Cambridge Blue

by Alison Bruce

  ‘She’s already gone.’

  ‘I know. I wanted to have lunch with her.’

  ‘No, no, I saw her. She’s already in Sidney Street.’

  He stopped in his tracks and scowled. ‘Oh fuck.’

  Alice touched his arm. ‘Will I do?’

  He smiled and it made him look boyish, almost as young as Lorna, in fact. ‘Anything to avoid work?’ he quipped.

  She narrowed her eyes in mock annoyance. ‘Do you really begrudge me my morning off?’ They walked back down the stairs side by side. Alice, in her heels was only an inch shorter than her brother. She saw their reflection in the mirror-panelled foyer wall and wondered whether they might have been mistaken for twins, if he didn’t look at least eight years younger, instead of nearly two.

  ‘No. You’ll do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said sarcastically. He held the outer door open for her, and as she glanced into his face, she saw he really didn’t look as good as she had first thought. Perhaps the interior lighting had been overflattering, or maybe the May daylight was just a bit too honest.

  She gave him a smile, but it was a sad one. She felt sorry for the stress he was under: bad events certainly took their toll on him. ‘Are you snowed under still?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He glanced at her and seemed to know that she was worried. ‘It’s not that, Alice. It’s . . .’ He paused. ‘Come on, I’ll tell you over lunch.’

  They walked back the same way she’d only just come, heading towards the centre of the city. ‘I don’t mind where we go; I’ve just been in town. Here will do,’ she added, hopefully, as they passed the last of the restaurants.

  Alice spied the globe in the shop window ahead again, and then the sign outside the Round Church; God help Richard’s frame of mind if he were to try taking her for lunch in there. But instead, he took a right up Trinity Street and led them past the entrances to the colleges.

  ‘I don’t need the tourist route, Richard,’ she protested.

  They marched shoulder to shoulder, their strides matching.

  ‘I do. I think it’s good to remember what a beautiful place we live in,’ he replied. ‘How lucky we are.’ Yet he passed Trinity without even a glance through the ancient gate, towards the perfect green of the quadrangle lawns beyond.

  She knew they were both lucky to live there. She always looked. Even now, with Richard walking ever faster, she stole a glance at the small statue of King Henry, and the chair leg he held in the place of a sceptre. What sort of man brandished a chair leg? Hadn’t the university establishment realized that leaving it in place was mocking the monarch? ‘I don’t need the tourist bit today is what I meant. Where are we going exactly?’

  ‘By the river.’

  Of course, he wanted to look at the water.

  Neither of them spoke again until they reached the Anchor pub. Alice chose a table with a clear view of the mill pond, while Richard went to the bar and returned with two half pints of IPA.

  Alice was looking at the river, and Richard settled into the opposite seat and watched it too. It snaked towards them through the flat of the water meadow, in the distance, a scattered herd of cows grazed, up to their hocks in rich spring grass.

  ‘Do cows get laminitis?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘Never heard of that. It’s probably only an equine illness.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  The water slipped through the sluice gates, calmer and more refined as it tiptoed up The Backs, probably so as not to disturb the scholars.

  Alice was the first to look away from the river. ‘Remember when we were children? We all loved the water, but you most of all.’

  Richard sipped his beer.

  ‘And if you cried, Mother would say, “Let him see some water,” and if we were indoors, she’d run the tap and you’d settle down straight away.’

  He let her finish the anecdote, though she’d told it many times before. It gave him extra time to put off talking about the present. Those were his best childhood memories anyway; the later ones were rarely so fond.

  His eyes flickered and made him refocus on the present. Alice was staring at him, not unkindly, just tolerantly, as if she’d been doing so for some time. Waiting for him to answer something. He tried to remember hearing a question. No, but he could guess what she was expecting, and he wanted to tell her anyway. Or at least, he thought he would feel better if he did.

  ‘Do you think Lorna’s too young for me?’ he began.

