The Calling (9 page)

He looks at the prints she’s hung in the little hallway, faintly erotic Christian art showing the Lactation of St Bernard, in which the Saint receives milk from the breast of the Virgin Mary.

Paula paid her downstairs neighbour, who’s studying interior decorating, to do it for her at cost. He’s a nice straight boy, her Chris downstairs, so above the cost of materials she paid him in kind and everyone was happy.

Along with the subdued lighting, the prints add the right touch of reverence to the proceedings. Unlike most apartments providing related services, this is a place of nurture and worship.

Now this kid looks her up and down. His eyes can’t meet hers, but they never can at first. A lot of the younger ones never had a mum. The first time they look her in the eye is when they’re laid out on her lap, suckling away. Sometimes she strokes their hair and murmurs gentle words of encouragement. Sometimes they cry when they come, spunking all over her tummy.

Finesse doesn’t mind that. She’s pleased. It seems to help.

This kid digs into the pocket of his army surplus coat and brings out a wad of tenners. He tries to foist it on her – a fistful of greasy money in her lovely clean hands with their lovely manicure.

She says, ‘There’s no need to do that now, love.’

He blinks at her, embarrassed and confused.

She says, ‘Why don’t you come in for five minutes, take off your coat, sit down, have a little chat?’

But the kid won’t relax. He looks nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if he needs the loo.

He follows her into the little front room. There’s a nice vibe in here, too, like a boutique hotel in earth tones and artificially aged wood. Paula does all right for herself, but that’s not the point of this display: the point is to suggest that she doesn’t
need
to do this – that she’s essentially an altruist, a therapist providing a service.

She invites the kid to sit.

He perches on the edge of a chair. Wipes his palms on his thighs. He jiggles his leg. He twists his hands in sweaty knots. He look at her, he looks away.

She crosses her legs, shows a bit of thigh, and leans forward. And there’s the cleavage. Boom. ‘Would you like some tea?’

He shakes his head once, looks away.

‘I’ve got some herbal blends,’ she says, in her smoky voice. She’s been doing it so long now, this voice, that she hardly thinks about it any more. She got training from an acting coach. He wasn’t a straight boy, so it was payment in cash. ‘Peppermint’s very relaxing,’ she tells the kid. ‘And chamomile.’

He shakes his head, looks like he wants to cry.

Paula sits and waits. Sometimes that’s the best thing.

Looking at the floor, the kid says, ‘It’s my dad.’

‘Oh, love,’ she says. ‘What about him?’

‘He sent me. He wants you to come round our place.’

‘Does he have a disability?’ Paula says. ‘Because that’s not a problem. The building’s got wheelchair access.’

‘It’s not that.’

She makes a concerned face, and the real emotions follow. This was taught to her by an acting coach too, and the funny thing is, it doesn’t make her feel like a fraud. It makes her feel like a better person. ‘Is he bedridden?’

‘No.’

She waits for more, begins to doubt it’s ever going to come. Fighting the urge to look at her watch she says, ‘Then what is it, love?’

He taps his foot, plucks at one of the sparse blondish hairs on his spindly forearm.

‘We’ve got a baby that needs feeding.’

There’s a silence. Paula hears cars go past, like the sound of blood in her ears.

As a girl, working the streets, the first sign that something was wrong was your hearing suddenly got very clear. It was your body, getting ready to react before your brain knew anything was amiss.

Hearing the traffic now, she knows she should have followed her first instinct and not invited this young man in. But he’d sounded gentle and personable on the phone, and she didn’t see the harm in starting an hour or two early; she could always take a nap afterwards.

None of this shows in her voice or in her body language. She just says, ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘We’ve got a baby,’ he says. ‘It needs feeding.’

‘A little boy or a little girl?’

The kid hesitates, as if thinking about it. ‘Little girl. Emma.’

‘Can’t her mum feed her?’

‘Her mum’s dead.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, love.’

‘That’s all right. She wasn’t my mum or anything.’

The kid squeezes his eyes shut as if silently rebuking himself for something. He blushes.

Paula says, ‘How old is she? Little Emma?’

‘Very young. Just a baby.’

‘What do the doctors say?’

