The Backs (2013)

by Bruce, Alison

  At 11.10 he spotted her. She barely glanced around the room but headed straight towards the stairs, as if the upper level was the only place he could possibly be. The man accompanying her looked about forty years her junior, and he dropped behind to follow her up the narrow spiral staircase. They had the same slim build, but he was several inches taller and, despite his casual appearance, Jimmy couldn’t dispel the feeling that he was looking at a man who was constantly on the alert.

  Jimmy stood up as they approached his table, and he could see his own hand trembling as he offered it. He wanted to smile and ask how they were, but it felt wrong to start with a lie. He’d gone past the point of being able to even pretend to empathize with anyone else’s well-being, or to share even the tiniest of pleasantries without his internal voice screaming at him that it didn’t matter. It really didn’t matter.

  This was a state of emergency now, the throwing of everything over the side just to try and stay afloat. Social niceties had gone overboard several months ago. And there were days when he wanted to stop, to wait until he hit the bottom, to then have the stern hand of responsibility send out doctors and bailiffs, and maybe a removal van or two, making the decision to change the route of his life anyone else’s but his own.

  That’s why his hand shook. Hers, of course, didn’t. ‘Good to see you again,’ she said and stepped aside to introduce her companion. ‘This is Gary Goodhew.’

  There are places to meet, places to avoid and a multitude of shades between the two. It appeared to Goodhew that his grandmother divided her time between the high-end and the very shady. She also seemed to be pretty much an expert at matching location, companion and agenda. Michaelhouse Café struck him as an unusual choice. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet,’ she’d texted. He hadn’t bothered to ask more; if she wanted him to know beforehand then she would have told him in the first place. He knew from experience that on the rare occasions his grandmother introduced him to someone, it usually involved a suggestion of extra-curricular investigation work. Without exception he had refused. However, that thought didn’t gel with a meeting held in such a busy and public place.

  She had met him at the entrance. ‘His name is James Barnes, always known as Jimmy, though. Name ring a bell?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He shook his head, though somewhere he felt a recollection stir.

  ‘All I ask is that you listen to him.’

  ‘Why do you do this to me?’

  ‘He’s a friend of a friend.’

  Great. Since there seemed to be a maximum of two degrees of separation between his grandmother and most of the residents of Cambridge, it wasn’t much of a reason. ‘I warn you I’m going to say no.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said, leading the way into the café. ‘But listen first, then say no.’

  He followed her up the stairs and although there were no free tables, and several of them were occupied by lone men, it was still easy to spot Jimmy Barnes. He was a big man, early forties, broad-shouldered and, judging by the way he made the café furniture look like it had come from a primary school, stood at least three inches over six feet tall. He had the pallor of someone who’d woken hung-over and had been struggling with an uncooperative head and stomach ever since. He probably realized he wouldn’t start to recover until he’d got the crap out of his system. Goodhew doubted, however, that alcohol was Jimmy Barnes’s problem. The man had spotted Goodhew’s grandmother from the first moment she’d walked towards the stairs, and was now watching her keenly.

  Barnes wiped his palm quickly on the thigh of his trousers before they shook hands. The man’s skin remained damp and, although his grasp was firm enough, Goodhew detected a slight hesitancy. Maybe nerves?

  Goodhew took a seat to one side of Barnes but, rather than joining them, his grandmother draped her jacket over the back of the nearest available chair and headed back towards the stairs. He was about to speak when Barnes drew himself closer and whispered, ‘I know you’re a policeman and I’m not asking for anything but advice. Well, that’s not true, I want help. But most of all I don’t want to be ignored. Do you understand?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s my wife.’

  And before Jimmy Barnes said another word the familiarity of the surname finally took shape. ‘Genevieve Barnes?’ Goodhew asked sharply.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Your grandmother told you, then?’

  ‘No. I’ve just heard the name recently.’ He wasn’t about to admit to knowing the case closely, even though copies of all the documents he’d read on it were currently sitting in a drawer at home. Nor could he ignore the fact that the previous evening had been spent fetching Jane Osborne back to Cambridge. The timing was interesting. ‘She was injured whilst treating a stab victim?’

  ‘That’s right. I was due to meet her at the beer festival, and she cut through all the back streets when she headed through town. Not just the back streets, but back alleys too.’ He glanced sharply at Goodhew, as though expecting interruption. ‘That was just her. She liked spotting things she hadn’t seen before: unusual buildings or a beautiful garden hidden behind a fence. But they queried that explanation in court, like she had made a gross misjudgement or something. As though in some small way she’d brought it on herself.’ He pressed both index fingers to the gap between his eyebrows and pressed them hard against his brow. He drew them apart slowly, his eyes closed, as if concentrating on his breathing. ‘I was so angry,’ he muttered to himself.

  Goodhew waited until Jimmy’s eyes reopened. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Gen found a girl lying injured . . . young woman I’m supposed to say. Gen was a paramedic, so of course she went to help. Luckily she phoned for an ambulance. Because by the time it arrived she’d been attacked too. It was her own phone call that saved her life – how ironic is that?’ Jimmy’s voice had risen noticeably and all the other occupants of the balcony now had the opportunity to consider the irony, too.

