The Backs (2013) (11 page)

‘Yes, I am.’

She looked disappointed. ‘Oh.’

Her mother scooped her up and turned her round to face the stairs. ‘Go on up, Reba. I’ll be right there.’ She turned back to Goodhew and smiled. ‘She was expecting at least a uniform. And a police dog would have made her day.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Five-and-a-half.’ She rolled the four words into one as though she’d said this a thousand times. ‘I’m Roz, by the way. Come on in. The men are out in the workshop.’

The polished wood flooring had been laid with the boards running towards the back of the house. Although narrow, the property turned out to be deceptively long. As she led him through the hallway, it looked as though they were heading down one of the lanes at a bowling alley.

‘Gerry’s been here a lot since Jane returned. She doesn’t want to see him, but I think he wants to stay close. It’s sweet.’ She opened the back door and, on the other side of a small courtyard garden, he saw a single-storey workshop similar in age to the original structure of the house. ‘There you go.’

Based on this particular father-and-son pairing, family resemblances seemed less of a trait on the male side of the Osborne clan. Dan shared his father’s height and his stubborn jawline, but that was about it.

A large sculpture dominated the interior of the workshop. It appeared to be made of stone, metal and leather, but Goodhew couldn’t even begin to guess whether it was now finished or not. Gerry sat on a tatty kitchen chair beside it. The rest of the set of chairs were in the room, but Goodhew wasn’t offered a seat. Dan hesitated near the door. ‘Do you want me to go?’

‘No need. Either of you may be able to help. We need an address for your mother,’ he turned from Dan to Gerry, ‘your ex-wife.’

Gerry’s expression darkened and he rose from the chair. ‘Why?’

‘We need to contact her.’

‘For what reason?’

Jane Osborne had not asked him to either admit or deny that this request had come at her instigation. On balance, however, Goodhew preferred discretion. ‘Your daughter’s return highlighted the fact that Mary Osborne’s details were no longer up to date. It’s merely routine.’

‘That’s bollocks. It’s Jane, isn’t it? She’s asked you to find her mother.’

So much for trying discretion.

Gerry Osborne’s face was tanned like a gardener’s, but, behind the deep brown, he visibly reddened. ‘Having that woman back in Cambridge is the last thing we need.’

‘Dad . . .’

‘No, Dan, your sister is deluding herself . . . and you.’ He glowered at Goodhew, his right hand making a fist as he spoke. He clenched it tightly, until it trembled, ‘You people . . .’ His words trailed away.

Dan stepped slightly closer. ‘We are still angry over the failure to secure a murder conviction against Greg Jackson.’ Dan sounded angry, too, but clearly kept his feelings on a tighter rein. ‘His release has been hard for all of us, especially Dad.’

‘Thank you, Dan, but I am here in the room and capable of speaking for myself.’ The older man’s eye colour was either an extremely dark shade of brown or his pupils were dilated to their maximum. ‘Detective Goodhew, I appreciate you coming in person, which either demonstrates the existence of some degree of respect or a cynical ploy by your senior officer. Either way I am not prepared to share information with you about
that
woman.’

‘Jane would like to contact her mother, to let her know that she is safe and well.’

‘She’s had years to do that. Why come back and then immediately screw it up by letting Mary back in?’

‘Surely that’s her choice to make?’

‘And mine to stop it from happening.’

After Gerry stopped speaking, Goodhew let the silence lengthen and become heavy. It was Dan who spoke again first. ‘She’s in France.’

‘Do you have an address?’

‘No, but we’ve had a couple of postcards, and they both have the same postmark. Would you like to see them?’

The same heavy silence returned as soon as he’d gone. It was less comfortable, and this time it was Goodhew who broke it. ‘Greg Jackson spoke to you recently?’

Gerry set his jaw and folded his arms across his chest. For a few seconds Goodhew thought he wasn’t going to get a response. Then Gerry dipped his head in the briefest of nods. ‘He came to see me, yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m curious.’

‘Good, then stay curious. He came to tell me he’d never killed Becca.’ Gerry took a couple of steps back, with lips now tightly shut. For a while, his chest rose and fell with heavy breathing. ‘What a fool,’ he then continued. ‘Does he think I don’t know him? I was full of bile towards that man long, long before he murdered my daughter.’

