The Calling

by Alison Bruce

  He used his mobile to call a taxi, and agreed to wait for it back at the entrance gates. ‘I bet they had a party when he left the force. What a waste of time,’ he cursed.

  CHAPTER 38

  TUESDAY, 10 MAY 2011

  As he rinsed the red and yellow mug, Pete was reminded of his first date with Donna. A swift thrill of pleasure rushed through him as he recalled her urgency.

  He dried the mug and tossed the tea towel to the back of the draining board. As he placed the mug back on its shelf he stared at it, trying to focus on that first night.

  Nothing wrong with it, he decided. Definitely better than last night, when there was too little conversation and he’d taken her home straight after dinner.

  Something was lacking, though. Perhaps he was feeling overtired, or maybe it was all happening just too soon after he’d been seeing Paulette.

  He wiped down the draining board with the tea towel and threw it into the open washing machine. Perhaps he was on the rebound? He walked through to the living room and sat in the chair beside the window.

  Bright sunshine glistened back up from the rain-soaked pavements and he guessed there was a rainbow outside somewhere. That was what Paulette had been like; sunshine and rainstorms all rolled into one.

  He didn’t want to keep thinking about Paulette. He’d been over it and over it in his head. No more walking on eggshells, no more emotional smothering; he’d made the right choice. Now he had to consider Donna.

  He imagined two columns on a sheet of paper, one headed ‘good points’ and the other one headed ‘bad points’.

  Donna was more independent than Paulette, also pretty and cheerful. But she had no real ambitions, just saw herself getting married and maybe being well-off one day.

  He stopped there: if he was totally honest with himself, he knew he wanted someone who sought more from life.

  He watched a single raindrop slide down the pane, sparkling and gathering momentum as it joined up with others on its descent.

  That’s the girl he wanted to find: unique, pure and exciting. He wasn’t sure a woman like that truly existed but, for as long as he could remember, he’d had the idea that she might. Letting go of that would feel like accepting a consolation prize.

  He’d asked himself many times whether his expectations were too high, and he still didn’t know the answer. Except he knew that his parents were happy, and so were his sister Selena and her husband Phil.

  Perhaps he needed to try harder.

  He decided to surprise Donna with flowers, hoping that the walk to the shop would refresh him and leave him in brighter spirits.

  He stepped outside just as a middle-aged man and a thin blonde woman emerged from the unoccupied house next-door. Another estate agent, he guessed, looking at the man’s grey suit and co-ordinated shirt and tie. Smarmy salesman, he thought, but then the woman looked no better; too earnest to be much fun.

  Pete saw her rattle the house details against her free hand, in irritation at the man’s fawning attempt at charm. ‘Lovely, lovely,’ the estate agent kept saying, while gazing at her hopefully.

  Pete liked the idea of a single person moving in. His old neighbours, Anj and Bart, had half-killed each other night after night for six months, until Bart moved out and put in for a divorce. Anj had claimed that it was her own fault for marrying someone called Bart in the first place.

  Pete grinned at the prospective buyer. She smiled back and suddenly didn’t seem at all surly. He jogged towards the shop and hoped that she’d make a much nicer neighbour.

  CHAPTER 39

  WEDNESDAY, 11 MAY 2011

  Someone had slapped a Post-it note in the middle of the small clear patch on Gully’s desk. It read ‘Goodhew wants you all afternoon’.

  Gully had smirked and muttered a wicked, ‘I wish,’ before duly rearranging her workload. She made sure that she was available at 12.00 and fidgeted until 1.20, when Goodhew finally arrived.

  They settled at Gully’s desk with two mugs of coffee and a packet of Jaffa Cakes. Goodhew first cleared Sue’s desktop, unceremoniously dumping every item removed in one dodgy stack on the floor against the filing cabinet.

  ‘How’d you get on in Gloucester?’

