The Calling (15 page)

The 8.57 from Paddington pulled into Gloucester at 10.38. The disjointed journey from Cambridge had consisted of two
late-running
trains punctuated by a shuffling Circle Line tube.

Gary stepped from the carriage on to Platform One, and jogged past the slow-speed tourists to claim the first black-and-white Cathedral cab on the rank.

‘The Fosters, Gloucester Docks,’ he instructed. ‘How long will it take?’

‘’Bout five minutes, that’s all,’ the driver replied, in a rounded Gloucestershire burr.

Gary checked his watch, he’d be half an hour late.

‘Where’re you from, then?’ the cabbie enquired, and spent the journey extolling the virtues of local tourist attractions. ‘That’s the Docks,’ he announced, at last.

Goodhew saw a cluster of red-brick warehouses perched
shoulder
-to-shoulder beside the road. Wrought-iron entrance gates opened on to a vista of deserted car parks.

They abutted the shadowy waters of the dock basins, whose surfaces rippled with the undercurrent of poverty and child labour still reflected from the uniform dark windows of the scrubbed-up Victorian grain and timber stores.

The taxi followed the road leading into the hub of the docks and pulled up in a half-empty staff car park. It lay across a narrow inlet from the Merchants’ Quay shopping centre, a huge green and glass conservatory-style building that resembled a do-it-yourself kit interpretation of the Crystal Palace.

The driver pointed to a pub. ‘That’s the Fosters, one of those theme pubs.’

Goodhew paid him and walked across to the front door, aware that he was being watched from inside.

Before the door closed behind him, the landlord nodded to a corner table. ‘Mr Hayward’s waiting for you.’

Ron Hayward, Detective Inspector retired, gave a brief nod and beckoned Gary across. They shook hands.

‘I took the liberty of getting you a glass of Coke.’

‘Thank you.’

Hayward held up his pint. ‘Shame you couldn’t join me in a pint, but you’re on duty and I’m not.’ He chuckled at his little joke. ‘So you’re interested in Helen Neill, then?’ he added, rosy-faced.

Gary nodded. ‘I was hoping to talk to DCI Barnes, but he’s not available.’

‘Dead, actually. Heart attack. But I think you’ll find I’m not a bad second choice.’

Goodhew wondered whether there was an intentioned barb in the comment. He placed his pile of documents in front of him, with a fresh sheet of paper to one side, and removed the cap from his pen.

Many retired inspectors would relish the opportunity to dabble in a serving officer’s investigation, and he was ready for the role of listener.

Hayward launched into his story, unconcerned at being
overheard
. ‘I remember the Helen Neill murder very well indeed. She was found in the Forest of Dean, a couple of miles from Cinderford. She’d been lying there about a month, we reckon.’ His voice rose to a merry blast. ‘She was as rotten as hell.’

‘Who found her?’ Gary asked quietly.

Hayward leant forward and whispered, ‘Well, there’d been a bit of a fire on the edge of the forest, about a hundred yards away from her. I reckon it was started by kids. Anyhow this labourer, Jimmy McCue from Pycroft Farm, is cutting through the trees. Using a shortcut down one of the paths, so he says, and he sees the smoke and heads across to investigate. And, bingo, he practically trips over the body.’ Hayward raised his eyebrows and his voice. ‘So he says.’

‘So he says?’ Goodhew queried. ‘He was a suspect, then?’

Hayward drained his glass but continued talking from up at the bar. ‘Well, of course, he was. He found the body. And by the time he’d finished he’d mashed the ground to porridge with his great size elevens.’ He returned with two pints of Tetley. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t get you one. There’s just no point going to and fro like a yo-yo, is there? As for McCue? I hope he still is a suspect. I interviewed him a couple of times, didn’t like him at all. He’s one of them Irish gippo types, call themselves labourers, but they’re unreliable as far as I’m concerned. Bloody dids.’

‘So you didn’t manage to find any evidence against him?’ Gary asked.

‘No,’ he snorted with disgust. ‘We had to let it drop. They stick together, those people.’

‘Hmm.’ Goodhew sipped his Coke, exhaled slowly, then
persevered
. ‘What about Helen – how did she disappear?’

