Cambridge Blue

by Alison Bruce

  The riverbank remained deserted, and she guessed a body could be buffeted some distance before it was eventually discovered. Then she shook her head, not fully believing what she had just done.

  She rolled him over to the water, reminding herself of a single truth: it was now too late to look for help.

  He slipped in head first, making a wave of water which slopped back against the bank. He descended gradually, turning slowly from man to a ghostly shadow to nothingness.

  Jackie stepped back from the edge and reached out for the warmth of Bridy. She rubbed the soft fur at the base of Bridy’s ear. ‘Good girl, we’re safe now,’ she whispered shakily. ‘It’s all over.’ But in her own voice she heard the unmistakable sound of a lie.

  ONE

  Rolfe Street was only a short walk from the heart of Cambridge, but it was a perpetual backwater, seeing no accidental visitors and few daytime inhabitants.

  A lone man stood on the pavement waiting to speak to Lorna Spence: the same woman who was spying on him from her first-floor window. So far he’d knocked twice, but she had no intention of letting him know she was at home.

  She stood behind a carefully placed ruck in the curtains. She knew he couldn’t see her but, even so, she kept perfectly still in case he glanced up and caught the flicker of her shadow.

  Lorna Spence had gone to bed wearing nothing but yesterday’s knickers, and that was all she wore now as she studied the top of his head.

  He took a few short steps towards the door, and then a few towards the street. Again he ran his hand in an impatient foray through his hair, completing the gesture by clasping it across the back of his neck. He drew closer to the door, leaning in towards it and listening. His hand, still on his neck, massaged the rigid muscles which locked the top of his spine.

  He was obviously stressed.

  She imagined him swearing under his breath. He took a step back and his gaze shot up to her window, boring into the gap between the curtains. He seemed to stare straight into her face, but she didn’t blink.

  A tingling feeling sprang across her bare skin, racing in waves across her shoulders and trickling across her small, freckled breasts. Only her chest moved, rising and falling ever quicker; trying to keep pace with her heartbeat.

  Lorna waited for him to knock again, but instead he stepped away and out of sight of her little spyhole. She moved closer to the gap and crept around until she had a view of the closed end of the cul-de-sac. She soon located him again. He stood on the edge of the kerb with his hands on his hips.

  ‘Go away. Go on, get in your car and drive away,’ she whispered down to him.

  His attention had settled on the rows of parked vehicles flanking each side of the road. She knew he wouldn’t recognize any of them.

  Then he left, walking briskly towards his own car at the end of the street. He’d accepted what she already knew: that he had no reason to believe she was at home.

  She waited. He started the engine and let the postman pass without cross-examination. Then he pulled away and drove out of sight. But she still waited, watching the road until she’d counted to one hundred and was sure he wouldn’t return.

  And then she exhaled with a long puff. Her heartbeat gradually slowed and her pulse steadied.

  The letterbox creaked as it opened and there was an echoing snap as it shut. The junk mail made a heavy thud as it hit the hallway’s tiled floor. She leant over the handrail and checked, in case an unexpected letter looked tempting enough for a dash downstairs.

  A large holiday brochure lay face down, obscuring any other post that may have been underneath. A photo of a caravan park and the words ‘Family Entertainment’ jumped out at her through the clear plastic envelope.

  ‘Why me?’ she groaned. Last week the mail had been sit-in baths and stair-lifts. What a waste of time.

  Her dressing table was a wide antique pine chest of drawers with a reproduction pine mirror on top. She only owned the mirror and the battery clock next to it. It was 8.35 a.m. and she was going to be late for work.

  In the circumstances, late would be a good thing. But not too late, she couldn’t afford trouble at the office as well. She padded into the bathroom, pulled off her knickers and threw them into the corner with the rest of the week’s laundry. She ran the hot tap until the water flowed warm, and meanwhile damped down her short, ash-blonde hair, working her fingers through the feathered strands at the back so they lay close to the nape of the neck.

