The Calling (18 page)

The clouds had burst open and heavy raindrops pelted Goodhew’s car. The passing traffic had swelled to a swishing flood that gushed past him as he opened the door and ducked inside.

He dropped his notepad into the passenger seat, and it fell open where he’d wedged his pen between a couple of pages.

‘Julie Wilson, 125 Gilmerton Court’ his note said.

He rang the station to check his messages. Condensation was quick to mist the windscreen, and he turned the fan on full as he waited for a reply.

No messages.

He dropped his phone in his pocket and pulled away, flowing into the main stream of traffic. He decided to call on Julie Wilson unannounced, since he preferred visits that way.

He opened his window a few inches, allowing stray spots of rain to dart through the gap. Occasionally one misjudged the space and crash-landed on the top rim of the window glass, before teetering and tumbling down the inside surface.

Gary wiped away these drops with the outer heel of his hand, recalling the raindrops running down the cheeks of that girl in Hanley Road. She wasn’t Paulette Coleman, he now knew. And neither was Paulette Coleman the anonymous caller, for the timbre of her voice had been all wrong. Besides, he had convinced himself that the girl in the street was owner of the voice recorded on the tape.

The rush-hour traffic thickened but, despite the congestion, the
quickest route to Gilmerton Court was around the airport and through the slow-moving streets of Cherry Hinton and past Addenbrooke’s Hospital. He inched forward, nose to tail with all the commuters who accepted this crawl homewards as part of their daily routine.

Paulette caught the bus each day, while Pete walked. So what? He wondered whether she watched out for Pete, or whether her self-confessed obsession manifested itself in other, more obscure ways. She’d looked different from what he imagined to be Pete Walsh’s type. He’d expected someone more colourful, and bolder by nature too.

The rain slowed to a frustrated drizzle. Goodhew sincerely hoped Julie Wilson would be the girl from Hanley Road.

Number 125, Gilmerton Court was a two-bedroom flat on the second floor of a three-storey residential block. Julie Wilson wasn’t at home, so Gary waited in the stairwell, on the second step of the flight leading up to the third floor.

After ten minutes he heard the lobby door open, and wet footsteps slapped the stone steps on their way towards him.

Gary stood and watched the handrails of the flights lower down. A female left hand appeared and curled around the rail as she ascended. He could just make out the damp pinkness of her skin against the black cuff of her jacket. As she reached the half landing ten steps below him, she drew a sudden breath and froze, her gaze flashing upwards to the floor above. Goodhew instantly recognized her pallor: he’d seen it twice before, and more times if he counted the dead ones. But this was the first time he’d set eyes on Julie Wilson.

Goodhew leant over and held out his badge. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. I’m from Cambridge CID. I’d like to ask you a few questions in connection with a current investigation.’

‘Is this house-house? I mean, are you seeing everyone who lives here?’

‘No, just you.’

Julie didn’t move. ‘Throw me your ID.’

Gary complied. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t phone first.’

‘Don’t you usually make visits in pairs?’

‘Not always, no.’ He pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Do you want to call the police station and check on me?’

Julie shook her head and headed up the last few steps. She opened the door of her flat and gestured Goodhew through in front of her. The hallway opened out into a lounge and Goodhew took a seat on the blue settee at the far end, nearest the only armchair.

Julie Wilson stood with her hands in her jacket pockets and glared at him.

‘Some anonymous calls have recently been made to us regarding a current murder investigation. These may be offering us genuine information or they may simply be malicious. I’m here because I’ve been told that you may be able to point me in the right direction.’

Julie shrugged. ‘So?’

‘I believe you once went out with a Peter Walsh, of Hanley Road?’

Julie’s lips, suddenly compressed, seemed to struggle with more than one syllable. ‘Yup.’

‘Do you have any grievance against him?’

She shook her head. ‘Nope.’

‘So your split was amicable?’ he prodded, keen to prise an involuntary second syllable from her.

‘Well, I don’t want him back and I’m sure he’s not interested in asking me out again. Up to you if you want to describe that as amicable.’

‘So you wouldn’t be the caller who’s accusing him of being somehow involved in a murder, then?’

‘You’re barking completely up the wrong tree.’

‘So you think it’s a ridiculous accusation that’s being made against Mr Walsh?’

‘Look, some women are bitches, and some blokes are bastards. It doesn’t make them killers, though. I don’t know what you want me to say, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’

Gary nodded in sympathy. ‘I really do understand your point of view. I don’t want to rake up anything distressing, but this is important.’

The redness steadily creeping up Julie’s neck became less angry in shade. She removed her anorak and dropped it on to the armchair beside him. ‘I shouldn’t get so wound up, I suppose.’ 

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘No, it’s not. I should keep it under control.’

‘But you’re still upset about him?’

‘I’m only upset that it still bothers me after so long.’

‘What exactly?’

