by Alison Bruce
FORTY-FIVE
It was almost 9 p.m. before Goodhew met up with his grandmother.
‘So is that a suspension or not?’ she asked.
‘One step short. I don’t think Marks would want to try to explain why he never took an official line on those anonymous notes, especially if he actually suspected they were an internal issue. He’s not happy though.’
Goodhew had finished explaining the current situation to his grandmother, and they were seated by the window in the Galleria, a small Italian restaurant by the river. Goodhew had chosen it himself, and it was no coincidence that it was within sight of the unlit Excelsior Clinic. The waiter returned to their table with the pepper mill and ground some on his bolognese. His grandmother had ordered salad and he had no doubt that her pale blouse would stay unblemished; his white shirt wouldn’t be so lucky.
He waited until they were alone again before he continued. ‘But to be honest, it’s not as bad as I thought.’
Her fork hesitated a couple of inches from her mouth, and then descended. ‘I thought you’d be devastated.’
‘Of course I’m upset, but on the other hand, what’s really changed? As long as I’m in the building, I’ll still have access to information on various cases, so I can still do things in my own time.’
‘Gary, that’s the part of your behaviour you’re suppose to curb. You’ve had a lucky escape, so imagine if you were caught.’
‘I’m learning, but I just need to be more careful, and I’m proud of the things I’ve achieved. The one misdemeanor that’s got me into more hot water with Marks than anything else is the one I didn’t do.’
‘I’m confused now. Which one didn’t you do?’
‘I never tipped off the local papers.’
‘You didn’t? I thought you were bluffing.’
‘If I’m such a useless liar, why can’t you work out when I’m telling the truth?’ Goodhew frowned and twirled some spaghetti on to his fork then said, ‘Marks assumed I’d done it. That’s why he never asked anyone to look into it. We need to know who really did tip off the papers and, more importantly, why.’
‘We? Does that mean you and me or you and your colleagues?’
‘Either – does it matter who comes up with the answer?’
‘With you it’s just one big rush for the truth, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter who gets there first, just as long as it gets uncovered.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘You watch too many old movies. What’s it going to take to tuck you safely back under Marks’ wing?’
If she’d seen the finality in Marks’ dismissal of him, she wouldn’t have even bothered asking that question. In truth, he knew how bad he’d feel if he was left to follow the rest of this case via press reports and snippets of canteen chat.
For the last couple of hours he’d been bloody-minded and unrealistically upbeat about it all, and that had suited him fine, but now, as he stared across towards the Excelsior Clinic, he knew he had to face the reality of his situation. It would take much more than his grandmother’s sympathetic ear or the agreeable diversion of their surroundings to buffer him from the sick and empty feeling currently hollowing out the pit of his stomach.
Once they had finished eating, he excused himself and left. He needed to be alone now, just like he was alone with the mess he’d created for himself. He walked towards the centre of the city, knowing that the hollow feeling wasn’t going to disappear, but somehow hoping that walking past the places where Victoria Nugent and Lorna Spence had died would numb it.
In the end, when he was no closer to achieving any peace with himself, he gave in to the illogical compulsion to hail a cab and drive past every other address connected with the case he was now excluded from.
He sat directly behind the driver, and firmly chose not to engage in any conversation. The roads were almost empty, and the car made unhampered progress back and forth across town, slowing past one destination before transporting him towards the next.
If the driver thought this job was a strange one, he didn’t comment.
Both of the dead women’s flats were pitch black, but numerous lights were on in Richard and Alice Moran’s large house. A security light illuminated the hard standing outside Bryn O’Brien’s workshop, and a single light shone from Jackie Moran’s hallway.
This time the ‘where next?’ question was the easiest to answer. Jackie’s RAV4 hadn’t been parked anywhere near her house, and unless there had been a major new development, Goodhew doubted she was still making her statement. They drove by Parkside station on the off-chance and, once he was certain that her car was nowhere on site, he instructed the driver to head for Old Mile Farm.
FORTY-SIX
Goodhew paid the driver and asked to be dropped at the roadside by the gateway to the farm. The track down to the stables was unlit, but he wanted to walk into the yard unannounced. The moonlight was just sufficient for him to be able to pick out the shape of the post and rails fencing running alongside him, but it still took him several minutes before he came within sight of the parking area.
A tree marked the end of the track and he stopped there while he was still under its shadow. Jackie Moran’s car was parked in the same spot as the last time he’d visited. From where he stood, it looked empty. There was no sign of life from the stables either; not even the sound of horses shuffling their feet.
As he crept across the yard, he paused long enough at her vehicle to confirm that it really was empty, then quietly made for the stable where they’d sat before. Both halves of the door were closed. He felt his way over the bolts, checking that both were locked from the outside. They were, and he was about to check the other loose boxes when he heard her voice behind him. ‘I’m here.’
He spun around but couldn’t see her. She sounded about fifty feet away from him.
‘Put on the floodlights,’ she called.
‘Where?’
‘In the corner, to your right.’
He felt his way to where the shorter side of the L-shaped stable block met the long side and found three switches.
‘It’s the middle one,’ she added, as if she had seen him hesitate.
