The Calling (29 page)

There was a break while they waited for Goodhew, and Siobhan had taken Donna outside so she could smoke.

Three butts now lay doubled up and dead in the ashtray, and the fourth smoked gently between Donna’s thin fingers. A newly opened packet held the remaining eighteen. Donna held the cigarette in her right hand, but instead of drawing on it she chewed the skin on one side of her thumb. Smoke rose in a tired column past her left eye, and she seemed reluctant to return to the interview room, and barely acknowledged Goodhew as he introduced himself.

Siobhan knew that she’d now broken the flow of Donna’s statement, and that introducing another person into the interview risked destroying the earlier intimacy.

Donna had reverted to giving them mere drips of detail.

Sitting to one side of Siobhan, Gary noticed the dark circles under Donna’s blue eyes. They stared in fitful bursts at him and Siobhan and then the rest of the room. She glanced at him several times before he finally spoke. ‘I don’t have to stay, Donna,’ he told her.

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine.’

‘It can be easier talking to just one person.’

‘Really, it’s fine.’

But clearly it wasn’t. Goodhew could see her struggling and floundering on her rocky recollections. He was careful to keep his own voice even. ‘Did he start treating you differently, Donna? My guess is that he suddenly changed, is that right?’

Donna nodded. ‘I don’t know why. But he said I provoked him.’

This time Siobhan spoke. ‘In what way?’

‘He said I led him on, made myself out to be something I wasn’t. But honestly I never did.’

‘What do you think he meant?’ Siobhan asked.

‘First of all he said he didn’t want anything serious, and that’s what I said, too.’ Donna shrugged. ‘But that’s what everyone says, isn’t it? It leaves the door open.’ She fiddled with the cuff on her shirt, picking at a loose thread at the hem. ‘I liked him and I let him know it, but after a few weeks he told me to get stuffed, or as good as.’ She glanced at the other woman. ‘I was gutted but I thought, well, that’s blokes for you.’ Siobhan nodded sympathetically and Donna continued, her tone thick with irony. ‘Then he rang me a couple of days later, said he missed me. Said we should talk.’

‘Do you remember when this was, exactly?’ Siobhan coaxed.

‘It was the Sunday after the last Friday I worked at Dunwold Insurance.’ She counted back some dates, using the fingers of her free hand. ‘That Friday was the third, so Sunday was the fifth.’

Gary jotted that down and drew a box around it, as she continued to talk. ‘We were both round his house, and ended up in bed together.’

‘And you consented to sex at this point?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes, that was fine. Better than fine, I remember thinking.’ She snorted with a humourless laugh. ‘Then afterwards, as we were talking, he started playing a game, talking dirty – and I joined in. He was suggesting things he’d like to do to me, getting me to say I’d enjoy it too.’

‘And how did you feel at this point?’ Siobhan asked.

Gary glanced at her, wondering if her questions seemed too clinical. But when he looked back at Donna, he noticed a film of perspiration forming on her neck. Her pallid features grew animated as she succumbed to her memories; totally gripped with reliving them.

Her words emerged in short, intense bursts. ‘To be honest, it was a bit of a turn-on. He then asked me if I wanted to make it up properly. I asked, “How?” He said, “Stay here for a few days.”’ Her speech quickened and her eyes flickered as in REM sleep. ‘Well, I was over the moon. I’d felt like shit all weekend, dreading seeing him
on Monday, and suddenly it had completely turned around. I went home, collected some clothes and rushed back to him. We went back into the bedroom and he started asking me if I’d do things.’ Donna stared blankly into the space between Goodhew and Siobhan. ‘All sorts of things.’

‘Such as?’ Siobhan queried.

‘It started with him asking if I’d like to give him a blow job. I said of course I would, and he said “No, what you need to say is please let me give you a blow job.”’ Donna glanced at the other woman, then looked away again. ‘This all sounds like I’m a slag, doesn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry,’ encouraged Siobhan, despite the feeling of apprehension seeping through her.

