The Calling (3 page)

Cambridge has many open areas interspersed among its city-centre streets, with names like Jesus Green and Midsummer Common. They are mostly clean and safe, criss-crossed with paths used by students and mums pushing buggies.

Parkside police station faces on to one of these: a large rectangular green space known as Parker’s Piece. From time to time, Goodhew wondered who the original Parker had been but he had never bothered to find out.

Luckily for Goodhew, Parkside Pool lay only yards away from the station, just across the corner of Parker’s Piece. He liked to swim one hundred lengths at least four times each week. Not just for the exercise but because he liked the solitude.

The water was cool, and he concentrated on the smell of chlorine and the rhythm of his own breathing until the shouting and screaming of other people sounded distant. For the first eighty-four lengths they were just voices mingling with each other; echoing, booming and rebounding above his head.

Length eighty-five, his concentration broke a little. A teenage girl with wavy red hair and a Celtic tattoo squealed as she fell into the water. Her boyfriend laughed, yelled and leapt after her.

Goodhew swam on, everything else sweeping past him. He stared at the tiled bottom of the pool as he powered through his ninety-fifth length. He always kept himself to the two lanes roped off for serious swimmers, and he always swam front-crawl.

Ninety-six
. He thought of Margaret Whiting and her hands trembling as she grappled with the sodden tea bags.

Ninety-seven
. He thought of Kaye Whiting, pale and pretty in the photo perched on Margaret’s mantelpiece. Watching him wherever he sat or stood.

Ninety-eight
. Michelle, sharper featured, with a strident blonde perm and a mean-spirited boyfriend.

Ninety-nine.
Kaye’s uncle Andy, a devoted son who nevertheless had offered no excuse for missing his mother’s birthday.

One hundred
. No one knew if a crime had actually been committed, or whether Kaye would even be found.

Gary completed the final length, finishing in the shallow end, and leant back against the side of the pool. He allowed his legs to float in front of him and stretched his arms out along the side.

The pool wasn’t so busy now, and he shared the shallow end with several families accompanying learner children in yellow floats and armbands. A group of four teenagers had since joined the tattooed redhead and her boyfriend, and their horseplay kept the deep end busy while the training lanes were now empty. Things were all winding down at the end of the day.

A brunette emerged from the changing rooms, her towel swinging around her ankles from one slender hand. She walked over to the railings fronting the spectator seats, smiling coyly at a couple of dads watching their offspring from the front row. She draped the towel near their knees. Practising a slinky movement she’d seen on catwalks, she swung her hips as she turned towards the water.

She was absolutely sure every man within range was watching.

Shit
, thought Gary, as she slipped into the pool beside him and braced herself against the chill of the water by pressing her fingers around his arm.

She inhaled sharply. ‘Oh, it’s cold in here.’

‘It’s nice enough once you’re in,’ he muttered. ‘Why are you here?’

She massaged his arm as she ran her fingers up it to give his biceps a squeeze. She fixed her gaze on him and smiled playfully. ‘Nice bod, Gary.’

‘Why are you here? I bet that’s the first time that swimsuit’s ever been in the water.’

‘Nice, isn’t it? Suits me, don’t you think?’

‘Whatever, Shelly.’

‘Oh, come on, either it does or it doesn’t? Tell me if you ever think I would look better without it, Gary.’ She pouted and smiled. ‘Won’t you?’

‘I’m not here to flirt with you.’

‘Oh, very serious, Gary,’ she erupted with a spontaneous laugh. ‘Have I offended you?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, good. You see, I wouldn’t want to commit an offence, Officer. That means you’d have to put me in handcuffs, and then …’

Here we go again
. ‘Look, Shelly, what do you want?’

‘Whoa, Gary!’ She raised her hands as if in surrender. ‘If you’ve had a bad day, don’t take it out on me.’ She began treading backwards into deeper water. ‘Tell you what, though, if I were a man and you were a woman, I’d say you were frigid.’

