The Calling

by Alison Bruce

  ‘OK, I’ll find it. Are you on your way to see Peter Walsh now?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m dropping in on him at work. See you later.’

  Goodhew waited for Peter Walsh in the foyer of Dunwold Insurance. The lone receptionist directed him towards a suite of low black leather settees, which he decided had been designed solely for the purpose of intimidating job candidates by placing the seats a mere six inches from floor level.

  A few minutes later the receptionist approached him. ‘I’m sorry but apparently he’s in a meeting until ten.’

  Goodhew studied her expression, sure he’d caught a definite note of contempt in the word ‘apparently’, but there was no clue as to whether it was for visitors, team meetings, her job or Peter Walsh?

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll wait. I’ve always wondered what this place is like inside.’

  ‘Stuck in the eighties, that’s what,’ she snorted. ‘With nineteen eighties furniture and eighteen eighties attitudes.’

  ‘Have you worked here long?’ he asked.

  ‘Too long,’ she replied, as she excused herself to answer the phone.

  After fifteen minutes, Peter Walsh himself stepped from the lift. In direct contrast to Andy Burrows, he seemed quiet and relaxed, nodding to the occasional passing colleague.

  ‘How are you, Mr Walsh?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘Fine, thank you. I was considering ringing to see whether you’d found the person trying to drop me in it, but I thought it must have blown over.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. That’s why I wanted to see you.’

  ‘You’ve received more phone calls?’

  ‘A note this time, actually. I really need to find the woman who’s been contacting us, and I believe she’s someone who knows you. An ex-girlfriend or perhaps even a colleague?’

  ‘I could listen to the tape, and maybe I’d recognize the voice.’

  Beyond Walsh, the receptionist watched them, partially obscured by her raised workstation.

  Goodhew shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment. Instead, I’d like a list of your ex-girlfriends and also colleagues and acquaintances that may bear you a grudge for any reason.’

  Walsh strummed his fingers against his cheek, thinking, deciding. ‘Look …’ He lowered his voice. ‘Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I only have one recent ex-girlfriend – you know, aside from girls I’ve been out with only once or twice. We split up about the time I saw you last.’

  ‘I thought you were a bit of a ladies’ man?’ Goodhew commented, querying this apparent contradiction.

  ‘Yeah, I did act like that, didn’t I? But I didn’t want to get into it, not then. But if it hasn’t stopped, then I can only think it’s Paulette.’

  ‘Your ex?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t take it very well when we split up,’ Walsh replied.

  Goodhew handed him some paper and a pen. ‘Could you write her full name and address here for me, please?’

  Walsh printed the words, and muttered, ‘We tried to work it out, but she has a really short fuse. I’d basically had enough of her temper.’ He looked up and smiled as he passed the page back.

  ‘And before that, who did you see?’

  ‘God, you’re going back years. There was a girl called Julie for a few months.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘No, there’s nothing malicious about her. And that’s it.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘Not since my teens. And as for colleagues and acquaintances, well, I keep pretty much to myself.’

  Goodhew stood up, Walsh following his lead.

  ‘I’ll check out Paulette first, but we two will almost certainly need to speak again.’

  ‘No problem. But it’s wasting your time and definitely wasting mine.’

  Goodhew nodded. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Walsh walked with him back to the reception desk.

  ‘Have you always lived in Cambridge?’ Goodhew enquired.

  ‘Since I was a toddler. My parents moved here from Leicester.’

  The receptionist pushed the visitors’ book towards Goodhew and tapped the ‘time out’ column.

  ‘It’s ten twenty-two,’ she instructed.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She picked up some newly arrived post and turned away.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Goodhew reminded Walsh.

  ‘And if I think of anything, can I contact you directly?’

  ‘Just ring the station and ask for me. If I’m not available, ask for PC Sue Gully.’

