Mrs Helmsteading nods, and the two women face each other across the room.
‘Why did Bobby come back to Warphill?’
‘It’s his home,’ says Mrs Helmsteading. ‘Was his home. Of course he came back. Why would he not have come back?’
‘Of course,’ says Georgie. ‘Of course. It’s just… Why didn’t he come back straight after school, then? What’s he been doing these last few years?’
‘Man’s got to make his way in the world,’ says Mrs Helmsteading, sadly.
There’s no surprise, that’s the problem. She’s grieving, but she’s not been surprised by anything Georgie has asked.
‘Why did you decide to send him away to school?’
‘He was gifted.’
Georgie waits a beat.
‘My late husband thought it was a good idea.’
‘And who is this, in the photo here?’ Georgie asks. She picks up the frame, carefully, from its dust-edged position on the mantelpiece.
‘Oh,’ says Mrs Helmsteading.
That’s when she takes a step forward, and Georgie notices the shake in her legs.
She reaches up and takes the photo from Georgie, then strokes a finger, very carefully, over the girl’s cheek. Except that the photo is quite small, and her finger quite padded, so what she really does is smoosh her finger over the girl’s entire face. ‘That’s my daughter,’ she says, ‘that’s my little girl. That’s my Dawn.’
‘Is Dawn here now?’
Mrs Helmsteading shakes her head.
‘Was Dawn sent away to school too?’
‘No, Dawn stayed here. Dawn always stayed with us.’
‘I’d like to talk to her.’
Mrs Helmsteading looks up at Georgie, and the frame falls from her grasp.
‘Where is she?’ asks Georgie. ‘Where can I find Dawn now?’
Mrs Helmsteading leans her weight down on the corner of the coffee table, which almost topples but doesn’t.
‘I’d rather—’
‘Can you give me her number? I need to ask her a few questions—’
‘You’ll not upset her, will you?’
‘I’ll be sympathetic, Mrs Helmsteading. I promise you that.’
Mrs Helmsteading nods slowly, and writes a number on the pad of paper lying on the coffee table. Rips it out and offers it to Georgie, who thanks her for it. Then she bends her way slowly to the floor, where she sits down like a little girl. She just sits there cross-legged on the floor. There’s a slight stoop to her back, more pronounced now she’s down there. Her hair’s thinning a bit on top. She picks up the frame, and strokes at the photograph again, and then she looks up to Georgie and says, ‘She’s sensitive, my Dawny. You’ll not go getting her upset?’
Georgie’s phone vibrates in her pocket. About time too. It’s police headquarters. They might not care much about what happens in Burrowhead but she knew, after this morning, they’d have to step up.
DS Frazer will be with you by the afternoon, but you’re the SIO. Uniforms from Crackenbridge at your disposal. Sorry we can’t spare more people.
Trish is back, striding across the room.
‘What is it?’
Georgie shakes her head. She’s never heard of this DS Frazer. Suddenly the dog, with a crash of claws and paws, is sliding across the floor to where Trish stands frozen until, with the slightest movement and at the very last minute, she turns her foot to the side, catching the dog off balance and sending him hurtling into the leg of the coffee table.
Mrs Helmsteading looks up at them both from the floor. There are tears in her eyes, and a deep sadness that catches Georgie in the back of her throat.
‘I’m—’ Trish begins, but Mrs Helmsteading just shakes her head.
‘I think I’d like yous all to go away now.’
11:55
Trish is kicking herself on the way home. Just as Georgie was developing a bit of trust there, she had to go and trip up that dog. The scene keeps playing out in her mind, the way she turned her foot without thinking, Georgie’s stern look at her, Mrs Helmsteading throwing them out. What she should have done was to kneel down, catch the dog in her arms. Maybe ruffle his fur a bit. That’s how you set a dog lover at ease; show them you love their dog. She knows that now, of course. Too late. She wishes she had more poise, like Georgie does, and didn’t keep putting her foot in it, but it doesn’t come natural. Hopefully it’s about learning self-control, rather than having to work around the personality you’re born with. A light flashes to her left – the Slow Down sign she had installed last year. The speedometer says she’s doing thirty-six. She presses the brake a little too firmly; if Georgie hadn’t noticed she was speeding, she will have now. Her eyes flick to the passenger seat. Actually, Georgie’s staring out of the window and she seems unaware. Trish relaxes a bit. She’d love to know what it is Georgie’s thinking, staring intently out of the window like that. It’s a strange sort of morning, right enough. Dense cloud pierced by low light, blinding when it streams in through the windscreen there but not a patch of blue in sight. Just that stormy grey blowing through the sky, sinking deeper all the while.
