by Alison Bruce
‘Was she an only child?’ Marks asked.
‘Oh yes.’ The happy-sad nerves at the corners of Martin Reed’s mouth underwent a flutter of involuntary twitches. ‘Imagine having three, four, five kids. You couldn’t watch them all, not all the time, but we only had one and we still didn’t keep her safe. Logically we knew it wasn’t our fault, like logic makes a difference.
‘Somewhere between the first and second anniversaries, I accepted she was dead. Not consciously, but I sensed she wasn’t in any TV crowds, or in front of me in the check-out queue, or on the other end of a ringing phone. My wife felt differently, though, and to Annie I’d now done the unforgivable: abandoned our child.’
Martin Reed picked up the TV remote from the arm of the chair, licked his thumb, then rubbed at a small area on one side of the control. The silence between them lengthened. Goodhew spoke first.
‘Mr Reed?’
Martin Reed snapped back into talk mode. ‘The very night before Jo vanished, Annie and I watched a TV documentary about parents who’d lost children. It said how high the resulting divorce rate was, and I couldn’t understand it. I thought they’d need each other even more, imagined them clinging together to get through their grief. After all, I assumed the parents would be the only ones who could really understand.
‘In reality, I think of it as the last night of our marriage. I don’t mean that to sound melodramatic, but until Jo disappeared, we’d lived a charmed life: twenty-odd years of home and family, with nothing more serious happening than in every other household round here.
‘You lose a child and you do understand each other’s grief at first, but if you get out of step with each other, it’s all over. Suddenly each of you is alone; I’d have a good day and Annie would have a bad one. Then she would resent seeing me coping when she couldn’t. And vice versa.’
The next time he fell silent, nobody interrupted. Goodhew felt he ought to coax him into continuing, but the only thing he could think to ask Martin Reed was whether he was all right. And very clearly he wasn’t, so they just waited out the silence while more imaginary grime was scratched from the remote control.
Suddenly he spoke. ‘You can’t share any happy memories with your partner any more without feeling like you’re deliberately trying to cause them pain. I’d talked to everyone about Jo, pretty much non-stop sometimes – everyone except Annie. Between us, the mention of Jo became the biggest taboo.’
This time, Martin Reed seemed to have definitely finished, but Goodhew waited for a few seconds until he was sure it really was his turn to speak. If there had been a clock in the room, this was the point where it would have ticked loudly. ‘From your own point of view, how well has the investigation been handled?’
Reed drew a steady breath and leant back in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling for a while. ‘I’m not a bitter man,’ he said, ‘but I find it painful to accept that whoever is responsible for her death may never be caught. I’m not wishing I could blame anyone. In my heart of hearts, I believe she was dead well before the alarm was even raised. That’s because Tanya, her room-mate, rang us on a Wednesday, halfway through Morse, saying that Jo hadn’t been seen since the previous Friday.’
‘Why did she wait so long?’
‘Apparently Jo had spent several other nights away, and Tanya just assumed that Jo was seeing someone.’
‘But Jo herself never said so?’
‘No, but that would be typical. She was very guarded in that way.’
‘What about the police?’
‘They never found anyone significant. They asked us a few questions about her sex life.’ He shook his head, still feeling disbelief. ‘She was only twenty, and we were her parents. Do you think we wanted to talk about our child even having a sexual history, never mind any “kinky habits”, as one of them put it? Let’s just say, we weren’t surprised when that turned out to be a dead end.’
‘You never thought of anything that wasn’t followed up?’
‘No, we never felt left in the dark. Never. You may not be on Jo’s case this time, but I still appreciate your time. I don’t stop, you know.’
Goodhew wasn’t sure what Reed meant. ‘Thinking about her, you mean?’
‘No, I mean I don’t stop. I don’t like going out, I find it easier to stay in and keep busy. But a visit from you gives me hope, lets me unburden a bit too. Even visits like the last one, essentially nothing more than a courtesy call, but it let me know you hadn’t forgotten.’
