The Caller

by Alex Barclay

  ‘How did you react when he told you?’

  ‘Well, I was devastated.’

  ‘But you recovered …’ said Joe.

  Julia looked up at him.

  ‘You recovered when you realized you had someone for the rest of your life that would do anything to make up for taking away your child.’

  ‘I’m not that cynical,’ said Julia.

  ‘Come on,’ said Joe. ‘You knew what you were doing.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ said Julia. ‘Stan had become a really dear friend. I lost my son, I lost my husband. I could not lose someone else. I just couldn’t. No-one could bring Robin back. Stan wasn’t a bad person. There was nothing to be gained by shutting him out.’

  ‘It sounds to me like a little circle of people—’

  ‘Of friends,’ said Julia. ‘Families have blood ties. We had … different loyalties. But we were all friends.’

  ‘OK. What happened that night at the clinic?’

  ‘The killer came back for Mary. No-one was in the building except me. I heard noises in one of the apartments, so I walked in. He swung around and his gun went off. It was a reflex. He wasn’t aiming. He missed me. I was screaming, Mary was screaming. Stan came rushing in and … Stan shot him. It was self-defence. It all happened so fast.’

  Joe’s face was impassive. Inside, he was raging. ‘What happened to Mary?’

  ‘It was all so confusing, the noise, the gunshots … she crawled past us and ran down the hallway. We were all in shock. She hid in one of the rooms. I ran after her.’

  ‘Where was Stan?’

  ‘He … wrapped the body in the sheets that were in the room, then in plastic and … buried him.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘So that’s when Mary called us?’

  Julia nodded. ‘I guess so. I told Stan to find her and take her away to the new clinic. She’d made it down to the supply room in the lobby. You probably ran past it on your way in …’

  Danny let out a breath.

  ‘It was terrible,’ said Julia. ‘It nearly broke Stan’s heart having to take her away the way he did. He had to restrain her. Someone he cares about so much—’

  ‘You and Stan are going to have to come with us,’ said Joe. ‘And we need to see Mary.’

  ‘She’s just outside. Please, though, let me call Magda Oleszak and tell her. Maybe you can bring Mary to her. I don’t want her having to come to the police station.’

  ‘OK,’ said Danny.

  Mary was kneeling in front of the flower-beds, slamming her hands on top of them, weeping and crying out her brother’s name. Joe walked across the grass towards her and watched her destroy the freshly planted flowers, leaving orange and yellow petals strewn across the soil.

  Joe hunkered down beside her. ‘Mary?’

  She looked up at him, tears shining in her pale eyes.

  ‘Mary. Did you see something?’

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. Joe laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  ‘You’re not in any trouble, Mary.’

  She shook her head. ‘I have to be.’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘You don’t.’

  She bowed her head and cried harder and harder.

  Julia turned to Joe. ‘This clinic is my life. I just didn’t want it associated with any negative publicity. We’re just about to open this one. There’s a lot at stake. A lot of people’s lives depend on us. I am so terribly sorry for how this has ended. But it was for the best intentions.’ She paused. ‘Do you know what it’s like to want something at all costs?’

  EPILOGUE

  The sulphurous smell of death filled the crime scene tent that stood in the quietest corner of the grounds behind the Colt-Embry Homes. The flower-bed ran through the centre, its bright blooms in contrast to everything around it: the steady rainfall on the roof, the set faces of the detectives, the body under the surface.

  A tall blond crime scene tech stood in front of Danny and Joe, squeezing the contents of a clear plastic bag to blend the powder and water inside it.

  ‘Dental stone,’ said Joe, shaking his head.

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Danny.

  The technician crouched down by a boot print and released the liquid so it poured slowly around the ridges without disturbing the soil. He let it spill out over the top, then stepped back and sealed the bag. Three more technicians used small shovels and sifters to gradually expose the body, buried just two feet under the surface.

  One of them looked up. ‘So someone finished him off for you.’

  Joe looked through him.

  ‘Least you got him,’ said the tech.

  Joe shrugged. ‘You know what? I have a funeral to go to Saturday. The guy you’re digging up there killed one of my men. We did not get him … not the way we wanted.’

