Cambridge Blue (22 page)

‘And secondly?’

‘Secondly, I didn’t want to give myself stress and waste my time on you lot if you were going to squander it, so I decided to let you find me if you thought it important enough.’

‘That could be withholding evidence.’

‘That’s bollocks.’

‘Bollocks?’

‘There’s nothing to withhold. We rode horses together sometimes, so what’s the big deal.’

‘How did you meet her – was it through Richard or Alice or the clinic?’

‘No way. Lorna found me by accident. She just wanted somewhere to ride, and called in here to ask.’

‘A coincidence?’

‘In theory, but I don’t think so. I’m fairly sure she engineered it. That would be very much like her, you know. Lorna liked to make things happen by chance, if you see what I mean.’

‘And you became friends with her?’

‘It sounds worse than I’m sure it was, but I think she thought she could bring us all closer together. She hoped to marry Richard, and maybe she was picturing being nice and close to her new “sisters” too.’

‘Was it working?’

‘It was a non-starter.’

‘Why?’

‘I guess we’re just not that kind of family.’

‘Richard and Alice seem very close.’

‘Yes, I’ve always thought they seemed like a healthy example of siblingdom.’ She smiled at her own sarcasm, then shook her head and looked away. ‘But not my thing.’ She changed the subject quickly. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

‘One sister.’

‘And do you live together . . . thought not. They live together
and
work together.’

‘I know.’

‘And I couldn’t imagine either of those two marrying somehow. Wouldn’t that just make their status quo wobble too much?’ She shifted topic without pausing. ‘The stables belonged to my mother. And, as well as the cottage, I was left a third share of the family house. Have you been there yet?’

He nodded. ‘Interesting property.’

‘It’s a monster. My mother never liked it either. Perhaps I’ll sell up here, start over somewhere else. It’s not like Alice and Richard would miss me. In fact, they’d probably love to buy me out. I know that’s what my dad wanted for me. Secretly I think he would have liked it if I’d been more academic, but he let me carry on down here. He’d drop by sometimes, bring a flask with him. When it was raining we’d sit in here, or in his car, and we’d just talk.

‘He’d always ask me loads of questions, always checking if I was happy. I knew he was dying, though, even before the others did – ironic when they work in medicine, don’t you think?

‘He came here last June when it was a perfect summer’s day. Warm but breezy, leaves rustling, fluffy clouds – all that shit. In fact, just the way they make England look in tourist adverts. And I looked at him and realized his skin had taken on that horrible greyness, the one people get when they’re seriously ill. I had the strong feeling then that it wouldn’t be long.’

Goodhew’s mobile bleeped and he quickly read the message. ‘My colleague DC Kincaide will be here in a minute.’

‘Why?’

‘Nothing to worry about. We were originally coming together but he’s running late.’

‘That’s overkill.’

‘It’s just procedure.’

‘No, just to talk to one person about a dead acquaintance? That would definitely be overkill. So you want me for more than this, don’t you?’

Astute.

Goodhew couldn’t decide how to answer, but she didn’t seem to be waiting for a reply.

‘I don’t know who Emma is, by the way,’ she said.

‘How . . .’ He stopped himself there, realizing the answer. ‘Last night’s paper?’

She nodded.

‘Are you sure?’ he checked.

‘Absolutely.’

She stood and moved to the half-open door, resting her elbow on top of the lower part. She was staring across to the car park. ‘So what’s your partner like?’

‘Why?’

‘No, I mean what does he look like? There’s a bloke getting out of a dark-blue saloon. He’s in a suit.’

‘That’ll be him.’

‘He won’t want to sit in here in that neat suit, will he?’

Goodhew rose to his feet and joined her in the doorway. ‘Good point.’

She returned to sit on her bale. ‘Actually, I’d like to stay in here, if you don’t mind.’

He knew that so far, his meeting with Jackie had been casual, unstructured, and nothing like his training recommended. He also felt it had as much potential for proving productive as any other approach.

Goodhew waved out at Kincaide to show him where they were. His colleague carried an A4 document wallet, which he held over his head as he made a dash for the shelter of the stable overhang. He half walked, half ran, trying to avoid getting splashes on his trouser legs. The suggestion that he now sit on a hay bale was going to go down very badly.

