The Night Caller: An utterly gripping crime thriller

by J. M. Hewitt

  Being nosy, she had thought, all those years watching Mrs Oberman standing at her window. She had bitched about it – about her – with Emma. Just a snouty, nasty old bag.

  But that wasn’t it. She had spent all those years at her window just waiting. Waiting to heal, waiting to feel alive again, waiting for her husband to return home with her children, maybe.

  She felt tears rising, always close to the surface these days.

  What secrets we keep in this peculiar little street, she thought, how little any of us actually know each other, even though we’ve lived alongside each other for years.

  ‘Nan would have understood.’ Jade smiled, wiped at her eyes with her thumb.

  ‘Yes, she would.’ Mrs Oberman’s eyes were far away. ‘She did, I think.’

  ‘And your family?’ Jade was almost afraid to ask. ‘Your children, do you see them now?’

  Mrs Oberman shrugged, stood up, returned to the window to gaze out at the snow-covered street. ‘Not so much,’ she said.

  Her tone indicated that was the end of that particular conversation and Jade inched forward, placed Nia on the floor, and sat on the edge of her chair.

  ‘I have to go back to the warehouse,’ she said. ‘Would you mind…?’

  Mrs Oberman nodded. ‘You’ve still got that alarm I gave you?’

  Jade picked it up from the side, held it aloft.

  ‘I-I’m not sure you should go alone.’ Mrs Oberman frowned.

  It was the closest she had come to expressing concern for anyone in probably thirty years, Jade realised. Along with the personal alarm and the confession it was a big step.

  She reached out, touched the older woman on the arm.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll give me an hour or so, and then if I’m not back…’ Jade trailed off.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oberman.

  There would never be a warm hug between the two women, Mrs O would never heal enough for that, and Jade would never be brave enough. But it was like a crack in the ice, not quite reaching the thaw of a spring, never transforming into a summer day, but a chink in the armour that Mrs O – Anne – wore to protect herself from ever feeling hurt again.

  ‘See you,’ said Jade, as she let herself out of the door and crunched through the fresh snow down the path.

  At the gate she glanced back, saw Mrs Oberman back at the window, the perpetual position she took up, always watching, always waiting, for something or someone who would never come.

  * * *

  The rubbish that littered the east end of the South Bay was covered in a few inches of snow. Without being able to identify the individual items, to Jade it seemed that a body could be under there, trapped in the discarded mess; underneath the snow a face would be upturned, mouth frozen open in a never-to-be-heard scream for help.

  She shivered, drew her coat tighter around her and moved on.

  At Erie Basin she paused. Everything looked totally different in the light of a bright winter’s day. She looked around, tried to identify the spot she had been pushed in last night. She couldn’t tell, so she turned her back on the canal and there it was, the door, the bottom panel missing, the top quarter portion also gone.

  She couldn’t go inside. She knew that, despite her telling Mrs O that she had to come back, she wouldn’t be able to do it.

  But she moved closer to the door, within touching distance, and she cupped her hand around her mouth.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, feeling stupid. ‘Are you in there?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘I know you’re in there,’ she said, but it was a whisper, not loud enough for anyone to hear, her bravado had all but gone.

  There were joggers, dog-walkers and pedestrians everywhere, passing her even now, giving her a strange look as she called out into a deserted warehouse.

  No, he – whoever he was – wouldn’t be here now. But he had been there, he had.

  And he had pushed her.

  She heaved in a breath, felt the cold air burning at her lungs. Before she turned away, she aimed a kick at the door.

  Carrie stood at the other side of the canal, watched as the blonde girl, Jade, poked around the warehouse entrance across the water.

  She had a strange sense of déjà vu. Of another time, a different year, someone else across the water, someone who Carrie had thought had all the answers. What was she doing over there? Carrie watched, waited to see what direction she would go in. She was pretty sure Jade was someone who knew more than she was letting on. When Carrie had spoken to Jade at home, she could tell Jade wasn’t just nervous because Carrie was from the police. She was hiding something, concealing… protecting someone?