  Alice smiled. ‘Well, the age gap’s the same as it’s always been. Are you suddenly thinking of marrying her or something?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. Do you want to get married?’

  Richard screwed up his face. ‘Sometimes I do, but I’m not sure enough. But then again, I don’t want to lose her.’

  ‘And you think you will?’

  ‘She wasn’t at home when I dropped by this morning.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That means she didn’t go home last night. But she didn’t stay with me either.’

  ‘Perhaps she was up early. Don’t start making assumptions. You can’t expect to know every move a person makes, that would be unreasonable. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Ask her where she was, then. But in a nice way.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said she was in the shower, but . . .’

  Alice leant across the table. ‘Richard, look at me. You can’t let yourself start to get possessive. You know that’s when it starts going wrong.’

  Richard nodded dumbly. Finally, he whispered, ‘You’re her friend . . .’ His words trailed away, but Alice could guess the rest of the question.

  ‘OK,’ she replied, ‘I’ll have a chat with her, but I’m sure you’re worrying over nothing. You always feel she’s loyal to you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  Alice reached over and squeezed his hand. He seemed like a little boy again, but that gave her a feeling of relief rather than concern. ‘You’re feeling jealous again, aren’t you?’

  He squeezed her hand in return. ‘I know it’s stupid, but yes, I am.’

  FIVE

  Lorna never made it home. Three times her mobile rang, and each time she saw Richard’s mobile number appear on the display. When it rang for a fourth time, she expected it would be him again, but this time the name ‘Victoria’ flashed up. Lorna was still tempted not to answer, but she knew how some people were like bills: sooner or later, they had to be paid off.

  She flipped open the handset and held it to her ear. ‘What?’

  Lorna wasn’t surprised when there followed two or three seconds without reply. She could picture Victoria, alone, at a table or standing in a corridor, cigarette in one hand, mobile in the other, smelling of cosmetics and letting a languid smile settle on her lips before even thinking about opening them to speak.

  Victoria’s voice was mellow. ‘I’d love to take a vacation in your brain – just empty space and the luxury of being the centre of the universe for two whole weeks.’

  Lorna didn’t rise to it, and pitched her reply mid-distance between matter of fact and uninterested. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘An answer.’

  This was the conversation she knew she already needed to have with Victoria, and despite avoiding her for a week or more, she felt relieved it was finally here. ‘I’m not leaving.’

  That was easy.

  ‘Then I’ll speak to Richard.’

  ‘That’s fine, because I’ve told him everything.’ Lorna put a chirpy note into her voice, hoping it might hide the bluff.

  ‘Even about your latest plan? I doubt it somehow.’

  Lorna frowned. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That’s funny, because a murdered baby wouldn’t slip my mind.’ Sardonic as ever.

  Lorna’s intake of breath was both sharp and audible. It wasn’t Victoria knowing abo
ut little David that was frightening – after all, they’d both read the same pages. Even though the case was now over twenty years old, they both saw the potential in a document that turned it from ‘natural causes’ into ‘wilful murder’. It was the mention of him in relation to recent events that made her gasp since she’d suddenly realized that one malicious moment from Victoria could destroy everything.

  Victoria added another of her long pauses. When she spoke again, Lorna guessed it was intended to make her squirm even more; though, in fact, it had the opposite effect. ‘Or doesn’t he believe it was murder?’

  Victoria hadn’t exactly got the wrong end of the stick, but she was clearly poking it around until she could be sure which was the right end. Lorna was determined not to give anything else away. They’d both recognized the initial vulnerability in her voice; now Lorna was careful to maintain an air of panic. ‘I don’t know. We should discuss this.’

  ‘Talking to you never works.’

  ‘Hold on, let me think. Look, Victoria, I can come up with an answer that will work for both of us. I know I can, but just give me a little time.’

  ‘By tonight, Lorna, or I’ll tell them everything. Today is the last day where I get screwed around by you.’

