Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [49]
Goodhew waited.
‘Get yourself a chair,’ Marks barked, ‘then sit in it.’
Goodhew did what he was told, reaching for the nearest chair, which stood against the wall. He began speaking straight away, before sitting, hoping to pre-empt some of the conversation. ‘I saw Lorna Spence’s calendar, and noticed she’d booked her car in for an MOT with someone called Bryn . . .’ He paused mid-sentence.
Marks pointed at the carpet in front of his desk. ‘Don’t talk, just sit.’ Marks then picked up his Parker ballpoint and jabbed the button into his desk blotter a couple of times, making the pen retract and reappear noisily.
When he was ready, Marks spoke. ‘I suppose there was nothing worthwhile on at the cinema last night?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Alice Moran rang to complain about your visit, and I must say that wandering around chit-chatting to witnesses is not how I expect you to find yourself an evening’s entertainment.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, “oh” indeed. Think I wouldn’t find out? Remember, I’m supposed to be coordinating this investigation, so I don’t expect to arrive at work on day two to find I’ve been wheeled into kept-in-the-dark-corner. I want a full explanation, then I don’t want it to happen again. All right?’
Goodhew nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Now, then, start talking.’
An hour later, Marks held a briefing session, perching on the edge of a table with a pile of papers beside him. He scanned the faces of his team, noted some semi-vacant expressions, and hoped it was just because they’d emptied their minds in readiness for this meeting. There weren’t enough of them to go round without having to compensate for any dunces on the team. Everyone would become stretched too far without more manpower.
Goodhew had arrived early with notebook and pen, and was now filling a page with a doodle resembling a spider juggling hoops. Marks thought it would be more appropriate to see him doodling a hangman’s noose, considering the lucky escape he’d just had. It was fortunate for the young detective that they were so short-staffed; it made dropping him an impossibility.
Kincaide looked unusually distracted: wide awake, of course, but his gaze periodically wandering towards the floor.
Marks hated meetings that dragged on, and kept his own direct and fast-paced; he reckoned the sooner they were all active again, the better. He cleared his throat and waited to ensure everyone’s full attention, and only started to speak when Kincaide’s focus floated back up from the carpet. ‘At the moment, this is the full team and, as you can see, we are very thin on the ground. As a result, this will mean two things. Firstly, you will have too much to do.’
Someone murmured, ‘There’s a surprise.’
He ignored the comment. ‘And secondly, you’ll be expected to handle elements of this investigation that many of you will not have had experience in dealing with in the past.’ He tapped his temple. ‘None of you are thick, because if you were, you wouldn’t be here, so use your eyes and ears and, most of all, your common sense. Now, down to business.’
On top of his pile of papers lay a ten-by-eight photograph, face down. He turned round it to face the assembled group. It was a scene-of-crime shot of Lorna Spence. ‘Preliminary information points to a time of death between 10 p.m. on Monday night and 2 a.m. yesterday morning. As you can see, there is a ligature around her neck – this was used to secure the carrier bag. The cause of death has been confirmed as asphyxiation, not strangulation.
‘However, there is no sign of defence wounds on her, or of any injury which may have incapacitated her. Nor evidence of any attempt by Lorna to free herself, so we are waiting for toxicology tests to determine whether any substances were taken or administered previously. We will not have the results of those until tomorrow, at the earliest.
‘The same with the swabs. The victim was fully clothed, except for any