She gave up then, and he watched her in silence as the water lapped over her nipples, making her swimsuit slightly transparent.

‘Oh, I remember now – Bryn’s here. He’s sitting in the bar in the Kelsey Kerridge,’ she called out, just as she rolled on to her front and headed up the pool with a slow breaststroke.

The Kelsey Kerridge sports centre stood next-door to the pool complex, and Gary found his friend at a table overlooking the badminton courts. Bryn sat in a low armchair, with a bottle of Becks in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. The only sign of activity was speed texting by Bryn’s right thumb, and he didn’t look up or speak until he’d hit the
send
button. ‘You saw Shell, then?’

Goodhew shook his head. ‘I look pale enough, don’t I? Your sister’s a bloody nightmare.’

Bryn reached down beside his chair and produced a second bottle of lager.

Goodhew took a couple of swigs. ‘Cheers.’

‘She knows you’re not interested, but she does like a challenge.’ Bryn waved the phone. ‘Just like her big brother …’

Goodhew dropped into the chair opposite. ‘The woman with the clapped-out Volvo?’

‘Valerie? Not clapped out, just high mileage.’ Bryn paused. ‘I mean the car. She left it at the garage yesterday – wants me to hang
on to it there until I can sell it. I said it wouldn’t go overnight, and she said that was OK. Apparently she’s happy to keep popping in.’ Bryn then raised his eyebrows sagely. ‘
Popping in
suits me fine. Not much incentive for me to find a buyer, except she wants it gone within a couple of weeks. I told her I had a mate who might be interested, though.’

‘Not me, I hope?’

‘You don’t have one.’

‘I don’t need one.’

‘What about work?’

‘I get to the station and the basics like a desk, a chair and transport are provided. It’s called an unmarked car.’

‘Sarcasm now from the guy who suggests us meeting up ’cos he wants a favour?’

‘’Fraid so. But it’s a small favour.’

‘Ask away.’

Goodhew paused to put his bottle down gently on the glass table top, suddenly feeling at odds with the previous minutes’ banter. Bryn hadn’t queried where Goodhew had been for the last four weeks, or commented on the slightly terse voicemail he’d been left the last time he’d texted Goodhew about meeting for a drink. He just waited until Goodhew was ready to say more.

‘I split up with Claire at the start of the month.’

Bryn studied Goodhew’s expression for a good few seconds, then drew a breath. ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘I’d booked a holiday, wondered if you wanted to come.’

‘Me and you in a double room?’

‘It’s a three-bed bungalow in the grounds of a hotel …’

‘Sounds boring.’

‘Coming or not?’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Like what?’

‘The basics – like where, when, how much it’s going to cost me, and what the hell happened to Claire.’

‘Two weeks at the seaside, start of May, all already paid for.’

‘And Claire?’

‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Gary, you don’t really do off-hand conversations and you definitely don’t do easy-in, easy-out relationships. You and Claire went from zero to serious like that.’ Bryn snapped his fingers. ‘Not my thing, Gary but …’

‘Hang on,’ Goodhew began, ‘you don’t want to know the ins and outs of anyone’s relationship, so you don’t give a toss about mine, do you? Your concern is noted and appreciated, that’s it.’

Bryn thought for a moment, ‘OK, here’s the holiday deal: no conversation about Cambridge, about work, or about any women who aren’t immediately within sight.’

‘OK.’ Goodhew managed a wry smile and clinked their drinks together in agreement. For another hour, they watched the players on the badminton court and made sporadic comments about the game.

It was like practice for the holiday conversation, and their kind-of silence was good.

Gary finished off his bottle and swung it between his forefinger and thumb like a pendulum. He made a conscious effort to clear his thoughts of everything but the badminton match in front of him. Each time his mind wandered, he pushed such distraction away. He succeeded every time until his thoughts settled on Kaye Whiting.

