When the Dead Come Calling

by Helen Sedgwick

  On the drive back to Burrowhead, Trish is quiet. Very quiet, for Trish.

  There’s a dark line of cloud clinging low.

  ‘You okay, Trish?’ she asks. Though of course none of them are okay; Alexis was part of their village.

  ‘This place,’ Trish says. ‘It’s my home, you know. It’s a part of me, but my God. The stuff that goes on.’

  They’re approaching Burrowhead. Spitting rain sharp as gravel on the windscreen. The street lights look garish in the dull dark of evening – they leave everything else in shadows of black.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, Trish?’

  ‘It’s just… I’m going to fix this place.’ Her voice sounds angry, and Georgie wonders if she’s been hurt in ways she doesn’t know about. ‘I’m going to sort it out, even if I have to arrest half the inhabitants myself and lock them all up.’

  The Spar stands out soon as they reach High Street, pale green like a fresh shoot surrounded by old leaf mulch. Pamali was hoping the residents would be inspired, paint their own house fronts blue and pink and yellow – they wanted none of it, though. Burrowhead is chipped white turning grey, and stubborn with it too. There’s a cluster of birds, black birds, bright orange beaks, right outside the shop, and suddenly Georgie slams on the brakes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw—’

  She saw something, out in the alley beside Alexis’s flat, a shadow, something more – she felt it, crawling over her skin, the back of her neck. Something slick and wrong. She gets out of the car; looks around. Trish is behind her. But the alley is empty. Slowly, she retraces her steps, finds herself standing at the door to Alexis’s flat. The crime scene tape looks garish in this light. Cal’s team have finished their work, padlocked the front.

  For a moment Georgie stares out into the gloom. There’s nothing here. No one except them.

  END OF THE WORKING DAY

  Walt Mackie likes a walk on the beach, end of the day, see off the sun and show the moon she’s welcome, and the truth is Walt likes the night better than the days, some of the time. He likes the peace that comes with night, at least out here on the beach. It’s a solitary sort of time, this, and Walt’s okay with that. He’s a solitary sort of man, these days, just his Trish he cares for really. Everyone else left long ago, but not him. He’s stayed put, waiting for them to come back for him. Waiting for the land to recognise him and show him the way, like in the days before. He can see it as it was fifty years back, him and Arthur and Big Jack, the dawn sun striking the menhir just so, their voices rising to meet the birds’ chorus. But where are they now? One dead and one dead to the world, everything worse now they’ve gone. One man alone isn’t enough for the old ways. Still, he’s rooted in this place, in the ancient soil and stone of it, like the pebbles on this beach, battered by the sea so long their edges are smooth as feathers. And they will come for him, that’s something he knows; the Others will come for him. He needs to be patient, show he’s one of them, untouched by time, or by the times. No one by the fountain tonight at least, the village square was empty when he passed, the footpath out to the beach silent. He didn’t go via the playground, couldn’t manage the track down the cliffs, hasn’t tried for years, no, he took the footpath out of the village and walked the long way down to the shore. From where he is now he can’t even see the cliffs; the coast curves round, north of Burrowhead, to this sheltered bay of rounded pebbles and unexpected grasses grown up through the stone.

  His legs are getting sore, though; old legs, old body. He’s tired of it, wants to be lighter than this, to move like a young man again. Sitting down, the pebbles nudge against each other, refuse to settle into any one position – they’re too old to rest comfortably, just like him. He pushes his hands down between them, unafraid of the damp or the seaweed that clings in layers below the surface, and looks out to the gentle peaks and dips of the beach that have been left behind by retreating waves. It is beautifully empty. Not a thing that doesn’t belong, just the pebbles, the rock pools, the silver of the sea where the clouds thin out and let the moonlight through, and he closes his eyes. The rain was still drizzling when he arrived, but not any more. With his eyes closed the air feels suddenly clear, freshened by the day’s storm and sweet where once there had been salt. When he opens them again, there is something down by the lapping tide. He watches it for a while, the way it rises and falls with the waves, the way it half floats and half sinks, and the colour of it almost translucent; he has no idea what it can be. It is for him, though. The beach is making that clear.

