The Calling (17 page)

Fiona was waiting in Hanley Road. She stayed in her car and flicked through her diary, as six o’clock came and went.

Mr Kimber was late, but viewers often were.

Fiona doodled little boxes around the day’s appointments, then shaded them with light pen strokes. Yesterday she had written ‘Busy today, had lunch at Brown’s – very good. Sold Easter Cottage.’

Her diary entries were rarely more than one or two brief comments on the day’s events. And, so far today, she had nothing she wished to write down.

She looked up just as Peter Walsh crossed the road on to her side. He had spotted her already, and nodded to her as he approached.
The neighbour? It wouldn’t hurt to say hello,
she thought, and stepped out of her MX-5 to meet him.

They smiled politely at one another.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ he asked.

‘No, just a few minutes. I guess it’s just one of those afternoons,’ she said.

‘Estate agents are a nightmare.’

She smiled. ‘Aren’t they just!’

‘Yup, they should all be shot.’

‘You’re going to kill me, then,’ she laughed, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a set of keys clearly marked ‘28 Hanley Road’. She waved them in front of him. ‘I’m the estate agent, actually.’

He laughed, too, and then shook his head. ‘I’ve put my foot in now it, haven’t I?’

‘Depends on whether you were being sexist when you mistook me for the buyer.’

He pursed his lips, screwing up his nose, as he gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I think I probably was. That’s unforgivable, isn’t it?’

‘At least you’re honest,’ she admitted, and quite spontaneously she touched his arm.

Her diary entry for the day was to be typically short. She doodled a little bunch of flowers tied with a bow and wrote: ‘Client d.n.a. at Hanley Road, but neighbour interesting.’

The custody sergeant rang Goodhew as soon as Andy Burrows’ paperwork was in order, and he was thus free to leave.

Burrows waited for Goodhew in the lobby. ‘They said you’d offered to give me a lift home. I’d appreciate it – if it’s still OK, that is.’

‘Of course,’ Goodhew said, then walked him through to the car park.

As soon as Burrows fastened his seatbelt, he started to talk. ‘You heard about my mother, I suppose? I wish she’d lived to see me get let out. Since I found out I was going home, I’ve been saying to myself that she knows, though. She’s looking down on me, that’s what I think.’

‘Did you miss her funeral?’

‘No, it was on the Monday before last, and I had an escort, of course. I saw Margaret then. I felt so sorry for her, I couldn’t look her in the eye. You heard what I did, I suppose?’

‘Bits and pieces,’ Goodhew fibbed.

‘Well, I’ve made a proper statement now, but I don’t mind telling you again that it was you I wanted to talk to when I came in, in the first place.’ He paused and the silence jarred him into talking more quickly, chattering simply to avoid another lull. ‘She was keen to visit Woodbridge, and she’d mentioned it several times in the past, but with Mum’s birthday coming up it now seemed ideal. I don’t know what she found so interesting for so long, and the first hour was fine, but then she kept going round and round all the antiquey shops, peering at every little display case. D’you know what I mean?’

Goodhew nodded. ‘Not my cup of tea, either.’ He eased his foot from the accelerator simply to prolong the journey.

‘Well, I decided to wander off on my own for a bit, and in the end I popped into a pub for a pint. By the time I met up with her again, I’d had three but I was fine to drive. It had been a couple of hours since, and it’s supposed to wear off at a pint an hour. And it’s OK to drive on two, isn’t it?’

‘So I’ve heard.’ Goodhew made a deliberately non-committal response, keen to avoid being sidetracked into a debate on drinking. ‘Is that what you and Kaye argued about?’

‘How do you know we argued?’ Andy frowned.

‘Something made her get out of your car.’

‘How do you know she was ever in it?’

‘We found her purchases, remember?’ Goodhew glanced at Burrows, realizing that he’d now broken the flow of the story. ‘Where did she get out?’

‘We’d travelled five or six miles and we were approaching the centre of Ipswich – you know, near the hospital, by the roundabout? I’m not even sure that’s the best way back to Cambridge from Woodbridge, but that’s just where we ended up.’

