The Calling

by Jane Goodall

  ‘So it is. But a face would be a lot trickier, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely. Nostrils, eyelids, the mouth, the hairline — getting all that right is a skilled job.’

  ‘And if you made a mould like this of someone’s face, could you use it to produce a mask? Say a rubber mask?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Convenient for robbing banks, eh?’ Denis remarked.

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t need to go to all this bother just for that. The old stocking over the face trick would be just as effective.’

  Briony was anxious to keep the questioning on track. ‘So was Dignall trying to make a mask?’

  ‘I doubt it. That requires very special skills, of a kind I’d never attempt to teach beginners. My classes were about making plaster casts.’

  ‘Let’s go back to this moulding process.’ She dipped her fingers in the remains of the alginate, which was now so tacky it formed strings like melted cheese when she tried to scoop it out. ‘You said Dignall was good at it.’

  ‘Dignall made several life casts in my classes, but they’re bulky things to store, so I just kept his best one. I thought it was a pretty good piece of work.’

  ‘And you watched him making it,’ said Briony.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You remember that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must remember whose face was getting covered with this gunk, Mr Sherringham. Whose portrait was Lenny Dignall so keen to collect from you?’

  Sherringham folded his arms, chin on his chest, and remained that way for a minute. ‘Look, it’s no big deal,’ he said. ‘I really hope you won’t make trouble about this for the people concerned.’

  ‘Making trouble’s not really the nature of our business,’ said Briony. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There was a character who attended some of the classes — a category-A prisoner who wasn’t strictly supposed to be in them, but one of the warders was sympathetic, and allowed him to come. This was a man with a lot of problems. He wouldn’t talk. Not at all. And he spent all his time in isolation, which didn’t help. The warder was trying to give him a chance to get socialised, and since the man was supposed to have an interest in art, there was a sort of logic to it. We never did get a word out of the guy, but he wasn’t disruptive in any way and he didn’t seem to mind being Dignall’s model. I’d rather not give you his name, if it’s all the same to you. The warder’s only young and it could put the kibosh on his career if this got reported.’

  ‘How about I tell you who it was? It was Maxwell Tremlay, isn’t that right?’ Briony took the copy of Yeller out of her bag, and held up the image of the masquerader. ‘And now someone’s going round wearing his face. I’m told by the prison staff that one of these fanzines was confiscated from Lenny Dignall during your class. You remember that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sherringham had gone a rather vivid colour. ‘I can see the coincidence, now you point it out, but I wouldn’t have had any reason to associate Dignall’s artwork with that magazine. I never even looked at it. I know the sort of thing, because they have rubbish like that circulating round here all the time — half of it printed illegally on the art school photocopier.’

  Briony kept her tone casual. ‘We don’t see a lot of coincidences in our work, Mr Sherringham. My guess is Dignall knew that the people who produced this fanzine would have a lot of interest in a life mask of the Walker, given that the copy taken off him during your class had a centre spread on serial killers. What would that life mask be worth to them, I wonder?’

  ‘I couldn’t speculate about that.’

  ‘Then speculate about something else for us. Who might he have sold it to? Do you have any students with a talent for making masks?’

  ‘No one I know of.’

  ‘Then take a look through that magazine — see if there’s anything in it that rings any bells.’

  She gave him a few minutes, exchanging glances with Denis, then turning her attention back to the displays in the room.

  ‘Some of these slogans are familiar,’ he said. ‘Live without dead time. I’ve seen that on the walls around here. It’s an anarchist slogan from the Situationist International. It was all over Paris during the riots of ‘68. Some of the other slogans are from William Blake. He blazes back into fashion with the students every so often.’

  ‘Is there anyone in your classes with a special craze for Blake?’

  ‘Not at the moment. There was a student here last year who thought he was Blake, but he’s left. Crazy character. Talented but crazy. He’d never have finished the course.’

  ‘Name?’ Denis had his pencil poised. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Sam Oliver. Called himself Sol.’

