The Calling (14 page)

From now on he’d listen to his instinct more.

He grabbed his bag from the hotel and drove straight to the airport. He had to get home immediately. He had to find her and ask her why she had made those anonymous calls.

The wardrobe doors had been lying open for half an hour now, and each time she returned to the room she picked through another few items. A first date was always so difficult.

Her elder sister Chloe caught her holding up her Christmas party dress. ‘Don’t do it, Donna,’ she laughed. ‘Whoever he is will run a mile if you turn up for the cinema like you’re going off to the Oscars.’

‘Yeah, you’re right, but it’s that first-date problem again. I want to look good, but not too over the top, or he’ll think I’m up for it.’ Donna grinned mischievously ‘… Even if I am.’

Chloe studied the open wardrobe. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, then.’

‘That’s s’posed to be
his
line.’

‘You’re a tart, Donna. You’ll come unstuck, you know.’

‘OK, I won’t overdo it. I wasn’t going to anyway. Just check out the underwear.’ On the bed lay a black lacy Wonder Bra and some pink knickers with daisies printed on the front. Chloe picked them up and held them in the air. ‘Oh, my God, these must have been a Christmas present, they’re so bloody hideous. That will kill it all stone dead.’

‘It’s a safety device. The bra’s a turn-on but I won’t be letting him get too carried away when he could come across knickers like these.’

‘Bad choice of words, Donna.’ They both giggled.

‘Yeah, well, thought I’d better make sure I’m gonna see him again, before I let it go that far. After all, I see him every day at work, so it could be embarrassing. But, anyhow, I thought
something different from what I wear at work. Nothing too dressy, but at the same time I thought jeans might be too restrictive.’

‘No, I’d wear the jeans. What about these black ones with the pink Lycra top? It shows off your cleavage, but it’ll look like it’s accidental.’ Chloe winked. ‘Trust me, he’ll be hooked, and you’ll have a great time. If you don’t want to do it with him, you can still tease him to death!’

At five to eight that evening, Donna stepped through the door of the Regal pub. She quickly felt the back of her fair hair to check that it still lay smooth against her neck. As her hand dropped, it ran along her collarbone and lightly stroked her breast. A buzz of anticipation sent a tiny smile to her lips.

She stared straight ahead, absorbing the atmosphere of
Friday-evening
entertainment. Peter Walsh sat alone at a table near the bar. He looked up then, and she waved.

He smiled easily. ‘You look nice, Donna. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Thanks, half a lager.’

She watched him as he stood waiting to be served. She’d liked his body since she’d first noticed him at work, but dressed casually was an improvement still. She imagined herself creeping up behind him and pressing herself against his back. She imagined him thinking of her right now, and hoping that she fancied him.

He returned with the drinks, and watched as her gaze smouldered at him from beneath a little too much mascara. ‘You have lovely eyes, Donna. I bet you look good with no make-up.’

Like first thing in the morning?
she thought, but didn’t say it. Too corny. Too forward. She just smiled.

He returned her smile briefly. ‘Who else is going to the pictures, then?’

‘Just a couple of mates and their boyfriends.’ She watched his reaction, hoping to see him relax.

‘Oh, so it’s a couples thing?’ He didn’t seem worried by that, but she remembered his comment of ‘nothing serious’ and wasn’t sure of the right answer.

‘Just the way it worked out,’ she offered brightly, ‘but I don’t mind if we miss it. We could just go and have a drink somewhere.’

He smiled and nodded. ‘Much better idea.’ A knowing look flashed between them. ‘But I could do with dropping my car off at home if I’m going to have any more to drink.’

‘Sure, no problem.’

Donna and Pete.
She liked the sound of that, she decided, as they drove to his house. She looked forward to seeing where he lived, seeing how she might fit in.

She shivered nervously as she waited for him to unlock his front door. He held it open for her to step inside. ‘I’ll order us a taxi in a minute.’

‘Could we have a coffee first? I’m a bit cold.’

He boiled the kettle, and she curled up catlike in the armchair opposite the kitchen door, watching him attentively until the kettle boiled.

As he turned away to rinse a cup in the sink, Donna unwound herself from the chair and quietly entered the kitchen. She placed one hand on each shoulder and ran them leisurely down his back. ‘Want a hand?’

