‘So,’ Gully readied her notepad, ‘you saw Jane Osborne return home at approximately what time?’
‘Eleven-ish.’
‘Have you seen her since?’
‘I knocked at the house.’
‘What time?’
‘The first time, probably within the hour. Then again about an hour after that.’
‘So you knocked twice. Or more than that?’
‘I kept trying. I never left it longer than an hour in between.’
‘And did you hear or see anything there?’
‘She was inside, all right.’
‘But she didn’t reply?’
‘No. But I held open the letterbox and listened, and someone was definitely moving around.’
Gully could see Jane’s point of view. She wouldn’t have felt like opening the door to Campbell either.
‘If I wasn’t the age I am, I’d have those locks open straight away – not go pussyfooting around it like your young detective there.’
Goodhew was currently about thirty feet away, examining the property’s exterior. If Campbell decided to employ any more animal references, Gully had a feeling that ‘monkey up a drainpipe’ might be about to come into play.
‘So, what specifically makes you feel she may have come to any harm?’
‘Jackson was right at her door, banging at it. Before that, they’d been out here in the street. That girl’s always been a bolshie little cow, but even she looked shaken up.’
‘Did you overhear any of their conversation?’
‘I leant out my window and threatened him . . . said I’d call the police if he didn’t clear off.’
‘And Jane was out here at that point?’
‘Yes, but this was hours ago. Jackson started banging on her door after that. I saw him heading round the back. Who knows where he went from there.’
‘So, you didn’t actually see him enter the property?’
‘I never said I did. But he could have done.’
‘Mr Campbell—’ she began, but he interrupted her.
‘Living across the road from an empty house is a responsibility I take very seriously. When I phoned, I explained I was concerned for a neighbour.’
‘Who may have gone out.’
Campbell tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Doubtful. Let’s go and see what your man has to say.’ He turned towards the house itself. It seemed Goodhew had given up on the idea of scaling the outside wall and was talking into his mobile as he now approached them.
He finished the call and slipped his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. ‘Locked down from the inside.’
Campbell glanced back at Gully. She kept her eyes fixed on Goodhew, but if she had bothered to meet his gaze, she could picture, in precise detail, the I-told-you-so smile and slight raise of his eyebrows disappearing behind his fringe. He touched her arm. ‘Whenever it’s something that concerns this street, mine is the voice of experience.’
They both ignored him. Goodhew carried on addressing Gully. ‘I phoned Jane but there’s no reply, so I’ve called the station. They’re contacting her dad and brother, and sending a van round so we can gain access.’
‘Not a locksmith?’
‘No. We’ll need to break the door down.’
‘Gerry won’t be happy about that. You should really wait for him and his key. I offered to hold one, but he said it wouldn’t be necessary. He’ll wish he’d taken me up on it, won’t he?’
‘A key won’t help us if the doors are bolted.’
Gully sighed a little too loudly. ‘Gary, did her phone go straight to voicemail?’
‘It rang first.’
‘Text her.’
Goodhew shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try.’
In the distance a police siren began to wail. Further along the road, several people were standing outside their houses, pretending to talk but watching, waiting for the possibility of a main event.
‘Tell her they’re about to break in if she doesn’t come out.’ Goodhew spelt out a few more words, then hit the ‘send’ button.
Gully waited for the phone to buzz with a reply, or to see the screen light indicate an incoming call. Nothing happened, and a few minutes later it was the arrival of the second patrol car that provided the only sound and light.
‘Did you warn her they’ll force entry?’
‘You’re assuming she’s in a condition to even read texts. We should have an ambulance on standby.’
Gully focused on the front door, as if doing her best to scowl it open. But if Jane was on the other side, scowling to keep it shut, then Gully wouldn’t stand a chance. Goodhew and ‘comb-over’ Campbell might well be imagining Jane lying in a pool of blood but, personally, Gully didn’t buy it.
She reached over and tugged Goodhew’s phone from out of his fingers. She quickly sent Jane a new message, then handed it back.
‘Do you realize you text faster than you type?’ Goodhew observed.
‘Yes. It’s annoying.’
‘So what did you put?’
‘You could just read it.’
‘No need.’ He moved suddenly, and behind the obscured glass in the front door she saw a flash of movement. ‘Just tell me.’
She repeated her message quietly, so that Campbell wouldn’t hear. Goodhew nodded and she turned back to face Campbell. ‘Sir, I’ll contact you if we need a statement.’
His eager expression followed Goodhew as the young police officer headed up the front steps. Gully placed herself between the neighbour and the house itself. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Campbell. We’ll take it from here.’
‘No reason I can’t stand out on my own street now, is there?’ He sniffed and raised his chin so he could look down his nose at her, a smile of superiority touching his lips. Any second now he’d add ‘I know my rights’.
The front door cracked open by a few inches and a narrow panel of daylight slipped through the gap, finding Jane’s face. Gully knew that neither Jane nor Goodhew needed an audience for their exchange.
Gully smiled patiently. ‘On second thoughts,’ she added firmly, ‘I’ll take that statement now.’
