When the Dead Come Calling

by Helen Sedgwick

  ‘He was on Facebook too, aye. His other mates’ll be on there and all. Bobby had lots of mates.’

  ‘Any of them had a falling-out with him recently?’

  The Helmsteadings, though, it seems to be all about their family. Trish doesn’t think this was a debt unpaid or a fight that got out of control, she thinks it’s about family. Deep, personal. Georgie would tell her to stop jumping to conclusions. Slow it down, Trish, she’d say. Benefit of the doubt all round. Georgie is always on an even keel. That’s her talent, maybe – makes it hard to be her friend though. Trish prefers a bit of fight. She wishes she could give that to Andy, too. Teach him how to stand up to his dad. Is that the answer? Not sure what would happen if Andy stood up to his father, hard to imagine it ever happening. He’ll have to though, one day, one way or another. Maybe this’ll help, this week of policing. Give him a bit of confidence, bit of strength. He’s jiggling his legs under the table now – could be he’s anxious, though Trish reckons it’s more likely he needs the loo.

  ‘It was for me,’ he says. Georgie was asking about the pub fight with his dad. ‘Bobby was standing up for me. He was good like that.’

  Trish tries to picture it. Bobby Helmsteading always seemed more like a bully to her, but that was years ago now. And to take Andy under his wing, even if they were just drinking and getting high, maybe he’d changed.

  ‘Why did he need to stand up for you, Andy?’

  Andy looks at Trish.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s confidential. We’ll not tell anyone.’

  ‘He said I was… My da, he was calling me weak. Laughing at me. Like normal. It wasn’t anything … but Bobby told him to shut it and then Dad called him a cunt and then Bobby hit him right on the jaw. It was good.’

  Now that Trish can imagine. Bobby got into plenty of fights at school, even as a kid. Especially if he lost a race, lost a bet, lost a football match. He didn’t like to lose. Looking back now, she’d say it was because he was jealous of just about everyone. Maybe he grew up.

  ‘Anything else, Andy?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Anything you saw?’

  A shrug.

  Thinking of Uncle Walt, though, she’d not been able to get hold of him earlier. Thought he’d just been asleep. It was early, right enough. She hadn’t worried at the time.

  ‘If you can think of anyone who might’ve done this…’

  ‘I’d tell you,’ he says. ‘He was my mate. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Thanks, Andy,’ Georgie says. ‘You’ve been very helpful, having this chat with us.’

  ‘Have I?’

  Andy looks a bit pleased then, pleased and young and genuine.

  ‘You have,’ says Georgie.

  And it was kind of him to get the tea and biscuits for Georgie like that earlier on. She’ll try and think of something a bit more interesting for him to do – something better than cleaning – that Georgie will let him near. She’s guarding the case from him something fierce, even if she is all steady and cautious. Still, cleaning out the store cupboard, mopping the floors, there’s no confidence-building in that. Maybe he could have a go at fixing up some of the broken chairs or organising the office supplies, he could work out in reception – at least he’d be out of the cupboard. His heart’s in the right place, that’s the thing about Andy Barr. His limbs seem to have a life of their own, but his heart’s good and solid. Just like Uncle Walt.

  She’s grateful for Uncle Walt. Maybe she’s been too hard on him recently. It’s frustrating, sometimes, all the stuff about the Others coming to get him and the wandering off and refusing to wear his hearing aid and refusing to get dressed half the time. She’s not got the patience she should have. But she’s grateful to have Uncle Walt, grateful to have had him all her life. She needs to go and see him, soon as possible. She misses him, suddenly and acutely. It’s like a punch to the chest.

  THE DARKNESS SURROUNDING MRS HELMSTEADING

  Mrs Helmsteading’s been out and she’s in no rush to get home – she’s not even sure why she’d ever want to go home again. But home seems to be where her feet are headed. Besides, she can’t see any other way to go, so. Back to the darkness then.

  She can see Dawn’s face more clearly than she can see the ground she’s walking on, her Dawn, her baby, and it’s almost enough to block out the other things, almost but not. The storm clouds are dark smoke out over the hills. Her hands clasp in front of her, reaching out to grab at nothing at all, arms move like she’s defending herself, like something invisible is trying to pierce her skin, blood spotting her blouse, red rings of it like pinpricks. Her feet start to carry her faster but she feels lopsided, three-legged like poor Rattle. That’s why she’s going home then.