Hayward rolled his eyes from behind his pint. ‘Usual story. Been out with friends, they lost track of her during the evening, and there you go, Bob’s your jolly old uncle.’ He banged the glass on the table for emphasis. ‘Another silly girl who should’ve been more careful. Not that I’m condoning it, of course, but it’s not like they’ve never been warned, is it?’

‘For God’s sake,’ Goodhew muttered.

‘What?’

‘What are the facts? You know, those little things that definitely happened,’ he growled.

Hayward glared. ‘Well, in my opinion I’m giving them to you. But if that’s not what you want, that’s up to you.’

‘No, no. Sorry, carry on. What leads were there after she vanished?’

‘Well, there was a car, a red Astra Estate, that was sighted around the corner from the Cathedral.’

‘In Cinderford?’

‘No, here in Gloucester. The registration number was picked up on city-centre CCTV. Registered to a Tony Vitale. Well, it wasn’t right or it was a false number, because Mr Vitale and his car were in Birmingham all that weekend.’

‘And she disappeared on a Saturday?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. Can’t remember the dates.’

‘I’ve got them: Saturday, twenty-fifth of April 2009 and her body turned up on Wednesday, twenty-seventh of May 2009.’

Hayward tapped his index finger on the table top. ‘Now, what did seem odd was the body. Not much left, like I said, but the forensics people said there was no sign of any sexual assault. Seems funny, that. Young girl, out for the night, has a few drinks and chances her luck with some bastard who kills her. Well, he’s going to rape her, isn’t he? Or what’s the point? But the report came back “gagged and bound, no evidence of a fight”.’ Goodhew already knew this but the words still made him prickle.

Hayward waggled his finger. ‘But they admitted it was hard to tell. I thought then maybe it was a domestic, but not likely. Nice family, hers, completely devastated. At the end of the day,’ he paused to shrug and give a you-win-some, you-lose-some smile, ‘it’s one we didn’t solve.’

‘Amazing,’ muttered Goodhew drily.

‘So what’s new now?’

‘We had an anonymous call linking this to another more recent case in Cambridge. And there are similarities.’ Goodhew doodled a speech bubble. ‘Did you receive any unusual anonymous tip-offs at the time?’

Hayward shrugged again. ‘Can’t remember now. You’d have to go over the notes.’

‘Yeah, I’ll do that,’ replied Goodhew, standing up and
simultaneously
gathering his papers. ‘Thanks.’

‘Is that it?’ Ron Hayward rose to his feet and shook hands with Goodhew. ‘I can make the time if there’s anything else you’d like help with.’

‘No, no, I really don’t want to take up any more of your retirement,’ Goodhew replied. ‘You were clearly looking forward to it for a long time,’ he added to himself as he stepped out into the fresh air.

He used his mobile to call a taxi, and agreed to wait for it back at the entrance gates. ‘I bet they had a party when he left the force. What a waste of time,’ he cursed.

As he rinsed the red and yellow mug, Pete was reminded of his first date with Donna. A swift thrill of pleasure rushed through him as he recalled her urgency.

He dried the mug and tossed the tea towel to the back of the draining board. As he placed the mug back on its shelf he stared at it, trying to focus on that first night.

Nothing wrong with it, he decided. Definitely better than last night, when there was too little conversation and he’d taken her home straight after dinner.

Something was lacking, though. Perhaps he was feeling overtired, or maybe it was all happening just too soon after he’d been seeing Paulette.

He wiped down the draining board with the tea towel and threw it into the open washing machine. Perhaps he was on the rebound? He walked through to the living room and sat in the chair beside the window.

Bright sunshine glistened back up from the rain-soaked pavements and he guessed there was a rainbow outside somewhere. That was what Paulette had been like; sunshine and rainstorms all rolled into one.

He didn’t want to keep thinking about Paulette. He’d been over it and over it in his head. No more walking on eggshells, no more emotional smothering; he’d made the right choice. Now he had to consider Donna.

He imagined two columns on a sheet of paper, one headed ‘good points’ and the other one headed ‘bad points’.

Donna was more independent than Paulette, also pretty and cheerful. But she had no real ambitions, just saw herself getting married and maybe being well-off one day.

He stopped there: if he was totally honest with himself, he knew he wanted someone who sought more from life.