Burrows’ voice trailed off and he turned his head away from Goodhew to stare through his window. Goodhew kept quiet, and when Andy spoke again the pace of his words had quickened. ‘She said I was irresponsible. She jumped out, yelling, said I had no right to put her at risk by drinking and driving. She marched off towards the city centre. I was sure she’d get the train or the bus. And I thought serve her right for being stroppy, although I expected her to tell on me, just to make sure I’d get a hard time. So I didn’t go to Mum’s party.’

He began rubbing the knuckles of his left hand up and down in a curve on the inside of the door, making a deliberate distraction for himself, and his voice dropped to one notch above a whisper. ‘I didn’t even know she didn’t get back.’ His voice wavered, then choked with tears. ‘I feel so guilty … But I tell myself I wasn’t to know. Was I?’ Gulping, he rambled on, ‘Kaye made time for people. She was nice. And Mum’s died not knowing if it was me … I don’t understand why anyone would do this to us all.’

At last, Goodhew pulled up at Burrows’ flat.

A pane of glass in the front door had become the thoroughfare for half a brick. The jagged edges of the wound poked inwards, as the remaining glass fragments held each other in a wobbly grip.

Andy’s mounting anguish vanished, as if cut to size by those shards of glass. ‘I’m not popular, am I?’ he observed, and turned back to look Goodhew straight in the face. ‘Look, I know I’ve ballsed up from start to end, and I’m so, so sorry, but all I can say to help you is that I can’t imagine Kaye taking a lift from anyone she didn’t know. Even from a woman.’

Goodhew left Burrows standing on the pavement, glad to be free but not glad to be home.

He immediately rang Gully. ‘Sue, it’s me. I’ve just dropped Andy Burrows home. Can you find out who’s following up his statement? I’m sure they’re already checking the security cameras at the train and bus stations in Ipswich, but could you suggest they include the hospital? Just in case.’

‘Which one?’

‘Don’t know, but it’s a big one near the centre, at a roundabout, I think.’

‘OK, I’ll find it. Are you on your way to see Peter Walsh now?’

‘Yeah, I’m dropping in on him at work. See you later.’

Goodhew waited for Peter Walsh in the foyer of Dunwold Insurance. The lone receptionist directed him towards a suite of low black leather settees, which he decided had been designed solely for the purpose of intimidating job candidates by placing the seats a mere six inches from floor level.

A few minutes later the receptionist approached him. ‘I’m sorry but apparently he’s in a meeting until ten.’

Goodhew studied her expression, sure he’d caught a definite note of contempt in the word ‘apparently’, but there was no clue as to whether it was for visitors, team meetings, her job or Peter Walsh?

‘That’s OK. I’ll wait. I’ve always wondered what this place is like inside.’

‘Stuck in the eighties, that’s what,’ she snorted. ‘With nineteen eighties furniture and eighteen eighties attitudes.’

‘Have you worked here long?’ he asked.

‘Too long,’ she replied, as she excused herself to answer the phone.

After fifteen minutes, Peter Walsh himself stepped from the lift. In direct contrast to Andy Burrows, he seemed quiet and relaxed, nodding to the occasional passing colleague.

‘How are you, Mr Walsh?’ Goodhew asked.

‘Fine, thank you. I was considering ringing to see whether you’d found the person trying to drop me in it, but I thought it must have blown over.’

‘I’m afraid not. That’s why I wanted to see you.’

‘You’ve received more phone calls?’

‘A note this time, actually. I really need to find the woman who’s been contacting us, and I believe she’s someone who knows you. An ex-girlfriend or perhaps even a colleague?’

‘I could listen to the tape, and maybe I’d recognize the voice.’

Beyond Walsh, the receptionist watched them, partially obscured by her raised workstation.

Goodhew shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment. Instead, I’d like a list of your ex-girlfriends and also colleagues and acquaintances that may bear you a grudge for any reason.’

Walsh strummed his fingers against his cheek, thinking, deciding. ‘Look …’ He lowered his voice. ‘Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I only have one recent ex-girlfriend – you know, aside from girls I’ve been out with only once or twice. We split up about the time I saw you last.’

