The Backs (2013) Read online

  ‘Jackson wasn’t intentionally forthcoming, no. But there’s something he’s holding back.’

  ‘And you discussed this with Kincaide?’

  ‘No, I thought about it just now on my way up the stairs.’

  ‘And that’s the DC Goodhew contribution to modern policing? Well done. Now sit.’

  Goodhew started recounting the conversation with Jackson, but Marks was busy logging on to his computer, and after a couple of sentences Goodhew realized he was wasting his breath. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’m waiting for an email. It’s not here yet.’ Marks rested his elbows in the arms of his chair, interlocked his hands, then surveyed Goodhew from behind steepled forefingers. The gesture made Goodhew feel as though Marks was trying to read his mind. ‘Apply your brain to this. Mary Osborne moved to Limoges in 2007. She’s sent postcards home but, apart from that, has avoided contact with her family. The French police have now found her, but she’s not prepared to come back to the UK.’

  ‘They’ve told her about Jane coming home?’

  ‘Yes. But, from my experience at least, I’d say she’s not the most maternal woman I’ve ever encountered.’

  ‘Does she know she has a granddaughter?’

  ‘I believe so. But the same point applies there too. If she’s not the family-bonding type, then it might not be enough to bring her home.’

  ‘So what’s her reasoning?’

  ‘She’s happy to answer questions, but won’t leave France. And we’d have to apply to the French courts for an extradition ruling if she continues to refuse.’

  ‘That would slow things up.’

  ‘And we can’t even prove she’s obstructing the case at the moment. So we need to demonstrate the legitimacy of our request, and until we can show a connection between Mary Osborne and the body in the basement, we’re scuppered.’

  Goodhew frowned, not sure what Marks expected of him.

  ‘What’s the main reason Mary Osborne would have for not coming back?’

  It was rhetorical, but Goodhew answered in any case. ‘Because she’s scared either of being arrested or scared of someone here.’

  ‘Exactly. And what’s your best guess?’

  So guessing was now counted as an official modern policing method? ‘Apart from the body in the basement?’

  ‘And apart from the obvious, like husband, lovers and so on . . .’

  The obvious thoughts here were too obvious. Marks was clearly expecting something from Goodhew, and Goodhew had no idea what that might be. Marks reached over and clicked the ‘refresh’ button on his mailbox even though Goodhew knew it would automatically update as soon as anything new arrived.

  ‘Have any results come back on the body in the basement, sir?’ The phrase ‘body in the basement’ now sounded as though it had concatenated into a single word.

  ‘They’re hoping for basics any time now.’

  ‘Too soon for DNA?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Goodhew nodded slowly. ‘Have you personally spoken to Mary Osborne?’

  ‘Briefly.’ Marks tore his attention away from his inbox.

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘Older. And weary.’

  ‘Are you sure you’d recognize her voice after this long?’

  ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t, actually. I frequently phone in here and don’t know which DC I’m speaking to, or phone home and find it takes me two sentences to work out whether it’s my wife or daughter that’s picked up. And that’s without a seven-year gap. So what?’

  ‘How do we know that the woman is really Mary Osborne?’

  ‘Birth certificate, driver’s licence, bank details. The French police have confirmed her identity.’

  ‘But not someone who actually knows her?’

  Marks suddenly looked pleased. ‘They’re emailing a photograph right now.’ He swivelled the screen so they could both see it, and then they both sat and waited. It was a long ten minutes; neither of them spoke, and the only movement was from Marks, alternating between tapping the tips of his fingers together and strumming the edge of his desk. Finally they heard a dull click and, after a slight delay, a new email appeared at the top of the list. The bold-type title read Mary Osborne.

  After one double-click on the attached file, the image itself appeared. The woman’s hair was darker, straight and thick. Her face was thinner and her expression seemed flat and guileless. The age was approximately correct but, beyond that, she wasn’t even close to resembling Mary Osborne.

