The Calling

by Alison Bruce

  Other voices came along the corridor.

  ‘Go on through. One of your colleagues is with her now.’

  The visitor’s chair squeaked its retreat but Kincaide breathed closer still. This time his face brushed against hers and she had no choice but to meet his stare.

  ‘Talk to me, Marlowe. I want to help you out. Screwing some guy and getting pissed off when he dumps you isn’t the real reason behind those phone calls. I’ll see you again soon, and then you can tell me.’

  Kincaide brushed his way past Goodhew at the door.

  ‘She’s still sedated. I’d come back later, Gary,’ he said without turning.

  ‘Why are you here, Michael?’ called Goodhew.

  ‘Following a lead, you know. The same one that you got from Gully earlier.’

  Goodhew didn’t even register Kincaide’s parting barb. As he pushed open the door, his senses were overcome by a vision of cascading bright white sunlight that flooded over the patient and her white bedding. The light reflected off the polished floor so the whole room dazzled him. She was still, eyes open, but somewhere else in every way. She stared at the ceiling.

  He stood beside her and studied her face, then turned towards the window and perched on the very edge of her bed, her hand resting on the top sheet only a few inches from his own.

  ‘Hello you,’ murmured Gary. ‘I’ve been trying to find you.’ He too watched the cars in the distance. ‘I remember you in Hanley Road and I’ve regretted not speaking to you ever since.’ He turned his gaze towards her. ‘I feel like I’ve let you down because I didn’t meet you afterwards. But I didn’t get your letter in time. I wasn’t home.’

  Marlowe’s eyes flickered and her gaze fell on to his.

  ‘Marlowe, I feel guilty because I didn’t help. Do you know how that feels?’

  The corner of her mouth quivered and her eyes glistened as they pulled away from his gaze.

  Goodhew moved towards the window and stared down at the pavement below. Thank God, she hadn’t died.

  Behind him the ward door swung open to admit her parents. He turned to study Mr and Mrs Gates.

  ‘Marlowe, darling, we rushed here as soon as we heard,’ her mother gushed.

  Her father held back somewhat. ‘Are you OK?’ He was sweating on to the tight collar of his polyester shirt, the skin around his throat puckered like beetroot-stained turkey flesh. He shifted his weight nervously from dented brogue to dented brogue.

  Goodhew’s grandmother always said you could tell a lot from people’s shoes.

  Mrs Gates wore sensible shoes, and monopolized the situation with her reasonable voice. ‘What a silly thing to do. Nothing can be that bad, darling. The hospital has only just been in touch, haven’t they, Ron? And I just don’t understand.’

  Like a flower at dusk, Marlowe closed in on herself, and stared down at her fingers as they occupied one another by making weaves and spires and other interlocking patterns.

  ‘It’s no good giving us that silent treatment again.’ Mrs Gates stepped back and propelled her husband closer. ‘You try, Ron.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Your mother and I are very concerned, Marlowe. I’m not one for interfering, but you can always talk to us.’ He shuffled his feet again. ‘Whatever you’ve done, you’re still our daughter.’

  Her parents were reflected as midgets in Marlowe’s bedside jug. Goodhew meanwhile seemed invisible to them all. Marlowe concentrated on her fingers as they made junior-school shapes, ignoring her parents as they continued to prod and probe her conscience.

  ‘You were such a happy child …’ Mrs Gates continued.

  Marlowe made the little church shape. ‘Here’s the church …’

  ‘Marlowe, how do you think this is making us feel?’

  Marlowe pointed her fingers to make the spire. Here’s the steeple. She turned her hands over, palms up. Silly rhyme. She jerked them apart. He’s still here.

  Goodhew’s gaze never left her and when she looked up he mouthed the words, ‘Trust me’.

  She drew a deep breath. The ward smelt of fresh-cut grass and the head gardener’s mower hummed somewhere in the sunshine. Tears rose and teetered as she mouthed her reply, ‘Trust me.’

  He nodded and for the first time he saw the trace of a smile touch her face, and then the tears toppled on to her cheeks.