  ‘I was ready for a perp walk,’ said Danny. His tone was flat.

  Joe stared at the leather cuff on Blake’s stone-white wrist, his hand half-pushing through the soil as if he was trying to reach out.

  ‘The beetle,’ said Joe. ‘I was right. He had all that leather in his house …’

  ‘Nice work, detective,’ said Danny.

  ‘Come on,’ said Joe. ‘Let’s go get some air.’

  Shaun was sitting alone at the dinner table when Joe got back.

  ‘Where’s your mom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I heard about Tara …’

  Shaun nodded.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  Shaun smiled at him. ‘Dad, it’s OK. You don’t have to talk to me about stupid stuff when, like, Old Nic’s son has died and you nearly got—’

  ‘How you are doing is what I’d like to know,’ said Joe, shrugging. He grabbed a plate and helped himself to spaghetti.

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Shaun.

  ‘Good,’ said Joe.

  ‘My heart will go on.’ He was smiling.

  Joe laughed. ‘Look … about college …’

  Shaun’s smile faded. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Look, I’m going to college, Dad, OK? I have another few months before my applications have to be in. I need to think about it.’

  ‘But you are going? That is what you want?’

  Shaun rolled his eyes. ‘Of course it’s what I want. It’s just it was all too much trying to think about it. I mean, it’s deciding where I want to live for the next few years, what I want to do with my life. That’s big stuff.’

  Joe breathed out. ‘Well, I’m glad.’

  ‘How are you?’ said Shaun.

  Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘Me? I’m great.’

  Shaun didn’t question him.

  Joe’s cell phone rang – private number. He stood up and walked into the darkened living room.

  Duke Rawlins’ voice was quiet menace: ‘The grave was a beautiful touch.’

  ‘Yeah? I thought you’d like it,’ said Joe.

  ‘You got your old friend to take a little trip here, didn’t you? I guess he did as you told him. Paid some teenage dirtbag to dig right alongside Donnie. There’s not a whole hell of a lot of space there. Probably fit a small woman. Or a child.’

  Joe said nothing.

  ‘He can’t be much of a friend if you sent him my way,’ said Duke.

  Joe’s heart pounded as he thought of Patti Nicotero, already bereaved.

  Rawlins’ voice was quieter when he spoke again. ‘I guess you knew it was the one place I’d come back to. You couldn’t stand not knowing where I was for all those months, what I was doing, who I was doing it with …’

  Anna walked into the living room. Her eyes sparkled. Her hair was newly cut. It fell to her shoulders, dark and shiny, split at one side. He smiled at her. She held out her arms. Her white top rode up and he could see her tiny belly. He was hit with love, regret, fear, guilt, shame. She opened her mouth to speak. Joe held a finger to his lips, but kept smiling. And listening.

  It’s a powerful thing to be up close, sucked into the dead space of a killer,
having to touch him, observe him, get answers from him, invest in him. Most people saw Duke Rawlins only in a photograph in a newspaper, from a safe remove – where they couldn’t sense what was rotting from inside him. In the flesh, it seeped out every way it could – through the soulless eyes, through unbrushed teeth and unwashed skin. Joe had forced Anna to cross that boundary unprepared. She was torn from the comfortable world Joe had helped create and plunged into Duke Rawlins’ twisted little universe. It felt like an illusion now, that Joe had sold her some bullshit dream he could never follow through on.

  Joe looked at Anna and a shiver ran up his spine. Duke Rawlins had stalked her, held her, breathed on her, carried her, struck her, drawn a knife across her perfect skin …

  Anna turned to leave and looked back at Joe over her shoulder, her eyes lighting up, her smile going right to his heart.

  He hung up the phone.

  One thing Rawlins hadn’t done: he hadn’t broken her.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to my agent, Darley Anderson and everyone at The Darley Anderson Literary Agency – an amazing and talented team.

  Thanks to Editorial Director and legend, Wayne Brookes.

  Thanks to Amanda Ridout, Lynne Drew and everyone at HarperCollins.

  To Tony Purdue and Moira Reilly – thank you for your hard work and fabulous company.

