The Calling (11 page)

Carl Watkins’ uniform hung loose on his bony shoulders. Kincaide wondered how strong he was.

‘How well did you know Kaye Whiting?’ he asked him.

‘Quite well, I guess.’

‘She was your girlfriend’s sister?’

‘Yeah. I met her when I was out with a mate. She was with Michelle and we all had a laugh.’

‘Who were Kaye’s closest friends, do you think?’

‘There’s a girl, Debbie – friend from school I think. And Michelle, of course. She’s had mates but no one else she was particulary close to.’

‘What about boyfriends?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

Carl didn’t look him straight in the eye as he replied, but swivelled his head to look down at his hands. He studied the rough ends of his nails for a moment. ‘She wasn’t easy to get close to.’

‘Did you ever try, Carl?’

Carl tilted his head up to stare at Kincaide. ‘I saw her only as a friend. I wasn’t interested in her in any other way. Remember, I go out with her sister.’

‘Ah yes. And congratulations on your engagement.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

‘Was Kaye pleased?’

‘She never knew. We only announced it on Saturday, at her grandmother’s party. You know, before we knew about Kaye.’

‘I see. And what were you doing before the party?’

Carl glared at him then. His top lip curled slightly, forming the beginning of a scowl. He’d clearly had enough by now and spat out the words defiantly. ‘I worked in the morning, drove the van to Bedford and back – had sex all afternoon. With Michelle, of course.’

‘And the night before?’

‘Stayed in, watched TV.’

‘Is that what you usually do on Friday nights?’

‘Sometimes.’

Carl stood up and faced Kincaide direct. ‘Nothing personal but I’ve got a problem with what I think you’re implying.’

Kincaide stood up and held his hand out to him. ‘You’re right, Mr Watkins, it is nothing personal. Thank you.’

Kincaide was still smiling as he parked in front of Andy Burrows’ flat. He’d given Carl Watkins something to think about. Now for Andrew Burrows.

Since the first brief, when he’d been ridiculed for picking Burrows as a suspect, he’d liked the idea of proving him guilty.

Andy Burrows was the antithesis of Carl. Middle-aged, drawn, tired, there was no fight in him as he opened the door, seeming to sag inside his crumpled clothes.

Kincaide kept all expression from his face and narrowed his eyes to disinterested slits designed to out-psych Andy Burrows from the first. Burrows tried to smile as he spoke, but the attempt was faint and watery. ‘Come in. Do you want a drink?’

‘No thanks.’ Coffee would have been very welcome but Kincaide was now too busy. On entering the living room, Kincaide wondered whether tea or coffee had been the drink in question. Two bottles of Jack Daniel’s sat beside the TV, and Burrows scooped a tumbler into his hand and drained it.

‘Mr Burrows, I need to gather as much background information on your niece Kaye as possible. I know this is difficult so soon after her death, but I’d appreciate any help you can offer us.’

Burrows nodded with a small twitch of his head. The corners of his mouth flickered and, for a horrible moment, Kincaide thought
he was going to cry. The thought of a forty-five-year-old man blubbering repulsed him slightly.

Burrows’ reply was hushed: ‘Of course I’ll try to help.’ He took a deep breath and the crisis passed.

Kincaide started with the easy question. ‘When did you last see Kaye?’ Burrows stared back with such vacancy that Kincaide wasn’t sure if he’d taken it in at all. So he prodded gently, ‘Can you remember the last time you saw your niece?’

Andy nodded. ‘Last week, at my mother’s house.’

‘Did you talk to her about her plans for last weekend?’

‘We all had the same plan. Mother’s party.’

‘Why didn’t you yourself go?’

‘Not my thing.’ Burrows poured some more Jack Daniel’s into his empty glass.

‘But you just said you were planning to?’

‘I might have felt like it on the night itself – but I didn’t, so I stayed at home.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘And what did you do at home?’

‘Drank and slept, what do you think? I’ve hardly got much company here, have I?’

‘And Kaye, did she have company?’

