Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [112]
Goodhew approached the visitor’s chair. ‘Is it OK if I sit, sir?’
His backside had barely touched the seat before Marks began. ‘When I saw you this morning, I had the distinct impression that you were not taking your responsibilities seriously.’ His voice wasn’t raised, but he spat out the words in succinct volleys and it didn’t sound as though attempting to interrupt or answer would be wise.
‘You,’ he continued, ‘are the youngest DC we have ever had working in this department. You may think you are merely acting on your own initiative, but you have nowhere near enough experience of life, never mind the police force, to even begin to comprehend what genuine initiative is and how to employ it effectively. I need people who follow orders, people who follow protocol and, most of all, who follow things through. You may be bright and talented, but I thought I’d made it clear that I wouldn’t hesitate in getting shot of you if you kept pissing me around. Do you really think that I have somehow given you a mandate to do whatever the hell you like?’
Marks glared. Goodhew said nothing.
‘In case you’re confused, that was not one of my rhetorical questions, Gary.’
Goodhew shook his head then. ‘No, sir, I don’t.’
‘I have a technique I apply when I want to get a really clear picture of how an individual is affecting my team. I imagine that the team consists entirely of clones of that same person. When I visualize a team consisting only of Gary Goodhews, it is anarchic, inappropriate and intolerable. I will concede that you do have moments of brilliance, but you made your own choice. When I said those anonymous notes had to stop, I was serious.’
Goodhew tried to interrupt, but Marks carried on over him. ‘Yes, you’re right, I can’t prove a thing. But I know.’ He tapped his forehead just above the left eyebrow. ‘I tell the team that we now have DNA from the so-called Airport Rapist; next thing I get sent the match I need. Lorna Spence’s flat was searched within hours of me ordering you not to. And what the hell was the idea of tipping off the newspaper with the “I’m like Emma” connection?’
That caught him out. ‘I didn’t,’ he protested, but Marks was already rolling on.
‘It was not information that the papers should have received at that stage, and though earlier I considered turning a blind eye to all of this, such unauthorized pow-wowing with the press, combined with your erratic behaviour today, has finally forced my hand. Do you have anything to say to me?’
‘I didn’t contact the newspaper.’
‘Wrong answer.’ There was a long pause before Marks spoke again. ‘The fact is, I am not prepared to work with you any longer, Goodhew.’
Goodhew nodded to himself. Hadn’t he asked for just that?
His mobile rang, its relatively sober ring tone sounding like a crass interruption. He glanced at Marks, who nodded for him to answer it.
The call took less than thirty seconds, and he subsequently relayed its contents to his boss in the hope that he would salvage at least something from this meeting. ‘That was Martin Reed, sir. He rang to confirm that the man who visited him, posing as a detective, was in fact Dr Alex Moran.’
‘How . . .?’
‘I emailed him a photograph.’
‘So what’s your theory on the page now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Goodhew bit his lip.
‘No, not good enough. You had enough insight to show him the picture, so tell me more.’
‘It was just the mention of “further deaths”. I think he knew he was dying and went to see Martin Reed in an attempt to “put things in order”. I don’t know what connection he had with Joanne Reed. He sounds as though he was feeling guilty when he wrote that page, so perhaps he thought seeing Martin Reed would clear his conscience.’
Marks raised his eyebrows. ‘Like I said, moments of brilliance, but that’s just not enough.’
Goodhew took a deep breath. ‘What happens now?’
Marks’ tone was cool and final. ‘Go home, take leave for the rest of the week. By Monday, you’ll be assigned to another department.