The Backs (2013)

by Bruce, Alison

  ‘That sounds like an understatement.’

  ‘I just want the chance to stay clear. I’m now the happiest I’ve ever been, and I’d be pleased if you can tell that to Mary.’

  Goodhew paused, and doodled a small cube on the corner of the page. ‘Sure,’ he said finally. ‘Please excuse me.’

  He’d run out of things to ask for the moment. Of course there were plenty more questions, but right now he was too distracted by Marks’s phone call and his subsequent failure to return. From across the table, Lesley Bough watched him with the same open expression he’d noticed in the first photo he’d seen of her. The foreboding he now felt hadn’t seemed to reach her side of the desk but, then again, she didn’t know about Marks’s phone. The same phone that Marks had taken with him because only the major incident team had its number. Or the message Marks had left which read: phone this mobile if it’s urgent.

  TWENTY-NINE

  They’d arrived back in the UK in the small hours, before travelling by taxi back up the M11 to Cambridge. Now they stood side by side in the morgue, staring down at the corpse. Neither he nor Marks spoke, but Goodhew guessed they were wondering pretty much the same thing: Is it her?

  Some bodies were horrific, others were so far gone that it was almost impossible to believe they’d ever lived. This one fell somewhere between the two.

  At first glance it was little more than a skeleton, badly damaged, depersonalized and sexless. The burial and staining from the damp earth had left it looking like it had come from a film set, or was an ancient relic: one of the exhibits lying in museum display cases, which school children ogle and want to replicate for Halloween.

  But they were both focusing more closely now. Sykes, the pathologist, rested one gloved hand on the corpse’s forehead. ‘Adult female, by the way.’ He held a pointer that resembled a broken aerial in the other hand, and rotated it over the centre and then the lower half of the skull.

  ‘The body was packed into a small area, force being involved at that point, then the crushing from earth, hardcore and finally stone slabs would have caused even further damage.’ He checked that they had both absorbed this comment before moving on. ‘It would be easy to attribute that compression as the cause of this damage, but it isn’t. The facial area received repeated heavy blows that caused collapse of the nasal and jaw areas. In two places’ – he directed the pointer at the centre of the chin, then under the lower jaw – ‘the blow was struck, with force, by a thin but hard edge.’

  Sykes straightened and demonstrated what he meant by gripping an imaginary handle, as though he was holding a canoe paddle and stabbing it vertically. ‘A spade would be my first suspect, pointing downwards the first time, with the victim lying on her back on the floor. Then, the second time, more at the angle you’d shovel coal.’ He emphasized this point by changing the angle and repeating the action a couple more times.

  ‘And, given enough force, the damage would be catastrophic,’ Marks commented.

  This struck Goodhew as a case of stating the obvious and, judging by the pathologist’s own expression, Sykes probably agreed.

  Sykes drew closer to the body again. ‘There was no shortage of force here. It didn’t kill her, though.’

  A tremor of nausea rippled through Goodhew’s gut. ‘She was dead already?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Well spotted.’

  ‘I haven’t spotted anything. I was just being optimistic.’ That sounded wrong. The nausea took another minute to drift away.

  Marks frowned. ‘What killed her, then?’

  ‘That’s straightforward enough.’ Sykes pointed to the ribcage. ‘See that?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Goodhew saw it too: the bones scored by a blade that had penetrated between the sixth and seventh ribs on the victim’s left side. ‘How many times was she stabbed?’

  ‘At least four. This one is the most obvious incision but then there are other marks – here, here and here. The attacker used a great deal of force and, because of the relatively close proximity of the wounds, either restrained her or continued to stab her when she was beyond the point of struggling. Judging by these marks, I think we’re looking for a blade that’s about four centimetres at its base, and likely to be a minimum of fifteen centimetres in length.’

  Goodhew recalculated. ‘An inch and a half by six, sir.’

  ‘Imperial’s easier to picture,’ Marks explained.

  One side of Sykes’s mouth smiled. ‘You’ve used that one before.’

  Goodhew’s attention had meanwhile moved back to the head. ‘That damage wasn’t an attempt to prevent identification, though, was it?’

  ‘Working out people’s motivations is hardly my field. This kind of damage could well have slowed identification, but if the body had been found quickly there’s no reason to think we wouldn’t have fingerprints. Even now there is still plenty of opportunity for at least a partial match with dental records, while the possibilities of DNA identification go almost without saying. So, no, there is nothing much here that will prevent us from identifying her. But the plan may have been to delay the identification, or make it difficult for anyone apart from us.’

  ‘That would seem to imply that someone else was expected to discover the body.’

  Sykes shrugged. ‘As I say, the crime itself is your field, not mine.’ Sykes double-tapped his pointer on the sternum. ‘That’s not all this corpse can tell us, though. Look at these.’

  Both Marks and Goodhew leant in closer to the right-hand side of her chest.

  ‘Broken ribs,’ Marks observed. ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Three or four years before death. The breaks themselves occurred during the same incident, and at the same time she shows—’

  Goodhew spoke up before Sykes could finish. ‘That she had broken bones in one hand.’