‘My dad doesn’t trust doctors. He says a baby needs proper milk. From a woman.’

‘Well, there’s a lot of people who’d agree with him,’ she says. ‘My special friends think that’s true later in life, too. There’s something about a woman’s milk.’

The kid nods.

‘But formula milk’s safe for a baby,’ she says.

‘She won’t take a bottle. She just spits it out.’

Paula smiles, tenderly. ‘They do that. You’ve just got to be patient.’

‘Dad thinks she’s sick.’

‘Then he should go to the doctor. I think it’s lovely that you’ve come to me: it shows that your dad loves your sister very much. I’m touched. It’s a special bond, nursing a child. And it’s wonderful to think we could share that together. But it’s not the right thing to do. The right thing would be to go to the doctor’s. Then maybe contact your local breast-feeding support network. You might find some young mums who offer to help. They call it cross-nursing now, but that’s just a newfangled way of saying wet-nursing. That’s what I think you should do.’

The kid grows more agitated. He digs in his other pocket, produces another fistful of money. ‘This is all I’ve got.’

‘This isn’t about money, darling.’

‘Please. He’ll kill me.’

‘Tell you what,’ Paula says. She’s aware that her palms are damp. She needs to get this kid out of the flat. She’s angry at herself for letting him in, but she hides it.

‘Please,’ says the kid. His face is grey with wretchedness and fear.

‘Give me your dad’s phone number,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a little chat with him.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Then why don’t you call him yourself and pass your phone to me? I’ll have a word with your dad, tell him how great you’ve been.’

‘He’ll kill me.’

‘Come on. Don’t cry.’

‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I mean he’ll actually kill me. He’s done it before. Please.’

Now Paula can’t hear or see anything except the abject, unhinged kid at the end of her tunnel vision.

In a false back of the left-hand drawer in the small dresser is a pepper spray and a taser. On top of the dresser, next to the landline, is a small pad of scented paper.

The kid says, ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to write your dad a little note.’

The kid leaps to his feet. Shrugs narrow shoulders.

‘Come on,’ he says, ‘please. Just once. Just come to our place for one time.’

‘I can’t love,’ Paula says. Her voice is still calm, a little firmer now. But her hand is shaking as she pretends to look for a pen. She makes a face. She tries to underplay it but her features feel grotesque and exaggerated. ‘I’m sure when he reads the letter, you’ll be okay.’

The kid paces, muttering to himself. Paula doesn’t dare look back, but she thinks he might be tearing at his hair.

‘Please,’ he says, ‘please please please.’

She opens the drawer. Takes out the little can of Mace and turns to him.

‘Now,’ she says. ‘I’ve asked you nicely and I’ll ask you nicely one more time. Please leave.’

The kid looks at her, aghast.

He backs away, trips over the furniture.

‘Get out,’ she says.

The kid scrambles to his feet, reaches into his other pocket. It takes her a moment to recognize what he draws from his pocket.

It’s a torque wrench.

The kid draws back his hand, still snivelling.

No, Paula thinks, Not like this.

Luther and Howie step into the interview room.

Sheena Kwalingana sits behind a dilapidated desk, holding a cup of milky tea.

Luther slows down, makes himself relax. He nods at a chair. ‘May I?’

Sheena Kwalingana says yes.

Howie cracks open fresh audio tapes, loads them into the recorder, switches on the machine. Makes sure Mrs Kwalingana knows the interview is being recorded.

Mrs Kwalingana gives her permission.

Gently, in a voice designed to calm the witness as much as give information, Luther repeats his name and rank. He asks Mrs Kwalingana to confirm her name, address, and date of birth, which she does after clearing her throat and sipping stewed tea.

Knowing her throat is dry with nerves, Luther gets her a cup of water from the cooler on the other side of the door. She takes it with a look of bashful gratitude.

Then, just as gently, Luther says, ‘Can you tell me what happened on January seventeenth of this year?’

‘I already told you.’

‘For the record. Just once more, please. It could be very important.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Please,’ he says.

‘I was burgled,’ says Mrs Kwalingana. ‘A man broke into my flat. He took a few things and ran away. No big one.’

Howie steps in. ‘But that’s not quite it, is it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Please, tell us everything you told the other officers about what happened that night.’

