by Alison Bruce
He settled back further into the corner between his seat and the door. She ran her tongue along the shaft, then drew him into her mouth. God, she was good at this. He adjusted the rear-view mirror to give him a good view of anyone approaching the driver’s side of the car and split his attention between it, the rear of the vehicle and the passenger side.
No other vehicles entered the street and, at first, the only pedestrians visible were those passing at the far end of the road. After a while, he stopped bothering to check the mirrors, but continued to watch, now through lazy, half-closed eyes.
Inadvertently his wife slipped into his thoughts, ensuring that he felt a pang of guilt, but he decided that a small dose of guilt was preferable to a bucketload of her indifference, so he quickly pushed her out of his mind again.
Another minute passed and he ceased to care about whether anyone spotted them. He now only watched the gentle bobbing of Mel’s head. He wanted to climax slowly.
It was only a semi-conscious decision that prompted him to walk towards Kincaide’s car. Goodhew’s feet began heading that way before his brain had time to consider whether there was any good reason to.
He could see that Kincaide was sitting in the driver’s seat, partially facing in his direction, but although Goodhew raised his hand in greeting, no acknowledgement came in return. Kincaide was stock-still, perhaps concentrating on a phone call.
Goodhew slowed, feeling suddenly as though he was intruding. But with only a few houses between him and the car, there was nowhere to turn off and doing a 180 degree about-face would look pretty stupid.
He slowed some more. He had picked out something else now, draped over the rear of the passenger seat, and an uneasy feeling began crawling up his spine. In the moment between seeing it and recognizing it as Mel’s red mac, he chose to take the about-face option. But somehow in that time, he saw Kincaide look in his direction, then jerk upright. Then the back of Mel’s head appeared. She turned towards him even as he turned away from her.
The car slipped out of the edge of his field of vision, and he hurried away, far faster than he’d approached.
THIRTY-ONE
Goodhew knew as he hurried away that this would be no early night, so he went to the cinema and caught Kirsten Dunst’s latest film. He’d never heard of it before he arrived, and by the time it had finished, he had forgotten what it was called. But that didn’t matter because, in his opinion, Kirsten was one of the two movie stars who could chuck away their scripts and still deserve Oscars.
Kirsten had stared into a mirror, feeling sorry for herself, then she’d cast Goodhew an empathetic glance. He’d sighed and wondered how he’d allowed himself to be blind to Mel and Kincaide’s affair, why he felt so let down by Kincaide, and what gave him even the right to feel hurt. Finally, he realized that, despite wishing things were different, they weren’t, and it was really none of his business. He’d left the cinema before the end credits rolled.
When Goodhew let himself back into his flat, it was ten minutes past ten. There were no messages on the answerphone. He stood by the window for the next few minutes, wanting to call his grandmother and hating himself for hurting her, but still unable to ring.
Beyond the shadowy expanse of Parker’s Piece the police station lay quiet; there were only a few lights on around the building and just a few officers would be on duty. Marks was right: a fresh start in the morning would be the best thing.
Goodhew padded into the kitchen, a narrow room with all the appliances on the right and the units fitted on the left. Under a small sash window a red drop-leaf table occupied the far wall, on which stood only a portable TV, with a calendar of Hawaiian sunsets propped against it.
Goodhew decided to make himself an omelette. He used his last four eggs and threw in some ham and cheese with a sprinkling of black pepper.
He switched on the portable TV and flicked rapidly through the channels while the olive oil heated in the pan. Sport . . . sport . . . relationships . . . He kept flicking. Cop show . . . game show . . . black-and-white film. He paused. He recognized Veronica Lake and he didn’t switch over.
Veronica and Kirsten on the same night; it should have felt like his lucky day, but seeing Kincaide and Mel had thumped the scales down in the opposite direction.
He turned back to the pan and finished cooking, then he leant against the worktop with plate in one hand and fork in the other, and watched someone else trying to solve a different murder.
