The Calling (4 page)

Pete Walsh called to Paulette as she again paused to fumble with the catch on her handbag. ‘I know we’ve got an extra half hour for lunch today but can’t you hurry up? It’s freezing out here.’

‘My bag keeps coming open.’ Paulette scowled as she strained to twist the clasp shut.

‘Why didn’t you fix it when we were still inside?’ He stopped and waited for her to catch up.

‘For God’s sake, Pete, be patient.’ She managed to persuade it to stay in place this time. ‘There we go … And you don’t look that cold anyway.’

He turned towards the town again as she fell into step and slipped her arm through his. ‘Everybody’s cold. It’s winter.’

‘No it’s spring, and
I’m
not cold,’ she began, and Pete dragged in a deep breath before expelling it as a weighty sigh. ‘You keep me warm,’ she continued, and wrapped her fingers around his sleeve, tilting her head to rest against his shoulder.

He gave her the flash of a smile. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t mind.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a new pizza place up on the corner.’

‘Really?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Well, no – not if you don’t want to.’ She shrugged again.

‘I don’t think it looks much, but if that’s where you fancy …’

‘No, I really don’t mind. That was just the first place I thought of. We can go somewhere else.’ But Paulette couldn’t think of anywhere. ‘You choose.’

‘Prêt à Manger maybe? Then I can check out the CDs in HMV.’

‘That’s, like, a mile and a half.’

‘No, it actually
is
a mile and a half.’

‘Right.’ Paulette withdrew her hand from his arm and sank it into her pocket. ‘I get really bored in there.’

‘Oh, come on, we’ll have a brisk walk and I’ll spend ten minutes maximum.’ He grinned again and gave her a sudden hug. ‘Is just ten minutes OK?’

Her mood evaporated. ‘Charmer!’

‘Great, we’ll go there first, then we’ve got the rest of lunchtime to ourselves.’

Paulette checked her watch as Pete began flicking through the CDs. It was now 12.26 p.m. She hung close beside him for the first few minutes, waiting for him to chat to her. Eventually he paused to inspect a Corrs disc.

‘They’re not your type,’ she joked.

He didn’t even reply.

She pulled the case from his hand. ‘OK, then, which one do you fancy most?’

He held out his hand for it, but she kept it out of reach. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he conceded.

He turned back to carry on looking through some other CDs, and Paulette dropped it back into its slot.

Pete lifted it back out. ‘The singer’s attractive, very sultry.’

‘Would it suit me to have my hair done that colour?’

‘I don’t know. I think you’d look ill. Anyway she’s a celebrity.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, except she’s going to look more glamorous.’

‘I can look glamorous.’

‘I never said you couldn’t. What is your problem, anyway? She’s attractive but I don’t fancy her. And so what if I did – do you really feel threatened by someone’s photo?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘You’re getting jealous again.’

‘No, I’m not.’ Paulette checked her watch again:12.30 p.m. ‘Can we go?’

‘In a minute.’ He again turned his back on her and began browsing the next section.

‘Well, I’ll be over by the magazines,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t need to waste my lunch hour like this.’

The magazine rack was loaded with music and fashion titles, and Paulette picked up the latest issue of
Red
and turned to the article she’d already noticed in her own copy. She held the magazine as though she were reading it, but kept it tilted so that anyone nearby could see the bold title
Single and Loving It!

She watched him go over to pay the cashier, but then, instead of coming across to her, he waited at the door. ‘Shit,’ she said, and a teenager looked up at her from the rack of games. She sauntered across to the cash desk and paid for the magazine.

‘Don’t worry about a bag.’

She rejoined Pete, who didn’t appear to notice the magazine rolled up in her hand, but began heading back towards Dunwold Insurance.

‘What about lunch?’ Paulette called after him, and then ran to catch up with him.

He kept on walking. ‘I’ve had a busy morning, and I was really looking forward to seeing you, but I didn’t need all of this hassle.’

Paulette tugged at his elbow. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve spoilt it.’

‘Please, Pete, I’m sorry, really I am. You took it the wrong way. I never meant to turn it into a big deal.’ She had to make him stop and listen to her. They had to sort this out before he got back to work. A lump had risen in her throat but, instead of fighting it, she let it turn to tears. ‘Please,’ she insisted.

He stopped and glared at her, and then his expression softened. ‘Paulette, you’re pretty and you’ve got a great smile, but you’ve also got to stop getting jealous all the time. I can’t cope with it. It isn’t what I want to deal with, and it’s become a big problem.’

‘I know.’ Paulette nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’ She stretched up and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. ‘Forgive me?’

He nodded. ‘OK.’

‘I’ll see you later, then?’

‘OK,’ he repeated. She held his hand tightly until she’d walked back into reception with him.