‘Like a boyfriend? No, I don’t think so. Not recently and not anyone serious that I know of. She was a lovely girl – I thought the world of her, really I did.’ For the first time Burrows placed the tumbler on the table and slid it away with his fingertips. Kincaide was sure this was a gesture that preceded an important statement and he leant forward a little, silently encouraging Burrows to speak, eager for his confidence.

Andy Burrows struggled to find his voice, gulping back the lump in his throat. Finally, he spoke. ‘Did she suffer much?’ he whispered and simultaneously tears ran down both cheeks. ‘Did she?’ he gasped.

Kincaide glowered at him in disgust. Burrows knew enough about the case to also know the answer. The only reason for asking was to make Kincaide couch the truth in white lies; to give Burrows a cosy
fantasy of painless death to hang on to, and in the process burden Kincaide with guilt. Contempt made his nostrils flare and he clenched and unclenched his teeth several times before replying.

‘Considerably, I’d say, Mr Burrows,’ he hissed.

Kincaide had never allowed himself to become emotionally embroiled with victims, their relatives or the dismal array of mitigating circumstances that seemed to have put many wrongdoers and do-gooders on the same team. Kincaide was capable of feeling sympathy but it was a route he had chosen not to follow; he wasn’t aiming for popular, just efficient, and he knew such emotional impenetrability would ultimately save him from the trials of trauma counselling.

Kincaide pulled up in front of Mike and Margaret Whiting’s house. He checked his expression in the mirror, setting his features in a hard man’s glare. Leaving Kaye’s brother Steven until last was deliberate; he wanted to visit when he knew the man would be home alone.

He was going to make the lazy bastard squirm. Give him the treatment that would keep him awake and sweating in the night; make him get off his fat backside and do something with his pathetic life.

Kincaide was going to do him one hell of a favour.

He checked his hair and nodded at himself before pushing the rear-view mirror straight.

Kincaide hated being messed around, he hated having the truth hidden and he wasn’t going to let any of them get away with it. He rang the bell and squared up to the front door, ready for the squealing little runt to open it.
Mess me around and I’ll knock your fucking head off.
Verbally, of course.

Kincaide was therefore very unhappy when it was Margaret Whiting who invited him inside.

Steve sat in one armchair and Margaret seated herself in the other. Kincaide was left with the settee, a pink frilly affair. He was not going to look tough sitting on a pile of chintz padding. He let out an angry snort. It was all very wrong: Steve’s chair was in front of the window so the bright daylight was shining straight into Kincaide’s eyes.

What followed was forty-five minutes of ‘dunno’ and ‘s’pose so’, interspersed with regular interjections from his mother.

Apparently the kid hadn’t been particularly close to his sister, and apparently he’d been at home all Friday and Saturday, until he went to celebrate his grandmother’s birthday with his parents.

And apparently he wasn’t particularly interested in girls at present. So, very apparently, Kincaide wasn’t the lucky recipient of the whole truth.

He decided to leave it. For now.

Kincaide stayed long enough to drink his coffee. He accepted his cup without a smile or a word of thanks. Margaret and Steven Whiting watched him silently, and that suited him. He wanted them to understand that the investigation was well under way, and to feel control and confidence oozing from him.

He hoped this would give Margaret genuine comfort, and provide quite the opposite for her son.

He knew it was a fact that in eight out of ten murders the victim knows the killer. He had studied books on domestic crime and had therefore selected the three most likely suspects, based on average statistics. Statistics that included age, marital status and career type.

And, now that they had been re-interviewed by him, he remained confident that one of these would emerge as the clear favourite. But which one?

Carl Watkins, sharp-featured, smart-mouthed and arrogant?

Andy Burrows, flaky, alcoholic and probably frustrated?

Or Steven Whiting, selfish and petulant and jealous?

Kincaide wasn’t interested in the sensibilities of the innocent two: all three were sufficiently flawed that he was sure a brush with the law would ultimately do them good.

Bunch of shits
, he decided as he thought of them.

