The Calling (27 page)

Justine had never seen Greta in the Flying Pig at any time of the day other than lunchtime. She’d never seen her meet anyone or speak to anyone either. Justine reached for her customer’s usual coffee mug before she even ordered. And she saw her nod to the guy sitting at Greta’s usual table.

Otherwise the pub was empty: just the three of them. Neither Greta nor the man smiled. In fact, everything about them seemed serious and Justine suddenly felt out of place.

Marlowe held out a pound coin, but Justine shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she mumbled and retreated to just beyond the doorway leading to the cellar. Suddenly she was the one that wanted to be alone, at least until the place started to fill up.

Marlowe slipped into the seat opposite Goodhew. ‘You’re early.’

‘So are you,’ he replied, watching her sip her coffee. ‘I didn’t sleep well, so I read
The Cross and the Switchblade
.’ Goodhew pulled it from his jacket pocket and flicked through the pages as he spoke.

‘I thought about it, too, but I don’t think it means anything,’ Marlowe said.

‘I don’t understand why he would want a copy of this. Is he religious in any way?’

‘No, not at all. Goes to church for weddings, christenings and funerals, but nothing else.’

Goodhew tapped the book. ‘And why did this appeal to you?’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘Partly because it’s true, I suppose. But apart from that it isn’t particularly well written, and it isn’t gripping and
it doesn’t stretch the imagination. It’s simply a story of someone trying to improve things, and possessing this unshakable belief that there’s good in everyone. It’s supposed to be inspiring, I guess.’

Goodhew stood the small paperback upright on the table. ‘That’s not how I felt about it at all. This guy, David Wilkerson, he’s a preacher, and yet he keeps asking God for signs to tell him what to do next. If he’s really read the Bible and believes in God, why doesn’t he know for himself what’s right and wrong?’

‘But he does do the right thing, so I don’t think the bit about him needing signs matters at the end of the day.’ She slipped the paperback into her bag. ‘Well, anyway, I don’t think Peter is running round killing people because God told him to.’

‘Me neither,’ Goodhew replied. ‘I thought of something else to ask you, though. You once went to the West Country with Pete. How did you get there?’

‘We drove.’

‘In your car or his?’ Goodhew felt something stir in the back of his mind. It drifted just beyond him, and he couldn’t quite latch on to it.

‘Peter hired one because he said he didn’t trust his own on the journey.’

‘Can you remember where it came from, or what make it was?’

Marlowe shook her head. ‘I don’t know where he hired it, but I know it was a Vauxhall. An Astra, I think.’ She closed her eyes, trying to remember. ‘Yes, it was an Astra. It was red.’

‘A saloon?’ With a jolt, Gary’s elusive thought snapped into the fore of his consciousness, and he knew her reply even as she spoke.

‘No, an estate.’

Goodhew grinned at Marlowe. ‘You’re a gem.’

He pulled his mobile from another pocket and had connected to Gully within seconds. ‘Sue, I’ve got a lead. Do you remember when Helen Neill disappeared, how a red Astra estate was sighted?’

‘Yeah, belonging to an Antonio Vitale,’ she said.

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ he replied. ‘Well, Peter Walsh hired a red Astra estate that same week. Check the local car-hire companies for any business he’s done with them. Start with the dates that correspond with the girls disappearing, and then check for any other rentals. I’ll be back at the station in about an hour.’

Goodhew dropped the mobile phone back into his pocket, and turned to Marlowe again. ‘I want you to tell me about Walsh’s typical day,’ he nodded towards Dunwold Insurance, ‘and then I’m going to speak to the receptionist there, to see who he’s currently taking out to lunch.’

Goodhew pushed open the heavy plate-glass door and crossed the black-tiled floor towards the lone receptionist. The rest of the foyer was deserted. She looked up at him and smiled brightly.

He leant over the counter and spoke quietly. ‘I don’t know whether you remember me?’

‘Of course I do,’ she replied. ‘DC Goodhew, isn’t it? From the …’ she lowered her voice a notch ‘… police.’

‘That’s right. I’d like a quiet word, but it is vital that it stays just that, OK?’