But before the second mouthful, he knew that it wasn’t enough to keep him at home.
THIRTY-TWO
It took Goodhew just fifteen minutes to walk from Parkside pool to Rolfe Street, Lorna’s little street, where gentrified townhouses squeezed together in neat order, their single front steps like children’s feet, lined up and waiting one step back from the kerb.
Midges danced in the glow from the streetlamps, parting only to let him pass as he strode through their light pools. His footsteps beat a crisp rhythm on the pavement. It was late enough for the streets to be empty, but early enough for the sound of him to be masked by the television sets, turned up louder than a normal speaking voice in almost every home.
Except Lorna’s, of course.
Her flat remained still and silent, the letterbox sealed from the inside, and the windows strapped with striped police tape.
The flat below hers was silent too, unoccupied and for sale when she died. Now still unoccupied and probably unsaleable, and Goodhew was glad of that. The last thing he needed was an anxious neighbour reporting footsteps overhead.
He reached into his pocket and wrapped his gloved fingers around the key. He rubbed his thumb along the teeth of it and silently prayed that the lock had not been changed. He slid it in and turned it quickly. The door opened, and he sighed with relief. Using the stairs was a far easier prospect than shinning up the drainpipe and across the ground-floor flat roof.
This way there would be no evidence of forced entry.
He closed the door behind him and began to feel his way up the stairs. Dust and mustiness had already invaded, pushing out any lingering breath of Lorna from the air.
He reached the landing and groped around, identifying first the door frame, then the door, then the handle. The door opened silently into a large, all-purpose living area. Enough light trickled through the sash window to pick out the shape of a settee and coffee table, and a circular dining set over to one side.
Both the kitchen and bathroom were at the rear of the flat, overlooked only by houses in a road running parallel to Rolfe Street. Turning the lights on in these two rooms was still a risk but, by his reckoning, one worth taking.
He chose the bathroom first, and made sure to close the door behind him before pulling the light cord. The suite had been changed circa 1978, he guessed. Those days when green toilets, in any shade from lichen to avocado, were considered desirable. This one was sage, with marble-effect tiles, pine fittings and cream walls. It was not attractive, but it was clean and well kept. All the surfaces were now bare. He clicked open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet: that too was empty. He hoped the kitchen would yield more.
He switched off the bathroom light and proceeded from there across the hall and into the kitchen. Again he shut the door behind him, and this time he twisted the blinds shut before flicking on the overhead strip-light.
First he opened and closed each cupboard for a quick assessment. Plenty had been removed from the kitchen: the wastebin, tea towels, fruit from the bowl and any perishables from the fridge. But plenty had been left: glasses, china, cutlery, unopened jars and tins of food.
The units here were fitted, more modern than in the bathroom, and sported beech veneer with polished granite tops and thin chrome handles. He started by tapping and tugging at the four-inch fascia running around the bottom of the units. It was secure and bore no sign of ever having been disturbed.
Two tall stools were tucked under a tiny breakfast bar; he grabbed one and climbed on it to inspect the
tops of the units. He then checked inside each separate appliance, and even in the pots of odds and ends under the sink. He only wished he knew what, if anything, he hoped to find.
It was ten minutes later before he started on the food cupboard. He guessed Lorna had eaten out a lot, or maybe hadn’t eaten much at all; her cupboard catered just for breakfast and snacks. One shelf was filled with tins of soup, and not just plain old Heinz Tomato like his own kitchen boasted. There were at least a dozen upmarket varieties, from asparagus to lobster bisque. He lifted and shook each can, and when he was content that each was still unopened, he moved on to the rows of spreads arranged on the shelf below.