He drained his coffee and passed the empty cup to Margaret Whiting. ‘Thank you very much.’ He smiled softly, then turned to Steven Whiting with only a slight modification to his expression. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.

Margaret Whiting opened the door and let Goodhew make his own way in.

He settled on the chintz settee and she sank into the opposite chair.

He left a couple of seconds of silence before speaking. ‘How are you today, Mrs Whiting?’

‘Good, bad,’ she shrugged, ‘can’t say. The doctor’s packed me full of drugs, sedatives or antidepressants, don’t know actually. And it’s all passing me by. Do you know that feeling?’

‘Like you’re watching someone else’s life?’

‘Yes, that’s it.’ The end of a tissue protruded from her sleeve and she pulled it out, ready. ‘Just in case I get a burst of reality.’ She attempted to smile and her glassy eyes welled with tears that subsided. ‘Someone’s been around already – for Steve, actually.’

‘Something’s just come up and I decided to come straight here. It’s a lead,’ he added quickly, in case she expected an arrest so soon. ‘It appears that Kaye was shopping in Woodbridge last Saturday. We have a witness who also thinks that she was waiting for a lift from there, either to head home or to somewhere else.’

Margaret gazed at him, misty-eyed. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t understand why that’s important.’

The sun streamed in through the window, so it might have been just the two of them in the whole world. ‘Mrs Whiting, it’s important to us that we pinpoint her last known movements.’

‘I know that, but it happened on Tuesday, didn’t it?’

She couldn’t say ‘died’ – not yet, maybe never.

‘She wasn’t there all that time since, was she?’ Her expression was open wide, as if ready to be slapped.

Goodhew wondered why no one had yet told her; why she was two steps or more behind speculation in the press. The left hand not knowing what the right was doing, most likely. ‘I’m sorry, but we are working on that theory.’

Margaret stared down at her tissue and turned it over several times before she looked back up at Gary. ‘It’s better to know what’s going on. I lie awake thinking about all the possibilities.’ She shuddered, then continued, ‘When on Saturday?’

‘Mid-afternoon, just before three. To your knowledge has Kaye ever visited Woodbridge in the past, Mrs Whiting?’

‘I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t really have any idea. I don’t remember hearing the place mentioned before, but you can’t keep up with everything they do once they’ve left home.’

‘And do you know who might have given her a lift from there?’

Margaret shook her head slowly. ‘It feels neglectful of me to know so little, but you never expect you’ll need to answer all of these questions.’

The back door clicked open and Goodhew heard voices in the kitchen. He looked questioningly at Margaret.

‘Andy and my mum,’ she answered.

Edna shuffled into the room, leaning heavily on her cane. Her rheumy gaze flickered beneath thin, vellum-like skin. She had aged since he’d met her, and she kept saying, ‘I don’t understand’.

Gary explained the Woodbridge sighting to Andy Burrows, too. ‘Do you know whether she’d ever visited that area in the past, Mr Burrows?’

Andy shook his head. ‘No, she never mentioned it to me, if she did.’

‘We have some CCTV footage to check, but at the moment we have no idea who offered her a lift. Do either of you have any suggestions?’

Andy watched his mother shake her head, then began to shake his too.

Gary looked at the three of them, all fragile and brittle and faded. Like a plastic set of the three wise monkeys. Perhaps they’re not ‘all wise’. He scribbled down his mobile number on a slip of paper, and handed it to Andy before he left. ‘Call me if you think of anything – or if there’s anything you would like to ask me.’

Margaret took him to the door. ‘Thank you, Mr Goodhew.’

‘I’ll be in touch, Mrs Whiting.’ He shook her cold hand. ‘Oh, just for our records, what’s your date of birth?’

‘It’s 22 December 1961.’

As soon as he reached his car, he wrote the date on his notepad. He let scraps of intuition and facts guide him, and he now knew that the
Happy Birthday, Mother
card hadn’t been bought for Margaret Whiting.

The day was drawing to a close. A bank of grimy cloud had swamped the earlier sunshine and the light was beginning to fade amid a dull blanket of constant rain.

