Cambridge Blue (13 page)

‘Sounds like you knew her more than a
little.’

That stalled Bryn, opening a route to somewhere he evidently had no plan to go. No matter, it could wait. Whatever composure he’d regained began to freewheel away. He slammed on the brakes and his earlier hesitancy reappeared. Gary knew that the productive part of the conversation was as good as over now.

‘Look,’ Bryn said finally, ‘maybe that’s how it seems, but she was one of those people . . . you know, you see them a few times and really feel you’re on the same wavelength, then suddenly you realize they’ve learnt plenty about you, but you know bugger all about them. So I don’t know if I knew her much at all. I never had any romantic interest in her, if that’s what you’re wondering. But I thought she was really genuine and sweet. And I liked her.’

Gary’s gaze wandered towards the windows, and settled on the sulphurous light pooling down from a streetlamp. He left his instincts to summarize the conversation and decided that what little he’d heard had been the truth, but he doubted it was the whole truth, and was equally dubious that it had been nothing but.

SIXTEEN

Gary Goodhew left the Salisbury Arms at a few minutes before nine. The air was clear and still; it had hushed away the usual blur of background sounds, pushing its stillness between cars and pedestrians, leaving everyone to move in their own pool of solitude. He cut through the back alleys behind the houses, deliberately keeping his distance from any pockets of activity, heightening his feeling of isolation.

Even the sky had backed away, retracting the stars until they were just minute dots in the heavens.

The flatness of East Anglia kept the horizon low and the sky vast. When Goodhew had been about seven, his grandfather had told him to look at the ceiling, then to lie on the carpet and do the same. Goodhew knew that most things became smaller when you moved away from them, but when he lay down and looked up, the ceiling seemed to have grown. His grandfather had said that Cambridge was lying on the carpet, and the sky was there to remind it that it was only a tiny corner of the world. Beyond that, Goodhew couldn’t remember the exact purpose of the conversation, but he never failed to notice the sky.

By the time he was crossing Parker’s Piece, his thoughts had gravitated back to Lorna Spence. He was on the far side from Parkside station and from here, he could see that the light was off in Marks’ office. He’d spent most of the afternoon and early evening away from his boss, and therefore away from the latest thinking regarding the case. He’d been away with Richard Moran for the identification and at Lorna’s flat, but neither task had given him any insight into the direction their thoughts would be moving back at the station. He probably wouldn’t know until morning.

He guessed that Bryn had stepped beyond the boundaries of a mechanic–customer relationship. Too early to read much into it though, since Bryn’s reluctance to talk about it may have stemmed from one of several sources, like the desire for privacy or a simple aversion to the police. There’d be time for that kind of detail when Bryn made his official statement.

Goodhew felt wide awake, his mind buzzing too much to face the confines of his flat. Without any definite plan, he realized that he was drifting, in an arc, away from the straight line taking him to his front door and left towards the city centre. He began to think about talking to Richard Moran, and wondered whether he could get away with visiting him at this late hour. He tried to remind himself that it wasn’t exactly his place to be the first to know everything, except that his obsession for knowing was what had pulled him into the job in the first place, and he fully recognized the shortcoming and enjoyed giving in to it.

Goodhew glanced at his watch. He knew, before he checked, that it was around ten past nine, but he just wanted to convince himself that it really wasn’t too late. Nine o’clock was the end of kiddies’ bedtimes, the watershed where adult TV began, and the soaps mostly ended. News didn’t air until ten; oh yes, it was early enough.

He’d already checked out Moran’s home address and had immediately been able to pinpoint the house itself. It was the left-hand half of a towering six-storey semi which stood next to a church, and enjoyed a rare, elevated position looking down on Chesterton Lane and from there towards the Cam.

It involved a short walk through the town and out the other side, past the Excelsior Clinic itself, then across the river and right at the next junction. He kept to the main routes now, walking with purpose, keen to reach the house as quickly as possible.

He ignored the arguments against this visit, only beginning to consider it might be a bad idea in the moments between ringing the doorbell and seeing a shadow approaching it on the other side of the glass. He hadn’t even decided what excuse to use for his visit, trusting himself to come up with something appropriate when the need arose.

