The Calling

by Jane Goodall

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I was watching the blokes at the side there — the ones who pull on the chains. Why did it take all three of them to pull up the dummy? What’s it stuffed with? Rocks?’

  *

  Aidan was summoned to meet the detective chief super, no less, at a steakhouse on the Fulham Road. Not a place for wearing the kitchen cutlery. He took off the spiked collar and pulled his hair down over his ears, but really it was a waste of effort. There was no chance he could look halfway respectable, not now that he’d cut the sleeves off the jacket and got Highgate mud all over his boots. Well at least no one was going to be looking at his boots when he was sitting at the table, were they?

  The traffic on the Fulham Road was dense and bad-tempered in the early evening heat. Aidan crossed the road through a queue of vehicles that were stopped at the lights and provoked an outburst from a cab driver.

  ‘Hey! Bugger off out of it!’

  Reaching the pavement opposite, he was confronted by three men with their arms folded. Aidan read the indicators rapidly — shaved heads, outsize boots, rolled-up jeans — but the only thing he really needed to read was the message on one of the t-shirts. White Riot.

  ‘You heard what he said,’ growled one of them, giving Aidan a sideways shove that sent him into collision with the White Riot shirt front.

  He tried to sidestep but the third man grabbed his arm and, thrusting his ugly mug up close, said, ‘What makes you think you got a right of way here, eh? What makes you think that, shite? You spades think you own it, don’t you?’

  They were elbow to elbow along the kerb, edging him back into the now moving stream of traffic. ‘Git out of it, shite.’

  Aidan spotted a panda car approaching in the outside lane and, staking his chances on the driver’s skill at emergency stops, let himself be pushed across its path.

  It was a fair gamble. The car screeched to a halt, giving him a thump on the hip. He saw the passenger door open and a uniformed sergeant took his time getting out, wiping the sweat off his face with a handkerchief. Aidan didn’t know him. The officer squared his shoulders, stuck out his stomach and walked around the front of the car.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, chum?’ he asked.

  Aidan looked him in the eye. ‘I think you saw what happened, sergeant. I was being jostled by those three over there.’ He pointed directly at the men, who had retreated against the wall and were watching with smirks on their faces. ‘They were pushing me into the road.’

  The sergeant looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on the muddy boots. ‘Were they, now? You know what I’d say? I’d say you wanna watch where you’re going. And if you were to ask my opinion off the record, I’d say you should get back where you belong.’

  By now, Aidan had memorised the officer’s number. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said quietly.

  The sergeant gave a single laugh, like a dog bark. ‘Where the bananas come from.’ He got back in the car and left Aidan still facing the three assailants. This time they let him continue on his way but followed close behind, treading on his heels and making obscene remarks about black bananas. He finally shook them off by outpacing them.

  He arrived at the restaurant sweating and went to splash his face before fronting up to DCS Fletcher, who was seated in one of the dining booths separated from each other by high wooden partitions.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Fletcher asked immediately. ‘You look puffed.’

  ‘Had to tear myself away from some undesirable company.’

  ‘Ah! Well, I daresay you’ve been getting plenty of that.’

  Fletcher signalled to the waiter, who came over and took their orders. When his half-pint arrived, Aidan felt like draining it immediately but you couldn’t drink too many of those in the company of the chief super, so he had to make it last.

  ‘So everything’s going all right, is it?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Undesirable company permitting.’

  ‘As it happens, sir, there’s a matter of police conduct I’d like to report on. Something that happened on my way here.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Aidan told the story, repeating verbatim the sergeant’s remarks, which Fletcher recorded in a little notebook. As the account finished he closed the book and tapped on the cover with the flat end of the pencil.

  ‘You’re sure about this sergeant’s number?’ He drew a long breath. ‘That’s Sergeant Manning. Of course, he wouldn’t have known he was speaking to a fellow officer.’

  ‘Not the point, sir. Is it?’

