The Backs (2013) Read online

  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.’

  How do you cope with dead bodies? That was the usual question.

  A shrug and a non-committal answer was the usual response.

  But Beales wasn’t asking out of mawkish curiosity.

  Goodhew smiled sadly. ‘I don’t. And I don’t believe others who say they just switch off from it. Why would becoming desensitized be such a good thing, anyway? I’m sure it gets to us all eventually.’ He shook his head, ‘Sorry, I don’t suppose that’s what you wanted to hear. I genuinely don’t know the answer.’

  Beales shrugged. ‘Kind of a relief to hear it put like that. It makes sense.’

  Goodhew drove back towards Cambridge with Beales’ final words lodged in his head. It makes sense. It was another thirty miles before Marks’s words displaced them. Get back to Cambridge as soon as you can. He remembered the exact tone of his boss’s voice. Without a doubt something back there had changed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Goodhew checked the time: 12.30 a.m. He sent the text in any case. ‘Are you awake?’

  The reply arrived in less than thirty seconds. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I come round?’

  ‘I’ll be home in about twenty minutes. Put the kettle on if you arrive before me.’

  His grandmother’s flat came into view just as he saw a taxi stop outside it. She stepped out but stood chatting to the driver until Goodhew had reached them. They then waved goodbye to one another and the driver gave Goodhew a thumbs-up as he pulled away.

  ‘That’s John Warrell,’ she explained.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He went to school with your dad. John always drives me whenever I pop up to the city.’

  ‘You’ve been to London tonight?’

  ‘Gary . . .’ She shook her head and led him inside. He couldn’t see her face but guessed she was smiling.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ever heard the expression “You need to get out more”? London’s only sixty miles away and I don’t just sit indoors in the evening.’

  ‘I never thought you did.’

  ‘Well, then.’ She opened the door into the kitchen. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Coffee, thanks.’

  ‘Backgammon?’

  ‘I’d better not. Apparently Marks expects me to be “fresh and well-slept” in the morning.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Left me a note. I’ve been in Essex for most of the day and when I arrived back at Parkside there was a Post-it on my monitor. I thought he wanted me back because something had kicked off.’

  ‘But nothing has?’

  ‘I don’t know the very latest on the Marshall case, but the boat I located in Point Clear needs full forensic investigation.’ He screwed up his face.

  ‘Unpleasant?’

  ‘It smelt bad. I feel as though that got inside me somehow.’

  ‘You mean there were fumes?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not fumes, but damp mixed with human smells.’ He lifted his coffee from her hands. ‘Thanks.’ Tiny milky bubbles pirouetted on the surface. ‘Primarily sweat, I think.’ He stopped short of sipping the drink and held it down near his right knee so that its aroma couldn’t reach him. ‘Do you know that feeling when you can’t see or hear – or in this case smell – something well enough to identify it, but at the same time you feel that all you want to do is back away?’

  ‘Surely you just mean instinct?’

  ‘No.’ His tone sounded sharper than he expected, so he repeated the word more softly. ‘No, not instinct. Some kind of association.’

  ‘So a memory?’

  ‘I suppose.’ He looked down at the coffee. The liquid was almost still now and an innocuous wisp of steam drifted from it. ‘It smelt sour in there. I can’t pin it down, but the smell is still inside my head.’ He gave up then. ‘Who knows.’

  His grandmother shrugged and changed the subject. ‘I ran into Bryn yesterday. Actually, I had a feeling he was looking for me, because he knows I love the coffee in Savino’s, and I was barely through the door when he appeared. We chatted for nearly an hour.’

  ‘Not girlfriend advice?’

  ‘Yes, he’s actually worried that she’s blowing hot and cold.’

  Goodhew waved the idea away. ‘He’ll change his mind by next week.’ He couldn’t get himself excited about Bryn’s love life, even if only to indulge his grandmother.

  ‘Maybe, but I think it would do him good to get dumped for a change. And what’s this tattoo he’s having done?’

