Cal stands. His team are preparing to move the body.
‘What have we got?’
‘A bloody storm that’s making our job a nightmare.’
Georgie looks down at the streams of muddy water running across the brown rubber surface below the swings, the rain streaking across the frame, the sodden mess of Alexis’s clothes. Grass and dirt beyond, heavy with puddles.
‘Any chance of footprints?’
Cal snorts.
‘Blood spatter? Tyre tracks?’
The car park is potholed tarmac and gravel, flooded.
‘We’re looking, Georgie. I did find this. Seems it had fallen out of his pocket.’
She takes what is being offered. Inside the evidence bag is a stylish black Moleskine day planner. It’s lying open. The page is wet, but the writing is legible. She stares at it.
‘He used to make house calls,’ says Cal. ‘As well as working out of his front room.’ He grunts, could be clearing his throat, could be something else. A lot of the village folk took against the idea of a psychotherapist when he moved in. Georgie doesn’t know why. He was just another kind of doctor, wasn’t he, trying to help people. Though it was a PhD he had. He was very proud of it, too. He’d told her once that he was saving up for a proper office to work out of; he’d always had big plans.
‘Probably used his phone for most stuff, like everyone else.’
She looks at him, hopeful, but he shakes his head.
‘No sign of a phone. Still, you’ll know who that is. Yesterday’s appointment. Worth checking out.’
Monday. His last day. 11 a.m. Walter Mackie.
‘Walt?’ she says.
‘Aye.’
‘Well.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s a start. Thanks, Cal.’
They both stare out at the waves for a second. It looks dark green today, that sea. Like it’s infected. She doesn’t know where the colour comes from. Maybe algae. Can algae grow in the sea, or does it need something stagnant?
Her hair in her eyes, pushed back a fraction too late, leaving a sting of salt.
‘Well,’ says Cal, ‘I’ll let yous know what we find.’
‘Good. Thanks. And can we try to keep this quiet for now? Avoid the gossip. Last thing we need is meddling from—’
‘Course. But you’ll be calling in some help?’
She nods. Maybe they’ll send someone from the city. She’s reported it to headquarters already, had to leave a message, for crying out loud – though she’s never got the impression any of them care what happens in Burrowhead. ‘I’ve called some extra uniforms down for starters.’
They are lifting the body now. They’ve untangled his wrist from the swing chain. And something else. A shout goes up, a sudden rush of scrambling and Cal moves fast, stamps it underfoot to stop it from blowing away. A bit of paper, pushed under the body or fallen there. As he slips it quickly into a bag, she sees the words she was hoping not to see. Go home, it says. Nothing more. Her lack of surprise makes her throat ache.
‘Fingerprints,’ she says. ‘Ink. Paper. Anything.’
Cal nods. She can see the flashing lights of the car from Crackenbridge making its way through the village. Not subtle. But at least they’re here.
‘Right, I’ll check out Walt,’ Georgie says. ‘Then see what I can find at Dr Cosse’s flat. Trish? You’re with me. I want a door-to-door coordinated.’
‘What, now?’ Trish says.
‘Yes, right now.’ Georgie turns and strides past the horse and the donkey, rocking back and forth in the wind like the inane creatures they are. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to the world,’ she says. But her words are snatched by the wind, to be coated in salt and preserved for the apocalypse. Like jerky.
ABOUT TEN
Walt pulls his dressing gown close, like he’s cold, but he can’t be cold, not in this greenhouse.
‘Will I open a window, Walt?’ says Georgie.
He looks nervous, but that’s Walt. You can see him sometimes, in the village square, sitting in the fountain. Legs hanging out the side – can’t fit a whole man in there. Says he remembers when there was water in it, but that doesn’t explain much to Georgie. He’d still be sitting in a fountain then, with his legs dangling out the side, only his bottom would be all wet. There’s something about the memory, though. That fountain’s always been empty, for as long as she’s been here at least. She doubts if it’s plumbed in. But there is something good about the memory.