  ‘Sol,’ Briony repeated. ‘I think I’ve seen the name in their fanzine.’

  ‘Good draughtsman, Sol. I think I kept some of his work.’

  Sherringham went over to a cabinet of wide shallow drawers and began leafing through the papers they contained. He picked out two sheets and laid them on the table.

  Both were covered in drawings of grotesque faces, half human and half beast.

  ‘Rip-offs of Blake’s visionary heads,’ he said. ‘You know about Blake’s visions? He suffered from eidetic hallucination — a condition where what you see with the mind’s eye presents itself as actually being there. Sol had the same thing.’

  Briony was leaning over the drawings, studying the swirling lines. ‘These faces. They look like masks, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Possibly. You could say that about all Blake’s faces — exaggerated features, pronounced lines.’

  ‘Can I take one of these?’ she asked.

  ‘I suppose so, but I wouldn’t mind getting it back. I like to hang on to a few examples of the good work that gets done here.’

  ‘Any idea where he is now, Sam Oliver?’

  ‘Not the slightest, I’m afraid.’

  41

  Briony arrived back at her office feeling suddenly exhausted, and fought off a moment of dizziness and nausea. Psychosomatic, she told herself firmly. Just because somebody tells you you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you have to get all the symptoms right on cue.

  She sat at her desk and stared at Oliver’s visionary heads, knowing that it would be pointless to try and convince Fletcher they had any connection with the case. Not that she was convinced of it herself at this stage, but it was a possibility, wasn’t it? The Walker’s life mask, though, was a definite connection. She tried to get Steve on the phone but with no luck, and ended up slumped across her desk, too tired to decide what to do next. When Leonie came to persuade her it was time to call it quits for the day, she gave in and allowed herself to be delivered back to the hotel.

  Leonie insisted on accompanying her all the way upstairs to ensure that she was safely cooped up. ‘I need to go out for a while. You sure you’ll be okay, ma’am?’

  Briony bit back the response she felt like making. She’d given Leonie a hard enough time already, when the woman was only trying to do the right thing. Instead, she nodded wearily, closed the door behind her and leant against it for a while with her eyes closed. At least it was quiet in here and a bit cooler than her office.

  Letting her hand drop from the door handle, she found she’d come away with something attached to her. A length of red string.

  She sat on the little bed, winding the string into a cat’s cradle around her fingers and turning the pattern inside out as she’d learnt to do in primary school. Then she dropped it on the floor and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Could she really be pregnant? She didn’t feel any different, did she? Except somehow it felt good to lie on her back, so good that she drifted into a deep sleep.

  Some time later she was woken by footsteps climbing the stairs, followed by a light knock on her door.

  ‘You all right, ma’am?’

  Leonie. ‘I’m fine,’ Briony called out.

  Damn. Now she was awake again and it wasn’t even dark yet. She looked at h
er watch. Twenty to ten — she’d been asleep nearly four hours, and going by the last couple of nights, that was as much sleep as she was likely to get. Sleep took away your thoughts and let you forget that something new and alien had just turned your life inside out, but as soon as it began to wear off, awareness came leaking back. Being awake meant being bombarded with painful thoughts, most carrying with them sets of orders: do this, do that, don’t forget the other.

  Do this, do that. Still lying on her back, but wide awake now, she wondered what on earth she was to do in this strange prison cell, with its pink-striped wallpaper and its yellow patterned curtains. Whoever put those things together? Macready was dead and she was pregnant. How on earth did those things get put together? How was she supposed to make sense of that?

  ‘Come back and see us when you’ve had a talk to your boyfriend,’ the nurse had said. Gareth’s face came up in her mind, staring at her as if she were a stranger. His voice sounded in her head. ‘So that’s it, then?’

  ‘You bastard, Gareth!’ she said aloud.

  A voice responded from the other side of the wall, so distinctly it might have been right next to her. ‘Are you okay, ma’am?’

