The Backs (2013) Read online

  The note read, See Marks NOW, he’s not happy. ITYS. Goodhew had almost reached his boss’s office when he clicked what that meant. I told you so.

  Marks stepped out into the corridor. ‘Something funny, Goodhew? No, I didn’t think so.’ Marks liked using rhetorical questions, especially when he was angry. He had a dark look in his eyes and Goodhew was confident that question hadn’t been the last one. His superior returned to his desk and, once seated, half-swivelled his chair so that the wall-length window was to his left.

  ‘Jane Osborne. I happen to look outside and there she is, chatting to one of my DCs. Don’t tell me it was social?’ Marks rarely raised his voice; in this instance he barely sounded annoyed, but this was the tone he used that felt most dangerous.

  ‘Of course not,’ Goodhew replied.

  ‘Why don’t I know about this?’

  ‘She phoned in and I first wanted to find out what she wanted. I was going to let you know.’

  ‘Because you’re such an expert at letting me know, aren’t you, Goodhew?’ Marks’s eyes darted from Goodhew, to the view of Parker’s Piece, and back again. ‘This isn’t the time to perpetuate that habit.’ He nodded at the nearest chair.

  ‘Jane has asked whether we’d be able to locate her mother. She doesn’t want to ask her father – probably didn’t want to ask us either.’

  ‘Making us the lesser of two evils? What else?’

  ‘Just her parting shot: she saw Greg Jackson. He was near her house and she thought we might want to know. She says he didn’t try to speak to her, but was definitely watching her.’

  ‘I see.’ Marks’s focus slipped long as he thought for a moment. He remained motionless apart from the fast, light tapping of his index finger on the arm of his chair. Then he drew himself back. ‘To change the subject,’ he said, as if the words were a memo to self, heavy pen, double underlined. ‘You realize why you haven’t been put on the Paul Marshall case?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Surprisingly that answer didn’t prompt Marks to offer Goodhew any further clarification. ‘As ever, my team is under-resourced and it’s become an issue for me. I need more bodies on that case and you’re one of them. But I need you to be cautious.’

  Goodhew nodded.

  Marks nevertheless asked him if he understood.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Good. Catch up with Kincaide. He has more statements to take, so accompany him for today and tomorrow, and he’ll update you.’

  Marks leant forward in his chair as if about to stand, but he didn’t actually rise. It was the signal for Goodhew to leave.

  ‘There’s one more thing, sir? Mary Osborne – is it OK if I find her for Jane?’

  ‘As a department we certainly should do so, moral obligation and so on. But you . . . ?’ His index finger tapped a few more times.

  ‘Like you said, the department’s stretched. It shouldn’t take me long and I won’t let it impact on the Marshall case.’

  ‘You sound like my daughter negotiating a lift home. Part logic, part dogged determination. Unfortunately for me, you and Emily are proficient at both. Sadly, it doesn’t mean either of you behave sensibly.’ Marks waved him away. ‘Let me know once you’re done.’

  TWELVE

  Catch up with Kincaide. Goodhew and Kincaide’s working relationship functioned best when they stayed apart, on two separate lines of inquiry, and only exchanged information under close supervision from Marks himself. Perhaps the situation wasn’t quite that bad, but it was close.

  Goodhew had expected the usual sour greeting and reluctant cooperation, but Kincaide had looked up brightly as soon as he entered the room. ‘You can grab that desk, Gary.’ Kincaide had pointed to the desk which abutted his own. He’d then reached across and tugged some folders back to his own side. ‘Sorry, didn’t realize I’d spread out so much.’ He had glanced down at the papers in front of him and tugged a small sheaf of pages free from the rest and held them towards Goodhew. ‘Here’s some notes to get you started. I’ll pass you the rest in a few minutes.’

  Goodhew had managed to thank him and possibly smile. But now, half an hour later, he still felt bemused. The desk was clean, relatively new and within sight of a window. He opened and closed its drawers, switched on the equally well-cleaned computer. Even the chair looked new, but he was careful not to be too quick to put his full weight down on it – just in case. The mood continued to be accommodating although Goodhew struggled to stop his forehead puckering with suspicion. However, Kincaide remained too absorbed by the information on his PC to notice. Every few seconds he tapped some keys, read further, tapped, then jotted notes on the pad next to the keyboard.