  CHAPTER 65

  MONDAY, 4 JULY 2011

  Goodhew locked the car and tramped across the muddy strip of grass to join Marlowe. The sun was burning low and picked out occasional strands of auburn in her hair. She leant on the gate, hands tucked inside the sleeves of her baggy cotton shirt, her hair gently blowing in rhythm with the ripples of the water behind her.

  They’d returned to the lake where she’d nearly drowned. Gary had sensed she’d need to come back.

  He also knew how she’d watched him closely since the meeting in hospital. He’d felt her concentration, silent and unwavering. And she watched him now, her face glowing in the late sun and her eyes shining, as if drawing him towards her. ‘We need to be straight with each other, Gary,’ she announced.

  Goodhew opened the gate and motioned her through. ‘Isn’t that what trust is?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. So I’ll just talk, and you can judge me how you like.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t think anything bad about you.’

  ‘Listen, you don’t have to tread too carefully with me,’ she insisted. ‘I’m not going to try again. That was a turning point.’

  ‘It wouldn’t prevent any more murders, for a start,’ Goodhew pointed out.

  They walked side by side along the welt of muddy footpath running around the edge of the lake. Marlowe proceeded with her hands digging deep in her pockets, and Gary kept nearer the water, plucking at random leaves as he brushed past the straggling undergrowth.

  Marlowe waited for him to speak.

  ‘I visited Julie after you did,’ he began. Just the mention of Julie’s name made her visibly shiver, but he continued in the same even tone. ‘She could have told me that you’d been to see her. She could have told me about your suspicions, or about her own fears, but she never said anything. She chose her own way of dealing with it.’ Marlowe picked up a flat stone, threw it in the air and caught it. Instead of skimming it across the water, or plopping it in at the edge, she left it on the top of a fence post. Marlowe chose her own way of doing things, too. ‘But Julie got it wrong,’ he concluded, ‘because you’re here and she’s not.’

  ‘That sounds harsh, Gary.’

  He picked up her stone and put it in his pocket. ‘I’m just pointing out that you need to stop being so hard on yourself.’

  She shrugged. ‘I really believe that if you know something is wrong and you stand by and do nothing, then you have to accept some of the responsibility.’

  ‘So you are guilty because you couldn’t stop him?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked surprised, as if there was no other way of interpreting things.

  ‘And how do you know it’s him?’

  ‘I know.’ She studied his face, while seeking an explanation he’d understand. ‘Like you know when someone doesn’t love you any more, but won’t admit it. You tell yourself exactly what you want to hear for a while, and keep rejecting any little sign that says you’re wrong. But at the end of the day you know.’

  ‘No evidence?’

  ‘Nothing. And who’s going to believe me?’ Marlowe paused abruptly. ‘I bet you’ve seen my medical notes, haven’t you?’

  ‘I know some of it.’

  ‘Very diplomatic.’ She smiled and walked on again. ‘I’ve been totally out of control.’

  He hurried a few strides, to catch up with her. ‘That’s how Julie described herself, too.’

  Whenever Marlowe relaxed, even a little, her expressions were easier to read, and this time it was surprise that made her smile. ‘Did she?’ she said. ‘That’s funny. When I saw her, I envied how much she seemed to have her life together.’ Marlowe looked up
at the sky. The bottom half of the sun had now sunk below the horizon, and the amber top half cast a huge reflection that swam up the lake towards her. ‘Today’s the first time I’ve felt OK. So what can I tell you?’

  ‘Well, Helen died around the time you were seeing Pete, so I think you could go right back to when you first met him.’

  ‘I know the date, it was the seventh of January 2008, a Monday. I was working for a week at Dunwold Insurance, just as a temp. I’d dropped out of college and decided to temp while I was job hunting. I had to collate reports, and sat at a spare desk near Peter’s. He’d bring me cups of tea and coffee from the drinks machine. By the end of the week, we’d just hit it off.’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I’d never had a serious boyfriend, and before I knew it we were inseparable.’