She pulls at the sash window, straining her back.
‘You’ve not painted this shut, have you, Walt?’
His knee is jigging up and down. He’s skinny as a scarecrow, Walt Mackie, old skin like sacking and freckled from head to toe. Trish is watching him. Stony, like she is sometimes. Georgie’s a bit worried about her, truth be told – it’s why she invited her along. She gives the window a final yank, feels the catch in her back, gives up and sits back down. Georgie and Trish on the sofa, Walt in his once-comfy armchair. It looks like something’s been nibbling at it.
‘So, Walt.’
‘They’ve gotta stay shut, see,’ he says. ‘Got to keep everything locked and bolted, in case they come.’
‘Who’s coming, Walt?’
‘Don’t you understand?’ he says, pleading eyes at Georgie, ignoring Trish. ‘Don’t you see?’
Georgie looks round the room, seven, eight, nine lights on, all different shapes and sizes. Ceiling and wall lights, floor standers and desk lamps. Every corner lit. And then there are the heaters, electric heaters, plugged into every socket. She didn’t know he’d got this bad.
‘The thing is, Walt, we were wondering where you were yesterday.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘That’s right.’
There are plants everywhere. Spider plants and geraniums, dragon trees and cacti and aloe vera, succulents cascading from tables. Georgie looks for signs of dehydration, wilting in the heat, but they are all green and lush. Good leaves. He must spend a long time watering them. Caring for them.
‘Yesterday was a bad day,’ he says.
‘Did you go out, Walt? See anyone?’
‘They were hanging round by my fountain,’ he says. ‘The big gang of them. You’ve seen them, Georgie?’
‘You mean the kids?’
‘Not kids any more, that lot. No.’
‘Were you heading somewhere other than the fountain?’
‘I had to go all the way round, past the butchers. Don’t feel safe when they’re hanging round at the fountain.’
‘They’re not going to hurt you, Walt.’
Trish is staring at her. She’s got one hand clasped around her wrist, tight.
‘You went to the doctors, didn’t you?’ says Trish. Butting in, blunt and to the point. It’s her way. ‘Who did you see at the doctors?’
‘Not the doctors, no. Went to see Alexis. He doesn’t believe me, though, so not much point in going back.’
‘You go to Dr Cosse every week, don’t you?’
‘Aye, most weeks. You know, most of the time. Depends. I’ll not be going back though. Probably not, anyway. He doesn’t believe me.’
‘Doesn’t believe what?’
‘That they’re coming.’
‘Who?’ says Trish, leaning forward now, her gaze fixed on Walter.
‘Them,’ he says. ‘Them.’ Pointing up, up at the ceiling, up at the sky. His face breaks and he’s looking at Georgie, looking and staring at her like she knows the answer, like he needs her to understand. ‘They might come for you too, Georgie.’ Whispered to her, like if he turns his back to Trish and keeps his voice down she won’t be able to hear a word.
Trish hears though, of course she does.
‘Please tell me this isn’t about the Others again, Uncle Walt.’
Walt looks at Trish like he’s never seen her before, like she’s a total stranger to him and not his brother’s grandchild, the closest thing he’s got to family left in the village. But
sometimes those closest to us are not the ones we need. Georgie knows that. Thirty years of police work have taught her that.
‘There was this bright light, see,’ Walt says, turning away from Trish by swivelling in his chair and reaching out to Georgie. ‘It was all around, like I was looking up and there was this light surrounding me.’
‘He was at the dentist,’ Trish snaps.
‘Trish,’ says Georgie. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on for us? I could do with a nice cup of tea.’
‘Yeah,’ says Trish. ‘Yeah okay, you’re right, Georgie. I’ll get the biscuits. I put some custard creams in the cupboard the other day.’
‘That’s smashing. Thanks, Trish.’
