Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [41]
The flatness of East Anglia kept the horizon low and the sky vast. When Goodhew had been about seven, his grandfather had told him to look at the ceiling, then to lie on the carpet and do the same. Goodhew knew that most things became smaller when you moved away from them, but when he lay down and looked up, the ceiling seemed to have grown. His grandfather had said that Cambridge was lying on the carpet, and the sky was there to remind it that it was only a tiny corner of the world. Beyond that, Goodhew couldn’t remember the exact purpose of the conversation, but he never failed to notice the sky.
By the time he was crossing Parker’s Piece, his thoughts had gravitated back to Lorna Spence. He was on the far side from Parkside station and from here, he could see that the light was off in Marks’ office. He’d spent most of the afternoon and early evening away from his boss, and therefore away from the latest thinking regarding the case. He’d been away with Richard Moran for the identification and at Lorna’s flat, but neither task had given him any insight into the direction their thoughts would be moving back at the station. He probably wouldn’t know until morning.
He guessed that Bryn had stepped beyond the boundaries of a mechanic–customer relationship. Too early to read much into it though, since Bryn’s reluctance to talk about it may have stemmed from one of several sources, like the desire for privacy or a simple aversion to the police. There’d be time for that kind of detail when Bryn made his official statement.
Goodhew felt wide awake, his mind buzzing too much to face the confines of his flat. Without any definite plan, he realized that he was drifting, in an arc, away from the straight line taking him to his front door and left towards the city centre. He began to think about talking to Richard Moran, and wondered whether he could get away with visiting him at this late hour. He tried to remind himself that it wasn’t exactly his place to be the first to know everything, except that his obsession for knowing was what had pulled him into the job in the first place, and he fully recognized the shortcoming and enjoyed giving in to it.
Goodhew glanced at his watch. He knew, before he checked, that it was around ten past nine, but he just wanted to convince himself that it really wasn’t too late. Nine o’clock was the end of kiddies’ bedtimes, the watershed where adult TV began, and the soaps mostly ended. News didn’t air until ten; oh yes, it was early enough.
He’d already checked out Moran’s home address and had immediately been able to pinpoint the house itself. It was the left-hand half of a towering six-storey semi which stood next to a church, and enjoyed a rare, elevated position looking down on Chesterton Lane and from there towards the Cam.
It involved a short walk through the town and out the other side, past the Excelsior Clinic itself, then across the river and right at the next junction. He kept to the main routes now, walking with purpose, keen to reach the house as quickly as possible.
He ignored the arguments against this visit, only beginning to consider it might be a bad idea in the moments between ringing the doorbell and seeing a shadow approaching it on the other side of the glass. He hadn’t even decided what excuse to use for his visit, trusting himself to come up with something appropriate when the need arose.
It didn’t.
Richard let him in without question, clearly having already got the hang of understanding that he’d now lost his entitlement to privacy. Had Goodhew been asked for a snap judgement, ‘resignation personified’ would have been how he summed up Moran; he looked hollowed out and punch-drunk, still standing but just waiting for the killer blow.
But once he was inside, the light got better, and when Goodhew saw the man face-on, he knew that punch-drunk wasn’t the appropriate phrase. Stoned more like. Yes, he looked out of it, broken even, but there was an unnatural energy in his stare.
Whatever. He looked like shit.
Goodhew opened his