their timekeeping. Someone who’s consistently five minutes late is quite different from someone who’s consistently five minutes early. That may sound like rubbish to you, but it’s what I think, and I do like to know the sort of people I work with.’

  ‘OK. And what sort do you think Lorna was?’

  ‘Now she’s dead, it seems she had problems . . .’

  ‘But what did you think at the time?’

  Faith Carver obviously deliberated for several seconds, long enough for Goodhew to have to enquire if she was still there.

  ‘Yes, I’m here. I was just thinking.’ She paused again, this time for longer. Goodhew waited while she patiently gathered her thoughts. ‘There are little things I’ve never considered to mention,’ she continued at last. ‘Lorna was late that day, as I said, and by the time she’d arrived, several people had been trying to get hold of her. Victoria of course, but Richard and Alice Moran had also both asked for her, something work-related I guessed.

  ‘Then, when she first arrived, Lorna seemed friendly, but a little tense. Maybe because she was late, I don’t know. But she was certainly fairly talkative later on, telling me about the different treatments at the clinic and how much they cost. You know, general chit-chat really.

  ‘On balance, I’d say she was outgoing and popular, though not very professional.’

  Goodhew scribbled notes across the original message as he tried to keep up with her. They would need to take a statement from her, too, so Goodhew arranged that for the following morning.

  Faith Carver had just finished confirming the arrangement when she suddenly gasped, ‘Oh yes, there is something else I forgot to mention. Lorna slipped off to lunch at twelve, and didn’t come back until one-thirty but, before she went, I heard her mobile phone receive several text messages.’

  Goodhew replaced the handset, unaware that someone else had entered the room, and he jumped when he heard a discreet cough. DI Marks stood in the open doorway. Expressionless.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ he demanded.

  Goodhew shrugged. ‘Nothing decent on TV.’ But Marks wasn’t about to be moved by flippant comments, so he added, ‘I decided to take another look at Colin Willis’ file, but I’ve just been speaking to the Exelsior Clinic receptionist, Faith Carver, instead. How soon will we have Lorna Spence’s phone records, do you think?’

  ‘Coincidentally, right now.’ Marks held out a wodge of faxes. ‘They’re the up-to-date listings from all the phones you’re checking, from the last bill paid until yesterday and including Lorna’s extension at work. Don’t stay too late. I’ll be in my office, if you need me.’

  Goodhew settled down, keen to study the new pile of paper, but he knew he was getting tired as he stared at the lists of numbers and found them totally meaningless. He wandered round to the drinks machine, downed two black coffees in quick succession, then returned to his desk with a slightly clearer mind.

  Lorna had made a lot of phone calls and, judging by the variety of numbers, made them to many different people. Then, two weeks and two days before the end of the statement, the calls had suddenly stopped. So that tallied with Victoria Nugent’s claim that Lorna had changed her phone, and therefore left him with no way of checking who she’d been texting on the morning of her disappearance.

  His extension rang. It was Marks. ‘Go home, Gary.’ The DI sounded tired, his voice gravelly.

  ‘It looks like Lorna Spence was using a second mobile the day she died. Victoria Nugent said much the same, and reckons the old one is at the Excelsior Clinic. Could the new one still be at her flat?’

  ‘I doubt that; the premises were thoroughly searched.’

  ‘I know, but perhaps it was missed.’

  ‘Read me the number.’

  ‘I don’t have it, but I do have a list of mobiles that she was in the habit of texting. We need to know who they belong to, and whether they started texting her on the new number.’

  ‘I’ll get that checked. Any other progress?’

  ‘No, apart from that, nothing really. We’re visiting the half-sister, Jackie Moran, first thing in the morning.’

  ‘You and Kincaide?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now go home, get some sleep and start fresh tomorrow.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Goodhew managed a fitful doze from just after 3 a.m. until 5.35 a.m., and awoke to the sound of incessant rain and the silence of birds. He lay on top of his bed, bare-chested but still wearing jeans; a slight improvement on a fully clothed crash-out on the settee.

