The Calling

by Alison Bruce

  He began to fill in spaces on the grid he had devised. He knew most about Julie Wilson; just as well because he wouldn’t be getting a chance of questioning her again.

  As he wrote, he realized how little he knew about any of them. He could question Paulette again but not Julie, and he wondered when he would locate the mysterious Marlowe. At least he now had a name to go on.

  Clarke nipped into the room to pick up his car keys, and left without shutting the door; Wilkes’ and Gully’s voices intruded again.

  ‘I think that’s where the name’s from. But it doesn’t help, does it?’ Gully was saying.

  ‘We could ask her, I suppose,’ Wilkes replied.

  ‘Yeah, or her family – if they turn up.’ That was Gully talking again.

  Goodhew crossed the room and pushed the door shut again, before returning to his chair.

  He was going about this the wrong way. He threw the elaborate page in the bin and redrew the columns on a fresh sheet.

  OK, he thought. They are all linked by Pete Walsh. Let’s start there. He knew that they shared physical characteristics: height, colouring, similar ages. He knew too that these were all characteristics shared with Helen Neill, Kaye Whiting and Stephanie Palmer.

  ‘Previous relationships?’ he entered a question mark under each name.

  ‘Behaviour similarities’. This time he had something to write. Assuming Marlowe and the anonymous caller were one and the same, she was clearly still also preoccupied by Pete. Julie had taken and kept a photo of Marlowe and Pete, while Paulette had taken down Julie’s address. Paulette had considered her own behaviour as resulting from jealousy, whilst Nicole had described her sister as being ‘unable to move on’.

  And as for Marlowe, beyond the phone calls, he had yet to find out anything at all.

  The door bumped open yet again. This time it was Kincaide, who held it open long enough to finish a conversation with Gully and Wilkes. ‘That’s the sort of question you should ask Goodhew. He’s the one that’s interested in shitty old films.’ He looked across at Goodhew and feigned surprise. ‘Oh, hello, Gary. I didn’t see you there!’ He smirked and dropped into his own chair.

  Goodhew folded his newly annotated paper and placed it in the top of the box, covering Julie’s personal effects. He’d come back to it later.

  Gully poked her head around the door and called across to him. ‘So, was Philip Marlowe an actor or a character?’

  ‘Character,’ Goodhew replied automatically. He carried the box over to his own rather noisier desk. Suddenly he realized the implication of what she had asked. ‘Why?’ he called out.

  Gully was already back in the corridor. ‘You’re right,’ he heard her say.

  He dumped the box in the footwell of his desk and followed her. By the time he reached the door, WPC Wilkes had gone. ‘Well, that solves that,’ Gully beamed.

  Goodhew’s tone was tense. ‘What, exactly?’ he demanded.

  ‘That girl from the lake is called Marlowe.’

  Goodhew frowned. ‘What girl?’

  ‘Oh blimey, Gary, keep up,’ she scolded him. ‘You know, the one the taxi driver fished out of the same lake where they found Kaye’s body.’

  Goodhew shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Sue. I’ve been out places.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Sorry, I just assumed you’d heard. She was dropped off by a taxi and the driver thought her behaviour seemed odd, so he went back to make sure she was OK.’

  ‘And?’ Goodhew grabbed her arm.

  ‘And, she’d tried to drown herself. She was already unconscious when he pulled her out. She’s now at Fulbourn Hospital Mental Illness Unit.’

  Goodhew grinned. ‘She’s our anonymous caller, Gully, I’m sure. Can you take me up there?’

  ‘Of course, but she’s sedated and refusing to speak to anyone. Wilkes has been dealing with it, and only mentioned it because of the connection to Kaye.’ They were walking towards the exit even as they spoke. ‘Wilkes has just found out her full name and managed to contact her parents. Apparently she’s had some emotional problems before and we’ve now managed to locate her counsellor, called Elizabeth Martin. Wilkes has made an appointment for two p. m.’

  ‘We’ll visit her on the way to the hospital.’

