The Backs (2013) (25 page)

It made them sound like multiple choice. And he hated it.

He averted his gaze from the screen. It was the wrong time to let any emotion take hold. He lay back on the settee for a few minutes, resting his head on the arm and staring up at the ceiling. Then he covered his eyes with the flat of his hand, breathed deeply, and let the music from the jukebox flood inside his head.

A haze of tiredness briefly descended, and even promised sleep, but waiting for it to arrive would be fruitless. At best he would manage a dream ridden hour. He sat up again, then pulled himself to his feet and drank a pint of tap water. He left the empty glass in the sink, then returned to his laptop. He moved the mouse to reactivate the screen. His brain felt clearer now, and his gaze jumped three-quarters of the way down the page to a sub-heading:
Identification through fingerprints
, then jumped from there straight to some words further down:
Two positive identifications have been made so far.

The atmosphere in the room shifted again and he felt an unexpected unease as he clicked the mouse to turn the page. It was, once again, the moment for final confirmation of identities. He prepared himself to put a name to Person B; instead, two familiar names jumped out:
Person A, Paul Marshall. Person D, Carmel Marshall. Persons B and C remain unknown.

He felt no surprise, the Paul Marshall ID had been almost certain. Carmel Marshall? He hadn’t seen that coming, but now, with the certainty of hindsight, it seemed totally logical.

He shut down the laptop, crossed to the window and let the afternoon sunlight back into the room. He pressed his hands to the glass as he leant forward to look out over his private view of the city. Somewhere roughly south-east from him, beyond the Catholic church and over the Botanical Gardens, the Gogs rose out of the surrounding flatness. Paul Marshall had died over there, and Person B had become Daisy Tattoo.

He knew more now. And it would be enough to find her.

Goodhew grabbed his phone and jacket and rushed off towards Parkside station. It was already 3 p.m., but Goodhew still had a whole hour. With the right questions and a little luck, an hour might be plenty.

He knew Marks would read the report soon, and revisiting Carmel Marshall would then be obligatory in any case, so just for now he pushed her from his thoughts and hurried up the stairs to find Sergeant Sheen.

Sheen was an information hoarder, the man with the tidbits that added flesh and perspective to the skeleton of the Cambridge street map. And all this without ever appearing to leave his desk.

Sheen peered out from behind his computer. ‘Which murder brings you here today?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Mary Osborne or Paul Marshall?’

‘Oh, I see. I’m looking for a . . .’ that sentence was about to end badly. He started again. ‘I’m trying to locate a woman who may have accepted payment for sex.’

Sheen beamed. ‘You’re looking for a prostitute? I never thought those words would come from your lips, Gary. I’m sure someone would . . . several in this building possibly . . .’

Goodhew held a dead-eyed expression as he waited for Sheen to finish.

‘Well,’ Sheen pulled a lever-arch file from the shelf behind his desk. ‘Let’s see if we can’t put a smile on that face of yours.’

‘Sheen, I’m in a hurry and I know this is a tricky one.’

‘There are a few individuals here but most of the pages list escort sites, classified ads and so on. So much of it is online these days, that there will be plenty of sites we haven’t spotted yet, I’m sure. Who are we looking for?’

‘The girl on the Gogs.’

‘With the daisy tattoo?’

Goodhew finally smiled. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Your mate Sue told me.’ Sheen opened the file in the centre. ‘Some of this stuff is old now, and keeping it up to date is like trying to count a pond full of fish.’

‘The answer would be
one.’

Sheen scowled at Goodhew. ‘One what?’

‘One pond. Never mind.’

‘The fish, Gary. The fish.’ He sighed. ‘Tell me about her.’

‘Late teens, early twenties maybe. IC1, probable native English speaker, blonde, slim.’

‘Local?’

‘I think so, or at least with a connection here. As far as I can work out, she came from Cambridge and was heading back when she was seen up on the Gogs.’

‘Could she be a student? There’s a lot of it amongst them at the moment. Pressure of increased tuition fees, apparently. Personally I’d rather skip the education.’

‘Thanks – that’s put some unpleasant images in my head.’ Goodhew had skipped through the file but now closed it. ‘Student prostitution, then?’