So Trish leaves and clatters about in the kitchen, and Georgie and Walt are left alone in the heat with the succulents.
‘Lights out to sea, too,’ he says now, conspiratorial. ‘Hovering low.’
‘I see,’ says Georgie. ‘It could be the navy out there, though. Patrol boats, submarines. Helicopters, maybe.’
Walt sniffs, puts his finger to his lips.
Georgie can hear a noise. While she’s waiting for him to speak, below the clicking of the central heating and below the tap filling the kettle, there’s a noise from out in the hall, sort of a scurrying but lighter, more erratic. She’s trying to place it, blocking out the other sounds of the old house and listening, leaning forward and listening. But after a minute, during which both of them stay perfectly still, Walt leans back and starts humming to himself.
She’d thought he was going to tell her something important, at least something that was important to him. Something he didn’t want Trish to hear. But now it seems more like he’s forgotten why she’s here at all. She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. Must be headquarters, calling to say they’re sending a team over, some help. She’d not refuse some help.
‘Georgie,’ says Cal down the line. ‘Couple bits of news for you.’
‘Go on, Cal,’ she says, moving to the hall and out of earshot.
‘Two more entries in the day planner you’ll want to be aware of. Firstly, we’ve got a Kevin Taylor.’ Georgie recognises the name; can’t picture a face. ‘Three months back. Four sessions.’
‘Okay, that’s something.’
‘More intriguing is an entry made in pencil, then rubbed out by the looks of it. Not too well though – easy enough to read. It’s the initials N.P. Six weeks ago.’
‘N.P.?’
‘That’s what it says. Someone’s name, I guess—’
Georgie smiles. ‘New patient,’ she says. ‘It could stand for new patient.’
Cal grunts. ‘Should have thought of that one myself.’
‘But it might not…’
‘Well, other than that, diary’s been empty for months except for a few sketches of trees. Not sure why he’d even bother carrying it around.’
‘Right, thanks. What about time of death?’
‘Body temp puts it about 9 p.m. After dark, but not so late as I was expecting – that early there’d have been a risk of someone walking by. It was stupid, is what I’m saying. Possibly unplanned.’
‘Good. That’s helpful. Thanks, Cal.’
‘I’ll call when I’ve got more.’
As Georgie walks back into the living room, Walt’s head jolts upright as though he’d been asleep.
‘Are you round for tea?’ he says.
‘Not really. Look, Walt,’ Georgie tries again, ‘we need to know if you saw anything unusual when you went to meet Dr Cosse yesterday.’
He looks at her, confused. It’s heartbreaking to see old people looking so lost.
‘Someone hurt him, Walt. Someone hurt Alexis. That’s why we need to know. Did you see anything strange yesterday?’
He frowns as he’s trying to remember.
‘Them at the fountain,’ he says.
‘Anyone else?’
He shakes his head, but he’s still frowning and she can tell there’s something he knows. He just needs a minute to find it.
‘What is it, Walt?’
‘He looked very smart, is all. Even smarter than usual, like he’d made a special effort. Showed me his new cufflinks. Gold they were, these little gold clovers. Meant to be lucky, them.’
‘Did he need extra luck for something yesterday?’
‘Oh no, he’d already had the luck, see. He’d got his citizenship – came through that morning, he said. I figured he’d be off to celebrate. Smash some plates and whatnot. But he didn’t understand.’
Georgie leans forward. ‘Didn’t understand what?’
‘That they’re coming for me.’
‘The Others?’
‘Aye, Georgie. Aye. Coming to take me away again.’
His dressing gown is clasped too tight around him now, his knuckles white with holding it and Georgie knows he believes it, with everything he is.
‘Again?’
‘Like last year, you know? When I went missing? But of course they’re going to come back. Not going to leave me here, are they? Are they?’
‘It’s okay, Walt. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Have I?’ His eyes hopeful now as Trish arrives back with the tea.