  ‘I’m not making excuses for Sergeant Manning, Aidan. I’ll make sure someone has a word with him about it. But you need to understand that when you’re doing undercover work, you may encounter a different attitude from the police. After all, you’re familiar with the situations the uniforms have to deal with in this area. You know the sort of thing that can get served up to them, specially from people with the kind of look you’ve taken on.’

  Aidan met his eye. ‘The look of my skin, you mean, sir?’

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean, Aidan.’

  There was an awkward silence, broken by the reappearance of the waiter with a giant plate on each hand.

  ‘T-bone steak and chips?’ He deposited Aidan’s meal in front of him and turned with exaggerated respect to Fletcher. ‘And a chicken salad for you, sir.’

  As Aidan weighed into the steak, the chief super picked up a fork and began toying with his coleslaw, showing no signs of appetite. ‘I’ve been taking a look through your reports,’ he said, ‘and I’m concerned you’re getting too involved in that scene down in the World’s End.’

  ‘No more than I have to be, sir, to pick up on what’s making the waves. The way they look — how they behave — those are only the signals they give out. They like to act bad and they like to act dumb but actually they got a lot of things worked out.’

  ‘Worked out about what?’

  Aidan shrugged. ‘About where they aren’t going to fit.’

  ‘Nothing new about misfits, Aidan, specially in that age group. Most of them will grow out of it, with any luck.’

  ‘I reckon that depends,’ Aidan said, cutting around the bone in his steak. ‘I reckon that depends on what sort of a society they got to fit into. From their point of view, this one doesn’t have too much going for it.’ He sheared off a piece of meat and held it on his fork. ‘And I have to say, they’ve got a point. In certain respects.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Fletcher glanced at his watch. ‘I think we should get your reporting up to date. What’s new?’

  As Aidan gave a detailed account of the Highgate show, Fletcher displayed no visible reaction, only making the occasional note in his book.

  ‘I took a good look around the area afterwards,’ Aidan concluded. ‘Collected some samples for forensics — but we need to get a soco team up there to do the job properly. I’m a bit concerned about the delay. I was trying to get on to DCI Latham about it, you see, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fletcher gave a curt nod and put away the notebook. ‘This habit of wearing masks ... How widespread is it?’

  ‘Well — you don’t see them in the street much, but there’s a few of those leather hood things worn around the concert places. The Suddens have their own style in masks. That’s not a widespread thing at all.’

  ‘But they might have imitators.’

  ‘They might. Can’t say I’ve seen any. And they wouldn’t be easy to copy, those faces. It’s fancy work.’

  ‘Have you seen one close up?’ asked Fletcher.

  Aidan shook his head. ‘Only on the stage.’

  ‘Good. Now my instructions are — you keep your distance from those characters, all right? Your job is just to get names. I want to know exactly who’s in this pop group — what are they called?’

  ‘Sudden Deff. Not exactly a pop group, sir. And finding their identities isn’t proving all that easy. It’s their game to be anonymous.’

  ‘Is it.’ Fletcher
spoke the words as a statement, not a question. ‘Well that’ll be a test for your skills then, won’t it? I want names and descriptions, comings and goings. You can leave the collection of forensic samples to the soco team.’

  ‘As long as they get onto it — that’s what’s bothering me, see. There’s two sets of samples I’ve taken now, with no follow up at all that I know about.’

  ‘I’ll be deciding what’s necessary in that department. You stay on the sidelines.’

  Aidan pushed his plate away. He was getting distinctly narked. ‘It’s not like you can sit back and watch, sir,’ he said. ‘People pick up on that and they don’t like it. So if I’m in this, I’m in it. There’s no sidelines to stand on.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said Fletcher, ‘it may be necessary to withdraw you from that situation quite soon.’

  Aidan was taken aback. This was not at all what he’d expected. ‘But I thought I had an understanding, sir. I had instructions. Commander Macready made it clear to me — ’

  Fletcher met his eye and said slowly, ‘I’m afraid things have taken an unfortunate turn.’ He stopped, and ran the palms of his hands over his face before joining them together in front of him, as if he was praying. ‘I understand Steve Latham told you about the attack on Commander Macready.’