  ‘Well done, Gary. You’ve earned yourself a trip to Limoges.’ Marks nodded at the screen and continued nodding as he turned back to Goodhew. ‘Get your passport. We’ll leave immediately.’

  ‘Isn’t that discovery enough to agree extradition?’

  ‘Come on, Gary, since when do you feel happy to wait several days for answers?’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Flights from Stansted to Limoges took a little over an hour and a half, but unfortunately they only flew three times per week and the next one wasn’t for another two days. After some negotiation, the French police had agreed to escort the mystery woman to Paris, whilst Marks and Goodhew travelled by train from Cambridge to London, then from St Pancras International to Paris Gare du Nord. After a fifteen-minute taxi ride they had been delivered to a sweeping building that, at first glance, looked more like a former thirties department store than a police station. As they waited in the foyer, Goodhew spotted a plaque and discovered that it had been purpose-built in the nineties, in the same way that the charcoal-grey cube of Parkside station had been in the late sixties. But this one had less of the ugliness.

  Now they sat in an interview room very similar to one of their own and waited for the arrival of the woman claiming to be Mary Osborne.

  ‘I wonder who she really is,’ pondered Goodhew.

  Goodhew had built a picture of the physical Mary Osborne in his mind, mostly based on photos, but enhanced by the comments of others too. She stood at about five foot four, with an average frame and a big bust.

  An ample bosom, as his grandfather would have said.

  She enjoyed her figure too and, in all but the photos taken at Jackson’s trial, she’d worn tight T-shirts or low-cut tops and jeans that grabbed her at every curve. In every photo her hair had been streaked at the front, and straightened: her take on Rachel from Friends perhaps, since the shots were several years old now. She’d often been snapped holding a drink out towards the camera, and most often grinning into the lens with a coquettish tilt to her head. Some people never quite grew up; and he didn’t think that as a criticism. Personally he felt as though he’d somehow skipped being a teenager, and couldn’t help feeling some fascination towards perpetual teenagers like Bryn and, maybe, Mary Osborne.

  The woman was ushered into the room by a suited man who spoke a few sentences to her and nodded towards Marks and Goodhew, before he took a seat near the door and left them to sit on either side of a narrow table.

  In the flesh she was even further from Goodhew’s mental picture of Mary Osborne: several inches taller and with broader features. Unvarnished nails and sensible shoes, unremarkable clothes and a cautious look in her eyes.

  Marks introduced them both and she murmured, ‘Hello’.

  ‘We’re investigating the discovery of a body at the former home of Mary Osborne.’

  ‘I saw it in the papers. I’ve never been there.’

  ‘We need to ask you about your relationship with Mrs Osborne.’ Marks shifted in his chair, settling down for the long haul. ‘What’s your full name and date of birth?’

  ‘Are you going to try to get me back to England?’

  ‘You’re not in a position to negotiate with me.’ Marks had his pen poised over a pad of paper, where it didn’t waver. ‘We know you’ve been living as Mary Osborne, and at the moment we have no other contact details for Mrs Osborne, so your cooperation is vital to us.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’ve found, but it’s not her body.’ />
  ‘Is that a question or a statement?’

  ‘She’s not in Cambridge.’ She took a breath. ‘OK, I said I’d talk to you, and I will. But I need to stay out of the papers – and stay here, if I can.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Lesley Bough. Like the bough of a tree, and spelt the same, B-O-U-G-H.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘11 February 1964.’

  ‘Where were you born, Lesley?’

  ‘Stone, in Staffordshire.’ She’d only answered a few simple questions so far, but her voice had grown in confidence already. ‘But I lived in Cambridge for several years. We had a flat in Milton Road and I worked at the Milton Arms when I first moved down, so it was handy.’

  ‘Who is “we”?’

  ‘My husband and me. I was married then.’

  ‘And you knew Mary Osborne?’

  ‘From work, yes.’

  Marks looked surprised at this, and cast a questioning expression in Goodhew’s direction before turning his attention back to Lesley Bough. From the case notes, Goodhew couldn’t remember Mary ever being employed, but something tugged at his memory anyway.