  He stands, steady on his feet now, and walks calmly to the tideline, his dressing gown dipping into the water and his feet so numb they’re oblivious to the cold. Actually, he feels like he is floating, hovering over the stones, and when he bends down to pick up the waterlogged holdall it seems lighter to him than paper. It must be for the pebbles; they are beautiful, shimmering below the waves. He bends down and starts to collect them, placing them one by one inside the bag until it feels like a real thing, with substance and weight, and then he knows his work is done. He begins the slow walk back towards the land, follows the footpath round to the village, and no one sees him as he passes except Simon, who has been out walking the hills alone, trying to empty his mind so he can sleep despite knowing he will not be able to.

  Having circled through the fields and trees and up along the coast path, avoiding the stretch near the playground, Simon’s heading back into the village when two things catch his attention. One, of course, is old Walt dripping wet, dressing gown hanging loose over waterproof walking trousers, the belt leaving ripples through the puddles along the pavement. He would have waved at Walt, had Walt noticed him, but Walt seems fixated on the sky, his neck craning upwards and his eyes blind to the street level entirely. Simon follows his gaze, and that’s when he sees the bird circling above him. It’s huge, dark, can’t tell whether it’s black or brown in the night, though it’s so dark it’s almost a shadow against the sky behind it, an omission of what should be there, and it seems to Simon that there’s something evil about it, though he pushes the thought away – it’s people who do evil things, that’s all, and he knows it. Still, the size of it, and it’s swooping lower now, Christ, he can’t shake the feeling that it’s seen him, that he’s the centre of its orbit as it circles lower, threatening to dive. Then the growl of the car driving down High Street, they’re like predators converging and he’s acting on instinct as he darts behind the hedge, only realising at the last minute that it’s Georgie driving past, and before he has time to think, she’s gone, heading out of the village behind him to follow the single-track road that leads out to her and Fergus’s place. It’s one of the oldest cottages hereabouts, and far enough out of the village for them to have remained apart from it in a way that he suspects Georgie and Fergus don’t realise – or at least would never comment on.

  Meanwhile Fergus has become so engrossed in his research that he’s clean forgotten to do the dinner, even though he’d said he would. The rituals associated with menhir and henge sites across Europe, with the boglands and the places where water meets earth; there’s something ancient and awesome that he can’t seem to stop reading about. He needs to get better images, an aerial survey of the whole area – imagine if there were structures under the soil, under the fields, that he could discover – and he’s found the perfect thing online. Georgie will understand, he’s sure, about the cost of it. Though as he hears her car pulling up outside he thinks maybe he’ll wait till morning to ask her. She’s opening the front door and he’s trying to pull himself away from what he’s writing when she calls out:

  ‘What’s for dinner, love?’

  He doesn’t answer. Soon she’s standing behind him, and he’s showing her what he’s created – the homepage with the photos, the landscape and local sites of interest, the old church ruin, then the people of the motte and the myths of the menhir.

  ‘Do you want to read it?’ he says, and even though she shudders he doesn’t stop
. ‘I’ve been working on this all day,’ he tells her. She replies that she is going to heat up yesterday’s stew. She’s had a rough day. The truth is that he barely hears her. The old ways, he’s written, have been passed down the centuries through stories whispered in the deepest phase of the night. The gathering at the menhir to choose the purest among them. The sacrifice made by three deaths on one body: a slit throat, a neck tied, a soul cast into the sea. He doesn’t join Georgie for dinner – he’s not interested in food. He stays downstairs reading even though he hears Georgie heading to bed. He doesn’t know where the time goes, he can’t have fallen that deeply asleep, not with his head on the desk and his arm dangling down to the carpet, but by the time he wakes and makes his way upstairs it’s beyond late at night; it is early morning. Too early for light, too early for the birds, too early for a cup of tea, though he has plans to bring Georgie breakfast, make up for forgetting about dinner. He knows how hard she works, knows what an awful day it must have been – can’t remember how he could have let himself become so absorbed in those stories of carved stone and human sacrifice. He has to stop. He reaches the landing and listens for the sound of breathing. Georgie, his Georgie, is dealing with death in the real world, and the least he can do is be here to support her through it. But when he pushes open the door to their room he finds the bed empty and Georgie already gone.