  After that phone call, Lorna changed direction. She wandered into the city centre, casting an unenthusiastic eye towards the shop windows. At least she knew there was no rush to reach home. But beyond that, she had no idea what to do next. After almost ten minutes of deliberation, she made two calls. She was pleased when her first was answered with ‘Hi, Lorna.’ At least her number was still stored in his phone’s memory.

  ‘Are you around later? I need cheering up,’ she said.

  Then she phoned Richard’s mobile to apologize for missing his calls, and found him in a state of post-jealousy calmness. She offered to work late to make up for her late arrival, but instead he offered to buy her lunch. When she hesitated, he added, ‘And dessert. Alice is here too.’

  She laughed. ‘Good.’

  ‘Dessert or Alice?’

  ‘Both.’ She strode out towards the Anchor pub, her mind never leaving the dilemma of Victoria’s ultimatum.

  Richard waved when he saw her. She waved back, momentarily wondering whether he really did love her enough to forgive everything. However, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  Alice held out a large glass of white wine. ‘You look like you need this.’

  After the second glass, Lorna began to see the possibility of a compromise: a version of the truth she could tell Richard, as well as the opportunity to make Victoria leave her alone. Jackie was the key. Perhaps, with a little help and a little luck, she wouldn’t face losing him.

  By the third, she saw that it was just a question of juggling her plans for the evening, and keeping the right people on her side.

  SIX

  DI Marks reached the top of the stairs and headed down the corridor, towards his office. He was reviewing the statement he’d just made to the local paper, turning it over again in his head. It preoccupied him, though no one would have known because he had always found it so easy to remain expressionless.

  For example, he knew that his fifteen-year-old daughter, Emily, currently had a crush on a lad called Pip. Pip was taking his GCSEs and liked The Kooks, ice hockey and skateboarding. Marks imagined that Pip would have shoulder-length wavy hair, chewed nails and a total vocabulary of about two dozen varying grunts.

  Meanwhile, his wife swapped flirty emails with a builder called Gordon, who lived near Inverness and claimed to share her interest in daisy growing. Marks didn’t take it too seriously, and was pretty confident that his wife didn’t either.

  But the point was no one suspected that he knew, and whether it was really a skill, or just his natural demeanour, it was something he’d often found useful when dealing with both his detectives and his suspects.

  This evening, he’d used it as a mask for his concern. He’d left the team finishing a three-hour stint in the city centre, handing out leaflets and reminding women that most of the recent spate of rapes had occurred between 5 and 8 p.m. As though they needed reminding. He was sure that every office worker within fifty miles was fully aware that any one of them might become the next target and, unless a swift arrest followed, there would undoubtedly be a ‘next target’. Forensics had managed to isolate a sample of the attacker’s DNA and Marks had made a statement to the press using words like ‘confident’, ‘imminent’ and ‘positive identification’, thankful that they couldn’t read the helplessness he really felt. Yes, he was certain that they would catch the man, but without a stroke of luck, he doubted that it would happen before they had the details of at least one more traumatized woman added to their files.

  He walked into his office, flicked the light switch and spotted a manila envelope left squarely in the centre of his otherwise empty desk. He drew a sharp breath of recognition and his memory flashed back three months to the first time this had happened. Despite the official line, he found himself hoping that this might provide the same sort of luck that had helped close their last serious case.

  Initially, he didn’t touch the envelope. He hooked his jacket over the hat stand, walked around the desk and lowered himself slowly into his chair. He paused for several seconds, tapping the desk in indecision, as he considered calling a SOCO down to open it, letting them fingerprint it pending an investigation. Then he considered the next victim and slid it closer. He’d look first, then decide.

  He tore open one end of the envelope, and tipped its contents onto the desk. The first item to slip out was a toothbrush in a clear plastic bag, the second was a single page of white A4. It had been folded in half, just as before, and he could see the shadow of print showing through from the other side of the sheet. In his top drawer he kept a pack of sterile gloves, and he slipped a pair over his hands before touching the paper. He smoothed it open on the desk.

