The Backs (2013)

by Bruce, Alison

  ‘Yes.’ Marks glanced at his watch. ‘OK, if you’re staying I’ll explain. There’s a team of four down there but, because of the confined space, they’re working only two at a time. The ground-penetration data gave some tricky results because the hole was refilled with the original soil mixed with several buckets of hardcore, probably carried in from the garden. This messes with the readings, but they now know the deepest point of the trench and they’re getting close.’

  ‘And there’s still the possibility of a body?’

  ‘Before the dig, I sent down the cadaver dog, and she came up with nothing. But she’s just gone in again and this time she’s detected some human remains. Space is getting tight for a complete body, but there’s something there. And that’s why I’m pleased you’re here.’ Marks spoke the last sentence with a hint of satisfaction. ‘I want a complete chronology of everyone who’s lived here, who rented it, who lodged here, even anyone who ever dropped in to use the loo.’

  ‘Between which dates?’

  ‘This dig has come about because of Jane Osborne’s observations, so go back to the year when she ran away.’

  ‘2003?’

  ‘Yes, from then until now. Once something more substantial is unearthed, we’ll be able to narrow it down further. Anyone who has lived at that property at any point is a potential witness, so the more names and dates the better, as far as I’m concerned.’

  His mobile sitting beside him on the tabletop started to ring, and Marks looked down at the caller display. ‘Here we go,’ he muttered before snatching it up and pressing it to his ear. ‘Yes?’

  Every search came with its own challenges, and although the excavation of this cellar had lasted only a few hours, the confined space and airlessness had produced the same jaded expressions as characterized a far longer dig. Finding a body was hardly a cause for celebration, yet Marks could understand the sense of achievement and relief that came at the moment a search like this suddenly bore fruit.

  The call Marks had taken had come from George, a SOCO who looked like a hobbit and had the complexion of a man who rarely made it out into the daylight. Everything about him was like a geeky fifteen-year-old, except the obvious fact that he was now getting closer to forty than thirty. George’s pride in his work edged towards the macabre: a total fascination with the scene itself and virtually no interest in any part of any case surrounding it. Marks knew that even when George had taken a break from the excavation, he would have stood on the cellar steps and watched, unwilling to miss the crucial moment of revelation.

  Job satisfaction was a good thing, but, as Marks followed George down into the cellar, he had to admit that in this case such zeal was a tiny bit disconcerting.

  The room had been rigged with bright LED lighting, which gave off no heat, and the stark and shadowless space felt unnaturally clammy. All things considered, the excavation had been extremely swift; it could often take a full two days to uncover a buried body. In his peripheral vision he could see George moving restlessly, and could imagine his bony fingers working deftly through the rubble.

  Marks was careful to avoid looking down at the corpse until he stood right next to the grave. He wanted to concentrate on just that and nothing else.

  At first glance there was surprisingly little to see. The earth had been removed in layers and, apart from a few protruding glimpses of bone, all the rest had yet to be excavated.

  George squatted at the edge of the pit and pointed towards a small section of skull. ‘That’s the right parietal bone, close to the sutures where it joins the occipital and temporal bones. If you imagined the head being positioned with the left eyebrow, cheek and jawbone resting on the floor, that’s the angle I’m talking about.’ He indicated a series of points within the trench, tracing a pattern that loosely resembled the constellation of Pisces. ‘There is some brickwork down here that probably came from an older structure. The body itself is actually positioned in a narrow channel, which explains why it is lying on one side, with its legs bent back like that.’

  ‘The position looks very unnatural?’

  ‘Dead is dead, I guess,’ George shrugged. ‘It’s not as though comfort was of any importance. But you’re right, squeezing a body into that confined space would have involved quite a bit of physical manipulation.’ He eyed the narrow channel thoughtfully. ‘Stamping on it might have worked. And, as far as we can tell from the bones we have uncovered, the body was naked when it was buried. It’s possible that part of the incentive for removing the clothes was to try to fit the body into this space.’

