by Alison Bruce
He rolled the man on to his front and dragged him face-down through the mire to the nearest suitable tree. Goodhew wrapped Walsh’s arms around its trunk, and clipped the handcuffs to Walsh’s right wrist.
He left him lolling in the mud and raced back to find Marlowe.
Her face was submerged in four inches of ditch water. She thrashed her head from side to side, fighting for air, then she struggled on to her back. She pushed up with her hands, until her mouth cleared the water.
Nearby, Lisa Fairbanks lay face-down and still.
The undergrowth crackled and Marlowe heard shouts as police and paramedics came rushing through the trees.
‘Help,’ she screamed, just as Goodhew leapt into the trench beside her.
First of all, he pulled Lisa’s face clear of the water and then tore off her gag.
‘Is she dead?’ Marlowe cried, and tried to struggle through the water to reach them. Losing her balance, she dug her fingers into the silt and rolled on to her side. She propped her shoulder against the bank and began to sob.
Goodhew held his palm close to Lisa’s mouth and felt a faint breath slip from between her swollen lips. ‘She’s alive,’ he announced.
Goodhew lifted the girl into his arms and stood up, hauling her head and shoulders above the ditch. ‘Over here!’ he shouted, to the stream of helpers hurrying towards them through the woods.
CHAPTER 89
THURSDAY, 7 JULY 2011
Marlowe was still shivering long after the ambulance had gone, and after Pete had been whisked away by uniformed officers. She huddled in Goodhew’s car, wrapped in a thermal blanket, as he searched Walsh’s vehicle and communicated with the SOCO and with Thetford CID.
A paramedic checked her over, found cuts and abrasions, possibly broken ribs. He said he’d feel happier if she went to hospital.
She shook her head firmly. This was the healthiest she’d felt in years.
Someone brought her tea poured from a thermos. It tasted stewed and was full of powdered milk. She watched Goodhew picking through the bag that the SOCO had removed from the boot of Pete’s car. He glanced over at her and, as if he’d suddenly had enough, he walked away.
He slipped into the driver’s seat but didn’t turn to her. Instead he stared at Pete’s car. ‘What did the paramedic say?’
‘I’m OK.’
‘That’s really what he said, or that’s what you’re telling me?’
‘I’m telling you I feel OK.’ She reached over and touched his arm. ‘I’m OK.’
He turned towards her. ‘What did you think you were doing, Marlowe? What if I hadn’t done what you asked?’
‘I trusted you, that’s all. Why’s that such a crime?’
‘You could be dead now. How could you leave it to chance, like that?’ he said.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop underestimating yourself, Gary. There’s no way you weren’t coming for me.’ She gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Was there?’
Gary gave her a rueful smile. ‘You’re probably right.’
He slid a hand inside his shirt and retrieved a video cassette. He handed it to Marlowe.
She turned the spine towards her. The label was in Pete’s writing, and it read: ‘Marlowe Gates, 25 April to 27 May 2009.’ She stared at it. ‘This is evidence now, isn’t it?’
Gary nodded. ‘There’s one for each of you, except for Fiona. She had a lucky escape.’
She held out the cassette to him. ‘You’ll get in trouble if it’s destroyed.’
He shook his head. ‘There are some things we don’t have the right to know.’ He started the car and turned back towards Cambridge. She’d fallen asleep by Newmarket, and sagged against his shoulder, looking bruised and sore.
He parked outside her flat and waited there until she stirred.
He then squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll keep in touch, won’t we?’
‘I hope so,’ she replied.
EPILOGUE
SATURDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER 2011
Autumn had chosen to arrive on the first of the month and now, after a week or so, Goodhew had accepted that the mostly warm July and August had given way to a colder, drier season. The trees around Parker’s Piece had lost the energy of summer and the leaves drooped, their green fading daily.
Goodhew didn’t feel ready for winter. There had been far too many distractions, and spring had rolled into summer and somehow he’d missed them both.
A parcel van had arrived at just before nine, with a delivery of fifteen boxes. Goodhew helped the driver move them just inside his front door, then he spent the next half hour ferrying them up to his grandfather’s former library on the second floor. He stopped to finalize the layout of his new furniture, before starting to unpack all the newly acquired books and computer equipment.
By noon he was done, and he returned to his front steps to wait for the other two deliveries that would be arriving by one.