  She dressed quickly and chose Warm Mocha lipstick. She ran it back and forth across her lips, then dabbed it on to her cheekbones, rubbing it in to give the approximation of blusher. That would do.

  She checked her reflection, aware that the skim of freckles across each cheek and a lucky gap between her two front teeth gave her face more character than any layer of make-up.

  She grabbed her bag and hurried downstairs. As she reached the bottom stair, she could see other letters buried under the brochure.

  Five pairs of her shoes were lined up beside the door; in two-inch heels she made five foot five. Just.

  She reached for the post, slipping her feet into her highest shoes as she turned the envelopes over. There were four. She flicked through them. Mobile phone bill, bank statement, credit card bill. Then the fourth. White, A5, and emblazoned with an advert for a bank loan. But it was the addressee’s name which caught her eye. Miss H. Sellars.

  Lorna frowned. A chill tickled her scalp, then vanished. How strange, she thought. She shook her head and smiled. What an amazing coincidence. She suddenly wondered whether the holiday brochure was similarly addressed. She slid it from under the other post.

  The black print on the white label jumped out at her. Instant fear washed the smile from her lips. She recoiled and the post scattered, tumbling from her fingers on to the floor. The corner of the clear envelope hit the mat, bounced and landed, slapping down flat on its face.

  She opened the front door and hurried away down the street. Behind her, the hall tiles stayed cold, rebuffing the unanswered ring of the telephone upstairs.

  TWO

  The punting station was quiet. A few ducks paddled on the river but the punts were stationary, and tightly moored to one another.

  Most of the buildings around the cobbled quayside square had been converted into cafés and restaurants. Some had flats above; luxury apartments with romantic views of the river and discreet street-level entrances. One of these doors, however, bore a chrome plaque which read ‘The Excelsior Clinic’.

  As Lorna crossed the quayside, she was already forty-five minutes late for work. The wind blowing along The Backs made it too cold to sit outside, but tables and umbrellas cluttered the pavement. No doubt trying to entice people inside. Lorna knocked over a chair as she hurried through. It clattered on to its side, then clattered again as she paused to haul it back on to its feet.

  The outer door was unlocked and Lorna hurried up the steps to where a woman with a prematurely grey, middle-aged haircut sat behind the reception desk. She wore half-moon glasses and her blouse was buttoned up to the top.

  Lorna slapped her hand on the oak counter-top. ‘Morning. Are you from the agency?’

  The woman nodded and introduced herself as Faith Carver. That figured: nothing more glamorous would fit.

  Lorna smiled, reached over and shook her hand. ‘I’m Lorna. I do the accounts through there.’ She pointed at the frosted-glass panel behind Faith’s chair.

  ‘Oh, good. I have lots of messages for you.’

  Lorna swung up the hinged end of the reception counter and slid back the glass partition which led to her office. She worked alone in a twelve-foot-square space that contained two desks, two phones, two chairs and one kettle. ‘Give me a minute to sort myself out and I’ll be with you. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I’ll wait until eleven.’

  The corner of Lorna’s mouth flickered with the hint of an ironic smile. That made a change; a temp with a work ethic.

  Though Fa
ith remained on her side of the open door, Lorna chatted to her as she organized her morning drink. ‘When I first worked here, I thought Excelsior sounded like a brand of condom. After a while, I realized how appropriate it was too.’ Lorna stole a quick glance at Faith’s ring finger and saw that she wore a wedding band. ‘This business is all about sex,’ she added.

  Faith raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yup. I’ve been here two years and nearly every treatment that we perform is cosmetic. The dental department does caps and whitening, the eye clinic does laser treatment so people can chuck out their glasses, and that’s nothing compared to the surgery lot. Have you heard of Botox?’

  Faith shrugged. ‘I’ve heard the name.’ She sounded vague.