  ‘And for how long did you see him?’

  ‘Seventeen months? I’m sure it was but I’ll double-check. It turned sour long before that, though. My parents are very old-fashioned. You met them. It’s all about keeping up appearances: least said soonest mended and no sex before marriage – all of those values. I’d love to find out that my mother did it before their wedding; perhaps she’d come off her moral soapbox and then be a bit more human. Well, anyway, my mum had always been preaching to me about the evils of sex and, sure enough, as soon as we’d been to bed together everything changed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, he seemed less affectionate, less loving I suppose. But at the same time he became possessive. He started telling me how to act and dress, and even what friends I could have. He kept telling me that I didn’t meet up to his expectations.’

  ‘But you didn’t leave him?’

  ‘No,’ Marlowe shot him a rueful smile, ‘that was my own stupidity. I should have left him in a flash, but instead I kept trying to be good enough, doing things just to please him. Working at it all the time. Even when things weren’t my fault, I’d apologize anyway. I’ve been so angry with myself since for being so stupid.’

  They continued walking in step. In profile she reminded him of a less worldly Lauren Bacall. ‘You know, there are similarities between what you’ve just said and Paulette’s and Julie’s experiences,’ Goodhew observed. ‘Paulette admitted that she’d become obsessed with trying to make him happy, and Julie’s sister explained how Pete told Julie that she didn’t match up to you.’

  Marlowe shook her head. ‘So we’ve all been screwing ourselves up over him, and he acts just the same with whoever he goes out with?’

  ‘Perhaps somehow he always picks girlfriends he knows he can manipulate. Also, you all have a physical resemblance to one another.’

  ‘And to Helen, Kaye and Stephanie,’ Marlowe concurred.

  ‘Is that how you knew to link them?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘Even now I look at the papers every day. It’s become part of my routine. I study all the photos of missing girls. A couple of times I’ve been mistaken, but once a body’s found, it’s obvious.’

  ‘You were telling me how you came to suspect Pete in the first place?’

  ‘Well, we went away together for a few days – this would be right at the end, just before we split up. I’ll check the date for you …’

  ‘You talked about checking the date earlier?’ he remarked.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got all the dates written down, but I’ll tell you about that in a minute. Anyway, I know it was a Saturday, and Peter had rented us a cottage in Ross-on-Wye. He said that he knew he’d been hard to get along with, and I remember having this sudden rush of hope – euphoria, I suppose – at the idea that he would start becoming affectionate again. I also remember Helen Neill disappearing while we were there. Her picture was shown on TV, and Peter asked me if I thought I looked like her.’

  Gary noticed how she called him Peter, never Pete, as though she didn’t want to sound too familiar.

  ‘Did you think you did look like her?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘Not at the time, and I said so to Peter. He insisted we looked like sisters, and that just stuck in my mind. Afterwards I could see a likeness, but only from seeing other photos, not the one on TV.’

  ‘And did he behave at all suspiciously?’

  Marlowe cast her eyes down to the mud below. ‘He changed again,’ she murmured.

  Gary sensed her sudden unease. As he turned her stone over and over in his pocket, he let her change tack.

  She sidestepped a muddy puddle, looked up again and continued. ‘He behaved like that until he finished with me a couple of weeks later. Then, just as calmly as anything, he said that it wasn’t going to work out and we needed to split up. Then, later on that week, Helen’s body was discovered.’ Marlowe shivered and glanced back towards the car. ‘Can we go now? It’s getting cold.’

  The final strands of sunlight reached skywards. ‘Where did Kaye drown?’ she suddenly asked.

  Gary pointed across to a stretch of shingle lining the opposite bank. ‘She was found in the water just left of that tree.’

  Marlowe nodded slowly. ‘She must have suffered so much. I wish …’ her voice trailed away. ‘I hope …’ she continued. ‘I hope we can somehow stop it happening again.’

