When the Dead Come Calling

by Helen Sedgwick

  That was part of the reason she’d wanted to help Andy. He was a good kid; there was something gentle about him. He didn’t deserve that school and he sure as hell didn’t deserve that father. Trish knows what it can be like, too, growing up without a mum. Not much kindness around. She had Uncle Walt, at least, but Andy Barr has no one. Maybe, with a bit of work experience and a good reference from her, he might be able to get into the force, start his training – give him a sense of purpose. She’s been keeping a close eye on him. He’s doing well, too, going through the store cupboard. He’s pulled out the broken chairs and mop and the old blackboard (Jesus, when did they last use that?) and found an old jar of instant coffee and a pack of red biros that might actually come in handy. She’s set him to cleaning the floor in there now, and he agreed more readily than most teenage boys would have. Trish has been deflecting phone calls all afternoon – folk wanting to know what happened at the playground, including a local journalist Trish managed to get rid of despite her threat of coming round to the station in person – and when Andy was taking a fag break outside Trish saw him watching the front door as protectively as any guard dog, bless him.

  Cal had called as well, with a message for Georgie – they’d found nothing on the beach. Trish isn’t too surprised. She’d seen nothing down there herself, and if you were fleeing a murder in the middle of the night in a storm like that, you’d be a fool to risk a broken ankle in a rockslide, with nowhere to hide and miles of stone visible from all along the cliffs. It’s possible of course, and they all know Georgie’s got instincts, but with no evidence and the tide on its way up again the beach is looking like a dead end, like that door-to-door. Not so the body, though. That’s the other reason he called. They’d found a hair.

  She hears the door to the interview room open and is on her feet, meeting Georgie at the door to her office with the news:

  ‘Kevin Taylor. Name in the day planner.’

  Georgie raises her eyebrows in that infuriatingly calm way she has.

  ‘I’ve got something.’ Trish gestures to her computer, trying to stay patient. ‘See? Right there on the database. Seems our Kevin has a record,’ she says.

  Georgie leans forward to read what Trish already knows by heart. Shoplifting, drunk and disorderly.

  ‘He was underage.’

  ‘Not any more though,’ says Trish. ‘He’s eighteen now. Maybe he’s graduated.’

  Georgie nods. ‘The question is, why would a kid like that be going to see Alexis?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I want to find out. I’ve got an address. Can I take the first interview, see what we have?’

  Trish finds the wait interminable, but she sits on her hands while Georgie stares at the screen with a frown on her face. Then she remembers.

  ‘Cal called too. More good news. They’ve found a hair on Alexis’s shirt.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Blonde.’

  Georgie looks away.

  ‘And long.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘Just that. A long blonde hair, pulled out by the root too – he’s sent it off for DNA and emailed you what he knows so far.’

  ‘Right. This is good, Trish. Well done. Pass me the phone, would you?’

  Trish pulls the phone across the desk, watches while Georgie hits the speed dial for headquarters. She can tell it’s the answerphone, though it’s out of character the way Georgie slams the receiver down without leaving a message.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she says suddenly.

  Trish stands, though Georgie is staring at the screen like there’s something there waiting for her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Georgie pulls up the internet browser and types in a search, and suddenly they are both staring at the news. No wonder they’re not answering the phone. It’s the chief superintendent standing in front of headquarters with the city skyline behind her, and a rolling feed along the bottom of the screen: TWENTY-NINE DEAD IN LATEST TERROR ATTACKS. POLICE ON THE SCENE IN MINUTES.

  STAYING PUT VS GETTING OUT

  The light’s already low outside when Pamali hears the familiar jangle of the bell above the Spar door and looks up from her sketch. She’s chosen a scene from the village, in late autumn when everything feels quiet and still and the sun through the tree canopies over Church Street turns the air golden. When she left the police station Georgie told her to head home, get some rest, but she came straight back here instead, opened up the shop, even had the door open wide for a bit so the quartet they were playing on the radio danced out onto the street. When folk passed by she smiled, she waved, called them in for tea. No one had stopped yet, though; the shop had been empty since she got back. Until now.