Dan returned, postcards in hand. Gerry glared at him. ‘I really hoped you’d have the sense to come back in and say you’d lost them.’

Dan looked down at the cards, as he spoke. ‘Sorry, Dad, but she’s still my mum. I don’t want to get in touch with her, but I understand why Jane does.’

Gerry Osborne thrust his hand towards Goodhew, an abrupt and unexpected move. ‘I appreciate your time.’ His grip was hard.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Goodhew replied. Gerry then left without another word to either of them. The moment the door closed, Dan held out the two postcards. They were typical Brit-goes-to-Paris tourist fare: one an aerial view of the Arc de Triomphe, and the other a night shot of the Eiffel Towel emblazoned with firework-style writing that read
Bonjour de Paris.
Goodhew turned them over.

‘They’re both postmarked
Limoges
,’ Dan explained.

‘Yes, I see that. The dates are hard to read, though. When did they arrive?’

‘This one’ – he tapped the Arc de Triomphe – ‘came last year, and the other one about a year before.’

‘And any before that?’

‘About one each year, I guess, but I wouldn’t know where to find them right now. Assuming we still have them, that is.’

Goodhew started reading. The actual correspondence space on each card was typically small, and Mary Osborne seemed to have had difficulty reducing the size of her handwriting to fit. The loops on her letters remained disproportionately large, so that the smaller characters – such as a,
c
and
e
– were almost lost amid the tangle created by the
l
s,
t
s and gs.

Don’t forget to visit Becca. Just so you know, I think of all our kids. Time it was your turn – Mary.

And the other read:

All’s fine here. I think of Cambridge from time to time, but know I did the right thing when I left. Sorry if you still hate me – Mary.

They’d been sent to the house on Pound Hill without any addressee’s name but they had clearly been meant for Gerry. ‘Why do you have them here?’

Dan had stepped back to give Goodhew space to read. He was now leaning against the wall, with one hand resting on the Car-Hits-Cow sculpture. ‘Dad rented out the house after she left, and had the post redirected here until he worked out what he was going to do next.’

His fingers drifted across a seam on the sculpture, where the metal joined the leather.

Despite its basic outhouse appearance, the room was dry and the ceiling high, with glazed panels fitted in the roof for natural light. ‘Does he do this work in here?’ As soon as Goodhew said it, he registered the absence of any tools.

‘No, his current home address is his studio . . . or, to put it another way, he dosses in a corner of his workshop. We just store this item here.’

‘Does it have a name?’

‘That’s your polite way of saying
What is it
, right?’ Dan waved an upturned palm in front of the piece. ‘This thing is the infamous
Singular Fascination.’

It took Goodhew a second before he realized. ‘The same one he smashed?’

‘I brought the bits back here. At first he wasn’t interested, but he repaired it eventually.’ Dan pointed to a scuff and a dent in the metal. ‘Of course, some of the damage was tricky, and in a couple of places Dad chose not to replace the parts. Since its whole dynamic had arisen from us losing Becca and from his divorce, I suppose it was fitting that his later reaction to Jackson getting paroled has left its mark too.’

Goodhew tilted his head slightly. He’d seen art critics do the same and wondered whether this slightly new angle of view would help at all. It didn’t.

‘You don’t have to “get it”.’

‘No?’

‘Think of it like the catwalk where the fashion models wear apparently extreme designs. Those designs showcase the designer; they are a calling card for the inspiration, the
Zeitgeist
of the creator, and it’s from there the high-street collections are born.’

‘So some form of this object ends up being a commercial product?’

‘From this particular exhibition, Dad received several commissions: a sculpture for a company headquarters, work for private collectors, even the design installations at a London casino. You’d be surprised.’

Goodhew was inclined to agree about that. He stared at the sculpture for a few more seconds. ‘You work for him, don’t you?’

‘Only since Becca. I’m surprised that’s on record.’

‘I guessed, actually. I noticed how your tone changes when you talk about his work.’

‘I was writing copy for a staff magazine in town, and offered to help my dad in my spare time. I started with the correspondence and accounts. Eventually he needed more assistance, so I decided to “make the leap”, as they say. The biggest risk in that was wondering whether we’d be able to work together.’

‘And you can, I guess?’

‘My father’s spent more time in the eye of the media than most, therefore talking about him openly with complete strangers is part of my job. I know he appreciates my perspective.’ Dan thought for a moment. ‘If you find my mum, would you let me know? I think I should speak to her.’