  Goodhew knew that the receptionist’s hearing was fully functional, even though her smile wasn’t, and he guessed the rumour mill would soon begin to turn. And as he passed through the heavy chrome doors into the dirty rain outside, he would not have been surprised to learn that, behind him, a scrap of paper had just been slipped inside the credit-card section of a well-organized purse. It read ‘G. Goodhew or PC Sue Gully’.

  CHAPTER 46

  FRIDAY, 27 MAY 2011

  Paulette Coleman’s home was in her parents’ place, a grey post-war terrace house in the dormitory village of Fen Ditton. The adjoining properties had been repainted cream and the dark-green door of drab number 17, against its drab elevations, made Goodhew’s subconscious expect equally dull occupants.

  It was on his third knock that Mrs Coleman opened the door.

  ‘Mrs Coleman? I’m DC Goodhew from Cambridge CID.’

  Eye-shadow and mascara flickered in astonishment.

  ‘I’ve come to see Paulette regarding some police enquiries we’re making. Is she at home?’

  ‘Oh.’ She surveyed him, her serious green eyes rapidly reading and reasoning. ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, Mrs Coleman.’

  ‘Well, she’ll be back from work in about twenty minutes. I’ll make you some tea while you wait.’ She led the way through to the kitchen. ‘My husband’s upstairs, as he works nights. He said someone had been banging on the door earlier. Was that you?’

  Goodhew shook his head. ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘White, one sugar, thanks.’

  Mrs Coleman made the tea with her back turned to him. Her hair, a dark chestnut at the front and sides, was a more mellow brown at the back, suggesting clearly she was her own hairdresser. As she passed him his mug, he noticed the only-nearish match of her lipstick and nails, and adjusted his observation to hairdresser and beautician.

  ‘You don’t look like a policeman.’

  ‘That’s the point of being in plain clothes,’ Goodhew replied helpfully.

  ‘No, I mean you haven’t got a policeman’s face. Oh, well,’ she patted his arm, ‘just goes to show looks can be deceptive.’

  ‘They certainly can, Mrs Coleman.’ Goodhew then continued, ‘Where does your daughter work?’

  ‘At Boots in Cambridge. She’s on the make-up counter. She’s had the same job for about three years – really likes it there.’

  ‘Does she catch the bus to work? Or drive?’

  ‘Oh, the bus. She has a car, though. Bought herself a lovely little one as a treat to herself. Before that she had another car, of course, but older.’

  Gary swigged thirstily. ‘Excellent tea, Mrs Coleman.’

  ‘Another cup?’ She stood up.

  ‘Thank you.’ Goodhew leant back into the corner of the chair and slouched slightly, with his elbow on the table. He’d observed Mrs Coleman’s pose and was now mimicking it. As she sat down again, she returned to the same relaxed pose and continued chatting.

  ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘You’d just finished telling me about her new car.’

  ‘Yes, she’s had that car for about six weeks. New car, new haircut, new boyfriend. Out with the old, in with the new; she gets that from me.’ She wiped a hand across that table top, then looked up at Goodhew with new interest. ‘And what case are you working on?’

  ‘Murder.’ He kept his tone smooth and level. ‘I’ve been told that Pau
lette may be trying to falsely implicate someone. Does that sound like your daughter?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The ever lively Mrs Coleman froze and stared at him, a tide of colour seeping across her face. ‘It can’t be true. Everything’s been OK again.’

  Without warning, the back door opened and a thin mousy-haired girl entered the kitchen.

  ‘Hello,’ she muttered.

  ‘Paulette, this is Mr Goodhew from the police. He wants a word with you.’ She put the mugs in the sink. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she added for Goodhew’s benefit.

  Paulette’s blue eyes hadn’t left Goodhew since they’d been introduced. ‘Will this take long, because I’m supposed to be going out tonight?’

  ‘Hopefully not.’ He poised his pen over the notepad. ‘Does the name Kaye Whiting mean anything to you?’

  No visible reaction. ‘No.’