  It’s young Andy Barr, wandering in looking a bit lost even though he’s lived here his whole life. He always looks a bit lost, that kid. Pamali likes him though, and she’s pleased to have someone to talk to.

  ‘How are you, Andy?’ she calls over from the till.

  Andy grunts what she thinks is ‘alright’ and wanders his way over to the cans of pop she’s got in the fridge.

  ‘Georgie tells me you’re doing a work placement at the station.’

  He looks up and grins at that.

  ‘I’ve been sorting things out for them,’ he says, making his way up the aisle now with his drink and a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch. ‘And keeping watch. Not letting anyone in, not telling anyone anything.’

  ‘Then I’ll not ask you anything about it, Andy,’ she says with a laugh, then regrets it as his face falls a bit and he thrusts a fiver at her. She tries again, though, as she gives him his change. ‘What’re you thinking of doing after school then?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Police work?’

  ‘Anything to get away from here.’

  She’s surprised by the sudden force of his voice. Still, there’s not much here for young people, not much work. What would he do in Burrowhead?

  ‘University then, maybe?’

  He snorts.

  ‘You know, I remember that exhibition they held at the school with all the work from the art class a few years back – do you remember it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had a couple of pieces up on the wall, big paintings. They were really good, I thought.’

  He’s noticed her picture now, he’s staring at it where she put it down there on the counter when he came in.

  ‘That’s what I did, you see. I went to art school in London.’

  The symphony that was playing has stopped, the radio’s switched to voices, someone phoning in, the line distorted. Sometimes it seems like everything beyond Burrowhead is so distant it crackles.

  ‘Then why’re you here?’ he says.

  ‘You mean running the Spar?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘This was my uncle’s shop, before he died.’

  She knows she’s not really answering his question. Her grandparents had moved here from Sri Lanka when they were young. Her dad grew up in the village, met her mum through friends in London and settled there a few years later. Family holidays in Burrowhead when she was a girl, playing on the beach with a bucket and net, catching tiny transparent fish and pink crabs, always throwing them back into the rock pools so they could go on living. Then the feeling of being crammed onto the Tube two hours a day for a job that didn’t pay what she needed, student loans, impossible rent, priced out of London, no one able to help. Except her uncle, offering her work in the shop. The air up here. The sea.

  ‘Okay, so there’s not much money in art. No jobs. Not for me anyway.’

  ‘But you could leave,’ he says. ‘You could…’

  ‘I like it here,’ she smiles. ‘This is my home.’ She wonders how many generations it would take to make you a local in Burrowhead. ‘And working in the Spar’s not bad. I get to see lots of people, I like that.’

  ‘Can I have a job here then? For the summer?’

  Her heart sinks a little bit when he as
ks. He’s not the first.

  ‘I’m sorry, Andy, but we can’t afford to take on someone else, even part-time… It’s a struggle to keep the shop going, that’s the truth of it.’ She’d have thought he would be working on his dad’s farm for the summer anyway. That’s how it usually goes, round here. He looks like he knew what she’d say.

  ‘That’s good though,’ he says, nodding at her drawing.

  It’s nice of him, changing the subject so she won’t feel awkward.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s here,’ she says, surprised. ‘It’s the village. Look, it’s the view out from the square towards the old ruin.’

  He stares at it like he can’t recognise Church Street, can’t recognise the conker trees or the hills in the distance or the light.

  ‘I’m thinking of setting up a stall at the spring fair this weekend, you can come with me if you like. Maybe you’ve got some paintings you could sell?’

  He gives a half-smile at that and shakes his head and she feels suddenly, deeply sorry for him.

  ‘It is possible, you know, Andy. Uni, art school, a job in the city maybe. If you really want to leave.’

  He opens his can and tips his head back to drink: three, four big gulps like he’s not had a sip in a week.

  ‘Got to get home,’ he says. Then he turns and heads for the door.