Most of the jams were also unopened and stood with their labels neatly facing forwards. The two jars of peanut butter, one crunchy and one smooth, told a different story. Their inner sides were scraped clear, so that only a few spoonfuls remained at the bottom of each. Behind the peanut butter was the familiar fat-cheeked shape of a Marmite jar. People either loved it or hated it, but Lorna must have been in the ‘loved it’ camp as she had three jars of the stuff on the go. Goodhew picked up the first jar: liquorice-coloured stains streaked the black glass. He unscrewed the yellow plastic lid and glanced inside: just Marmite with a couple of flecks of butter.
He replaced the lid and noticed the seal was gone from one of the other two jars. He felt a kick of excitement as he snatched up the used jar at the rear, which was altogether too clean looking. He unscrewed it quickly, noticing it felt light enough to be almost empty. Under the lid was jammed a ball of cotton wool.
When he was a kid, his mum had kept cotton wool in the top of vitamin bottles. He had never understood why, but now he sensed he’d find tablets in this jar too.
There weren’t many of them, he estimated about twenty. And they weren’t all the same, but a mix of red capsules and torpedo-shaped pills. He replaced the cotton wool and returned the jar to its place at the back of the shelf.
He ran his gaze along the shelf below. The lid of a vinegar bottle protruded from behind a coffee jar. He pulled it out and immediately saw the liquid was clear. He removed his glove and dripped a splash on to his finger. As soon as it hit his tongue he smiled. Jackpot.
Later on, he’d wonder how different things would have been if he’d just replaced the bottle and left. But he couldn’t have done that.
Not really. Not when the rest of the flat beckoned him. He checked the bedroom curtains, making sure the heavy red velvet overlapped to seal in the light. Then he used his torch to search the room. Her wrought-iron bedstead had been stripped of its sheets. Her stereo stood beside the bed, accompanied by a stack of a dozen CDs. He ran the beam of torchlight down their spines. The last one was The Best of Blondie; the rest were modern chart compilations.
He moved his torch around the room and went over to Lorna’s wardrobe. The door creaked as he opened it. He stopped and listened. Had he heard something else too? No, he’d just been in the house too long. Time to leave.
‘In a minute, in a minute,’ he whispered to himself, and shone his torch into the cupboard.
Most of her clothes still hung from the rail, though some had fallen off. He knelt to check the bottom of the wardrobe. Then froze. He heard a creak on the stairs, then a whisper. Shit. There was only one option; he clicked off his torch and felt his way into the cupboard. From somewhere near the landing a woman’s voice hissed, ‘I’ll start in the bedroom.’
Goodhew pulled both doors to within an inch of shutting. Above his head, clothes swayed and the hangers click-clacked against each other. Footsteps entered the room and he froze.
‘You do the kitchen.’ This time she spoke clearly and he recognized the voice as Victoria Nugent’s.
‘OK,’ a man replied.
Goodhew could now see nothing, so he half closed his eyes and just listened. She was wearing stilettos and she moved with short steps that echoed on the bare boards. He heard the curtains open and shafts of moonlight slipped into the wardrobe. Not good. Then her shadow fell across the crack between the doors and he knew she was about to open them.
Victoria had spent a giddy afternoon riding on an adrenalin surge. She had made a mistake – no – it had been an oversight. But now she had a plan. In her mind’s eye she’d visualized every move. Especially the finale.
As they entered Lorna’s flat, she realized she was rushing up the stairs too quickly and checked herself. She had to be convincing. She would fail if she let her motives become transparent.
He followed, more heavy-footed, less enthusiastic. But that would change.
‘Where will it be?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ She led the way across the living room; she knew the route, even in the dark. She made straight for the bedroom, but turned back to him at the doorway. ‘I’ll start in the bedroom.’
He stopped in his tracks, not sure what she was expecting him to do.
‘You do the kitchen.’
Her heart thumped, but she didn’t allow herself to think about how dangerous it all was. It was good that he seemed more nervous than her, even though she had no doubt that she could easily lead him where he didn’t want to go.
She crossed to the window, the curtains rasping as they were hauled back on their tracks. That was better, she could see the room properly now, without turning on the light.