This is the biggest case they’ve had round here, since she’s been back at least. She left a PC but came home a detective – got plenty of comments about what a waste it was too, newly qualified and returning to a rural station like this. No chance of promotion. No guarantee the station was even going to survive the next round of cuts, let alone the round after. Stuck on drug abuse and traffic violations, having to do the work of a uniform, any case that calls. Community policing, most of the time. But she knew it could be more than that, and this week, this proves it. There’s work to do here.
She pulls into the station car park, switches off the engine and opens the door in one swift movement. No one loitering on the corner today – folk must have got bored and gone home; that, or the storm cloud’s keeping them in this morning. Good. The station feels eerily quiet though, what with Simon at home and Andy off for lunch before they interview him about Bobby later. Georgie’s unlocking her office door and Trish is standing there awkwardly beside her.
‘I’m sorry…’ she starts, and Georgie looks at her, startled. ‘Sorry about the dog. I didn’t mean to…’
Georgie’s door swings open.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘Interesting, how protective she was. Let’s have a coffee and talk this all through.’
Trish grins. ‘I’ll get the kettle on.’ It gives her a chance to straighten her thoughts out too. They have leads, and she has ideas. Time to prove it. Some chocolate digestives on a plate – Georgie likes chocolate digestives, as does Trish. Carrying it all through to Georgie’s office. She flicks the lights on – God, it’s dark in here today. Clasps the marker for the whiteboard. Right. Let’s do this.
‘People we know,’ says Georgie.
‘With any connection to either crime?’
‘All four crimes. Two murders, the racist notes, and the vandalism at the Spar.’
‘Right you are. People we know…’ Trish glances up and Georgie nods. ‘Uncle Walt. Think we can rule him out?’
‘Leave him on for now.’
‘PC Simon Hunter. Connected to Alexis, but got an alibi.’
‘Leave them all on, Trish.’
‘Right. Aye. Kevin Taylor.’
‘We need to check his prints against whatever we find on the notes.’
‘And could be he’s involved in the vandalism at the Spar?’
‘Could be,’ says Georgie. ‘Well done on that, by the way.’
Trish keeps her smile to herself. They’re a long way from anywhere right now.
‘Mrs Helmsteading?’
‘Add her on. Connected to Bobby, obviously. No known connection to Alexis. Seems unlikely she’d be sending racist notes.’
‘And then we’ve got whoever did write the racist notes,’ says Trish. ‘They’ve got the hate, they’ve got the motive – could be they were responsible for Alexis’s murder too.’
>
‘That’s all true, about the hate. They could have seen him as an enemy. Lots of that going round. But we don’t know who they are. And they’d have had no reason to kill Bobby.’
‘And what about those initials?’ says Trish. ‘N.P.’
Georgie’s frowning.
‘Pencilled into the day planner. Carelessly rubbed out,’ she continues. ‘Did Alexis have a new patient? Someone he decided not to see?’
‘And then,’ says Georgie, ‘there’s Dawn Helmsteading.’
Trish stares at her.
Shit, of course, that’s right. Bobby had a sister. She was younger, quite a few years behind her and Bobby at school.
‘Now, Dawn is Bobby’s sister. You probably know her a bit yourself, being raised near Warphill – and she seems to be missing. At least, her mum couldn’t tell me where she is.’
‘Missing?’
‘Could be. Her phone’s going straight to voicemail. So, could she be a witness? Could she be involved?’
‘Could she be in danger?’
‘That’s a good question, Trish.’
They both go quiet for a second. A body a day so far, that’s how this case has been working out.
‘I never really knew her,’ Trish says, as though it’s an explanation. ‘Different generation.’
