Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [30]
‘Only by reputation,’ Kincaide muttered. ‘It does cosmetic work, I gather. It was set up originally by several specialists, and does eye surgery and dental work along with the usual stuff.’
‘The usual stuff?’
‘You know, boob jobs, nose jobs, tattoo removal, skin treatments that stretch away wrinkles and shot-blast faces to keep fifty-somethings looking like forty-somethings because forty-somethings are busy trying to look like thirty-year-old Barbies.’
‘You don’t approve, then?’
Kincaide flashed him a lopsided smile, accompanied by a short snort. ‘I’m sure it’s the sort of shit that my wife Janice would rather spend money on than use to pay the household bills. But there you go, just not my scene.’
It took them about twenty minutes to reach Magdalene Street. They used the small car park belonging to the Excelsior Clinic, which had eight staff spaces and eight more for visitors. Four of the staff slots had been assigned eight-by-three plaques with two lines of dark-blue letters on a light-grey background. The top line said ‘Reserved For’ and the second line gave the occupant’s name. Goodhew took a quick look at each: R. Moran, A. Moran, D. Shan and P. Norgren. Two Mercedes, one green, one silver, a new ‘S’ type Jag and a Saab convertible. ‘These must be the consultants, I guess. Which one rang it in?’
‘Guy called Richard Moran.’
Dark-green Mercedes saloon. This year’s model, he noted. ‘In person?’
‘Seems so. That’s what I heard, anyway. I don’t know how long she’s been missing.’
A paved footpath led from the car park and continued through a narrow walkway between two buildings. They stepped out from the alley intervening into Magdalene Street.
Goodhew knew the thoroughfare well: it ran from Magdalene College, where leaning Tudor cottages hung over the congested street, down a shallow slope towards the pedestrianized city centre, finishing at Magdalene Bridge amid a knot of pavement cafés.
They now paused at the heart of the coffee shops and restaurants. A stiff breeze threatened rain. It rustled napkins and lifted menus but, even so, the tables were all filled with couples composing postcards, lunchtime meetings of diaries and Danish pastries, and coffee drinkers seated alone with thick books and slow thirsts.
They slipped between the tables and found the entrance to the Excelsior Clinic. There, they buzzed the intercom and heard the door being released. Inside, the walls, ceiling and light fittings were all plain white. Kincaide was about to press the lift button, but Goodhew took to the stairs and he reluctantly followed.
‘It’s a bit clinical,’ Kincaide quipped.
The landing door opened into a foyer, where the all-white theme continued. Here it was toned down with a beige sofa and an oak floor, complete with matching coffee table and reception desk. Apart from being female, the receptionist was about as far removed from the stereotype of her role as Goodhew could imagine. Her fringeless hair – a lack-lustre brown – had been dragged back and pinned at the nape of her neck. Her make-up stopped at her temples, leaving her exposed forehead bare of everything except the two deep frown furrows which dug permanent tramlines between her eyebrows. Hardly a good advertisement for cosmetic surgery.
And worse still, she didn’t smile. But perhaps that was just because she had already realized they were police.
Goodhew spoke. ‘We’re here to see Mr Moran.’
She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘He’s with a client at the moment. I’ll let him know you’re here, but I expect he’ll be about ten minutes, if that’s all right.’ She lifted the hinged end of the counter and waved them through. ‘Alice Moran is in the office, but that will be the best place for you to wait.’
She omitted the words ‘out of sight’ from the end of the sentence, but they both got her drift. Once they were both through, she slid back the opaque panel which separated her area from the room behind. ‘Alice, it’s the police,’ she announced.
Goodhew and Kincaide entered the main office and heard the door slide shut behind them. The room was small with two