It didn’t.

Richard let him in without question, clearly having already got the hang of understanding that he’d now lost his entitlement to privacy. Had Goodhew been asked for a snap judgement, ‘resignation personified’ would have been how he summed up Moran; he looked hollowed out and punch-drunk, still standing but just waiting for the killer blow.

But once he was inside, the light got better, and when Goodhew saw the man face-on, he knew that punch-drunk wasn’t the appropriate phrase. Stoned more like. Yes, he looked out of it, broken even, but there was an unnatural energy in his stare.

Whatever. He looked like shit.

Goodhew opened his mouth to speak, but Moran got in first. ‘More questions? I’m glad, because I’ve got some for you, too. Plenty, actually.’

Goodhew followed him into the room immediately next to the front door. It was what makeover shows describe as ‘lacking an identity’: a study cum library, or TV room cum lounge. Or, equally, a goods-in cum charity collection point. It all depended on which corner you studied, but it had none of the pretentiousness evident in the Excelsior Clinic and looked to Goodhew like any ordinary student flat.

Richard sat at one end of a settee facing the door. Goodhew chose to sit at the other end. The house was silent and, although a steady stream of headlights passed the window, nothing disturbed the stillness with anything louder than a low hum.

‘You said you had plenty to ask?’

Richard nodded. ‘I’m glad you came. I thought I wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone this late, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep either – not with so many unanswered questions.’

Goodhew knew the feeling. ‘And these are regarding things that have come to mind since you gave your statement?’

‘Partially. In fact, I’d say they’ve been on my mind all along, but earlier I didn’t stop long enough to distil them into clear questions. But now I have. Firstly, I want to know why suspicion is falling on us.’

‘Us?’

‘Me, then. Me in particular.’

‘You shouldn’t assume it is, just—’

‘Yes, yes.’ Richard made a dismissive gesture. ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you? What makes you think Lorna wasn’t snatched by a stranger, or by some passing acquaintance?’

Sometimes it was useful to be able to call up a stock answer to such a question, because half the time, it was what a witness or victim expected to be told in any case, which in itself brought a feeling of calm. ‘Mr Moran, we are still only in the first hours of our investigation and nothing has been ruled out yet . . .’ One look at Richard’s sour expression told Goodhew that he’d misjudged it, but he plugged on with a second attempt. ‘There are many routine questions that we need to ask, and they aren’t intended to make you feel that you yourself are under any unreasonable suspicion, but obviously it’s important that we can construct an accurate picture of Lorna’s habits and her relationships.’

Richard’s sceptical expression hadn’t diluted, and Goodhew could sense that he wasn’t within a thousand miles of achieving the cathartic effect he’d hoped for. The silence hung awkwardly during a long pause.

‘Do you think I’m a dullard?’

Dullard? Goodhew found the word quaint, but had no trouble not smiling, especially since Richard’s mouth looked like it was stuffed with lemons. ‘No, of course not. What makes you think I’m not being straight with you?’

Richard’s eyes were still glassy, but they’d steadied enough to scrutinize Goodhew keenly. ‘It’s the problem of conventionality, I think. You people ask all the standard questions, to which I’ve been making all the standard replies, so then you come back with all the standard responses. Now I have questions myself, which I can’t ask without making it clear that I’ve been giving you a misleading picture. Do you see?’

‘In theory.’

‘And?’

Goodhew felt a surge of good luck sweep over him; now he had the chance to catch up on everything that had already been said and, probably, better it. He feigned a sigh and hoped he sounded cautious. ‘Any discrepancies need to be corrected as soon as possible, and therefore you may need to make a new statement – you understand that, don’t you?’

Richard nodded. ‘I just wanted to keep my privacy.’

‘But you were in a relationship with her?’

‘Oh, yes. That part’s true.’

‘What’s not, then?’

‘Nothing’s untrue, I just put some spin on it.’ He made a little snorting noise that was probably meant to be a laugh. It didn’t work, but did succeed in demonstrating what he looked like while toppling out of his fragile comfort zone – naked, and without hope of being thrown even the smallest pair of briefs.

