Cambridge Blue (33 page)

On his phone he arrowed ‘up’ through the list of last dialled numbers until he recognized Martin Reed’s, then he pressed ‘dial’.

Mrs Reed answered with just ‘Hello’.

‘This is DC Goodhew,’ he replied. ‘Is Mr Reed there, please?’

He’d gone for a walk and she didn’t expect him home for another hour. She began to fish for the reason for Goodhew’s call.

‘I’m sorry, there’s still no news of Joanne, but I do need to send him an email. Do you have a computer?’ They did, and Goodhew sat and gazed at the screen long after the ‘sent’ message had disappeared.

Mel had entered Marks’ office, almost certain that it would be empty. It was, but that left her with a dilemma. She turned the envelope over and over in her hand. The DC who had brought it in had insisted that it must be given to Marks, not kept for him in admin; and no way was it to be left sitting on his desk. As far as she could see, that now meant hanging round until Marks returned.

Then she saw a second option: hand it to another detective working on the same investigation. And so what if the only one in the building was Goodhew; wasn’t it time they cleared the air?

She found him sitting at his desk, seemingly oblivious to everything apart from his PC screen. ‘Just the person,’ she began.

‘Jump to the front of the queue.’

‘What queue?’

‘Never mind, go for it.’ He sat back in his chair. There was no urgency in his expression and she sensed his interest in her had evaporated.

‘Kincaide and I . . .’ She stumbled over the words, took a breath and began again. ‘Look, I know you saw us and it’s obvious you don’t approve.’

‘It’s none of my business.’

‘Well, actually, that’s my point. You don’t have the right to take it out on me. I’m sorry if you feel personally affected by my relationships but—’

‘I don’t. I was surprised . . .’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘More than surprised, actually. When you were crying the other morning, I thought it was because of Toby, and I thought that was the mess you were trying to untangle yourself from, not a relationship with Kincaide.’

There was something in the way Goodhew worded things that made them sound far less complicated than they were, like unmessing her life could be as easy as pressing a button marked ‘reverse’. She flopped into the nearest vacant chair, and they spent the next couple of minutes in a strangely amicable silence.

In the end it was Goodhew who spoke first, ‘I had no right to be upset with you, and I’m sorry if you feel I’ve been sort of stalking you.’

‘Stalking?’

‘The whole transparent thing.’

Mel smiled for what felt like the first time in days. ‘That’s not how I meant it, and I’ve decided it’s good to know someone who can see the real you.’

‘Is it?’

‘What’s the point otherwise?’ She held out the envelope. ‘This is for Marks, and I’m not supposed to leave it lying around, would you pass it to him personally when you next see him?’

‘Sure, what is it?’

‘Some sort of book, but I don’t know exactly, only that it came from Victoria Nugent’s place. DI Marks phoned the team on charge there and asked them to look for it, and they found it almost immediately.’

Once he was alone again, Goodhew opened the envelope. If his guess was correct, he was about to set eyes on the book from which Jackie Moran’s page had been torn.

The best lies, the most convincing ones, are grounded in truth. When Victoria took Bryn O’Brien to Lorna’s flat she pretended that she had lost a diary. There were countless other stories she could have concocted, but she chose one she could easily remember. One that was connected with something true.

All this was obvious now Marks had worked it out. At some point in the morning he had called the team investigating Victoria’s flat and asked asking them to make a special search for anything resembling Alex Moran’s journal, and bingo.

Goodhew slid it out on to his desk. It had a navy-blue hard-back cover, a red linen spine, and looked like it had once been part of the stationery supplies of a government department circa 1972. The pages were sewn in place rather than glued, and Goodhew immediately saw that the cream paper matched the loose sheet. The book itself was just over a quarter of an inch thick. He opened it at the back and thumbed forward until he located the last used page. The book was almost empty, and he continued to flick forward, turning a total of eleven pages before he reached the front.

A date and the number ‘56’ were inscribed on the inside cover. Did that mean there had been another fifty-five of them? Moran had started on this one a couple of months before he died, so fifty-five of them would probably take him back at least twenty years.