  Goodhew unlocked the car and held the passenger door open. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Home, please.’ She touched his shoulder and leant towards him. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ she whispered, and then ducked into her seat. She waited until he’d started the engine before continuing. ‘I got distracted just then, didn’t I? I was supposed to be explaining to you how I knew. Well, it was a few weeks since I’d seen Peter, and I came out of Marks & Spencer’s and almost walked straight into him. I was terrified – because of the way that he’d behaved, I suppose. He stared straight at me and I froze. I felt completely panic-stricken and became determined never to be caught out like that again. So I started watching him.’ Marlowe paused again, allowing Gary space to comment.

  ‘And?’ He smiled easily.

  ‘OK. I started watching him, and every day I followed the same routine. I can make sure he won’t surprise me again, by always knowing exactly where he is. I watched him with Paulette, and I could see it going wrong for her too. And then, right at the end, Kaye Whiting disappeared. It was just the same, a carbon copy.’

  ‘What about Julie?’

  ‘I watched him with her, too, but it was only after I saw Paulette in the same state as I’d been in, and learnt that Kaye had died like Helen, that I knew for sure.’

  ‘One new girlfriend, one simultaneous murder? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

  Marlowe nodded. ‘Apart from Julie – because there’s no murder to tie in with her.’

  ‘Unless we’ve missed one,’ he replied. ‘But, then, he wasn’t going out with anyone when Stephanie died, so that doesn’t add up either.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t explain it. I’m just sure that’s how it is.’

  Gary lifted his foot from the accelerator and allowed the car to coast as he gazed across at Marlowe. She stared back at him, ready to argue if he dismissed her theory. There were gaps in her logic, all right, but equally he realized there was no doubt in her mind. ‘You’re right, Marlowe, no one would have believed you.’

  CHAPTER 66

  MONDAY, 4 JULY 2011

  It was after 8 p.m. when Pete Walsh returned home. He took the carrier bag straight into his bedroom and slid the Sony box out of it and on to the bed.

  The drag round the shops looking for the right one had taken far longer than expected; but he’d got it and that was the important thing.

  He scratched up a corner of the parcel tape and pulled it back until there was enough space for him to slip his fingers under the cardboard flaps and pop the box open.

  The manual entitled Digital Video Camera Recorder – Operating Instructions lay on top. He flicked through it for a moment, then tossed it to one side. All 198 pages of it, for God’s sake. Just because the last one had packed up didn’t mean he had time to wade through such a pile of techno-jargon.


  However, he did need to turn off that little red light that glowed while the camera was recording. The salesman had said that was easy enough to do.

  He next removed the camera from its polystyrene packaging. It fitted on to the palm of one hand. Pete unclipped the side of the camera’s casing, opening out the LCD display screen to access the panel of buttons behind it.

  Damn, no power.

  He unwrapped one of the new batteries and clipped it into its slot. It didn’t take a lengthy instruction book to work that one out.

  He next removed the lens cap and switched the power from off to camera. Nothing happened. There must be another control here somewhere. How many on/off switches do these things need?

  He turned the camera over quickly, and in his impatience almost dropped it. It was the tension, of course – it always emerged at this point. He put the device to one side and glared instead at the instruction manual. Leaning across the bed, he retrieved it, then flicked through the first few pages. Page eight started with the heading ‘Installing and charging the battery pack’.

  For fuck’s sake. He felt the flare of anger and an accompanying restlessness. He threw the manual across the room, where it hit the radiator, then tumbled on to the carpet. He repeated the thought first, then yelled it. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He recognized the loss of control in his own voice.

  He needed to charge the battery first. He plugged it into the mains and turned his back on it, making each movement sharp and precise, assuring himself that he retained the power of self-discipline.

  Self-discipline and he were old friends. It meant the strength to abstain from or even turn away from a desire. It was the opposite of decadence.

  It was the rejection of short-term gratification, and the commitment to turning a vision into reality. It was the determination to see beyond the lies some women told, and to eradicate every ounce of their misplaced self-respect as punishment for the contempt they’d shown to his own ideals.

  He undressed and crossed the landing to the bathroom, naked except for his watch. He showered with the door wide open. It was good to be able to do that without being pestered.