  I am so grateful to all the experts who helped with my research. Special thanks to Stephen A. Di Schiavi, retired NYPD Homicide Detective. Thanks also to George Farinacci, Lieutenant FDNY and Dominick Albergo, retired NYPD Detective; Reggie Britt, former First Grade Homicide Detective, NYC; David G. Aggleton and associates; Paul J. Cascone, Senior Vice-President of Technology, The Argen Corporation; Professor Marie Cassidy; Andrew Dalsimer MD; Dr Alice Flaherty; Paul Keogh; Professor Nicholas Manos; Elliott Moorhead; Dr Paul Siu; Elton Strauss MD; Joanne P. Tangney; Dr Erin Grindley Watson.

  Thanks to Kelly O’Hara for being so generous with her time and knowledge.

  For everything they give to those lucky enough to come their way, thanks to Sue Booth-Forbes; Maureen and Donal O’Sullivan and family; Anna Phillips; Mary Maddison; Maggie Deas and Matthew Higgins.

  To my wonderful and supportive family and friends – you make it all worthwhile.

  Special thanks, always, to Brian and Dee.

  If you enjoyed The Caller, read Alex Barclay’s debut

  novel Darkhouse.

  PROLOGUE

  New York City

  Edgy hands slid across the narrow belt, securing it in place on the tiny eight-year-old waist. Donald Riggs pointed to the small box attached.

  ‘This is like a pager, honey, so the police can find you,’ came his lazy drawl.

  ‘Because you’re going home now. If your mommy is a good girl. Is your mommy a good girl, Hayley?’

  Hayley’s mouth moved, but she couldn’t speak. She bit down on her lip and looked up at him, beaming innocence. She gave three short nods. He smiled and slowly stroked her dark hair.

  The fourth day without her daughter was the final day Elise Gray would have to endure a pain she could barely express. She breathed deeply through anger and rage, guilty that it was caused more by her husband than the stranger who took away her child. Gordon Gray’s company had just gone public, making him a very wealthy man and an instant target for kidnap and ransom. The family was insured – but that was all about the money, and she didn’t care about the money. Her family was her life and Hayley, her shining light.

  Now here she was, parked outside her own apartment at the wheel of her husband’s BMW, waiting for this creep to call her on the cell phone he left with the ransom note. Yet it was Gordon who dominated her thoughts. The insurance company had told the couple to vary their routine but, good God, what would Gordon know about varying his routine? This was a man who brewed coffee, made toast, then lined up an apple, a banana and a peach yoghurt – in that order – every morning for breakfast. Every morning. You stupid man, thought Elise. You stupid man and your stupid, stupid, rituals. No wonder someone was waiting outside the apartment for you. Of course you were going to show up, because you show up every day at the same time bringing Hayley home from school. No detours, no stops for candy, just right on time, every time.

  She banged her head on the steering wheel as the cell phone on the seat beside her lit up. As she fumbled to answer it, she realised it was playing Sesame Street. He’d actually set the tone to Sesame Street, the sick bastard.

  ‘Drive, bitch,’ each word slow and deliberate.

  ‘Where am I going?’ she asked.

  ‘To get your daughter back, if you’ve been behavin’ yourself.’ He hung up.

  Elise started the engine, put her foot on the gas and swung gently into the traffic. Her heart was thumping. The wire chafed her back. By calling the police in that first hour, she had set in motion a whole new ending to this ordeal. She just wasn’t sure if it was the right ending.

  Detective Joe Lucchesi sat in the driver’s seat, watching everything, his head barely moving. His dark hair was cut tight, with short slashes of grey at the sides. He questioned again whether Elise Gray was strong enough to wear a wire. He didn’t know where the kidnapper would lead her or how she would react if she had to get any closer to him than the other end of a phone. He had barely raised his hand to his face when Danny Markey – his close friend of twenty-five years and partner for five – started talking.

  ‘See, you got the kinda jaw a man can stroke. If I did that, I’d look like an idiot.’