Goodhew just waited.

Richard licked his lips, then finally committed himself with his opening gambit. ‘I was out of my depth with Lorna.’

Goodhew waited some more, then Richard’s words began to flow in earnest.

‘Obviously I was in a relationship with her. On the face of it, I don’t suppose we seemed at all compatible – there was an age gap of over ten years, and our backgrounds were quite different. We didn’t even look very well suited. But those are very outdated notions, and neither of us took them as valid reasons for . . .’ He drew a deep and weary breath and then let it out noisily, like it was steam forcing itself through a faulty valve, ‘Not pursuing each other.’

Without warning, he rose and walked towards the window, stopping just before it. He stared downwards and Goodhew couldn’t tell whether it was at the traffic passing outside or at the square work station which occupied the floor space immediately in front of the bay. Then his hand reached out, with narrow fingers extended, the tips touching an item which lay out of Goodhew’s view in the open top of a container marginally larger than a shoebox.

He carried the box back with him, and Goodhew now saw that it contained a variety of books and magazines.
Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus
lay on top, and it must have been its cover that Richard had been stroking. ‘These are Lorna’s,’ he explained. ‘She would sit in here, often just where you are, and read them. Never for long, just brief snatches of books or magazines. She had a short attention span, and needed constant diversions, new things to do or to read. New people, too.’

Goodhew sensed that Richard was close to making his point.

‘She was lovely . . . please, that’s one thing I don’t want you to misunderstand. She was warm and caring and never set out to hurt me. I know that. And she wasn’t unfaithful, not in her own eyes.’ Richard delved back into the box, lifting out a chunky handful of paperbacks. Mostly books that fell into the category of Popular Psychology. Goodhew spotted one called
On Kissing
and another entitled
Toxic Parents
. Richard dumped them on the cushion in-between them and carried on digging through the box. Goodhew flipped over
When Your Lover Is a Liar
, which promised ‘practical strategies to stop them before they ruin your life’. He then picked up the other books and shuffled it in between them.

Richard seemed too preoccupied to notice. Finally he pulled his hand out again, and with it a bundle of seven or eight glossy magazines which he spread out on the settee. ‘These are the sort of things she would normally read.’

Goodhew studied them. He was no expert on magazines and really had no idea what insight was supposed to be jumping out at him. Two of them were aimed at men: lad mags, but certainly not top shelf. Middle shelf or thereabouts. The other five were women’s magazines, and he could see instantly that they were aimed at the younger end of the market; single independent girls, the so-called ladettes. Whatever Richard was showing him, he wasn’t getting it.

‘I was out of my depth here, because this is what she embraced. Sexual freedom was part of who she was; she never wanted monogamy and told me so from the start. And, like a mug, I thought she’d change her mind, or wasn’t really serious, or . . . God, I don’t know, perhaps I thought I could handle it.’ He flicked the mags sharply with the back of his hand, making a brittle crack. ‘Promiscuity is a fashion now, a must-experiment necessity. I’ve read these articles, but find them sick and vacuous.’ Blotchy red patches had begun rising around his throat, like he’d swallowed his discomfort, just to have it break out through the skin. His voice quietened as he hit his stride. ‘It’s society going down the tube, by turning decent women into whores.’

Goodhew guessed the word ‘whores’ wasn’t one that Richard often used. Of course, he didn’t know for sure, but he noticed the way the word dried up on Richard’s lips, the way his mini-tirade vaporized as he registered what he’d just said.

‘Sorry,’ Richard muttered.

‘It’s fine,’ Goodhew replied. ‘So Lorna saw other men?’

‘No, I don’t think so, but she insisted she could if she wanted to. And that she would at some point, and would tell me when she did. That’s bad enough – no, actually, I think it’s worse. On one hand she told me she loved me, and I know she did, but on the other . . .’ He paused and gnawed his bottom lip.

There was something about Richard that reminded Goodhew of a teenage boy talking about his first romance. He should have been sitting on a tubular steel and canvas chair with his feet hooked round the legs as he leant over an old wooden desk scraping something like ‘LS 4 RM’ into its hinged lid with his pair of school compasses.