He watched a single raindrop slide down the pane, sparkling and gathering momentum as it joined up with others on its descent.

That’s the girl he wanted to find: unique, pure and exciting. He wasn’t sure a woman like that truly existed but, for as long as he could remember, he’d had the idea that she might. Letting go of that would feel like accepting a consolation prize.

He’d asked himself many times whether his expectations were too high, and he still didn’t know the answer. Except he knew that his parents were happy, and so were his sister Selena and her husband Phil.

Perhaps he needed to try harder.

He decided to surprise Donna with flowers, hoping that the walk to the shop would refresh him and leave him in brighter spirits.

He stepped outside just as a middle-aged man and a thin blonde woman emerged from the unoccupied house next-door. Another estate agent, he guessed, looking at the man’s grey suit and co-ordinated shirt and tie.
Smarmy salesman
, he thought, but then the woman looked no better; too earnest to be much fun.

Pete saw her rattle the house details against her free hand, in irritation at the man’s fawning attempt at charm. ‘Lovely, lovely,’ the estate agent kept saying, while gazing at her hopefully.

Pete liked the idea of a single person moving in. His old neighbours, Anj and Bart, had half-killed each other night after night for six months, until Bart moved out and put in for a divorce. Anj had claimed that it was her own fault for marrying someone called Bart in the first place.

Pete grinned at the prospective buyer. She smiled back and suddenly didn’t seem at all surly. He jogged towards the shop and hoped that she’d make a much nicer neighbour.

Someone had slapped a Post-it note in the middle of the small clear patch on Gully’s desk. It read ‘Goodhew wants you all afternoon’.

Gully had smirked and muttered a wicked, ‘I wish,’ before duly rearranging her workload. She made sure that she was available at 12.00 and fidgeted until 1.20, when Goodhew finally arrived.

They settled at Gully’s desk with two mugs of coffee and a packet of Jaffa Cakes. Goodhew first cleared Sue’s desktop,
unceremoniously
dumping every item removed in one dodgy stack on the floor against the filing cabinet.

‘How’d you get on in Gloucester?’

‘Well, I saw Hayward, also the location of the body, Helen Neill’s parents and I’ve brought back copies of most of the information collated during the murder investigation.’ Goodhew paused to sip his coffee. ‘Hayward was a wind-up, who certainly improved the quality of the police force by retiring. He clearly didn’t give a toss that the killer’s never been caught. Anyway, I think the only way we can get the OK to chase Peter Walsh and our woman caller is to show that she knew what she was talking about when she linked the two cases.’

‘So,’ Sue interjected, ‘we need to spend this afternoon mapping the two and then see what we come up with.’

Goodhew nodded, handing her half the pile of notes. ‘Go over these and see what you find. I’ll do this other lot, then we can go through it all together and compile a comprehensive list.’

Goodhew moved himself to the adjoining desk, and settled down with the paperwork. He glanced across at Gully, as she concentrated 
with her head resting on her left hand. Her right hand held a pen that followed the notes as she read them. She was bright and very able but she now looked like a schoolgirl sitting an exam. She clearly didn’t realize that he was watching her, and he smiled as he noticed that every time she moved her hand to the notepad, it returned via the Jaffa Cakes.

They worked on in companionable silence until, at 3.20, they were finally ready to compile a joint list.

‘Let’s start with the victims,’ began Goodhew. ‘There’s the obvious physical similarities: both white, medium build, fair complexion, shoulder-length hair.’

‘Similar ages,’ added Gully, ‘only Helen was two years younger.’

‘But the killer was three years older by the time Kaye was abducted. That’s a relative difference of only one year.’

‘If it’s the same killer,’ warned Gully.

‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn this into something it isn’t.’ He nodded at her list. ‘What else?’

‘Oh yes, both single and not known to have a boyfriend at the time of their disappearances. Neither had any history of going missing. But this isn’t showing anything conclusive.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just a picture we’re building. On the crime itself, though, the similarity is far less commonplace. Both girls were abandoned alive, and both were bound and gagged.’

‘What with?’

‘Nylon rope – but you know that.’ He nodded to the pile of papers. ‘You’ve got the forensic reports.’

‘Yes, I know. I was just making sure you did.’

‘Thanks. So were they of the same brand?’ he replied, testing her in return.