  With a nod to herself Carrie turned on her heel, made her way casually around the canal. She would speak to Jade again, press her for details of Jordan. Of the things hinted at but never revealed.

  Carrie jogged up the steep walkway that led to the other side of the basin, her intentions clear now, the need to crack this case firing her up inside.

  She came to a standstill on the pavement, the pedestrians, the Christmas shoppers and harassed mothers and early morning joggers moving around her, giving her a wide berth. She swore under her breath.

  Jade was gone.

  Carrie pulled out her phone, dialled Paul.

  ‘Did you arrange to get the young man, Lee, in this morning?’ She glanced at her watch. Without waiting for a reply she said, ‘I’m on my way back to the station. Get him in.’

  Emma watched as everyone piled their plates high with the buffet breakfast. For herself she had selected some toast, and she nibbled on it, not tasting it as she looked out of the window that overlooked the canal. A vibration on the table: Lee’s phone. She watched as he moved off to talk quietly in the foyer. Who was calling him? His mother, wondering where he had been all night? A new lover who would replace her son? Emma shuddered, looked away.

  Conversation was muted now, she noticed. The atmosphere had changed, but she thought she understood. What more was there to say? Claire was the one who had taken the lead as they sat together in the early hours, speaking in low tones of her past and her work (before she didn’t have to work) at the local council offices. She had quit her job, eventually, after the money from the plane crash had come through.

  ‘Maybe not the best thing, I could have done with the distraction, but didn’t realise until later,’ she sniffed, her eyes piercing and glaring, as though her mistake had been someone else’s fault.

  Emma heaved a sigh as she stared outside. Her eyes widened and she sat up straight in her chair as a figure walking over one of the bridges of the canal caught her eye. It was Jade, she realised, head down, hands in her pockets, walking from the direction of where she had been stationed last night. Not asleep at home, as Emma had presumed, but out here, again, looking furtive and emotional. Emma started to move, to bang on the window, but something in Jade’s stance made her stop. She fell back in her seat, turned to face the others.

  None of them seemed to have noticed Jade.

  Thirty-Seven

  DAY NINE

  Carrie looked up from her paperwork as Paul came into the office.

  ‘Lee Willis is here,’ he announced. ‘I’ve put him in suite three.’ He tilted his head, regarded Carrie. ‘Want me to sit in?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Carrie. ‘What do you reckon about him, Lee? He’s not the usual sort we encounter.’ She was thinking of the men back in Canal Street, the flashy, showy men who draped themselves over each other. On her mind all the time recently, pulling her back to that night and the nights that followed, back to Patel and the mysterious, tattooed attacker.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Paul. ‘Let’s see what he’s got to say.’

  Opening the door to the waiting area, Carrie took a moment to study Lee.

  The young man sat alone in the room. His shoulders rounded, he hunched in the chair. Carrie felt a pang of sympathy. It wasn’t easy being young and gay. How often had this youth tried to blend unno
ticed into the background? How often had he been hounded for the way he lived?

  ‘Lee, I’m Detective Sergeant Carrie Flynn.’ She held out a hand, gripped Lee’s sweaty palm. ‘This is Detective Constable Paul Harper. We appreciate you coming in. I’m hoping you can give us some insight into Jordan.’

  Lee raised his eyes to meet Carrie’s. ‘In what way?’ he asked, his voice small and quiet.

  ‘Let’s go in here.’ Carrie held open the door of the suite. ‘To tell you the truth, Lee, we’re struggling to find anyone who was close to Jordan. Friends, drinking buddies, work mates or pals from his time at uni.’ Carrie fixed her gaze on Lee. ‘You seem to be the only connection to him.’

  ‘H-he was mainly with me.’ Lee seemed to fold into himself. ‘He didn’t really have many other friends. We spent time together, just walking, or over at my place.’

  Paul pulled out a chair, exchanged a glance with Carrie. She rested against the side of the table, a casual pose, designed to put Lee at ease.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Jordan?’ she asked.

