A Cry in the Night by Alison Bruce

Author:Alison Bruce [Bruce, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780062314079
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

Flights from Stansted to Limoges took a little over an hour and a half, but unfortunately they only flew three times per week and the next one wasn’t for another two days. After some negotiation, the French police had agreed to escort the mystery woman to Paris, whilst Marks and Goodhew travelled by train from Cambridge to London, then from St Pancras International to Paris Gare du Nord. After a fifteen-minute taxi ride they had been delivered to a sweeping building that, at first glance, looked more like a former thirties department store than a police station. As they waited in the foyer, Goodhew spotted a plaque and discovered that it had been purpose-built in the nineties, in the same way that the charcoal-grey cube of Parkside station had been in the late sixties. But this one had less of the ugliness.

Now they sat in an interview room very similar to one of their own and waited for the arrival of the woman claiming to be Mary Osborne.

‘I wonder who she really is,’ pondered Goodhew.

Goodhew had built a picture of the physical Mary Osborne in his mind, mostly based on photos, but enhanced by the comments of others too. She stood at about five foot four, with an average frame and a big bust.

An ample bosom, as his grandfather would have said.

She enjoyed her figure too and, in all but the photos taken at Jackson’s trial, she’d worn tight T-shirts or low-cut tops and jeans that grabbed her at every curve. In every photo her hair had been streaked at the front, and straightened: her take on Rachel from Friends perhaps, since the shots were several years old now. She’d often been snapped holding a drink out towards the camera, and most often grinning into the lens with a coquettish tilt to her head. Some people never quite grew up; and he didn’t think that as a criticism. Personally he felt as though he’d somehow skipped being a teenager, and couldn’t help feeling some fascination towards perpetual teenagers like Bryn and, maybe, Mary Osborne.

The woman was ushered into the room by a suited man who spoke a few sentences to her and nodded towards Marks and Goodhew, before he took a seat near the door and left them to sit on either side of a narrow table.

In the flesh she was even further from Goodhew’s mental picture of Mary Osborne: several inches taller and with broader features. Unvarnished nails and sensible shoes, unremarkable clothes and a cautious look in her eyes.

Marks introduced them both and she murmured, ‘Hello’.

‘We’re investigating the discovery of a body at the former home of Mary Osborne.’

‘I saw it in the papers. I’ve never been there.’

‘We need to ask you about your relationship with Mrs Osborne.’ Marks shifted in his chair, settling down for the long haul. ‘What’s your full name and date of birth?’

‘Are you going to try to get me back to England?’

‘You’re not in a position to negotiate with me.’ Marks had his pen poised over a pad of paper, where it didn’t waver.

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