  Stripping a body was also a good way of delaying identification. A few years underground could strip the skeleton whilst leaving any synthetic clothing barely out of shape. ‘I don’t suppose there are any clues to the identity yet?’

  ‘Do you know how much of the skeleton is fully excavated so far? Two intermediate and three distal phalanges.’

  This time Marks gave up. ‘Parts of the skull I could just about manage, so which bits of the body are we talking about now?’

  ‘Fingers!’ George beamed. ‘Finger tips to be precise.’ He held up his hand and would have given a joint-by-joint explanation, but Marks interrupted him.

  ‘How long till it’s fully exposed?’

  ‘Hard to say, but we won’t be holding back.’ For a man who hadn’t slept much, George had far too much of a sparkle in his eye.

  ‘I’m going to speak to the owner of the house and his family, but as soon as you have measurements or uncover any items that may aid identification, I want to know straight away. Is that clear?’

  ‘Absolutely, and we’ll continue to photograph the process every step of the way. In fact . . .’ George reached into the neck of his T-shirt and, for the first time, Marks saw that he wore three different-coloured lanyards, each hung with a matching-coloured flash drive. George chose the green one. ‘They’re all the same, but the green one is for other people to borrow. Green equals the memory stick that’s “to go” – well, that’s how I remember it.’

  ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘All the photos so far. Two prints and an enlargement, as my dad would say. More like a keyring and a modern photo book these days.’

  George laughed. Marks didn’t.

  The psyche of some criminals was scary, but sometimes with his colleagues he suspected it was worse.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Mr Osborne, I am just trying to establish dates.’

  Gerry Osborne sat in a winged armchair, the only item of traditional furniture in his son’s sitting room. It looked so out of place that Goodhew guessed it had been forced on Dan and his wife with the same charging-bull mentality that was blackening Osborne’s expression at this very minute. An empty tumbler and a half-full bottle of whisky stood on the floor next to Osborne’s right foot.

  Goodhew took up position on the nearest seat, a bucket armchair stiffly upholstered in oatmeal and chocolate linen. He tried again: ‘I am not implying that you are involved in any kind of scandal. I simply need to establish some facts.’

  Osborne snorted. ‘You are a fool if you think that I would willingly open myself up to police questioning a second time. I’m not a naive member of the public now, am I? One minute you are “establishing facts” and the next I’ll be taken in for questioning and find that every public comment I’ve ever made is out there with the twittering judge, jury and executioners of the public domain.’ He sank further back into the armchair, which was appearing more throne-like by the second. His expression managed to be both aggressive and unreadable.

  ‘You and Jane are very alike, you know.’

  If anything, this mention of his daughter seemed to deepen his angry glare. He shook his head. ‘Becca looked like me. Jane’s just like her mother.’

  From Goodhew’s own observation, he thought the exact opposite was true.

  ‘You and Jane have the same personality. I didn’t know her before she left Cambridge, of course, but, over time, I bet she’s been scowling just a
s much as you have. She has the same two lines in the middle of her forehead, the down-turned mouth and the thousand-yard stare. That’s why she’s looking even more like you as time passes.’

  ‘You know well enough I’ve barely seen her.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you can stop trying to antagonize me by pretending Jane and I have some special empathy with one another. If I had avoided the large part of the last decade, in the way that she has, I might believe that we had a little more in common.’

  ‘You’re making quite a few assumptions about how easy she’s had it. From my experience of meeting runaways, they don’t leave home because they’re happy there, and it’s rarely straightforward for them to find happiness afterwards.’

  ‘You’re an arrogant little shit. You know nothing about Jane.’

  Goodhew was very careful now to keep his tone and expression neutral. ‘I know the anger and resentment you are feeling towards her is pretty much the same as the anger and resentment she feels towards her mother.’

  ‘My feelings are none of your fucking business.’

