The Calling (6 page)

Goodhew checked the street map in the station lobby. He found Hanley Road in Newnham, to the south-west of the city centre. It ran behind Barton Road, in a small development of starter homes built on land sold off by the local authority.

He already knew the general area and in less than ten minutes his car crawled into the low-number end of Hanley Road itself. The light brick houses sat in terraces of four or six, the general pattern occasionally punctuated by a couple of boxy detached three-beds or a two-storey block of studio flats.

Through the gaps in the newer buildings, on the even-number side, sprawled the long narrow back gardens of 1930s semis, mostly drowning in uncut weather-beaten grass and impaled by rusted washing-line posts. On the odd-number side, the houses backed on to an old allotment strewn with broken cold frames and choked with weeds.

It wasn’t the prettiest road in Cambridge but, because of its close proximity to the town centre, it had become popular with the young professionals in the nine to five-thirty office regime.

Goodhew pulled up outside number 15, and opposite number 18. He counted out four houses along, to Walsh’s number 26. He checked his watch: quarter to five. He then stepped from his car and clicked the door shut. He didn’t bother locking it.

The sulphurous orange light from the street lamp outside number 22 spilt on to the front of Walsh’s unlit home. Goodhew knocked and waited, and knocked again, then crossed back to his unmarked car.

The house was neat, and the garden consisted of a few shrubs and a small patch of lawn, indicating very low maintenance. Tidy paintwork, tidy curtains, too. Goodhew ran his eye over the adjoining houses. Lights shone, through unlined curtains, on to handkerchief gardens, most decorated with hebe and cotoneaster shrubs and the first shoots of spring daffodils. These residences were all very similar, efficient, practical investments for the future.

Headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror, and a car parked behind him. A middle-aged man stepped out, locked the door with a remote, and crossed to number 20. Goodhew relaxed again and waited.

He decided to wait until 5.30 before making some enquiries of neighbours.

At 5.20 precisely, a man walked past Goodhew’s car, crossed in front of it and pulled out a door key as he approached number 26. Goodhew guessed this was Peter Walsh, and watched him open the door, then slip out of his jacket and drape it on the middle coat hook, in one practised move. As he turned to close the door, the man realized he had a visitor.

‘Peter Walsh?’ Goodhew asked.

Walsh was about Goodhew’s height, with a crop of dark hair which sprang out over his forehead, giving him a mildly surprised look.

‘Yes, what can I do for you?’ But the young man seemed relaxed enough, as he undid his tie and ruffled his hair while he waited for Goodhew to respond.

Goodhew held up his police ID. ‘DC Goodhew from Cambridge CID. I’d like to ask you a couple of routine questions.’ Goodhew stepped briskly into the small lobby area.

‘Come through.’ Walsh led the way into the lounge area and dropped into one of two large armchairs. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, motioning towards the other.

‘Thanks.’ Goodhew nodded. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘About six years.’

‘Just before the prices shot up again?’

‘That’s right. I couldn’t afford it now, I suppose.’ Walsh drummed his fingers on one knee, and he gave a puzzled frown. ‘Can I get you something to drink, tea or coffee?’

‘No, no.’ Goodhew shook his head. ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of a local girl, Kaye Whiting. You may have heard about it?’

‘In yesterday’s
Cambridge News
?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Goodhew dipped into his breast pocket and produced a snapshot of a blonde girl holding a tabby cat up towards the camera. She was smiling. ‘Recognize her?’

‘No.’ Walsh smiled slightly then. ‘But if she worked anywhere in town, I may have walked right past her and not noticed. No, I don’t recognize her,’ he gave an apologetic shrug, ‘but I’ll help if I can. Fire away.’

‘Our incident room received an anonymous phone call suggesting that you held vital information that could point us to the present whereabouts of Kaye Whiting,’ Goodhew said evenly. He let his gaze roam casually around the room, before directing it back on to Walsh.

‘What sort of information?’ Walsh’s frown returned, the
perplexed
furrows on his forehead deepening.

‘I have no idea,’ Goodhew answered coolly. ‘Perhaps they thought she was
here
?’

Walsh shook his head and rose to his feet. ‘Well, we can answer that one straight away. I’ll give you the guided tour.’

Goodhew followed in dutiful silence.

Walsh held open the door to the kitchen. ‘As you can see this is the kitchen, not really big enough to conceal a body, but let’s check under the sink just to be on the safe side.’