There were no dates, but it seemed as though he’d written something in it every day, commenting that there was ‘nothing to note’, or in some cases abbreviating this to ‘ntn’, rather than skipping a day. His style was rambling, and initially it was difficult to grasp his purpose. He frequently mentioned his daughter Jackie. He felt she had been in some kind of danger, and just as he had on the torn-out sheet, he wrote that he was scared for her. As Goodhew turned each new page, it was her name that constantly jumped out, but the purpose of the journal only hit him as he reached the end of the fifth page.

I have always thought that two things keep me from handing her over, namely my fears for her safety and the slimmest doubt that I am mistaken. But now I think I have been kidding myself. There will be no one left to monitor Jackie once I am gone. I don’t know whether I can ask Richard and Alice, since they have isolated themselves from her; it is as if they know. I only ever know on a day-by-day basis that all is well, but I cannot be sure she won’t do something again. I made excuses for her when David died, but she isn’t a child now. It may be better that she languishes in an institution rather than risk having another innocent family suffer. I think I must visit Martin Reed.

Goodhew’s stomach lurched. The one seperated page had appeared to point to Alice, but the rest of this journal was her father’s documentation of his younger daughter’s guilt. He turned to the sixth page and scanned the words, looking for any reference to the proposed visit to Martin Reed. He spotted it on the opposite page, and he traced the words with his index finger to prevent himself from rushing ahead too quickly:

Why did I visit him in the first place? Did I think that I could learn to sidestep the occasional waves of guilt that swamp me even at this late stage? I know my own shortcomings, and loving Jackie as I do has made me a victim of her.

I think he is a braver man than me, since he wants to face the truth and, despite my intentions to do so, I am incapable of making myself break it to him. Instead, I prefer to think that I am being kinder by keeping the rotten truth from him. If her body turned out to be somewhere else I would have made things worse again, although in my heart of hearts I know I am correct. There are only so many good places to hide a decaying corpse.

By the time Marks returned to the building, the journal was back in its newly sealed envelope, and photocopies of the eleven pages were safely hidden in Goodhew’s inside jacket pocket.

FORTY-THREE

‘My office,’ Marks growled, ‘Now.’ He didn’t wait for a response before he strode off. Goodhew grabbed his phone, the sealed envelope and Joanne Reed’s case notes and darted after his boss.

Marks sat down at his desk, but with no paperwork in front of him. In fact, all that was in front of him were his crossed arms. Body-language experts claimed that folded arms were a sign of ill ease, but from where Goodhew was standing, it looked like Marks’ folded arms might be the only things preventing him from exploding.

Goodhew approached the visitor’s chair. ‘Is it OK if I sit, sir?’

His backside had barely touched the seat before Marks began. ‘When I saw you this morning, I had the distinct impression that you were not taking your responsibilities seriously.’ His voice wasn’t raised, but he spat out the words in succinct volleys and it didn’t sound as though attempting to interrupt or answer would be wise.

‘You,’ he continued, ‘are the youngest DC we have ever had working in this department. You may think you are merely acting on your own initiative, but you have nowhere near enough experience of life, never mind the police force, to even begin to comprehend what genuine initiative is and how to employ it effectively. I need people who follow orders, people who follow protocol and, most of all, who follow things through. You may be bright and talented, but I thought I’d made it clear that I wouldn’t hesitate in getting shot of you if you kept pissing me around. Do you really think that I have somehow given you a mandate to do whatever the hell you like?’

Marks glared. Goodhew said nothing.

‘In case you’re confused, that was not one of my rhetorical questions, Gary.’

Goodhew shook his head then. ‘No, sir, I don’t.’

‘I have a technique I apply when I want to get a really clear picture of how an individual is affecting my team. I imagine that the team consists entirely of clones of that same person. When I visualize a team consisting only of Gary Goodhews, it is anarchic, inappropriate and intolerable. I will concede that you do have moments of brilliance, but you made your own choice. When I said those anonymous notes had to stop, I was serious.’

Goodhew tried to interrupt, but Marks carried on over him. ‘Yes, you’re right, I can’t prove a thing. But I
know.’
He tapped his forehead just above the left eyebrow. ‘I tell the team that we now have DNA from the so-called Airport Rapist; next thing I get sent the match I need. Lorna Spence’s flat was searched within hours of me ordering you not to. And what the hell was the idea of tipping off the newspaper with the “I’m like Emma” connection?’