  ‘And where did you and she work together?’ Marks asked.

  ‘We didn’t work together.’

  And as she said it, Goodhew remembered. Mary had once been the almost silent partner in a small recruitment agency. ‘Kado Employment,’ he interjected.

  Lesley nodded. ‘Except it’s pronounced cadeau, as in the French for gift. It comes from the names Karen, Drew and the O from Osborne. Mary said she wanted to call it MKD Recruitment but gave in when she realized that KADO sounded so much better.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘She’d probably been running it for years by then, but still couldn’t let go of the fact that her initial wasn’t the one at the front. She was a funny woman.’

  It was the first time Goodhew had detected anyone expressing any warmth towards Mary Osborne.

  Marks didn’t pause to consider that. ‘When did you last have contact with Mary Osborne?’

  ‘2007 – just before we left England.’

  ‘What else do you know about the other partners, Karen and Drew?’

  Lesley Bough shrugged. ‘Nothing except that they were husband and wife. I don’t even know their surname. Mary worked a couple of days each week, including Tuesdays. Tuesdays was my day at college so I’d go into the agency then, and chase up work. It was always Mary I saw, so that’s how we got chatting.’

  ‘And how would you describe your relationship with her? Purely business, or more as a friend?’

  ‘As a friend, I think. I always felt she was drawn to anything transient. I’m the opposite and, because of her outlook, I always expected that we’d drift apart eventually. But planning to break off all contact with home and, therefore, with each other? It meant we parted on a good note for both of us, and I still think of her as my friend.’ As she looked at them both in turn, her smile had faded and there was slight bewilderment in her expression. ‘Even though she probably doesn’t think much about me,’ she conceded.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Spain. In theory.’ She stared at the nib of Marks’s pen as it flicked deftly across the page. ‘Mary had more things to pull her back home than I did. I did wonder whether she’d stick it and, if she didn’t, whether she’d say too much about me. I never thought I’d be the one giving the game away.’

  Marks stopped writing before she stopped speaking, and hadn’t finished rallying his thoughts when his phone began to vibrate inside his jacket pocket. ‘Excuse me, I need to take this,’ he said. He reached for the phone as he stood up. ‘Goodhew will continue to ask you the necessary questions.’

  Goodhew moved across to Marks’s seat so that he could face Lesley Bough directly. He scanned down the page of notes that Marks had left, feeling sure there had been ambiguity in something she’d said. His finger found the point on the page. ‘You said “before we left England”. Do you mean you and Mary, or that you came here with someone else?’

  ‘Before Mary and I both left England. We left at the same time but travelled separately. She flew and I took the train. First to Paris, then after a couple of weeks I moved on to Limoges.’

  ‘OK, so from the beginning . . .’

  Her laugh, soft and filled with regret, interrupted him. ‘You just want to know the whole sorry mess, don’t you? And I’m going to follow the flawed logic that it’s easier to keep going than to turn back. Am I right?’

  ‘Please tell me.’

  She rested her elbows on the table and sank her head into her hands so that her eyes were covered and she now spoke from behind her ringless fingers. ‘I didn’t like Mary at first, I found her abrasive. She seemed pleased to see me each time I dropped in, though; perhaps she was bored. She liked to tell me about all the clothes and treatments and luxuries she had, and all the new things she planned to buy next. In fact, she talked more about the things she wanted before she got them than she ever did afterwards.’

  ‘And these things were out of your price range?’

  ‘I wasn’t jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was chasing every job I could because I needed the money. Worrying about it was my only obsession. But then here was someone who had it, but was no happier than I was. I wondered whether I should learn to be content with my life, and I also wondered about her and all the other things she had that brought her so little joy.’