How was he supposed to put her out of his mind in favour of watching a sport he didn’t understand and between competitors he didn’t know? Between the badminton and his beer bottle Bryn, however, seemed to have achieved total immersion. Maybe
switching
off thoughts of work just took more practice.

Goodhew reminded himself that his phone was switched on, and in his pocket, just in case he was suddenly needed. Doing nothing didn’t suit him.

Kaye Whiting stared, unblinking, into the night. A thinning patch of cloud had revealed the ghost of a half-moon, while the cold night air pricked her eyes and made them water. She watched as the moon’s familiar face appeared to fly across the sky, but she knew it was only the clouds that moved, and they’d soon blot it out again.

Tearing her gaze away, she forced herself to scrutinize her alien surroundings. She strained against the rope as she tried to free her fingers, but her wrists were bound tightly behind her, and lashed to her similarly tied ankles.

Kaye lay close to a large lake; three feet in front of her the grass fell away and the bank shelved down to the water’s edge. For the first time since dusk, she could see the ripples and their
polished-pewter
tips but, beyond that, the far bank lay swathed in shadows.

Another sharp gust of wind sliced through her jumper and grazed her skin. As she started to shiver again, she forgot the distraction of the moonlight and screwed up her eyes and clenched them shut. She tensed herself against the uncontrollable shaking that rattled through her bones.

The gag stopped her teeth from chattering, but made her dribble, leaving her mouth dry. She’d given up trying to scream, though she couldn’t stop the involuntary whimpering that accompanied her spasms of shuddering.

When she opened her eyes again, the moon had disappeared behind the clouds, and all she could see now was the outline of the nearest bushes hanging over her.

Why have I been left? And why here? And for how long?

She questioned herself and at the same time blamed herself. Because of her anger, she’d chosen to make her own way home and thus ended up in an unidentified street in an unfamiliar town, with no mobile and no idea where to find any transport back to Cambridge. As her temper cooled, she’d begun to appreciate her dilemma and it was then that she’d made the crucial error.

The sight of a familiar face had made her drop her guard. Somehow it felt wiser to step into that car than invite attention from whoever else she’d imagined might be lurking nearby. The window had lowered and she’d smiled in recognition. She felt disbelief at that now, but it was true:
she’d actually smiled.
They’d both smiled. And logic had told her that she’d be safer than with a complete stranger.

But what else was someone who’d done nothing more intimate than browse the same aisle of the same shop? Even killers bought apples and yogurt and ready meals. She’d known nothing about this person, just snatched at the link to home.

It had rained heavily during the first night. The initial drops had been cold, but she noticed that a little less as her sodden clothes became plastered to her skin. In the fullness of the subsequent downpour she’d made the decision to wet herself, trusting it to continue long enough to wash away any humiliating stains.

She’d promised herself that there wouldn’t be a second time, but now her bladder was aching and her distended belly pressed against the waistband of her jeans. She twisted around in the mud, just enough to inch her knees towards her chest and provide slight relief.

Eventually she dozed, and jerked awake only as the tentacles of dawn poked their way across the sky. Increasing daylight cast cold shafts of light across the lake, and Kaye prayed for warmth.

Her fingers and toes throbbed with cold and her back ached from constant shivering, but Kaye had progressed beyond the panic she’d felt when she’d first been abandoned here. And even being able to fall asleep had been an achievement, she told herself. She’d never slept outside before, and in the blackest part of the night her fear had escalated to hysteria. She’d thought she might die of fear but, of course, she hadn’t.

She watched the grey morning light lift higher and turn to day. She lay on a patch of mud broken up by the odd tuft of coarse grass, and was shielded from the rest of the world by clumps of nettles and hawthorn. Between her and the water, the slope of the bank was sand and gravel, and Kaye guessed that she had been deposited beside a flooded quarry.

She’d been in the car for an hour at most, so she could still be in Suffolk. But, for all she knew, she could also be in Essex, or even back in Cambridgeshire.