That caught him out. ‘I didn’t,’ he protested, but Marks was already rolling on.

‘It was not information that the papers should have received at that stage, and though earlier I considered turning a blind eye to all of this, such unauthorized pow-wowing with the press, combined with your erratic behaviour today, has finally forced my hand. Do you have anything to say to me?’

‘I didn’t contact the newspaper.’

‘Wrong answer.’ There was a long pause before Marks spoke again. ‘The fact is, I am not prepared to work with you any longer, Goodhew.’

Goodhew nodded to himself. Hadn’t he asked for just that?

His mobile rang, its relatively sober ring tone sounding like a crass interruption. He glanced at Marks, who nodded for him to answer it.

The call took less than thirty seconds, and he subsequently relayed its contents to his boss in the hope that he would salvage at least something from this meeting. ‘That was Martin Reed, sir. He rang to confirm that the man who visited him, posing as a detective, was in fact Dr Alex Moran.’

‘How . . .?’

‘I emailed him a photograph.’

‘So what’s your theory on the page now?’

‘I don’t know.’ Goodhew bit his lip.

‘No, not good enough. You had enough insight to show him the picture, so tell me more.’

‘It was just the mention of “further deaths”. I think he knew he was dying and went to see Martin Reed in an attempt to “put things in order”. I don’t know what connection he had with Joanne Reed. He sounds as though he was feeling guilty when he wrote that page, so perhaps he thought seeing Martin Reed would clear his conscience.’

Marks raised his eyebrows. ‘Like I said, moments of brilliance, but that’s just not enough.’

Goodhew took a deep breath. ‘What happens now?’

Marks’ tone was cool and final. ‘Go home, take leave for the rest of the week. By Monday, you’ll be assigned to another department.’

FORTY-FOUR

Kincaide had already spent the best part of the day working through Jackie Moran’s statement with her. She’d made it transparently clear that she didn’t like him much, or at all in fact, and he reckoned this was probably because he wasn’t letting her prattle on about her flock of animals. She showed more concern for them than any of the people she mentioned, particularly the one she’d strangled. At this rate, he’d be stuck with her for a few more hours yet.

He glanced at his watch and wondered whether he could engineer enough of a break to sort out the Mel situation. He didn’t like the way she’d cooled off, and had no idea what had caused it, but neither did he think that she’d need much coaxing. With her type, a little attention went a long way.

He suddenly realized Jackie Moran was staring at him.

‘You didn’t write anything down,’ she said. ‘If you’ve finished, I’d like to go, because I need to see to the horses.’

‘Sorry.’ He smiled as he said it, and decided in that moment that he’d definitely take a break, even if it achieved nothing more than delay her departure.

But, before he could say anything, the door opened, Marks appeared and beckoned him into the corridor.

‘How’s it going?

Kincaide shrugged. ‘I don’t buy that self-defence argument of hers.’

‘But she’s sticking to it?’

‘Not budging.’

‘Might be worth picking it up again in the morning. Arrange for her to come back here first thing.’

Kincaide wasn’t about to argue, and made a swift exit. As he walked towards the stairs, he thought of Mel again and grinned. Now there’d be plenty of time to get her back on track. With any luck, he’d still be home in time to remind Jan that their own weekly routine had slipped by a few days. Perfunctory it might be, but it was still worth doing.

FORTY-FIVE

It was almost 9 p.m. before Goodhew met up with his grandmother.

‘So is that a suspension or not?’ she asked.

‘One step short. I don’t think Marks would want to try to explain why he never took an official line on those anonymous notes, especially if he actually suspected they were an internal issue. He’s not happy though.’

Goodhew had finished explaining the current situation to his grandmother, and they were seated by the window in the Galleria, a small Italian restaurant by the river. Goodhew had chosen it himself, and it was no coincidence that it was within sight of the unlit Excelsior Clinic. The waiter returned to their table with the pepper mill and ground some on his bolognese. His grandmother had ordered salad and he had no doubt that her pale blouse would stay unblemished; his white shirt wouldn’t be so lucky.