‘Oh,’ she threw her hands in the air, ‘I don’t know.’ She stared at Gary, maybe hoping he’d move on. He didn’t speak. ‘Everything, nothing – you know the usual relationship stuff.’

‘So if you didn’t call us, can you think of anyone who might bear him some kind of serious grudge?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine him doing anything to make himself particularly unpopular at work. But I don’t really know for sure – especially after this long.’

‘When did you see him last?’

‘Last summer, I suppose: probably around July 2010.’

Gary opened his notebook and flicked through a couple of pages. ‘What about his ex-girlfriend, er …’

‘Marlowe?’ offered Julie.

‘Thank you. Is that a first name or a last name?’

‘First,’ Julie muttered.

‘And what’s her last name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where can I find her?’

Julie surveyed him for several long seconds, the redness gathering around her throat again. Her jaws clenched and unclenched before she spoke. ‘How much do
you
know about your ex-girlfriends’ ex-boyfriends? I don’t really care about Marlowe, Pete or anyone else who might be giving you the run-around. I don’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I made a resolution to put him in the past and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it.’

The rain was again beating hard on the roof of his car as Gary pulled out of the parking bays situated outside Gilmerton Court. Murky figures hurried home in the dirty gloom. His wipers swooshed back and forth accompanying the voice in his head which kept repeating, ‘Marlowe-Marlowe-Marlowe.’

The offices at Dunwold Insurance were deserted; even the cleaners had finished for the weekend. Fridays usually saw all but the keenest leave by 5.30, and the last stragglers out by 6 p.m.

And, bar one person, this evening was no exception.

At 7 p.m. Peter Walsh still occupied his desk, but only a fraction of his thoughts were on his work. He didn’t realize that a full ten minutes had passed since his last touch of the keyboard, until his screensaver flashed on.

He knew that his biggest mistake had been to pick someone from work but, as ever, it was easy to be wise after the event. He’d compounded the error by dating a receptionist, which meant there was now no privacy for him. Every time he passed through the foyer, to go in or out of the building, she knew about it.

Even if she wasn’t there, she’d be informed by her nosy-parker colleague. Even Marcus ‘bean-counter’ Bagley from Accounts had given him a knowing smile.
And he never smiles
, Pete thought glumly. It seemed that everybody knew about him and Donna, and he now felt under constant scrutiny.

He nudged his mouse to clear the screensaver and continued working. Almost immediately his PC bleeped at him. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. Three times he’d made mistakes in entering
straightforward
details on a new car-insurance policy. Silly mistakes that confirmed how much his mind was elsewhere.

But he knew that already.

He pushed back from the desk and snatched up his mug. At least everyone else had gone, as the last thing he needed was more
conversation about Donna. He’d never meant it to be serious. He’d made that very clear, dammit. But now it seemed that half of his colleagues were waiting for an engagement announcement, whilst the other half hovered in the ‘said it wouldn’t last’ camp for it to end.

He slung his fresh coffee into the sink, after barely tasting it.

He needed space to think – away from work and away from Donna. Perhaps she wouldn’t be too put out if he cancelled tomorrow. He could spend the day getting his thoughts straight, and see her on Sunday instead. He could explain the situation then.

Pete turned from the kitchen, back towards his desk. He’d phone her straight away. He almost walked past the first bay of workstations without noticing the figure waiting in the last swivel chair. But, as he realized that he wasn’t alone, he also realized that Donna’s unexpected appearances were becoming repetitive.

‘Donna, hi,’ he muttered and forced a smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to see you,’ she purred, smoothing her hair with one hand whilst leaving the other draped along the armrest. ‘I thought you might like company.’

‘I need to catch up.’

She pouted a little, ‘But, Pete, you’ve worked hard all week.’ She uncurled herself from the chair and smoothed her short silky skirt over her bare tanned thighs. She slunk towards him, but Pete turned and continued back to his desk.

‘Donna, I really must catch up.’ He took in a breath and released it in a slow huff.
Sunday
he reminded himself, as he dropped into his chair. When he spoke again, his voice had softened slightly. ‘I was going to ring you. I need to work tomorrow, too. Can we make it Sunday instead?’

She stopped following him and stood with her arms folded across her low-cut top, and with her mouth set in a less than seductive pout. ‘Why?’ she challenged.

‘Because,’ he began, keeping his tone at its most even, ‘for the third time, I’m really busy.’

‘So, am I supposed to go home now, or what?’ A deep angry frown creased her forehead and petulance poisoned her voice.

She was so tense that it appealed to him for a moment. He smirked at her and winked. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Have you ever done it in the office?’

Pete studied her. The temptation palled in an instant, evaporating like spit in a bonfire. It was so contrived, so predictable. He knew that she’d left work early. Gone to wash and change and manicure her nails, no doubt. Yes, she’d gone to town on it: long, pink false nails and just enough make-up to act the part of a seductress.