‘No, one was dark green, several years old, and originally stocked by Woolworths, the other was pale blue and available at almost any garden or DIY shop,’ she replied with confidence.

‘Tell me about the knots.’ He flicked through the file, hunting for photographs.

‘In each case the rope was secured by wrapping round and lashing, and then finished with a knot.’

‘The same type of knot?’ He slid two pictures from the folder.

‘Oh,’ she flustered slightly, ‘I didn’t read that bit.’ She took the prints from him and studied the pattern of the ropes. She didn’t let her eyes dwell on the dead hands they restrained.

‘The knots are identical, but we can’t read too much into that. It’s called a Fisherman’s Bend, but it isn’t so obscure or clever that it couldn’t be merely a coincidence. Now tell me what strikes you about the similarities in the crimes.’

‘Well,’ replied Gully, ‘when Kaye Whiting’s body was first found I assumed it would be a rape and murder investigation, so I was really surprised when there was no evidence of any sexual assault, and not even any sign of a struggle. Helen Neill’s murder has the same feel to it, and I would say that’s a strong similarity. Also, although the locations aren’t in the same area, they were both found outdoors, in sites with easy public access, and in both cases the abductor would have required a vehicle to get them there.’

‘Hmm,’ Goodhew nodded, ‘that seems good reasoning.’

‘And, on the subject of a vehicle, there was a sighting in the Helen Neill case. What about double-checking Vitale’s alibi?’

Again Goodhew nodded. ‘We could check his whereabouts for Kaye’s disappearance and, if that’s suspicious, then double-check his original story. But we mustn’t be sidetracked into Helen’s case if there’s no genuine connection.’

‘How common is it for abductees to be abandoned alive?’

‘Considering there’s no sign that either case was money related, or linked to any relationship conflict that either victim was suffering, I would say very rare.’

Gully picked up the Jaffa Cakes, tipped out the last one and threw the box in the bin. She waggled it enthusiastically in Goodhew’s direction, as she spoke. ‘What’s the motive, Gary?’

‘Motive?’ he began slowly, letting his thoughts brew into a logical flow of mental text before releasing them. ‘Let’s assume for the moment that it is the same killer. The motivation may come in the form of a trigger, or a series of triggers. But in this case we’re not seeing killing committed in a frenzy. We don’t even know whether the murderer was present when either girl died, and I see no reason even to assume it was a man.’

‘So it could be our anonymous caller?’

‘It’s a possibility, since she could more easily catch these girls off guard. And, although there’s no apparent sexual motive, have you heard the phrase “Eligibility Paraphiliac”?’

‘No.’

‘It’s about repetitive desire for someone who, in some way, is taboo to have as a sexual partner. The woman I saw outside Walsh’s house bore a physical resemblance to both these girls, so it could all be part of a fetish she has.’

‘Or her along with someone else?’ Sue added.

‘I suppose anything’s possible, really.’ Goodhew pondered that idea for a few seconds. ‘No, but this much is certain: our killer – or killers, for that matter – left virtually no clues. There are no hair samples, minimal fibres, and the strange contradiction of a murder location that is both publicly accessible whilst being isolated enough for the girls to be abandoned without risk of discovery. In both cases, careful planning was involved and there was also a risk that the girls could have been found alive.’

‘That sounds sexual to me. The thrill of the planning and execution of the crime, and then the suspense of waiting for the outcome. It’s like a metaphoric courtship.’

‘A metaphoric courtship?’ Goodhew repeated in wonder.

‘Abducting the girl is meeting her. Tying her up is captivating her and getting her attention. Then there’s the wait to see if the courtship is paying off, and then
bing
, the body turns up and it’s a big sexual kick. That’s how it usually is when you start seeing someone, isn’t it? Getting your hands on their body is one of the highlights.’

Goodhew raised his eyebrows and just blinked at her for a long moment. ‘Could you write that bit down for me, so I can digest it properly? And if there’s no sexual motive, and it’s murder for murder’s sake, then the killer’s rituals will help us build a picture.’

‘There will be more deaths if that’s the case, won’t there?’

‘Maybe even some already that we don’t know about. That’s why, as soon as we’ve finished with this list, we need Marks to agree to release Andy Burrows and let us concentrate on finding our anonymous caller.’