had died. And just a few months since the man responsible for that death had been released from prison. It was possible that Jane already knew of either event or both, but equally possible that she’d missed each brief fanfare in the press, firstly regarding the attack itself and then the trial that followed.
Goodhew had one particular reason for having researched the case, because last year’s imminent release of Greg Jackson had weighed heavily on DI Marks. Rumours persisted that Marks had made an error with crucial evidence, a mistake which had led to Jackson being convicted merely on an assault charge – or, in the words of the less sympathetic,
he got away with murder.
It had seemed to Goodhew that answers were rarely that clear-cut, so he’d dug around for the details. And somehow Marks knew that Goodhew knew.
How long he’d known was a mystery, but once Marks needed to use that information, he’d laid it on the desk between them like the proverbial smoking gun. ‘I want you to go and collect her, but don’t tell her about Becca unless she already knows. And then, if – and
only
if – she asks questions, I want you to answer them.’
Goodhew had said nothing more at the time, but he understood why Marks wanted to speak to her back in Cambridge, and how long the journey would seem if she’d been full of questions and been fobbed off with three hours of
I’m sorry, I don’t know.
What Goodhew didn’t understand was Jane Osborne’s reaction. If she had known everything that had happened since, why hadn’t she come home? If she knew nothing, why wasn’t she questioning this journey now?
They were just into the third hour of their journey when they came to a halt on the approach to a roundabout. Alongside stood a sign directing them straight on for Cambridge. The board was green and white, with four-inch letters taking the full glare of a floodlight that shone up on it from the verge. The rain had now stopped and he stole another glance at Jane via the wing mirror. The light was reflecting straight on to her face. She was staring up at the signboard too, and for a split second he saw a flicker of emotion pass across her face.
Pain definitely, yet mixed with something else. But that expression had been so fleeting that he couldn’t pinpoint it.
He turned and looked directly over his shoulder at her. The customary defiance was back now but, before she could stop herself, she’d already responded to the question she’d registered in his face. ‘Cambridge?’ she said. ‘That fucking place!’
SIX
The meeting was to be at 11.30 a.m. Jimmy Barnes arrived at the Michaelhouse Café thirty-five minutes beforehand. It would have been so easy for him to have been here even before sunrise. He was an habitual early riser but today he’d woken at least two hours too soon. The usual fear of what the new day would bring had, for once, been overridden by an unfamiliar sensation of guilt.
Guilt because he was keeping a secret from his wife.
He pushed aside the urge to wake her up and tell her. Tell her what? That an unknown friend of a friend might be able to help. Even starting such a conversation was too fraught with issues, the route from
Good morning
to
I’m meeting her at eleven
held too many opportunities for stepping on shaky or, more likely, collapsing ground.
He let his wife sleep on until the alarm went off, telling himself that she’d never suspect anything was different as long as he stayed quiet at breakfast and left for work at the usual time. What was there to see in his expression but more of the same anxiety that they reflected back and forth between them.
Back and forth.
The tag on the tea bag swung gently from side to side as the darkening colour plumed and spread within the cup. Jimmy had ordered pastries along with the tea even though he wasn’t hungry, having bought them to sit there uneaten and justify his occupation of a table as the café filled. He’d chosen to sit up on the
Goodhew had one particular reason for having researched the case, because last year’s imminent release of Greg Jackson had weighed heavily on DI Marks. Rumours persisted that Marks had made an error with crucial evidence, a mistake which had led to Jackson being convicted merely on an assault charge – or, in the words of the less sympathetic,
he got away with murder.
It had seemed to Goodhew that answers were rarely that clear-cut, so he’d dug around for the details. And somehow Marks knew that Goodhew knew.
How long he’d known was a mystery, but once Marks needed to use that information, he’d laid it on the desk between them like the proverbial smoking gun. ‘I want you to go and collect her, but don’t tell her about Becca unless she already knows. And then, if – and
only
if – she asks questions, I want you to answer them.’
Goodhew had said nothing more at the time, but he understood why Marks wanted to speak to her back in Cambridge, and how long the journey would seem if she’d been full of questions and been fobbed off with three hours of
I’m sorry, I don’t know.
What Goodhew didn’t understand was Jane Osborne’s reaction. If she had known everything that had happened since, why hadn’t she come home? If she knew nothing, why wasn’t she questioning this journey now?
They were just into the third hour of their journey when they came to a halt on the approach to a roundabout. Alongside stood a sign directing them straight on for Cambridge. The board was green and white, with four-inch letters taking the full glare of a floodlight that shone up on it from the verge. The rain had now stopped and he stole another glance at Jane via the wing mirror. The light was reflecting straight on to her face. She was staring up at the signboard too, and for a split second he saw a flicker of emotion pass across her face.
Pain definitely, yet mixed with something else. But that expression had been so fleeting that he couldn’t pinpoint it.
He turned and looked directly over his shoulder at her. The customary defiance was back now but, before she could stop herself, she’d already responded to the question she’d registered in his face. ‘Cambridge?’ she said. ‘That fucking place!’
SIX
The meeting was to be at 11.30 a.m. Jimmy Barnes arrived at the Michaelhouse Café thirty-five minutes beforehand. It would have been so easy for him to have been here even before sunrise. He was an habitual early riser but today he’d woken at least two hours too soon. The usual fear of what the new day would bring had, for once, been overridden by an unfamiliar sensation of guilt.
Guilt because he was keeping a secret from his wife.
He pushed aside the urge to wake her up and tell her. Tell her what? That an unknown friend of a friend might be able to help. Even starting such a conversation was too fraught with issues, the route from
Good morning
to
I’m meeting her at eleven
held too many opportunities for stepping on shaky or, more likely, collapsing ground.
He let his wife sleep on until the alarm went off, telling himself that she’d never suspect anything was different as long as he stayed quiet at breakfast and left for work at the usual time. What was there to see in his expression but more of the same anxiety that they reflected back and forth between them.
Back and forth.
The tag on the tea bag swung gently from side to side as the darkening colour plumed and spread within the cup. Jimmy had ordered pastries along with the tea even though he wasn’t hungry, having bought them to sit there uneaten and justify his occupation of a table as the café filled. He’d chosen to sit up on the
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