The Backs (2013) (13 page)

He paused deliberately, swinging his gaze across the faces of his team. Goodhew glanced around too, and noted the collective look of uncertainty that was reflecting back towards his boss. Although Marks’s expression betrayed nothing, Goodhew thought he seemed pleased. The DI slid his hand back into the document wallet and retrieved a length of wire. ‘This is the same type of wire used in the assault. It is known as twist wire or, rather appropriately in this case, tying wire. It is sold by most builders’ merchants, common as muck and untraceable in all but the broadest sense. Goodhew? Come over here, please.’

Goodhew went over and turned to face the room.

‘Hold your hands like this.’

He copied the position that Marks demonstrated, crossed at the wrists but at the angle where the fingers of each hand could reach to wrap round the opposite forearm. The way Marshall’s had been.

‘The most effective way to secure it is using pliers.’ Marks dipped back into the document wallet. ‘Here we are.’ Goodhew held his hands still while Marks twisted the length of wire in place. ‘Marshall’s legs were bound with duct tape, but this wire was also used to secure Marshall to that tree – at the waist, chest and neck. Well, Goodhew?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Is that uncomfortably tight?’

‘No.’

‘Can you get free?’

‘I don’t think so. No.’ Goodhew twisted and pulled against the wire. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Marshall was bound even more tightly than this. Therefore he had no chance of escape. If Goodhew here kept struggling it would dig into him more deeply. This wire would cause soft tissue damage, and eventually it would rupture the skin. At some point in Marshall’s torture, the wire did just that. He struggled enough for it to sever the blood vessels in his neck. Collapsed his windpipe.’

Marks reached forward to free Goodhew’s hands.

Kincaide spoke up. ‘So if the assailant wanted information, Marshall may have died before he could provide it?’

‘Precisely. This bears hallmarks of a rage-driven attack, but the perpetrator was prepared, focused and had planned it extremely carefully.’ Marks finally removed the twist wire and waved Goodhew back to his seat. ‘The reason for my demonstration must by now be crystal clear to all of you. Keep your wits about you. The man responsible for this crime is capable of disabling a fit adult male. He achieved this with blows delivered to the head and kidneys, followed by a kick which shattered Marshall’s kneecap. Questions?’

No one ventured to say anything. Goodhew meanwhile scribbled the word
Revenge?
on a clean sheet of his notepad.

Marks continued, ‘There seem to be discrepancies between Paul Marshall’s appointments diary and the appointments he actually kept. For example, he booked two full days – 27 and 28 July – to complete a job that actually involved only a couple of hours’ work.’

‘Sounds like our plumber,’ Clark muttered. A ripple of agreement fluttered through the room.

‘Trading Standards have never received a complaint about his work or practices, but if he was trading irresponsibly we need to know.’ Marks had a habit: without warning he would fall silent and still, jaw taut, then only his dark eyes would move, flicking a beady gaze around the room. Like a bird of prey in a room full of juicy voles. They all held their breath and, as always, Goodhew felt tempted to shout
boo!
But he never had, and knew he never would.

It was only when Marks finally exhaled that the room also found the collective urge to breathe. ‘Right then, toxicology.’ Marks shuffled through the papers and slipped a new sheet to the front. ‘Our Mr Marshall was a busy man: steroid use and cocaine. Some damage to the liver and kidneys and the telltale nasal septum decay, obviously all due to the coke. Which, not forgetting the Lotus, amounts to him having expensive tastes. He paid for the car in cash, so no doubt he did the same with the drugs. I want to know whether this money was siphoned from his business receipts, who he paid, where he hid it, and what else he purchased.’

Goodhew wrote down
Thrill-seeker. Vain.

‘The location of the body was very specific, clearly the theatre involved in burning the car was a reason for choosing that spot, but as one of the highest points in the area, and therefore more conspicuous, it did increase the risk of being observed. What, then, was the significance of the Gogs?’ Marks looked up. ‘Any thoughts?’

Goodhew’s pen hovered over his pad. ‘Who’s the psychologist on this one?’

‘Dr Bhagat.’

‘What does she say?’

‘Thinks there will be a reason why it had to be the Gogs. In her opinion the killer will have a specific and highly personal motive for the attack, and therefore is someone with a strong connection to Marshall or to some aspect of his life.’