A man parked his car in Hanley Road and banged on Peter Walsh’s door.

He didn’t care about the weather. His hair and skin glistened in the wet, and when the door didn’t open he scanned the street for his quarry.

From the lobby of the studio flats she watched him, and reached into her pocket to jiggle the remnants of the pub landlady’s pencil sharpener with restless fingers. From her vantage point she studied him with interest, and in turn asked herself,
‘Who is he?’

He was tall and slim and, although it wasn’t possible to see his features clearly, she could pick out an angularity to the line of his jaw and nose, and an intensity of demeanour.

She took her mobile from her pocket and rang Peter’s number. She watched the stranger listen to the phone ringing. He then opened the letter box to hear the answerphone message.

She pressed the
end
button as soon as she heard Peter’s voice start up. Funny how she could cope with hearing him on his answerphone, but then she often rang it if she needed to know where he was. Her mobile was permanently set to ‘number withheld’ and she’d already used it to ring Peter’s office. He hadn’t answered his phone, so she’d hung up.

Clearly this stranger didn’t know how to find him either. Perhaps he hadn’t been at work today.

She watched the young man through the pouring rain. He’d moved away from the front door and stood, straight-backed and patient, watching the entrance to the road. The weather didn’t seem to affect him.

She couldn’t see him clearly enough; she wanted to look at his face.

Peter’s not home,
she told herself as she slipped into another inner conversation.

What if he comes back? You can’t just walk straight past his house. You wouldn’t dare.

But she suddenly realized that she could cut through an alley situated three houses beyond Peter’s, then back into the adjoining street where she had parked. She could easily walk straight towards the stranger, on past him, and disappear.

Yes, I dare.

Gary thought nothing of the woman walking towards him. At least nothing suspicious.

He noticed her rain-sodden clothes, and that she was feeling cold by the way she clutched the front of her jacket. Otherwise she was just a passer-by in a hurry. She strode towards him, staring at the pavement in front of her, avoiding the uneven paving slabs, though once or twice she glanced towards him and beyond.

He glanced towards the main road again. Still no sign of Peter Walsh. Number 28 was empty, and for sale. Gary decided to call at number 24, just in case they could shed light on Walsh’s
whereabouts
.

He stepped away from number 26 just as the woman passed number 24. He paused before stepping from Pete’s garden path, allowing her time to pass by. She glanced up at him, and her blue eyes took a moment to scan his face before she directed them back down at the pavement.

Her hair was soaked, rainwater running from her fringe and trickling down her nose and cheeks. He gave a spontaneous smile. ‘Nice weather, eh?’

She gasped and her eyes widened slightly as they darted up to meet his. Her lips, red and wet from the cold rain, parted as if to speak, but she merely stared at him and walked on by.

Goodhew knocked at number 24. Instinct made him turn his head towards her, and he caught the last second of her gaze as she stared at him over her shoulder. Biting her bottom lip, she turned away quickly, breaking eye contact. She headed down a side alley and hurried out of sight.

Gary stepped back from the doorway, torn by an unexpected urge to run after her. What had just passed between them? A shiver rippled down his spine.

He hurried to the near end of the alley, but already she’d vanished. Above the sloshing of traffic in the distance and the dripping of gutterings, he thought he caught the sound of her running.

Pete’s neighbour’s front door suddenly opened and a blonde in a BHS uniform called across to him, ‘Can I help you, mate?’

Kaye Whiting obviously had to come first. ‘Do you know if Mr Walsh is away at the moment?’

‘Pete next-door? No idea.’

In the end, he posted a note through Walsh’s letter box and drove home after one quick trawl along the next street. Not that he expected to see her still. And if he had? He didn’t know if he’d even recognize her properly again, but could only conjure up a vague image of her – wide-eyed and uneasy, like a startled deer.

He left the unmarked car in the bay opposite his house and unlocked his front door. The hallway was dark and silent; tonight the house seemed too big and too empty.