Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [97]
The man opened the door to halfway, not bothering with the chain, so perhaps pre-dawn callers didn’t worry him. The light shone from behind him, making it hard to see his face, and Goodhew caught sight of a shadow moving upstairs. The man didn’t speak.
Goodhew flipped out his ID. ‘DC Goodhew. Sorry to disturb you. I expect you’ve heard of a recent murder in Cambridge . . .’
His sentence trailed away to nothing, as the word ‘murder’ finally opened the door.
Wayne Thompson-Stark was at least six two and broad, like a rugby player but with a straighter nose.
‘Who else is in the house, Mr Thompson-Stark?’
‘The name’s just Thompson. My girlfriend, she’ll be down in a minute. Gone to the bathroom.’
‘You weren’t asleep?’
Thompson shook his head as though the bags under his eyes hadn’t already answered for him. It looked like he probably hadn’t slept well for days. He spoke in a gruff voice, which made him sound older. But then he looked considerably older than twenty-six. ‘Come through, and sit down.’ He patted his towelling robe. ‘You don’t mind if I stay like this?’
The front door opened directly into the sitting room, but Thompson led the way through to a narrow dining area at the back of the house and they chose chairs on opposite sides of a Formica-covered drop-leaf table.
Upstairs, a door creaked and footsteps padded across carpet. Goodhew lowered his voice, ‘You realize I need to ask you some questions about Lorna Spence?’
Thompson looked surprised. ‘You don’t need to whisper. Do you think she wouldn’t know?’
Goodhew shrugged. ‘Can’t assume.’
Thompson reached over to his left and pulled a chair alongside his own, ready for his girlfriend.
‘We don’t have any secrets,’ confirmed a woman’s voice.
She stood a few feet back from the door, as if weighing up the situation before deciding whether to step into it. Her hair was gathered up in bunches and she wore pyjamas, pink winceyette covered in a jumble of numbered sheep. The fabric stretched tight across her belly and she looked about eight months’ pregnant. She turned towards Thompson and he held out his hand for her to join them.
‘This is DC Goodhew.’
She nodded and sat in the empty seat.
Goodhew waited for her to be introduced, then realized they had no intention of bothering. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
This time it was her turn to look startled. ‘Hayley,’ she said.
‘Sellars?’ Goodhew supplied and she nodded.
Thompson laughed. It was short and humourless. ‘I thought you already knew. Like you said though, you can’t assume.’
Hayley reached out her hand and slipped it into Thompson’s. He gave it a squeeze.
Goodhew’s gaze wandered across to the clock, already ticking towards 3 a.m., then it drifted back to the couple facing him.
Thompson didn’t look at all aggressive; Hayley looked neither scared for Thompson, nor scared of him. But they both looked sorry. For what though?
Goodhew wiped his eyes. Something was clouding his vision and he needed to push it away. ‘I’ll be honest,’ he sighed. ‘Hayley, I don’t know what connection you had with Lorna Spence, but I know there was one. And, Mr Thompson, I need to know about your relationship with her too, about the assault and your conviction.’ He sighed again. ‘I know it’s now the middle of the night, but if you could explain it to me I’d be very grateful.’
Their entwined fingers seemed their only means of communication. She wanted him to speak first and he knew it.
‘It was the week I was twenty and I only had a vague idea who Lorna was. I’d seen her and her mate Vicky around, but I just knew their first names, that kind of thing. I was out with some old school mates, having a few drinks, playing pool, and I noticed her having a row with her boyfriend. This was early that evening, not much after seven, and the next time I looked round, she was on her own. She looked really choked up by then.
‘Later on, she came and stood near the pool table, and asked if one of us would let her play. My mate played her and, between shots, I got talking to her.