Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [110]
Goodhew stared thoughtfully at the photo, and the face in the photo stared back enigmatically. It would be fair, Goodhew decided, to describe him as a man in his late fifties. He right-clicked the photo and selected copy, then pasted the picture into a newly created email. He added only his own mobile number, and the words ‘Call me if this is the man.’
On his phone he arrowed ‘up’ through the list of last dialled numbers until he recognized Martin Reed’s, then he pressed ‘dial’.
Mrs Reed answered with just ‘Hello’.
‘This is DC Goodhew,’ he replied. ‘Is Mr Reed there, please?’
He’d gone for a walk and she didn’t expect him home for another hour. She began to fish for the reason for Goodhew’s call.
‘I’m sorry, there’s still no news of Joanne, but I do need to send him an email. Do you have a computer?’ They did, and Goodhew sat and gazed at the screen long after the ‘sent’ message had disappeared.
Mel had entered Marks’ office, almost certain that it would be empty. It was, but that left her with a dilemma. She turned the envelope over and over in her hand. The DC who had brought it in had insisted that it must be given to Marks, not kept for him in admin; and no way was it to be left sitting on his desk. As far as she could see, that now meant hanging round until Marks returned.
Then she saw a second option: hand it to another detective working on the same investigation. And so what if the only one in the building was Goodhew; wasn’t it time they cleared the air?
She found him sitting at his desk, seemingly oblivious to everything apart from his PC screen. ‘Just the person,’ she began.
‘Jump to the front of the queue.’
‘What queue?’
‘Never mind, go for it.’ He sat back in his chair. There was no urgency in his expression and she sensed his interest in her had evaporated.
‘Kincaide and I . . .’ She stumbled over the words, took a breath and began again. ‘Look, I know you saw us and it’s obvious you don’t approve.’
‘It’s none of my business.’
‘Well, actually, that’s my point. You don’t have the right to take it out on me. I’m sorry if you feel personally affected by my relationships but—’
‘I don’t. I was surprised . . .’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘More than surprised, actually. When you were crying the other morning, I thought it was because of Toby, and I thought that was the mess you were trying to untangle yourself from, not a relationship with Kincaide.’
There was something in the way Goodhew worded things that made them sound far less complicated than they were, like unmessing her life could be as easy as pressing a button marked ‘reverse’. She flopped into the nearest vacant chair, and they spent the next couple of minutes in a strangely amicable silence.
In the end it was Goodhew who spoke first, ‘I had no right to be upset with you, and I’m sorry if you feel I’ve been sort of stalking you.’
‘Stalking?’
‘The whole transparent thing.’
Mel smiled for what felt like the first time in days. ‘That’s not how I meant it, and I’ve decided it’s good to know someone who can see the real you.’
‘Is it?’
‘What’s the point otherwise?’ She held out the envelope. ‘This is for Marks, and I’m not supposed to leave it lying around, would you pass it to him personally when you next see him?’
‘Sure, what is it?’
‘Some sort of book, but I don’t know exactly, only that it came from Victoria Nugent’s place. DI Marks phoned the team on charge there and asked them to look for it, and they found it almost immediately.’
Once he was alone again, Goodhew opened the envelope. If his guess was correct, he was about to set eyes on the book from which Jackie Moran’s page had been torn.
The best lies, the most convincing ones, are grounded in truth. When Victoria took Bryn O’Brien to Lorna’s flat she pretended that she had lost a diary. There were countless other stories she could have concocted, but she chose one she could easily remember. One that was connected with something true.