  A series of 10×8 photographs of Paul Marshall were pinned to the noticeboard that occupied most of the wall space alongside their two desks. Eight of them were shots taken either from the scene or at the time of the post-mortem examination. Another five were enlargements of snapshots taken during the last year and a half. One showed Marshall with his car, the rest individual. The man had stayed in shape, and it looked as though he’d preferred to wear T-shirts one size too tight just to prove the point. His haircut, clothes and even expression were reminiscent of a school leaver starting work the first day in his new job, all boyish and optimistic. Twenty-plus years seemed a long time to hold on to that sentiment.

  The most recent ‘live’ photo was dated 6 March and had been taken at a party. Marshall posed under a Happy Birthday banner with the curving edge of a lilac balloon sneaking into one corner of the picture. Part of the upright of a character was visible; if it was a number it was probably a ‘1’.

  ‘Daughter’s birthday?’

  Kincaide looked up. ‘Yeah, twelfth. He had two girls, Molly and Evie. Evie’s only eight.’ His eyes moved on to the other shots, and Goodhew waited for the inevitable comment. Judging by these shots, it would be somewhere between Purple’s not his colour and He probably had it coming.

  Kincaide shook his head as he turned back to his work. ‘Poor bugger,’ he sighed.

  Weird.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘On another door-to-door round his estate, following up more work contacts. Or friends . . . even acquaintances will do.’ Kincaide raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, it is reaching that point.’

  Goodhew had seen minimum details on this case: in a rare victory over himself, he’d beaten his own urge to know more than the information appearing in the press. And, thanks to that self-control, he’d now have to start from close to zero. Paul Marshall, a plumber. Married to Carmel. Grew up locally, lived locally. Two children. Flash car. It was barely enough to merit a photo caption.

  ‘Who did he work for?’

  ‘Self-employed.’

  ‘Debt?’

  ‘No.’ Kincaide nodded towards the other pages in the sheaf he’d handed to Goodhew. ‘Some of it’s there. Ask me when you’ve read it.’

  Goodhew picked up the top one: Autopsy Summary.

  Apart from the cause of death being listed as cardiac arrest due to hypovolemia, the other injuries received were listed with little interpretation. Few clues about which had come first, or weapons, angles and degrees of force involved.

  The injuries were listed in order, travelling up the body from Paul Marshall’s feet to his head. Goodhew read through it all, picturing a non-specific human form, like a flesh-toned C3PO, which his mind’s eye marked up consecutively with each new wound described.

  Minor bruising and scratches covered much of the surface area of Marshall’s skin. Deeper bruising around the face, hands and ribs. Fractures to three fingers, the left knee and left eye socket.

  First-degree burns to the upper part of Marshall’s right shoulder, lower back, right cheek and ear. Second-degree burns in the genital area, the type the pathologist had described as superficial partial thickness.

  Goodhew winced. No doubt the word ‘superficial’ was technically correct but it hardly seemed appropriate.

  The wire that had
secured Marshall to the tree had caused extensive damage, cutting into the soft tissue of his stomach but going deeper and leaving deep gashes at the armpits. It had been the wire around his neck that had caused the final, fatal wound.

  He mentally put the injuries in a rough chronological order. Marshall had been incapacitated, moved, tied, tortured and killed. He’d weighed just over eleven stone eight pounds. Not heavy for a man, but no featherweight either, and he’d been healthy and fit, too. Maybe he’d been surprised but, even so, Goodhew doubted this attack had been swift or easy.

  Of course, the full report would include all the technical stuff, but this was the way it looked to him.

  At the bottom of the page was a handwritten note: Toxicology to follow. Clipped to the front sheet was a batch of photographs. He separated them from the sheet and spread them out across his desk. Each shot showed a close-up of injuries to a particular area of the victim’s body.