  ‘OK, I’ll let Wilkes know, and then meet you at the car.’

  CHAPTER 63

  MONDAY, 4 JULY 2011

  Goodhew parked the car outside Braeside, a three-storey Cambridge brick terrace house in Maid’s Causeway. It stood between two tidier family homes. ‘Is this it?’

  Gully checked the address on Wilkes’ note. ‘It must be.’

  The front door had been left ajar and Goodhew led the way into a red-tiled hallway. A leaded panel of coloured glass on each side of the door provided the only light which fell directly on to a dark oak table. A pile of information leaflets stood propped against the wall and the only other item, a laminated A4 sheet, informed them that Elizabeth Martin’s treatment room could be found on the first floor, above the premises of a chiropractor and below the offices of the Cambridge Women’s Resource Centre.

  ‘It’s not what I expected,’ he whispered.

  ‘And what exactly did you expect, white coats and a posh waiting room?’ Gully shrugged. ‘Perhaps she’s an amateur – you know, one of those dabblers.’

  They both looked up towards the landing, and Goodhew shook his head. ‘No, I called our Occupational Health Department while I was waiting for you outside in the car. Just on the off-chance.’ He gestured for her to go up first. ‘No hesitation there, they knew her name straight away. She’s very well thought of, and has been called as an expert witness several times in the past.’

  Gully waited for Goodhew to catch up with her at the head of the stairs. Several panelled doors faced on to the landing. A square of paper was sticky-taped above the Bakelite handle of one. It read: ‘Please knock and wait.’

  They knocked but didn’t wait, because a husky voice called them straight in.

  Elizabeth Martin’s treatment room was informal. More like an aunt’s sitting room furnished with a rounded collection of mismatches. Mismatched chairs, uneven bookshelves and a display of prints across the walls with no commonality of either theme or frame. A crocheted blanket lay folded into the shape of a cushion on the window seat, its colours bleached by daylight.

  Elizabeth sat in a chair in the far corner, facing the door but near enough to the window to see the road where they’d parked, one floor below. Goodhew and Gully chose the two chairs closest to her, and sat side by side.

  ‘You look like an old married couple,’ she quipped.

  Gully shot a startled glance at Goodhew, then fiddled with her notepad, leaving him to speak.

  ‘Marlowe Gates was pulled out of a lake after what we think was a suicide attempt,’ he began. ‘We’re about to visit her, but so far she has refused to speak to anyone. When we heard that she’s been receiving counselling, we hoped you’d be able to shed some light on her state of mind.’

  Elizabeth Martin leant over one side of her chair to fish around inside a buff document wallet. She sat up straight again, holding a clutch of papers in her hand. ‘What I don’t understand is this.’ She levelled her impassive gaze on Goodhew. ‘If she’s now in hospital, and in the care of the correct health services, why does it need to involve you?’

  She was obviously used to questioning everyone’s motives, and Goodhew had no doubt that she’d also hesitate to dish out any confidential patient information. ‘I’ll be straight with you now. We are investigating a murder, and I believe that Marlowe Gates may be a key witness. I need to understand her mental state and therefore know how far I can press her for vital information. The last thing I want to do is push her into another suicide attempt.’

  Elizabeth Martin repositioned herself in her easy chair. She now sat straighter and looked sterner than before. She pressed her hand flat on the sheaf of notes in a gesture that both Goodhew and Gully interpreted as rejection. ‘Th
ese notes are personal, and I am sure you’re both aware of the importance of client confidentiality.’ She raised her palm by a couple of inches and slapped it down again. ‘I do however retain the right to discuss a client’s situation in special circumstances, particularly if further life is at risk. And it is fair to say that this may be one of those.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gully said. ‘Why and when did she first come to see you?’

  ‘She was referred to me by her doctor. That was about two years ago, and she then had several appointments over the next few months.’

  ‘And was she suicidal then?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘No, not at all.’ Elizabeth Martin flicked through the first few pages. ‘Not in my opinion anyway. But she had started harming herself, cutting herself. Her wrists mainly.’