Donna cleared her throat. ‘So I said it and he said “No, not yet.” And he got me to ask him other things. “Please fuck me, Pete” was his favourite. He said “Where?” and I had to say “My mouth, my cunt, my arse”. He brought out a gift box and it contained slutty underwear. Next he said “What am I allowed to do to you?” And I said “Whatever you want”. He asked me to put it on, and I did, and he said “I’d like to watch someone else fuck you. Would you let me?” And I said “Yes”.’

Her voice rose a notch and her breathing quickened. ‘Of course, I didn’t mean it. It was just a game we were playing. He said “You’re a whore, aren’t you?” And I said “Yes” and he said “Whose whore?” and I said “I’m your whore”. Because that was the game. That’s really what I thought it was, just a daring dirty game.’

Siobhan wiped sweating fingers against her trousers to prevent the pen from slipping.

Donna slouched back in her chair and tapped the next cigarette from the pack. ‘And he said “So tell me exactly what you want” and I said “I want you to fuck me till I can’t take any more” and he said “But you’ll want me to keep screwing you even when you’ve had enough, won’t you?” and I said “Yes”.’

One of Donna’s legs began to shake as a nerve quivered in the ball of her foot, and the tension in her spine made her shiver as if with cold.

An image of Julie’s car crashing on to the rocks flashed in and out of Goodhew’s mind, and a razor-sharp chill shot up the back of his neck.

‘And that’s what happened,’ Donna gasped. ‘As soon as we started having sex, I realized that it was all wrong. He was rough and held my arms down too tightly, and when I asked him to stop, he put his hand over my mouth. I began to panic then. He said “This is what you wanted”. He pulled me up and threw me on to my front. And he forced me to …’ she shot another quick glance at Goodhew, as she flicked her ash into the ashtray ‘… to do it that way round.’

‘Vaginally?’ Siobhan prompted.

Donna shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered, then she gave a weary sigh. ‘Some people like it that way, don’t they? I’ve never really wanted to, but then I didn’t want him to do lots of things after that.’

Siobhan’s pen paused on the statement sheet as she waited for Donna to continue. Maybe women didn’t all hang around in circumstances like this, but too few left the man either, of that she was sure. When Siobhan next spoke, she couldn’t suppress the fatigue in her voice. ‘So, after this assault, you stayed with him?’

‘He acted like nothing had happened. I said I wanted to go home then, and he drove me. He decided to come in for a cup of tea. He’d decided he wanted to meet my parents, and I just sat there nodding and smiling. I suppose I could have said “Mum, Dad, this is Pete. He just raped me”. Then he starts saying what a great girl I am and, before I know it, my mum’s nudging me and saying how nice he is.’ She dropped the latest unlit cigarette on to the table. ‘You know what makes me angry? I never thought I’d be one of those women who find themselves abused and keep going back for more. But I saw him the next day, and the next, and each time he was as bad, or worse. The last day, he made me strip and screw a bottle while I knelt in front of him, sucking him off.’ She leant forward, clutching either side of the table. ‘Is that clear enough for you? He watched a porn film while I was doing that – dressed like a slag and still hoping that he was going to come to his senses. And afterwards he watched the news while I sat on the floor and cried. Then he said “Sorry, Donna, I don’t want to see you again.” Just like that. And he kicked me out, only half-dressed.’

Goodhew reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘One last question. Which day was that?’

Donna caught her breath as she worked out the date. ‘The following Wednesday, the eighth.’ And, as she said it, she glanced at his pad and saw it already written there, enclosed in a heavy box. For the first time, Donna’s eyes locked with his. ‘How did you know?’

‘A guess,’ he replied.

‘Am I the first?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know yet.’ Gary lied, and thought of all those days greyed out in Marlowe’s diary. Marks surely would agree they now had enough to bring Walsh in for questioning.

Gully returned to her PC. For once something smelt better than Goodhew’s aftershave, and she was sure it was the whiff of progress.