  ‘Have you seen these?’ he asked.

  Kincaide glanced across, then quickly looked away. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did they send them ahead of the full report?’

  ‘Marks says it is relevant to the psychology of the perpetrator. Let’s face it, this one’s extreme.’

  Goodhew’s attention fell on to a close-up of Marshall’s right hand. ‘Have you seen this?’ He held it out to Kincaide, who didn’t bother to look up again.

  ‘Are you trying to flash that burnt penis photo?’

  ‘No, look.’ Goodhew rattled the photo a couple of times until the noise forced Kincaide to look over. ‘What’s that?’ Goodhew pointed to the knuckles, then passed the image across the desk. ‘It’s a mess, but look at the gap between the knuckle damage. See?’

  ‘The bruising?’

  ‘Yeah, but look, the discoloration’s different. I think it’s older.’

  Kincaide held it a little more into the light. ‘It’s possible,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll email back right now and make sure they cover it in the full report.’ He turned back to his PC and began typing.

  ‘Thanks,’ Goodhew muttered. Now he was convinced Kincaide’s behaviour was really, really weird.

  Goodhew flicked through the remaining sheets of paper and realized they amounted to a briefing document, about a dozen pages in all, outlining the victim’s last known movements, summarizing his finances, medical history and the course of the investigation to date. Then he read the report through twice. The first time he took in the key facts, committing them to memory. The second time he allowed his thoughts to wander between the words, between the lines, and the only time he wrote on the sheet of A4 next to him was to remind himself of the questions he needed to ask.

  ‘How was his marriage?’

  ‘His wife claims it was good. Maybe it was.’

  ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘Sadly, I’m not the greatest believer in happy marriages, I thought you’d have clocked that by now. Jan and I . . .’ Kincaide stopped mid-sentence and shrugged.

  It was a cue, but Goodhew ignored it. ‘So are there any suspicions of either Paul Marshall or his wife having an affair?’

  ‘No. We’ve looked. A lover’s pissed-off husband would have been my first guess, too, or even the wife’s lover clearing the field.’

  ‘Burning the car is revenge for something . . .’

  ‘And there’s nothing like love to generate that much hate.’ Kincaide paused to reflect on what he’d just said, nodded to himself, then snapped his attention back to the conversation. ‘Unless, of course, Carmel Marshall’s after the life policy. But there’s nothing whatsoever that points to her involvement in his death so far.’

  ‘Main lines of inquiry?’

  ‘Usual. Fair amount of his business stayed off the books, so we can’t see everything we might like to from the accounts alone. We’ve run his car and van through the ANPR database, phone records, card payments . . .’

  ‘Internet?’

  ‘One PC, two laptops and internet via his mobile all being audited as we speak.’

  ‘And the mobile phone case near the body?’

  ‘His, apparently.’

  ‘Really? It looked like a woman’s.’

  ‘That’s what I thought but the manufacturer calls it a— hang on.’ Kincaide stopped speaking as he located and opened an email. ‘A unisex design with a feminine bias,’ he read. Kincaide then snorted, but the predictable in the closet comment didn’t follow. ‘I need to get home now, so is there anything else you need before I go?’

  There probably was, but at that moment Goodhew’s mind remained blank. ‘No, we’re good, thanks.’

  And, for several minutes after Kincaide had left, he continued to dwell on their conversation. We’re good. He never used that expression. But he’d just said it to Kincaide. Goodhew went for some coffee to distract himself from the urge to check for a hidden camera. Perhaps Kincaide wasn’t playing a practical joke, but something here was out of whack.

  PCs Sue Gully and Kelly Wilkes were at the coffee machine, drinks already in hand. Kelly saw him first and nudged Gully. She turned to face Goodhew. ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘Who?’

  Mischievous grin. ‘The all-new Kincaide.’

  He looked from one to the other and realized that he’d just stumbled on the current topic of their conversation. ‘Yes. What’s happened to him?’

  ‘No idea, but all this week he’d been odd,’ Kelly replied. ‘If you were meeting him for the first time, you’d even think he was a decent bloke.’