She knew she still had at least a few minutes while he poked around in the kitchen units.
Directly across from her was the room’s only wardrobe, which would be the logical place to start. She opened the doors simultaneously, then, without even a glance inside she made a point of slamming them. Then she equally loudly opened and closed the chest of drawers.
Finally, she retrieved a tissue from her sleeve and lay down on one side of the bed. She kept the tissue pressed to her lips and did her best to feign emotional exhaustion. She was no great actress, but firmly believed that people noticed only what they chose to.
It didn’t take him more than a few minutes to search the kitchen, then he came to find her. He stopped in the doorway and nodded towards the open curtains. ‘Someone may see us,’ he said. Then he looked at her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You didn’t find it, did you?’ Her voice was thick with emotion. ‘It’s not here either.’
He stepped further into the room, but stopped halfway towards the bed. ‘Where will it be?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know. Most of her stuff has gone.’
‘Perhaps the police have it then?’
This was good. ‘Do you think I hadn’t considered that?’ She raised her voice just enough to threaten hysteria, then sighed and raised both hands with a ‘just hang on’ gesture. ‘I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault. But, Bryn, I don’t know what I’d do if anyone saw it.’
‘Why would that be so bad?’
She bit back the urge to scream. He was so thick. Even this simple fictitious scenario was beyond him. If she’d really lost her private diary in Lorna’s flat, why would she need to spell out that she didn’t want every Tom, Dick and Plod poring over its steamy pages?
Did Bryn really think she was that brazen regarding her personal life?
Her voice trembled with irritation as she spoke, but she was sure he would merely interpret it as raw emotion. ‘If they found out, I just don’t know what I’d do.’
Her body sagged and she buried her face in her hands. He was quick to sit down beside her. ‘It’ll be OK,’ he whispered. She reached out and found his hand, then pulled him nearer. She felt his arm slip round her shoulder and she nestled closer still. She shivered and her skin tingled against the silky fabric of her blouse.
A minute of silence passed.
‘I bet you miss her,’ she said.
‘I didn’t really know her.’
‘But you were sleeping with her.’
‘You’ve got it wrong; it was very casual. We weren’t having a relationship.’
She turned her face up to his, and kissed him tentatively. He jerked hi
s head away, but she could already tell that there was no way he was about to bolt.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
He started to say something else, but she pressed her fingertips to his lips. ‘Shhh.’ She kissed him again, and slid her hand around to cup his neck and keep him close to her. The kiss lingered and became deeper as she teased his tongue into her mouth. Her lips were soft and her mouth tasted of spearmint. He wasn’t a bad kisser, just a little too eager, too adolescent. But maybe that was a good thing.
With her free hand she started to unbutton her blouse. Pulling the buttons apart, letting him think their kissing had reawakened the sexual chemistry between them. She knew the exact moment when his focus on her became total, and then she pulled back. He looked surprised. She ran her hand across his lap, pretending it was a casual touch – but they both knew it wasn’t.
She stood up in front of him. Her nerves had now calmed, she’d stopped shivering, and suddenly the room felt much warmer. She dropped her blouse to the floor and watched his intense gaze fall on to her cleavage.
Her stare was unwavering as she pushed her bra down and cupped her breasts, massaging the nipples with her thumbs.
She saw him rub the palm of his hand on the hip of his trousers, and she knew she was making progress.
‘Why not?’ she asked lightly and let her skirt drop to the floor.
She unhooked her bra and let it fall, then stepped back and pirouetted slowly in just her black G-string and high heels. Her skin was tanned and taut, and she knew her body was better than Lorna’s.
‘You look good,’ he said.
Her lips parted and she ran her tongue across her teeth and smiled.
‘But we’re not doing it here,’ he added.
She knew she was committed now, and held his gaze. ‘Why not? You’re hard, aren’t you?’ She reached down, took his hand and guided it between her legs. ‘It’s what I really need right now.’
‘But not here.’
‘Why not?’
