Cambridge Blue Page 9

  Kincaide, meanwhile, was in the kitchen, leaning on the worktop and sending a text with some fast and ambidextrous thumb activity. ‘Hang on,’ he grunted to his younger colleague.

  Goodhew flipped open an overhead cupboard, where he found the crockery. Apart from two mugs, the contents were all clearly from a standard issue everything-proof set. The taller mug was cream-coloured with the word ‘Chocolate’ curling across it, the other was brightly painted with the name ‘Lorna’. Not very revealing. He let the door snap shut.

  Kincaide glanced up. ‘I’ve already done the cupboards.’

  Goodhew took the hint and left the next one alone. ‘What about that calendar?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Nothing much on it, but it can go with the other paperwork. There’s a box of it I’ve just moved to the top of the stairs.’

  The calendar was the type with one square per day but no picture; it had come courtesy of Staples Office Supplies. The current month had only one entry, ‘Hair – 12.00’ on the 16th. If that was a good example of a month’s activity, ‘nothing much’ really would be an accurate description. Goodhew unhooked it from the wall and turned forward the pages from the back. When it came to their calendars, people were either flip and keep, or rip and bin, and he was pleased to see that Lorna had been with him on this one.

  ‘Oh boy,’ he sighed. Either her life was depressingly uneventful or she recorded her more interesting activities elsewhere.

  He had turned right back to the start of the year before any entry caught his attention: 9th January – ‘Bryn to MOT car’. Goodhew read this just as Kincaide dropped his mobile back into his pocket.

  ‘Seen something?’

  Goodhew frowned. ‘Don’t know, really. Did she have a car?’

  Kincaide took the calendar, ‘I saw that too and checked with the others at the Excelsior, but they say no. She sold it apparently.’

  Goodhew followed Kincaide out of the kitchen, and watched him drop the calendar into the document crate.

  And later, as he walked towards home, he reminded himself that there could be numerous people called Bryn in this area. More than just the Bryn O’Brien who’d sat nearest the paint cupboard in primary school. He was the class practical joker, whom Gary couldn’t even remember speaking to, but had secretly admired. Bryn had made light of education, never buckling under the weight of expectation, always doing just enough to get by.

  When Gary’s mother had switched him to a private school at the end of Year 6, he’d found himself reeling from the shock of going from the top of his state school class to being considered mediocre among his new peers. And, for the first couple of years, he gave Bryn credit for helping him through. Mentally he’d kept Bryn alongside him, imagining how Bryn would navigate the narrow ledge that was bottom of the class.

  But the real Bryn was someone he knew next to nothing about. And the chances were it was a different Bryn, except that as he’d read that entry in the calendar, his memory had conjured up a single item of O’Brien family trivia: Bryn’s father had been a mechanic. And, when he factored that in, he knew that the odds narrowed dramatically.

  The decision he therefore made, as he walked home, was a simple one: he would track down Bryn O’Brien. With any luck, he’d be meeting someone on first-name terms with Lorna.

  FIFTEEN

  Goodhew walked across Parker’s Piece towards home, a one-bedroomed, rooftop flat in Park Terrace. The building had once been a four-storey townhouse, but since the 1990s, the basement and first three floors had been converted into office space, so the only remaining living accommodation was Goodhew’s. He glanced up to his window, then walked down the short garden path and unlocked the heavy front door. It closed behind him with a solid and purposeful click, the sound always reminding him he now had the place to himself.

  He took the stairs two at a time and, on reaching the final landing, opened a second door, which led directly into his flat. He paused, and despite instincts telling him that nothing had been disturbed, he let his eyes make their routine three-second sweep of the room. His scrutiny began at the far end, checking for three reassuring things: undisturbed bookshelves, his bedroom door still closed, and his beloved Bel Ami jukebox unplugged and unharmed. All OK. Finally, he made sure that his pile of papers still lay on top of the closed case of his laptop. He concluded that nothing had been moved, which gave him his cue to unwind one more turn.