  ‘Very difficult to spot, but you are correct.’

  Marks spoke next. ‘And this injury is likely to be the result of the victim trying to defend herself?’

  Sykes nodded. ‘But during the earlier assault, not at the time of her murder.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I realize that. And how long for DNA and dental identification?’

  ‘DNA? Not this week. The dental won’t be tonight, but possibly tomorrow. Who do you think she is?’

  ‘Mary Osborne.’

  ‘Rebecca Osborne’s mother?’ Sykes studied the body and exhaled slowly through his nostrils as he did so. ‘It’s more than possible, not just because of the location of the corpse either. You’d be surprised how often I see one family member in here, then another arriving later. Do you have any idea how often a sudden or violent death is followed by an accidental one a couple of years later?’

  Goodhew’s memory jumped back to several incidences where the bereaved had explained how a new death had been the second or third to strike their family in a short space of time. He felt surprised that he’d never actually made the same observation himself, but clearly Sykes had been right when he’d said his view of any case was different from theirs.

  ‘Except, of course, neither was an accident,’ Sykes continued, ‘and we’re looking at the same cause of death for both.’

  ‘And the same killer?’

  ‘Highly, highly probable. I conducted Rebecca Osborne’s autopsy too, and the force of the attack and the determination to kill was simlar in both.’ Sykes looked up brightly. ‘And if that’s the case, and if this is Mary Osborne, then Greg Jackson is in the clear.’

  Goodhew’s thoughts were already converging on Rebecca Osborne, and he suddenly became aware that he was staring at Sykes. He glanced at Marks in time to catch his boss’s expression.

  ‘We’ll need to update the family,’ Marks said. He began to fasten his jacket. ‘Goodhew, are you ready?’ He turned to thank Sykes who then followed them towards the exit.

  ‘I’ll send you the full report as soon as – and let you know if anything else turns up in the interim.’ Sykes raised his gloved hand instead of offering it for them to shake. ‘I
don’t think any of us were expecting this development when we ate breakfast this morning,’ he added, as they left.

  But Goodhew had noticed Marks’s reaction, and he wasn’t quite so sure.

  Marks said very little during their taxi ride from Addenbrooke’s to Parkside.

  ‘When will you be visiting the Osbornes?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘Straight away, I think.’

  ‘It’s about three a.m.’

  Marks turned on the courtesy light over his head and scrutinized his watch for several seconds. ‘I hadn’t realized. In the morning, then.’ He turned the light out again. ‘People don’t think clearly in the small hours. Me included,’ he added finally. He then leant back in his seat, with his head on the headrest. He closed his eyes.

  Goodhew knew this was a sign to stop talking. ‘How much will you tell them?’ he asked.

  Several seconds ticked by before Marks answered. He spoke softly, so that the driver couldn’t hear. ‘Two facts only: Mary Osborne’s not in France, but she might be . . .’ he paused to think through the words in case the driver could overhear, ‘. . . she might be with Sykes.’

  ‘And what about Jackson?’ Goodhew murmured.

  Eyes still shut, Marks’s head gave a tiny shake. ‘Not now, Gary.’

  And he said nothing more until they arrived back in East Road, where he asked the driver to drop them at the front door of Park-side station. ‘No need to come inside, Gary. Leave it all until the morning.’

  THIRTY

  Never trust anyone more than you trust yourself. Jane Osborne held this higher than any other personal belief. When her instincts shouted to her, she listened. Yes, she might be wrong, but at least it would be her own problem. If she let someone else take her down the wrong route, then her error was double.

  All day she’d been feeling restless. Waiting for news from her mother. Or news of her mother? And, as time ticked on, the idea that news was being withheld grew and continued to multiply, until the room seemed to shrink.

  She was in a B & B on Madingley Road, occupying a pleasant room in a pleasant house. She kept the TV permanently tuned into BBC1 and watched the local news updates, scanning the background of the footage taken from outside the house in Pound Hill and listening to reporters quoting the police. She tried to decode the subtext of every comment.

  The police are not expected to make an announcement until tomorrow morning. Didn’t that suggest there would be an announcement in the morning? Which meant they had information. Which meant she was being kept in the dark.

  She phoned Parkside after that disclosure. They brushed her off. She asked for DC Goodhew but an incurious voice at the other end simply told her that he wasn’t there.

  She phoned her brother, and his wife picked up. Roz, sister-in-law and complete stranger, offered to go and fetch Dan.

  Jane, also sister-in-law and complete stranger, just asked her if there’d been any news. There hadn’t. She’d put down the phone and now she paced the room.

  She opened the window. Nothing blew in. The air was dead quiet, dead calm.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  The photo above the bed showed cattle grazing on Newnham Common, and she knew she needed to get out in the fresh air. Needed to walk and think until someone found her and told her what the fuck was happening.

  So, at a little after midnight, she left the B & B and started walking towards the city centre. She stuck to the right-hand-side footpath, away from the road but an equal distance from the fences too. She walked quickly and with purpose, not wanting to look vulnerable. But she didn’t feel vulnerable either. She headed in the general direction of home. Instincts seemed to draw her that way. She glanced up Pound Hill as she passed. The street was quiet, and a police car parked near the house was the only sign of anything happening.