  Goodhew didn’t respond. ‘We are arranging for your ex-wife to come back to England as soon as possible, but in the meantime Jane needs support. And when her mother does arrive, if they can’t patch things up, she’ll probably need even more support.’

  ‘And, what, you now think you’re a shrink and a social worker?’

  ‘No, I’m a policeman,’ Goodhew replied quietly. ‘But until you can answer the questions I need answered, I will continue to tackle the subjects that seem to be causing you to obstruct me.’

  ‘I am not obstructing you.’ The two lines in Osborne’s forehead had creased to cleavage-like proportions and a film of sweat glossed the skin above them. He was a physical man, a man whose thoughts and emotions were used to being expressed through the persistent banging and cracking of hammers, rifflers and chisels. Goodhew understood this, but it didn’t mean he was prepared to give in to it.

  ‘So, let’s start with the date that you and your wife stopped living together.’

  Osborne folded his hands in front of him. ‘There is no particular date. There are many. There are the weeks I spent in my workshop, the weeks she spent “finding herself”, the days when I walked out the front door and some other man walked in through the back.’

  ‘Who broached the subject of a divorce?’

  ‘She did, of course.’ He looked down at his hands, then turned them over and stared at his palms as if something small was cradled there. After a moment he again glanced up at Goodhew from under those heavy brows. ‘I said “of course”.’ This was the first time that Goodhew had heard any softness in the man’s tone. ‘And it’s “of course” because giving up has never been in my nature – but it always was in hers. When I work, I aim to create pieces that will outlive me. I realize how arrogant that sounds, but it’s the truth. Mary thought in terms of everything being disposable – consumerism for the sake of.’

  Osborne reached down and scooped up the glass and the bottle with one hand. He filled the glass close to halfway and glanced up to see whether Goodhew would make a comment. When he said nothing, one corner of Osborne’s mouth hinted at a smile. ‘There was a time when Mary and I seemed in phase. Way back, that is, when we first met. We opened each other’s eyes to new ideas. By the end of our marriage, I decided she was the most selfish person I’d ever known.’

  He then went on to their early relationship, Mary’s mercurial charm and his own devotion. Then the rifts and dysfunction that followed, as he gained recognition as a sculptor.

  As Osborne spoke further and finally opened up, so his body language changed. Quite abruptly he switched into another voice: Gerry Osborne, sculptor, creative visionary, passionate commentator on Cambridge art. He sat taller, his expression lightened and everything about him became animated. The transformation was startling. Keyser Söze would have been proud.

  When he finally sat back in the chair, he was smiling. ‘Mary was a self-absorbed woman, selfish to the point of neglect towards all of us. People were drawn to her and I, too, could never quite shake my addiction, even when I could’ve cheerfully wrapped these hands around her throat.’ He splayed the fingers of one hand.

  Goodhew still said nothing, just waited as Osborne drained his glass.

  They could always get official dates of occupancy from council tax records and rental agreements, and probably with more accuracy than from Osborne’s memory alone. But that wasn’t the whole point; Goodhew wanted this opportunity to understand the household better and if that included watching Osborne getting drunk, then so be it.

  By now the man was staring right through him. ‘So, what else do you want from me?’

  ‘You were giving me those dates.’

  ‘Was I, now?’

  ‘If you want to try baiting me, that’s up to you. But there’s a body in your basement and these questions aren’t going to go away.’

  Osborne tutted. ‘Don’t get so uptight. I’ll tell you what I can remember, up to the date Mary took it from me. And then from when I bought it back. And up to the time I handed it to the letting agent. You see, I’m not at all obstructive.’

  Abruptly, he rose from his chair and made a consciously coordinated move to the door. It was already ajar but he pushed it wider then leant heavily against the frame. ‘Dan, we need you in here.’ Osborne leant further into the hallway. ‘Dan!’ He returned to Goodhew. ‘Give him thirty seconds.’

  Dan arrived as Osborne was halfway back across the room, probably about to yell into the hallway again. Dan’s face was a mask of exhaustion. ‘What’s up?’

