Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [96]
‘And he’s definately gone?’
‘Yep. I saw him get into a taxi out the front.’
Once Charles had gone, Marks finally opened the envelope. He wouldn’t even bother with fingerprinting it. Firstly, he knew there’d be no point. Secondly, if by a fluke there was a point, then he didn’t want to find it. He’d given up debating the ethics of accepting these anonymous tip-offs; he preferred instead to treat them with due suspicion, but follow them up anyway.
The words were typed in the usual way, vertically centred on a sheet of A4.
What did Lorna Spence keep hidden in a Marmite jar and a vinegar bottle?
Why does she receive other people’s junk mail?
Ask Victoria Nugent why she visited Lorna’s flat tonight.
Had Marks gone looking for Goodhew half an hour earlier, he would have found him with one hand resting on the open pages of the telephone directory and the other on his mouse, directing the flow of data scrolling up on his PC screen.
Goodhew was watching for the name ‘Sellars’. There were a few already, but none with the initial H., and in the phone book there were too many, at least too many to phone up at this unsocial hour.
He moved on to ‘W. Thompson-Stark’. He guessed with a name like that, any match might be the only one.
He typed ‘Thompson*’ first, in case the Stark had been added later. The screen immediately filled with Thompsons, so he started at the bottom and there, one entry below Z. Thompson (Shoplifting), was W. Thompson-Stark (Sexual Assault).
He double-clicked the entry and waited a painfully slow one and a half seconds for the data to appear on the screen.
The W., he discovered, stood for Wayne, who was now twenty-six years old. And the case dated back six years.
Goodhew’s gaze scanned the information. Rape charge brought. Reduced to sexual assault. Assault occurred on 9th July, reported after five days. No forensic evidence. Defendant denied charges, but was sentenced to three years, released after two.
Goodhew flicked on to the next screen to continue. Two words jumped out at once. ‘Lorna Spence.’
He let go of his mouse like it was hot.
He held his breath, reading the details slowly, making sure he read them correctly. His heart pounded. He printed the details and called a taxi.
Wayne Thompson-Stark lived in Cutter’s Path in Ely, a pretty development of townhouses running from the river back towards the cathedral. The cab dropped Goodhew at the edge of the estate.
‘I’ll drive you round if you want,’ the driver offered. ‘I just don’t know which road it’ll be, not with it being too new for the maps an’all.’
Goodhew shook his head. ‘Don’t worry.’ He preferred to find it on foot.
The houses were actually too new for most of them to even display numbers yet, and it took several minutes for him firstly to find an entrance to Cutter’s Path, and secondly to work out which direction to head for number 71.
The ‘path’ part of the name was appropriate; the cul-de-sac end of the road opened out on to a mock village green, complete with winding footpath. Cobbles, of course, and lit by faux Victorian lamp posts. Goodhew guessed it might stay looking pretty, until too many new owners began improving with white plastic doors, or adding porches and innovative garden features.
Number 71 was the last house on the left and, like most of the others, its lights were out.
Tough on Wayne, then, as murder and sleeping comfortably didn’t belong together.
From outside the front door, there was little to be seen of the inside: just one distorted pane directing his gaze up towards a black blur of darkness beyond. He gave the bell a firm press, and heard it chiming from the hallway. An upstairs light was switched on within a second, so he knew he hadn’t woken anyone.
The little pane of rippled glass revealed a view of a white handrail rising towards the top of the stairs. A man stepped into view. He stood on the landing while he felt his way into some sort of dressing gown. He was big built, and when he finally banged