Read Online The Backs (2013) by Alison Bruce - Free Book Online Page B

of decorating: wallpaper paste and sugar soap. The sheer newness that advertised they were building something fresh, that they hadn’t yet watched it for so long that they’d missed the moment when it began to decay.
    Damn them all
–
all those she had burnt up with hating. And damn them even more for reminding her that it hadn’t only ever been that way.
    She’d cried once already during the last twenty-four hours, but the unfamiliarity of crying still surprised her. She kept her face pressed to the paintwork and continued pulling the handle towards her, as though the stupidity of the tears could stay a secret between her and the door. This body-racking sobbing surprised her more than anything; it continued until her body ached and she had huddled there long enough for the paintwork to feel as warm as the skin of another human being.

TEN
    PC Sue Gully stepped through the doorway, holding two mugs.
    Goodhew’s battered swivel chair still had enough life in its gas lift to bounce a little as he leant back in it. ‘The real McCoy?’
    ‘Yep . . . well, posh instant, but it’s in real china.’ She passed Goodhew his coffee then pulled a second chair up to one side of his desk. ‘It was actually your turn to make it.’
    ‘I know – which means you’re after something.’
    She grinned. ‘You know me.’
    He opened the top-left desk drawer and passed her an unopened packet of Jaffa Cakes. ‘Why can’t you eat chocolate digestives, like any normal person?’
    ‘I’m cultured.’
    He pretended to think that over. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘that’s definitely not it.’
    She opened the packet and offered it to him. ‘Just one.’
    She made a tower of three biscuits in front of her then sipped her coffee.
    ‘I can see from your face that the Jaffa Cakes weren’t your only objective. What’s up?’
    ‘Why does there have to be a subtext?’
    ‘There doesn’t, but today there clearly is. Getting dodgy biscuits out of me is usually a bigger victory. Something more than chocolate’s on your mind.’
    She narrowed her eyes in mock annoyance. ‘Fact is, Gary, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trying to work out why you were out on the Gogs that night.’
    ‘We were in the car together for hours the other night, but you didn’t ask me then.’
    ‘I was still trying to work it out. So do you know how pissed off I am at having to give in and ask? You’re either going to refuse to tell me or the answer will be so obvious that I’ll be kicking myself for the rest of the week.’
    Goodhew shook his head, then smiled. ‘Three weeks ago we had several calls from motorists on that road. They reported seeing a young woman all alone walking in the dark towards Cambridge. We had four similar calls, but no one bothered to stop. We sent out a car but there was then no sign of her. If you add all the calls together, she may have been drunk, or on drugs, or beaten up or thrown from a vehicle.’
    ‘No one stopped?’
    ‘You know . . .’ And he knew she did. They’d seen it so many times, the well-intentioned who couldn’t bring themselves to intervene. Scared of being wrong, looking foolish, or sometimes scared for their own safety. Scared of opening a door that held even the smallest chance of derailing normality. ‘She was in her early twenties, with long messy blonde hair, wearing a skimpy dress . . .’
    ‘Your description?’
    ‘No, the callers’. The dress was light-coloured, stained maybe with mud, maybe not. Carrying her shoes. Obviously crying. Staggering too.’
    ‘Maybe someone did stop in the end. Was anyone reported missing, locally?’
    ‘No. I’ve also checked nationally. Nothing.’
    ‘So maybe someone stopped, gave her a lift into town, then left her to sleep it off.’
    Goodhew shrugged.
    ‘Look, Gary, there’s no crime reported. You can’t afford to spend time on this.’
    ‘Unless it’s my own.’
    She flopped back in the chair, folded her arms and fixed him with an angry