Karen nodded, rosy spots of anticipation reddening her cheeks. ‘Is it about Peter Walsh?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I need to trace the girlfriend he was seeing around June this year, and also find out whether he’s been seeing anyone more recently. I thought perhaps you’d know if he regularly met anyone down here.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Is this serious?’

Gary nodded.

‘Well, I can help you with both questions. He used to see Donna, who worked here too.’

‘For Dunwold Insurance?’

‘Yeah, but I mean here in reception. He then said she’d dumped him.’ Karen leant closer. ‘But Donna says it was the other way around, and I believe her, because she was so upset after they broke up that she never came back.’

Perhaps she was just gossiping, but Goodhew sensed more than mere sensationalism. ‘But you’ve seen her since, I hope?’ he said.

‘Oh, yes, but she’s very withdrawn now. She won’t talk about him and just didn’t want to know when I told her he’s been seeing someone else.’ She pulled a face as though a dirty smell had drifted into the room.

‘And when did that start?’

‘Well, that’s why I told her. It seemed to me that he met the new one very soon after dumping Donna. I even wondered if he’d been seeing them both at once. But, if not, he definitely started with her the following week. I saw them together out there.’ She pointed through the slats of the blinds.

‘Do you know who the new woman is?’

‘Not really, but she works for Sampson’s, the estate agents. I got talking to her one day when he was late coming down to meet her. I don’t know her name, though.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s OK.’ Gary was sure he didn’t really need to ask the next question. ‘What does she look like?’

‘The estate agent?’

Gary nodded.

‘Average height, I s’pose. Fair hair, skinny, a bit pasty-looking.’

‘And what about Donna?’

‘Blonde, slim and tallish.’

‘Similar in a way?’

Karen shrugged. ‘Maybe to a bloke.’

‘Thanks for your help. Do you know how I can get hold of Donna?’

‘Sure.’ From memory, Karen wrote out an address in blue biro on a Post-it note.

‘What’s her last name?’

‘King – and you’d better go now if you don’t want him to see you. He’ll be coming down for lunch at noon.’

‘I know. Thanks.’

Gary left and Karen was alone. From memory again, she tapped out a phone number and spoke softly into the receiver, lowering her voice still further as Pete Walsh headed past her. ‘Just promise you’ll meet me.’

Marlowe sat watching Gary cross the square towards Dunwold Insurance. Her recent brush with death had left her feeling less detached from everyone else – but so had meeting Goodhew.

He disappeared from sight and she turned back to sip from her coffee mug. The Flying Pig was beginning to hum with the usual lunchtime bustle and she wondered why she didn’t recognize any of the regulars that Justine clearly knew well and often greeted by name.

Till now they’d been no more than a blanket of other people encroaching on her space, threatening to speak to her or sit down at her table. Today she didn’t mind their chatter and the chink of cutlery; didn’t need to drown them out by playing the jukebox.

She glanced towards it as it stood silent, with just a couple of buttons flashing, as if waiting for her to select a track. Deliberately she turned her back on it.

She then recognized the first strains of ‘American Pie’ as the song drifted through the pub. Justine slapped her table softly as she walked past. Marlowe glanced up and the woman grinned. ‘Thought you might be short of change today, or something.’

Marlowe silently looked away. Don McLean sang about how February made him shiver with every newspaper he delivered.

How could Justine know that this was the very song Marlowe had selected when Kaye Whiting’s body had turned up? She probably just assumed that Marlowe specially liked it.

At least it cheered up when the chorus broke in.

She noticed a foot moving under the next table, tapping along with the beat. It belonged to an elderly man in a brown suit and a pork-pie hat, miming the words through a mouthful of sandwich.

Surprised, Marlowe glanced across to the table in front of her, where a teenage mum was scanning a glossy mag while her baby dozed. She sang it under her breath, too, as she read.

Marlowe then looked over at Justine and they both smiled at each other. Maybe she wasn’t so isolated after all.

The song finished just as Goodhew emerged from Dunwold Insurance. He strode towards her, and was halfway across the square when she noticed Peter Walsh trailing behind him.

Isolated, no. Stupid, yes?

A rush of anger surged through her, hard on the heels of the fear she normally felt on seeing him. Oh, yes, she’d been stupid, all right.

Who did Peter think he was, pushing her to the brink of suicide? If she’d died, he would simply have carried on. But now she would stop him, and if he killed her in the process, so what? She’d be no worse off than she would have been had she died in the lake.