  ‘Happened last Saturday night — is that right, sir?’

  ‘Yes. As a consequence, we’ve made some changes to the management of this case. From now on you’ll be reporting directly to me. This is partly out of consideration for DCI Latham, who was a close colleague of Macready’s.’

  There was an awkward pause, and Aidan picked up on the obvious. ‘Was, sir?’

  ‘Commander Macready died in hospital this afternoon.’ Fletcher said the words rapidly, then stopped before adding, ‘I’m sorry to say. This is now a murder investigation and any prior instructions you had must be set aside, due to the increased level of risk. I’d like your assurance that you fully understand what I’ve said to you. You are to stay on the sidelines.’

  Aidan met his eye and said nothing.

  *

  Zig pushed her empty plate away and lit a cigarette while Sharon finished her meal, staring at the television set at the family end of the room. The news was on, and suddenly she left the table to go over for a closer look. She recognised the picture on the screen. ‘He’s dead,’ Sharon announced, returning to her seat. ‘One of the detectives on Deff Row. Somebody killed him.’

  Zig’s attention was taken up by something she was reading, and her reaction was confused. She dropped the book on the floor, scrabbled to pick it up and came upright again looking quite flushed. ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘I didn’t get the whole item,’ said Sharon. ‘It was nearly finished by the time I picked up on it. All I heard was he was the victim of an attack at his home and he died in hospital.’

  There was no response, but Sharon noticed that Zig was smoking in a specially jerky way. She was getting to know her friend’s odd reactions. She let her alone for a minute, then said straight out, ‘What’s up? You look like somebody’s accused you of something.’

  Zig shrugged and drew on the cigarette again.

  ‘What’s that you were reading?’ Sharon had only caught the barest glimpse of the little book, but it seemed to have handwriting in it. Suddenly she twigged, and began fishing around in her own bag. ‘Where’s that notebook I found yesterday?’

  She’d forgotten about it, but evidently Zig hadn’t.

  ‘I was just checking it out,’ said Zig, placing it on the table but keeping a hand over it. ‘It’s not yours, anyway. Matter of fact it belongs to Logan Royce. It’s a sort of a diary, with dates in it.’ She opened it and flicked through the pages, then gave a mischievous smile. ‘Listen to this — it’s about you and me at the Chelsea Drugstore: “The sexy one, who calls herself Zig, gets around in a tight rubber vest. But in spite of the gear, I doubt she even knows what S&M stands for.”’ Zig snorted. ‘I wasn’t even wearing the rubber vest that day. If I had been he would have wet himself.’ She continued reading. ‘“Her friend Sharon is a runaway kid who has even less idea of what might be stirring down there in the World’s End.”’

  Sharon wasn’t amused. ‘I got enough idea of what’s going on to know when somebody that’s supposed to be my friend is acting like a sneak thief. If you wanted to look at it, why didn’t you ask me for it?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Zig’s mouth had gone a funny shape. She dropped the cigarette on her plate and pressed the heels of her hands into her forehead. ‘Sorry — that’s all.’

  The apology was awkward but it sounded genuine, so Sharon decided to lay off the accusations for the time being. ‘What else does it say?’ she asked.

  Zig turned more pages. ‘There’s a bit he wrote about going up to Highgate — on Monday. That’s the day before yesterday, isn’t it? The concert was Tuesday, so now it’s Wednesday. What was he doing going up there on Monday? I didn’t actually see him at the concert. Did you?’

  Sharon shook her head.

  ‘Well you were up on the roof. You should have been able to see everybody.’

  ‘You know, I don’t think he was even there. I’d have noticed him. So what’s he saying?’

  ‘He says John Mullighan’s going to meet him up there.’

  ‘Who’s John Mullighan?’

  ‘I told you. He prints the fanzines. Lives up in the high rises.’ Zig cackled. ‘John’s conned him. Pretending to be a member of the Suddens.’

  ‘How d’you know he isn’t?’ Sharon tried to grab the book back, but Zig was too quick for her.

  ‘Because he’s not the type. He works in the factory, lives with his mum.’