‘Despite your father’s point of view?’

Dan patted the sculpture forcefully, then moved away. ‘I was hugely into sport when I was a teenager: rugby, cricket and rowing at various times. But sport isn’t on Dad’s radar, so he didn’t want to know. He’s pretty egocentric. I don’t think he would try to stop us from contacting her, but he would probably take it personally if we did. Mum’s gone from his life now, and he’s never been good at seeing any viewpoint apart from his own. I won’t be telling him, either, if you do manage to track her down.’

‘Your sister wants to contact your mother, yet she won’t see her father?’

‘Her choice.’ Just the two blunt words but, for a moment, Dan’s expression sparked with far more complexity than that, as though a flash of intangible memory was reflected on his face.

‘Have you seen Jane yet?’

‘We have met up a couple of times, briefly.’ Goodhew realized it was the first time he’d seen Dan smile. ‘It’s strange,’ Dan continued. ‘We’ve both changed, and sometimes it feels as though I’m talking to a complete stranger, then at other times I have moments when I could almost forget everything else that has happened in between.’ He paused, thoughtfully. ‘She hasn’t met Reba yet.’

‘You didn’t give her any help in finding her mother, though. She told me that.’

Dan’s smile remained, though it dimmed. ‘I argue with my father but in general I agree with him, too. I suppose I find it hard to let him know that.’

‘And, despite this, you still want to speak to your mother?’

‘Yes. I’ll tell her to stay away from Jane.’

University Grocers had been the local shop of Jane’s childhood, a home of sweets, magazines and ice cream in the summer. Beyond lay the bridge into the city centre, making the small shop even more tempting.

Today its draw was Heinz tomato soup, bread, eggs, milk and a copy of the
Cambridge News.
She glanced over towards Magdalene Bridge, but the upwards slope towards the house appealed to her more.

He’d been standing at the bottom of the hill again.

She’d checked the street outside before leaving the house, and spotted him. He’d been on the opposite side of the road to the Punter, making a poor attempt to stand discreetly in the rear gate of Westminster College. Perhaps the act of loitering outside a centre of theological study had made him squirm; it had certainly had that effect on her in the past.

She’d watched him for a few minutes as he leant with one shoulder up against the wall, rhythmically elbowing the brickwork. Next he had pushed away, walked a few purposeful strides, then returned to the same spot. Whenever his feet were still, another part of his body wasn’t. And this level of distraction was more than enough to allow her to slip out through the side gate and skirt around the back of her house.

After almost ten years of running and hiding, she reckoned she’d become proficient at it, but by the time she’d reached University Grocers she felt angry with him and furious with herself. Now she strode the quickest route home, head down, with her clenched hands anchored by shopping bags. And there he was, in the same spot, staring down the hill at her and talking or maybe just mouthing words.

She raised her chin. ‘I can’t hear you,’ she shouted.

His weight shifted and he made a couple of small steps forward.

Neither of them spoke until the distance between them had closed to less than ten feet. ‘What’s your problem?’ she asked.

‘Guess.’

She curled one corner of her mouth into a smile. Deliberate and taunting. ‘I’m sorry, when I said
“What’s your problem?
” I meant, realize you’ve got one and take it somewhere else.’

His hands moved up to rest on his hips. His feet were planted wide.
Little man trying to look big.
‘I want to know what you’re hiding,’ he said.

She felt her own expression lock down, become impenetrable. ‘So you stand outside my house, trying to intimidate me?’

‘I’m waiting to talk to you.’

‘No, you’re trying to scare me. Won’t happen, Gregory.’ She paused to let the sound of his unabbreviated Christian name cause him maximum irritation. ‘I know you, remember?’

‘And I know you. You’ve always despised me. I bet you threw a fucking party when I went down, didn’t you?’ He stepped closer and circled his index finger close to her face. ‘See, I’ve learnt plenty since I’ve been
away.’
He smiled, one as forced as hers had been. ‘A change in breathing, the smallest flush of pleasure, you can’t hide it all, Janie. You can pretend you were at the other end of the country and never saw a newspaper, but you knew I’d gone to prison. I can see it in your face. But I’m telling you, I didn’t attack your sister and I never touched Genevieve Barnes. So
you
tell me, who did, eh?’