by Alison Bruce
He dialled the number from memory. For the first time in many weeks, Goodhew had woken up after a decent night’s sleep, reborn in a mood of quiet reflection. The calm after the storm had finally arrived and this was like the last gust blowing its way out of his life and into someone else’s.
Goodhew’s call to Martin Reed was short. The phone rang only twice before it was answered.
‘Mr Reed? This is DC Goodhew.’
‘I know, I recognized your voice.’
Goodhew wouldn’t have recognized Martin Reed’s. It was taut, hoarse even.
‘We wanted you to be aware that we’ve recovered an unidentified body.’ He was careful to stress the word ‘unidentified’. ‘We will be conducting tests and as soon as—’
‘But it could be Jo?’
Goodhew hesitated. ‘It could, yes.’
‘And you’ll ring.’
‘Yes, as soon as we can.’
‘I’ll just wait then,’ he said and immediately put down the phone.
Murder was a very big stain to leave on the world. He guessed it marked even those on the periphery, like the clinic receptionist Faith Carver and Bryn O’Brien. He knew that both Martin Reed and Jackie Moran would definitely be scrubbing away at it for years to come.
The pile of typing on Mel’s desk had grown to about three inches thick, most of it urgent and illegible. She didn’t mind. She’d just shared a sandwich and a packet of crisps in the pub with Toby, and though neither of them had spoken much, the silence had lacked any trace of bad atmosphere and surely that was progress.
On the way back to the station she’d glanced up at the third floor, knowing where Goodhew liked to sit. She couldn’t see him up there, but she almost waved, just in case. She hoped they’d get a chance to talk properly soon, but she wasn’t going to push that one either. She wanted to thank him for helping her find the gear that would reverse her out of the mess she was in, but first she had to be sure she could use it.
She snapped off another row of squares from her half-eaten bar of Dairy Milk. Thank God for chocolate.
Behind her the door opened and she knew, without looking, that the footsteps belonged to Michael Kincaide. She’d avoided him for two days and had hoped that if she ignored him sufficiently, he’d go away, but now she felt him sneak up on her. He planted a ticklish kiss on the bare skin at the back of her neck, making goosebumps.
She swung her chair around and stared up at him. He was wearing a suit which made him look all of his twenty-seven years. Was that an age gap big enough for him to be a father figure?
His aftershave was Calvin Klein, and it used to smell good to her, just a splash too strong, but still good. She wasn’t sure when she’d gone off it.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Mel. I’ve really missed you,’ he said. ‘Why not meet me later and we can talk?’ He was so sincere that he was starting to remind her of the double-glazing salesman who had persuaded her mum to replace a perfectly good set of windows.
‘I’ve grown out of you, Michael. Go and find someone else.’ She sounded more assertive than she felt, and was pleased when he didn’t hang around to argue. Off he went, banging the door open with the heel of his hand.
It was caught by Goodhew coming the other way. ‘Have you upset him?’ he enquired.
‘I’ve ended my date-a-married-man phase.’
‘Oh, I see. And how about Toby?’
‘I’ll see.’ She changed the subject. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Early finish today, I’m meeting someone at the pub.’
Then it was her turn to say, ‘Oh, I see.’
He left through the back door of the station and she watched him until he disappeared from view.
Bryn O’Brien sat on the bench seat in his workshop making a pointless examination of the end of his five-eighths spanner.
For a while he had felt he was in the direct path of the police investigation. It had been like a juggernaut thundering towards him, headlights blazing, horn blaring. And he had been transfixed, seemingly unable to step out of the route that lined up with its front grille. But now it had passed him. It had thrown up dust and confusion and buffeted him with its slipstream, before he realized that he was back in his usual quiet spot at the side of the road. He guessed he’d hear it rumble on for some time yet as it manoeuvred across town.
The whole experience had introduced him to the unfamiliar territory of deep thought, definitely not somewhere he wanted to linger for long, but he gave a few minutes to Willis and Lorna and Victoria. Death had never touched him before, and now, as if to prove things came in threes, they’d all died in the space of weeks.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel. He’d had an experience of passing closeness to each of them but, in reality, he knew less than nothing about any of them. And that was kind of how it was with everyone he knew. Therefore his deep thought for the day was really to ask himself if that was enough.