  ‘Polite? Cooperative?’

  They both nodded. ‘Not even the usual snideyness,’ Kelly remarked.

  ‘Or ignorance,’ Sue added. ‘Yep, it’s creepy. What did you call it earlier?’

  ‘Jaunty but sinister.’

  Goodhew was sure that Kincaide would be quietly pleased if he’d known of their consternation. Or perhaps only the old Kincaide . . . Had Kincaide’s recent words and responses been made by anyone else in the department, the three of them would not have been at all fazed. Yet here they were – trebly bemused.

  Goodhew’s thoughts drifted, reflecting that normal behaviour attached to the wrong person could generate such a reaction. Who would have called the police after spotting a casually clothed, lone male walking the Gogs?

  Even at night?

  No one.

  Or a drunk girl wearing a skimpy dress and high heels stumbling through the city centre at 1 a.m.? The answer remained the same. Goodhew took his coffee back to his desk. For the moment, Paul Marshall and Michael Kincaide could both wait.

  He’d emailed himself a list of four names and their corresponding phone numbers: Barry Tolhurst, Melody Chukwu, Rod Skinner and David Searle. He began at the top of the list.

  The call was picked up by an answer phone. As soon as Goodhew identified himself, the real-life Barry Tolhurst cut in with a clipped recitation of his own name then, with barely a pause, ‘Is this about that young woman?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’d like to ask you a few further questions about her appearance.’

  ‘Of course, if I can help . . . As I told you, she was blonde, early twenties at most. I picked her out in my headlights when I was still some way back. She stumbled at one point, then stopped to remove her shoes. Her dress was a pale colour that caught the light, so must have been one of those fabrics with a sheen to it. Her shoes were patent, a beige-y colour, not much darker than her hair really. Ridiculously high, I thought – no wonder she had to take them off.’

  ‘Did you see her face?’

  ‘Briefly. I slowed a bit and she turned her head towards me.’

  ‘Did you speak to her at all?’

  A hesitation.

  ‘Mr Tolhurst?’

  ‘I lowered the window and I asked her if she was all right. I don’t know what I would have done if she’d said “no” . . . given her a lift maybe.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. She just stared at me, shook her head, then kept walking. I assumed
I’d scared her, so I drove on. I thought of doubling back at the next roundabout but, when I got there, I just didn’t.’

  ‘Can you describe her any further than that? Height? Build? Anything?’

  ‘Above average height, I’d say – not towering but maybe five foot seven. She would have hit six foot in those heels, though. Lithe, too, looked womanly.’ He pulled himself up short. ‘Sorry, inappropriate way to describe her, perhaps, but I had this stupid feeling, the moment I opened the window, that having her in the car with me would have looked inappropriate, too. I’m an estimator for a drainage company, no one would really care what I do.’

  ‘And her face?’

  ‘Big eyes, make-up smudged like she’d been crying. Reminded me of Twiggy . . . or that Clockwork Orange eye. Her legs were bare, streaked with mud, and her hands looked dirty too. So I guessed she’d fallen over. Long hair, kind of Scandinavian-looking . . . I couldn’t describe her any more than that.’

  Melody Chukwu and Rod Skinner were less forthcoming. They’d rung out of civil duty, nothing more: Melody in case the girl had been in an accident, Skinner in case she actually caused one. Tall, blonde and in a mess: these remained the common denominator.

  ‘David Searle?’

  The voice at the other end had a long-time smoker’s rasp. ‘He’s out, I’m Mrs Searle.’

  Goodhew introduced himself, then continued, ‘I’m ringing regarding your husband’s report of a “distressed woman” beside the A1307 on 28 July . . .’

  ‘Woman? She looked only about seventeen, too young to be out alone like that. I was driving, and I told him to ring. I insisted.’ She coughed and her lungs rattled. ‘She was asking for trouble, but how would we both have felt if something bad had happened to the girl?’

  ‘But you didn’t stop?’

  ‘We were keen to get home and anyway we weren’t the only ones driving up there. So did you find her?’