Goodhew opened the kitchen units one by one, then swung them closed. ‘I wasn’t expecting a body under the sink, Mr Walsh, but if you’re happy to show me round the rest of the house, that’s great.’

Walsh nodded towards the window. ‘The garden’s too small for a shed or a patio so I think I’m in the clear there, too.’

Goodhew pointed to a full-length cupboard. ‘Vacuum cleaner?’

Peter Walsh opened it and gave Goodhew a few seconds to glance at the Dyson, blue broom, and roll of dustbin sacks. He then closed it and led Goodhew upstairs. ‘First the bathroom and second bedroom.’

Goodhew looked into each room in turn. The boxroom contained no bed, just an assortment of half-unpacked boxes.

‘Been sitting there since the move. I keep thinking I’ll get round to them one day.’ Walsh stepped back on to the landing, opening and then closing the airing cupboard door. ‘Linen cupboard.’ He continued further and flicked the light switch for his own bedroom. ‘Last room in the house, apart from the loft.’

The main bedroom, like the rest of the house, was furnished with restraint. The double bed, flanked on one side by a low table and on the other by a bedside cabinet, faced an extensive built-in wardrobe.

One door was ajar and Goodhew peered inside.

Walsh swung the other door open. ‘Be my guest.’

Clothes hung in neat rows, above four pairs of shoes, a pair of trainers and a video camera returned to its case.

‘I need to get myself a new one. Can’t afford it at the moment, though,’ Walsh explained.

‘No computer, either?’ Goodhew asked.

‘No, same story. Can you tell me what sort of person tries to implicate someone innocent in a crime?’

Goodhew studied Peter Walsh. ‘You’ve been very forthcoming in letting me look around like this. It makes me feel that you’re not altogether surprised I’ve turned up here.’

‘So I can’t win?’ Walsh threw his hands in the air. ‘It hasn’t done any harm, has it? You’ve had a good look, and I’ve been easygoing about it, so now the least you can do is find out who’s responsible for harassing me. That’s a crime, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, harassment is a crime, as is wasting police time and perhaps even perverting the course of justice. We’ll see how it goes.’ Goodhew turned and caught sight of a framed print on the wall beside the door. A man in a suit stood alone on the beach, his trousers rolled up to his knees and the surf splashing around his calves. ‘Robert Mitchum?’

Walsh followed Goodhew’s gaze. ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘but I’m not really a fan. I just liked the picture.’ He turned back to Goodhew. ‘So what can you do about these calls?’

‘Well, it’s obviously someone who knows where you live – and you do work at Dunwold Insurance, don’t you?’

Again Walsh nodded.

‘Well, the caller knows where you live and work, so it is obviously
someone who knows you to some degree. Most likely someone you are on speaking terms with. Any ideas?’

Walsh focused somewhere beyond the closed curtains, and a ghost of sadness passed across his face. ‘I’m twenty-eight this year, and single, and I’ve had a few girlfriends. An average number, I guess. And some can’t deal with rejection,’ he replied, sounding subdued.

‘Can you suggest a name, please, Mr Walsh?’

‘Just one?’ Walsh gave a thin smile. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘This is serious, Mr Walsh. Like I said, wasting police time constitutes an offence, and that goes for you, too. If you know anyone remotely capable of making a malicious call regarding you, you need to tell me.’

‘Sorry, I realize it’s serious. I suppose if I look back I could say hell hath no fury, and all that,’ Walsh tapped his temple a couple of times, ‘but that would be going too far. All women can be a bit mad, but I don’t know one that would go this far. Can’t we just leave it?’

Goodhew ignored the question. ‘And what if the caller was male?’

‘Then I can’t think of anyone.’ Walsh’s good humour returned. ‘I’m not even playing around with someone else’s girlfriend at the moment.’

He gave an impish grin, and Goodhew relented. ‘I think that will be fine for now. Ring me if you think of anything else.’

‘No problem. And don’t leave the country?’

Gary grinned. ‘Just let us know about it first.’

The rain sprayed across the lake in gusts of icy splinters. Kaye’s skin smarted as dribbles of water slid inside her clothes.

She turned her face into the downpour, hoping the rain would fill her mouth and wash away the blood that had dried into her gag. But the water seemed to fall everywhere except on her swollen tongue.

She tried to open her mouth wider, but her jaw throbbed as the skin stretched and tore further around her split lips.