  ‘But not attempting suicide?’ Gully frowned. ‘Is she an attention-seeker?’

  ‘That’s the general misconception about self-harmers. No, they usually do it as a form of release for an overload of internal pain which they believe they cannot dissipate in any other way. In fact self-harm often provides a means to help sufferers get on with their lives. It is rare for them to become suicidal.’

  ‘Tell me specifically about Marlowe, then. Can you build a picture of her for us?’

  ‘Sure, just give me a minute.’ Elizabeth Martin delved further through her wodge of papers. Goodhew and Gully waited patiently, and the air hung quiet and heavy. A dazzling stream of sunlight suddenly broke in through the corner of the window and a confetti of dust rose to meet it. The counsellor reached across and tugged the velvet curtain across the window a few inches further. ‘It can become unbearable here in the afternoons,’ she muttered. She closed her notes and looked up again. ‘The sun that is, not the job.’ She smiled, then began to speak rapidly. ‘I’ll keep it simple and quick, but stop me if I don’t make sense. Please take notes. You can’t have mine, and yours will be strictly only for use in your investigation. Agreed?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Goodhew concurred.

  ‘Marlowe’s first appointment was when she was twenty-one, and her last was this year when she was twenty-three. As I said, the initial contact was because she had started to self-harm, usually cutting her wrists, but on occasion also her abdomen and breasts. Self-harm can start at any age, but when it commences in adulthood, it is most commonly the result of a trauma such as rape or physical assault.’

  ‘And what had happened?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Even after several sessions?’ he pressed.

  ‘No,’ she gave him a stern look, ‘I’m not holding anything back here. She just wasn’t preoccupied by whatever had happened to her. But I’ll return to that in a minute. As well as the self-harm, she was experiencing anxiety attacks. These manifest themselves in a series of symptoms stemming from the flight-or-fight instinct – which I assume you’ve heard of?’

  Goodhew nodded. ‘If people sense danger, they get a rush of adrenalin which makes them ready to either stand and fight or flee from the situation.’

  ‘And the body can do either most effectively when it is at its lightest, and directing maximum oxygen towards the muscles and the brain. The body tries to lose weight by sweating and going to the toilet, and increases its oxygen supply by over-breathing and inducing a state of hyperventilation.’

  Gully suppressed a yawn and squirmed in her chair. Elizabeth Martin pointed to her. ‘An extreme version of what you’re doing now, in fact. You’re feeling restless, maybe a few butterflies, unable to relax, and feeling that something awful will happen if you don’t get on with things. Am I right?’

  Gully nodded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to appear rude.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ the woman continued. ‘That, magnified a hundredfold, is how Marlowe was feeling every day during the period I saw her. Each time it became too intense, she’d cut herself.’

  ‘But what was the trigger?’ Goodhew said. ‘What exactly was preying on her mind?’

  ‘Are you familiar with the expression post-traumatic stress?’

  ‘Like shell-shock?’ Gully queried.

  ‘Originally,’ Goodhew intervened, ‘but now applied to one’s reaction to a wide range of life-threatening events. Is that right?’

  The counsellor nodded. ‘Broadly speaking, yes. There are five specific criteria that need to be met for a proper diagnosis. Marlowe met all five of them.’

  ‘What sort of criteria?’ Goodhew asked, now intrigued.

  ‘Re-experiencing the event in some way. Recollections and bad dreams and distress at physical reminders. Avoiding stimuli associated with the trauma, problems in concentrating, difficulty in sleeping, and so on. The first criterion is that the client has witnessed or experienced a serious threat to his or her life or physical well-being.’

  ‘But you don’t know what that was, in Marlowe’s case?’ he asked.

