Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [81]
He had always been in the habit of checking doorways and alleys as he passed them. Even front gardens sometimes. And it was his automatic custom of checking in all directions that led him to look far down a side street and spot a Vauxhall that he recognized.
It was parked sideways on, with its passenger door facing him, but too far along the side road for him to see the registration. But he’d long known that identifying cars can be like identifying people. A person can be spotted by their gait, or stance, or distinctive dress style, a car by the way its suspension sags, or its aerial sways, or even the unique fingerprint of stickers in the back window. This one he was certain he knew simply from the combination of flashy non-factory alloys and the suit jacket hanging just inside of the rear door. This wasn’t Kincaide’s usual part of town, but it almost certainly was his car.
Hanging around in a bar with Gary Goodhew fell well short of Kincaide’s idea of a good evening out. He checked his watch, and then double-checked that he’d left his mobile switched on. Goodhew was still banging on about his treatment of Jackie Moran; sometimes he just couldn’t fathom the bloke’s logic. Yesterday, the nostalgia over some old pub and the urge to track a witness down at eight in the evening. Today he was complaining that the same witness hadn’t been treated like their new best friend. As far as Kincaide could see, Goodhew spent far too much time fretting about work. In fact, Goodhew never seemed to think about much else. Kincaide tried to flash back to the time when he’d had that level of commitment to the job.
Again his thoughts returned to his mobile; he wished the text would arrive. While he waited, he decided he’d made a more than adequate job of keeping his side of the conversation flowing. And while he wasn’t one for enjoying anticipation, by the time the phone bleeped, he wouldn’t have been surprised if just the sound of it had given him a hard on.
He read the new message in his inbox: ‘10 mins usual place.’ Part of him wanted to boast to Goodhew and to own up about what was going on. But another part of him, and arguably the better part, resisted the temptation. Goodhew was still too idealistic to understand how an affair could negate some of the frustrations of marriage.
After leaving The Snug, Kincaide had driven to a convenient parking spot at the rear of the Dreams bed showroom, about halfway between the police station and the pub. It was usually a good spot, a small yard that was deserted once the shops closed for the night and a discreet place for them to meet.
Arriving first, he realized that another car occupied the car park. Its windows were already steamed, he’d need to park up somewhere else. He sat in the driver’s seat and waited; within two minutes the passenger door opened and she slipped into the seat beside him. She smelt flowery, like she’d just sprayed herself with one of those cheap body sprays that teenagers use before they discover real perfume. He liked it – a lot – more than enough for him to feel the first stirrings of an erection.
‘I got here as soon as I could,’ Mel began.
They’d been meeting at least twice a week for over a month. He pointed at the other car. ‘We’ll need to find somewhere else.’
‘We could leave the car here and go for a drink. It would be nice if we could just talk tonight.’
He grinned and reached across, taking her hand and pressing