It was 12.50 when the first box arrived, then at 12.55 a taxi drew up at the kerb and he hurried down the steps to greet his grandmother.
She beamed when she saw him. ‘I hope the pizza’s here,’ were her first words and he jerked his head in the direction of the front step. ‘Al fresco?’ she observed. ‘You could have chosen a warmer day for that.’
‘You should’ve come back sooner, then.’ He carried her case up the steps and deposited it in the hall. ‘Would you rather be inside?’
She shook her head, and he saw that there was the start of a smile on her lips.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, let’s eat.’
They sat side by side, his grandmother unconcerned with the dust and dirt that was undoubtedly now clinging to her immaculate coat, and he equally unconcerned that the underside of the pizza box was sweating grease on to his jeans.
‘Glad you got here before Christmas. I couldn’t work out if you were joking.’
‘Neither could I. Your sister—’
‘What’s she doing now?’
‘Working at a travel agency, and dreaming of being somewhere else. Of course, that’s how she ended up in Australia in the first place. She’s not going to find the answers in a tourist brochure, is she?’
Goodhew shook his head. ‘Guess not, but maybe she’s not ready to.’
‘That’s deep.’ She finished her second slice before she spoke again. ‘You aren’t very good at keeping in touch, you know.’
‘I thought I did OK. You already know about Claire, about the investigation, about Hawaii. That’s about everything.’
‘Not so much about you, though. We haven’t eaten on the front step like this for years. It was always a change of season thing, though, wasn’t it?’ She looked out, across Parker’s Piece in the direction of the main road with the swimming pool on the other side, and, almost inaudibly, added, ‘Metaphorically at least.’
Goodhew stared that way, too, guessing where her focus had been drawn. He noticed several lone figures all heading in different directions at various speeds. ‘I was out here for a while before you arrived. D’you know what I was thinking?’
She didn’t respond, but he knew she was listening.
‘About the dangers of too much isolation,’ he supplied.
‘And that’s why you’re sitting by yourself?’ she turned her head to look at him, and it struck him that her gaze seemed to have gained an additional shrewdness while she’d been away.
He’d also spent some time pondering the best way to broach a tricky topic. Now the moment had arrived, he decided it was best to just say it. ‘I don’t want to upset you, but I’m redecorating Granddad’s library.’
She said something in reply, but he’d already begun to speak again. ‘The thing is, I like my privacy, but the library’s big and I thought if I put the jukebox and some furniture down there, along with my office equipment, then I could start to invite people round without …’ He then ran out of words.
‘Without overdoing it?’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘Something like
that. But that was Granddad’s special room and I feel awkward.’
She extended an arm around his shoulders and hugged him. ‘Don’t, then. I was trying to tell you I’m glad. This is your house now, so you must put your own stamp on it. It can’t stay just as it was, Gary.’
He offered her the last piece of pizza. ‘You can have this if you wash up the dishes.’
She nodded. ‘We’ll go halves and you can wash up your own pizza box.’ That was more like his grandmother.
‘Deal.’ He grinned.
She pulled off the crust and left him with the rest of the slice, making the manoeuvre seem clean, elegant and totally disconnected from the lump of cheese and tomato that now threatened to land in his lap. He swallowed it quickly.
‘Why this sudden change, Gary?’
He shrugged, as he didn’t feel sure that there had to be a reason. But, then again, it was always events that changed his point of view, and the previous weeks had been full of them.
‘Have you had any further contact with the Whiting family?’ she asked.
He swallowed before speaking. ‘I’ve been over to see Kaye’s mum a couple of times. Courtesy calls mainly: odds and ends in the run-up to the trial.’
‘How is she?’
‘Crap.’
He would have left it at the one word but his grandmother waited for more. He thought for a moment or two. This was a fork in the conversation, the choice to say nothing or to share the one thing that had been preying on his mind. Option A appealed more but, in the light of his recent resolution regarding self-induced isolation, he drove himself to pick the alternative. ‘I had some paperwork to go through with her, and we were both in her sitting room. I was reading over a document to her, and when I looked up she had her eyes shut. I asked her if she was OK. She then said she’d been listening to me breathing – just wanted to hear the sound of someone who wasn’t grieving. Or trying too hard. Or angry.
‘We talked along those lines for a while. She said their family is trying to stick together, but they were in – her words – a blinding storm, and she feared how it would all look when they came out the other side.’