A small puddle expanded on the dimpled ground inches in front of her. She waited until it filled up to almost an inch, then wormed forward until her ear sank in the softened earth. She pressed her cheek against the mud, trying to coax a trickle of water into her mouth from the growing puddle.

She couldn’t push her face into the water to suck it in, so she waited until it soaked into the gag and, drip by drip, ran down along the back of her lacerated throat. She tried to imagine sweet tea and the delicate china of her mother’s Eternal Beau cups, as she swallowed these muddy dregs.

Suddenly something caught against the back of her tongue, small and hard and uncomfortable. She coughed but it only slipped further back in her mouth. Her arms strained against the rope, shearing another fine layer of skin from her wrists. Her tongue then convulsed and she sucked in a wheezing breath, before spluttering the beetle back into the mud.

It righted itself and scuttled off under her shoulder. Thankfully, insects were scarce in winter. The flies in summer would have made
her ill by crawling all over her face to feast on her blood, and over her soiled clothes.

Stop thinking about them,
she told herself, and tried to remember what she would do on an average Monday.
Is it Monday now, or Tuesday?
She tried to work it out, distracting herself enough until she drifted into a fleeting interlude of half-sleep.

People always came to save her, when she dreamt. Even in the little dreams that flashed by as she only dozed. The gnawing questions of why she’d been left here and who was behind it vanished. She lay totally exposed, but in her sleep she believed it would all be OK.

It will be OK,
she repeated to herself as she came round again. She then asked herself, over and over, what she’d done to make anyone hate her so much.

The light had faded into deep dusk and this was the hardest part of the day, when huge silhouettes crept out from her surroundings and night stretched before her.

Today she had realized that her abductor wouldn’t be returning. And she could be dead already, for all anyone knew.

It will be OK. The family are looking for me.
She wished she could say it aloud for reassurance.
And the police will be looking. Yes, surely the police, too.

The plummeting temperatures made her eyes ache. By
mid-evening
, she pressed them shut. Could they freeze over and crack, or would she be dead before then?

The creaking of the trees and plops of dripping water both fell into a steady rhythm, as Kaye dozed.

Hushed voices reached her.

‘Come on, Greg, over this way.’

‘Shhh.’

‘It’s all right, there’s no one around.’

Kaye tried to make a noise but only managed to force a whimper. Nobody heard.

A torch clicked on and its beam swung in an erratic arc before settling on the water’s edge.

Kaye heard them coming closer, stumbling through the
shrubbery
, and she knew that the first one through the gorse would tumble right over her.

Her heart began to pound and her muffled voice strained to rise above the breaking twigs.

The torch zigzagged through the undergrowth. The man carrying it spotted her too late, tripped over her legs and crashed forward, dropping the torch into the water.

Kaye awoke.

And for a moment that tantalizing sense of elation hung in the air, dancing around her before the silence of the lake swallowed it whole. It had just been another cruel dream.

But something was different. She twisted her head until facing towards the water. And there it was, a rowing boat bobbing and surging towards the centre of the lake.

Whispers carried across the water. Impossible to hear the words but she could decipher several different voices. They had a torch, and it was being flashed along the shore to Kaye’s right.

They’re looking for me! Thank God, thank God.

Then the flashlight whipped around, pointing into the boat itself, and Kaye saw the face of a girl about her own age, laughing and flushed with excitement.

‘Hey, behave! Look out for the jetty,’ shouted a man’s voice.

And the flashlight moved back to the reeds and back towards Kaye. She felt its light hit her face and sway over her legs.

Utter desolation hit her as she realized that, from the boat, she was probably just a bumpy outline, nothing more than a mud-
and-gravel
feature of the bank.

‘Is that it?’ the girl asked, focusing the torch further to Kaye’s right.

‘Well done. I can’t wait to get out.’ The yellow beam of the torch moved on. They joked and laughed as they struggled to moor and step out of the little rocking boat.

They headed away from Kaye. She listened hard until the last shreds of their voices vanished. Silence returned, but worse now. The only people she’d seen in three days; she knew she couldn’t bear three days more.

What kind of decaying mess would she be by then?

Tears trickled, leaving silted tracks down both her cheeks before sliding into her matted hair.
No more
, she decided and fixed her
thoughts on the last face she’d seen: the face of a healthy young girl, just as she herself had been only a few days before.

A greasy layer of rainwater helped her slide and writhe towards the lip of the bank. It took half an hour to reach the edge; then she stared into the water for several seconds longer before one final twist of her legs toppled her into the deep cold lake.