He turned towards her voice as he flicked it on. Four halogen lamps burst into life, drenching the menage in cold white light.
Jackie lay on a travelling rug spread out in the middle of the arena, supported on her left hand, holding a mug in the other. Gone was her usual stable girl look; instead she wore strappy sandals, jeans and a baggy green-and-white cotton shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘Come here,’ she instructed.
He climbed the railing, jumped down on to the sawdust and walked towards her. It was like a scene from an arty photo shoot; her clothes looked far too flimsy for nighttime, her cheeks were unusually red, her lips damson and glossy. She didn’t look at all cold, and her smile was unnaturally luminescent.
‘Would you like to talk to me?’ she asked.
‘That’s not why I came. I just wondered where you’d gone.’
‘No, I mean, please talk to me.’
‘Sure.’ Goodhew sat down beside her. ‘Are you warm enough there?’
‘Yep.’
She lowered her voice. ‘I’m a bit drunk.’
‘I can tell.’
‘Really? I’d offer you some too, but I’ve only got what’s left in the mug.’ She swigged another mouthful. ‘Do you know that point when you’re so unhappy that you’re not scared any more?’
‘Scared of what?’
‘Of anything, because if it’s going to get you, so what? What can it do to you when a bullet in the brain would actually be a relief. That’s what I’ve been doing, lying here and thinking, “So what?” So what. So fucking what!’
‘What is “it”?’
‘It. You know, the “it” that comes into your room when you’re a kid, that makes you scared to open the wardrobe or look under the bed.’
‘Th
e “it” that might jump out and get you?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. But not just might, because it will.’
Goodhew reached out and wrapped his fingers around the mug. He gave it a gentle tug and she let go.
‘Your father knew about Joanne Reed, so why did you pretend you didn’t?’
‘You’re not at work now, surely, Mr Detective.’ She reached for the mug but he held it away from her.
‘Why not tell me? I know you knew her,’ he persisted. ‘What really scares you, Jackie?’
‘Nothing.’ She glared at him, but the woolliness of too much drink left her unable to remain intractable. She leant forwards, breathing out brandy fumes and wafting something that smelt like Paco Rabanne. She touched his cheek, then ran her hand down and inside the breast of his jacket. ‘My father didn’t allow Richard to bring women home, so he and Joanne came here for sex.’
‘Richard told you?’
‘No, I saw them.’
‘How often?’
‘They came here several times but I only saw it once.’
Goodhew thought he’d misheard, but Jackie laughed.
‘They were in the end stable and I watched them through the window, both stark naked, not the tiniest bit aware that they could be seen.’
Goodhew looked across to the dust-covered window and pictured Jackie watching her brother and his girlfriend, possibly even standing on the edge of the muck heap to gain a better view. Jackie’s fingers began fiddling with the top button of Goodhew’s shirt; he pressed his hand on top of hers to keep it still.
‘Is that true?’ he said.
‘My father said I should say nothing . . .’ She paused and tilted her head towards the stables. ‘We could . . . you know, I could show you what I saw.’
He ignored the suggestion. ‘Your father thought he knew what happened to Joanne Reed. What did he tell you?’
‘Not much. He drove down here one lunchtime, jumped out of his car and started shouting at me. He kept saying, “What happened? Tell me what happened to her. You should know by now that I’m not stupid.” I had no idea what he meant. He stomped round the place for about ten minutes, ranting to himself. Finally he said, “Very clever”, and just drove out again.’
Goodhew thought about her father’s journal and its account of his search of Old Mile Farm. After a minute he lifted Jackie’s hand away from his shirt and up to his lips. He kissed her fingers. ‘Thank you for telling me. Now, I’m going to drive you home.’
‘Then pull me in, in the morning?’
‘I’d prefer it if you just showed up.’
‘Why not take me straight there now?’
‘Go home and sober up. You can’t go on like this.’
‘Stay with me, then.’
‘No.’ He stood and pulled her to her feet, but didn’t release his hold on her hands. ‘Why were you here tonight?’
‘Honestly? I missed Alex.’
‘Oh yes, your father who knew you so well.’ He felt her tense.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What did he mean when he wrote in his journal that he made excuses for you when David died?’ Jackie tried to pull away from him but he wouldn’t let go. ‘Did he think you were responsible for killing your baby brother?’
He knew she was going to cry even before the tears began, but he could also see that it wasn’t sadness that made her cry. Frustration maybe, or more likely anger. She still squirmed in his grasp and Goodhew still refused to release her. He tried again. ‘Jackie. Is that really what he thought? Is it?’
‘Is it? Is it?’ she mimicked. ‘Did you put the pillow on his face? You can tell me, Jackie. Is that what you did? Is it? Is it? All right, I’ll tell you what scares me, the “it”, the fucking “it” that’s controlled everything I’ve done every fucking day of my life.’
A breeze ruffled the sawdust and puffed out the fabric of her shirt. Suddenly Goodhew realized that the scent wasn’t just like Paco Rabanne aftershave: it was Paco Rabanne, impregnated in a man’s unwashed shirt. Her heightened sexuality hadn’t been solely the result of alcohol, and Goodhew suddenly understood a whole lot more than just where Joanne Reed’s body was buried.
