Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [80]
Goodhew nodded. ‘Gamma hydroxybutyrate, usually in liquid form. Colourless and odourless, but with a slight salty taste. Causes dizziness, confusion and memory loss.’
‘Very good. Well, Lorna Spence’s was administered to her in coffee. The report estimates that she ingested about four times the amount that would be expected to cause incapacitation. It’s a drug often connected with date rape cases.’
Goodhew scanned the report. ‘Had she been raped?’
‘Semen was present, but nothing else to indicate anything conclusive either way.’
Goodhew thought for a moment, then spoke, ‘I’d like to go back to Lorna Spence’s flat.’
Marks cast a sharp glance in his direction. ‘Why?’
‘To search it again.’
‘And I assume you have a good reason?’
‘Three actually. Firstly and secondly, we’ve found out about Joanne Reed and Colin Willis only since the flat was searched.’
‘OK, and thirdly?’
‘The search was conducted very quickly, and I think something’s been missed.’
‘Kincaide would say you’re trying to show him up.’
‘I’m really not.’
Marks stared at the road in front of him, but far too intently to be concentrating on his driving alone. ‘Do I need to know anything about how the “Emma” story was leaked to last night’s newspaper?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Goodhew had no idea how the two topics could be linked, but his reply seemed to prompt his boss’s next decision.
Every hint of warmth had dropped from Marks’ voice as he replied, ‘I don’t want you going anywhere near Lorna Spence’s flat, Gary. If there is to be another search, it won’t involve you.’
THIRTY
For the second evening in a row, Goodhew agreed to meet Kincaide at The Snug. They sat at the same seats at the same table, Kincaide with his red wine and Goodhew with coffee. But it didn’t feel the same as it had twenty-four hours earlier.
Kincaide was talking, or rather bragging, about his part in the interview with Jackie Moran, and Goodhew had all but stopped listening. One day of working closely with Kincaide had confirmed to him that they had nothing in common. And, more frustratingly, he knew he could have saved himself the trouble of finding out, because Kincaide was just the way he’d struck Goodhew on their first introduction.
He reminded himself that he wasn’t the one that needed putting straight, and made the effort to tune back in to what Kincaide was saying.
‘Did you see her face when I showed her that photo of the corpse?’
Goodhew tossed his spoon back on to the saucer. ‘What was that about?’ he snapped. ‘You obviously thought it was clever. Did it actually achieve anything? No. Do we look crass, insensitive, stupid? Yes, I think so.’
Kincaide swigged from his wine glass, downing half. ‘What’s put you in such a shitty mood?’ He nevertheless sounded indifferent.
Goodhew lowered his voice again. ‘I was embarrassed even to be sitting next to you.’
‘But happy to come out for a drink?’
‘Maybe I came to tell you how I felt. I thought you were out of line and I can’t think of any rational reason for you treating her like that. And now you’re sitting here, bragging about bullying a witness.’
Kincaide emptied his glass. ‘Jackie Moran is a suspect, and I thought you were being way too soft with her. I was just trying to even things up. If you want to call that bullying, that’s up to you.’ He stood and glared down at Goodhew. ‘This mood you’re in is pissing me off.’
The door closed after Kincaide, and Goodhew gave his half-cold coffee another stir. He followed it with a bottle of Stella. The sound system was doling out a cover version of a Ray Charles number; take a great song, then murder it – it had to be a ploy to make punters drink more. He drank his beer and let his annoyance subside, but he still didn’t buy Kincaide’s excuses.
Twenty minutes later, Goodhew left The Snug and turned down Burleigh Street, and then