  No one sees her. No one’s here. Not even a huddle at the bus stop, not even a face at a window or a car screeching by. The sky splits again but the water’s not fresh, it’s warm and slick like syrup and she didn’t bring her rain hat. Turn at the corner, stop trying to see your way in this blackness. A mound of pigeon by the bin, scoffing on rotting litter. Away! Her hands swipe at nothing in front of her, she topples, falls into a hedge. Twigs catch in her hair. Scrape at her neck. But she knows where she is again now. She straightens herself, walks with more confidence through the gate on the broken hinge and up the path to her house. She’d left the door unlocked.

  Rattle comes scampering up to her; he’d been hiding out by the back porch. Dog’s scared of everything these days. Desperate scratching on the lino as he slips this way and that into her arms. She never did find out for sure what had happened to his leg, but then she knew, didn’t she, like she knew so many other things she didn’t want to know. She’d found her son once, when he was a kid, collecting worms so he could chop them up, a red bucket of the writhing things he had. Came with it into the kitchen, looking for lemon juice and salt. She told him to put them back into the ground, tried not to think about why the lemon juice, why the salt. And then the whining noise Rattle had made, the day of his accident. Before the car drove by. The car that Bobby claimed had hit him before speeding off, never to be heard of again.

  The vets have always said that if his leg is causing him too much pain, putting him to sleep is the kindest way. She doesn’t have the injection they would have used, but she can help him. It’ll be good to know he’s getting some rest. She sets him down on the sofa and chooses his favourite cushion, places it firmly over his head. He’s a small dog but she’s not much strength in her arms these days, has to sit on it till he’s stopped scrabbling with his legs. Stopped trying to survive. He looks so small when she finally stands up, small and still and innocent. She’ll make a nice grave for him, bury him in the earth the way she was never able to bury her husband. No fire and ashes, not for her Rattle.

  But then she hears a noise. Upstairs. It’s from upstairs. She knew he was going to come. She jumps as something crashes to the floor. He came as a little boy this morning, standing at the end of her bed with his chest all bloody and his face hanging off, but he’s here as a man now, sure as he’s dead and gone. Oh but it’s dark up there. Footsteps without even a shadow, striding back and forth above her head, the stairs themselves disappearing up into the dark, just the shape of the light fitting with no bulb in it, hanging down over the stairs like that, swaying, the carpet all red and brown and stinking. She’s holding Rattle in her arms again, still warm, his fur soft against her cheek. She breathes in the smell of him, and breathes out again.

  The footsteps are moving across the ceiling. He’s in his room, of course – well, it was never really his room till he came back and needed a place to stay, but it was always his in her mind, while he was off at that school or away down south or wherever it was he went. She always wanted to think she’d provide a home for her son, when he needed it. She’d tried.

  ‘I’m down here, Bobby,’ she says, stepping closer to the shadow of the stairs, her head back and Rattle cradled in her arms. Her right thigh is shaking somet
hing awful. But her words have worked; the footsteps are gone. Was it too much to hope that he understood? No more of this fear. No more Rattle to look after either. It was the kindest thing she could do for him. Sweet Rattle; at least he understood.

  REPLAY

  Right. Chairs arranged ready, recording paused ten seconds before the vital clue. Soon as they’ve finished with the kid, it’s time. Frazer clears his throat, straightens his tie, stands outside the main office until DI Strachan and DC Mackie appear and Andy Barr’s been sent out to reception to fix some furniture they can’t afford to replace. He heard him grumbling about it under his breath, Trish telling him it was important work since they mustn’t ask HQ for any money – then she saw him listening and dropped her voice. Anyone would think he was the enemy. Fat chance he’d get consulted on a budget. Still, there’s the DI now. Right. Here we go.

  ‘That’s the note arrived in Crackenbridge,’ he says, before they’ve even taken their seats. ‘They’re checking it for prints.’ He pauses for a beat.

  ‘That’s very help—’ DI Strachan begins.