  Lee shook his head sadly. ‘I get hurt all the time, people know I’m gay,’ he said meaningfully. ‘But Jordan wasn’t ready to come out, nobody knew he was gay, nobody hurt him.’

  Carrie flicked her eyes to Paul before saying gently, ‘Being gay isn’t the only reason people might get hurt. It shouldn’t be a reason at all,’ she added quickly, before going on, ‘Did Jordan have enemies, anyone he had wound up, even accidentally?’

  Lee barked out a sharp laugh. ‘He didn’t really speak to anyone else, he couldn’t have made enemies.’ Soulful eyes moved from Carrie to Paul. ‘It was just us, we kept to ourselves. He was civil to everyone, like, people from uni or work, but he didn’t hang out with them.’

  Carrie jotted Lee’s words down on her notepad. Nineteen-year-olds were either socially inept and awkward or outgoing and popular. The way Lee described Jordan reminded her of the words chosen to characterise high-school shooters in America.

  ‘Was Jordan angry?’ Paul leaned forward. ‘If you were getting hurt, did that make him angry, make him do things he might have later regretted?’

  Lee looked puzzled. ‘We didn’t hang out with other people, he wouldn’t have seen anything like that. It was just him and me.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell him if things happened to you, or were said to you?’

  Lee held Paul’s gaze for a long moment before dropping his eyes. ‘Not all the time,’ he replied, softly.

  ‘Why?’ Carrie interjected.

  Lee frowned. ‘Why, what?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’ Carrie pushed on, aware she was leading, pressing the boy now. Just like she’d pushed at the mother the day before with her deliberate silence. ‘Were you concerned as to how he would have reacted?’

  ‘No!’ Lee blurted, flicking his eyes between Carrie and Paul now. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, would it? It wouldn’t have stopped the abuse, or even if it had it would just come from someone else at another time.’

  Carrie felt her face freeze as she was struck by a thought. She turned to Paul and murmured, ‘Get me the canal case files from the last six years.’

  Swiftly he left the room. ‘Can I get you a drink, Lee?’ she asked. ‘Some coffee, maybe?’ she added as Lee failed to conceal a yawn.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lee rubbed at his eyes. ‘Late night.’

  A vision of Emma, the mother, came to Carrie then. Her stalking the canals and waterways. Had she roped Lee in to help?

  ‘Lee, if you’re around the quayside, at night especially, you must take care. Don’t go there alone.’

  Lee looked at Carrie face on. ‘Jordan wasn’t alone, there were hundreds of people out that night. It didn’t save him, did it?’

  Carrie took a deep breath. No, other people’s presence hadn’t helped Jordan Robinson. And it was another thorn in her side about this particular case. The other victims had gone into the water alone; barring Patel, the death sites had been deserted. And the other victims had been found, more or less straight away. Jordan’s body was still missing.

  Just then, Paul came back in. He placed the stack of files on the table in front of Carrie. Carrie flipped them open, pulled out the photographs of all of the dead victims, spread them on the table.

  ‘Did you know any of these men?’

  Lee swallowed visibly. Carrie pulled out a chair next to him and sat down.

  ‘What happened to Jordan has happened a lot,’ she began. ‘Accidents, too much drink, a scuffle,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘anything is possible. But if what happened wasn’t an accident, to these guys, to Jordan,’ she swept her hand over the pictures, ‘we need to act.’

  ‘And to act we need information.’ Paul placed his elbows on the table that separated him from Lee. ‘Did you know any of these men? Did any of these men ever hurt you, in any way?’

  A change came over Lee’s face, a half-smile bitterly twisted his mouth. ‘You think I was responsible for killing these guys, for Jordan?’

  Carrie sighed. ‘No,’ she said.

  But if one of these dead men had taken against Lee, had Jordan confronted them? An act which led to his own demise?

  Lee spoke again. ‘I-I couldn’t hurt anyone,’ he said, eyes downcast. ‘But this guy…’

  Carrie looked down to see Lee’s hand hovering over the photo of Ashlan Patel. ‘Patel attacked you?’