He wondered then about Gary Goodhew. Perhaps just the knowledge that they’d been classmates gave them something of a bond, or maybe he’d only imagined that they’d been, to some extent, on the same wavelength.
Bryn gave a small chuckle. He was hardly going to track Gary down and ask if they could be friends. What next, swapping football cards? Besides, a mate in the police force – it didn’t seem likely.
But, even so . . .
Bryn threw the spanner back in the toolbox and grabbed his jacket. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Gary to meet him for a drink, then they’d see.
There was one more thing that Goodhew knew he needed to do before the end of the day. The Avery pub stood on Parker’s Piece, at the opposite end to Parkside police station, and a few hundred yards from his own flat.
Inside the pub his grandmother was waiting for him with two halves of lager. ‘I thought champagne would be inappropriate for the occasion – besides, I don’t like it much.’
‘What are we celebrating?’ he asked, then before she could reply he continued. ‘Tell me that in a minute. First, though, I am really sorry I gave you a hard time over the inheritance. I know it’s not your fault, and in normal circumstances it would be much appreciated.’
‘Gary, I understand, though I doubt most of the rest of the western world would . . . It shouldn’t be considered a crime to hate the thought of inheriting money. Just do your best.’
‘I will.’ He smiled. ‘You make it sound like a spelling test.’
‘It’s probably not quite that bad.’
‘So what are we celebrating?’
‘End of the case.’
They clinked glasses. ‘End of the case,’ he repeated.
‘And you weren’t fired. I was very proud. After working with him, did you sort out why you don’t like Kincaide?’
‘Oh, he’s just sexist, racist, big-headed, narrow-minded, spiteful and arrogant, but beyond that . . . a really good bloke.’
‘Mel?’
‘Who knows? We’ll see.’
‘And Bryn O’Brien?’
‘Gut feeling? I guess I think he’s OK. Why?’
‘He’s standing outside your house right now.’
They both watched the big man in the distance for a second. ‘Do you want to meet him?’ Goodhew asked.
His grandmother smiled. ‘Yes, actually, I’d love to.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
One of the pleasures of completing a book is looking back at the list of people who have helped in some way, many of whom I have only met through the book itself. Among the people I will always associate with Cambridge Blue are DI Neil Constable, Kimberly Jackson, Laura Watson, Christine Bartram and Barry Crowther, Paul Johnston, Mark Billingham, Simon Kernick, Imogen Olsen and Peter Lavery, and Lisa Williams and Laura Clift at Cherry Bomb Rock Photography.
I would also like to make a special point of acknowledging Richard Reynolds and Roger Ellory, who have both been generous with their time and expertise. Thank you to Sarah and Graham Fraser at Graham Fraser Productions for their
support and help in producing ‘Emma’s Theme’, the trailer for Cambridge Blue.
Thank you to Krystyna Green and all the staff at Constable & Robinson. I may be biased, but this book looks fantastic.
Finally, I’ve seen lots of authors thank their agents and I now have first-hand experience of what a special role an agent plays and how much they deserve appreciation. Thank you, Broo.
A.B.
THE SOUNDTRACK FOR
CAMBRIDGE BLUE
When I write a book, I find there are songs that ‘keep me company’ at various points. By the time I finish I have a playlist that belongs to that book alone. Maybe the concept of a book having a soundtrack seems a little odd, but that’s how it works for me.
Back to Black – Amy Winehouse
Better than Nothing – Restless
Come On Eileen – Dexy’s Midnight Runners
Dreaming – Blondie
Lovers’ Lane – Jacen Bruce
Miserlou – Dick Dale
School Days – Chuck Berry
Summer of ’69 – Bowling for Soup
Tonight, Tonight – The Mello-Kings
Torn – Natalie Imbruglia
Tornado – The Jiants
Wild Saxophone – The Stray Cats
For more information please visit www.alisonbruce.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
