The Backs (2013) (16 page)

‘And, judging by these photos, he’s clearly prone to violence. Although there’s no history of anything like that at home.’

‘Which could just mean that he was never exposed.’

‘Even if enhancing these pictures was possible, I think that establishing a positive ID would be a long shot. It is clear, however, that she has the same hair colour and build and is of a similar age to the woman I’ve been looking for.’

‘The woman
you’ve
been looking for? What happened to “There’s no evidence of a crime, therefore don’t spend any more time on this one”?’ Goodhew recognized the rhetorical question and stayed quiet. ‘Carry on.’

‘There isn’t much else, except that it explains the location of Paul Marshall’s body. Think about it, if he did something nasty to her and then dumped her there, doesn’t that make it the perfect spot to return the favour?’

‘And the Marshall attack had revenge written all over it? Hmmm.’ Marks closed his eyes in thought. ‘We can’t get far with that line of inquiry without first knowing who she is. But we can’t ignore it either.’

‘The local police are currently trying to locate details of his boat – someone in a pub or restaurant might remember the pair of them. I could start there.’ Goodhew paused, knowing that sometimes heart-on-the-sleeve honesty was the most productive way forward. ‘I’d really like to. I think it’s important and I’d like to see it through.’

Point Clear village stood in the parish of St Osyth, apparently famed for witch persecutions and having the lowest rainfall in the country. Goodhew knew nothing about either the witches or the supposedly dry climate. The rain had begun about ten miles south of Cambridge and seemed only to intensify once he hit the outskirts of the village. There was a lake near the centre of St Osyth, where a moored ski-boat jiggled about in the water, buffeted by both the wind and a heavy downpour.

A PC Beales from Clacton had left a message saying that he’d wait outside the grocer’s on Point Clear Road. That had sounded vague, but the small shop turned out to be one of the more noticeable landmarks on the long straight road. Goodhew pulled alongside the patrol car and wound down his window. Beales did the same, and Goodhew shouted across the gap between them: ‘Shall I follow you?’

‘Leave yours here and we’ll go in this one.’

‘I don’t know how long I’ll need to be.’

‘You can have as long as you want.’ Beales was probably a similar age to Goodhew, but his expression still brimmed with the excitement that came with new experience. ‘And I’m a better person to row you out there than anyone else you’ll find at this time of day.’

Goodhew nodded and lifted his rucksack across to the other vehicle.

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem. Bet you didn’t bring a life jacket, either? But don’t worry about it, I have two with me.’

Goodhew hadn’t even considered the logistics of reaching Marshall’s boat. He’d imagined it being tied to some kind of jetty, so that he would be able to reach it on foot and step aboard from something solid.

‘It’s out in the channel leading up to St Osyth Creek, moored out in the middle but easy to reach.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘I checked all the names of people who’d paid for moorings. I went to school with Artie Hallam’s grandson, so I know Artie’s been dead for a good ten years. As soon as I saw his name on the list, I guessed.’

‘That’s a lot of local knowledge.’

‘Not really. Everyone knew Hallam because he was your standard waster and bastard – only the brewery would have missed him. And maybe his widow.’ Beales pulled a face that implied he felt doubtful even about that. ‘Anyhow, I went to see her and learnt she’d sold it to a man who wanted it as a surprise for his girlfriend.’

‘When was this?’

‘Old Mrs Hallam didn’t have a name or date but said it was right after Artie’s death in ’98.’

The light was fading quickly, mostly due to the rain. Beales turned down a lane which was flanked on one side by the perimeter fence of a holiday camp and on the other by a ribbon of exposed houses. The road then deteriorated into a crumbling concrete track, but Beales seemed to know the potholes well and wove deftly around them, barely slowing.

‘I arranged for a dinghy to be left at the Point Clear ferry station. With any luck it’ll have a motor, so I was joking about the rowing.’

‘How long have you been in the force?’

‘ ’Bout two years. Before that I was a lifeguard in the summer, and volunteer lifeboat crew all year round. So you probably won’t drown but if the worst does happen to you, I’ll know what paperwork needs filling in.’