  ‘Well, I saw Hayward, also the location of the body, Helen Neill’s parents and I’ve brought back copies of most of the information collated during the murder investigation.’ Goodhew paused to sip his coffee. ‘Hayward was a wind-up, who certainly improved the quality of the police force by retiring. He clearly didn’t give a toss that the killer’s never been caught. Anyway, I think the only way we can get the OK to chase Peter Walsh and our woman caller is to show that she knew what she was talking about when she linked the two cases.’

  ‘So,’ Sue interjected, ‘we need to spend this afternoon mapping the two and then see what we come up with.’

  Goodhew nodded, handing her half the pile of notes. ‘Go over these and see what you find. I’ll do this other lot, then we can go through it all together and compile a comprehensive list.’

  Goodhew moved himself to the adjoining desk, and settled down with the paperwork. He glanced across at Gully, as she concentrated with her head resting on her left hand. Her right hand held a pen that followed the notes as she read them. She was bright and very able but she now looked like a schoolgirl sitting an exam. She clearly didn’t realize that he was watching her, and he smiled as he noticed that every time she moved her hand to the notepad, it returned via the Jaffa Cakes.

  They worked on in companionable silence until, at 3.20, they were finally ready to compile a joint list.

  ‘Let’s start with the victims,’ began Goodhew. ‘There’s the obvious physical similarities: both white, medium build, fair complexion, shoulder-length hair.’

  ‘Similar ages,’ added Gully, ‘only Helen was two years younger.’

  ‘But the killer was three years older by the time Kaye was abducted. That’s a relative difference of only one year.’

  ‘If it’s the same killer,’ warned Gully.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn this into something it isn’t.’ He nodded at her list. ‘What else?’

  ‘Oh yes, both single and not known to have a boyfriend at the time of their disappearances. Neither had any history of going missing. But this isn’t showing anything conclusive.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just a picture we’re building. On the crime itself, though, the similarity is far less commonplace. Both girls were abandoned alive, and both were bound and gagged.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Nylon rope – but you know that.’ He nodded to the pile of papers. ‘You’ve got the forensic reports.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I was just making sure you did.’

  ‘Thanks. So were they of the same brand?’ he replied, testing her in return.

  ‘No, one was dark green, several years old, and originally stocked by Woolworths, the other was pale blue and available at almost any garden or DIY shop,’ she replied with confidence.

  ‘Tell me about the knots.’ He flicked through the file, hunting for photographs.

  ‘In each case the rope was secured by wrapping round and lashing, and then finished with a knot.’

  ‘The same type of knot?’ He slid two pictures from the folder.

  ‘Oh,’ she flustered slightly, ‘I didn’t read that bit.’ She took the prints from him and studied the pattern of the ropes. She didn’t let her eyes dwell on the dead hands they restrained.

  ‘The knots are identical, but we can’t read too much into that. It’s called a Fisherman’s Bend, but it isn’t so obscure or clever that it couldn’t be merely a coincidence. Now tell me what strikes you about the similarities in the crimes.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Gully, ‘when Kaye Whiting’s body was first found I assumed it would be a rape and murder investigation, so I was really surprised when there was no evidence of any sexual assault, and not even any sign of a struggle. Helen Neill’s murder has the same feel
to it, and I would say that’s a strong similarity. Also, although the locations aren’t in the same area, they were both found outdoors, in sites with easy public access, and in both cases the abductor would have required a vehicle to get them there.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Goodhew nodded, ‘that seems good reasoning.’

  ‘And, on the subject of a vehicle, there was a sighting in the Helen Neill case. What about double-checking Vitale’s alibi?’

  Again Goodhew nodded. ‘We could check his whereabouts for Kaye’s disappearance and, if that’s suspicious, then double-check his original story. But we mustn’t be sidetracked into Helen’s case if there’s no genuine connection.’

  ‘How common is it for abductees to be abandoned alive?’

  ‘Considering there’s no sign that either case was money related, or linked to any relationship conflict that either victim was suffering, I would say very rare.’

