Cambridge Blue (6 page)

Goodhew spoke at last. ‘Not necessarily.’ They both looked at him. ‘Tell him that no DNA has been recovered from the victims so far, but that we may get lucky if there’s another attack. He’ll know that refusing will look suspicious, and may decide to risk the possibility that you’re telling the truth. We know he understands how to be careful, and he may even think he’s not going to do it again – they often do genuinely believe that, don’t they?’

Marks didn’t reply, but studied the top report on the pile. Goodhew and Kincaide waited for him to speak.

‘Michael,’ he said finally, ‘I’d like you to accompany me while I question Mr Knott. You go down now and make sure the interview room’s ready and that we have all the necessary kit.’

‘Kit?’

‘Like chairs for starters,’ Marks muttered drily. ‘Just use your initiative and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’

If Kincaide was surprised to be dispatched so abruptly, he didn’t show it. However, just before he closed the door, he heard Marks announce that Goodhew had drawn the short straw. So it was as Goodhew had predicted: Kincaide had bagged ‘the something really interesting’ while Goodhew was about to receive ‘the something incredibly dull’.

Marks watched Kincaide leave, then spent the next few seconds quietly scratching his ear.

‘When’s my birthday, Gary?’

The question seemed odd but the junior officer answered without hesitation. ‘July 14th, sir.’

‘You’re very open about your ability to do that.’

‘Do what, sir? Remember dates?’

‘Find things out. What is it, a talent or an obsession – or something else?’

Goodhew shrugged. ‘I didn’t know it was anything special, I suppose I just have a good memory.’

‘Bollocks,’ Marks grunted, but without any hint of anger in his voice.

Silence.

Each stared at the other with a kind of respectful curiosity. Marks strummed the desk and looked like he was trying to read Goodhew’s thoughts.

He then took a breath and addressed his junior. ‘If I were speaking to the person behind these tip-offs, the first thing I’d want to know is where they get their information and, secondly, why they can’t come to me directly. Perhaps they break the law to retrieve the evidence – so if I condoned that, not only would it be inadmissible evidence, but they could lose their job over it.’

‘If they
had
a job,’ Goodhew pointed out.

‘But why am I asking you all of this?’ Marks’ eyes shone, though Goodhew couldn’t decide whether he was looking at a gleam of anger or a glint of encouragement.

‘No idea,’ he replied evenly.

‘Because I have a sneaking feeling that you’re taking the piss, Goodhew. That’s why.’

Goodhew raised an eyebrow. ‘Not at all, sir.’

Marks rapped the desk several times with a sharp tap-tap-tap of his index finger, using the sound like a gavel to ensure he had Goodhew’s full attention.

Which he did.

‘These two tip-offs have both occurred in the three months since you arrived here.’

Goodhew’s eyes widened. ‘I had no idea, sir. But I suppose new people start work here all the time, so it was bound to coincide with someone new. Just circumstantial evidence then, I guess. Sir.’

‘Don’t be smart, son. It is just as well that circumstantial is all I have. I’m now going over the files to see what we missed, and to find out why someone with either an unusual talent or an obsession with uncovering information, managed to hone in on that obscure group of men called “recently divorced, sociopathic wife-beaters who can only get a hard-on when they have sex under the flight path of jets taking off from a commercial airfield”. I can see how obvious all that is, now it is pointed out to me. To think the rest of us thought we were cleverly scrutinizing simple things like sex offenders, plane spotters and disgruntled ex-airport staff.’

Goodhew eyed his boss with concern. ‘I sense this is frustrating you, sir.’

The phone rang and Marks mouthed, ‘Piss off, Gary,’ as he lifted the receiver to his ear. His voice kept its usual unemotional tone, and he spoke for about thirty seconds.

He replaced the handset and continued. ‘Well, in this particular case, I don’t care too much how we caught him, assuming we’ve got the right guy. I’m just relieved we did so before it happened again. I’m not saying the end always justifies the means, but in this case, it’s a job well done. Now, back to that short straw I mentioned. One of the victims states that the last person she spoke to before she was attacked was a man who sleeps rough and who she thinks is called Ratty. He usually hangs round the shops during the daytime. The name mean anything to you?’