  The text was brief, and to the point. ‘This toothbrush belongs to Ian Knott, 205 York Road, Cambridge, and will be a DNA match for the Airport Rapist.’

  He smiled; he liked the note-maker’s use of the words ‘will be’, and he also liked the way they thus crushed his pessimism. Next, he found his own evidence bag and scooped up the envelope and its contents.

  He realized that the notes had to stop before they began to undermine the official investigation. He stopped smiling with the knowledge that the culprit must be one of his own team. For all their front and initiative, they’d be sacrificing their own job if they didn’t watch out.

  There wasn’t one he wanted to lose, but Marks thought about each of his detectives in turn, silently listing them from the longest-serving to the latest to finish his probation. Only the final name stood out.

  DC Gary Goodhew: the departmental enigma. The twenty-five-year-old who had reached detective faster than anyone else Marks knew.

  Goodhew had been at Parkside for six months. Marks had informed the team that their new colleague was a high-flying, privately educated graduate with a First in Maths. He had immediately realized that what he’d intended as a build-up sounded more like a warning, and Goodhew was thus met with a very chilly reception.

  It had only lasted until about lunchtime on day one. By the afternoon, DC Charles had offered him a place on the pool team and PC Kelly Wilkes was referring to Goodhew’s slightly unkempt appearance as that ‘just out of bed’ look.

  The word ‘fit’ had been bandied round the canteen a fair bit too. In many ways, Goodhew came across as just an average bloke: his features a little too sharp, his hair a nondescript brown and he was slim-built with no discernible accent. But somehow the composite wasn’t average at all. Maybe it was his personality that did it: laid-back but serious, intuitive, but seemingly unaware of his own appeal. Private enough to be intriguing.

  Just as well that Goodhew had remained apparently unaware of the frisson that crackled through the corridors within a couple of days of his arrival. Marks thought it more likely that the youn
g detective was under the delusion that the female staff were consistently that helpful, but there were also days when Marks suspected that he got better results when he asked Goodhew to ask someone to do something than even when he asked them himself.

  By contrast, DC Kincaide was the peacock of the department, mentally and physically smart, but surrounded by an air of fraught ambition and a whiff of insecurity. He still wasn’t too warm towards the new arrival. Marks liked the idea of pairing them up sometime soon, figuring that it would give them both an opportunity to develop.

  He turned the evidence bag over, and the toothbrush left a wet streak on the inside of the plastic. Kincaide, at least, wasn’t in the market for sending anonymous tip-offs; he liked his efforts publicly rewarded at every point.

  Goodhew was considerably less simple to assess. From Marks’ point of view, the contradictions he noticed were what defined Goodhew and, more frustratingly, left him feeling that he had grasped only a superficial understanding of him. He knew DC Kincaide had diverted his initial opinion from: ‘He’s got a degree in Maths, so he must be a geek’, to ‘Women like him, he must be gay.’ DI Marks wasn’t at all sure how to categorize his new DC, but he was confident that he wouldn’t be able to do it in a single word.

  SEVEN

  DC Gary Goodhew had been off duty for forty-five minutes, spending at least half of them walking away from the centre of town. He was slightly later than planned, but he still allowed himself time to stop halfway across the railway bridge. There was a chill in the air, but he didn’t hurry. He rested his elbows on the painted steel and watched Cambridge station for several minutes. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, more like everything in general. A single-engined plane curved through the sky, turning away as it left the airport in its wake.

  Somewhere below it, he knew there would be an arrest shortly. Marks would have the envelope by now, and soon the streets recently scarred by the Airport Rapist could begin to heal. Goodhew drew in a therapeutic lungful of air; his head had cleared and everything smelt fresher now. He started to walk again. He reached the traffic lights and had to wait for a bike to pass so he could cross the road. The cyclist was a young woman, about his own age. She freewheeled towards him for a few yards, then rang her bell and called out with a spontaneous ‘Hi’.