Goodhew looked away and smiled to himself. The constable was good company and, when he thought about it, he actually preferred Gully’s company to no company at all; though even a year ago he probably would have felt differently.

Beales reached the end of the track and pointed out a wooden walkway that stretched from the hard standing to the water’s edge. ‘Grab your kit, then.’

‘That’s a ferry station?’ It looked as though the full service here might consist of a man in a cable sweater with a coracle under one arm.

Goodhew opened the door, realizing the temperature had dropped further and the rain felt sharper. His jacket was waterproof, but felt flimsy against such weather. Cambridge stood forty-five miles from the nearest coast, far enough that he never needed to consider the rough weather that rode in from the North Sea. Beales opened the boot and flung Goodhew a thick coat and a life jacket. ‘It’ll be much colder once we’re out there.’

‘Oh good.’

‘Better get on with it, then.’ Beales stepped on to the walkway. ‘Stay on the boards, otherwise it’s nothing but mud between here and the water.’ Goodhew followed and within minutes they were on board and bobbing on the water, as Beales coaxed life into the small outboard. ‘So what’s in your rucksack?’

‘A couple of torches, a camera, a SOCO suit – evidence bags just in case.’

‘Just the one suit, I suppose?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Goodhew totally understood Beales’s disappointment, but equally he wanted to inspect the inside of the boat without distraction. Now they were moving he had a better view of the estuary. Pleasure craft of varying sizes and budgets were moored along the centre of a crescent-shaped stretch of river. Some were tied to a jetty there but the rest occupied random spots, like marks on a scatter diagram. ‘Which one belonged to Marshall?’

Beales pointed upstream towards the far limit of the moorings, about half a mile away. ‘Third from the end, with the dark-blue stripe.’

From where he sat, Goodhew could only pick this out as a boat-shaped smudge bisected by a dark band. They spent the rest of the short journey in silence, both leaning forward to watch the cabin cruiser’s shape sharpen and solidify. It looked about twenty feet in length, with a small deck area at the front and a lower deck at the back. The cabin area had one low but wide double window on each of three sides. The dark curtains appeared tightly closed across the two windows that were visible as they approached.

Beales pulled alongside and tethered the two boats together. ‘If you want to suit up here, it should be steady enough.’

Goodhew nodded and was about to unpack the white suit, but then he rezipped the rucksack. He raised his voice, shouting to Beales, ‘I’ll do it once I’m on board, otherwise I reckon I’ll be risking too much contamination going across from here.’

‘What are you expecting to find?’

Goodhew shrugged and removed the life jacket and the thickest coat. ‘Possibly nothing, but the clean suit is just in case.’ A few seconds later, on board Marshall’s boat, he pulled on the coveralls, his thoughts still on that last exchange: would he really be going to these lengths
just in case?
No. He stared at the closed door next to the wheelhouse. He was expecting to find
something;
he just didn’t know what.

Goodhew set up the first torch at the back of the boat, shining directly towards the cabin area. The other he carried, training it on the floor, checking that there was nothing to note, before stepping forward. He ran the beam around the whole of the rear deck.

The open area was sparse: the only fittings, apart from the steering equipment, were two vinyl chairs and a tiny side table, all wall mounted. He guessed that the vessel was around thirty years old, fairly well maintained from the outside but not at all the high-end toy that he’d expected.

The cabin door and the steering wheel were both of wood varnished in a thick orange-tone lacquer. He wasn’t surprised to see a lock on the door, even though no key had been recovered. It had probably been melted into the sub frame of the Evora, and if he found something here now, they’d need to check the wreckage of the car more closely.

He slipped his hand into his rucksack and located a rubber-handled screwdriver and the smallest of his three lock-picking sets. He opened the small pack of bump keys and found the right type to fit the lock. He gave it several sharp taps with the screwdriver handle. It opened smoothly and he pushed the door gently.