  ‘It costs three hundred and fifty quid for a ten-minute session. And for that, Mr Moran injects them, paralysing their facial muscles with shots of purified botulism. It’s nearly all women, and they roll out of here feeling like sex kittens.’

  Faith picked up a notepad and tore off the top sheet. ‘Dr Moran is one of your messages.’

  ‘It’s Mr, not Dr,’ Lorna corrected and carried on cheerfully, ‘I think there’s nothing like tossing money around to boost a woman’s libido.’ Mr Moran’s schedule lay on the top of her in-tray. She checked it: no cancellations. She ran her finger down the list, making a rough total of the bills to be issued. Almost £12,000. ‘Same tomorrow, too. Twelve grand for one day’s work.’

  Faith shook her head. ‘I don’t think I need to know all of this.’

  Lorna paused. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound indiscreet, but I find it fascinating. Besides, you work here now. And I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve his success. He often works ten-hour days so he can see people who travel up from London after work. And everyone says he’s very good.’

  She looked across at her post tray, stacked deep from a single delivery. Her job included issuing neat bills in crisp, tamper-proof envelopes and banking the personal cheques which, in his case, arrived by return of post. No one kept Mr Moran waiting for payment, not when his diary was full two months ahead, and trustworthy consultants were so hard to find. ‘Very, very good,’ she added.

  Faith nodded. ‘Don’t mind me, I just have some old-fashioned views and I’m sure they don’t count for anything in the world of business.’

  They each turned back to their respective desks. Faith’s note was written in her own style of shorthand, with names and single words separated by commas. ‘Dr Moran, moran, redhd.’

  Lorna frowned, rolled her chair towards Faith and passed the note back to her. ‘What does it mean?’

  Faith glanced at it and explained, stressing that ‘Mr Moran rang twice. Wanted to know where you were and said you had to ring the second you arrived.’

  Lorna cut in. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Just that. And then a nurse stopped by.’

  ‘Victoria?’ It was a redundant question since Victoria was the only person in the building who looked remotely nurse-like.

  ‘Again, I don’t know. To be honest, she was pretty rude. She looked rather out of sorts when I said you weren’t in. Swore several times, in fact.’

  ‘A slim redhead?’

  Faith nodded. ‘Skinny and rude.’

  ‘She’s all right, she just gets stressed and makes a drama out of things. So, what did she want?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have no idea.’

  Lorna didn’t respond immediately to any of the messages. Instead, she raised invoices until she stopped for an early break at 10.30 a.m.. She closed the door between herself and reception, had two cups of coffee and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, then composed a two-word text on her mobile. ‘Miss you.’

  Her phone bleeped twice almost immediately. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Here.’

  She put her mobile to one side and positioned herself with her fingers poised over the keyboard and an alert gaze fixed to the centre of her screen. She estimated he’d be in before she’d counted to thirty. She’d reached twenty-seven when she heard the office door opening.

  She didn’t turn, but she could imagine he still looked as stressed as he had earlier from her bedroom window. ‘Good morning,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Where were you?’ His words were clipped, tight with the anger he was trying to keep screwed up in a ball of reason.

  ‘Sorry I was late in.’ She spun slowly in her seat and gave him an easy smile. ‘I overslept.’

  ‘I called by your flat this morning and you weren’t there.’

  She kept the smile going, warming her face with it and letting her eyes glow. ‘Today?’ she queried. She saw stubbornness in his gaze. ‘I just told you, I overslept.’

  ‘You would have heard me,’ he insisted.

  ‘I didn’t. Perhaps I was in the shower?’ She tilted her head to one side and stayed patient.

  ‘You weren’t there,’ he insisted.

  ‘Where was I then?’ She suddenly glared at him.

  He glared back. ‘That’s what I want to know, Lorna.’

  ‘Where are you accusing me of being? Are you saying I was off screwing another man?’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Just tell me where you were.’

  ‘And if I was with a friend? Isn’t that OK? Do you suddenly have a right to dictate what I do in my own time?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So you think I was with someone else?’