  He frowned, finding his own habit of double-checking things annoying, and acknowledging that it wasn’t far from bordering on compulsive. But, hell, everyone had their personal foibles, and it wasn’t like he wasted much time on it.

  He changed into jeans and a t-shirt, poured a glass of orange juice, and set his jukebox on free-play. The mechanism clicked and whirred before making its selection and dropping the single on to the deck. The arm swooped, giving the stylus a bumpy landing on the run-in strip. The 45 crackled, then broke into the opening bars of Chuck Berry’s ‘School Days’. How apt.

  Gary slid his Sony Notebook from one of the bottom bookshelves, pressed the power button and, as he waited for it to boot up, flipped open the Yellow Pages and flicked towards ‘Car Repairs’. He had expected he’d need to use search engines for electoral rolls and credit checks, and possibly even a visit to Friends Reunited, but the Notebook was not even in the running – by the time it had fully loaded Windows, Gary had already drawn a blue box around the name ‘O’Brien and Sons’ with his Biro.

  He checked his watch. Ten past seven. He rang the number. No reply. No surprise there then. But it was within easy walking distance, just across Parker’s Piece and then a few streets further on, behind the swimming pool. His curiosity had been stirred and he decided to go there in any case. He waited for Chuck Berry to finish, then pulled the plug from the wall socket and left his flat again.

  Gary saw Parker’s Piece as the no man’s land between two distinctly different parts of the city. He lived on the historic side, the tourist trap brimming with distinctive buildings and enough magnetism to draw people from, literally, all over the world. The other side was certainly poorer and less distinctive, with a criss-cross of any-town backstreets and a surfeit of struggling or vacant premises. Personally, he had no preference for either area, knowing that, like backstage and front of house, neither could function without the other.

  He had no idea what to expect now from a visit to a locked workshop, probably nothing more than a sign saying ‘Closed’, and another indicating the phone number that he’d already tried. He walked on anyway.

  Bryn O’Brien had heard the phone ringing; in fact it was impossible to miss the sound of the extension which made an outside bell jangle up under the eaves of the garage. But he made no move to answer it. He was sitting within reach of it too, and knew, without looking, that the handset was resting on the bench, less than two feet from his left shoulder. Only one item lay between it and himself: a face-down copy of the Cambridge News.

  He stayed where he was, sunk into the improvised battered vinyl settee that had once been the bench seat of a ’62 low-line Ford Consul. He still wore his maroon overalls, and his steel-toed working boots were planted squarely on the concrete floor. Bryn had short blond hair and blue eyes, made brighter by the smudges of grease that he’d smeared on to his face during the day. One palm rested on each knee, and the first two knuckles of his right hand were grazed, pink circles left by a sudden departure of skin.

  In front of him, his current project was elevated to full height on the ramps. It was another Mark II Ford, but this time a Zodiac, the fully equipped and subtly modified version of its deceased cousin. Bryn stared up at its underside, where he’d replaced the 2.5 litre straight six with a rebuild V6, and at the twin exhausts, each branching into two, their four chrome tailpipes protruding from beneath the bumper. The car was a clean black underneath, with low-profile tyres on Wolfrace wheels, wider than the originals had been.

  He knew he’d created a retro-custom of a yet more retro car. There had even been a phas
e when he’d been tempted to trade it in for a PT Cruiser, but then he realized that could suck him into a scene full of all-too-earnest enthusiasts, so he’d decided to stick with the little beast he’d already created. And he’d been glad of it, especially at moments like these. He slid down in the seat and tilted his head back, still watching his car through part-closed eyes. It had the same effect as unwinding in a hot bath; his thoughts floated at their own speed, taking their own routes and pulling others along with them. Bryn wasn’t a deep thinker, and he never had been. More than that, he was conscious of a distrust of contemplation and where it might lead. He wanted to release two particular thoughts, and he hated the way they now seemed to be linked, and kept coming back, hand in hand, to bother him.

  He gazed up towards his car and almost let these thoughts go. If a face hadn’t suddenly appeared in the small window in the workshop’s concertina door, he might have succeeded. But probably not . . .