  WEDNESDAY

  SHEPHERD’S WARNING

  ‘This is a bad thing,’ says Georgie, standing at the doorway and pulling the SOCO-suit hood over her hat. She’s brought a beanie with her today, in the hope it’ll last out the wind. More streamline to the head. Not exactly standard issue, but what does that matter. ‘A bad, bad start to a Wednesday.’

  Cal’s face is masked in shadow, but from what she can see it looks like he’s not slept either. With a sigh he turns the body over. It is stiff with rigor mortis.

  ‘Oh, Bobby,’ she says.

  Her twang is strong this morning. Not a drawl, that’d be the wrong expression. It’s just that her words come slowly, each letter accentuated, as though every syllable is formed deliberately in her mouth before being spoken.

  ‘Aye, you knew him too then,’ says Cal. ‘I thought maybe, what with him being new to Warphill…’

  Outside the sirens are still going, and the light from the police cars takes turns to fill the room with a harsh blue glow then sink it back into darkness. No street lights out here. No sign of the sun but that deep red spill on the horizon.

  ‘Recent times he’s been the only cabby who’d come to Burrowhead out of peak season.’

  Georgie turns away from the body but it’s hard to know where else to look, there’s that much blood. It’s on the walls, splatters of it on the window. He must have been standing up, running maybe, running from the blade. No blood out here in the hall though, so the stabbing must have started and finished in the room there. The slashes are clear enough across his torso, his back too, one right down his face. There’s a bit of nostril hanging off, where the knife sliced clean through. She looks down at the carpet, tries to focus on that for a minute while she absorbs the shock of it. It’s making her feel quite nauseous, which is not what you want in her job, not what you want at all.

  It is dark, the carpet. Dark purple against the white of her shoe covers, and threadbare in places, though that’s disguised by the blood that must have seeped into it. And there’s a pattern on it, like ornate flowers or something. Dated. But then it would be, in these flats. No one’s lived here for that many years. They were supposed to be demolished once, but somehow it never happened – they were left to this slow crumbling decay instead. Empty, but haunted. Maybe the council will finally deal with them now. That helps her pull herself together a bit. She makes note of the cracked window, the mould crawling up one wall, the fag ends and broken bottles dropped over years of teenagers sneaking in here.

  ‘A commuter saw the knife, on his way up to the city for work. Called it in.’

  ‘Long way to travel,’ Georgie says.

  ‘Aye, good hour and a half. Don’t know why folks do it, myself.’

  ‘But it had been dropped there?’ she says. ‘The knife. After all this, just dropped outside?’

  Cal nods.

  It strikes her as a different sort of crime to yesterday’s. Stabbing, yes, but more erratic movements, with some surface slashing, hesitation maybe, and chasing too. Dr Cosse didn’t seem to have been chased at all. It was like it caught him by surprise. Not Bobby; Bobby had been afraid. Bobby had tried to escape.

  ‘Is there anything…’

  Cal turns back to her. He’s been thinking it too, of course, he’s shaking his head in response already.

  ‘No note,’ he says. ‘No paper at all, and nothing in the pockets. Nails bitten down, meaning we’re unlikely to get any DNA even if he did manage to scratch. But I’ll try, Georgie. I’ll try.’

  Georgie nods her thanks and pads over to the window across the hall. There are a few more cars about now, for sure. A few more lights. People will be driving up to Crackenbridge, or out to the fields, some of them. Not so much farming hereabouts as there used to be, but still a fair bit; got the cows, the sheep, potato fields in season and the abattoir the other side of Warphill. You can smell it. Still, Burrowhead’s got the salt. Always going to be something in the air that you’d prefer not to be there; trick is to accept it, when you can. The salt, Georgie decided a long time ago, was something she could live with. So she stayed in Burrowhead. She didn’t have to, but she did.