She opened her database. Things were different now, as she too believed there had been another murder – and perhaps all Goodhew had guessed wrong was the date.

She placed two pens and an A4 pad alongside her usual block of Post-it notes. She pulled off a clutch of the little yellow sheets and on the top one she wrote ‘car hire 26 to 29 May 2010’. She affixed the sheet to the top right-hand corner of her monitor, and spread the rest out beside her right hand.

Her phone rang. ‘Go away,’ she muttered, and answered it with a grunt, ‘Gully.’

‘This is Harry Kabir. I’m the crime analyst assigned to your request for female disappearances between the twenty-sixth and twenty-ninth of May 2010.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Gully replied. She crossed her fingers for luck.

‘Well, I’ve looked at twenty-four hours either side. There’re missing teenagers who’ve turned up since, also domestics and accidents, but for what you want there’s nothing doing.’

She uncrossed her fingers. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

She couldn’t believe it. ‘Nothing at all?’

‘Well …’ Harry Kabir sighed. ‘Only thing that might fit is an unreported disappearance, but we don’t know about those unless …’ He broke off and tutted to himself.

‘Unless what?’ she pushed.

‘Imagine a murder victim who was living away from home for a period of time,’ Harry Kabir replied. ‘It’s more than possible for her to turn up dead before she’s been reported missing.’ He paused. ‘Do you want me to see if I can come up with anything on that basis?’

Gully replaced the receiver and scribbled on the next Post-it note. She stuck it directly below the first. It read ‘No coinciding disappearance.’

‘As yet,’ she added invisibly, and turned back to her own notes.

Assuming Peter Walsh had abducted the second victim in the same way as all the others, then it would be reasonable to discount all deaths on or before 26 May 2010.

She next checked the fields in the database. There was a date field for the discovery of each death as well as a reference for the approximate date and time of death.

How long could anyone survive without food and water? She slid open her drawer and shook a couple of Jaffa Cakes from the most recently opened box.

Three or four days at the most, or longer with water. But none of the others had stayed alive for more than a week.

So discount all the deaths which had occurred after 5 June 2010, one week after he’d returned the hire car.

At every step, Gully rechecked her logic and noted her
assumptions
on a new Post-it note. At the rate she was going, her monitor would end up looking like a big square sunflower.

She wondered how many matches she’d find if she ran a query on deaths
estimated
to have fallen within that week.

She tapped the parameters into her PC and pressed the return key. The next pair of Jaffa Cakes had barely left the box by the time a list of just four records flashed on to the screen.

She scrolled down to the causes of death: one suspected suicide, one strangulation, and two unknown. She jotted down the dates on which each of the last two bodies had been discovered. On 11 July 2010 and 25 August 2010; one of them two weeks before Walsh finished his relationship with Julie, and the other four weeks afterwards.

She crossed a line through the second. Down to one.

She stabbed the page-up key and her cursor hopped up the screen to the first record.

‘Shit,’ she muttered, as she saw the dead woman’s name. ‘Suki Chen.’ She checked the ethnicity field: Chinese. Gully sagged back in her chair. No fair hair or washed-out complexion.
Shit, shit, shit.

She pressed her face into cupped hands and stared in dismay at the monitor.

Her phone trilled again and she lifted it to her ear, expecting to hear Goodhew at the other end.

‘Harry Kabir here again. I’ve good news!’

‘What?’

‘Well, I
think
it’s good news,’ he chirped.

‘Just tell me, quick,’ she hissed.

‘Well, I’ve found a match on it all: bound, gagged, abandoned – the whole shooting match except for two things.’ Harry Kabir paused. ‘Firstly, this girl was discovered inside a caravan, not in the open. And, secondly, the date reported is too late.’

Gully swapped the phone to her other ear and banged a couple of keys.

‘She’s listed in that database extract we sent over.’

‘Jeanette Freidheim?’ Gully asked, as the second record popped up on the screen.