Goodhew nodded. ‘And you want me to get a statement from him?’

‘Just a confirmation of time and place of his recent whereabouts, if he can. But he’s made himself scarce and I’m guessing you’d love to spend some time hunting for him.’

‘You can’t tell me we’re seriously relying on any statement he provides?’

‘Absolutely correct, we’re not. Just call it belt-and-braces stuff, and don’t moan, because I’m sure you’ll turn it into something interesting. It’s late now, so I suggest you start first thing in the morning. In fact, just so there’s no ambiguity, I’m insisting that you leave it until then and, right now, go home.’ Marks stood up and Goodhew followed suit. ‘And the next time there’s a major investigation, I would like to think we could at least attempt to solve it faster than by depending on an anonymous envelope, eh?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Goodhew agreed cheerfully as he followed his superior from the room and down the stairs.

Marks waited until they were on the half landing to suddenly stop and turn to face him. The move was so abrupt; Goodhew almost piled into him and would have apologized had Marks not cut in first.

‘No, Gary, it’s more than hope so. I don’t want it to ever happen again, and if it does, I will root out the individual responsible and see that he’s thrown on the scrapheap – no matter how promising his career might seem.’ And it didn’t take an expert to identify the diamond hardness in the inspector’s eyes.

Goodhew didn’t really believe that Marks knew anything whatsoever about the source of the anonymous letters, but he was curious as to why and how his boss had achieved such an accurate stab in the dark. Perhaps he would ask him sometime. But then again, perhaps not. Some things were best left well alone, especially if, as his grandmother suspected, he didn’t have the makings of a plausible liar.

EIGHT

Lorna loved the feeling of midnight: one day completed and the clocks restarting at zero for the next. Twenty-five minutes had passed since Cambridge had travelled through that magic moment and, even so, she still felt the buzz of opportunity that came with a fresh day.

They’d arranged to meet on the Victoria Avenue Bridge, which in itself was unusual, but Lorna chose to take it as a sign that her own enthusiasm for night-time walks had finally sounded tempting enough to put to the test. And it was a good evening for it; so still, with patches of fog staining the air and hanging between the bridge and the tree-lined paths leading into the heart of the city. The moon glowed just enough, like its dimmer switch had been turned to minimum. The city itself was hushed.

Lorna leant on the balustrade and tried to see her reflection in the water below, but it was too wide to look directly downwards, so instead she contented herself with gazing at the rippling reflection of the white walls and blue gables of a boathouse further downstream. Her freckled skin looked creamy against the grey stone of the bridge, and behind her, the streetlamps dropped pools of light on the railings and verges. She held the pose and listened. She guessed that she was already being watched, that two keen eyes were studying her through the mistiness.

Within minutes, she heard approaching footsteps. They stopped beside her, and she only turned her head when she felt another arm slide alongside her own on the balustrade.

‘Why here?’ Lorna asked.

‘I liked the idea.’

‘You’re strange sometimes.’

‘Yes, a bit chilly, I guess. Any goosebumps yet? Let me feel.’ Lorna gave a bemused smile as the hand rubbed up and down the back of her arm. ‘No, you’re still nice and warm. Shame, because I brought us drinks.’ For the first time, Lorna noticed the two insulated beakers resting on top of the wall. ‘Coffee?’

Lorna removed the lid and blew into the cup before sipping. ‘It’s Irish coffee,’ she observed.

‘Is it all right?’

‘Absolutely.’ It must have been poured a while earlier because it had cooled to the point where it was easy to drink. She gulped a third of it immediately before becoming conscious of being closely watched. ‘I like a good swallow,’ she whispered, then giggled.

Her remark went without comment. She pretended then to be apologetic, even though a suppressed smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. ‘You don’t approve of my double entendres, do you?’ she asked.

‘I think they’re more habit than cleverness. Or perhaps it’s your way of showing me how outgoing you are; say something daring and I’ll think you’re confident. Is that it?’