  ‘I don’t know. Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘He said he didn’t want to say until it was actually done. But he also said you gave him the picture . . . and I’m just nosy.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot about that. From last year’s Hawaiian calendar, I think. He was after a picture of a hula girl.’

  ‘Cool. Have you ever thought about a tattoo?’

  ‘No, never.’ He felt tempted to ask his grandmother the same question but then a lyric from a 45 on his jukebox popped into his head. She had a picture of a cowboy tattooed on her spine, said Phoenix, Arizona 1949.

  So he decided to keep quiet, just in case.

  And, in the silence that followed, his thoughts drifted across town. ‘I haven’t heard yet if they decided to excavate the Osbornes’ cellar.’

  She straightened. ‘I heard it on the radio in John’s taxi. I assumed you already knew because you always seem to . . .’

  ‘All I’ve done is think about that boat. Marks told me nothing.’

  ‘The road’s cordoned off. There’s no announcement expected before morning, but the reporter referred to an increased police presence.’

  ‘So there’s something,’ Goodhew concluded quietly. And, despite Marks’s instructions and Goodhew’s best intentions, the idea of being well-slept tomorrow vanished in the blink of an eye.

  TWENTY-THREE

  He guessed it was about a mile from his grandmother’s to the Osborne house. The main road was the most direct route, even on foot. It was out of sight of the river but followed the same arc as the Cam as it curved north towards the site of the original Cambridge Castle, and passing the Punter pub at the bottom of Pound Hill.

  After five minutes’ walking he approached the junction with Silver Street. A police car crossed at the lights and headed in the opposite direction. The driver didn’t notice him and Goodhew realized he had no desire to speak to anyone either. Street lamps lit all the roads, but even without them the night was clear and bright. It was easy enough to pick out the creamy surface of the footpath that ran parallel to Queens Road and the Backs.

  He crossed the road and stepped over the single, low-level railing, striding most of the final half mile without seeing anyone at all. One hundred yards from Jane’s house and all that changed. Three orange and white road-closed barriers blocked the street from halfway up the hill onwards, and the sign hanging over the middle one read ‘Access Only’. The section of road on his side of the blockade was filled with residents’ car
s, while the other side was cluttered with official vehicles.

  Two were ambulances, which seemed optimistic for an excavation.

  Marks had recently changed cars again and his latest, a two-year-old black Honda, was parked near the top of the slope. Goodhew showed his badge to the nearest PC. ‘I’m looking for DI Marks.’

  ‘You can’t see it from here, but there’s a mobile unit parked just round the corner, across from the house. Last time I saw him, he was there.’

  The unit was a mobile site office that Cambridgeshire Constabulary had kitted out as a mobile information centre and often trailered to school events and fetes. Marks had pulled down the blinds on all but the window facing the Osborne house. He was standing inside, his head turned away from the door as he concentrated on his radio. He caught sight of Goodhew and waved him inside.

  ‘There’s a bunch of you expected on duty first thing, so if you’re staying now, don’t expect to slack off when the others turn up. OK?’

  Goodhew nodded. ‘Nice office, by the way.’

  Marks picked up a pamphlet that had fallen to the floor. ‘Fancy a career in policing?’

  ‘I think that’s the leaflet my careers teacher handed out.’

  Marks shoved it back in the rack. ‘You make me feel old sometimes, Gary.’

  The furniture consisted of a standard-height table and three low and totally incompatible chairs. Marks perched on the edge of the table. ‘First regarding the cabin cruiser: forensics are working on it but they’ve warned it’ll be a slow one. The senior SOCO asked me to pass on his thanks for, quote, not fucking it up, unquote.’

  ‘Carmel Marshall must know more about it than she lets on.’

  ‘Undoubtedly, but she’ll keep for a little longer.’ Marks tipped his head in the direction of the window. ‘This business is more pressing. By the time the radar survey results came back, we had enough data to conclude that there’s something buried down there. Then we lost most of the afternoon while structural engineers worked out whether it would be safe to dig.’

  ‘But then it went ahead?’