Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [116]
‘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