Lorna refused to rise to this dig, and instead just snorted. ‘Impressing you isn’t something I’ve ever felt I needed to do. Perhaps I’m only trying to bring you out of your shell. Has that ever occurred to you?’ Then she reminded herself that she hadn’t come out here for an evening of gentle bickering. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’

They strolled on towards the city with the common on their left and the roadway on their right, their two figures becoming synchronized again. Through habit, they both noticed the same things at the same time: a taxi in the distance driving from left to right, three students cycling from right to left, the echo of a bell chiming a late half past to the sleeping denizens of Cambridge.

They were halfway to the next road junction before there was any response to Lorna’s comment. ‘No, I don’t think you could bring me out of my shell, actually.’

‘I thought we’d finished with that conversation.’

‘I don’t think sex is ever far from your mind, is it?’

‘You don’t let things drop, do you?’ Lorna sounded huffy. ‘Nothing wrong with a strong libido, is there?’ she continued and then cheered up when she saw that she was being smirked at. ‘You’re funny,’ she decided.

‘First strange, now funny?’

Lorna sucked on her drink and shrugged.

The railings that kept them from drifting on to the common ran away from them, like a black-painted railroad track, curving left on to Maid’s Causeway, before taking them towards their destination. Lorna’s fingers followed the route, skimming along the horizontal poles and rising and falling at each Victorian dome-topped post.

‘Do you know what I want to know?’

‘What it’s like to have no inhibitions?’ Lorna suggested.

‘Interesting, but no.’ Her companion had stopped walking, and Lorna guessed that they would soon arrive at the real point of the conversation. ‘I want to know exactly what you know about David.’

They were quite alone, but Lorna whispered anyway. The little nods and sounds of encouragement she received spurred her into more detail than she had planned. Earlier in the day, hearing David’s name like that might have startled her, but not now. Now she repeated it with familiarity, as though he’d always been part of their conversations. Her words only dried up when she realized she was no longer being listened to. ‘And that’s it,’ she concluded.

‘I see.’ It was said in a way that told Lorna that this part of the conversation was over. Her companion leant on the railings and Lorna did the same, aware that the mood between them had become subdued. They both gazed back the way they’d come, towards the far end of the common. There was nothing visible, bar the faint glow of the boathouses and restaurants on the other side of the Cam. Nothing discernible, at least. They were alone together and still close enough for their elbows to touch. Her companion broke the silence first.

‘Finish your coffee and I’ll show you something.’

Lorna finished the dregs of her coffee, then took the pen that was being held out to her. ‘So what am I supposed to do with this?’

The marshy land between them and the river lay motionless, as though it held its breath.

‘I want you to write “I’m like Emma” on each palm.’

‘I’m like Emma?’ Lorna’s eyebrows twitched upwards. It seemed like nonsense, but she guessed it wouldn’t hurt to play along.

‘Yes, go on. It’s clever, I promise.’

Lorna wrote in Biro on her left palm, the blue ink looking black under the thick light from the sulphurous streetlamp. She used capitals and the letters stretched across, from the heel of her hand to half an inch short of her middle finger.

‘Like that?’ She held out her hand.

‘That’s it. Now the same on the other one.’

Lorna gave a short, nervous laugh. ‘These things always catch me out, so even when you get to the punchline, you’ll have to explain it.’ In truth, she hated looking stupid, and didn’t want to take part at all. But the atmosphere between them was curiously fragile; it made more sense to go along with this and avoid anything nastier. She wrote slowly on the other palm in jerky lower case. ‘This isn’t so good, it looks like a four-year-old’s written it.’ She forced a grin.

‘No, that’s fine.’

‘Now what?’

They were facing on to Midsummer Common with their backs to the non-existent 1 a.m. traffic. ‘I love it here when it’s quiet and, once the weather’s warmer, that’s only at night. And in the summer it’s never quiet – the fair’s here, then the circus and all those hippies camping out.’

‘So what about this writing?’

‘Hold on.’

Lorna squirmed like a child. ‘Can we go now?’

‘No, please, let’s stay here for a minute or two.’

Lorna peered at the ground on the other side of the railings. ‘We’re standing right next to a load of rubbish sacks. And I’m getting cold.’ She sounded sulky.

‘I said you’d get goosebumps, didn’t I?’

‘Clever you.’ Lorna sniffed. ‘And when are you going to explain this?’ She waved her hand, palm upwards. ‘Why are you smiling? Have I missed something funny?’