  Damn damn damn. She couldn’t even talk to herself in this place! And now she was crying. She got up and fossicked in her bag for a tissue, but it was too late — her face was falling apart on her. Her stomach was caving inwards. She was sobbing.

  The light knock on the door was repeated. ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she croaked through what was left of her vocal cords.

  ‘Would you let me come in for a minute?’ The voice was gentle and friendly. And female — before she knew what she was doing, Briony had opened the door. ‘Do me a favour,’ she whispered, trying to smile. ‘Don’t call me ma am.’ The smile was a big mistake. It creased up her face so she lost control of it again, but she found herself held against a warm body.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Leonie guided her to sit on the bed. ‘You’re allowed to be upset. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ She switched on the electric jug and left Briony to sob freely to its steadily growing rattle.

  The tea was handed to her in a delicately flowered cup and saucer, so she had to control herself enough to hold it steady. Was that why they always gave people tea when they’d had a shock? It hadn’t occurred to her before. Maybe it was nothing to do with what was in the cup — just a matter of getting the nervous system to restore a small area of normal control.

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ asked Leonie. She sat at the other end of the bed. ‘I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say you couldn’t eat a thing.’

  Briony registered the nervousness in her voice. Funny to realise that this was difficult for the other woman — that Leonie was nervous of her, and of the state she was in.

  ‘There’s no room service in the hotel,’ Leonie continued, ‘but the Chinese on the corner might still be open. I’ll see if I can get you some take-away. Just do me a favour and keep the door locked while I’m gone.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Briony stood up. ‘Let’s go together. What I want more than anything is a walk. I’m just desperate for some air.’

  They walked up towards Knightsbridge in the deepening twilight, letting the rumble of traffic substitute for conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Briony said eventually. ‘I don’t suppose this hotel situation is any more fun for you than for me. I didn’t mean to make it worse by — ’

  ‘You have a right to your feelings, you know.’ Leonie’s tone was firm. ‘You don’t have to apologise for them. And as a matter of fact I was pleased to take this assignment. I felt privileged. People have got a lot of respect for you, you know, especially the other women in the CID. You’re the one who’s shown us what we can try to be in the job. Maybe it sounds a bit corny saying this to your face, but sometimes I think — I bet she doesn’t even know how people see her.’

  Well that bit was true, for sure. Briony was amazed. ‘But I’ve been so narky with you, Leonie.’

  ‘True,’ Leonie said brightly. I won’t say there haven’t been times in the last few days when I could have tipped my coffee over your head. I’m just trying to tell you that there’s another side to it, because I can see you know what you’re doing. You’ve got the instincts.’ There was a pause. ‘Except when it comes to choosing accommodation. There, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think I could have done a lot better myself.’

  They were turning into the Brompton Road, where the lights on the Harrods building shone out against the ultramarine sky.

  Briony managed a laugh. ‘You think we should have got a nice little apartment up this way? Can’t see the Met picking up the bill, somehow.’

  ‘It’s a shame you had to come back from your holiday. Whereabouts did you go?’

  ‘Wales. It was cold and wet.’

  ‘So you weren’t tempted to go back there? Pick up where you left off?’

  ‘Nothing left to pick up,’ Briony said quietly. ‘I seem to have split up with the person I went with.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Leonie spoke with feeling. ‘On top of what’s happened with Commander Macready. No wonder you broke down. I’d have been a cot case. Was it a long-term relationship?’

  ‘Couple of years. Off and on.’

  ‘Off and on as in going out with other people sometimes?’

  ‘Off and on as in living a long way apart. Doing two jobs that keep swallowing us whole. He’s a journalist. We had to depend on free weekends to see each other and — well — you can imagine.’

  ‘Course.’ Leonie nodded steadily. ‘But if it’s like that, maybe it’s not really a split-up. Maybe it’s just part of the pattern you’ve got into.’