  She lifted her head and looked at Goodhew through splayed fingers. ‘I know where you think I’m going with this. You’re sitting there remembering Fatal Attraction and Single White Female right now. But I’m actually far too dull to boil bunnies.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I started asking her about herself and, although she had always been happy to boast about anything she thought I might admire, she was much more reticent when it came to personal details. It was fair enough; I’ve always been quite a private person myself. So I shared a few stories and soon she opened up a little. A lot, in the end. We both did. It was the beginnings of our odd friendship.’

  ‘Not so odd. Plenty of people bond by learning about each other.’

  ‘Rather premeditated on my part, though.’

  ‘Does that really matter?’

  She didn’t bother to reply. ‘We had some similarities: our unhappy marriages for one. And our ever decreasing options for another. I was trying to keep up with the course fees, while my husband was out running up debts faster than I could pay them. I told her I dreamt of slipping out during the night and leaving him with all the bills. She seemed to think I was joking, at that point.’

  ‘But you weren’t?’

  She sighed and finally her hands fell away from her face. ‘No. It wasn’t a clear plan or anything, but once I’d voiced the idea, it didn’t seem so stupid.’

  ‘But she wasn’t interested?’

  ‘Not immediately, no. I’m sure you know as much about Mary as I do, but she was part way through her divorce when she found out that Greg . . . that her toy boy lover had taken up with one of her own daughters. I thought she’d brush it off, then one day she phoned me. She sounded scared and asked me whether I’d been serious about vanishing. When I met her, she had a bandage on one hand, then she lifted her T-shirt and showed me her ribs. She was a mass of bruises down one side. She’d been kicked, and her hand had been damaged as she tried to stop him.’

  ‘Who?’

  Lesley shook her head. ‘She refused to say. She said it was obvious, now she’d seen it. Then she was adamant that she needed to use the money gained from the divorce and leave.’ Lesley screwed up her nose. ‘I suspected Greg had hit her – he had a wild streak, “He liked it rough” as she would say. She said she liked it too, at the time – said it increased the orgasm. Those were the kind of details I never wanted to know. And violence is still violence, in my mind.’

  ‘So Greg was still around then?’

  ‘Yes, we planned this before Becca’s death.’
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  Goodhew shook his head and slumped back in his chair. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘We had almost everything in place, but Mary couldn’t then leave in the middle of a murder trial. I thought she’d shelve the whole idea, but she phoned me soon after Greg’s conviction. I was desperate by then, so I jumped at the chance.’

  ‘Explain the plan.’

  ‘We chatted about all sorts of different ideas, but what did either of us know about fake identities? Nothing. So we needed to come up with an idea that was as simple as possible. Both Mary Osborne and Lesley Bough are average English names, so we set up new bank accounts in each other’s destination country, then just swapped our documentation. Only our passports were risky; we both ordered new ones. We used our own photos but chose hair, make-up and clothes that suited the other person.’

  ‘So you left the country on Jane’s passport?’

  ‘Yes, with Jane’s picture in it. It was one trip each, and once we were out of the country we planned to stay out.’ She shrugged. ‘It has worked so far and if anyone had found me, the plan was to say, “Sorry, must be a different Mary Osborne”.’

  ‘And why didn’t you?’

  ‘I saw the news stands. Gerry Osborne in the papers was one thing but when I realized Jane had turned up I thought . . . I don’t know, actually. When it came to it, I couldn’t pretend.’

  ‘And the postcards?’

  ‘We tried to guess how we’d feel one year, two years and further down the line. We wrote them one night and swapped cards so we could post each other’s home at regular intervals. I posted Mary’s to her old house. Is that how you found me?’

  ‘It was the biggest lead.’

  She looked a little rueful. ‘I wondered if those cards were a step too far. They were my idea actually, so a bit of an own goal then.’

  ‘Don’t you miss home?’

  ‘No. My husband’s debts spiralled – way over fifty thousand pounds as far as I could tell. Then my mother died, leaving me just under twenty thousand pounds, and I realized that if I took that and ran I might just have a chance to make a new start. I can’t go home, because some of those debts are in my name, and my husband’s not . . .’ she fished around for the word. ‘He’s not a decent man,’ she concluded.