  ‘How about Helen Neill?’

  Nothing but a small shake of the head.

  ‘Peter Walsh?’

  Paulette drew her breath sharply. ‘What’s happened?’ she gasped, sinking into the chair opposite.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Kaye Whiting, and someone has been making anonymous calls suggesting that Peter Walsh should be arrested.’

  ‘No, that’s not right.’

  ‘What’s not?’

  ‘It’s not right that anyone would cause him trouble.’ Her voice was small and thin, and nothing like the voice on the tape. But, of course, Paulette didn’t know that.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Walsh, and he says you were very upset when he ended your relationship. Is that correct?’

  ‘I, um …’ she stumbled over her words. ‘Yes, I, I …’ It took her several awkward seconds before she could continue. Any make-up she wore did nothing to hide the faded magnolia tinge of her skin and the dark shadows beneath her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘You’re seeing someone else now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really. He’s just a friend at the moment. I hoped Pete and I would get back together.’ Tears suddenly welled in her eyes. ‘Why would he think I’d do that? I mean the phone calls.’

  ‘He says your temper was always a problem.’

  ‘Not temper, no. When I started going out with him, I felt so lucky. I wanted it to work so much that I became obsessed with trying to avoid anything going wrong.’

  ‘Obsessed is a strong word, Miss Coleman.’

  ‘I was determined to make him happier than he’d been with anyone else before. I wish I could do it over again, but differently.’

  ‘Had he been unhappy before?’

  ‘He’d had a couple of girlfriends, I think. He only ever mentioned the last one, called Julie. He was gutted when they split up, but he said she’d met someone else.’

  Paulette rubbed her tired eyes. ‘I think she may have come to this house about two weeks ago. I was here alone when I heard the doorbell go. I looked out the window and there was a woman standing at the front door. I recognized her from a photo I saw at Pete’s place.’

  ‘He showed it to you?’

  ‘No, I found it in a drawer. I didn’t want to talk to her, but she must have seen me because she started yelling through the letter box.’

  ‘Yelling what, exactly?’

  ‘She was shouting my name. And she kept pacing up and down. Really agitated. She yelled, “I need to talk to you about Peter. I know you’re in there. Open the door.”’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No way … And then she left.’

  ‘And did you tell Peter Walsh?’

  ‘I left him a message, asked him to ring – but he never did.’

  ‘Did he know you’d found the photo at his place?’

  ‘No.’ Paulette dropped her gaze to her lap, which was a common response from someone about to confess. ‘No, I only looked because I was jealous, and I wouldn’t admit to that, would I? But I memorized her address too, if you want it.’

  CHAPTER 47

  FRIDAY, 27 MAY 2011

  The clouds had burst open and heavy raindrops pelted Goodhew’s car. The passing traffic had swelled to a swishing flood that gushed past him as he opened the door and ducked inside.

  He dropped his notepad into the passenger seat, and it fell open where he’d wedged his pen between a couple of pages.

  ‘Julie Wilson, 125 Gilmerton Court’ his note said.

  He rang the station to check his messages. Condensation was quick to mist the windscreen, and he turned the fan on full as he waited for a reply.

  No messages.

  He dropped his phone in his pocket and pulled away, flowing into the main stream of traffic. He decided to call on Julie Wilson unannounced, since he preferred visits that way.

  He opened his window a few inches, allowing stray spots of rain to dart through the gap. Occasionally one misjudged the space and crash-landed on the top rim of the window glass, before teetering and tumbling down the inside surface.

  Gary wiped away these drops with the outer heel of his hand, recalling the raindrops running down the cheeks of that girl in Hanley Road. She wasn’t Paulette Coleman, he now knew. And neither was Paulette Coleman the anonymous caller, for the timbre of her voice had been all wrong. Besides, he had convinced himself that the girl in the street was owner of the voice recorded on the tape.

