Cambridge Blue (17 page)

It turned out that Colin Willis had no friends or relatives pushing for answers, and it was clear that the killing had been considered a one-off. The perpetrator was assumed to be someone busy committing other offences: the type of criminal that would either get grassed up at some point, or drop himself in it when committing another unrelated crime. Therefore the case remained open and active. But clearly not
that
open and not
that
active.

Once Goodhew was sure that there was nothing in the file to affect his immediate plans, he turned his attention to his first visit of the day: Richard Moran.

TWENTY-TWO

Twenty minutes later, Goodhew left Parkside station for the short walk towards the city centre and another visit to Moran’s home.

Faith Carver, the Excelsior Clinic’s stern-faced receptionist, had informed Goodhew that Mr Moran had not been into work all day, and had cancelled his imminent appointments.

Goodhew decided not to phone ahead to the house, but to take his chances on finding Richard at home. As he approached the front door, two scenarios flashed into his mind: one where Alice was also home and he might struggle to speak to Richard privately, and the other where Alice was out and he was faced with dealing with Richard alone. As he waited for the door to open, he tried to imagine how he would deal with Richard’s histrionics if they kicked off again while the two of them were by themselves.

Goodhew checked his thinking: histrionics maybe wasn’t the right word. It hadn’t felt like watching a display of over-acting; there had been nothing false about the amount of emotion that had poured out, perhaps just its cause. Richard Moran possibly felt sorry for himself, and elements of the relationship had clearly troubled him, but did he really seem genuinely upset at Lorna’s death? Goodhew had no answer to that.

The door swung wide, and it was Richard himself who held it open. Today he wore a suit. White cuffs, collar, and a small triangle behind his tie were all that showed of his shirt. It looked cleaner and better pressed than any new shirt Goodhew had ever seen.

Goodhew imagined Moran making meticulous efforts with his appearance, perhaps now determined to keep control of the façade he put up between himself and the world. Did he know he’d failed? And failed dismally, at that. He looked brittle, like he was suffering the human equivalent of metal fatigue, and the next breath of bad news would make him crumble. He’d certainly been crying, and not sleeping much.

Richard mumbled something about an office, then headed upstairs and Goodhew assumed he was supposed to follow. Neither of them spoke until Richard opened the door to a room at the rear of the second floor and motioned for Goodhew to go in.

‘Have a seat,’ he said flatly.

The room was large and square, and the most true-to-life depiction of the Cluedo library that he could imagine. Bookshelves ran along two facing walls, packed mostly with sets of matching leather-bound volumes. The major item of furniture was a large oak desk positioned ninety degrees to the window. Its surface was bare, apart from an ornate letter opener lying near one edge. Goodhew didn’t bother trying to spot the lead pipe, but thought he’d keep one ear open for revolving bookcases and secret panels, just in case.

Richard sat down at his desk, leaving Goodhew to occupy a low-slung Chesterfield-style armchair on the other side of it. Goodhew’s line of vision was now somewhere level with the middle of Richard’s chest, therefore not ideal for questioning; it made Goodhew feel he was supposed to raise a hand and wait for permission to speak, but he left his hands where they were and waded in regardless.

‘Does the name Emma mean anything to you?’

Richard was leaning forward with his weight resting on his elbows and his hands interlaced at the fingers. He stared into his palms. ‘Because of that writing?’ He shook his head. ‘No.’ There was no sign he wasn’t telling the truth but he still looked nervous.

‘She never mentioned anyone with a similar name? Maybe Emily or Gemma?’

‘No, never.’

‘And there’s no one connected with yourself and not Lorna, a patient perhaps?’

‘I’ve already been asked about all this, and I’ve been right through my files. There’s nothing. I asked Alice, too, but her friends and contacts are mostly the same as mine, so she couldn’t suggest anything either.’

Goodhew changed tack. ‘Has your sister ever been married?’

