Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [126]
Fifteen minutes earlier, Marks had been in the viewing room next door, sitting in front of a PC. The individual CCTV screens were on an adjacent desk, but Marks was watching via his monitor, where the various real-time images were running in separate windows on his desktop.
Alice Moran leaning forward with her elbows on the table.
Richard Moran leaning back with his hands cupping his neck.
Jackie Moran staring into the camera.
Marks had a fourth window open: a paused image of Goodhew’s earlier interview alone with Richard. Marks had played it twice before he began seeing what had rattled Goodhew, and he would have replayed it again but, before he had a chance, his young DC reappeared in Jackie Moran’s room, this time shoving a couple of photocopies in front of her.
Marks leant closer to the screen.
Goodhew’s demeanour had changed; he seemed cold, every movement measured, his conversation terse and his exit from the room equally abrupt. Jackie Moran stared at the back of the door for several seconds after it closed, then she placed the two sheets of A4 side by side and perfectly symmetrically in the centre of the desk. She sat so still that it looked like the shot had been freeze-framed.
Marks continued to watch her until he heard his own door open. At first glance he thought Goodhew was enraged; his jaw was set, his eyes bright and unusually intense. Goodhew looked at the paused footage of Richard Moran and then stared at Marks.
Marks sensed he was being challenged, then he understood. Goodhew was angry but, more than that, he was brooding with intense determination. He had seen the way to the end of this investigation and he felt compelled to follow it through. The challenge now was not to put the brakes on Goodhew, but to give him the keys and let him drive.
Marks reached forward and tweaked the two sheets of paper out of Goodhew’s hand. ‘Are these what you just gave Jackie Moran?’
‘Yes, look.’ Goodhew pointed to the dates.
Marks studied both pages, his gaze pacing around each image, then flicking back and forth between the two. He noticed the closeness of the dates almost at once; the subsequent deduction came more slowly.
Then it dawned on him. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said thougthfully. ‘And how do you suggest we proceed from here?’
FIFTY-THREE
There was no room for compassion now. Any that Goodhew had felt, or might have felt in a less heated moment, had been displaced by his rising fury. He threw open the door. She was standing at the window and turned to look at him.
She was just as good at eye contact, but now he wondered how he’d ever found her attractive.
‘I know who killed Lorna Spence.’ He left it as a blank statement of fact. No futher discussion. Neither was he going to be drawn into any prolonged gazing. He sat on one of the two chairs and motioned for her to sit on the other.
‘I’m fine standing,’ she said.
‘Suit yourself, just don’t expect to intimidate me with any of that “I’m higher than you” body-language crap.’
She pulled the chair back. ‘It’s no big deal, I can sit down if it bothers you that much.’
‘What do you know about murderers who kill in teams?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Teams can include pairs.’
‘Like I said, nothing.’
So many thoughts were raging through his head that it would have been easy to open his mouth and release a disjointed battery of accusations. In fact, the words which came were as dispassionate and steel-edged as any he’d ever spoken.
‘Team killers follow common patterns. They are strongly attracted to one another, sometimes even related, and one is dominant, making decisions and controlling their partner. The submissive one feels guilt and fear and the dominant one’s temperament may include aggressive outbursts. The dominant one decides what they do next. Does any of this sound familiar?’
‘Frankly, no.’
‘That’s the best thing about killing teams,’ Goodhew said. ‘Mostly it’s the submissive one that controls the final outcome – like now. It seems illogical, since you’d think it was the dominant one that steered it all the way, but no, sooner or later, when they’ve