  ‘No. This time it’s different. Funny — it started as a misunderstanding, but somehow it got pushed over the edge. He was really angry with me for breaking up the holiday, but it wasn’t a heated kind of anger, you know? It was cold anger. I can’t get him on the phone, and if I could I doubt he’d even speak to me.’

  ‘But you have to talk to him. I mean, he won’t know about Macready, will he? Or the danger to you. He might see things differently when you tell him about that. He might rally round. He’d probably be on the next plane over with his Adam Adamant cloak flying behind him.’

  Briony huffed. ‘Not quite his style, Leonie.’

  *

  Keisha lay on the divan lazily conducting Dr Hook and the Medicine Show with her manicured hands.

  “‘Queen of the Silver Dollar,” that’s me. Gimme a wine glass, a barstool and I’m it. Smokey Kingdom. How’d I end up in this type of a kingdom instead — all on my own ninety per cent of the time? That’s what I don’t understand. You think I should go back to bar work? Aidan? Ade, are you even listening to a word I say?’

  ‘Whether I’m listenin or not,’ said Aidan, ‘I’m hearin you. Just like I’m hearin that zombie stuff you got on the turntable.’

  Keisha swung to an upright position. ‘What d’you mean “zombie”? What’s wrong with it?’

  Aidan didn’t respond. He was slumped on a dining chair, feet splayed under the Formica table, staring at the remains of his meal.

  ‘What you got against Dr Hook?’ Keisha sounded genuinely offended. She went over and took the needle off the record, then stood looking at her brother, the frown lines deepening on her forehead. ‘You know what? When you invited yourself over for dinner I was thinkin I might be getting some pleasant company for a change, but I guess I gotta learn not to be an optimist.’

  ‘Don’t give up optimism on my account. And if you want to spend your life as a cocktail waitress, I say you should do just that. You should do whatever keeps the adrenalin runnin, cos when it stops you begin to catch sight of things you’d be best off not to see.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Keisha swept up the used dinner plates and put them through the hatch into the kitchen. ‘Wha
t’s up with you, Ade? You seen somethin bad?’

  ‘I’m thinkin police work isn’t for me. Not any more.’

  ‘Hey!’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘Steady up. That’s a whole career you got goin there — not just some ten-bob-an-hour job. You got respect, man. You got prospects. Gonna be Inspector this and Detective that. Mr Mention. You want some ice-cream?’

  ‘I’m serious, Keisha. I’m swapping tribes.’

  She gave him a little punch. ‘And I’m not going to let you be serious. Swappin tribes! What d’you think this is — the jungle?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He smiled. ‘That’s where those kids down the World’s End are stealin a march on the rest of them, see? They understand that. It’s all tribal. There’s the law tribe and the fashion tribe and the city suits and the dirty workers. And there’s the colour tribes. He held up three fingers — that’s Pakis, Afros and Rastas. Nobody wants to be in the dirty-worker tribe so they’re all going on strike or stickin pins in their noses and revertin to the feral condition, which leaves the colour tribes to do all the dirty work. That’s how it’s going to be.’

  ‘You think mixing drinks and driving cabs is dirty work?’

  ‘Keisha, you said yourself you gotta be white to get a day job. Or a job that doesn’t hide you away from the sun in some factory or basement. And there’s another tribe. White Riot — you know about them?’

  ‘Course I know about them. Bunch of criminals. That’s your job, Aidan — you got to get them prosecuted.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Job of the law tribe is to keep everyone in their place. White Riot is only the noisy frontline of the silent majority. You think detective work is about finding out what’s going on? Man, they go out of their way not to find out what’s happenin, because nobody wants to know.’

  ‘What you going to do then?’

  ‘Going to do some finding out of my own accord.’

  *

  Sharon wasn’t sleeping. She was curled up in an armchair wide awake, stroking the cat and thinking she was hearing things. Footsteps down below? A creaking noise out on the landing? Every so often the cat started purring like a warmed engine, and that banished the phantom sounds for a while.