  He sat on the edge of the bed until his head cleared, then crossed to the window, wanting to see the downpour. Some days the rain sounded worse than it actually was, amplified by the water gushing through downpipes and dripping from the guttering. But today it was just as wet as it sounded, if not wetter.

  The rain fell in sleet-thick sheets, and the sky was bruised and grey, like a battered lead lid nailed down close above the rooftops.

  He made the few hundred yards to work much longer by detouring via Parkside pool. But he stopped swimming after only ninety lengths, worried that he might keep Kincaide waiting, and so arrived at his desk promptly on the dot of 7 a.m.

  Forty-five minutes after Kincaide was due at the station, there was still no sign of him. No answer on his home phone, and his mobile was diverted to voicemail. Goodhew told himself there was probably a good reason for this and refused the temptation of dropping back into anti-Kincaide mode.

  But equally he did not feel like wasting any more time waiting, so he decided to leave without him, and therefore now stood alone on the doorstep of Jackie Moran’s cottage. The rain had not abated, and it drove at a forty-five degree angle at the unprotected front of the house. The front garden consisted of one raised stone-bordered bed planted with a couple of dozen petunias and, at the end furthest from the front door, young sweetpea plants growing up the sides of a black wrought-iron obelisk. The garden was hardly ambitious, but both sets of plants were being furiously battered by the weather, and only a few minutes passed before Goodhew himself deteriorated from damp to equally bedraggled.

  It was a strong Suffolk accent that snapped him out of his moment of rain-muffled solitary confinement. ‘You won’t catch Jackie this late.’ The voice belonged to the postman, who was approaching him from the property next door. ‘She’s like clockwork; gone at eight every weekday.’

  ‘To work?’

  The postman poked a couple of items of what looked like junk mail through Jackie Moran’s letterbox before answering, ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Damn,’ Goodhew sighed. ‘I really needed to speak to her this morning.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you where she’ll be – at the stables at Old Mile Farm, just out towards Quy. But I don’t know if it’s work or not, ’cept I s’pose anything involving horses is work. Worse than kids,
they are. Probably why all these females love ’em so much.’

  Goodhew had been vaguely aware of seeing the farm’s sign along one of the routes leading to Newmarket, but the postman was happy to give him precise directions before waving goodbye.

  Newmarket: the home of flat racing, the sport of kings. Many of the racing yards were positioned near the centre of the town itself, tucked just out of sight of the main through roads. Or, more likely in a town where horses had right of way, the roads had been developed afterwards, deliberately planned to avoid disturbing the town’s main industry.

  Further out from the centre, the surrounding villages remained horse rich, offering acres and acres of pristine post-and-rail heaven.

  And it was with that limited amount of local knowledge that Goodhew drew himself a picture of what to expect at Old Mile Farm, while adding in a younger version of Alice Moran to represent Jackie herself.

  The sign for the farm was the only thing visible from the road; it was made of wood and nailed to a telegraph pole. The words had been carved out and painted white. He turned down the unmade track alongside it, and immediately wrote himself a mental note against making such assumptions in the future. He was not, in fact, driving towards some smart racing yard, and none of the three horses turned out in the field bore any resemblance to a thoroughbred, instead belonging to the Heinz 57 varieties of the horse world. The two bays, both standing at about fourteen hands, looked like they were at least fifty per cent native breed, while the third was a heavy-set skewbald closer to sixteen hands. One of the bays trotted alongside the fence, its mane and tail sodden and steam rising from its back even as the rain continued to fall. It reached the far corner, then stretched its neck over the top rail, pricked its ears forward and whinnied.

  Goodhew drove on past. The track opened out to a small area of uneven hard standing, just big enough to accommodate half a dozen cars. A RAV4 took up one corner, and although his was the only other vehicle, Goodhew still found it hard to park somewhere avoiding the puddles.

  In front of him was a fenced-in manège, and facing on to that was a row of ten loose boxes. The air smelt of wet earth and manure from a giant muck heap, while a lone water butt caught the rain as it spurted from a strip of broken guttering on the overhang of roof above the last stable. The butt was already overflowing, with a loud sploshing of water falling into the butt then bouncing out and on to the concrete floor beneath.