She sighs. ‘I turned off the TV. I went to bed.’

‘What time would this be?’

‘I don’t know, usual time. I work early. I’m up before the dawn. So not too late, ten-thirty, maybe?’

‘You live alone?’

‘Since my husband died.’

‘No children, grandchildren?’

‘In Manchester. Apparently it’s fancy.’

‘And you live in a flat in a local authority development, that’s right?’

‘Nice place,’ she says, ‘modern, very clean. Nice neighbours. Old fashioned.’

‘You’re very lucky.’

Mrs Kwalingana sniffs to indicate she knows it.

‘So what happened?’

‘I wake up,’ she says. ‘I hear someone moving around.’

‘Someone in your flat?’

Mrs Kwalingana nods.

‘What time was this?’ says Howie.

‘Not so late. Quarter past eleven? Quarter to twelve?’

‘You were still awake?’

‘No. I was very tired. I work hard, love, I get up early. So when I woke up, I thought I was dreaming. But no.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I must have moved, because he heard me. Whatever he was doing, I heard him stop. Then he walked into the bedroom.’

‘That can’t have been very nice.’

‘It was a lot worse than not very nice. I’m looking round for something to whack him with. Then he comes in. Stands in the doorway and he’s—’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Breathing funny.’

‘Excited funny? Or lots of exercise funny?’

‘Excited,’ says Mrs Kwalingana, ‘in that way. The way men get.’

Luther writes a note.

‘I just lay there,’ Mrs Kwalingana says, ‘and watched him through a crack in my eyelid.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Playing with himself.’

‘Excuse me,’ Howie says, ‘I have to ask. Was he exposing himself?’

‘No. He was rubbing it through his trousers. Very slowly. Not’ – she looks at the table – ‘not up and down, but round and round. And he was smiling. Making these breaths.’ She mimes it. ‘And rubbing himself all in circles.’

‘You saw his face?’

‘I saw him smile.’

‘Anything else you noticed about him? Did he have long hair? Short hair?’

‘I don’t remember. Short, I think. He wore a hat.’

‘He was a white man?’

‘White, skinny. Young. But muscles, you know?’

‘How did you see his muscles?’

‘In his forearms as he . . . jiggled it around.’

‘Did he wear a watch, maybe? Jewellery?’

‘No watch. No jewellery.’

‘Did you notice a tattoo?’

‘He was a thin young man. Quite strong.’

‘Clean shaven?’

‘Yes. None of these goatees.’

‘And while he was . . . playing with himself, did he say anything?’

‘No.’

‘And he didn’t touch you?’

‘No. I pretended to be asleep and in a minute he went away.’

‘What did he take?’

‘Just my bag. My keys.’

‘Your own keys?’

‘Yes, my own keys.’

‘And only your keys?’

‘No.’

‘What other keys did he take?’

‘Keys from people whose houses I clean.’

‘Mrs Kwalingana,’ says Howie. ‘This is important now. Did those keys have the address on them?’

‘Do I look stupid to you?’

‘No, you don’t look stupid to me.’

‘Good. Well, I’m not.’

‘Do you keep a computer at home?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Never mind. Do you keep your clients’ addresses written down anywhere?’

She taps her head. ‘No need.’

‘And in the morning, you reported this theft to the police?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘I put the kettle on and sat round waiting. And sure enough, they turn up eventually. I tell them what happened, they give me a crime number for insurance. I tell them –
these keys, if my boss finds out they’re gone I’m sacked
.
There’s nothing we can do
, the police lady says. I call her a name and she leaves. I never see them again.’

‘And how did your employer respond,’ Luther says, ‘when you told him about the lost keys?’

‘I never did.’

‘All those keys were stolen, and you never told anybody?’

‘Nope.’

He glances at his notes, knows he’s missing something. ‘You need those keys to get into the houses you clean, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Did you have a spare set?’

‘No.’

‘So?’

He sits back. Crosses his arms. Waits.

‘So,’ she says. ‘The keys were stolen on Friday. No cleaning on Saturday. Sunday morning, I get out of bed – can’t sleep, you know. Have to keep checking windows and the doors.’

‘And?’

‘And in the hallway, there’s an envelope.’