  Gary found O’Brien’s straight away. It was one of those places that he’d never really noticed, but equally knew he’d seen it countless times before. It was brick-built with navy-blue steel doors and an apex roof covered in something which looked suspiciously like corrugated asbestos. There was no ‘Closed’ sign, just one with a name and telephone number, and a second board at one corner which read ‘No Smoking’. Underneath it there was a collection of stubbed-out cigarette ends; Gary wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

  The workshop had all its other windows high up on the side walls, near to the roof, so that only the six-by-nine Perspex pane in the door was within reach. He cupped his hands and tried to peer inside, but the evening sunlight and scratches made it cloudy, and he knew that wiping it would make no difference. He tried anyway, ever the optimist.

  He kept his face close to the aperture for longer the second time, and shapes gradually began to pick themselves out. Enough weak daylight made it through the windows for him to see the roof of a white van, and a second car raised up on a ramp. In one of the lighter patches, he spotted a year planner and then, further across, the familiar red crate-like shape of a Snap-On tool kit.

  Then he thought he saw movement and, illogically, pulled back slightly. When he looked again, a figure was approaching the door. Gary stepped to one side and waited.

  Gary knew, as soon as the door clanked open, that he’d found his former classmate. It was a funny thing; if he’d been asked to describe Bryn before seeing him, he might well have replied, ‘I can’t remember.’ In truth, he had a vague recollection of fair hair, a slight build, and perpetually scuffed shoes – hardly the stuff of a positive ID. But, confronted with the man himself, a whole barrelload of details flooded back: the eyebrows that always looked slightly raised, the single piercing in the right lobe, now unoccupied, the head tilted in interest or defiance, depending on interpretation, and the serious set of the mouth which accompanied it.

  The slight built had been replaced by broad shoulders, but the boots were still scuffed, and it was soon evident that he still had that habit of either pushing his hands into his pockets or leaning against something whenever he began to speak. Today it was pockets, Gary noticed. The teachers used to have a field day pulling him up on that habit each time they were busy pulling him up on something else – which had been often.

  ‘We’re closed,’ he announced.

  ‘I know.’ Gary took a moment to continue. Despite convincing himself that the odds of finding the right Bryn were quite good, he’d only actually visualized meeting the wrong one; now he knew he was about to hear something completely unrehearsed coming out of his mouth.

  He decided to steer clear of Lorna Spence. ‘I went to school with you,’ he began. How inane did that sound? ‘At Chesterton Primary.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Bryn raised one eyebrow very slightly but didn’t smile.

  Gary had recognized Bryn, partly because he knew who he was looking for. Bryn, on the other hand, clearly didn’t have a clue who this was.

  ‘I’m Gary Goodhew, you probably don’t remember . . .’ He left his words to trail off.

  Bryn shrugged. ‘Remember the name. What’s up?’

  Gary nodded towards the workshop beyond. ‘I need to ask you something, but not out here.’

  ‘I’m just leaving.’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  Gary saw Bryn hesitate before he glanced back into the workshop, then he slid the door closed.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Gary repeated.

  Bryn gave in. ‘OK, I’ve got time for a quick drink. The Salisbury’s just round the corner.’

  They walked in silence for the first hundred yards, and Gary wondered how he should approach the subject. Lorna Spence may have just used Bryn to repair her car and, if so, what next? Yet Gary was well aware that anything he now found out should form part of an official statement, not a friendly chat over a pint.

  Bryn broke the silence first. ‘By the way, I’m not up for a school reunion, if that’s what you’re here about. Not my thing at all.’ He said it in an easy way, the way Gary remembered, as though the answer didn’t really matter, except that his eyes flickered as they watched for the reply, and it was clear to Gary that the answer he gave was actually very important.

  Gary deflected the question. ‘Maybe you need to hit thirty before you start getting nostalgic.’