  ‘Cal?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Where are we with Alexis’s flat?’

  ‘We’ve pulled his phone records, for a start. There was a landline in the office, though he didn’t use it much. Dinner reservations now and then. The garage. A call to the council – that was the day the water went off a few weeks back. Guess he was reporting the problem.’

  ‘Him and the rest of Burrowhead.’

  ‘And Walt Mackie once a week. The day before his appointments, just a reminder, I would imagine. Kevin Taylor’s mum, few months back.’

  Georgie nods. It all makes sense. None of it helps.

  ‘Records from the missing mobile too… Mostly calls to your Simon.’ He holds her gaze then, until she turns away. ‘No surprises there.’

  ‘But he must have had more than two clients.’

  Cal shrugs. ‘I’ve got someone going through his computer and files. I’ll let you know if we find anything of interest.’

  Georgie turns back to the window. ‘Thanks,’ she says, her breath misting the pane for a second before vanishing again. She imagines Fergus sleeping through the morning and feels an unexpected surge of irritation. Surely not here in the village, he’d said. Why not here in the village? That’s what Georgie should have replied. But another car’s pulling up outside and soon as it’s arrived the engine’s off and Trish is out, slamming the door, locking up and running towards the flats. She’s not one to waste time with walking, not Trish. As Georgie hears her climb the stairs, she pushes the window open and leans out into the dawn. There’s a space down there, between the two blocks of flats. Dark, gloomy. There might be something. Perhaps the old wheelie bins? But the council would have had them back, surely. She straightens her shoulders and looks into the window of the flat opposite, lit up once a second by the spinning blue beam of the police car. There’s old furniture in there. A cupboard, with the door hanging wide. A metal bed frame. Old wallpaper that looks like it’s from the 1970s. It’s like a ghost town here, but worse. A ghost town would imply some historic tragedy; a ghost town would be emptied of everything but spirits, not drenched in blood. Georgie can feel a drop of sweat running down her back; she hates these suits, but she swallows down the creeping unease, pushes her shoulders back, takes a deep breath and plants her feet firmly onto the floor. There’s death here right now, in the present, that she needs to deal with, and there’s no reason to expect the violence has run its course.

  A DIFFERENT KIND
OF SKY

  Georgie turns to Trish, pulls the window closed behind her.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  The two women look at each other for a moment. They both know, without needing to say it, that a second murder means something and there’s no going back now.

  Trish takes in a large gulp of air then blows it out slowly through her pursed lips. ‘Fuck.’ She holds her arms around her body for a second. ‘Never thought I’d have to see anything like this.’

  She’s so petite, Trish, she looks like a kid to Georgie sometimes – she has to repress the urge to give her a hug.

  ‘Feels different, doesn’t it? To the other…’ Trish clears her throat. ‘To Pauly and Rachel last year, I mean.’

  They are the only other dead bodies they’ve investigated together.

  ‘That was…’ Georgie shakes her head. ‘I still feel it now.’ And they were just sixteen. She can’t understand it, why they did it, why like that.

  ‘They’ve planted two trees, at the school. Apple trees out by the sports field.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Georgie says. ‘Thoughtful. But you’re right, this violence is something else. There’s hate here.’ Georgie feels it like a pressure against her skin. Every time she pushes it away it seems to come back more insistently.

  ‘I was at school with Bobby Helmsteading,’ Trish says. ‘Primary school, for a while. In Warphill.’

  ‘He was raised here?’

  ‘Before he disappeared off to that boarding school, aye.’

  The longer Georgie stands here, the more the humidity is getting to her – it’s like all the blood is saturating the air, generating a heat she can’t explain. She sees the flash of blue sky through a coach window, her brother’s long legs stretching out under the seat in front, arms folded behind his head. Please, not here. She forces her mind back to Bobby, tries to picture him instead. That short brown hair, shaved close, the stubble, those broad shoulders on him, black jeans and a maroon shirt pulling tight around his back, like he was about ready to burst out of it – she’d noticed that when she was in his cab, the sheen of his shirt where the fabric stretched.