‘What does that make me?’ Georgie says.
‘Different generation in the other direction?’ She smiles.
But Georgie is staring out of the window, staring and staring out there. Trish follows her gaze, sees a large hawk or something circling high, above the houses, above the mist.
‘Okay, Trish,’ Georgie says, her eyes returning to the room. ‘I want everything you can find on Dawn Helmsteading. History and present-day. Probable locations – home, work, friends.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It’ll be good to have that in place when DS Frazer arrives.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s coming from the city to help.’
Trish doesn’t know what to say to that, but Georgie doesn’t seem to want a reply anyway.
‘Where’s Andy?’ She looks at her watch.
‘I sent him off to go meet his pals for lunch,’ Trish says. ‘And break the news about Bobby, I imagine. He’s right cut up about things. Seems they all used to hang around a bit. We’ll not be able to keep this one quiet.’
‘We’ve not managed to keep much quiet so far.’
‘But he’ll be in this afternoon.’
Georgie looks alarmed.
‘For an interview, I mean. He knows it’s important.’
‘Okay, yes. Good. That’s fine,’ Georgie says, but she seems distracted, keeps staring out of the window. Trish doesn’t get it. ‘And Cal’s calling at two—’
‘With the fingerprint and ink analysis from the notes,’ Trish completes the sentence for her. ‘And whatever they’ve found in the files at Alexis’s house. Paper and electronic.’
Georgie doesn’t reply.
‘So…’
‘So now, we get our lunch.’
‘What?’
Trish has absolutely no interest in taking a lunch break, but Georgie is heading for the door, and Trish is left alone in the station with her cold cup of coffee and a vague sense she’s missing something.
LEAVING BEHIND
DS Frazer likes to drive with no music playing and the windows down, so he can hear the engine, feel the connection of the tyres to the tarmac. The city is a smudge of motorway in his rear-view mirror already and it’s easier to make a big splash in a small pond – so he tells himself, at any rate. This is an opportunity. There are rumours about the villages, of course, the drugs flowing through them, the isolation keeping things hidden that would be noticed in the city. He’s never heard of this one though, this Burrowhead. It’s the smallest station in the force apparently, and they’re one of the smallest forces in the country. He did a bit of research before setting off, likes to know who he’s dealing with, who and what. Not that there was much information to find. Rain starts pelting his car out of nowhere and he taps the button to close the windows. The sky looks wild out over the coast, and there are fewer cars now too. It’s been a bad couple of days in the city, bad time to be leaving – not his choice. But it’s an opportunity. A truck carrying a static caravan sways past in the other direction and he turns the air conditioning up and the headlights on, the sky suddenly dark and muggy and heavy, a sign for the next exit looming up faster than he was expecting. This is where he turns off. He indicates. Leaves the motorway. The calm, reassuring female voice of his satnav tells him to turn left about twenty seconds after he’s done so.
He’d thought about calling his wife’s mobile before he left, leaving an answerphone message, but he didn’t in the end. It would have been good to hear her voice, though. He wishes he had now. The noise of the car seems different off the motorway, the drive of it too: rougher, more growling, and there’s an inexplicable drift to the edge of the road when he releases his grip on the steering wheel. A sign saying 20 mph and a picture of loose gravel makes no sense at all; there is no gravel. A few minutes later all road markings disappear and the rain is replaced by a fine haze of drizzle that seems to float above the road. Forty miles to Warphill, it says. That’s his way. Out to the coast. He hasn’t seen another vehicle since turning onto this single-track road. He taps the button to open the windows again.
The air’s different here; it carries the taste of fish. Is he imagining that? Can’t see the sea yet, just brown fields and the overgrown hedge either side of the road. He swerves to avoid a branch and glances down at his mobile, which shows no signal, no Wi-Fi connection. The satnav hasn’t spoken to him in a while. Every now and then there’s a small rectangular white sign pointing down tracks on the left or right to villages he’s never heard of, and he scans them dutifully for any mention of Burrowhead but sees none. He keeps following the road, glances at his phone. Swerves to avoid another branch.