Goodhew flicked open the file and scanned the most recent details. Martin Reed continued to talk, Goodhew kept listening, punctuating the gaps with an appropriate grunt or ‘hmm’. Finally, when he was certain that he wasn’t making a mistake, he said, ‘And the last visit was when exactly?’
They’d made phone calls, checked and double-checked. Whoever had visited Martin Reed had not been a police officer. Mr Reed was vague, remembering him only as a man in his late fifties. But no name, and he said he hadn’t asked for ID. But then, he hadn’t today either.
They drove away.
Marks shook his head. ‘Talking about it obviously helps him.’
‘Poor bloke. The best result he’s ever going to get will be bad news.’
‘You did well, though.’
‘Did I?’ Goodhew hadn’t thought so.
‘The mystery visitor was interesting.’
‘But possibly irrelevant?’
‘We’ll see.’ Marks pulled out, on to a busier road. ‘While I was on the phone, I was briefed on the initial forensics report.’ He glanced across, as if checking that Goodhew was listening before continuing. ‘As we know, death was by asphyxiation, but she’d also been drugged with GHB. Heard of it?’
Goodhew nodded. ‘Gamma hydroxybutyrate, usually in liquid form. Colourless and odourless, but with a slight salty taste. Causes dizziness, confusion and memory loss.’
‘Very good. Well, Lorna Spence’s was administered to her in coffee. The report estimates that she ingested about four times the amount that would be expected to cause incapacitation. It’s a drug often connected with date rape cases.’
Goodhew scanned the report. ‘Had she been raped?’
‘Semen was present, but nothing else to indicate anything conclusive either way.’
Goodhew thought for a moment, then spoke, ‘I’d like to go back to Lorna Spence’s flat.’
Marks cast a sharp glance in his direction. ‘Why?’
‘To search it again.’
‘And I assume you have a good reason?’
‘Three actually. Firstly and secondly, we’ve found out about Joanne Reed and Colin Willis only since the flat was searched.’
‘OK, and thirdly?’
‘The search was conducted very quickly, and I think something’s been missed.’
‘Kincaide would say you’re trying to show him up.’
‘I’m really not.’
Marks stared at the road in front of him, but far too intently to be concentrating on his driving alone. ‘Do I need to know anything about how the “Emma” story was leaked to last night’s newspaper?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Goodhew had no idea how the two topics could be linked, but his reply seemed to prompt his boss’s next decision.
Every hint of warmth had dropped from Marks’ voice as he replied, ‘I don’t want you going anywhere near Lorna Spence’s flat, Gary. If there is to be another search, it won’t involve you.’
THIRTY
For the second evening in a row, Goodhew agreed to meet Kincaide at The Snug. They sat at the same seats at the same table, Kincaide with his red wine and Goodhew with coffee. But it didn’t feel the same as it had twenty-four hours earlier.
Kincaide was talking, or rather bragging, about his part in the interview with Jackie Moran, and Goodhew had all but stopped listening. One day of working closely with Kincaide had confirmed to him that they had nothing in commo
n. And, more frustratingly, he knew he could have saved himself the trouble of finding out, because Kincaide was just the way he’d struck Goodhew on their first introduction.
He reminded himself that he wasn’t the one that needed putting straight, and made the effort to tune back in to what Kincaide was saying.
‘Did you see her face when I showed her that photo of the corpse?’
Goodhew tossed his spoon back on to the saucer. ‘What was that about?’ he snapped. ‘You obviously thought it was clever. Did it actually achieve anything? No. Do we look crass, insensitive, stupid? Yes, I think so.’
Kincaide swigged from his wine glass, downing half. ‘What’s put you in such a shitty mood?’ He nevertheless sounded indifferent.
Goodhew lowered his voice again. ‘I was embarrassed even to be sitting next to you.’
‘But happy to come out for a drink?’