She needed food and water, and most of all she needed to be found. She focused her gaze on the far bank of the lake and watched.

At noon, she saw a grubby gull dip towards the water, then buck skywards with an angry squawk.

Later she took comfort from the warmth of a trickle of urine as it seeped through her jeans and into the ground. She tilted her head in what she guessed was a westerly direction and stared at what she hoped was the night sky over Cambridge. That was her only link to home now.

On the edge of Cambridge city centre another girl, older than Kaye, bent her head into the wind. It gusted round her face, tugging at strands of her hair and whipping them against her fleshless cheeks. It rushed past the traffic queuing at the lights by the war memorial, snatching up a crisp packet and sending it dancing in spirals between the cars, to land eventually in the gutter below the bronze soldier on his plinth. He was clearly returning from war, helmet in hand and his belongings slung over one shoulder, striding out and portrayed as hopeful and victorious.

Unscarred by violence.

Lucky him.

The statue stood in the centre of the T-junction where Station Road met Hills Road. The three converging routes originated from the railway station, the city centre and the main commuter route from London and the M11.

A row of shops, cafés and wine bars occupied one corner while the other two were overlooked by low-rise offices. In the past she’d tried each of the eateries. All but one she immediately knew were wrong, they’d been too small, too open to the road, with tables exposed to every other customer.

The clientele of the Great Northern bothered her: they all seemed neat, corporate types and made her feel conspicuous. But the view from the window was ideal so she tried the bar in any case and then spent an uncomfortable hour with the feeling that the staff viewed her business as inadequate.

Every day since she’d gone to one of the two pubs located on the London side of the junction.

Now the only other pedestrians had their heads down and hurried on, it wasn’t the day for hanging round, or eye contact. She noticed that even when people walked together nobody spoke.

‘Too cold to be outside,’ she mumbled, then pursed her lips and pinched them between her teeth.
Stupid, stupid thing to say.

She pushed open the street door and hurried into the Flying Pig.

She needed to eat and studied the menu card on the bar. She already knew it by heart and on the occasions she ordered food she always chose a cheese and tomato baguette. She pretended to look at the list of sandwiches and used the time to focus on looking and sounding in control.

She stared at the words on the menu until they blurred and her cheeks puckered with queasiness.

Concentrate
, she scolded herself, and scowled at the card for a few seconds more.

At the Flying Pig, Justine had spent fourteen years cultivating and maintaining an atmosphere that was a cocktail of traditional pub, bohemian hang-out and eccentric front room. She had a loyal clientele and simultaneously managed to make anyone else feel welcome, from their first visit. She still looked up when the door opened, smiled warmly as she chatted, and her enthusiasm for the business still outshone the trials of running it. As long as customers respected her pub, who they were, how they behaved and what they looked like was irrelevant.

But, of course, once in a while there had to be an exception.

Justine was sitting just outside the door that led from the bar to the stockroom. She’d been halfway through a pre-lunch break, and was using the free time to phone through to her bank. She’d been on hold now for ten minutes, and apparently her call was still ‘important’. She was also ‘next in line’ but she hung up when she saw the woman arrive.

Justine didn’t hurry to serve her but busied herself with sorting the condiment sets while the young woman picked up a menu,
holding it artificially high in front of her face and looking like someone trying too hard to appear to be actually reading it.

Justine produced one of her best glowing smiles. ‘Coffee or tea today?’ she asked.

‘Coffee, please.’

‘Mug, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ The woman’s voice sounded dull and no hint of recognition showed in those hollow eyes. After paying, she sat down by the window, just cupping her mug of coffee as though warming her hands, not drinking it.

Justine continued to rearrange the condiments sets, hoping this made her look as if she was preparing for the lunchtime rush, but really watching and pondering on the lone woman. When she’d first started coming to the café, Justine had silently bet herself ten quid that she could make her smile. Now she couldn’t even remember exactly when that was, but it had to be at least two years ago – maybe three.