‘Yes, Walt. Yes.’
‘Have a custard cream,’ Trish sighs. ‘There now. You like a custard cream.’
Georgie sips her tea and it reaches half past ten and they all listen to the striking of the cuckoo clock as the pendulum swings and the cuckoo grinds out of its house – just once, and the mechanism is old, you can hear the cogs turning – then retreats back inside.
‘What about when you left?’ Georgie says.
‘Left where?’
‘Dr Cosse’s office. Yesterday, Walt.’
He looks down and notices the biscuit crumbs caught in his dressing gown, in the dip of fabric above his stomach. He moves to brush them away then thinks better of it, collects them on his index finger and pops them into his mouth. His hand is shaking.
‘Remember yesterday?’
‘Yesterday?’
‘After you left Alexis. Did you see anything then, anyone on the street, anything outside?’
He closes his eyes, and Georgie isn’t sure at first whether he is thinking or has fallen asleep. But then he speaks, still with his eyes closed.
‘Butchers was closed for lunch. Sign on the door, back at two. A bicycle chained to the lamp post over the street. Alexis’s car parked in front of the Spar. No one in the Spar but Pamali. She waved. I like Pamali. I walked home the long way, avoiding the fountain. Nothing else.’ He opens his eyes. ‘Nothing else,’ he says again.
‘That’s really good, Walt,’ says Georgie. ‘Thank you.’
He’s looking down at his chest again, shaking his head, seeing more crumbs.
‘Really,’ she says, standing up and going to kneel by his chair. She takes his hand and he looks in her eyes. ‘Thank you, Walt.’
‘Is he dead?’ Walt says.
‘Yes, Walt,’ says Georgie. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Walt shakes his head, shakes it like it’s too heavy for his neck to keep on holding it up. ‘This place,’ he says. ‘There’s evil in the ground here, Georgie. Down in the soil.’
For a second – only a second, mind – Georgie thinks it’s true, feels it so close she could touch.
But all the villagers are used to death, in a way. Georgie too. It’s a part of living in the country, accepting death. And there’s an ageing population here, no doubts about that – often enough people die at home, in Burrowhead. This murder, though, it’s a new kind of darkness. Georgie shakes her head, same as Walt. She’s not equipped for this. Not any more. Doesn’t want to fall back into it.
‘Should we get going?’ Trish says. Then, under her breath, ‘He’ll be needing his nap after that.’
Georgie stands and says thanks to Walt again and checks her phone but there’s nothing – no reply from headquarters, no word from the city. She has this sudden feeling like she’s all
on her own, like no one is coming to help.
‘I’m sorry,’ Trish says once they’re back out on the street. ‘He’s lost in his own world.’ She says it like she’s angry with him for having such a bad sense of direction.
‘But we passed the Spar on the way here,’ says Georgie.
‘Well, he can just about make it to the Spar on a good day.’
‘No, I mean… Dr Cosse’s surgery is above the Spar.’
‘His surgery was his front room, Georgie, in his flat above the Spar. And he wasn’t a real doctor.’
‘I know that. But there was no car parked outside, was there? So where did he drive to, in his smart suit with his gold cufflinks – that he wasn’t wearing when we found the body – sometime after noon yesterday? After he got his good news and refused to believe your Uncle Walt about the Others, where did he go?’
TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AFTER THE VILLAGE MISFORTUNE
The village of Burrowhead has three roads, and a number of inadequately paved side streets. The three roads are called High Street, Main Street and Church Street. They form a triangle of sorts, a little lopsided as it is, that encloses the village square, which is not really a square at all.
In the village square there is a fountain with no water. Grass covers the ground from the edge of the fountain to the kerbs of the three roads, though whether it was originally planted to be a sort of small village green or if it has grown up over the years, as weeds tend to do, is unclear. Beyond the corners of the triangle each road continues for a while and then ends in a different way.
When the Dead Come Calling Page 2