‘I thought you were a bit of a ladies’ man?’ Goodhew commented, querying this apparent contradiction.

‘Yeah, I did act like that, didn’t I? But I didn’t want to get into it, not then. But if it hasn’t stopped, then I can only think it’s Paulette.’

‘Your ex?’

‘Yes. She didn’t take it very well when we split up,’ Walsh replied.

Goodhew handed him some paper and a pen. ‘Could you write her full name and address here for me, please?’

Walsh printed the words, and muttered, ‘We tried to work it out, but she has a really short fuse. I’d basically had enough of her temper.’ He looked up and smiled as he passed the page back.

‘And before that, who did you see?’

‘God, you’re going back years. There was a girl called Julie for a few months.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘No, there’s nothing malicious about her. And that’s it.’

‘No one else?’

‘Not since my teens. And as for colleagues and acquaintances, well, I keep pretty much to myself.’

Goodhew stood up, Walsh following his lead.

‘I’ll check out Paulette first, but we two will almost certainly need to speak again.’

‘No problem. But it’s wasting your time and definitely wasting mine.’

Goodhew nodded. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Walsh walked with him back to the reception desk.

‘Have you always lived in Cambridge?’ Goodhew enquired.

‘Since I was a toddler. My parents moved here from Leicester.’

The receptionist pushed the visitors’ book towards Goodhew and tapped the ‘time out’ column.

‘It’s ten twenty-two,’ she instructed.

‘Thanks.’

She picked up some newly arrived post and turned away.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Goodhew reminded Walsh.

‘And if I think of anything, can I contact you directly?’

‘Just ring the station and ask for me. If I’m not available, ask for PC Sue Gully.’

Goodhew knew that the receptionist’s hearing was fully
functional
, even though her smile wasn’t, and he guessed the rumour mill would soon begin to turn. And as he passed through the heavy chrome doors into the dirty rain outside, he would not have been surprised to learn that, behind him, a scrap of paper had just been slipped inside the credit-card section of a well-organized purse. It read ‘G. Goodhew or PC Sue Gully’.

Paulette Coleman’s home was in her parents’ place, a grey post-war terrace house in the dormitory village of Fen Ditton. The adjoining properties had been repainted cream and the dark-green door of drab number 17, against its drab elevations, made Goodhew’s subconscious expect equally dull occupants.

It was on his third knock that Mrs Coleman opened the door.

‘Mrs Coleman? I’m DC Goodhew from Cambridge CID.’

Eye-shadow and mascara flickered in astonishment.

‘I’ve come to see Paulette regarding some police enquiries we’re making. Is she at home?’

‘Oh.’ She surveyed him, her serious green eyes rapidly reading and reasoning. ‘Is she in trouble?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, Mrs Coleman.’

‘Well, she’ll be back from work in about twenty minutes. I’ll make you some tea while you wait.’ She led the way through to the kitchen. ‘My husband’s upstairs, as he works nights. He said someone had been banging on the door earlier. Was that you?’

Goodhew shook his head. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘White, one sugar, thanks.’

Mrs Coleman made the tea with her back turned to him. Her hair, a dark chestnut at the front and sides, was a more mellow brown at the back, suggesting clearly she was her own hairdresser. As she passed him his mug, he noticed the only-nearish match of her lipstick and nails, and adjusted his observation to hairdresser
and
beautician.

‘You don’t look like a policeman.’

‘That’s the point of being in plain clothes,’ Goodhew replied helpfully.

‘No, I mean you haven’t got a policeman’s face. Oh, well,’ she patted his arm, ‘just goes to show looks can be deceptive.’

‘They certainly can, Mrs Coleman.’ Goodhew then continued, ‘Where does your daughter work?’

‘At Boots in Cambridge. She’s on the make-up counter. She’s had the same job for about three years – really likes it there.’

‘Does she catch the bus to work? Or drive?’

‘Oh, the bus. She has a car, though. Bought herself a lovely little one as a treat to herself. Before that she had another car, of course, but older.’

Gary swigged thirstily. ‘Excellent tea, Mrs Coleman.’