‘No.’ Richard unclasped his fingers and leant back in his chair, a gesture perhaps designed to exude relaxation. Perhaps he didn’t realize that the fingers of his right hand were now tightly gripping the edge of the desk, as if to stop it sliding away from him. ‘If she had ever been serious about anyone, she’d still be with them; that’s the sort of woman she is. I remember my father describing her first encounter as an aberration, and that was soon the end of that.’ He raised his head, jutting his chin out, as if daring Goodhew to comment. Goodhew, however, said nothing, and one corner of Moran’s mouth began to tremble.

‘Parental pressure,’ Richard added, as though just those two words provided a fully comprehensive explanation for all such failed relationships in the Moran family.

‘What sort of pressure?’

Richard blinked twice. ‘The same sort I’d have been under when I was seeing Lorna, if they’d been alive.’

‘Which is?’

Richard was gripping the desk with both hands now. ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’

‘I’d still like to know.’

‘My father decided Alice was precocious, and so he kept us isolated from other families. Their rules seem ineffectual now, but when you’re a child, they seem omnipotent, and you don’t realize they’re only human like the rest of us.

‘This room was my father’s study. He was a well-known figure in his day, the umpteenth generation of Moran doctors, but the first to make his mark in treating the wealthy of Cambridge. He achieved success through his determination rather than by any exceptional medical skill. Not the type to take any prisoners, as they say. I found him a terrifying man, and if I’d done something wrong, he would summon me in here and I’d have to sit in your chair, right there, and wait silently until he was ready to speak to me. Now I’m the one behind the desk, fancy that.’

If Richard was enjoying his position on the throne, it didn’t show.

‘So you’ve lived here all your life?’

‘Yes. I even took my degree at Cambridge. We all grew up here and inherited the house last year when he died. Alice and I are very attached to the place.’

Goodhew empathized with the sentiment, although he wasn’t sure he’d want to live with his own sister – but then, he only had one bedroom.

‘Besides, I’m not . . .’ Richard stopped.

‘Go on.’

Whatever Moran had almost said was now firmly shut away again.

‘You were about to say something,’ Goodhew pushed.

‘It was nothing.’

‘It won’t hurt to say it anyway.’

‘No, I was just rambling – I keep doing that. Then, mid-sentence, I flash back to the way she looked at the hospital. Everything’s become so insignificant since she died. I feel so naïve, plodding along, thinking we were going somewhere together. I should have known.’

‘That she was going to die?’

‘That things would go wrong. Do you really think that anyone’s life progresses on the up and up?’ Richard finally released his double grip on the desk. ‘You’ll find out for yourself, just when you least expect it.’ He punched one fist into the other palm. ‘Fair enough, you don’t see it coming the first time, but once you realize that’s what life’s about, it’s naïve not to expect it.’

Goodhew raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s your philosophy on life then?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Based on?’

‘Everything – from the first time I was stamped on in the playground onwards.’

Ah, the Chicken-Licken school of positive thinking. No wonder Richard was a nervous wreck.

Goodhew tried another change of direction. ‘Did Lorna have a dog?’

‘A dog?’ Richard repeated. His eyes flickered, his focus darting away and up, as if hunting for paw prints on the ceiling. ‘Maybe as a child, but I have no idea.’ He kept his voice level and dragged his attention back to Goodhew. ‘Why do you ask?’ He sounded genuinely baffled.

‘We have a possible lead; some dog hairs. They could be nothing, though.’ He managed to stop himself from punctuating the sentence with ‘Excuse the pun.’

‘Do you know any more? What colour of dog, or breed?’

‘At this stage we just need to know of any dogs she might have come into contact with.’

‘I certainly don’t know of any.’

‘Did she talk about anyone she knew owning a dog?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘No one at the clinic?’

‘No.
Still
no.’ Now he was starting to sound irritated, but every time Goodhew had seen him, Richard had hovered permanently in the uneasy zone: uncomfortable, anxious or distressed. Goodhew couldn’t read him well enough to identify which behavioural signs counted for anything. Not yet, at least.

Deciding it was time to leave, he stood up and extended his hand. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed at all tactless when I visited you last night.’

They shook hands. Richard’s grip was firm. ‘Thank you.’

‘And I’m sorry for your loss.’

Richard managed a small smile. ‘I know. I can see you have compassion. But then you’re young – in fact, about the same age as Lorna. She knew all about compassion too.’