Harry Kabir laughed. ‘I’ll get a copy of the case file straight over to you.’

Gully slammed down the receiver. ‘Bingo!’ she shouted to the empty office.

Pete’s consciousness jangled in anticipation; the waiting was almost over.

He looked out of his bedroom window, down on to his small square patch of newly mown lawn.

He hated the moment when he realized another relationship was floundering, but he knew also that merely denying the issue would not make it go away.

He hated gardening, too, and it was another of those jobs that just had to be done. Now, though, with the grass freshly cut and the mower hanging from its hook inside the shed, he knew he’d sorted it out for the time being, at least.

Cutting out the girlfriend was like mowing the grass; he was sorry that it needed doing, but glad once he’d done it.

He checked the time. She’d be here in an hour.

He stripped the bed, scooping up the bedding. He pushed the duvet into the linen cupboard on the landing; the sheets and pillowcases he dropped over the banister on to the stairs.

Not that it was his fault, of course. They’d all deceived him. They’d pretended to be clean-living and honest. But when he tested them they were all the same.

He grabbed the handles on one side of the mattress and dragged it into an upright position, and then let it fall on to its back.

Dust sprayed into the air. The once cream mattress lay belly-up, discoloured by dried-out, rust-brown streaks and pools.

‘Marlowe, Julie, Paulette, Donna and Fiona,’ he recited, just to ensure he could still put them in order.

His voice sounded croaky in the silence, so he coughed and repeated their names more loudly: ‘Marlowe, Julie, Paulette, Donna and Fiona.’ He caught sight of himself in the mirror and moved closer, imagining he was looking at them all.
Sluts, all of you.
‘Behaving like harlots. Pretending to be innocent. Trying to indulge yourselves at my expense.’

He pulled some fresh sheets from his overhead cupboard; the special ones he saved for days like this. ‘But I know better than that, don’t I?’

He smoothed them out, and looked forward to Fiona sweating on to them.

Pete glanced at the bedside drawer and checked off the mental list of its contents. He’d added a porno mag. He’d get her to choose who she wanted to do it with; that would prove it. Perhaps all women were like that underneath, even the virgins. He suddenly wondered: maybe it was there lurking obscenely inside all of them.

That same thought had hit him at other times, but he rejected it quickly. There were good women, too, and he was destined to find one. There’d be someone special who wouldn’t desecrate his dreams.

But first he had to divorce himself from Fiona and the way she made him feel; and through trial and error he had found the panacea for a bad relationship. It had become a well-honed routine of using her to lacerate each of his senses, and thus bleeding her out of his system through every pore.

Tonight he’d begin in the bedroom. And it was almost ready: the bed, the video and …

‘Shit.’ He checked his watch; it was half-past already. He hurried into the spare bedroom and returned with a rectangular, flat gold box and a paper bag. He eased open the lid and spread the contents on the bed. Knickers and a short negligee stitched out of translucent black organza. From the paper bag he took a ball of ribbon, then unfolded some fresh tissue paper and laid it in the box. He wanted the gift box to look like new. He sniffed it, but found it didn’t smell of anything. He sniffed again, convinced that Donna and Paulette would have left behind a residue of sex that clung to them. And Julie … No that had been different; he’d had to replace Julie’s items. He folded the underwear into the tissue, replaced the lid and wrapped some ribbon around the box.

With the box now positioned at a decorative angle on
her
side of the bed, he knew that he’d completed his preparations. Soon it would be confirmed that everything he’d done was right, and then he’d start the process of getting over Fiona.

He jumped when the doorbell rang. It was only quarter to, and not at all like her to be early.

He paused again at the mirror and saw no sign of either nervousness or anticipation.

It was only as he saw the distorted silhouette behind the frosted glass that he realized it wasn’t Fiona who had rung the doorbell. For two people, not one, were waiting for him on the doorstep.

Wondering what could be wrong, he opened the door and greeted the waiting police officers with an accommodating smile.