  ‘But he’s a con artist. You just said — ’

  ‘The Suddens aren’t just con artists, Sharon. What I’m saying is John Mullighan’s a normal. He lives in ordinaryland up there in the high rises and his mum’s got a screw loose and his brother’s in the clink. I been up there and it’s just depressing.’

  ‘Well if he prints the fanzines he must know something about what’s going on.’

  36

  The nurse was about Briony’s age, with a pleasant, freckled face and green glasses, through which she examined the record card. ‘So you’re nine days overdue.’

  Briony nodded. She had counted the days this morning, several times over — unwilling to accept that so many of them had passed — then had forced herself to make the trip to the clinic. Since yesterday, things seemed to be happening like a film passing before her eyes.

  ‘Forget to take your pill, did you?’

  ‘I forgot to take them with me. On holiday.’

  The nurse’s eyebrows went up. ‘That’s a bit careless, isn’t it? Must have had a lot on your mind. Did you have unprotected sex?’

  ‘Just once. The night we arrived ... it was too late to get any condoms.’

  ‘Just once. You wouldn’t believe how often we hear that story.’

  ‘Before we jump to conclusions,’ said Briony, whose pale complexion was now flushed, ‘mightn’t it be just stress? It’s only seven days. And I’m not always totally regular.’

  ‘Ever been that irregular?’

  ‘No.’ Briony bit her lip. ‘But I have been under a fair amount of stress. How long does it take to get the test results?’

  ‘They should be ready by eleven. You can wait for them, if you like. What kind of stress are we talking about?’

  ‘All kinds.’ Briony drew a breath to elaborate, but the words didn’t seem to want to come.

  The nurse responded more tentatively. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

  ‘Some of it I can’t talk about. I’m in the police, you see.’

  ‘Yes, I do see. Here on your card — it says detective inspector.’

  An hour later, Briony left the Chelsea and West family planning clinic with two leaflets: one with week-by-week sketches and details of the progress of a pregnancy and the other explaining procedures for termination.
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  Termination? Termination? The word rang in her head absurdly. Abortion wasn’t something she’d ever thought about — except in passing, as something that happened to other people. But — the realisation now came home to her — it didn’t just happen, it was a decision.

  ‘Talk to your boyfriend,’ the nurse advised her, ‘then come and have another chat with me.’

  Of course she would have to talk to Gareth. But would he talk to her? And what on earth would he say?

  Against Fletcher’s instructions, she decided to walk home from the clinic. Well, in a manner of speaking, since she didn’t exactly have a home at the moment — or a boyfriend, apparently — but walking was the only thing she felt she could do. She set off up the Fulham Road, gathering pace until she was striding out so fast it didn’t really matter where she was going.

  Perhaps if she walked for long enough she’d be able to think of some purpose or destination other than her office at work, or the shoebox of a hotel room.

  She slowed as she passed the turn into the Royal Brompton hospital, letting Macready’s presence come flooding back, with all its energy and crispness. ‘Think of every day as a week.’ That was always his instruction at the start of any major case briefing. Did it apply to other kinds of cases? Cases of unwanted pregnancy, for example? Was it unwanted? And what was it? A baby. A pregnancy was a baby. And after that, a whole human being, which was far too much to think about right now, when she didn’t feel like thinking at all. If only she knew how to stop thinking, to escape the mind-trap even for a few hours, something else might occur to her — some new way of seeing things. The last conversation with Macready began to replay itself.

  ‘Why do you choose to spend your life in this way, facing death at every turn?’

  What was her reply? She couldn’t remember exactly, but somehow she’d twisted the question back to him. ‘I can’t imagine you doing anything else, sir.’ Did she really say that? That was a terrible thing to say — it hadn’t occurred to her for a moment that Macready was going to die. He couldn’t. He took up too much space in the world. He was too busy fencing in the darkness. ‘It’s our calling.’ Those words grabbed at her. ‘I hope you never see the face I saw.’ The Walker’s face was always there, somewhere in her head, waiting for her mind’s eye to call it up.