He turned slowly, so that her hands remained in contact with his waist. He leant forward and his lips parted as they met hers. She teased her tongue between them, and ran it behind his open teeth, drawing his mouth more tightly against her own. He responded instantly, sliding his hand inside her top and swiftly unclipping the catch on her bra. The suddenness aroused her further, and she was relieved that she’d taken a minute to pop into the pub’s Ladies and remove her pink knickers.

His mouth moved away from hers and hungrily tasted the soft pale skin beneath her right cheek. She tilted her head back to allow him full access to her bare neck.

Her breathing quickened as his hands explored her breasts and, as the fingers on one hand reached her nipple, he pulled back slightly and withdrew the other hand from beneath her top.

His gaze locked on to hers as he pushed his two middle fingers between her lips. She sucked them eagerly, drawing them under her tongue and running her teeth lightly over the knuckles. Her unwavering gaze met his challenging stare.

She pressed her fingers flat against his chest and ran her hand
down to his belt. Her fingers working deftly, flicking open the buckle and the shirt buttons.

She pushed him gently back into the corner between the sink and the fridge, and kissed the triangle of skin that now showed at the neck of his shirt.

One hand cupped each of his hips and she slid well-practised fingers down inside his clothing.

His bare flesh felt cool against her palms as she worked her hands further downwards. Her face skimmed his torso as in one fluid movement she dropped to her knees and enveloped his penis in her mouth.

She clutched the back of his thighs as she pulled deeper still.
Fuck, I want him,
she thought, as she massaged him with her tongue.

She felt his excitement suddenly increase, with an almost electric jolt that fused them together. She responded with increased frenzy. He grabbed the back of her head with both hands, holding her face hard against him. She took quick gasps of air, struggling for breath.

He pushed himself deeper towards the back of her throat. Trying not to choke, she dug her fingers into his thighs, stopping him from going deeper. And also stopping him from pulling back.

His fingers pressed hard, bruise hard, against her scalp and then he came. Gasping and shuddering.

She slid her teeth back along his penis, slowly releasing him from her mouth.

She stood up and again her eyes met his. She smirked, then smugly and deliberately she swallowed and licked her lips.

She pulled her clothes straight, and flicked the kettle on again as he refastened his trousers.

‘Mine’s with milk and one sugar, thanks, Pete.’

She didn’t stay the night. Instead she returned home, sure now that he would want to see her again.

After all, he now knew that she wasn’t the kind of girl to sleep with a man on their first date.

Gary flew from Lihu’e airport to Honolulu on the next available Hawaiian Airlines flight, then by American Airlines to Los Angeles, and back to Heathrow with British Airways.

He took a black cab from the airport to home, and opened his front door at 8 p.m.

The evening light illuminated the hallway just enough for him to spot the solitary item of mail lying on the doormat.

He dropped his rucksack inside and flicked on the hall light. As he bent to pick it up, his attention was drawn to the front of the envelope. It was cream Challenger stationery, face up and with no stamp. Three words in careful blue handwriting jumped out at him: ‘GARY GOODHEW – URGENT.’

He jerked his hand away and flicked the door shut with his heel. He stepped over the solitary letter and hurried up the stairs, flicking on the interior lights on his way to the kitchen. There, from the second drawer beneath the sink, he produced a pair of gloves, some tweezers and two evidence bags.

He knelt beside the front-door mat, picked up the envelope by one corner and opened it carefully along the short edge. The writing paper inside matched the envelope, and Gary extracted it with the tweezers. He unfolded it and slid it into one evidence bag, then dropped the empty envelope into the other.

He returned to the kitchen and placed the unfolded letter face-up on the worktop. It read:

‘Shit,’ he spat. ‘I’ve missed her.’

Margaret Whiting clasped her mug with both hands, as if to steady herself. ‘Mother!’ she snapped. ‘Which one?’

Edna remained unruffled. ‘I don’t know his name, dear, but it was the nice one, the one you like.’

‘Goodhew?’ Margaret asked, while forcing herself to sound calm.

Edna shook her head. ‘I told you I don’t know.’ She directed her vacant gaze into her tea as it swilled around in the bottom of the cup.

