Read Cambridge Blue for Free Online

and had to wait for a bike to pass so he could cross the road. The cyclist was a young woman, about his own age. She freewheeled towards him for a few yards, then rang her bell and called out with a spontaneous ‘Hi’.
    ‘Hi,’ he smiled, and she laughed and pedalled on.
    It took him another ten minutes before the Rock pub came into sight, and he heard it almost as soon as he saw it; it wasn’t the sort of venue to book a band incapable of entertaining any passing pedestrians. Tonight it was The Vibes, plus guest saxophone player. The Vibes were four craggy guys, each with more miles on the clock than Keith Richards, but it was the guest saxophone player that he’d really come to watch.
    He pushed the outer door. It tremored with their version of ‘Misirlou’, the alto sax doing the whole Dick Dale thing, and opened wide enough for him to fall into the hot churn of bodies, noise and alcohol partying enthusiastically in the same confined space.
    He expected to only see two familiar faces: his colleague Mel and the older woman he was planning to meet. Of course Mel was easy to spot, standing centre stage like that, but she was too lost in her solo to notice him. At least that gave him a moment where he could observe her without making her feel self-conscious. Most distinctive was her hair, bright red and back-combed into spiky tufts; maybe she intended to add the impression of robustness to her slight build, or maybe she just liked it like that. And her dress sense for tonight was tomboy meets Debbie Harry: a look she toned down for work, of course, but even so, she offered a touch of sparkle to the dusty Admin department of Parkside police station. In a way, it was amazing they’d even given her the job, except that her efficiency was just like her sax playing – pretty damned hot.
    Someone called out his name, and snapped him out of his reverie. He recognized the voice immediately, and began to turn towards it before he had time to consider stepping further into the pub and pretending he hadn’t heard. DC Michael Kincaide was leaning with one elbow on the bar and one foot resting on the rail beneath it. As usual, he wore a suit, and the effect was a pose à la Catalogue Man, which was actually how he looked most of the time.
    Kincaide shouted over the noise: ‘It’s my local, what’s your excuse?’
    ‘I’m meeting someone.’
    ‘Not jailbait from Admin, I hope?’
    ‘Mel? No. I’m meeting someone else.’
    ‘Good, cos her fella’s over there, and I don’t think he likes all the attention she’s getting. I think it’s the way she blows on that instrument.’ Kincaide looked pleased with his joke.
    It took Goodhew no effort to look indifferent as a reply as he scanned the pub again. This time saw her. ‘And there she is,’ he said loudly, for Kincaide’s benefit, and walked over to join his grandmother. She sat further into the pub, in front of the raised area where the band was performing but, typically, just to the left of centre.
    ‘I bought you a pint,’ she announced and took a sip from her own half of lager.
    Tonight she wore black slacks and a turquoise lambswool sweater and, with her usual style, she managed to look as though she’d just returned from a day at the salon, as ever cheating her real age by at least fifteen years. Goodhew had inherited her distinctive green eyes and, in turn, she’d pinched her smile from Doris Day.
    ‘Did you do it?’ she asked.
    He kept his voice level and his expression inanimate. ‘Marks should get it tonight. I left it on his desk.’
    ‘No one saw you?’
    ‘I don’t think so, although I can’t be sure I guess . . .’
    ‘Who was that guy at the bar?’
    ‘DC Kincaide.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘Ah?’
    ‘And he grates on you?’
    ‘Just a bit.’
    ‘You’ve never mentioned it.’
    ‘He seems to have a good reputation, and I don’t feel I’ve worked with him long enough to justify feeling any differently. So I keep my feelings to