Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [130]
‘Yes, I think so.’ Jackie thought there ought to be something deeper she could add, something more profound. But the only words that flashed through her mind were too forward and inappropriate to utter. In the end she shook his hand, and all she said was, ‘Thank you.’
Marks studied the TV, having just finished watching the tapes of Richard and Alice Moran for a second time. Finally, he turned his attention back to Goodhew. ‘That was impressive,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And that’s the sort of inspired chaos I’m missing when I don’t keep you fully occupied?’
‘Possibly, sir.’
‘Heaven help us with you in the department.’
‘I don’t have to stay.’
‘Yes you do, even if keeping you here turns out to be the only reckless thing I do before I retire. But here’s the deal: I keep you challenged, you keep me informed. Anything else is on your own head. I will never cover up for you. Understand?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Never.’
‘I know.’
‘Right. I expect you’ve heard they’ve started a search at Old Mile Farm.’
Goodhew nodded and imagined the forensics team swinging into action, taking measurements and planning their assault on that mountain of manure. The tactic would be a slow and thorough sift through the site, but it wasn’t an occasion to use the term ‘fingertip search’. ‘Can I go along?’ he asked.
Marks shook his head. ‘Not this time. It could take days and your paperwork needs you. I’ll let you know as soon as anything turns up there. If it ever does.’
‘It will.’
FIFTY-FOUR
It was now two days since Alice and Richard Moran had been formally charged. It was early afternoon and Goodhew had a call to make. The receiver was ready in his hand, but he hesitated and looked across Parker’s Piece from his quiet corner on the third floor.
Ratty had finally come in and made a statement. It contained nothing new, but involved supplying him with three hot drinks and a plate of sandwiches. Goodhew sat and watched Ratty walk away, back into his life of sleeping rough.
Just beyond Ratty’s departing figure, Mel was returning from lunch; the two passed within feet of one another. While Mel continued to choose dangerous relationships, he wondered whether her life was much safer than Ratty’s. He hoped so, but he also knew that caring about someone wasn’t enough to keep them safe; after all, there was nothing Martin Reed could have done to save his daughter.
He dialled the number from memory. For the first time in many weeks, Goodhew had woken up after a decent night’s sleep, reborn in a mood of quiet reflection. The calm after the storm had finally arrived and this was like the last gust blowing its way out of his life and into someone else’s.
Goodhew’s call to Martin Reed was short. The phone rang only twice before it was answered.
‘Mr Reed? This is DC Goodhew.’
‘I know, I recognized your voice.’
Goodhew wouldn’t have recognized Martin Reed’s. It was taut, hoarse even.
‘We wanted you to be aware that we’ve recovered an unidentified body.’ He was careful to stress the word ‘unidentified’. ‘We will be conducting tests and as soon as—’
‘But it could be Jo?’
Goodhew hesitated. ‘It could, yes.’
‘And you’ll ring.’
‘Yes, as soon as we can.’
‘I’ll just wait then,’ he said and immediately put down the phone.
Murder was a very big stain to leave on the world. He guessed it marked even those on the periphery, like the clinic receptionist Faith Carver and Bryn O’Brien. He knew that both Martin Reed and Jackie Moran would definitely be scrubbing away at it for years to come.
The pile of typing on Mel’s desk had grown to about three inches thick, most of it urgent and illegible. She didn’t mind. She’d just shared a sandwich and a packet of crisps in the pub with Toby, and though neither of them had spoken much, the silence had lacked any trace of bad atmosphere and surely that was progress.
On the way back to the station she’d glanced up at the third floor, knowing where Goodhew liked to sit. She couldn’t see him up there, but she almost waved, just in case. She hoped they’d get a chance to talk properly soon, but