  The Salisbury Arms stood on the other side of the road. Bryn darted across in front of a car, leaving Gary trailing a few yards behind. He figured, however, there was no need to hurry, and reached the bar just as Bryn was being given change for his pint of lager. Gary ordered a Stella, and followed Bryn to the table he’d selected at the far end of the room.

  The pub was genuinely traditional, not just styled to look that way. The beams and old floors had really aged with the building, rather than arriving there as prefabricated panels. Bryn sat on a long bench, his back to the end wall, while Gary chose a square chair that looked like it belonged in a dining room. The table itself had been converted from a treadle sewing machine, and the word ‘Singer’ was curled into the metal footplate.

  ‘Ever see anyone from school?’ he began.

  Bryn shook his head. ‘I remember you, though.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I thought your sister was cute. Then you left and we were told you’d both got scholarships to some private school.’

  Gary smiled: funny how such rumours turned the truth into something else. Funny, too, how Bryn remembered his sister. ‘Debbie probably was cute,’ he conceded, ‘but I think she was only ten at the time.’ They both paused to drink. ‘I’m with the police now,’ he added, with no change of tone.

  ‘Ah.’ It was said with neither surprise nor alarm, but just as a recogniton of a matter of fact. ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you know a Lorna Spence?’ Gary continued quietly.

  ‘A little, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  Bryn rubbed imaginary sweat from his forehead with the flat of his right hand, further smudging the greasy streaks that already marked the exposed skin right up into his hairline. Gary noted the raw patches on Bryn’s knuckles, and wondered what object he’d hit.

  Bryn thought for a few seconds, then answered Gary’s question with one of his own. ‘Do you mean “Do I know her”, or do you mean “Did I know her”?’

  ‘What makes you think she’s dead?’

  Bryn dropped his hand on to the tabletop, covering a Guinness beer mat with his palm, then spread his fingers out like he was trying to come up with five good reasons. He managed two. ‘You lot found a woman’s body this morning, right?’

  Gary just nodded.

  ‘It’s been on the radio all day. Then you start to search a flat in Rolfe Street. Know how many flats there are down there?’

  Gary didn’t know, but he hadn’t noticed many, that was for sure. ‘It’s mostly houses, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe there’s more, but I can only recall two flats, Lorna’s and the empty one underneath. So
when you turn up asking if I know her, what else am I going to think?’

  ‘Can you tell me when you last saw her?’ Gary asked, wondering whether there was a record for the number of times someone could keep answering a question with another question.

  ‘Am I making a statement or is this an informal chat?’

  Gary decided to level with him, and with no question at the end of it. Letting people talk was a more accurate way of weighing them up than showering them with continual questions. ‘I spotted your name on Lorna’s calendar, where she planned for you to MOT her car back in January. I guessed that there might not be too many Bryns in the area, so I thought I’d check out whether it was you. I’m part of the investigation team, so you will certainly be asked to make a statement, but for now I’m just trying to get some of the groundwork done.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you always were good at homework.’ Bryn drained the rest of his pint. ‘OK, hang on a minute,’ he added, and headed towards the Gents.

  Gary watched him go, deciding nothing about him gave the impression of a man ill at ease, and yet Gary couldn’t help wondering whether Bryn was planning to head out of a back door.

  He went to the bar for another couple of pints, and hoped he wouldn’t end up drinking them alone.

  Bryn washed his hands, carefully squirting a large pool of liquid soap into his palm and taking time to work it between each of his fingers. Gradually, some of the oil stains began to shift, but he wasn’t fully conscious of what he was doing, most of his thoughts were focusing on Goodhew. Gary Goodhew.

  That was a name from the past, and it was true that at first he hadn’t recognized his old classmate. But once the name had connected with the face, memories had rushed into his head. And he’d been surprised, not by the number – so far there had only been a few – but by the clarity.

  Suddenly he could picture the whole class. Like the bulk of the kids there, he had gone on to Chesterton Secondary School, but there had been others who had disappeared at the end of that same year. He’d subsequently forgotten they’d ever existed – until now. Suddenly he remembered Karen Jarvis and her frizzy hair, her book bag perforated with holes from a pair of compasses.