Margaret rubbed her eyes, still hot and pink from crying. She knew she mustn’t vent her frustration on her mother, therefore fought to suppress the tightness in her voice. ‘When was this?’

‘Oh, a few days ago now – just after he was at yours, I think.’

‘Oh, Mum, why didn’t you tell me?’

Edna shrugged. ‘I forgot, I suppose. My memory’s not what it used to be, you know. I haven’t forgotten it
all
, though. He asked me your date of birth. And first of all I was muddled between you and Andrew, but then I got it right. He asked me about my own birthday. He was very nice, took a real interest.’ She creaked on to her feet and Margaret waited as Edna fumbled in the drawer above the video player. She returned with a small pile of birthday cards and eased herself back into her winged armchair. ‘I showed him all these, and I said there wasn’t one from Kaye.’

‘Well, he knew that.’

‘That’s what he said, too. But he looked through them anyway, and you should’ve seen his face when he came to our Andrew’s.’
Edna pulled a cotton handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘Poor Andrew,’ she gulped.

Margaret leant closer and placed her hand on her mother’s wrist, squeezing it for her to concentrate. ‘What about his face?’

‘Andrew’s?’

‘No, Goodhew’s. You said I should’ve seen his face.’ Margaret tugged on Edna’s sleeve, trying to drag the answer out of her. ‘Why did you say that? How did he look? Worried, shocked … excited or what?’

Edna paused and closed her eyes, trying to picture his expression, and Margaret found herself holding her breath. ‘Disappointed,’ Edna answered finally. ‘No, actually, I’d say crestfallen is a better word for it. And he took the card with him, so it must have been important.’

Margaret slipped off into the kitchen, and stood with her back resting against the door. Everyone was fallible but if Goodhew thought her brother was guilty, perhaps she needed to listen to what he had to say. Her head spun at the concept.

‘I’ll tidy the kitchen while I’m out here,’ she called out and ran the taps and clattered the dishes, trying to block out the chant now beating incessantly through her head. ‘My mother, my brother, my daughter … My mother, my brother, my daughter …’

The sitting room was warm and the homely sound of washing dishes soothed Edna Burrows so that she drifted into sleep.

She drifted away from the reality of murder and suspicion. She forgot her granddaughter had been killed. She even forgot her only son had been arrested.

Instead she dreamt that she was eight again. She was running along a path through the woods, between giant oaks with bluebells and snowdrops sprouting at their feet.

She was racing towards a five-bar gate; her leather shoes were wet with dew and the skirt of her pinafore flapped around her knees. She stretched out her hand to reach the finishing point. ‘I won, I won!’ she shouted with delight.

Three children chased her, as another walked behind them with a willowy lady in a navy-blue coat. Her heart soared: her mother, brothers and sisters were all here.
Silly me
, she thought,
they were here all along. 

She wondered why she’d never noticed how beautiful her mother had been. Edna now picked her a handful of flowers and ran over to present them.

She stretched her hand further round her mother’s waist, knowing she must never lose any of her family again.

When Margaret finally came out of the kitchen, Edna’s skin was grey and already turning cold.

Goodhew wished he wasn’t in the room. It had been just like sitting in the headmaster’s office telling tales. Kincaide and Marks were directly facing one another, as if ignoring his presence.

DI Marks stood beside his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Goodhew’s convinced that Andy Burrows didn’t do it.’

Kincaide shot a fierce glance at Goodhew, pink spots of irritation blotching in his cheeks. ‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? Sir. He didn’t make the arrest and it was my idea … sir.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is a murder case, not a playground game of conkers. He was the one that made the link with the birthday card, Michael.’

‘I realize that, sir, but I really think Goodhew’s just jealous. In the same situation as me, he’d be pushing to convince us that the evidence was sufficient.’

Goodhew scowled. ‘He’s been charged so, yes, there does appear to be a case against him, but do you really want him on your conscience if there are any doubts?’

Marks finally turned to Goodhew. ‘Gary, get out. I’ll speak to you afterwards,’ he barked.

Before Goodhew had reached the door, he heard Marks continue slamming Kincaide. ‘If Goodhew’s jealous, then I’ll deal with it, but in the meantime Burrows is under arrest, and his mother’s died not knowing whether or not he murdered her granddaughter. So I bloody well do hope we’ve got it right. Go over the evidence again … and what about these anonymous calls pointing to a suspect, Peter Walsh?’