  Gully picked up the Jaffa Cakes, tipped out the last one and threw the box in the bin. She waggled it enthusiastically in Goodhew’s direction, as she spoke. ‘What’s the motive, Gary?’

  ‘Motive?’ he began slowly, letting his thoughts brew into a logical flow of mental text before releasing them. ‘Let’s assume for the moment that it is the same killer. The motivation may come in the form of a trigger, or a series of triggers. But in this case we’re not seeing killing committed in a frenzy. We don’t even know whether the murderer was present when either girl died, and I see no reason even to assume it was a man.’

  ‘So it could be our anonymous caller?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, since she could more easily catch these girls off guard. And, although there’s no apparent sexual motive, have you heard the phrase “Eligibility Paraphiliac”?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s about repetitive desire for someone who, in some way, is taboo to have as a sexual partner. The woman I saw outside Walsh’s house bore a physical resemblance to both these girls, so it could all be part of a fetish she has.’

  ‘Or her along with someone else?’ Sue added.

  ‘I suppose anything’s possible, really.’ Goodhew pondered that idea for a few seconds. ‘No, but this much is certain: our killer – or killers, for that matter – left virtually no clues. There are no hair samples, minimal fibres, and the strange contradiction of a murder location that is both publicly accessible whilst being isolated enough for the girls to be abandoned without risk of discovery. In both cases, careful planning was involved and there was also a risk that the girls could have been found alive.’

  ‘That sounds sexual to me. The thrill of the planning and execution of the crime, and then the suspense of waiting for the outcome. It’s like a metaphoric courtship.’

  ‘A metaphoric courtship?’ Goodhew repeated in wonder.

  ‘Abducting the girl is meeting her. Tying her up is captivating her and getting her attention. Then there’s the wait to see if the courtship is paying off, and then bing, the body turns up and it’s a big sexual kick. That’s how it usually is when you start seeing someone, isn’t it? Getting your hands on their body is one of the highlights.’

  Goodhew raised his eyebrows and just blinked at her for a long moment. ‘Could you write that bit down for me, so I can digest it properly? And if there’s no sexual motive, and it’s murder for murder’s sake, then the killer’s rituals will help us build a picture.’

  ‘There will be more deaths if that’s the case, won’t there?’

  ‘Maybe even some already that we don’t know about. That’s why, as soon as we’ve finished with this list, we need Marks to agree to release Andy Burrows and let us concentrate on finding our anonymous caller.’

  CHAPTER 40

  WEDNESDAY, 11 MAY 2011

  Fiona Robinson stepped from the shower and bent over to dry her face on the warm bath sheet draped over the radiator. She wiped an arc through the steam on the mirror, enough to see her hair. She combed it until it fell in a sleek curtain of straight strands trickling tepid water down her bare back.

  She then separated it into three even sections and wove a plait, securing it at the end with a hair band. Still naked, she applied her make-up, wiped down the shower cubicle, brushed her teeth and washed her hands. And, in accordance with her usual routine, she checked her hair again in her bedroom mirror before dressing herself in the clothes lying ready on the bed.

  She couldn’t remember when she’d first learnt to plait, but guessed she must have been five or six years old at the time. Since then it had become a habit she turned to whenever her hair hung loose. Her fingers would reach for it automatically and intertwine long thin fair strands of it until five or six braids hung beside her left cheek. Then she’d disentangle them and start again.

  Fiona made herself a coffee and set it down on the edge of the low table next to her armchair. She switched on the TV for the news and, without thinking, pulled the band from the end of her damp hair, then subdivided one of the existing sections – blissfully unaware of the irony that her fate was already interwoven with two other lives.

  Fiona Robinson, Marlowe Gates and Stephanie Palmer had never met, but they now tumbled towards each other on a fatal collision course.