‘Another cup?’ She stood up.

‘Thank you.’ Goodhew leant back into the corner of the chair and slouched slightly, with his elbow on the table. He’d observed Mrs Coleman’s pose and was now mimicking it. As she sat down again, she returned to the same relaxed pose and continued chatting.

‘What was I saying?’

‘You’d just finished telling me about her new car.’

‘Yes, she’s had that car for about six weeks. New car, new haircut, new boyfriend. Out with the old, in with the new; she gets that from me.’ She wiped a hand across that table top, then looked up at Goodhew with new interest. ‘And what case are you working on?’

‘Murder.’ He kept his tone smooth and level. ‘I’ve been told that Paulette may be trying to falsely implicate someone. Does that sound like your daughter?’

‘Of course not.’ The ever lively Mrs Coleman froze and stared at him, a tide of colour seeping across her face. ‘It can’t be true. Everything’s been OK again.’

Without warning, the back door opened and a thin mousy-haired girl entered the kitchen.

‘Hello,’ she muttered.

‘Paulette, this is Mr Goodhew from the police. He wants a word with you.’ She put the mugs in the sink. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she added for Goodhew’s benefit.

Paulette’s blue eyes hadn’t left Goodhew since they’d been introduced. ‘Will this take long, because I’m supposed to be going out tonight?’

‘Hopefully not.’ He poised his pen over the notepad. ‘Does the name Kaye Whiting mean anything to you?’

No visible reaction. ‘No.’

‘How about Helen Neill?’

Nothing but a small shake of the head.

‘Peter Walsh?’

Paulette drew her breath sharply. ‘What’s happened?’ she gasped, sinking into the chair opposite.

‘I’m investigating the murder of Kaye Whiting, and someone has been making anonymous calls suggesting that Peter Walsh should be arrested.’

‘No, that’s not right.’

‘What’s not?’

‘It’s not right that anyone would cause him trouble.’ Her voice was small and thin, and nothing like the voice on the tape. But, of course, Paulette didn’t know that.

‘I’ve spoken to Walsh, and he says you were very upset when he ended your relationship. Is that correct?’

‘I, um …’ she stumbled over her words. ‘Yes, I, I …’ It took her several awkward seconds before she could continue. Any make-up she wore did nothing to hide the faded magnolia tinge of her skin and the dark shadows beneath her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘You’re seeing someone else now, aren’t you?’

‘Not really. He’s just a friend at the moment. I hoped Pete and I would get back together.’ Tears suddenly welled in her eyes. ‘Why would he think I’d do that? I mean the phone calls.’

‘He says your temper was always a problem.’

‘Not temper, no. When I started going out with him, I felt so lucky. I wanted it to work so much that I became obsessed with trying to avoid anything going wrong.’

‘Obsessed is a strong word, Miss Coleman.’

‘I was determined to make him happier than he’d been with anyone else before. I wish I could do it over again, but differently.’

‘Had he been unhappy before?’

‘He’d had a couple of girlfriends, I think. He only ever mentioned the last one, called Julie. He was gutted when they split up, but he said she’d met someone else.’

Paulette rubbed her tired eyes. ‘I think she may have come to this house about two weeks ago. I was here alone when I heard the doorbell go. I looked out the window and there was a woman standing at the front door. I recognized her from a photo I saw at Pete’s place.’

‘He showed it to you?’

‘No, I found it in a drawer. I didn’t want to talk to her, but she must have seen me because she started yelling through the letter box.’

‘Yelling what, exactly?’

‘She was shouting my name. And she kept pacing up and down. Really agitated. She yelled, “I need to talk to you about Peter. I know you’re in there. Open the door.”’

‘And did you?’

‘No way … And then she left.’

‘And did you tell Peter Walsh?’

‘I left him a message, asked him to ring – but he never did.’

‘Did he know you’d found the photo at his place?’

‘No.’ Paulette dropped her gaze to her lap, which was a common response from someone about to confess. ‘No, I only looked because I was jealous, and I wouldn’t admit to that, would I? But I memorized her address too, if you want it.’