Justine had since nicknamed her Greta, and the customer seldom missed a day, hardly ate and rarely spoke. But her routine was always the same. She would come in at a quarter to twelve, buy a drink – usually coffee – and sometimes a baguette, and then sit by the window.

And, in all that time, Justine had never seen her smile.

Justine positioned herself so that she could see Greta’s reflection in the mirror behind the optics. Today, she decided, she looked particularly uptight.

The first time, she’d been the same, and had chosen to sit at the window table in the corner. She’d waited specially for it to be vacated, even though other tables were free and then, after just a few minutes, another couple had attempted to occupy two of its three empty seats.

‘Are these taken?’

Looking them straight in the eyes, she’d replied stonily, ‘I want to be alone.’

That’s when Justine nicknamed her Greta – after Greta Garbo.

Justine finally turned and snatched a direct glimpse at her.
Perhaps she’s ill?
she wondered.

Greta raised the mug as if to sip coffee but lowered it again immediately then turned to operate the jukebox mounted on the pillar behind her.

Justine answered her own question as Greta’s current favourite track began to play.
Nope, same old same old.

Every day Greta selected a record, sometimes playing it several times, but each day she’d choose the same one. Same one every day for weeks, until a different one caught her fancy. This was week three of her current choice.

It had been a long time since any patron had stirred Justine’s curiosity the way Greta did. She would focus her attention on the new customers arriving, but continued to wonder who Greta really was and what had gone so very wrong in her life.

Greta watched the Station Road/Hills Road junction and let the warmth of the coffee and the mellow rhythm and blues soothe her. She didn’t want to throw up again.

She ran her hand along the rounded edge of the dark wood table.
Relax. You can cope. Keep calm. Keep calm.
She’d been feeling better recently. Thinking about that girl’s face must have caused the upset. That girl who looked like her. Greta hated seeing her own features on someone else.

At exactly noon she checked her watch, then fixed her gaze on the tide of workers leaving Dunwold Insurance. As they flowed from the building, many were wearing only lightweight jackets and so hastened past the others towards the warmth of the wine bars and coffee shops. Her elbows dug into the table as she tilted forward, her head closer to the glass.

At two minutes past twelve she caught sight of him, carrying a folded umbrella but strolling along as if it was summer. He paused for a beat as he waited for a slim girl who lagged behind him, fiddling with the catch on her handbag. So he was still with Paulette. Greta could just pick out her features: milky skin, fair hair and large almond-shaped eyes.

She didn’t know the colour, but guessed blue. Like her own.

Paulette curled her arm through his and they walked in step, heading away from the window and out of sight.

Greta sagged back into her seat and frowned as she mulled things over.
Paulette resembles me – and so did the last one. What does Paulette have that I don’t? He obviously wants women that look alike
. She gnawed her lip and stared into her coffee.
But not me.

She turned her face into the cold as she left the Flying Pig, crossed over to the newsagent’s, and bought the first edition of the
Cambridge News
. She glanced at the front-page photo but quickly turned her gaze away, clutching the newspaper under her arm and determined not to read it in the street.

She fell into a jog down Hills Road, dodging the shoppers, and ran across Gonville Place, weaving through a muddle of cars and cyclists before scurrying into the nearest cubicle of the female public toilets. There she slumped against the partition wall, resting heavily on one shoulder, and raised the newspaper in both hands.

She scanned the accompanying article, picking out the key phrases and searching for a sign, but her instinct told her,
they still have no idea.

Finally she drew a small pair of scissors from her inside pocket, letting the inner pages slide to the floor, as she carefully cut Kaye’s picture from page one, before she folded it neatly and slipped it inside her jacket.

She paused for a moment to stare into the polished stainless steel that served as a mirror. Her reflection stared back at her like the face of a woman she recognized but no longer knew.
Helen looked like you, Kaye looks like you.
She turned away from her reflected image and whispered, ‘But you’re alive.’