  Joe stared at him. Danny was missing a jawline. His small head blended without contour into his skinny neck. Everything about him was pale – his skin, his freckles, his blue eyes. He squinted at Joe.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  Joe’s gaze shifted back to Elise Gray’s car. It started to move. Danny gripped the dashboard. Joe knew it was because he expected him to pull right out. Danny had a theory; one of his ‘black and whites’, as he called them. ‘There are people in life who check for toilet paper before taking a crap. And there’s the ones who shit straightaway and find themselves fucked.’ Joe was often singled out. ‘You’re a checker, Lucchesi. I’m a shitter,’ he would say. So they waited.

  ‘You know Old Nic is getting out next month,’ said Danny. Victor Nicotero was a lifer, a traffic cop one month shy of retiring. ‘You goin’ to the party?’

  Joe shook his head, then sucked in a sharp breath against the pain that pulsed at his temples. He could see Danny hanging for an answer. He didn’t give him one. He reached into the driver’s door and pulled out a bottle of Advil and a blister pack of decongestants. He popped two of each, swallowing them with a mouthful from a blue energy drink hot from the sun.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Danny, ‘your in-laws are in from Paris that night, right?’ He laughed. ‘A six-hour dinner with people you can’t understand.’ He laughed again.

  Joe pulled out after Elise Gray. Three cars behind him, a navy blue Crown Vic with FBI Agents Maller and Holmes followed his lead.

  ***

  Elise Gray drove aimlessly, searching the sidewalks for Hayley as though she would show up on a corner and jump in. The tinny ringtone broke the silence. She grabbed the phone to her ear.

  ‘Where are you now, Mommy?’ His calm voice chilled her.

  ‘2nd Avenue at 63rd Street.’

  ‘Head south and make a left onto the bridge at 59th Street.’

  ‘Left onto the bridge at 59th Street.’ Click.

  The three cars made their way across the bridge to Northern Boulevard East, everyone’s fate in the hands of Donald Riggs. He made his final call.

  ‘Take a left onto Francis Lewis Boulevard, then left onto 29th Avenue. I’ll be seein’ you. On your own. At the corner of 157th and 29th.’

  Elise repeated what he said. Joe and Danny looked at each other.

  ‘Bowne Park,’ said Joe.

  He dialled the head of the task force, Lieutenant Crane then handed the phone to Danny and nodded for hi
m to talk.

  ‘Looks like the drop-off’s Bowne Park. Can you call in some of the guys from the 109?’ Danny put the phone on the dash.

  Donald Riggs drove smoothly, his eyes moving across the road, the streets, the people. His left hand moved over the rough tangle of scars on his cheek, faded now into skin that was a pale stain on his tanned face. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror, opening his dark eyes wide. He raised a hand to run his fingers through his hair, until he remembered the gel and hairspray that held it rigid and marked by the tracks of a wide-toothed comb. At the back, it stopped dead at his collar, the right side folding over the left. He had a special lady to impress. He had splashed on aftershave from a dark blue bottle and gargled cinnamon mouthwash.

  He turned around to check on the girl, lying on the floor in the back of the car and covered by a stinking blanket.

  It was four-thirty p.m. and five detectives were sitting in the twentieth Precinct office of Lieutenant Terry Crane as Old Nic shuffled by, patting down his silver hair. Maybe they’re talking about my retirement present, he thought, narrowing his grey eyes, leaning towards the muffled voices. If it’s a carriage clock, I’ll kill them. A watch he could cope with. Even better, his boy Lucchesi had picked up on his hints and spread the word – Old Nic was planning to write his memoirs and what he needed for that was something he’d never had before: a classy pen, something silver, something he could take out with his good notebook and tell a story with. He put a bony shoulder to the door and his cap slipped on his narrow head. He heard Crane briefing the detectives.

  ‘We’ve just found out the perp is heading for Bowne Park in Queens. We still don’t have an ID. We got nothing from canvassing the neighborhood, we got nothing from the scene – the guy jumped out, picked up the girl and drove off at speed, leaving nothing behind. We don’t even know what he was driving. This is just from the father who heard the screech from the lobby. We also got nothing from the package the perp dropped back the following day, just a few common fibres from the tape, nothing workable, no prints.’