Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [45]
Her head tilted sharply, directing him out into the hall. She removed one arm to let him pass. ‘Go,’ she hissed.
He was happy to oblige; a swift retreat seemed like an all-round healthy idea.
He wondered whether there was anything appropriate he should say to her, but before he’d seriously begun considering this question, Alice had joined her brother on the settee. She sat very close to him, and Richard leant forward, burying his head into the crook of his sister’s neck. Her chin now rested in his hair and her arms curled him in towards her, like a protecting shawl over his shoulders.
She continued to glare at Goodhew, who mouthed the word ‘Sorry’ before turning away.
Each step he took echoed loudly on the hardwood floor, advertising both his intrusion and his retreat.
Finally, from behind him, Richard let out a whimper as the last of his self-control fractured. By the time Goodhew opened the front door, the man’s hysteria was in full flow. It didn’t sound attractive: altogether too much snot, dribble and wailing.
Goodhew didn’t look back at the house; he was too busy thinking about his conversation with Richard. It had been interesting, bizarre and not quite the laid-back, low-key chat that he’d had in mind.
Perhaps it was just his sixth sense, but he guessed that Marks would not be impressed.
SEVENTEEN
Goodhew walked home the long way, alongside the river until he reached the footbridge that crossed above the gentle gushing of the small weir. A houseboat was moored below; one window was lit and in it, he could see the silhouette of a woman and the book she read. The water barely moved, almost inviting him to dive in, but he knew that stillness was deceptive. It was a thought which stayed with him as he entered the long corridor of unlit trees crossing Jesus Green and leading towards the spot where he’d first set eye on Lorna’s body.
There was no breeze, just the darkness of unmoving shadows. This would have been a more secluded place to commit murder. His gaze wandered over the grass beyond the trees; he seemed to be alone, but even so found it hard to believe that no one was watching him.
He had felt strangely unsettled since leaving Richard Moran’s house, dwelling on Richard’s idea that Lorna had been murdered by a stranger. It was possible, of course, but then there still needed to be a reason why Lorna would have chosen to be alone near Midsummer Common in the early hours, especially on a foggy night when someone could be waiting just out of sight.
Like Alice waiting out in the hall.
He tried to imagine the relationship that Lorna and Richard had had, and wondered whether Alice had always been there, either trying to suck Lorna into their claustrophobic clique, or leaving her shut out of it. He wondered what Richard and Alice were like when alone altogether. He’d only seen them three times in twenty-four hours, but they already reminded him of the two halves of a pantomime pony. Next, he wanted to know who would play the front half.
Goodhew was pleased when he reached the end of the footpath, and he now kept to the road, with the common on his left. At almost the eleven o’clock position, he could see the ripple of the blue-and-white police tape cordoning off the southernmost corner. In the time it took to draw alongside the crime scene, only two cars had passed, but neither driver seemed to notice him. There were no other pedestrians either.
So much for thinking this junction would be less deserted; when this area of Cambridge slept, it was virtually comatose.
He crossed the road, then stopped to look back at the taped-off section. Even without fog, it remained a dark corner, falling outside the nearest pools of lamplight and absorbing any natural light into its thick, deep grass. In daylight,