  This had been a stupid place to meet.

  Goodhew leant closer, speaking quietly, and hoping Jimmy would follow suit. ‘I know Rebecca Osborne was the woman that died.’

  ‘So you know they arrested her boyfriend?’

  ‘Greg Jackson.’

  Jimmy’s gaze darted away. ‘Gen lost a huge quantity of blood. The knife was rammed in so hard it broke two of her ribs. Yet, from first bending over the Osborne girl’s body until Gen herself woke in hospital, she remembers nothing. I thought that would be a blessing, because surely there would be less trauma from an attack you can’t even remember?’

  Goodhew shrugged. ‘There’s also the trauma of not knowing what happened.’

  ‘I see that now.’ Jimmy had thick straight hair that could easily have been styled to make him look like a seventies ad for Grecian 2000. He pushed it back from his face, then pressed his hand to the back of his neck, again shutting his eyes as he continued. ‘That day was terrible. I’d already spoken to her when she was on the way to meet me, so when she didn’t show, of course I phoned her. Each time the call I made went to voicemail. Gen was almost two hours late by the time I received a call from the police. I rushed to the hospital but she was in theatre and no one seemed to know whether or not she would survive.’ His eyes snapped open. ‘Of course, I prayed desperately for her to pull through. But I was stupid enough to think that, if she survived, we’d be able to just go back to normal.’

  ‘But it’s not that simple, is it?’ Goodhew said quietly.

  It was a small and obvious statement but enough for Jimmy to relax a little. His gaze again settled on Goodhew and this time his eyes focused properly, as he dropped his hands into his lap. When he spoke, his voice sounded more natural. ‘I’ve been holding on, waiting for everything to improve – or at least settle down.’ His expression softened further. ‘I don’t mean I’ve been holding on instead of leaving her. Gen and I are in it for good. I mean I’ve been holding on waiting for it to get better, but instead things are only worse.’

  ‘Ho
w?’

  ‘Gen couldn’t return to work. She tried, as soon as she was physically well enough, but just imagine it. A paramedic turns up daily at situations other people hope they’ll never have to face . . . loved ones collapsing in the street, road accidents, assaults. She and her partner Derrick had been called out to a suspected accidental overdose. They arrived at the house, found the front door was ajar, and Derrick went on in. Gen couldn’t step over the threshold. She just froze. He called back to her, told her it was safe, that he needed her help with the patient. But she couldn’t move. Derrick then brought the kid out and they treated him on the doorstep, kept quiet about it too, but it wasn’t the only time it happened, so eventually she left.’

  ‘And now? Does she still work?’

  ‘Yes, part time at Addenbrooke’s. She has to work, as she can’t stand being on her own anywhere, even at home. She now can’t walk down a quiet street, says she feels it closing in on her . . . starts feeling convinced that she’s being watched. We were still having good days together, fantastic days sometimes, even though we always seemed to pay for them with huge lows descending afterwards. We were coping, that’s the point. Then we heard how Greg Jackson was up for parole.’

  The years between the attack and now must have ticked by so slowly at times, and yet Goodhew could see how the release of Jackson would feel as though it came upon them in an instant.

  ‘Gen sees him all the time. She looks up and he’s there, watching her – by the bus stop, at the end of our road, in the supermarket. It’s becoming impossible. Our real life has disappeared, left us behind. It’s just over there,’ he glanced to the right, ‘where we can’t reach it but can still see what might have been. I realize I need to find something more I can actually do about this.’

  ‘And this is why you’ve contacted me? If Jackson’s been making contact in any way, you can report it. Harassing your wife will break the conditions of his parole.’

  ‘I want you to help.’

  ‘No, you just need to contact the police. I don’t understand why you think I can do anything.’

  Jimmy took a deep breath. ‘I can’t contact them. I don’t believe her.’

  ‘Because she’s making it up, or you think she’s imagining it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Really, I don’t. She claims she saw him three times in the first couple of weeks after his release. Initially I thought maybe she’d made a mistake, or I put it down to one of those unfortunate coincidences like going on a first date and running into your ex. But by the third time . . .’

  ‘Did you suggest she should report it?’

  ‘Of course, but she suddenly became upset – hysterical really, I suppose. She kept repeating that it was too late and I wouldn’t understand. I tried to make her tell me but in the end we had this massive row and I stormed out. When I came back home she was very subdued, she’d clearly been crying a lot and I suppose she’d just burnt herself out. She’d convinced herself that Jackson was coming for her, and that he held her responsible for his conviction.’

  ‘Hers wasn’t the only evidence.’

  ‘No, but she was the only witness to put him there at the scene. We later heard that the only other piece of evidence that could have carried more weight never made it to court. Gen says he came out of the gateway as she went in. So he knew Rebecca Osborne was critically injured. He didn’t just stand there while Gen was being attacked, did he? It’s obvious to anybody that he was guilty.’

  ‘But not to your wife.’