Despite his face mask, he knew at once that the air smelt bad – not in a distinctive or identifiable way, just bad. He shone the light inside, and the interior looked like a squat. The far end was occupied by a bed, wide enough to be a double at the foot but narrowing a little towards the head as it followed the lines of the hull. The half of the cabin in which he stood housed a short sofa on each side, with a narrow aisle running between them. The upholstery and carpets were both gun-metal grey, and the heap of bedding at the far end was a mix of yet more grey and dark blue. He photographed the scene before he touched anything, then activated the voice recorder on his mobile phone and placed it on the floor by his feet.

His precise remit had been simply to identify the craft, determine whether it had been recently used and check for anything suspicious. It was that last part of his instructions which had been Goodhew’s green light to come fully equipped. He knew this hadn’t been Marks’s
exact
intention, but it was also Marks who had urged him to use his initiative. And his rucksack here was brimming with it.

Like, for instance, the orange glasses and the small UV torch that he’d zipped into one of the side pockets. He first turned off the cabin’s main light. The torch on the rear deck still shone so he reached behind and shut himself inside the cabin. He then began with the floor in front of him, kneeling to shine the UV light on to the long thin strip of carpet tiles. The floor glowed back at him like an upended panoramic image of fireworks night: speckles, shadows, glitter and white glowing streaks.

The smell rose again. He felt his throat constrict and his torch beam shuddered for a second. He steadied his hand before he began speaking. ‘The floor area is heavily stained. Small dark circles indicating blood droplets, and another area – maximum measurements approximately ten centimetres by seven – indicating pooling. Several fluorescing stains point to the presence of powder residue and bodily fluids.’

He kept to the same spot but ducked lower and shone the torch over the furthest section of carpet, directing the beam of light under the twin sofas. More marks glowed back at him. ‘Several objects are concealed under the seating; there appears to be a bowl, a mug and several fabric items. I am further away this time, but all these items indicate possible DNA evidence.’ He straightened and swung the torch across the upper side of the sofas. ‘The visible surface of the seating shows powder and some minor marks. At this point I am making the decision not to step further into the area. A small proportion of the duvet is visible, and it also shows staining.’

Goodhew drew a long breath and tried to pin down the strange smell that had first hit him. It was harder to notice now that he’d been in the room for a few minutes. He shut his eyes in order to focus on it, but instead, and for the first time, he noticed the bobbing of the boat. He shook his head, deciding he’d seen enough. He switched torches to use the standard beam again. In this light his surroundings just looked shabby.

He bent over to grab his mobile phone and caught a sliver of that same smell. He turned slowly to his left and it became a little stronger. Sweat? Yes, sweat and who knew what else – but, now it had been identified, there was no mistaking it.

When he was just inches from the door, he killed the standard torch and flicked back to the UV light.

Above the door itself a heavy-duty ring had been bolted to a wooden block up near the low ceiling. Below it he could see shapes fluorescing back at him. Sweat stains that had been sucked into the dry grain of the wooden door. Indicating a woman’s proportions, and reminding him of a watermark.

The sweat stains left by contact with her upper arms, her shoulder blades and her buttocks marked from near the top of the door to the area of its wooden surface level with Goodhew’s waist.

He stepped out on to the rear deck and extinguished the torch. The rain was reduced to a light spray and he drew in several deep breaths of the damp air.

Then he locked the door behind him and climbed back into the dinghy alongside Beales. The constable eyed him warily. ‘What did you find?’

Goodhew felt around in the hull of the boat until he located the extra coat and the life jacket. ‘This boat needs taking to a secure location. Can you arrange that?’

Beales nodded, then kept staring at Goodhew all the time he had radio contact with the shore. ‘They said they’ll bring it in before dawn.’

‘Good.’

Beales looked uncertain, ‘What happens now?’

‘We wait.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘We’re not leaving it unattended. Call them back if you need to.’

Beales did, and in less than an hour they saw the lights of another boat heading across the estuary. By now, Goodhew had already spoken at length with Marks, and had received the simple instruction to return to Cambridge at once. He didn’t argue.

Beales had been listening quietly to the phone call. Goodhew hadn’t minded, but was thankful when Beales didn’t press him for more news as they waited. It was only when Goodhew was dropped back at his own car that Beales spoke. ‘You looked shaken when you got off that boat, but now you seem absolutely fine. I don’t understand how you do that.’