FORTY-SEVEN
Goodhew arrived home in the early hours, but didn’t bother kidding himself that trying to sleep would be anything but a wasted journey to the bedroom. He switched on the jukebox, and selected what he guessed would be enough tracks to keep him company until Marks arrived at the station for the coming day’s work. He turned the volume up high, amplifying every hiss and scratch on the old 45s, filling the room with obscure fifties doo-wop.
He made some coffee, then settled by the loft window and watched Parkside police station, until eventually he saw his boss arrive. He stopped to unplug the Bel Ami, then hurried out from the building and across Parker’s Piece, only slowing as he approached Marks’ office door. Inside, a phone rang twice before it was answered. Goodhew knocked anyway, then stepped away from the door to wait. It was almost five minutes later when he heard his boss telling him to enter.
Marks leant forward with both elbows resting on the desk. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry either.
Goodhew stepped just far enough into the office to give himself space to close the door. ‘I’m not ignoring your instructions, sir, but I do need five minutes with you.’
‘Being in this building at all is already ignoring them.’
‘OK, I’m ignoring them slightly, but I totally respect the spirit in which they were made.’
‘For pity’s sake,’ Marks sighed, ‘just get on with it.’
‘I think I know where Joanne Reed’s body is hidden.’
It was easy to see he’d grabbed Marks’ interest but, even so, his boss remained cautious. ‘Go on.’
‘That’s why I need five minutes with you.’
Marks gestured towards the nearest chair. ‘Make it good.’
‘When you called me insubordinate earlier, you were right. There have been times when you’ve placed your trust in me, and I value that. I didn’t tip off the Cambridge News, so someone else must have had a motive for doing that.
‘What I did do, though, was to sneak a look at Alex Moran’s journal while I was waiting for you to return yesterday afternoon, and I think he’d guessed where the body was hidden, because he talks of the “rotten truth” and there being “only so many good places to hide a decaying corpse”.’
‘So where’s the body?’ Marks growled, seemingly overlooking the admission of prying.
Goodhew gave him a slightly diluted version of the previous night’s events.
‘So now Jackie Moran admits seeing Joanne Reed there with her brother, and you think the body’s where?’
Goodhew told him.
Marks looked sceptical. ‘And that’s based on the Moran father having a quick look round, then saying, “Very clever”? He must have been talking about something else, because I don’t believe you pat your kids on the head and say, “Well done for hiding a corpse.”’
‘Not in normal families,’ Goodhew conceded.
‘But she only offers this information when we’ve pretty much worked things out for ourselves. All I see here is a woman who’s constantly covering her own back.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘I see,’ Marks said, letting the words settle for several seconds. When he spoke again, his first question surprised Goodhew. ‘In that case, do you know what motive Jackie Moran might have had for killing Lorna Spence?’
‘None that I know of. I don’t think she did.’
‘And that’s your unbiased opinion?’
‘Absolutely.’
Marks frowned. ‘Personally? In her position I would have gone for help rather than dumping Colin Willis’ body in the river. I suspect that anyone who kills, then covers it up, is deliberately hiding something. But go on, tell me the rest of your theories.’
Goodhew had some, of course; plenty in fact. They’d only been a j
umble of seedling ideas until this last hour, but talking to Marks had stimulated his thoughts and some of the ideas had since flourished; they’d sprouted tentacles and now seemed to be intertwining quite effectively. The next step would be to try voicing them out loud. He took a deep breath, then jumped in. ‘Firstly,’ he began, ‘we know that Colin Willis had already had dealings with Lorna Spence and Victoria Nugent, therefore it seems too much of a coincidence that he just happened to target Jackie Moran for a random attack. Either he picked on her as a result of something Victoria or Lorna said, or he was hired to kill her by one of these two women.’
‘Which one?’
‘Lorna, I reckon. From what Bryn O’Brien said, it was Lorna who spent some time alone with Colin Willis, whilst Victoria wasn’t interested.’
‘So why would she want Jackie dead?’
‘Perhaps she didn’t. Maybe she hired Colin Willis on behalf of someone else. Once it was obvious that the plan had failed, disposing of Lorna would have broken the link between Colin Willis and whoever wanted to see Jackie Moran dead.’
‘So the diary page left at the stables was just planted to throw suspicion on her sister, Alice.’
‘And we only know it was planted because Jackie Moran survived, otherwise it might have looked like she’d had it in her possession all along.’
‘Actually,’ Marks corrected, ‘we only know it was planted because Jackie Moran told us so.’
Goodhew didn’t like the implication. ‘Even if it didn’t turn up as she said it did, I’m still sure it’s genuine.’
‘OK, so if it was deliberately planted, that would be by Lorna?’
‘But ultimately for the benefit of whoever it was who hired Willis as a killer.’
‘Who then goes on to kill Lorna when Jackie survives?’
‘I guess so.’
‘And this same person will be Victoria Nugent’s killer, too?’
Goodhew nodded but suddenly felt his ideas drifting off course – or wilting, to use his earlier analogy.