‘But nothing’s shown up so far,’ Kincaide said thoughtfully. He twisted round in his chair to speak to Young. ‘How far did you get with Marshall’s PC and laptops?’

‘Consistent usage mostly, with no sign that anything has been wiped. But we have all the email contacts, online purchases, downloads, viewing history. They all need going through in more detail, because nothing’s shown up as yet.’

Marks cleared his throat. ‘I have received that list, thank you.’ He paused just long enough for all attention to be facing the front again. ‘According to Paul Marshall’s wife, and his appointments diary, his business was thriving. He employed no one else, but he subbed out some work from time to time. So, finally,’ Marks picked up the document wallet again and this time produced a single sheet of paper, ‘we have drug usage and large cash purchases by a family man with a legitimate business. It’s obvious to me that there is more to Marshall than there might seem.’ Marks began reading out items from the list: the leads, the lines of inquiry – and who he’d assigned to each. Goodhew listened carefully, memorizing all the pairings of names with the tasks. Finally Marks announced, ‘Goodhew?’

‘Sir?’

‘Phone bills, both work and home. Unusual calls, calling patterns, premium-rate numbers and so on.’

Goodhew wrote these instructions on his notepad, then stared at the page for a moment.

‘You look like you have a question?’

‘Yes, I may need to cross-check, for example, against bank statements, internet usage and so on.’

Marks dropped the wire and pliers back into the document wallet and zipped it closed. ‘You possess initiative, Goodhew, so I expect you to employ it. That goes for
all
of you.’

Goodhew drew a careful circle around the words
check phones
, then made the briefest eye contact with his boss. Marks glanced at Goodhew, then at what he had written, before his attention moved on. Goodhew closed the notebook. It didn’t matter what he’d been assigned; he already knew where he needed to look.

Sue Gully was still working in the office when Goodhew returned. Kelly Wilkes had joined her. They sat facing away from the door and angled away from each other. Their desks were positioned on the inside curve of a horseshoe, so if they both scooted their chairs back at the same moment, they would collide.

Kelly could touch-type, and her fingers skimmed the keys with a neat economy that gave the appearance of less productivity involved than Sue’s determined two-fingered, one-thumbed tap-tap-tap. Kelly now pressed the return key, and paused. ‘I bet he’s seeing someone.’ She continued typing.

Sue was typing up notes, so maybe she’d heard, maybe she hadn’t. Goodhew opened his mouth to speak just as she reached the bottom of the page. ‘Like a counsellor?’ she suggested. Another long pause, another field filled, and a new screen. ‘Or another woman?’

Goodhew dived in. ‘Can I guess?’

Kelly started. ‘You made me jump.’

Sue twizzled her chair to face him. ‘Have
you
worked him out yet?’

‘Kincaide? No.’

‘Nobody changes overnight like that. Anyway,’ she swung back and snatched a Post-it note from one side of her monitor, ‘here’s Mary Osborne’s address.’

‘Your schoolgirl French did the trick, then?’

‘Not a problem.’

Kelly turned too. ‘I was in the room, Gary, and she didn’t use a word of it. She did say “You really have a lovely accent” a couple of times, though.’

‘Even their addresses have lovely names,’ Sue remarked.

‘Crap. Probably named after some crusty politician.’

Goodhew studied the address:
9 Rue Élie Berthet, 87000 Limoges.
He hadn’t thought that Sue would have been simply wasting her time, but he still felt surprised.
Surprised at what, though?
That Mary Osborne had been so easy to find, yet none of her family had bothered trying?
No, not that
.

‘Gary?’ Sue spoke his name through gritted teeth.

He looked up at her, surprised. ‘What?’

‘I said, what did he write?’

‘Who?’

‘Élie Berthet. You just said “he was a novelist”.’

‘He is, but I don’t think I said so.’

Kelly nodded. ‘You did, actually.’

‘Sorry. Is there a phone number with this?’

‘No, nothing for that address, apparently. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know, but I feel like I should ring her first. Perhaps she doesn’t want to be found.’

Kelly stopped him. ‘No, she made an appeal for Jane to come home. I remember it was in the papers before Becca’s funeral, then again later. And Jane also wants contact now. I don’t see an issue.’

He felt as though he should agree, but instead continued to hesitate. ‘It’s been weird how Jackson cropped up, then Jane Osborne . . .’