  The rush-hour traffic thickened but, despite the congestion, the quickest route to Gilmerton Court was around the airport and through the slow-moving streets of Cherry Hinton and past Addenbrooke’s Hospital. He inched forward, nose to tail with all the commuters who accepted this crawl homewards as part of their daily routine.

  Paulette caught the bus each day, while Pete walked. So what? He wondered whether she watched out for Pete, or whether her self-confessed obsession manifested itself in other, more obscure ways. She’d looked different from what he imagined to be Pete Walsh’s type. He’d expected someone more colourful, and bolder by nature too.

  The rain slowed to a frustrated drizzle. Goodhew sincerely hoped Julie Wilson would be the girl from Hanley Road.

  Number 125, Gilmerton Court was a two-bedroom flat on the second floor of a three-storey residential block. Julie Wilson wasn’t at home, so Gary waited in the stairwell, on the second step of the flight leading up to the third floor.

  After ten minutes he heard the lobby door open, and wet footsteps slapped the stone steps on their way towards him.

  Gary stood and watched the handrails of the flights lower down. A female left hand appeared and curled around the rail as she ascended. He could just make out the damp pinkness of her skin against the black cuff of her jacket. As she reached the half landing ten steps below him, she drew a sudden breath and froze, her gaze flashing upwards to the floor above. Goodhew instantly recognized her pallor: he’d seen it twice before, and more times if he counted the dead ones. But this was the first time he’d set eyes on Julie Wilson.

  Goodhew leant over and held out his badge. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. I’m from Cambridge CID. I’d like to ask you a few questions in connection with a current investigation.’

  ‘Is this house-house? I mean, are you seeing everyone who lives here?’

  ‘No, just you.’

  Julie didn’t move. ‘Throw me your ID.’

  Gary complied. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t phone first.’

  ‘Don’t you usually make visits in pairs?’

  ‘Not always, no.’ He pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Do you want to call the police station and check on me?’

  Julie shook her head and headed up the last few steps. She opened the door of her flat and gestured Goodhew through in front of her. The hallway opened out into a lounge and Goodhew took a seat on the blue settee at the far end, nearest the only armchair.

  Julie Wilson stood with her hands in her jacket pockets and glared at him.

  ‘Some anonymous calls have recently been made to us regarding a current murder investigation. These may be offering us genuine information or they may
simply be malicious. I’m here because I’ve been told that you may be able to point me in the right direction.’

  Julie shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘I believe you once went out with a Peter Walsh, of Hanley Road?’

  Julie’s lips, suddenly compressed, seemed to struggle with more than one syllable. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Do you have any grievance against him?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘So your split was amicable?’ he prodded, keen to prise an involuntary second syllable from her.

  ‘Well, I don’t want him back and I’m sure he’s not interested in asking me out again. Up to you if you want to describe that as amicable.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t be the caller who’s accusing him of being somehow involved in a murder, then?’

  ‘You’re barking completely up the wrong tree.’

  ‘So you think it’s a ridiculous accusation that’s being made against Mr Walsh?’

  ‘Look, some women are bitches, and some blokes are bastards. It doesn’t make them killers, though. I don’t know what you want me to say, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’

  Gary nodded in sympathy. ‘I really do understand your point of view. I don’t want to rake up anything distressing, but this is important.’

  The redness steadily creeping up Julie’s neck became less angry in shade. She removed her anorak and dropped it on to the armchair beside him. ‘I shouldn’t get so wound up, I suppose.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I should keep it under control.’

  ‘But you’re still upset about him?’

  ‘I’m only upset that it still bothers me after so long.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘Oh,’ she threw her hands in the air, ‘I don’t know.’ She stared at Gary, maybe hoping he’d move on. He didn’t speak. ‘Everything, nothing – you know the usual relationship stuff.’

  ‘So if you didn’t call us, can you think of anyone who might bear him some kind of serious grudge?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine him doing anything to make himself particularly unpopular at work. But I don’t really know for sure – especially after this long.’