Campbell’s smile faltered.
‘Your flat or at Parkside, whichever you prefer.’
Goodhew had heard her put the security chain in place, then watched the door begin to open. Daylight made her squint and she raised her hand to shield her eyes as they adjusted.
‘Have you really found my mum?’
‘She’s in France. In Limoges.’
Jane managed the smallest of smiles. ‘That’s funny. She hates France.’
‘Can I come in?’
She looked beyond him, across the street towards Campbell and Gully. ‘What do they want?’
‘Campbell called us; he was worried when he couldn’t get a reply from you.’
‘Right. That nosy old git has been spying on us ever since we were kids.’
‘So you knew he was knocking?’
She stepped back from the door, and he could still see her but she’d partially faded into the shadows. She watched him, her gaze unwavering, till he wondered whether she was about to close the door again. ‘I don’t know, but I knew someone was,’ she replied.
‘Jane, I really need to speak to you properly. It would be easier if we could talk inside.’
She ignored him. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Not yet. I only have an address but not her phone number. The French police will let her know you’re safe. They’ll pass on your number, if you like.’
‘And I can have her address?’
‘Absolutely.’
She closed the door. For a few seconds there was silence, then he heard her remove the chain. She opened it again but fully now, and he saw her clearly for the first time. She was filthy, apart from her palms and fingers which were rosy pink as though they’d just been washed. Her nails were still ingrained with dirt, and dark marks disfigured her clothes. A tell-tale rusty stain covered the knee of her
jeans. Blood. She blinked at him, staring as if she was trying to adjust to a whole lot more than just the daylight.
‘Are you by yourself, Jane?’
She nodded.
‘Do you reckon Campbell there was the only one who knocked?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her gaze drifted to the door. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Did you let anyone in?’
‘Like who?’
‘Jackson.’
She blinked slowly and as she reopened her eyes her gaze was fixed on him. ‘I don’t have anything to say to Jackson. He can hang around outside as much as he likes. I don’t know anything at all that would interest him.’
Goodhew could see the head of the stairs and along the ground floor as far as the doorway at the end of the hall. Not even the dust seemed to have been disturbed.
‘You have blood on your jeans.’
She looked down at her leg. ‘I didn’t realize. I guess I cut myself.’
‘And what was on your hands before you washed them?’
‘You have my mum’s address, then?’
‘Sure. But you know I need to look around the house, don’t you, Jane? Tell me what’s been happening here.’
‘I’ve made a mistake. I thought . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she lifted a hand to gesture towards the rear of the property. For several seconds she tried to find the words, but couldn’t.
‘Can you show me?’
She led him along the hallway, where the door to the final room was ajar. As she pushed it open, the arc in which it travelled was the only patch of carpet that remained clear. Stripped wallpaper debris covered all the rest of the floor.
‘First –’ she drew in a deep breath and finally some of the colour returned to her face – ‘can I explain?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I thought that maybe I wouldn’t move on again after all – that I’d stay on here in Cambridge. I hadn’t made my mind up, then came that knocking on the front door. It could’ve been Jackson, Campbell or even Dad, but definitely no one I wanted to speak to. Suddenly I thought Fuck it, I’m not running. No one’s going to make me. No big deal, right?’
Goodhew shrugged. ‘Depends, I guess.’
‘Well, for me it was huge.’ He saw her inherent stubbornness rise, but the exhaustion evident on her face remained overwhelming. ‘I decided that it was time to face up to anything that needs it. And I got this idea – a stupid idea – that there was something down there.’ She pointed to what looked like a cupboard door in the corner. ‘It’s a cellar.’
‘Show me.’
‘Is there a light on your phone? Mine’s nearly flat.’
She held his mobile in front of them as she led the way into the basement. The stairs felt greasy underfoot and the stale air smelt of wet earth.
She stopped as soon as she’d reached the bottom, raised the phone and directed its light down on to the floor. He could see the room clearly for the first time. As they’d descended, he’d seen what looked like an uneven floor surface, but now he realized there were three large flagstones standing like tombstones up against the opposite wall. A corresponding-sized rectangle of broken ground lay in front of him and the harsh light picked out a pile of brick chunks and rubble that had been pulled free.
‘I only had the axe, so I used it to lift the flagstones and hook out the rubble. I thought it would be easier to dig out than this.’
The exposed area measured about eighteen inches across and four feet long. The proportions weren’t lost on him. ‘Why start digging in the first place?’
‘The stones wobbled when I walked on them . . . and water seeped up. The floor wasn’t like that before.’
‘But there could be any number of reasons. Who knows how many repairs have happened here since you left?’
‘Very few I’d say. This isn’t exactly makeover mansion, you know.’
She had a point.
‘You said you’d made a mistake?’
She lowered the phone till its light beam picked out her trainers. The laces had been knotted, but the one on the right foot had come loose. A small patch that should have been clean white sock peeked out at him. It was as filthy as the rest of her clothes. ‘You thought there was a body there, didn’t you?’
‘What else would it be?’