‘Maybe I came to tell you how I felt. I thought you were out of line and I can’t think of any rational reason for you treating her like that. And now you’re sitting here, bragging about bullying a witness.’
Kincaide emptied his glass. ‘Jackie Moran is a suspect, and I thought you were being way too soft with her. I was just trying to even things up. If you want to call that bullying, that’s up to you.’ He stood and glared down at Goodhew. ‘This mood you’re in is pissing me off.’
The door closed after Kincaide, and Goodhew gave his half-cold coffee another stir. He followed it with a bottle of Stella. The sound system was doling out a cover version of a Ray Charles number; take a great song, then murder it – it had to be a ploy to make punters drink more. He drank his beer and let his annoyance subside, but he still didn’t buy Kincaide’s excuses.
Twenty minutes later, Goodhew left The Snug and turned down Burleigh Street, and then Fitzroy Street, heading up the middle of the pedestrianized shopping area. There were still plenty of people around, mainly moving in small groups. One group of girls waited for their friend as she used an ATM. Two more had their heads together, giggling as they read a text message. A young couple walked by, holding each other around the waist. One girl walked alone. It seemed so safe, yet he wished she wouldn’t do it. She glanced away as she saw him look at her. Once she was beyond him he guessed she may have looked back again to double-check that he wouldn’t turn and follow; even when people swore they were safe their actions contradicted them.
He had always been in the habit of checking doorways and alleys as he passed them. Even front gardens sometimes. And it was his automatic custom of checking in all directions that led him to look far down a side street and spot a Vauxhall that he recognized.
It was parked sideways on, with its passenger door facing him, but too far along the side road for him to see the registration. But he’d long known that identifying cars can be like identifying people. A person can be spotted by their gait, or stance, or distinctive dress style, a car by the way its suspension sags, or its aerial sways, or even the unique fingerprint of stickers in the back window. This one he was certain he knew simply from the combination of flashy non-factory alloys and the suit jacket hanging just inside of the rear door. This wasn’t Kincaide’s usual part of town, but it almost certainly was his car.
Hanging around in a bar with Gary Goodhew fell well short of Kincaide’s idea of a good evening out. He checked his watch, and then double-checked that he’d left his mobile switched on. Goodhew was still banging on about his treatment of Jackie Moran; sometimes he just couldn’t fathom the bloke’s logic. Yesterday, the nostalgia over some old pub and the urge to track a witness down at eight in the evening. Today he was complaining that the same witness hadn’t been treated like their new best friend. As far as Kincaide could see, Goodhew spent far too much time fretting about work. In fact, Goodhew never seemed to think about much else. Kincaide tried to flash back to the time when he’d had that level of commitment to the job.
Again his thoughts returned to his mobile; he wished the text would arrive. While he waited, he decided he’d made a more than adequate job of keeping his side of the conversation flowing. And while he wasn’t one for enjoying anticipation, by the time the phone bleeped, he wouldn’t have been surprised if just the sound of it had given him a hard on.
He read the new message in his inbox: ‘10 mins usual place.’ Part of him wanted to boast to Goodhew and to own up about what was going on. But another part of him, and arguably the better part, resisted the temptation. Goodhew was still too idealistic to understand how an affair could negate some of the frustrations of marriage.
After leaving The Snug, Kincaide had driven to a convenient parking spot at the rear of the Dreams bed showroom, about halfway between the police station and the pub. It was usually a good spot, a small yard that was deserted once the shops closed for the night and a discreet place for them to meet.
Arriving first, he realized that another car occupied the car park. Its windows were already steamed, he’d need to park up somewhere else. He sat in the driver’s seat and waited; within two minutes the passenger door opened and she slipped into the seat beside him. She smelt flowery, like she’d just sprayed herself with one of those cheap body sprays that teenagers use before they discover real perfume. He liked it – a lot – more than enough for him to feel the first stirrings of an erection.
‘I got here as soon as I could,’ Mel began.