  ‘I’m not going to the police with an accusation of harassment against that man. It would probably take them only five minutes to prove she’s making it up, and then they’d want to know why. Gen went through plenty in court, so do you think I’d let her throw it all away by having her convince the police that she may have made a mistake? I’d be opening the door to her taking the biggest downhill slide possible. There can’t be any doubt over Jackson, because Gen would be vilified.’

  Jimmy was making sense, but Goodhew still failed to see where he himself might fit in.

  ‘If only I had the money, I’d hire someone to watch her.’ Jimmy grunted. ‘Except that still wouldn’t be right. She needs some kind of resolution. D’you know her only reason for thinking Jackson is innocent?’

  Goodhew shook his head, but Jimmy hesitated, almost as though he had trouble bringing himself to continue.

  ‘Jackson’s expression was wrong.’ Jimmy strummed his fingers on the table and looked at him, clearly agitated.

  Goodhew sat a little straighter. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. I understand the trauma, her fear of being alone, even the fear that the man she’s sent to prison might come after her. Then I think, if she really believes he’s innocent, why isn’t she scared of the real killer? What the fuck is the wrong expression? That’s the reason she says she can’t move on.

  ‘Look, I’m not walking out on her because she’s developing mental health issues – if she is – but the idea that she has been festering for so long over something so trivial . . .’ abruptly he pressed his lips together and scowled. ‘I don’t know what I’m asking you . . . Maybe you could find a detail that’s been missed? Something that will make sense of a wrong expression?’ Jimmy pushed his chair back and hurried to his feet. ‘Now I’ve said it out loud again, I can hear how stupid it sounds. Forget it, I’m sorry.’

  Goodhew didn’t try to stop him. He’d already promised himself that he’d turn down anything pushed in front of him, so watching the man trudging out of the Michaelhouse Café should have been the very end of it. But the whole meeting had left him thinking, something he was still engaged in when his grandmother rejoined him.

  ‘An interesting man,’ she remarked as she placed a tray of tea things on the table between them.

  ‘Seems perpetually uncomfortable. What does he do for a living?’

  ‘He works in the purchasing department at the Council offices. He’s been there since leaving school, secondary education. He married Genevieve when she was twenty-four, after they’d dated for five years. No children, small mortgage, no debts.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, the point is, I do.’ She filled up both cups. ‘I doubt he’s ever courted the limelight, so I don’t think he’s crying out for help for any other reason than he truly needs it.’

  That made Goodhew smile. ‘I hope that’s not emotional blackmail. You know I’m not getting involved.’

  She smiled too. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘But you’re right about the limelight. He’s not the adventurous type, not a risk-taker or a narcissist, yet he’s come here to tell it all to a complete stranger. And in such a public place . . .’ he glanced at his grandmother. ‘Is that why you picked here as our meeting point?’

  ‘In part.’

  ‘And the other part?’

  ‘Are you going to look into it?’

  ‘Into what? A wrong expression?’

  ‘Come on, that’s the part that intrigues you.’

  ‘It’s obvious there’s nothing I can do.’

  His grandmother pointed over at the chapel. ‘Look at the east window.’

  He knew it well: five tall panels with Christ in the centre one, surrounded by saints, angels and martyrs. Above the main five panels were eleven smaller ones depicting doves, stars and still more angels.

  ‘Do you remember what you once told me?’

  The glass containing the second angel from the right had been installed incorrectly, in a mirror image of the way it should be. He’d noticed that on his first visit.

  He nodded.

  ‘I don’t know anyone else who has ever spotted it, Gary, and even though I know you won’t agree to help Jimmy Barnes, you won’t be able to stop yourself from noticing if the smallest detail there is out of place either.’

  SEVEN

  Jane’s drama teacher used to shout Own it! in reaction to any half-hearted attempt at acting. Of course the kids, Jane inc
luded, mimicked this expression without mercy, shouting it out whenever a classmate in any other lesson hesitated with their answer. There had been times since when she’d remembered this and wondered whether hiding the truth had always been her destiny.

  In life, Jane lied frequently: some days she felt she was good at it, at other times she was doubtful, but most of the time she did it without thinking. Tonight she’d need to concentrate, working hard to keep her expression blank, revealing nothing and reminding herself that being believed was all down to owning her forthcoming performance. DI Marks needed to believe the news of her sister’s death had come as a shock.

  In the end it wasn’t so hard to achieve.

  As she stepped from the police car, it was the change in location that hit her first. The Cambridgeshire air was dry and warm; they’d driven through all of that rain and come out the other side as they entered the north of the county. She glanced up at the cloudless night sky and remembered how different the solar system looked here compared to anywhere else she’d ever visited. The stars here seemed better spaced, as though the dome of the atmosphere was somehow grander and had lifted them up and away from each other.

  The police station was directly in front of her, ugly as ever, while behind her – on the other side of Warkworth Terrace – stood well-kept townhouses, the kind with fat front doors reached by a short flight of stone steps and basements that begged to be stared into as you walked along the pavement.

  The familiarity of it startled her. She had expected to feel like a total stranger but all this was etched somewhere in the back of her mind.