‘Like I said, it could be anything.’
‘I couldn’t think.’
He realized her mistake then; the untidy laces, the bloody knees and the relentless digging told him more. ‘Did you think it was your mum?’ he asked gently.
‘It seemed to make sense. Two and two making five, I suppose.’ She slapped the phone back into his hand. He followed her back up towards the sea of stripped paper. ‘Selfish cow, swanning around France while I’m up to my knees in all this crap.’ A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth, then vanished.
‘You’re not nearly as tough as you’d like us to believe, are you, Jane?’
‘Tough enough to get by.’
‘A survivor, then?’
‘That’s right. Now what?’
‘We’ll speak to your father about the cellar. I’m sure there will be an explanation.’
‘And if not?’
‘I guess we’ll excavate.’
‘Good.’ Jane shoved her hands into her pockets and tried to looked determined. ‘I really think you should.’
NINETEEN
28 July. The day the woman had been sighted on the Gogs. The date had jumped out at Goodhew, seeming as familiar as a birthday or the date of New Year’s Eve.
Goodhew’s diversion to Pound Hill had cost valuable time on the Paul Marshall case and, of course, he’d known that when he agreed to go. But he couldn’t also afford time to wait around for the first senior officer to now arrive at the Osborne house, especially if they then decided to hang on to him for the rest of the day.
Gully had tossed him the car keys. ‘You’ll be quicker if you drive back.’
‘I’ll swap this one for an unmarked and leave it in the car park.’
‘Drop the keys at the front desk. Get going, though. You’ll be toast if Marks gets this one, and finds you here.’
Whatever happened, he’d known that Marks would already be on the warpath, so had been thankful to make it out to Lin-ton without a get-back-here-and-explain-why-the-hell-you-were-with-Jane-Osborne phone call from his boss.
Now he stood on the doorstep of Paul Marshall’s home. The house was modern, with white gables, rose bushes and matching net curtains. The grass was weedless, the windows spotless, and the doorbell undoubtedly working.
House Number One, Perfectsville.
Carmel Marshall was barefoot as she opened the door. She wore a striped T-shirt over jeans, ruffled but damp hair touching her shoulders. She managed a smile but the strain on her face kept it in check. ‘I thought DC Kincaide would come.’
Goodhew hadn’t realized she’d been expecting anyone at all before half an hour ago, when he’d arranged to see her. He introduced himself, adding, ‘And I’m sure DC Kincaide will be in touch with you later.’
She moved away towards the back of the house, leaving him to follow. As she walked, she pinned back her fair hair, with two clips on each side. The action lifted her T-shirt above her waist, exposing a faded tan line across her lower back. She led the way to the kitchen and pointed him towards a small corner table with two chairs.
‘Will here do?’
‘Yes, of course. Are your children here, Mrs Marshall?’
‘With my parents today. Coffee?’
‘Please.’
She brought milk and sugar to the table, while the kettle boiled, then emptied and rinsed a large cafetière. Everything she did seemed deliberate, in an uneasy relationship between thought and action. She came back with two mugs and the pot of coffee, placed them on the table, then spent several seconds turning items round so that the ear-of-corn motif faced the front on each one. ‘I seem to be having a couple of days of emotional calm now, but I have be
en extremely upset, just in case you were wondering. For the first few days I just couldn’t stop.’ She sat down, shunting her chair around a little until she faced him squarely. ‘In fact, I’ve never cried like that before. It acted like a cocoon and I was curled up in the centre of it screaming my brains out.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not what my kids needed, really. Cue Mum and Dad.’
She poured coffee into the two mugs. ‘Have you ever cried like that?’ she asked.
‘No, never.’
‘It was beyond my control at first. Then, later, when I was exhausted and knew I could stop, I made myself cry some more – just to avoid dealing with everything. I could see what was coming: an endless stream of questions and decisions, police, insurance, the children, neighbours.’
Goodhew sipped his coffee, watching her carefully. ‘You must miss him.’
‘Must I?’ She stared straight into Goodhew’s face, challenging him to answer.
‘Well, do you?’
‘I’m undecided. You see, once I stopped crying and started facing up to my new life as a widow . . . newly single woman, or whatever I am . . . I started thinking. I don’t know why someone would have done that to Paul, so I reasoned that there’s a side to him that he kept secret.’
She paused as if for affirmation, so Goodhew nodded to just show he understood.
‘But I figure I still knew him as well as anyone, and there are a few details . . . I don’t want to hold back on something that might be important. Money’s the first thing. We didn’t have an issue with it. He’d never owe anyone money, never lend it either. Paul worked hard, but indulged himself too. Too much sometimes, but always with our own money.’ She paused, then corrected herself, ‘His own money.’
‘Do you work?’
‘Not at the moment. I’d just qualified as a teacher when I met him. Then I gave it up when I became pregnant.’
‘Molly and Evie, they’re twelve and eight? Didn’t you ever want to return to work?’
Her gaze dropped to her lap, then focused on Goodhew again. ‘He liked me at home.’
The Backs (2013) Page 11