‘But it’s good she thinks they will emerge from it all.’
‘I know, I know. And I now realize she’s one of those people who will find an inner strength when everything seems hopeless. Marlowe, too. It made me wonder if I myself could be like that.’
‘I’m sure you would—’
‘I don’t know. You see, after a murder it’s the people left behind that stay with me. I still dwell on them all, from the first case right up to this one.’
‘How exactly?’
‘It’s never going to be over for them, so it feels wrong to just put them out of my thoughts.’
‘So you’re just getting an ever-increasing list of the bereaved growing inside your head?’
‘No, not exactly. Look, I’ve been having a recurring dream of a dead body.’
Her expression darkened as she studied his face for several seconds. ‘The same person?’
‘Don’t know, I can’t tell, but it’s always the same dream, so maybe. Sometimes I hear crying, too. I wake up thinking of those people. I can still hear them cry.’
‘You can’t afford to carry scars that aren’t yours to heal, Gary.’ She rose to her feet and waited for him to follow suit. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said then, and gave her coat a swift brushing down before opening the front door. ‘We need to talk.’
Goodhew followed her into the hall and up the stairs to his grandfather’s library.
She stood in the doorway, studying the new layout.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked gently.
‘That the room looks lovely.’
‘You wanted to talk.’
‘I thought I did but, no, not today. Sometimes the change of season makes me a little sad, that’s all. Do you want to?’
‘Talk? No, not today,’ he echoed.
It would wait. For now.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have a special affection for this book. The original story idea meant so much to me and I pursued it until it grew from an outline of a plot to a full-length novel. This was ultimately the catalyst for me to leave a career in IT for the far more gripping world of crime writing. By the time I finished this book it had become clear to me that Gary Goodhew would appear in more than one novel and, with that in mind, I decided to make this the third in the series.
The Calling is, for me, finally fulfilling that moment when I said I have an idea, I think I’ll write a book. And with that in mind I would like to thank the following: my husband, Jacen, who has been a fan of this book from the outset and has given me the greatest encouragement to write; friends and former colleagues, particularly Kimberly Jackson, Alison Hilborne and those that worked with me at Railtrack in Swindon and Waterloo. They offered enthusiasm even before the first draft was complete; David Yates, who directed me towards writing a novel in the first place; my agent Broo Doherty for agreeing to represent me and whose advice I trust and value so very much; my editor Krystyna Green who gave me my first book deal and continues to champion Goodhew; Justine at the Flying Pig for her cameo role and Andy Burrows at BBC Radio Cambridgeshire for his Oscar-worthy one; to Don and Jana Holden, Dawn Casey, Larry Rivera and Tom Moffatt for their Hawaiian hospitality.
I’m lucky enough to be able to call upon great expert advice from a variety of sources, and for this I’d like to thank Dr T. V. Liew, Dr William Holstein, Richard Reynolds, Neil Constable and Christine Bartram.
To Liz Meads and Genevieve Pease, thank you, girls.
And, finally, thank you to copy-editor Peter Lavery, and all at Constable & Robinson and Soho Press, with a special mention to Jamie-Lee Nardone who always brings a smile to my face.
THE SOUNDTRACK FOR THE CALLING
When I write a book I find there are songs that ‘keep me company’ at various points. By the time I finish I have a playlist that belongs to that book alone. Maybe the concept of a book having a soundtrack seems a little odd, but that’s how it works for me.
American Pie – Don McLean
Anything That’s Part of You – Elvis Presley
Blue Angel – Roy Orbison
Bring Me Back Home – Jacen Bruce
Desperado Love – Hot Boogie Chillun
Develline – Carlos and the Bandidos
Falling – Julee Cruise
I’ll Remember You – Don Ho
Life Goes On – LeAnn Rimes
Since I Don’t Have You – The Skyliners
Sleepwalk – Santo and Johnny
Stranger on the Shore – Acker Bilk
For more information visit www.alisonbruce.com.
Also by Alison Bruce
Cambridge Blue
The Siren
Copyright
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2011
First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2011
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
www.sohopress.com
Copyright © Alison Bruce, 2011
The right of Alison Bruce to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condi
tion being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978–1–84901–785–5
US ISBN: 978–1–56947–965–02
US Library of Congress number: 2011003771