  She wondered if the police had anyone inside the house right now, or whether they were just waiting and watching nearby – and what they expected to see. But instinct told her to keep walking.

  And the further she walked, the more determined she became, not prepared to slow down on anyone’s terms but her own.

  Why are you so angry, Jane?

  How many times had she been asked that question? And how many times had she rejected it, railed against the unreasonableness of it even being asked?

  Now she’d asked it herself.

  She lowered her head and walked on. She reached the next roundabout and deliberately took the less well-lit road. When had she ever come to harm from strangers? And if fate wanted to do that to her, well, bring it on. Her hands balled into fists and she felt her anger flash even brighter.

  And she walked harder.

  She imagined unleashing it all on anyone who tried touching her.

  She turned down Queens Road, crossed to the other side and took the footpath that ran through the wide ribbon of grass separating the road itself and the Backs.

  And she walked from one end to the other, through the trees, into the shadows and, where it was too dark to see the footpath, deliberately walking with one foot on the path and one on the grass. She listened for footsteps behind her and watched for movement ahead, but only ready to challenge anyone who dared intrude. Sweat had stuck her shirt to her back and her heart raced.

  No one had the right to make her feel this way.

  She stopped at the corner of Silver Street and looked behind her.

  No one had the right and, so long as they thought they did, then she’d stay angry. Fucking angry. That was her prerogative and now was not the time to let that feeling go.

  As Goodhew crossed over Parker’s Piece he heard the sound of bells ringing half past three. The four lights of Reality Checkpoint glowed in yellow fuzzy-focus at the intersection between the two diagonal footpaths that crossed the green. Goodhew left the path at the lamppost and cut across the grass to Park Terrace, knowing that he was almost directly in line with his own flat.

  He didn’t notice the figure sitting on the step by his front door until he was just about to cross the road. It was impossible to see who it was from there, but he recognized her as she stood up, and also realized that he hadn’t imagined it could be anyone else.

  ‘Jane? Why are you here?’

  She descended two steps. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  He was right up to her before the small glow of his entrance light enabled him to properly see her. She had that same look of suspicion as she’d had the first day he’d met her. Funny, since she’d now come to him.

  ‘How did you get my address?’

  ‘Internet electoral-register search. There are only seven Goodhews in Cambridge, and only one G.’

  Goodhew looked at the front door, then back at Jane. ‘I can’t ask you in. And we can’t talk here.’

  She frowned. ‘Why can’t you ask me in?’

  ‘You’re part of an active case.’ He corrected himself. ‘Even after it’s over, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Once it’s over, why would you, anyway?’

  Goodhew had no doubt that Jane’s own experience in antagonizing other people with her questions far outdid his own. If she was looking to start a row with him, then any answer he now gave would be turned back on him. He paused, more to think rather than to avoid the question.

  Jane mowed through the gap he created. ‘Once it’s over, I won’t be here.’

  ‘In Cambridge?’

  ‘No, here on your doorstep. Just because I turn up and speak to a bloke doesn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Jane, stop,’ Goodhew broke in. At least she stayed quiet long enough for him to draw a breath. ‘Police-station coffee machine or the University Arms Hotel?’

  Without replying she descended to the bottom of the steps, then turned towards the hotel. They were seated in the late bar within a couple of minutes. Goodhew centred his glass of Pepsi on a beer mat and watched her. She’d ordered orange juice and lemonade, which arrived in a Stella Artois glass. She now cradled it in both hands and made no attempt to drink it.

 
; ‘Have you received any contact from the police since I last saw you?’

  ‘That WPC with the dark hair, she dropped me off at the B and B. She didn’t seem to know anything new.’

  ‘OK, you went to some lengths to find me, so how do you think I can help?’

  ‘Where did you go today?’ Answering a question with a question. He didn’t think she was being evasive, just single-mindedly pushing the conversation towards her own objective.

  ‘I was working on something.’

  ‘Connected with my mum?’

  A giveaway hesitation, then: ‘Yes, actually it was.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Look, DI Marks is arranging to speak to your family in the morning.’

  ‘Before he speaks to the press?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

  She stirred the ice with the tip of her little finger. ‘You didn’t speak to her, did you?’ She glanced at him quickly, as though expecting to catch him off guard.

  He really had no desire to play games – even less to lie to her.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘we didn’t.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘She wasn’t there after all. As far as we know, she isn’t actually in France. We thought she was there, but we were mistaken.’

  She nodded, biting her bottom lip as though she wanted to stop herself from saying anything too quickly. Finally she spoke and there was an unmistakable catch in her voice. ‘So the body could be hers?’

  Goodhew nodded slowly. ‘It’s a possibility.’

  She mulled this over. ‘A strong one?’

  He knew how he ought to respond but, like Lesley Bough when it came to it, he couldn’t pretend. He nodded again. ‘I think so.’

  She put her glass on the table in front of her, and Goodhew let several minutes pass before he continued.

  ‘Jane, were you in contact with any of your family before Rebecca died?’

  ‘She thought he loved her.’