‘I didn’t know it was age-related.’

Richard half-turned towards the window. ‘Do you know which way this faces?’

Goodhew took a second to get his bearings. ‘North-west?’

‘It faces towards Shire Hall, and the site of the county jail. Between here and there is Castle Mound – you know it?’

Castle Mound was a large grass-covered hillock which had been part of the original city defences in Roman times, and, like every other person who’d been resident in Cambridge for more than five minutes, he knew it.

‘Of course,’ he replied.

‘You’d be amazed who doesn’t.’ Richard had become suddenly erect and firm-voiced. ‘All right then, do you know what happened in 1855?’

‘You got me there.’

‘The last public hanging occurred over the gates of the jail. Castle Hill was crowded with spectators, including many women and children. A man and his sister-in-law were executed for poisoning his wife. That’s
her
own sister. There were estimates that thirty thousand arrived to watch; they packed the streets. You see, people want to see justice done, and they want to educate their children by having them see it too. My father used to stand at this window and complain at the abolition of the death penalty. He said it allowed people to get away with murder.’

‘And you feel the same?’

‘I agree with him: it is important to see justice done, and that it’s seen to be done. That’s what I’m interested in for Lorna. As for compassion, I don’t believe I have any left.’

TWENTY-THREE

Behind him, Richard and his house were gradually fading into the distance. Goodhew knew he hadn’t learnt much from his visit, but at the same time he felt enlightened. For the first time, he thought he’d been able to catch a glimpse of what, besides his money and status, had attracted Lorna to this man.

As he walked towards the Excelsior Clinic, he wondered what else he might see in Alice if she were now on her own. As he approached Magdalene Bridge, he realized he was about to find out; he saw her before she saw him.

She strode out of the building purposefully, and he guessed she was heading towards home. She wore a skirt and jacket and low court shoes that had just enough height to accentuate the curve of her calves. He noticed she had well-turned ankles, or so his grandfather would have said.

Her sunglasses were the only outward sign that she might be shielding herself from the world at large. Maybe they were her small guard against the risk of public curiosity. This was, after all, her part of town, and she and Lorna would almost certainly have been familiar faces hereabouts, especially amongst the local business community.

On the other hand, it was a sunny day.

When she was just a few feet away, Goodhew raised his hand in greeting. ‘Hi,’ he said and smiled.

She smiled back, but blankly at first. Then, as she shifted her glasses up on to the top of her head, she registered who he was. ‘Oh, hi. Were you coming to see me?’

‘That was my plan. I have a couple more questions. We can sit down somewhere for a few minutes now, if it’s convenient.’ She looked more attractive without the glasses, and her eye contact helped. She was very good at eye contact. Very, very good. He told himself to curb the smile, as this was supposed to be a serious moment.

‘Sure,’ she replied and pointed to the nearest tea room. ‘Is there OK, or does it need to be more official than that?’

The café was small and almost empty. The tablecloths were blue-and-yellow gingham and a row of brightly painted teapots was displayed on the low windowsill. In fact, it looked like the assembly point for the county’s contingent of maiden aunts. ‘That looks great,’ he said.

They sat at the back, at the table furthest from the door. Alice visited the Ladies while Goodhew ordered a pot of tea, then occupied himself by folding a paper napkin into a square and wedging it under one leg of the table to stop it rocking.

By the time he straightened up again, she had returned. ‘Good to know we can still rely on the British police for the important things in life.’

‘Like protecting the British cup of tea?’

‘Exactly.’

She pulled her chair away from the table and positioned it at almost ninety degrees. She sat very erect with her right leg crossed tightly over her left, the toe of her shoe curled behind her calf. Her skirt draped over her knee and her hands rested in a neat clasp in her lap. Her hair was clipped in place, and a small amount of make-up covered her cheeks. But despite her composed appearance, her voice was drained of the authoritative crispness he’d noticed on each of their previous encounters. Each time she spoke now, it was more softly, and he wondered whether recent events had cowed her voice into submission, or whether the other, sterner, voice was only adopted in the presence of her brother.