‘No.’ He didn’t bother to add,
Have you
? because he couldn’t see the point.

She crossed the office towards him and stood in front of his chair, leant forward and whispered in his ear. ‘All day I think about you being up here, and I think how I’d love to work upstairs with you, and screw you in the kitchen while everyone else’s working out here.’ She ran her tongue along his cheek until it brushed his ear. ‘But, as we’re alone now, I’d like to get on my hands and knees for you, so you can fuck me from behind.’

Pete remained silent. She assumed his primary motivation was sex; that he was as easy as she was.

His right knuckle was being manoeuvred up her inner thigh. She wanted sex on the office floor. How many times had she done this kind of thing in the past? Anger surged through his bloodstream as he considered it.

She’d probably been planning this all day, telling that tart that she worked with – Karen or Sharon or whatever she was called. And what if they did it now? Would everyone know about it on Monday?

He stood up abruptly, so she tottered backwards on her high heels as she struggled to maintain her balance. ‘I’m sorry, Donna. I’m not in the mood.’

Constable Pearse received the call to Brookfield Farm as he returned from his weekly trip to investigate the Brinkley Close dustbin arsonist. As ever, there were no clues, no witnesses and no damage apart from Mrs Cameron’s galvanized dustbin, which grew blacker on each visit.

The dustbin and its week’s worth of cremated newspapers vanished from Pearse’s thoughts as the controller advised him to attend the farm where a newly discovered body waited.

Pearse’s adrenalin accelerated, along with his squad car, as he swung sharply left and raced the last half mile to Mr Anderson’s farm. He could hear the ambulance approaching too, probably followed by another patrol car.

Mr Anderson and his wife were both waiting outside their stone farmhouse. Mr Anderson paced back and forth beside a parked VW Estate, whilst Mrs Anderson leant inside the open car door, near the body slouching in the driver’s seat.

Pearse parked on the opposite side of the farmyard and burst from the car, spurred on by a rising panic that warned him to stop Mrs Anderson disturbing the body. ‘Come away from the car, please, Mrs Anderson,’ he called out.

She stepped back. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. It seems ages since we phoned.’

Now centre stage, Pearse knew he had to secure the scene but, just as he began to usher the Andersons back indoors, a husky voice muttered, ‘She’s in the field.’

He turned back to the VW to find his ‘body’ was an ashen-faced male.

Just then an ambulance pulled into the gap behind the VW.

Pearse dismissed the desire to announce that this was also his first time with a fresh corpse. Instead he said with forced authority, ‘Right, did you find the body?’

The man nodded.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Mr Rodgers, Marlon Rodgers.’

Pearse made a note. ‘OK then, Mr Rodgers, I’ll take some more details in a moment. Now, please show me where.’ He turned to the paramedics. ‘Follow me, but wait as we get nearer to the body, and I’ll call you if you’re needed.’

And so Pearse led the way along the perimeter of the first two crop fields and, through a gap in the hedge, into the third. Marlon Rodgers followed, directing him in a wavering voice. ‘She’s just along there,’ he pointed straight up along the furrow they currently followed, ‘but to the right when you reach that clump of hawthorn jutting out.’

‘OK, wait here.’ Pearse walked on alone. He felt the urge to run, in case the victim wasn’t dead, but was desperately in need of help. So he maintained the same pace, careful to disturb as little of the ground as possible.

The rape-seed crop rose to waist height from deep furrows of soil. Its yellow flowers unleashed a dirty odour that attracted plenty of insects, but Pearse knew he was approaching the right spot, for his nostrils braced as a new smell began to greet them. The crop ahead was buzzing with an even more intense population of bluebottles.

He felt he needed a deep breath of fresh air but, as he parted the stems and spotted her body, the sharp inhalation filled his lungs with the stench of rotting flesh.

He hurriedly retreated.
Don’t be sick, don’t be sick,
he pleaded with himself. And by the time he rejoined the others, he knew he could safely speak without the likelihood of vomiting. ‘You won’t be needed,’ he informed the paramedics, and quickly turned his attention to his radio. ‘Confirm dead body, white, female, aged twenty to thirty.’

Pearse and Marlon Rodgers rejoined the Andersons at their front door. They watched the departing ambulance in silence.

Pearse wondered if the others also felt the creeping presence of the corpse looming over their shoulders. He wanted to go back to look at her again. He tried to recall her injuries. Her hair sprouted from bloated raw flesh which seethed with busy insects. He closed his eyes briefly, hoping to see the corpse as a photograph projected on the back of his eyelids.

Nothing.

But he was sure his memory served him well, and in that brief glance, he’d seen no dried black blood, no ligature marks around the neck and no ripped garments. Just as he’d read in the station copy of the
Police Gazette
, it appeared that she had been bound and gagged but otherwise unharmed.

Except that she was dead.