‘Cranks, we decided,’ Kincaide said. Which was the last thing Goodhew expected to hear clearly, as he closed the door behind him.

Goodhew leant against the outer wall of the office in the hope of catching some more fragments, but such was the level of pique in DI Marks’ voice that every word carried into the corridor.

‘Is that the royal “we” I hear, because Goodhew and Gully don’t share your opinion. Are you aware of the note that Goodhew had pushed through his front door?’

A couple of seconds passed before Kincaide answered. Goodhew filled in the gap with the familiar image of Kincaide gnawing the skin beside his thumbnail.

‘I know he received a note, and I had a quick look.’

‘And what exactly did that “quick look” tell you?’

Another pause, enough time for Kincaide to remove a piece of bitten-off dead skin from the tip of his tongue and flick it to the floor.

‘We need evidence for the prosecution. That’s what I was focusing on.’

‘The last thing anyone needs, and particularly that family, is the arrest of the correct person that fails to deliver a conviction just because we’ve failed to do our jobs thoroughly.’

Goodhew barely caught Kincaide’s next words. ‘I don’t see what the problem is, since we all want the right result, don’t we?’

DI Marks lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper and fired his next words like darts from a blowpipe. ‘Kincaide, get me everything you’ve got on Burrows. That includes each scrap of information I haven’t yet seen. And think of a good reason why you ignored this note and “because Goodhew got it first” won’t wash.’ He slammed his hand down on to his desk. ‘You may feel that there have been instances when I have given Goodhew too much latitude, and on those occasions I have been fully aware of your resentment, for which I apologize. It has been a failing of mine that I need to address, rather than a policy I plan to extend anywhere else within the team.’

A moment later, Kincaide flew through the door as though one of those darts had harpooned him in the buttock. Obviously a septic missile, judging by his expression.

Goodhew later returned to Marks’ office, where his boss’s
expression
had returned to its usual state: placid and impenetrable. Marks held up a photocopy of the anonymous letter. ‘I’ve heard the phone calls, Gary, but what makes you think that this letter comes from the same woman?’

‘I visited this Peter Walsh’s house and a girl walked past me in the street. There was something …’ he paused, searching for the right word ‘… I don’t know, something odd about her, I suppose. I looked at her directly and she seemed startled. Afterwards, when I was away I realized she looked just a little bit like Kaye Whiting. This sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, it does seem rather tenuous, but go on.’

‘That’s it, really. I had a feeling she was the anonymous caller, but I didn’t get the note until Thursday night. I was checking out Helen Neill when you called me in.’

‘I know, and I had the details of that case brought in here as soon as they arrived.’ Marks laid his hand flat on a half-inch pile of faxes, emails and other assorted documents. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you a bit more scope to chase up the Peter Walsh lead. Whether Andrew Burrows is the killer or not remains to be seen. Personally, I hope he is because I don’t want to be in the middle of a wrongful-arrest fiasco. But, even more, I don’t want a total balls-up that leaves a killer still roaming around.’

A wave of claustrophobic tension swept through Gary; he wanted to be out working. ‘Are you saying I can get on with it, sir?’

‘Gary, be patient, will you? You’re like my wife the day before the January sales. Ready, fire and aim – you and Kincaide both.’ He sighed a deliberate, long, slow and incredibly irritating sigh.

Goodhew sighed too, and waited.

‘OK, Gary, here’s what I want you to do. Check out Helen Neill. If, and only if, there are reasons to connect the two cases, then investigate Peter Walsh and anyone he knows who may have written this letter. Keep me informed at every step.

‘Remember, there’s nothing to indicate that a man abducted Kaye Whiting, so your letter writer is a suspect.’ He knew he had already stretched Goodhew’s attention span to its brittle limits. ‘I’ll make a resource available to you, if you need it.’

Gary was already lifting the Neill notes from the desk. ‘Gully would be my first choice.’

‘Mmmm, thought it might. Anything I should know about you two?’

‘Yeah, we work well together.’

And, with that comment, Goodhew made the second quickest exit in the history of DI Marks’ office.