Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [74]
Her expression remained unchanged and, more disappointingly, she didn’t even turn pale.
A bit of a let-down. He sniffed. Maybe he’d played that trump card just a bit too early. ‘We’ll bring you back here for your vehicle once we’ve finished.’
‘I can drive. I can’t leave my dog here.’
Kincaide felt his forehead wrinkle involuntarily: he certainly wasn’t up for having some scabby old dog in his car. ‘OK, follow me. And when we get there, bring the animal in with you. We’d like to take a fur sample while we’re at it.’
He smiled: this time she had definitely gone pale.
Three cars drove in convoy back to Parkside station; Kincaide led and Goodhew brought up the rear. Jackie’s dog stared at him through the back window of her vehicle, and even though he stared back, his thoughts were really on Kincaide.
In Goodhew’s opinion, there was nothing about Jackie Moran that had needed his colleague adopting the aggressive approach.
Bridy finally turned away from the glass and shifted around in a circle before flopping down out of sight. Having said that, if this was the same dog whose choke chain had been used to kill Colin Willis, it might be enough to justify Kincaide’s full-on approach.
By the time they arrived at their destination, the rain had stopped and Cambridge was in the process of drying out. The puddles in the car park weren’t muddy; they simply lay on the tarmac, reflecting the surrounding glass and concrete. A rainbow of oil floated here and there for the additional urban touch.
Kincaide walked two yards in front, while Jackie Moran followed with her hands in her pockets and her head hung low. And – like owner, like dog – Bridy trotted behind the pair of them, looking as if she was heading for an unwelcome appointment with the vet. Mud caked the dog’s legs and similar splatters covered Jackie’s jodhpurs and jodhpur boots. Goodhew had already noticed that her hands were grubby. Her hair still lay flat from the pressure of her crash hat.
He lengthened his stride and tapped her on the elbow.
‘If you want to take a few minutes to freshen up first, that’s fine.’
She nodded gratefully and, once through the main door, he pointed her towards the ladies’ toilet. ‘I’ll wait here for you.’
The spring door creaked shut behind her, making Kincaide turn and scowl. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘She’s on edge,’ Goodhew said lamely.
‘That’s good.’
‘We’re not here to traumatize people.’
‘We are if they deserve it.’
‘Oh, right, and she’s obviously a career criminal, I suppose?’
‘She’s a potential suspect.’
‘How come?’
‘Because if it was that dog’s chain we found around Colin Willis’ neck, then she may have killed once already – and look how the Spence woman died.’
‘Drugged and asphyxiated, I recall?’
‘Neck, neck. That’s a bit of a coincidence.’
‘One strangled, one suffocated – yes, I see your point. But until we have proof that she was involved in one, let’s just keep an open mind about the other.’
‘Yeah, always.’
Goodhew took a breath. ‘Look, I just prefer a different approach to you.’
‘It’s fine. You’ll learn, we were all new once.’
Jackie re-emerged with clean hands, tidier hair and surrounded by a strong waft of anti-bacterial soap. She then followed Kincaide to the interview room, her heavy leather boots making loud hollow footsteps and Bridy’s claws clicking away like a midget tap dancer doing a warm-up routine. Apart from that, they remained silent.
The only room available was small and chilly. It had one frosted window set up high in the wall; originally, this had been intended as a toilet. Condensation left the glass wet and the entire area smelling like damp paper. Goodhew would have thought that spending long days in the stables would have left Jackie acclimatized to the cold, but nevertheless she began to shiver as soon as she sat down and they settled into the two chairs facing her.
Bridy slunk under the table, circling twice before lying down against her mistress’ feet.
Kincaide spoke first. ‘Tell us what you know