same fate. He now plugged the drive into the laptop. It contained details of anything workwise that he thought to be of special interest: photos he’d taken, documents he’d copied, notes, ideas and contact details – in short, information he wanted but would not officially be allowed to keep.
There he’d found the phone numbers and addresses of Jane’s father and brother, saved them directly to his mobile, and headed downstairs again, calling out goodbye to Bryn as he reached the street door.
Jane’s father lived in Newnham Road, close to Goodhew’s own grandmother, Daniel lived in Castle Street, closer to Jane. The two properties were about a mile away, but in different directions. Goodhew had doubted there’d be time to visit both without risking complaint that he was disturbing them too late at night.
When he rang Gerry Osborne’s mobile, the call had been answered swiftly.
‘Mr Osborne?’
‘How did you get my number?’ Gerry Osborne’s voice had been immediately familiar. The man had participated in TV interviews, as a sculptor, sometime before his daughter’s death, and again several years afterwards, and stayed silent in between. One sentence from him was enough for Goodhew to picture him standing there bearlike and glowering.
As Goodhew identified himself, Osborne’s tone seemed to improve.
Minutely.
‘I have a couple of questions, so I’d like to drop in and see you. There’s no need to worry, though.’
‘Yes, I realize that. From my previous experience, terrible news comes with no warning, just a sudden knock at the door.’
‘I can be with you in about fifteen minutes.’
‘I’m visiting my son.’
‘And I can see you there? He’s still on Castle Street?’
And, shortly afterwards, Goodhew waited outside the narrow Edwardian terrace houses, as the fuzzy outline of a child fiddled with a set of keys on the other side of the frosted glass. A larger figure soon loomed behind and the door was opened by a woman in her early thirties. She reminded Goodhew of an advert for something healthy, like spring water or mountain bikes or apple shampoo.
The little girl at her side was a scaled-down version of the same. ‘Are you the policeman?’ the child asked.
‘Yes, I am.’
She looked disappointed. ‘Oh.’
Her mother scooped her up and turned her round to face the stairs. ‘Go on up, Reba. I’ll be right there.’ She turned back to Goodhew and smiled. ‘She was expecting at least a uniform. And a police dog would have made her day.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Five-and-a-half.’ She rolled the four words into one as though she’d said this a thousand times. ‘I’m Roz, by the way. Come on in. The men are out in the workshop.’
The polished wood flooring had been laid with the boards running towards the back of the house. Although narrow, the property turned out to be deceptively long. As she led him through the hallway, it looked as though they were heading down one of the lanes at a bowling alley.
‘Gerry’s been here a lot since Jane returned. She doesn’t want to see him, but I think he wants to stay close. It’s sweet.’ She opened the back door and, on the other side of a small courtyard garden, he saw a single-storey workshop similar in age to the original structure of the house. ‘There you go.’
Based on this particular father-and-son pairing, family resemblances seemed less of a trait on the male side of the Osborne clan. Dan shared his father’s height and his stubborn jawline, but that was about it.
A large sculpture dominated the interior of the workshop. It appeared to be made of stone, metal and leather, but Goodhew couldn’t even begin to guess whether it was now finished or not. Gerry sat on a tatty kitchen chair beside it. The rest of the set of chairs were in the room, but Goodhew wasn’t offered a seat. Dan hesitated near the door. ‘Do you want me to go?’
‘No need. Either of you may be able to help. We need an address for your
There he’d found the phone numbers and addresses of Jane’s father and brother, saved them directly to his mobile, and headed downstairs again, calling out goodbye to Bryn as he reached the street door.
Jane’s father lived in Newnham Road, close to Goodhew’s own grandmother, Daniel lived in Castle Street, closer to Jane. The two properties were about a mile away, but in different directions. Goodhew had doubted there’d be time to visit both without risking complaint that he was disturbing them too late at night.
When he rang Gerry Osborne’s mobile, the call had been answered swiftly.
‘Mr Osborne?’
‘How did you get my number?’ Gerry Osborne’s voice had been immediately familiar. The man had participated in TV interviews, as a sculptor, sometime before his daughter’s death, and again several years afterwards, and stayed silent in between. One sentence from him was enough for Goodhew to picture him standing there bearlike and glowering.
As Goodhew identified himself, Osborne’s tone seemed to improve.
Minutely.
‘I have a couple of questions, so I’d like to drop in and see you. There’s no need to worry, though.’
‘Yes, I realize that. From my previous experience, terrible news comes with no warning, just a sudden knock at the door.’
‘I can be with you in about fifteen minutes.’
‘I’m visiting my son.’
‘And I can see you there? He’s still on Castle Street?’
And, shortly afterwards, Goodhew waited outside the narrow Edwardian terrace houses, as the fuzzy outline of a child fiddled with a set of keys on the other side of the frosted glass. A larger figure soon loomed behind and the door was opened by a woman in her early thirties. She reminded Goodhew of an advert for something healthy, like spring water or mountain bikes or apple shampoo.
The little girl at her side was a scaled-down version of the same. ‘Are you the policeman?’ the child asked.
‘Yes, I am.’
She looked disappointed. ‘Oh.’
Her mother scooped her up and turned her round to face the stairs. ‘Go on up, Reba. I’ll be right there.’ She turned back to Goodhew and smiled. ‘She was expecting at least a uniform. And a police dog would have made her day.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Five-and-a-half.’ She rolled the four words into one as though she’d said this a thousand times. ‘I’m Roz, by the way. Come on in. The men are out in the workshop.’
The polished wood flooring had been laid with the boards running towards the back of the house. Although narrow, the property turned out to be deceptively long. As she led him through the hallway, it looked as though they were heading down one of the lanes at a bowling alley.
‘Gerry’s been here a lot since Jane returned. She doesn’t want to see him, but I think he wants to stay close. It’s sweet.’ She opened the back door and, on the other side of a small courtyard garden, he saw a single-storey workshop similar in age to the original structure of the house. ‘There you go.’
Based on this particular father-and-son pairing, family resemblances seemed less of a trait on the male side of the Osborne clan. Dan shared his father’s height and his stubborn jawline, but that was about it.
A large sculpture dominated the interior of the workshop. It appeared to be made of stone, metal and leather, but Goodhew couldn’t even begin to guess whether it was now finished or not. Gerry sat on a tatty kitchen chair beside it. The rest of the set of chairs were in the room, but Goodhew wasn’t offered a seat. Dan hesitated near the door. ‘Do you want me to go?’
‘No need. Either of you may be able to help. We need an address for your
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