  ‘Cal said they’ve analysed the eye too. Sorry. Ma’am. Didn’t mean to—’

  ‘On you go.’

  ‘It belonged to Dr Cosse, as you thought. He thinks the birds must have taken it, dropped it on top of the standing stone. Still no sign of the other one – could be anywhere.’

  DI Strachan looks edgy. Well, less relaxed than usual. DC Mackie hasn’t said a word, she’s just sitting there on her swivel chair.

  ‘And, erm…’ he continues, ‘all they’ve found is some fibres belonging to the jacket of Fergus Strachan, who called it in. He’s your…?’

  He’s her husband; he checked that with Cal. Scottish bloke apparently. Strange couple to find around here, where everyone else seems to be born and bred. You couldn’t exactly call the place diverse. Other than the DI and Pamali, everyone he’s seen since leaving the city is white; his own face is the blackest out here by a long way.

  ‘Nothing useful then?’ she says.

  ‘Footprints, near the stone. Again belonging to Fergus Strachan.’

  The DI just nods. Now’s his time.

  ‘And I’ve got more.’

  At that DC Mackie stands up. Must have been something in his tone.

  ‘I’ve been listening through the interview we did yesterday, got something to play you both. I’ve got it set up next door…’

  So they follow him silently down the hall and into the second office, where the recording is ready to go.

  ‘Have a seat, both of you, please.’ He closes the door, deliberately, and turns the lock on the handle. ‘Are you ready?’ Without waiting for an answer he lets Elise Robertson’s voice fill the room.

  I saw the police tape by the flats and I’d already been thinking maybe I should call, though you don’t want to waste police time without reason, do you, and Ricky was coming up the lane there and even he said maybe I should report it like—

  He pauses. ‘D’you hear it?’ Plays the passage again: —don’t want to waste police time without reason, do you, and Ricky was coming up the lane there— and stops.

  ‘Ricky,’ says the DI. Finally, she looks impressed.

  ‘Someone you know?’

  ‘Ricky Barr,’ says DC Mackie quietly, looking at the DI. ‘He was there.’

  ‘Well done!’ Frazer says before he can stop himself, but the way DC Mackie looks at him then, he suddenly feels ashamed. ‘I mean, that’s what I’m thinking, yes.’

  ‘Ricky Barr,’ she says, her eyes pointing straight ahead and her voice flat. ‘Hanging around down the back lane of the abandoned flats where Bobby Helmsteading was murdered—’

  ‘Andy just told us something,’ DI Strachan explains. ‘Bobby got into a fight with Ricky Barr down the pub a couple of weeks ago. He had a bit of a temper on him, sounds like, could take care of himself with his fists. Would have taken something to overpower him.’

  ‘Then the fight’s a good place to start,’ says Frazer.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ says the DI. ‘This is excellent police work, really, this is so—’

  ‘No need for compliments, ma’am,’ he interrupts. ‘Just need your permission to go ahead.’

  ‘You want to do the interview?’

  ‘And bring him in for prints and DNA. See if we can get a match to the knife. I’m a stranger here – he won’t know me and he won’t be expecting me, that should put him off guard.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ she says.

  DC Mackie is staring at him, making him feel awkward when all he wants is to do the job well.

  ‘And you know,’ DI Strachan says, ‘Trish here suspected Ricky Barr, didn’t you, Trish?’ She’s trying to be kind. Maybe he’s stepping on toes.

  ‘Couple days ago, maybe,’ DC Mackie mumbles.

  ‘You’re still focused on Dawn Helmsteading?’ says Frazer.

  ‘Dawn’s our strongest lead.’

  ‘Messed-up girl like that, capable of this carnage?’ He tries to say it gently.

  ‘She was seeing Dr Cosse,’ she snaps.

  ‘Four years ago.’

  DC Mackie goes silent. There’s a buzzing coming from the fluorescent squares in the ceiling that suddenly strikes him as unbearable.

  ‘Well,’ says Frazer, sitting down – he hadn’t meant to be standing all the while. ‘Looks to me like we’ve got two separate crimes.’ He glances at the DI and she gives him a nod. ‘The first murder could be racially motivated – and if we find the owner of the prints on the notes, we might find our killer. Or it could have been a homophobic attack. For the second, we’re waiting on blood analysis from the knife – could tell us a lot – and following this lead from Elise Robertson, I need to go speak to Ricky Barr.’