She trudged back to her own work, trying to identify the precise moment when their lunchtime had turned sour. She wondered why she felt as though she wasn’t good enough. She was more than good enough, and he just needed to realize it. She then tried to devise a plan from the furthest recesses of her mind. Something to make him put her back on a pedestal.

Any plan at all. But it was dark and hopeless, and she returned to work still churning the big question over and over:
What if he leaves me?

For the rest of the afternoon, she counted away the minutes. Through the window she watched the traffic, and the school children swarming out of the buses.

School represented the great lie that there was more to life than talking on the phone and filling in forms. This job wasn’t the reason she’d taken Economics and English A-Levels, but Pete made it all worthwhile.

At 3.55 p.m. she swung away from her desk and threw down her telephone headset. She stretched her neck back, and watched the other girls still concentrating on their phone calls and terminals.

‘Drinks anyone?’ she called out.

She then stood at the sink to rinse their lunchtime mugs. Placing the last one on the draining board, she plunged her hands back into the grubby water. Cupping them together, she scooped some water from the washing-up bowl and watched it trickle through her fingers. Everything seemed to be slipping away from her.

Perhaps he’s tired of me.
She shuddered.
No, he wouldn’t have suggested a joint holiday if he planned to leave me. Or would he? Would he?

Returning to the desk, her gaze fell on her copy of Red. He himself wasn’t really immune to jealousy; no one was. ‘I’ll show him,’ she muttered, and thumbed quickly through the magazine, crumpling pages as she raced through it.

When she found the Issey Miyake aftershave advertisement, she tore out the scented strip, pulled up her jumper and rubbed it on her bare stomach.

Goodhew lived in a small flat up in the roof of a townhouse facing on to Parker’s Piece. There were three storeys beneath his, plus a basement, and, although it had been almost a year since he’d discovered that he was the owner of the whole building, he had never felt inclined to substantially alter his living arrangements. The biggest change had been to create a study in the second-floor room that had once been his grandfather’s library. The rest of the building stood empty but, as Goodhew walked down the stairs, he still glanced through each open doorway.

He’d reached the first-floor landing just as he heard the letter box rattle. As he descended the final flight, he saw that his only item of mail today was a postcard. From twenty feet away, he could see that most of the picture on it was vivid blue sky.

He read the caption as he took the short walk to Parkside police station: ‘Cairns and The Great Barrier Reef’. He turned the card over and found that the note from his grandmother was typically brief. ‘You and your sister are very different propositions. This will be more work than holiday, and I might not get home till Christmas!’

His sister Debbie had recently turned twenty-five. She’d departed Cambridge with the intention of working her passage around the world, but once she’d made it as far as Australia she seemed to run out of momentum – and, more recently, money. His grandmother had felt this wasn’t the appropriate moment for handing over a large inheritance and, instead of doing so, had set off in an attempt to instil a degree of work ethic into Debbie.

Goodhew had guessed it would prove a challenge but wasn’t sure how to interpret the comment about Christmas. His grandmother rarely used exclamation marks, so maybe it was a joke. She’d been away for less than a fortnight, but he missed her company already. And, though he saw his sister far less frequently, the simple arrival of this message had reassured him that both were obviously well.

He turned the postcard over in his hand and considered how much it would mean to Margaret Whiting to receive something like this. Right now she must be praying for just three little words from her daughter: ‘I’m OK, Mum.’

But Kaye Whiting was still missing.

He’d put all the other work to one side since taking the statement from her mother. Kaye had been missing since Friday at the earliest, and Saturday at the latest. She had no boyfriend, was close to her family, and was a reliable employee. No one could suggest a plausible reason for her to decide to disappear.

Gary thought of her face in the photograph. Was she dead? There had been little response from the appeal in the
Cambridge News,
and from the nationals. Goodhew knew he needed to visit Margaret Whiting again. If Kaye had been abducted, then statistically that wasn’t good, since most females abducted by strangers were dead within three hours. He liked to appear optimistic but, even so, had found himself deciding that nothing less than a smart suit would be appropriate for a second visit to her mother.

Goodhew pushed open the doors to Parkside police station.
Let her turn up safe, and soon,
he prayed silently.

He sensed Margaret Whiting’s gaze already on him as he parked his car in front of her neighbour’s house. As before, she opened the front door even as he opened the gate. But this time she withdrew into the house before he’d reached the doorstep. She’d only needed a glance at his expression to know that he didn’t bring the news she wanted.

He stepped straight inside, closing the door and removing his coat before following her to the kitchen. ‘How are you, Mrs Whiting?’

She wore the same clothes as she had when he’d last visited, but they were unpressed, and her pallid complexion had deteriorated into a poor imitation of puckered parchment.

‘White tea, no sugar – that’s right, isn’t it?’ She avoided making eye contact.

‘We haven’t any news for you, I’m sorry, he said.

She turned to face him and he could see the sharp flickers of distress that lit her listless eyes. ‘Girls do go missing and then turn up unharmed, don’t they?’