‘Some sign up to contact sites, some advertise directly, though that’s risky. It means they’re out on their own then, without any protection or without the client having the impression that someone might know where they are, or who they’re currently with. We’ve come across quite a few discreet agencies in town over the years: small-scale operations usually, but with some kind of access to the students.’

‘Surely first-timers would be more likely to be introduced to it by someone they’ve met in person?’

‘Careful you don’t start making too many assumptions about her.’

‘I don’t think I am. Think of Marshall for a minute. If his game was to humiliate her, then he’s not going to pick a girl who’s already been systematically abused. Where would his thrill be then?’

Sheen shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

‘And, equally, where would be her incentive to stay quiet. This girl so far hasn’t said a word.’

‘There’s plenty of prostitutes who wouldn’t be prepared to speak to us.’

‘Yes, but also plenty who would – or would at least make sure we got to hear about any mistreatment, right?’

Sheen nodded. ‘Yes, word often makes its way back.’

‘But regarding a student, pretty much all of them would want to keep it very quiet.’ He knew he might be wrong there, but instinctively it felt right.

Sheen reached up for a different file. ‘There are thirty thousand students in Cambridge.
At least
thirty thousand. This one’s packed with every student adviser, official organization, and society I can find.’ Sheen kept one hand on the file and with the other reached inside the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out an A4 sheet of printed card that had been folded in two as if to make a tent. He stood it on the desk. ‘What d’you reckon?’

It was emblazoned with thick lettering:
No files to leave this area.

‘I know your rules already.’

‘Well, stick to them. Sit here and go through it.’

Goodhew checked his watch: it was 3.45. So much for his ambitious hour. Still, fifteen minutes was fifteen minutes. ‘I’ll come back,’ he told Sheen. ‘I have to see Marks at four. Actually, it might be better tomorrow.’

Sheen tapped the sign. ‘Don’t forget what it says.’

Gary next grabbed a coffee, making a call as the kettle boiled. He was waiting outside Marks’s office by 3.55, hoping their meeting would be quick, because he now had another appointment to keep at 5.30 p.m.

Marks arrived with his own mug of coffee and Goodhew followed him into his office. ‘How are you feeling?’

The report on Paul Marshall’s boat lay in its envelope, and was back in the prime spot on Marks’s desk.

‘Good, thanks.’

‘You don’t look any different to me. I’ve seen you like this in the past, Gary, and I assume it is only tiredness?’ Obviously content that it was, he carried on talking without waiting for a reply. ‘Is it that you can’t sleep or because you avoid trying?’

‘I’m just awake,’ Goodhew replied, and didn’t elaborate. In reality he would lie in bed thinking through all the things that called for his attention, and even when he fell asleep he dreamt about them until they pulled him into consciousness again.

‘See a doctor if you need to.’

‘I will, sir,’ he lied.

‘I’m serious. You don’t seem to realize you’re the kid that gets one-to-one time with me for the wrong reasons. I’m keeping you on track because I want you to run a great race, not end up as supermarket burger meat.’

Goodhew nodded silently. He’d long since decided that, when Marks began mixing metaphors, he was irritated over something. Often it was lack of resources or lack of progress, and today Goodhew could understand if it were both.

‘I held a briefing this afternoon, most of it you’re already aware of, but there are a couple of points you will have missed. The family have been officially informed of Mary Osborne’s death. I visited them this morning.’

‘How did they react?’

‘Jane wasn’t surprised. I assumed that might be because she’d spoken to you. What exactly had you told her?’ Marks looked interested rather than annoyed.

‘She asked me whether the body was her mother’s. I didn’t tell her that I thought it was, but I didn’t build her hopes up either.’

‘That’s fine. Lack of tact with relatives has never been one of your shortcomings. I spoke to Gerry, Dan and Jane Osborne all at the same time. Dan’s wife Roz was there, too, and I had the impression that it was the first time that she and Jane had ever met. More than anything, they seemed incredulous when I told them. Dan asked how long her body had been there, while Gerry kept asking us about the house.’

‘What about it?’

‘Whether we’d caused damage, whether its address really needed to be publicized, and so on. Quite bizarre questions from both of them, really.’

‘Especially as the search has already been reported in the press. If anyone knows Cambridge, then they know where that house is.’