  Instead of speaking to his son, Osborne addressed Goodhew. ‘Dan will have the details of the tenants. I tried not to get involved.’

  Dan nodded. ‘I’ll be able to find details of either tenants or, failing that, the letting agent. I don’t know how to say this tactfully, so I’ll just say it. We never had the best quality people living there, because of the state of the place. Some tenants sublet, and they shouldn’t have done, but there you go. We don’t have those details, of course, so you’d need to ask the official tenants themselves.’

  ‘How soon can you pull the information together?’ Goodhew asked.

  Dan glanced at his father, who nodded. ‘I’ll get straight on it,’ Dan replied. He looked as though he wanted to leave the room immediately, but hesitated. ‘The body . . . do you know who it is yet?’

  Goodhew shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You must know whether it’s a man or a woman. That would be a start, surely?’

  ‘I’m sure there will have been some preliminary findings, but for now all we can confirm is that the body has been there for some time, certainly six months, possibly years.’

  ‘Hence the need for records?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Dan still seemed anxious to leave, but couldn’t quite tear himself away. ‘I need to ask this. Could it be Greg Jackson? I mean, could it be someone Jackson has killed?’

  Osborne didn’t react, though clearly he’d been harbouring the same thought.

  ‘We will need to establish everyone’s whereabouts and precise connection with the property, including Mr Jackson’s, but beyond that . . .’

  ‘Mr?’ Osborne laughed. ‘Even at your incompetent worst, you police must know exactly where he was between his arrest and getting parole? And whether that body was buried during that time. Or is even that a leap too far? And when Mary turns up, you’ll be treating her, too, with the respect she doesn’t deserve, I suppose?’

  Dan stepped towards Goodhew and then turned so that he partially blocked his father’s line of sight. ‘I’m sorry, Detective, but Dad knows he’s not great at handling drink. He usually keeps away from it, but he’s also not great with anything that “impinges on his personal life” – his words, not mine.’

  Goodhew followed Dan to the front door. ‘Drink aside, has your father always been
this volatile?’

  Dan smiled, a one-corner-of-the-mouth effort that made him look just like his father. ‘Mum’s always gone for the bad boys, so I imagine so. Though I don’t think Dad would appreciate any comparison being made with Jackson.’

  ‘I’m curious about that. How did your mum take it when Jackson moved on to Becca?’

  ‘Ask Mum that yourself. But in my opinion? She didn’t give a toss about him by that point, but she was bitter about it in any case. She’d been abandoned by Jane, and then betrayed by Becca. That bitterness was only swept away by Becca’s death. And what could she do but start again after that mess?’

  ‘So that was the trigger for her leaving?’

  ‘Without a doubt. Maybe if Jane had come home . . . But, as it was, Mum now had the money from the house, and nothing else to stay here for.’

  ‘Not you and your family?’

  He smiled coldly and frowned for several seconds, before speaking.

  ‘With me on Team Gerry? I don’t think so. If there’s one thing both my parents know, it’s how to hold a grudge.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The frontage of Café 1900 featured a small canopy shading a single window on each side of a modest front door. A Spar shop was next door, and a few tables were clustered on the dusty pavement directly outside, unremarkable and surrounded by weatherproof mulberry weave chairs.

  Inside, Café 1900 presented a different world completely: dark wood, mirrors and marbled columns. It gave the impression that it had once been part of an old theatre or the reinvention of a former gentlemen’s club. The café followed a gentle but deep curve through the heart of the four-storey building on Place de Bancs. Here customers had been mellowing into its quieter corners since the twenties.

  The ex-pat ladies met here regularly on the last Tuesday of each month. They’d begun with just four of them around a single table, but now there might be as many as a dozen friends. And friends of friends. They still tucked themselves away at the back of the building, but now took up enough of the tables there that, for a couple of hours, the final few yards of the café felt exclusively their own.