  ‘As I said, Marlowe flatly refused to tell me any specific details. I guessed she’d suffered some abuse from her boyfriend, either sexual or physical, or both. She insisted that what had happened wasn’t the point. She repeatedly told me, though, that she was concerned for the safety of her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend. Each time I saw her, she kept repeating that he’d do the same thing again. To be honest, the pair of us weren’t moving forward.’ Elizabeth Martin leant back over the side of her chair and replaced the notes in their folder. ‘She said she couldn’t stand the guilt if he “did it again”. I spent time trying to make her realize that she couldn’t take responsibility for his actions.’

  She paused there, perhaps for breath.

  Goodhew nodded slowly. ‘And she stopped coming to see you about then, didn’t she? About February or March this year?’

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Exactly. How in the world …?’

  ‘Did she say anything in particular? Can you remember?’ he asked.

  ‘She said that what he’d done was evil and she was going to the police,’ came the answer.

  ‘So, you’re saying that she knew something that she felt she needed to involve the police with?’ Gully gasped.

  ‘No, I’m merely saying she thought she did. She genuinely believed that what he’d done was sufficiently bad to warrant police involvement. I talked with her, but in the end she herself had to decide whether to act upon it.’.

  ‘And you expected that accusation to involve domestic violence?’ Goodhew said.

  ‘Something of that sort, yes.’

  ‘Not murder?’

  Elizabeth Martin paled. ‘Good God, no!’

  ‘Is she a liar?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said slowly. ‘But I assume you mean how much credence can be given to her statements. Marlowe is unusually intuitive.’

  ‘For example?’

  The woman thought for a second. ‘My father died, so I had to cancel some of my sessions. I didn’t say why, just left a message at her work place. She then put an “In Sympathy” card through my door. The problem is she treats her intuition like a fully developed sense – and that, in itself, is a danger. It’s too easy to put two and two together and make anything except four.’

  CHAPTER 64

  MONDAY, 4 JULY 2011

  Small whisked-up clouds drifted high in the expanse of blue above Marlowe’s window. The horizon had slipped towards the bottom of her view, and the line it cut through the picture was the first thing she saw as she emerged from her sedation. Heaven looked huge, and earth so tiny, and here she was still stuck on it.

  A telephone tinkled at the nurses’ station. Marlowe could just hear a nurse’s even tones. ‘She’s still asleep. She woke up earlier when the police were here, but she wouldn’t speak. No one else has arrived yet, but I think that her parents are on their way and the police are coming back again shortly.’

  Marlowe watched the cars barely visible on the distant dual carriageway. They were just little coloured dots, like tiny coloured ball-bearings, some of them runni
ng from left to right and some from right to left. Were they really cars with drivers and passengers, when seen up close, or did her whole world end at the glass?

  She knew it all existed, but it was just too much to think about. Her eyes slid shut and her mind wandered into that limbo land between consciousness and sleep.

  The nurse directed someone towards her. ‘She’s over in the corner bed. She should be waking soon.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll wait, if that’s OK.’

  And she heard his footfalls as he walked around the bed and drew a chair closer.

  He sat down and she could hear his breathing, and the gentle tapping of his toe on the tiled floor. Seconds pulsed by and he dragged his chair closer, its feet squealing as his weight ground it downwards.

  Something jabbed her hand sharply. Her eyes snapped open and she recoiled, before staring at the blue centre of a red dent in her palm.

  His pen, she thought, feeling relieved as she watched him click it shut and drop it back in his breast pocket.

  ‘Sorry about that. I’m DC Kincaide from Cambridge CID. I needed you awake. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she groaned silently and turned her head to stare at the mint-sorbet emulsion on the wall in front of her bed. She didn’t want to speak to him. Not now. Not ever. He kept talking, though. He told her her name, her personal details, where she’d been found. She tried not to listen.

  ‘Don’t ignore me,’ he whispered and leant closer still. His hot breath assaulted her ear, sending shivery cold trails down the side of her neck. ‘I need to know how you’re involved in these killings. I need to know what you’ve done. You’d better start talking.’

  Marlowe decided not to move and her inner voice began to count. ‘One, two, three, don’t listen to him, four, five, six, don’t reply, seven, eight, nine …’