  Still no word from the others. The silence is ringing in his ears. This isn’t exactly the reaction he was expecting. He’d thought they’d be pleased, at least once they realised what a good lead it was. Heaven’s sake, it’s not like he asked to be sent to this backwater. He’s even wondered if someone wanted him out of the city. They wouldn’t have done, though. Would they?

  ‘Okay.’ DI Strachan steps in. ‘We’ve got two strands to our approach, then. Trish, you’re on Dawn Helmsteading. We need to find her, soon as possible. Frazer, you can go talk to Ricky Barr. How does that sound?’

  ‘Good. Thanks, ma’am,’ says Frazer.

  ‘And for heaven’s sake, call me Georgie,’ says DI Strachan. ‘You okay, Trish?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says.

  ‘And I was thinking of checking out the church ruin. Make sure no one’s been hiding out there. Cause of the… Well, just a hunch really. But worth a look, once I’ve called in on Pamali for lunch.’

  DC Mackie nods. ‘I’ve got to check on Uncle Walt too.’

  Frazer raises his eyebrows then brings them back down before anyone notices. Quite what Uncle Walt and the church ruin have to do with the case, he doesn’t know.

  ‘Right, you do that,’ DI Strachan says, though what Frazer thinks she should be saying is something rather different. ‘And see if he can tell us anything about Jack Helmsteading while you’re there. Then we’ll meet at the Spar and head to the church together. Frazer, you keep us updated on Ricky Barr. Keep it informal for now. Any issues, you call me. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And it’s Georgie, for God’s sake, call me Georgie.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  He thinks he sees DC Mackie smirking at him out the corner of his eye, but when he glances over at her she’s stony-faced as usual and her gaze is straight through the wall, beyond which he can hear Andy Barr hammering a nail into a wooden chair leg.

  MISSING AT MIDDAY

  Trish rings the bell, then bangs the door knocker several times, then calls out hello, and then – all this happens fairly quickly, what with Trish being Trish – peers into the window of his front room and raps her knuckles against the glass.

  ‘Uncle Walt?’ she
calls. ‘You in there?’

  She goes back over to the door, rings the bell again.

  Maybe it’s everything that’s been going on that’s got her feeling so anxious, but she can’t deny the sinking feeling in her stomach, or the panic that seems to be rising up in her throat.

  ‘Uncle Walt?’

  He wasn’t sitting in the fountain when she passed; she’s already checked. No sign of him out and about in the village. And he’s not sitting in his favourite chair in his front room. So where else could he possibly be? It was early when she checked this morning, with no sign of him – God, he could have been gone a whole night already. She has this terrible vision of him fallen somewhere, lying wounded on the kitchen tiles, slipping in the bathroom, blood pooling around his bumped head. Or dead in bed.

  ‘Uncle Walt!’

  She’s got the spare keys in her hand already, no sense shouting when she can look for herself. If he’s inside and perfectly fine he’ll have a moan about her not waiting for him to answer the door, but she’ll be so relieved she won’t care. Plus it would be a good excuse to remind him to use his damn hearing aid. He probably didn’t even hear the door. That’s what this will be. Wouldn’t be the first time. She takes a deep breath and lets herself in, but as soon as she steps through the door she feels them brushing against her head: the fingered tips of long, smooth feathers. God’s sake, Uncle Walt. He’s strung them up over the door frame, must have collected them from the beach; they’re grey and brown and sleek, strung high enough that they’re above eye level but low enough to graze the head of anyone walking in. He does it to ward off evil, but she’d got him out of the habit after last year – that’s what she’d thought.

  ‘Uncle Walt?’

  It means he’s scared – the feathers mean he’s scared, and so do the bowls of shells and pebbles lining the edges of the floor. He’s not in the front room, as she saw from the window. He’s not in the kitchen either, making his lunch or lying incapacitated on the tiles. She takes the stairs two at a time, checks the bathroom, checks the bedroom. His bed has been neatly made. Back down the stairs to the front porch – his walking stick is gone. His slippers are in front of his comfy chair. Walt is nowhere in the house.