They’d been meeting at least twice a week for over a month. He pointed at the other car. ‘We’ll need to find somewhere else.’
‘We could leave the car here and go for a drink. It would be nice if we could just talk tonight.’
He grinned and reached across, taking her hand and pressing it hard against his crotch. ‘Are you kidding? I can’t start walking around in this condition.’ She tried to slide her hand away, but he held on to it. ‘Hey, I’m just teasing, and I was listening this morning. We’ll park up somewhere else and just talk.’
The ideal spot turned up about half a mile away where part-way along a cul-de-sac, they found a right-hand spur which had been blocked off to through traffic. At most there would be an infrequent passer-by; the alley was a poor shortcut to anywhere apart from accesing the alley behind the terraced houses.
He glanced across at her as they drove. The skirt she was wearing finished a couple of inches above her knees, further up now that she was sitting. Her legs were otherwise bare and catching a glimpse of the soft skin between her thighs was enough to keep him hard. She could always turn him on in a way his frigid wife Janice never had.
‘How’s your head?’ he asked.
Her expression softened. She always appreciated his concern. ‘It only feels bruised if I touch it.’
‘You know you should press charges.’ He knew she wouldn’t, but said it anyway. Her boyfriend, Toby, had slapped her around several times before, and he was sure that Mel was already acclimatized to the routine of receiving aggression and offering forgiveness. He’d noticed how some women seemed to have a thirst for abuse. One day Toby would be ready to move on, and it would be typical if Mel then went on to another violent relationship. In the meantime, the issue of his marriage wasn’t going to be a problem, so long as she had a psycho boyfriend to keep secrets from.
‘If I tried to leave him, he’d come after me.’
‘Not if he was under arrest.’
‘He’d come after you if he knew about you.’
From the corner of his eye, he could see that she was studying his face and it made him feel as though he was being tested. He kept his voice level. ‘And how would he get to know? That sounds like a threat, Mel.’
Nothing else was said until he’d finished parking. Then he looked over and saw that she was fighting back tears. ‘All I was going to tell you was that Toby’s been hanging around at lunchtimes, and that he’s getting suspicious, but your first assumption is that I’m trying to pressurize you. What sort of person do you think I am?’
The evening was morphing into aggravation, so he tried to sound sooth
ing. ‘Hey,’ he whispered, ‘you know I didn’t mean to upset you. We’re getting very intense, and I thought you were forgetting what we’d agreed.’ Her tears didn’t recede or increase; they merely sat on hold. ‘Sometimes I want to just blurt it out to Jan, but I know I mustn’t.’
She bit on her bottom lip and said nothing.
‘We both agreed on it, didn’t we?’ he continued.
She nodded, and he leant forward to kiss her. His timing was obviously right; her lips insantly parted and, after the first tentative moments, he felt her hand cup his upper arm and her thumb gently rub his bicep. He pulled away first, just far enough that there was nowhere else for her to look but into his eyes.
‘That’s still OK with you, isn’t it? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with this.’
She leant forward to kiss him then. It was funny how setting such limits on their relationship invariably seemed to produce results. He guessed it might be one of those contrary truths: tell a needy woman what she can’t have, and that’s what she’ll instantly chase.
He pulled her closer and slipped his tongue between her lips. He found the waistband of her skirt and from there slid his hand up and down her spine, marvelling at the tautness of her soft skin. Her back arched as if to let him know that her breasts were available to him, but instead of undoing her bra he traced his middle finger over the sheer fabric, around her body until he was stroking her right nipple.
Her tongue then dipped into his mouth with more urgency and this time, when he pressed her hand against his trousers, she didn’t pull away. He encouraged her fingers to find the zip. Her hands were small but dextrous and, as ever, it took only seconds before she had him in the firm grasp of her delicate fingers. He stroked her hair as they continued to kiss, and he waited until her massaging was rhythmic before beginning to tease their mouths apart and gently nudge her face towards his penis.