‘Jackson didn’t “crop up”, he was paroled. Months later, Jane Osborne is arrested. They both come from Cambridge, they both end up back here, so what’s the big deal?’

Judging by Sue and Kelly’s expressions there wasn’t one. But they hadn’t met with Jimmy Barnes. Only Goodhew knew that Jackson was watching both Jane
and
Genevieve. ‘I should tell Marks.’

‘No, just keep him informed about the case you are supposed to be on.’ Sue scowled. ‘Don’t start pressing his Greg Jackson buttons while his head’s in the Marshall case. He’s up to here already.’ She demonstrated by slicing the air under her chin, then swung her hand out to grab the phone as it gave the first bleat of a ring.

He folded the Post-it note in half, then in half again, and turned to go.

‘Gary,’ Kelly hissed. She held up her
Wait
finger, then pointed it at Sue.

‘I’m on my way.’ Sue covered the mouthpiece. ‘Can you come to Pound Hill?’

I really shouldn’t.
But he nodded.

‘OK. Goodhew’s coming with me.’ She hung up and grabbed her keys. ‘Looks like our little friend’s got herself in trouble.’

Gully completed the journey to Pound Hill in less time than it took for her to relay to him the details of the phone call. The bare fact was simple: Jane had been seen entering her home and now wouldn’t respond to repeated calls at the front door.

‘So who called it in?’ Gary asked her.

‘A bloke called Campbell.’

‘First name or last?’

So Goodhew hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Mr Campbell – lucky sod. ‘Both, apparently. He practically has a hotline to Parkside. Reports problems several times a month: dangerous driving, dangerous parking, probably even dangerous litter. It came up in Jane’s notes that we picked her up from Leeds, so that’s why this call came my way.’

‘Campbell Campbell?’

‘Yep.’

As they pulled on to double yellows on Pound Hill, a face loomed in the window of the flats across the road. It vanished again and several seconds later a man in his late fifties appeared in the doorway. He hurried towards them, bustling and impatient. By the time Goodhew and Gully were out of the vehicle, his list of concerns had been primed.

‘Mr Campbell?’ Gully lit the fuse, and it was a short one.

‘I moved in here while Gerry’s parents still had the place. Decent people. Even Gerry, for all his faults, is decent too. But the children, that’s where it went wrong. And I don’t know what that girl thinks she’s playing at.’

‘Jane Osborne?’

‘Jane-bloody-Osborne. I phoned her father soon as I saw her.’

‘Today?’

‘No, just after she turned up again. But I haven’t phoned Gerry this time. God knows, he doesn’t need to go through any more.’

Campbell was a short man, beige clothes, brown shoes, badly dyed hair. His head nodded as he spoke, not up and down exactly, more like a forehead-first butting motion. ‘You need to get yourself inside that house quickly.’

‘I need more details from you, Mr Campbell. DC Goodhew is already checking the property from the outside. When did you last see Jane Osborne?’

‘This morning. She’d been out shopping and she hasn’t left again since. I don’t understand why you let him do it.’

Gully double-blinked; had she missed something? ‘I’m sorry, who is “he”?’

‘Well, my dear, if you release a man like that and don’t keep watch on him, you’re nothing more than a bunch of fools. I mean Jackson.’

‘Greg Jackson?’

‘Of course you had to let him out again, after the pig’s ear made of the first murder investigation. I’m not afraid to testify, though. I would have stood up first time if I could have – if I’d known anything at all.’

‘So,’ Gully readied her notepad, ‘you saw Jane Osborne return home at approximately what time?’

‘Eleven-ish.’

‘Have you seen her since?’

‘I knocked at the house.’

‘What time?’

‘The first time, probably within the hour. Then again about an hour after that.’

‘So you knocked twice. Or more than that?’

‘I kept trying. I never left it longer than an hour in between.’

‘And did you hear or see anything there?’

‘She was inside, all right.’

‘But she didn’t reply?’

‘No. But I held open the letterbox and listened, and someone was definitely moving around.’

Gully could see Jane’s point of view. She wouldn’t have felt like opening the door to Campbell either.

‘If I wasn’t the age I am, I’d have those locks open straight away – not go pussyfooting around it like your young detective there.’

Goodhew was currently about thirty feet away, examining the property’s exterior. If Campbell decided to employ any more animal references, Gully had a feeling that ‘monkey up a drainpipe’ might be about to come into play.