  For a minute Pamali imagines it, selling up, leaving Burrowhead behind, going back to London. But no. She’d miss the coast too much, the wild beach, the huge expanse of sky. And if she left now then she’d always feel like she was pushed away. She’s not having that.

  ‘Leave it open, Andy,’ she calls as the bell jangles his departure.

  The Spar is open for business. And he’s right; her picture of the village is beautiful.

  18:35

  Kevin’s mother answers the door, which is unsurprising really, given that it’s her house. Not many eighteen-year-olds round here able to rent their own flat, far less a semi, even if it is bang in the middle of Warphill. Georgie holds out her hand.

  ‘Burrowhead police,’ she says, shifting a foot forward to stop the door that’s already closing in her face. ‘Mind if I have a chat with Kevin, Mrs Taylor? Is he around today at all?’

  A teenage girl’s face appears from a door down the hall then disappears again, but the sound of the door creaking is enough to make Mrs Taylor turn and Georgie step through the threshold, Trish following close behind her. Mrs Taylor gives a sigh and heads for the kitchen.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a cup a tea then?’

  ‘Aye, ta,’ says Trish.

  ‘Kevin!’ Mrs Taylor’s voice, when raised, has a slight rattle to the back of it.

  There’s a pounding of footsteps from upstairs, another girl’s voice shouting ‘Arse!’ before Kevin himself appears at the top of the steps.

  ‘The fuck is it now?’

  ‘Kevin.’

  He drags his feet down the stairs and Georgie gestures for him to follow his mum into the kitchen. ‘Let’s have a sit down together, shall we?’

  ‘Aye, whatever you say.’

  Georgie’s familiar enough with what the teenagers round here think of the police. It’s an ongoing project of hers to get through to them, show them a bit of help and support. Though Kevin’s guard has shot right up; he’s got something to be defensive about, that’s for sure.

  ‘Here we go.’ She pulls back a chair, sits down at the table. It’s large, pale wood, with an orange-and-white-striped runner across the centre. Crumbs under her elbow where she’s leaned on it. She wants to seem approachable, non-threatening. ‘We were just wondering if you could tell us where you were last night, Kevin.’

  ‘Right here.’

  ‘Here in the house, that’s good. And you stayed in all night, did you?’

  ‘Course all bloody night.’

  Georgie nods and takes the custard cream Mrs Taylor is offering, shares a glance with Trish over the table. Trish was a teenager here once, same as Kevin and his sisters. Georgie might have thought that would make Trish more sympathetic, rather than less so, but she knows Trish better than that.

  ‘Can anyone verify you were here?’ Trish’s tone, unlike Georgie’s, makes her suspicion perfectly clear. Kevin stretches his legs out under the table.

  ‘Her.’ He points at his mother. ‘Penny-Ann’ – he gestures back to the hall – ‘and Esme. My sisters.’ He pushes his chair back onto two legs, arms crossed like he’s in the clear, smug look on his face. Over by the kettle Mrs Taylor is picking teabags out of a Tupperware pot and dropping them into ornate blue-and-white-patterned teacups. There are feathered dreamcatchers hanging in the window, five of them in a row.

  ‘Good,’ says Georgie. ‘Thanks very much. I’m glad we got that out of the way.’ She smiles. ‘Now, the reason I’m really here is to ask you about Dr Alexis Cosse…’ She pauses; she needs to get this right. ‘Did you know him at all, Kevin?’

  The kettle squeals and Kevin’s expression changes to that of a child on the verge of a tantrum.

  ‘I didn’t fucking want to, did I. It were you lot made me go to his stupid therapy.’

  Georgie waits, but Kevin doesn’t elaborate. It’s the unlikeliness of a kid like Kevin having counselling that Georgie was curious about.

  ‘It was a condition of his sentence,’ his mum explains. ‘Just the community service and a round of psychotherapy.’ She hands Georgie and Trish their cups of tea, precariously balanced on saucers. ‘Four sessions.’

  ‘And what did you learn, Kevin?’ Georgie asks. She’d genuinely like to know, too. There was a time when she’d been offered that kind of help and had turned her back instead, and she regrets that sometimes. Eighteen-year-old Georgie had problems enough to rival any kid in Warphill.