Marks nodded. ‘Have you seen the news this afternoon? Mary Osborne’s murder’s now out in the public domain, complete with pictures of the property itself.’ Marks opened a drawer in his desk and slid the latest edition of the
Cambridge News
across to Goodhew. ‘I pushed those photos of the house out there just to see whether they’d generate some kind of reaction that Gerry or Dan Osborne had hoped to avoid.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing yet.’

Sometimes the incident room would be taking calls within minutes of the first announcement, but there seemed little correlation between the volume of calls and the number of truly helpful ones; one productive call could turn everything around.

‘But we’ll see,’ Marks added. ‘Jane asked when she’d be allowed to move back. I noticed Gerry Osborne open his mouth to answer, then he realized she was asking me from the point of view of the investigation. None of them objected, just seemed surprised she’d want to return there. In fact, she’s back there now.’

‘Although I’m used to being alone in a house, I’d find that creepy.’

‘But there was no reason to stop her either. The second point you missed from this afternoon’s briefing is the announcement that the investigation into Rebecca Osborne’s murder will now be reopened. It’ll be days before we have much back from forensics, so until we have conclusive evidence that the two Osborne murders aren’t connected, we have to assume that they are.’

‘There’s no way Jackson could have killed Mary. That means he’ll be in the clear.’ The tension rising in Marks’s expression was unmistakable, though it subsided almost at once.

‘Unless he wasn’t working alone,’ Marks suggested, though he didn’t look convinced. ‘I now want your opinion on something. What impression do you have regarding how Jane felt about her sister?’

Goodhew thought carefully before he spoke. ‘She clearly had some bond with her or she wouldn’t have come back here, and when you told her about Becca’s death, you said her grief seemed real. She clearly has issues with the rest of the family, and perhaps that’s why she left in the first place.’

‘Since you told me that Jane was actually in Cambridge when Becca was killed, I’ve spent the entire day mulling that over. If she cared about Becca, you’d think she’d want to help.’

‘She wouldn’t tell me anything.’

‘Of course. She says she can’t remember. She’s coming in tomorrow to make a statement, then we’ll go over it with her until there’s some progress. At the moment she flatly denies even remembering where she was when she first heard about Becca’s death. I don’t believe that for a second.’

Neither did Goodhew.

‘I thought perhaps you might have picked up on something?’

‘No, I can’t even work out whether she’s angry as a form of defence or just naturally aggressive.’

Without further comment Marks moved on to the next topic. He picked up the envelope that still lay in front of him and reached inside it, sliding the sheaf of pages half out before he spoke. ‘The business of waiting round for DNA analysis delays everything. It’s frustrating in the Mary Osborne case, and just as irritating in this one. I’ve read it, by the way, and I’ve decided to keep you over on this investigation, more specifically following up evidence contained in here.’

Goodhew shuffled forward in his chair. ‘OK if I look?’

Marks finished sliding them out and handed them to Goodhew, who scanned carefully the first few lines, then flicked through the batch of photographs. ‘I’ll read it right now, if you’d like me to.’

‘By tomorrow will be fine. I’ll be going to visit Carmel Marshall shortly.’

‘Really?’ Goodhew had wanted to do the same as soon as he’d finished looking for the girl from the Gogs.

‘Her fingerprints were found on the boat.’

‘And Paul Marshall’s?’

‘Yes.’

Goodhew packed the report back into its envelope. He’d gone too far to come clean and admit he’d already read it, but playing dumb would be foolhardy. Insulting to Marks, in fact, and that wasn’t something he was prepared to do. ‘Can I take it?’

‘Back to your desk. Not out of the building.’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ll speak with you again sometime after I’ve met with Carmel Marshall.’

‘I don’t mind coming along, if that helps.’

Marks shook his head. ‘You’ll see why when you read it, but I need to take a female officer with me. Three of us going in mob-handed isn’t what’s needed here. But thanks.’

Goodhew checked his watch as he returned to his desk: 5.20. Just ten minutes to spare. He opened out the report, but only for show. He next dialled the number, still remembering the pattern of digits from earlier. It rang for close to two whole minutes before anyone answered. He then introduced himself and explained what he wanted. She agreed to wait until he arrived. By 5.24 he was heading out through Parkside’s front entrance.