Jackie had seemed to relax, and Goodhew didn’t want to lose this opportunity to talk to her easily. He guessed with Kincaide’s arrival, her earlier stiffness was set to return. There were no more than ten seconds before Kincaide would make it through the door. Goodhew turned to face Jackie, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘So, tell me about Colin Willis.’

The guard she’d begun to drop flew back into place, but for a split second she looked betrayed. Her whole body had given a sharp and involuntary jolt; if his words were bullets, she’d just been shot.

Kincaide had drawn to a halt right next to the RAV4. He’d driven slowly down the track, trying to avoid mud splashes on his paintwork, only to find the so-called car park was nothing but mud ruts full of silty water. No doubt the air would be hanging heavy with the stench of horse shit.

He soon spotted the manure heap; it was at the far end of the yard, but it was large and steam was rising from it at an unhealthy pace. He opened his door and found that even curling up his nose did not improve the smell. Yep. Definite shit in the air.

One look at this place told him that he’d be adding a dry-cleaning bill to his expenses.

He grabbed an empty plastic folder from the pocket at the back of the passenger seat and used it as a makeshift brolly as he dashed towards the stables. Goodhew waved at him from one of the boxes and, inwardly, Kincaide groaned; what a fucking dump, not even an office.

He just hoped there wasn’t a horse in there as well.

There wasn’t, thank God. Goodhew and Jackie Moran were sitting together on straw bales and it didn’t look like the place even possessed a chair.

In all honesty, neither of them seemed too concerned for his comfort. But Goodhew was still new to the job and might be pissed off with him for arriving late, and if this Moran girl spent most of her time down on the farm, she probably didn’t know any better.

She appeared to be one of those women who wasn’t basically unattractive, but did absolutely nothing to improve her looks. Her hair was unsightly, Plain Jane brown and unkempt, and why did some women think that make-up wasn’t important? No wonder she was single, with just a herd of donkeys for company. Aside from that, though she wasn’t in bad shape – petite, but with nicely rounded breasts and an all-over lack of flabbiness that he approved of.

‘Everything OK?’ Goodhew asked him.

‘Yeah, absolutely.’ He studied Jackie Moran for a moment or two: she looked sly. Hiding something, no doubt. He made no effort to smile. ‘How far have you got, Gary?’

‘Just idle chit-chat. We thought we’d wait for you. Miss Moran’s been telling me about the horses kept here. One of them used to race.’

Whoopdee fucking doo.
Kincaide made no comment, but couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling. There were times when moments of blinding dimness like this made him wonder if Goodhew was just putting on an act. Didn’t the bloke have a single ounce of initiative?

Kincaide shook Jackie Moran’s hand, making sure he pressed hard enough to assert his authority. ‘I’m sure DC Goodhew managed to explain already that we’re investigating the murder of Lorna Spence?’

Jackie Moran just nodded and stared him. He cast a glance in Gary’s direction, but the younger man was avoiding looking him in the eye. Jackie continued to stare.

‘I’d like you to come into Parkside station to make a statement.’

‘Is that necessary?’ she asked.

He was gratified to see that her eyes widened on cue, and he imagined that the accompanying gulp must have been close to audible.

‘I don’t think this is a suitable place for an interview as our questioning may take several hours,’ he paused, before adding with a flourish, ‘We’re especially interested to know about your connection with Colin Willis.’

Her expression remained unchanged and, more disappointingly, she didn’t even turn pale.

A bit of a let-down. He sniffed. Maybe he’d played that trump card just a bit too early. ‘We’ll bring you back here for your vehicle once we’ve finished.’

‘I can drive. I can’t leave my dog here.’

Kincaide felt his forehead wrinkle involuntarily: he certainly wasn’t up for having some scabby old dog in his car. ‘OK, follow me. And when we get there, bring the animal in with you. We’d like to take a fur sample while we’re at it.’

He smiled: this time she had definitely gone pale.

Three cars drove in convoy back to Parkside station; Kincaide led and Goodhew brought up the rear. Jackie’s dog stared at him through the back window of her vehicle, and even though he stared back, his thoughts were really on Kincaide.

In Goodhew’s opinion, there was nothing about Jackie Moran that had needed his colleague adopting the aggressive approach.

Bridy finally turned away from the glass and shifted around in a circle before flopping down out of sight. Having said that, if this was the same dog whose choke chain had been used to kill Colin Willis, it might be enough to justify Kincaide’s full-on approach.