  ‘Lorna.’ He reached out to grab her arm, but she squirmed away from him. Finally, she heard the first note of defeat in his voice. ‘Please stop.’

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you. I was there when you called and I saw you from my window.’

  He looked doubtful.

  ‘You parked at the end of the road and the postman walked by just before you drove away.’

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘Because you were checking up on me again. I was at home. Alone. And I’m not going to keep pandering to your jealousy.’ She reached forward and took his hand, then whispered, ‘I love you, Richard, but I won’t go on like this.’

  At twelve, Lorna took lunch, glad to have a break from looking through her post tray. It reminded her of the mail scattered on her front door mat; she was desperate to rush home and open it. She needed to know if she would find a note inside. Or a threat, even. She pressed her tongue against the gap in her teeth for luck, and slipped out past the receptionist.

  THREE

  The previous week’s bank holiday had motivated a surge of tourists to descend on the city, and now, although busier than in April, the streets were comparatively quiet again. The shops bustled, but the tills were slow.

  Alice Moran was just over five feet eight, and slender; at thirty-nine she possessed a mix of maturity and girlishness. Her skin was tinted with a hint of winter tan and she wore well-polished sunglasses.

  She held a large paper carrier from one of the better dress shops; it contained a pair of size-ten suede trousers and a coordinating rust-coloured blouse. The fact that they were almost identical to the ones which she was wearing hadn’t deterred her. Trousers suited her they were practical and sat better on her narrow and slightly angular frame.

  She had used the morning in a deliberately unproductive fashion, having decided she had been pushing herself a little too hard lately. She knew, from experience, that it didn’t take a great deal of effort to achieve results, and continuing to spend time perfecting the filing would do nothing more than turn her into another Richard. God forbid.

  Besides, when she became too fussy, she knew it took the fun out of working alongside her brother. She liked to think that he enjoyed being supported, rather than managed.

  Alice was now approaching the last of the shops. A few yards ahead, the Round Church was busy trying to entice the older tourists with brass-rubbing and tea event. Probably served in flowered china and accompanied by a sugar-sprinkled slice of Victoria sandwich. Would that be the highlight
of her own day in another thirty years, she wondered?

  Suddenly she wasn’t looking forward to the end of her free morning and, although she knew she’d feel guilty if she arrived any later, she pushed her sunglasses up on to her head and slipped in through the nearest doorway. The shop was full of old-fashioned, glass cases displaying pipes and tobacco and model cars. A big boy’s nostalgia emporium.

  A globe caught her eye; it was football-sized and stood in the window, displayed against a fanned-out selection of postcards depicting the golden age of steam. Bet they didn’t know it was a golden age when they were actually in it, she thought idly.

  She touched the globe’s surface, her fingers brushing across Europe. She was about to look closer, wondering whether she’d managed to find the Pyrenees by feel alone, when in the street just outside, a familiar figure caught her eye.

  The figure wore black, as she always did, and walked quickly – any faster would have been a jog. It was Lorna, her colleague and her brother’s girlfriend. She looked preoccupied, her expression slightly manic: somewhere between mild ecstasy and bubbling hysteria. She passed the window without spotting Alice.

  And, as if just the act of her walking past had dragged a change of mood along in its wake, Alice felt reluctant to go to the Excelsior Clinic. But she had the instinct to find Richard. She could always sense when he needed her.

  FOUR

  Alice took the stairs and, as she reached the top of the first flight, she heard footsteps coming towards her. They were leather-soled shoes which skimmed the steps as they hurried down. She knew by sound alone, that they belonged to her brother. He rounded the corner, pulling himself quickly towards the handrail to save himself from careering into her.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ He was holding his car keys and mobile phone, and trying to keep moving while still bundling himself into his jacket.

  She smiled. ‘In a rush?’

  ‘Yes, I need to catch up with Lorna. She’s not answering her mobile.’