Her fingers tightened around her mug before she slammed it down on to the pub table. She pushed her chair back and barged through the other customers towards the door. She wanted to confront Peter, show him she didn’t need to hide any more. Goodhew was only yards from the pub door, and Pete was following close behind.

Her heart began to pound. She stopped in her tracks and grabbed the back of the nearest chair for support, weak-legged with jittering nerves.

The man sitting at the table dropped his newspaper. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded, and steadied herself.

‘Do you need to sit down?’ he enquired and motioned to the empty seat. Her gaze followed his hand and she found herself looking down at Lisa Fairbanks’ photo in the open pages of the
Cambridge News.

‘Sorry,’ she gasped, and snatched up the paper then thrust it into Goodhew’s hands just as he stepped through the door. ‘Look at her,’ she cried as she bundled him back out into the square.

By now Peter Walsh had gone.

Goodhew stared at the photo. ‘I need to get back to the station.’ A sick look transformed his expression. ‘When did she disappear?’

‘I don’t know. I just grabbed it.’ Marlowe walked alongside him. ‘He was following you just then.’

‘I know. I saw him.’

‘What happens now?’

‘He’s got a new girlfriend. Her name’s Fiona and she’s an estate agent for Sampson’s. I’ll get someone on to it straight away; I need to know how you think she fits in.’

Marlowe hurried from the Flying Pig, headed straight past the war memorial, and continued down Hills Road towards the town. The red Sampson’s sign hung over the pavement about three hundred yards along on the opposite side of the road.

The traffic surged past her in waves, as it stopped and started at each set of pelican lights. Marlowe strode along the edge of the pavement waiting for the next convenient gap. She then darted between two groups of cars and carried on running, slowing down when only two doors away from the estate agent’s window.

She adopted a casual approach, glancing at the display of properties for sale, then drawing closer as if one of them had caught her eye. The advertisements hung in vertical strips, and through the gaps between them she spotted four figures working inside: two men and two women.

She slowly moved along, as if checking each column of property in turn. Neither woman was likely to be Fiona, however; one was too old and the other had short dark hair.

Four people but five desks. Fiona’s would be the empty one.

As Marlowe pushed open the door and stepped inside, the younger of the two men replaced the handset of his phone and rose to greet her. He reminded her of an eighteen-year-old politician; all sincerity and false charm.

She smiled. ‘Is Fiona in?’

‘No, but can I help?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve already been speaking to her. I’d prefer to deal with only one person.’

‘I understand,’ he simpered. ‘Unfortunately she’s away on a course until Wednesday.’

‘That’s OK. I’ll call back then,’ she said.

‘I can give her a message.’

‘No, really, it’s fine.’ Marlowe stepped over towards his desk. ‘I’ll tell you what, though, I could do with a business card or something containing her contact details. I don’t think I’ve got them properly written down.’

‘No problem,’ he beamed and rolled his chair across to the vacant desk. He extracted a card from the top drawer and handed it to Marlowe.

She glanced at it long enough to register the name ‘Fiona Robinson’, then tucked it into the pocket of her jeans. Not exactly a rare surname, but at least it wasn’t Smith or Jones.

Marlowe stepped out of Sampson’s and hurried towards a row of public phone boxes closer to the city centre. There she rang Directory Enquiries, expecting to be given a variety of F.
Robinsons
, but found there was only one. She jotted the number on to the back of Fiona’s business card, and dialled it straight away.

An answerphone clicked on, just the standard automated BT message service. Unfortunately, no clues there.

Marlowe stepped out of the phone box and surveyed the nearby row of shops. An optician, a hairdresser, a bakery, jeweller and a travel agent. She decided to try the hairdresser’s first. A brunette with copper-streaked, spiky hair sat behind the appointments desk staring at the centre pages of a beauty magazine. She reluctantly dragged her gaze up to meet Marlowe’s.

‘How can I help?’

‘Could I just check a number in your phone book, please?’ Marlowe pointed to it, as it sat at the end of the desk.

The girl shrugged and plonked it on to the counter. Marlowe flicked through to ‘R’, and wrote the address corresponding to the phone number on the business card also.

F. Robinson. 206 Wollaston Avenue.