  They’d started far apart: one in Cambridge, one in Crewe and one in Auckland – until, with broken hearts fanning the desire for change, Australia was exchanged for London, and Fiona left the Derby Dales for the flatlands of the Fens.

  They all three always visited the cinema alone, watched late-night television, read books, and each kept a diary. No close friends, no boyfriends, minimal family contact and no pets.

  They all tried to keep it simple, and lived by their own rules of distrust and isolation.

  Stephanie’s alter ego was the ultimate party girl. First to the bar and last out the door. Loud and brash in public, laughing loudly at jokes, drinking pints with the lads but never getting involved with them. Not emotionally anyway.

  Just physically – but she could handle that.

  And if they ever wanted to see her again, they’d just have to go on wanting, wouldn’t they?

  Fiona and Marlowe played it safer. They just avoided men altogether.

  Fiona reached the end of making her braid. She curled the end of it around until it hovered a few inches from her face. She studied the end, then began to unpick it.

  ‘Why does it do that?’ she wondered.

  And it never failed to annoy her. Every time she plaited her hair, she started with three almost identical strands. There would be nothing to choose between them and she was always careful, but whenever she reached the end she found that one of them had mysteriously run out.

  CHAPTER 41

  WEDNESDAY, 11 MAY 2011

  The single-decker wove its way along a twisting route from Cambridge centre, via the industrial units in Newmarket Road, to the post-war housing estates of Fen Ditton, which lay three miles to the east. Marlowe sat at the back until the stop before her own, then made her way to the front, ready to alight as soon as the bus came to a standstill.

  She stepped out on to the pavement, opposite a small shopping parade and ducked under the steel railing next to a row of lock-ups. A patch of surplus concrete led on to a strip of waste ground, providing a shortcut to the alley on the far side. She was careful to miss the dog mess and discarded condoms, and climbed through the hole in the mesh fence opposite, without incident.

  The footpath, a privet-lined alley, brought her into Laburnum Gardens where she turned right and hurried towards number 17. She eyed the house’s windows; a mishmash of unmatched net curtains prevented her from seeing inside, but she saw a silhouette move behind one of them.

  The gate’s metal hinges squealed as she pushed it open; it swung back against a straggling pansy. The first tingle of nerves began as she pressed the bell. She didn’t hear it ringing inside so she rapped the chrome knocker.

  Marlowe made fists in her pockets as she waited, and the cuffs of her coat covered the fresh bruises on her wrists and forearms. The
delicately speckled, criss-crossed scabs itched, and her knotted stomach sent out frustrated messages that made her scratch at them through the beige raincoat.

  She waited almost two minutes, then knocked again, this time banging eight times.

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Come on!’ she growled, and checked the street in each direction. It was still deserted.

  She turned back to the door and clouted it several more times with the flat of her hand, then snapped open the letter box. The stairs and hall stared at her impassively through the oblong slot.

  ‘Open the door. I know you’re in there,’ she called. ‘I only want to talk.’

  She continued to peer inside, hoping to spot a movement or perhaps a shadow. After another long minute, Marlowe straightened up and eased the letter box shut.

  She stepped back and scrutinized each window in turn. Without warning, her frustration boiled to the surface and she leapt forward to the letter box again. ‘Open the fucking door,’ she screamed and kicked it hard enough to make it move slightly in its frame.

  She strode back to the gate and threw it wide, back into the unfortunate pansy. ‘I know you’re in there,’ she bellowed, her voice rising to a screech. ‘You stupid bitch!’

  She then turned and darted back along the empty street towards the alleyway.

  Behind her, a face pressed the net curtains closer to the glass. The woman watched until Marlowe had vanished from sight. She then tore down the stairs and across to the telephone housed in a corner beside the front door. With her gaze still riveted on the letter box, she raised the receiver and dialled the six familiar digits.

  The answerphone clicked on and she waited for the tone. Then, in a small voice, she whispered, ‘Pete, it’s me. Phone me. There’s something you need to know.’