By the time they arrived at their destination, the rain had stopped and Cambridge was in the process of drying out. The puddles in the car park weren’t muddy; they simply lay on the tarmac, reflecting the surrounding glass and concrete. A rainbow of oil floated here and there for the additional urban touch.

Kincaide walked two yards in front, while Jackie Moran followed with her hands in her pockets and her head hung low. And – like owner, like dog – Bridy trotted behind the pair of them, looking as if she was heading for an unwelcome appointment with the vet. Mud caked the dog’s legs and similar splatters covered Jackie’s jodhpurs and jodhpur boots. Goodhew had already noticed that her hands were grubby. Her hair still lay flat from the pressure of her crash hat.

He lengthened his stride and tapped her on the elbow.

‘If you want to take a few minutes to freshen up first, that’s fine.’

She nodded gratefully and, once through the main door, he pointed her towards the ladies’ toilet. ‘I’ll wait here for you.’

The spring door creaked shut behind her, making Kincaide turn and scowl. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘She’s on edge,’ Goodhew said lamely.

‘That’s good.’

‘We’re not here to traumatize people.’

‘We are if they deserve it.’

‘Oh, right, and she’s obviously a career criminal, I suppose?’

‘She’s a potential suspect.’

‘How come?’

‘Because if it was that dog’s chain we found around Colin Willis’ neck, then she may have killed once already – and look how the Spence woman died.’

‘Drugged and asphyxiated, I recall?’

‘Neck, neck. That’s a bit of a coincidence.’

‘One strangled, one suffocated – yes, I see your point. But until we have proof that she was involved in one, let’s just keep an open mind about the other.’

‘Yeah, always.’

Goodhew took a breath. ‘Look, I just prefer a different approach to you.’

‘It’s fine. You’ll learn, we were all new once.’

Jackie re-emerged with clean hands, tidier hair and surrounded by a strong waft of anti-bacterial soap. She then followed Kincaide to the interview room, her heavy leather boots making loud hollow footsteps and Bridy’s claws clicking away like a midget tap dancer doing a warm-up routine. Apart from that, they remained silent.

The only room available was small and chilly. It had one frosted window set up high in the wall; originally, this had been intended as a toilet. Condensation left the glass wet and the entire area smelling like damp paper. Goodhew would have thought that spending long days in the stables would have left Jackie acclimatized to the cold, but nevertheless she began to shiver as soon as she sat down and they settled into the two chairs facing her.

Bridy slunk under the table, circling twice before lying down against her mistress’ feet.

Kincaide spoke first. ‘Tell us what you know about the death of Colin Willis?’

Again the mention of his name failed to startle her. ‘I thought you wanted to ask me about Lorna.’

‘Didn’t you realize they’re connected?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t even know who this Colin Willis is.’

‘You must remember hearing about an unidentified body being pulled from the Cam back in March?’

‘Yes, vaguely.’ She blinked slowly, her eyelids swooping gracefully down and up. She still maintained an emotionless expression. ‘Was that his name, then?’

Kincaide moved on. ‘He was strangled. Did Lorna mention him?’

Goodhew cut in. ‘Along with the body we recovered a dog’s choke chain. That’s why we’d like to take a hair sample from Bridy.’

‘Fur,’ Kincaide corrected.

‘For purposes of elimination?’ she asked.

Kincaide spoke again. ‘We will be forced to insist if you don’t agree to it.’

‘Really?’ She sighed. The interview was still only in the first twenty minutes, but each time she spoke she sounded increasingly weary. ‘On what grounds?’

‘Yes, for purposes of elimination,’ Kincaide conceded. His response was a deliberate echo of her own question, and that seemed to amuse him. He leant back in his chair as he waited for her to speak further.

She turned her head towards Goodhew, but kept her eyes fixed on Kincaide for a beat longer, before slowly shifting her gaze too. If that was supposed to convey any kind of message, it didn’t reach him. As soon as she’d emerged from the ladies’ toilet, she’d seemed to switch into a partially catatonic state. Goodhew wondered whether she was inwardly reciting some deep-relaxation mantra, since her calmness was now bordering on the unnatural. She spoke only slowly, showing mild interest and zero anxiety. He wasn’t convinced. Either through strict self-control, or as an involuntary reaction to her situation, she had somehow deployed a huge and effective layer of emotional insulation; their questions didn’t appear to be making a dent.