Burrowhead village. Burrowhead police station. What with all the closures and mergers these days he doesn’t know how it’s survived, a country station way out here with three mismatched staff. It’s like someone forgot it was there. Like the villages themselves maybe, Burrowhead and Warphill, the one coming with the other. There were blank faces all round when they were told about the murders this morning. Not an officer in the building had been there, nor wanted to go. And then he was picked out, and here he is already nearing Warphill, must have been in some kind of a daze and honestly he couldn’t even describe that last bit of the journey or how long it’s taken him, how long he’s been following the winding curves of this little road, but that sign there, Burrowhead straight on. He sits up a little taller, this must be right, the hedge up ahead showing a steep turn to come and the waves, he can hear them now, crashing down on the rocks and the sea will be just around this bend but it happens so fast he doesn’t know how it happens or what happens only that he’s skidding and he’s lost control and the collision forces him forwards and he feels like he’s been punched in the lungs and the stomach and the ribs all at the same time and his breath, when it comes, is rasping and thick and then he sees it. Straight ahead, between the trees. Towering over his car, facing him down with eyes like his father’s, round and black and bright, but its coat is the smoothest white he’s ever seen on an animal, any animal, and its antlers are huge and intricate and gleaming and strong and impossible – he closes his eyes. Opens them again. There is a stag standing between the trees beside the road, untouched and commanding. The front passenger corner of his car has hit a tree. He’s okay. The car’s okay. Just a dent. But that creature. He looks again, this time seeing brown flecks among the white. Its breath misting in the air. It is achingly beautiful. He blinks. There’s mud on its legs and now he looks again the antlers are no larger than normal. It is an ordinary stag. Of course it is. He hears his own laugh, timid and unconvinced, then clears his throat. He starts the engine, reverses away from the tree, and when he glances
up the stag is gone and his engine is idling and his car is back on the road. He turns the engine off again. He needs a minute. His hands are shaking. There, to his right, so obvious he doesn’t know how he didn’t seem them before, are the tall jagged cliffs of the Burrowhead coastline and beyond that, disappearing into the grey of the sky at the horizon, lies the sea.
FAILING LIGHT
I’m not sure how long I’ve been unconscious. The cave is in darkness, but I know where I am. We used to whisper about this place.
I sit up, my ankle screeching its pain, my back, my hair wet from the puddles in the dips of the floor. It’s strangely warm, like there’s heat somewhere within these rocks. When I stare at the back of the cave there’s nothing but stone. Rough, yes. Shadowed and sharp, but only rock.
Stay calm and start at the beginning, you say.
I wish you were here with me. I wish I hadn’t had to see what I saw. But there’s no rewinding time, you taught me that, even though it wasn’t the lesson you intended. You taught me there’s more than looking, too, so maybe I can find some truth in the messages that have been scratched and buried deep in the rock. Low down and etched into limestone it says PLEASE HELP MY MAMMY. I start at the base with my index finger, following the curve of the letters around to the right. How did she get here, this little girl – did someone bring her, to scratch her pleading where it would never be read? Will it be submerged, eroded by salt and clawed at by crabs until it is nothing? But there are scratches that look old, from years ago, so perhaps the pleading has some staying power.
Please help my Mammy, she whispers.
Higher up, PD and RT have carved their initials inside a heart. It is fragile. It makes me sink and I don’t know why. There’s the smell of cheap perfume. My fingers follow the scratch of their heart and I hear them, teenagers; whispers of love, low and distant. Something is wrong. I move further along the cave’s wall, my hands following the contours of stone. It is dim back here. My shadow combines with the darkness of the rock until we are the same, and there is something ancient, more threatening about the scratches on the walls here, something that tugs at the back of my mind. Here is the stick figure, carved out of iron and wedged, standing, into the rock. Its head is pointed and it has long, vicious hands that taper into the sharp tips of beaks, the mouths open, ready to bite. As my fingers move over it I feel a jab of pain, snatch my hand away and stumble backwards into something soft. I freeze. I need to turn, see who it is, but my limbs won’t move. Words disturb the air. Shapes I can’t grasp but can’t deny. Turn round. Turn round.
When the Dead Come Calling Page 10