‘Occasionally, yes. Can we sit down?’

Margaret Whiting led him back to the sitting room. He knew he needed to take great care with his words. He waited until they were both seated before beginning. ‘We all need to stay positive, Mrs Whiting, but we also need to be realistic. Sometimes girls do turn up, but usually they’ve chosen to leave home in the first place because of depression or domestic difficulties. From what you’ve told me, Kaye had no reason to vanish.’

‘That’s right. And I certainly don’t want you giving me false hope. But I’ve been going over and over it, and I keep thinking she could have been in an accident, or have been kidnapped. She could be lying somewhere dark and cold.’ One corner of her mouth trembled and her voice rose as she choked out her next words. ‘I can’t bear to think of her afraid.’

‘Is there someone who can be here with you? Your husband, or your mother maybe?’

She shook her head. ‘He won’t take time off work – says he wants to keep busy. And Mum? No, it just wouldn’t work. It’s the waiting that’s so difficult; no one’s going to help with that. Except you,’ she added, as an afterthought, ‘because you’re trying to do something about it.’

Goodhew tapped his pencil on his notepad. ‘Look, assuming a crime has been committed, we need to know whether anyone Kaye knows has any kind of motive for abducting her. And obviously we’ve been checking for similarities with other crimes.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing, so far. But that’s not surprising when we really don’t know anything at all. To be frank, Mrs Whiting, without knowing where or when she vanished, it becomes very difficult to make any progress. But I do need to go through the relationships you know about.’

‘OK, well, she doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Perhaps we can start with some background. Kaye’s twenty-three and Michelle is twenty-one. How long have they lived away from home?’

‘They moved out when Michelle was seventeen and Kaye was nineteen. They found a room each in a shared house, first of all, then Kaye moved into her own flat back in the autumn.’

‘And they still get on well?’

‘Oh yes. They go out together at least once a week, even when they’re tied up with boys.’

‘And Michelle’s boyfriend, Carl, does he know Kaye?’

Margaret curled her nose up in distaste. ‘Not that I was there of course, but apparently they both met him on the same evening. They were at De Niro’s, you know in Newmarket, and Carl and a friend kept buying them drinks. He was talking to Michelle, and his friend was talking to Kaye, but I got the impression that it was really Kaye he was interested in. Not that I was there of course,’ she repeated. ‘But, anyway, Kaye wasn’t bothered about either of them. That Carl must have known he’d struck it lucky with Michelle, and they’ve been together ever since. I still think he’s keen on Kaye, though.’

‘But it wasn’t that which caused Kaye to move out of the house they shared?’

Margaret Whiting paused, uncertain for a second. ‘No, Michelle is totally besotted. She’s a bit like me, can’t always see what’s under her nose.’

‘Meaning?’

Mrs Whiting shook her head. ‘Nothing specific, but it’s just in my nature to be a bit naïve sometimes.’

‘And Carl’s friend, do you know who that was?’

‘No idea, sorry.’

‘Steve, your son, he’s nineteen and still at home. Was there any reason the girls left home at such a young age?’

‘Such as?’ Margaret asked with sudden wariness.

Goodhew remained expressionless. ‘I don’t know; that’s why I asked.’

Margaret scowled. ‘Teenage girls in a poky house,’ she shrugged
and threw up her hands, ‘hormones and I don’t know what. Something obviously had to give.’

‘And your husband …?’ began Gary.

‘He would never harm them,’ she cut in. She was on her feet immediately, taking a step in the direction of the kitchen, but she didn’t move any further.

Gary stared down at his notepad as though he hadn’t noticed her reaction. ‘I was going to ask you what time your husband will be home,’ he finished quietly.

Margaret lowered herself into her chair again. Goodhew could imagine that the foundations of everything she took for granted in her life were crumbling. As her panic dissipated, her eyes started to fill. ‘Six o’clock.’

‘OK.’ He decided to move on. ‘When we spoke to your brother, he was vague about his reasons for missing the party. We will be speaking to everyone again, but has he since told you why he didn’t attend?’

Margaret was still fighting against a tide of tears that threatened to swamp her, and she replied in a small hoarse croak. ‘No. I left a message but he never rang back. He can be very quiet, though. Gets on best with Mum, so I expect he’s told her.’

‘Isn’t it odd that he hasn’t contacted you since all the publicity about Kaye’s disappearance?’

‘I s’pose it’s funny.’ She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘Bad choice of words, eh? It definitely isn’t funny, is it?’

Goodhew shook his head. ‘Can you tell me who Kaye’s closest friends were?’

Margaret twisted the tissue into a tight spiral, and she stared at it, not at Goodhew. He wondered if she had heard him. He waited patiently.

She let go of the end of it and the tissue slowly uncurled. She now crumpled it into a ball.

‘Were,’ she gasped. ‘You said “were”.’