Read Cambridge Blue for Free Online Page B

considering she was halfway through the Stray Cats’ ‘Wild Saxophone’. But it may also have been because her boyfriend Toby was sitting two tables away and looking more taut than the top E on the guitarist’s Gretsch.
    Goodhew said little on the way back to town, having glanced across to the driver’s side and weighed up his colleague’s mood. Kincaide had never-out-of-place black hair and perfect grooming, and he could do neat with less difficulty than Goodhew managed to do marginally unkempt. For every pair of jeans Goodhew owned, he guessed Kincaide had at least two suits. Kincaide’s current lack of humour didn’t bother him, but nor did it motivate him to make any unnecessary conversation.
    They were inside Parkside station and heading towards Marks’ office before Goodhew spoke again, ‘Why does Marks want us in?’
    ‘Dunno what it’s about. He doesn’t seem to want to see anyone else, just us.’
    ‘So it’s going to be something either really interesting or incredibly dull.’
    Kincaide shot him a sideways glance. ‘What makes you say that? Have you got wind of some new development, or are you just going on that “average jobs take most people” theory?’
    ‘B,’ Goodhew fibbed. ‘Anyway, I haven’t been here long enough to get roped into anything above mundane, have I?’
    ‘We’ll see.’
    Goodhew paused and let Kincaide walk through the doorway of DI Marks’ office first. The room never changed: an empty, undersized desk that faced the door and stood island-like, with enough space to walk around it on either side, the spare chairs in a slightly different shade of olive to the filing cabinet, the water-cooler beside the window. On sunny days he could see it sparkling from his own window and it looked turquoise, the way a lagoon looks from twenty thousand feet. The room smelt of sweet lilac air freshener intermingling with the stale whiff of tobacco rising from Marks’ jacket.
    A dying bluebottle buzzed in the window, the latest victim of an odourless fly killer hanging from the room’s only picture hook.
    Today one of the three spare chairs was heaped with documents, and a cardboard crate lay half full beside it on the floor. Marks sat at his desk with a pile of other papers on his lap, his head bowed. Something he spotted made him tut and shake his head.
    Goodhew and Kincaide waited and, after a few seconds, Goodhew began to wish they’d announced their arrival so he cleared his throat. ‘We’re here, sir.’
    ‘My deduction skills aren’t quite that poor yet, Gary. Sit!’ Marks instructed.
    Goodhew wondered whether his boss had ever trained as a dog handler. Probably not a good time to ask. A half-smile reached his lips but he pushed it away.
    Marks put the papers on his desk, looked up at Goodhew, then nodded at the free chair. ‘I said, sit down.’
    Kincaide had already taken the chair to the side of the desk, so Goodhew settled into the second one, which was directly facing the inspector.
    ‘How many weeks has this rape investigation been running?’ Marks looked irritated. Kincaide glanced at Goodhew but neither of them spoke. That was just as well, as it turned out to be a rhetorical question. ‘Eleven weeks tomorrow.’ He patted the pile of papers he’d moved to the desk. ‘Do you know what all this paperwork is?’
    Kincaide looked blank and Goodhew did his best to follow suit.
    ‘The case notes for the rape investigation – our last major investigation.’ He emphasized the word ‘last’ and spotted Kincaide stiffen. ‘Yes, that’s right, two rapes near Cambridge airport, and this evening we’ve brought a suspect in for questioning.’ He took a quick breath and his expression settled back into its usual beady-eyed mask: the one that read much and revealed little. The very same expression that caused habitual discomfort around the station.
    ‘You’re familiar with the case, I take it?’ As they’d both been working full-time on it, they were definitely