  Lee shrugged. ‘Just a shove, I ended up with a black eye. He was a wanker. He dealt out of Canal Street, he was on our patch, yet he had the problems with us.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘You mean Canal Street is a predominantly gay area, but Ashlan had a problem with it and he wanted to work there?’

  Lee nodded. ‘I stopped going there afterwards. I stopped going anywhere. It became too much hassle.’

  ‘When did Patel attack you?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘Last October, Halloween,’ replied Lee.

  Carrie made a note on her pad. A month after Patel had harassed Lee, he was dead.

  ‘Did Jordan know you and Patel had an altercation?’

  Lee nodded again. ‘I told him to leave it, it’s not worth it. You pay back one bully and a dozen more come out.’

  ‘Did Jordan act on his anger?’ Carrie asked, a sense of urgency in her tone now. Could they actually be getting a lead?

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Lee. But he averted his eyes as he answered.

  Carrie rubbed her forehead. It was something, but it was nothing all at the same time. Ashlan Patel was dead, Jordan was presumed drowned. Neither could answer to their past history.

  She made a circular motion to Paul with her finger. We’ll wrap it up now, it said. Paul nodded, took over from Carrie’s questions.

  ‘Did Jordan have any tattoos, or any scars that you know of?’

  ‘No scars,’ said Lee. ‘He had one tattoo.’

  Carrie stilled, rested her eyes on Lee before flicking backwards through his file. She came to the physical description form and ran her finger down the page. There, from Emma Robinson herself; no tattoos.

  ‘His mother didn’t know about it?’ Paul asked, looking over Carrie’s shoulder to where her fingertip rested. ‘Where was the tattoo?’

  ‘His upper arm, his right arm.’

  Something flickered inside Carrie. Flashback, the mystery man in the Ashlan Patel case. Across the water, half of a circular tattoo partially covered by a sleeve. She sat up straighter in the chair. ‘What is the tattoo design?’

  ‘A key,’ said Lee. ‘The Greek sign for a key.’

  Deflated, Carrie sank back into her chair. ‘A key,’ she repeated.

  ‘Nobody except him knew what it meant,’ offered Lee. ‘It was personal to him. Even I don’t know what it meant to him.’

  Not a circle then, and Greek, not Chinese like the man on the canal bank.

  As if sensing his superior’s slump, Paul continued. Carrie barely heard him finish the interview.

&
nbsp; Carrie could hardly drag herself to her feet as Paul thanked Lee for coming in. Paul closed the door behind him, leaned against it.

  ‘We’re getting nothing, going nowhere,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  A knock on the door sent her jumping forward. Flicking her eyes to the ceiling she watched as Paul opened the door.

  ‘Yes?’ she said to Lee.

  He stood on the threshold, iPhone in hand. ‘I have an image of his tattoo, I wondered if it might be any help,’ he said timidly. ‘You know, if you find his… for identification…’ He didn’t finish his sentence.

  Carrie flapped her hand at Paul. ‘Screenshot it,’ she said. ‘Put it on the form.’

  He did as she asked. While he used his own phone to transfer the file, Carrie walked to the window, lifted the blind with one finger and peered outside at the gloomy day.

  ‘I’ll be going, then,’ said Lee.

  Carrie glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘Don’t go too far,’ she said, hating the way she sounded angry at the boy but unable to prevent her tone. ‘We’ll want to talk to you again.’

  The printer whirred into life. The door closed softly behind Lee. Carrie remained at the glass. She had thought this day might take them somewhere. She had left home in the early hours with positive thoughts. Now, all that was left was despondency in the pit of her belly.

  ‘Hey,’ said Paul. ‘What did you think he meant when he said it was a tattoo of a key?’

  Carrie turned, leaned against the window sill. Lifting her hand, she made a key turning in a door lock motion.

  Paul pursed his lips. ‘Me too.’ He slapped the photo he had printed in colour on the table between them. ‘This doesn’t look like a key to me.’

  She looked down at the table. In the centre of the page was a tanned arm. Near the shoulder was a tattoo.