Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [73]
Goodhew waved out at Kincaide to show him where they were. His colleague carried an A4 document wallet, which he held over his head as he made a dash for the shelter of the stable overhang. He half walked, half ran, trying to avoid getting splashes on his trouser legs. The suggestion that he now sit on a hay bale was going to go down very badly.
Jackie had seemed to relax, and Goodhew didn’t want to lose this opportunity to talk to her easily. He guessed with Kincaide’s arrival, her earlier stiffness was set to return. There were no more than ten seconds before Kincaide would make it through the door. Goodhew turned to face Jackie, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘So, tell me about Colin Willis.’
The guard she’d begun to drop flew back into place, but for a split second she looked betrayed. Her whole body had given a sharp and involuntary jolt; if his words were bullets, she’d just been shot.
Kincaide had drawn to a halt right next to the RAV4. He’d driven slowly down the track, trying to avoid mud splashes on his paintwork, only to find the so-called car park was nothing but mud ruts full of silty water. No doubt the air would be hanging heavy with the stench of horse shit.
He soon spotted the manure heap; it was at the far end of the yard, but it was large and steam was rising from it at an unhealthy pace. He opened his door and found that even curling up his nose did not improve the smell. Yep. Definite shit in the air.
One look at this place told him that he’d be adding a dry-cleaning bill to his expenses.
He grabbed an empty plastic folder from the pocket at the back of the passenger seat and used it as a makeshift brolly as he dashed towards the stables. Goodhew waved at him from one of the boxes and, inwardly, Kincaide groaned; what a fucking dump, not even an office.
He just hoped there wasn’t a horse in there as well.
There wasn’t, thank God. Goodhew and Jackie Moran were sitting together on straw bales and it didn’t look like the place even possessed a chair.
In all honesty, neither of them seemed too concerned for his comfort. But Goodhew was still new to the job and might be pissed off with him for arriving late, and if this Moran girl spent most of her time down on the farm, she probably didn’t know any better.
She appeared to be one of those women who wasn’t basically unattractive, but did absolutely nothing to improve her looks. Her hair was unsightly, Plain Jane brown and unkempt, and why did some women think that make-up wasn’t important? No wonder she was single, with just a herd of donkeys for company. Aside from that, though she wasn’t in bad shape – petite, but with nicely rounded breasts and an all-over lack of flabbiness that he approved of.
‘Everything OK?’ Goodhew asked him.
‘Yeah, absolutely.’ He studied Jackie Moran for a moment or two: she looked sly. Hiding something, no doubt. He made no effort to smile. ‘How far have you got, Gary?’
‘Just idle chit-chat. We thought we’d wait for you. Miss Moran’s been telling me about the horses kept here. One of them used to race.’
Whoopdee fucking doo. Kincaide made no comment, but couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling. There were times when moments of blinding dimness like this made him wonder if Goodhew was just putting on an act. Didn’t the bloke have a single ounce of initiative?
Kincaide shook Jackie Moran’s hand, making sure he pressed hard enough to assert his authority. ‘I’m sure DC Goodhew managed to explain already that we’re investigating the murder of Lorna Spence?’
Jackie Moran just nodded and stared him. He cast a glance in Gary’s direction, but the younger man was avoiding looking him in the eye. Jackie continued to stare.
‘I’d like you to come into Parkside station to make a statement.’
‘Is that necessary?’ she asked.
He was gratified to see that her eyes widened on cue, and he imagined that the accompanying gulp must have been close to audible.
‘I don’t think this is a suitable place for an interview as our questioning may take several hours,’ he paused, before adding with a flourish,