  ‘Anger management.’ Kevin grins.

  Georgie doesn’t. She can’t press him to talk about it, of course, but the truth is Kevin has an alibi for last night and a perfectly valid reason for seeing Alexis. Attitude aside, there’s no reason to consider him a suspect.

  ‘And how’s that working out for you?’ Trish says.

  ‘Look, I’ve done nothing, alright. Why you here?’

  ‘He’s not been in any more trouble,’ his mum says. ‘I can vouch for that. I’m watching him.’

  Kevin scoffs.

  Georgie’s eyes have fallen on the lumps of pale pink quartz on the windowsill.

  ‘You’ve seen my crystals,’ his mum says, standing up proudly like she’s going to bring them over.

  ‘God, Mum,’ Kevin groans. ‘Don’t.’

  She sits back down and smiles apologetically at Georgie. Across the table, Trish picks up her tea, doesn’t drink from it, and puts it down again. She’s had an idea, Georgie can see it. She gives her a nod.

  ‘You been over at the Spar in Burrowhead recently, Kevin?’ Trish asks.

  ‘Aye, the Paki—’

  ‘Kev!’

  ‘It’s what Dad always said.’

  ‘Well, your dad’s gone.’

  ‘Aye, and now we’re no allowed to speak—’

  ‘You speak plenty.’

  Kevin’s mum looks at Georgie and rolls her eyes. ‘He’s just trying to provoke, he doesn’t mean…’ she begins.

  But Georgie’s sitting up now, alert, and she knows how to make herself heard when she needs to.

  ‘When were you last there, Kevin?’ Her voice has the kind of authority that works best when used sparingly.

  ‘I dunno,’ Kevin shrugs. He looks younger now. ‘Couple a weeks back.’

  ‘There’s more choice there,’ his mum starts in. ‘Pamali has a better selection of cheeses, that not right, Kevin?’

  ‘Tobacco, you mean. Mum.’

  ‘You both know Pamali, then?’

  ‘Aye,’ says Kevin. ‘Pamali’s alright.’

  Georgie raises her eyebrows.

  ‘So?’ he says.

  The attitude seems to switch on and off quicker than a blink.

  ‘So I n
eed to know where you were this morning between the hours of 6 a.m. and 8 a.m.’

  ‘I was here, wasn’t I. Where else am I going to be?’

  ‘Here alone?’

  ‘No. With all of them.’ He waves around the kitchen furiously. ‘Like bloody always.’

  Georgie looks at Mrs Taylor, who nods.

  ‘Like he’s going to be out of bed before eight in the morning. Unless he’s been up all night – and I’d of heard the racket if he was.’

  A glare passes between them, like this is part of a recurring argument.

  ‘Will the girls be able to confirm that?’

  ‘Aye,’ says one of them from the kitchen door. Blonde hair scooped high. ‘He was snoring. And we’ve none of us left the house today. We’re out a milk, too.’

  ‘You could go to the shops yourself, Esme,’ her mum shouts, but the girl has already disappeared again.

  ‘Well,’ Georgie says, standing up now. ‘We’ve got your fingerprints on file. If anything comes up, we’ll be back for another chat. Do you understand, Kevin?’

  He’s looking at Trish, not her.

  ‘Someone robbed the Spar then?’

  ‘Know anything about that?’ Trish says, staring him down.

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Right then,’ Georgie says. ‘We’ll show ourselves out. Thank you for the tea and biscuits, Mrs Taylor.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she says. ‘And you know, if there’s anything we can do to help with the investigation…’

  Georgie stops. They’ve heard about the murder already then. Trish is standing behind her, Mrs Taylor behind Trish, and at the end of the hall there’s Kevin. She can see him, the way he suddenly looks interested, and more than that too; there’s an intelligence there that she’d almost missed. But then he’s gone and Georgie realises she’s causing a bottleneck in the narrow hall. She moves again, opens the door, shudders at the way the sky has descended.