When the Dead Come Calling

by Helen Sedgwick

  WASTED TIME

  DS Frazer slams his fist into the steering wheel to give another, sustained blast on the horn. The sheep don’t even startle, that’s the thing. Don’t even move. They just stand there, chewing. Is someone doing this on purpose? He could have sworn the woman who runs the B & B was laughing at his suit, though quite what was funny about it he has no idea. And she kept trying to get him to talk about the case. Had to give her a stern talking-to in the end. Unbelievable. And now he’s late. Very late. It looks unprofessional – well, the whole place seems to be unprofessional, but he’s not, that’s the important thing. His suit looks good. And he hates the idea of being late. He counts five, four, three, two, one, like his wife used to. Head, shoulders … whatever. What is the use? He doesn’t like this place. Especially not this morning. It’s falling apart around their shoulders – that police station, clinging on to life by a thread, the council flats, the vandalised bus stops and empty shops and that hideous old nuclear site – and good riddance to it.

  Still, plenty to think about while he sits here, there’s the silver lining. He’d called into Crackenbridge to see Cal first thing, before getting stuck in this nightmare, and he’s glad he did – got two important new pieces of information to take over to Burrowhead with him. First, there’s the knife.

  No prints, but lots of blood. Messy, like the crime scene itself. And the blood – which everyone here had assumed all belonged to the victim – is now on its way to the main forensics lab in the city, where they can do a decent professional analysis. It could have slipped during the stabbing, that’s his thinking, especially during such an erratic crime; slipped back and the blade caught the killer where they held it clenched in their hand. He’s seen it before. In amongst the victim’s blood there could just be a speck of blood from the assailant too. Now wouldn’t that make his trip worth the price of the petrol out here.

  He read up about Burrowhead last night, after he got home. He’s got this feeling he needs to understand something more than the crimes themselves, though he’s not found out what that is yet. The station used to be where the local policeman lived, family and all – feels like a world away now, if only a generation or two. Most of the old country stations worked that way, once, before they all got consolidated. He didn’t know any of them had survived till he got sent out here. Doesn’t know why this one has. If it had been his call he’d have had the whole enquiry taken over. She’s got a reputation though, DI Strachan, could have had quite the career if she’d been prepared to leave. But she was adamant she wanted to stay, according to the chief super, and with her being here, the station just seems to keep standing. Heaven knows why.

  Movement over in the field beside the road catches his attention – yes, it’s the farmer, driving along the ridge on what looks like a quad bike. He blasts the horn again. Surely he’s going to do something. Doesn’t appear to be stopping though. Frazer is not having that. The door’s open, he’s pushing sheep out the way with sheer force, eventually stepping out next to one with what he hopes is not a large smear of excrement hanging all down the back of its fleece.

  ‘Hello there,’ he calls. ‘Excuse me…’

  The quad bike is nearing the end of the field.

  ‘Hey! I could do with some help over here. You up there!’

  At last the man seems to hear him, turns round and raises his arm in a friendly wave before disappearing over the hill and out of view.

  Back in the car. Five, four, three… He edges forwards. They’re starting to move at least. Some of them. He squirts the windscreen wiper fluid, then has a better idea. He’s got a litre bottle of water in the boot. Out, round, a nice loud slam and spray them. Well, he gets a few of them, at least. Then he revs the engine, keeps on inching forwards…

  It’s working. Progress.

  And there’s that other thing he’s found, too. Yes, he should focus on that for a bit – he’s very pleased with it. Especially now he’s made it to seven miles an hour. This morning, he’s been listening to the recording from yesterday’s interview with Elise Robertson, and there’s one particular line he keeps coming back to. No one in the room seemed to react to it. Not even the DI. It was fleeting, he’ll admit to that, but he heard it. Goes to show, all the paperwork he did yesterday wasn’t for nothing – he knows the names of everyone involved in this case now, no matter how tangentially, and there are a lot of them. Everyone seems to know someone who’s involved in something, round here, and there’s this sense of them watching him. Is he imagining it? Something watching him from behind the hedgerows, over the cusp of the hills.

  He skips back to the start, to listen over. Not to that nonsense about hypnosis. Honestly, what kind of susceptible fool would fall for rubbish like that? No, what he’s picked up on is something altogether more promising. He reaches ten miles an hour and as he turns the corner he thinks he can see an end to the sheep – he thinks he can see some actual tarmac. Here it is; this is the bit. Yes, it’s a real lead this time. DI Strachan has to be impressed with this. And that Trish is going to be spitting feathers when he plays it to her.

  EARLY ELEVENSES

  Andy Barr comes ambling into the station all gangly, throat clearing with the words, ‘How’s the case going, boss?’ and his wonky smile, like he knows he’s not even supposed to ask. ‘I’m here to help.’

  ‘Thanks for coming in,’ Georgie says, her back blocking the door to the office. ‘I’ve got the interview room set up and ready.’ She can see his hope turn to inevitable disappointment – she’s not called him in today to help with the investigation in any way other than as a witness.

  ‘But I’ve proved myself, haven’t I?’ His voice is rising, getting a bit stroppy. ‘I mopped the floor, I washed your old car…’

  He must have thought it was going to be like on TV, doing his work experience here. Instead all he’s really had a chance to experience is cleaning and making the tea. That and losing his friend. Poor kid. Still, he and Bobby were good mates, and she needs to know what was going on in his life.

  ‘You might know something really important,’ she says. ‘That’s why we need to interview you.’

  That clears his temper faster than the flick of a switch.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, keen again. ‘But see I don’t understand what could’ve… Doesn’t make sense it would happen to Bobby. No one would’ve… You know he even got in a fight with my dad once, did you know that? Punched him and everything. It were…’ He slows himself down a bit. ‘Sorry. It were good to see, that’s all.’

  He’s swaying from one foot to the other now, like he wants to go and start, right now, no more chat. But he’s got something in his hand, and he seems to have just remembered it.

  ‘I found this by the front door, boss. It’s like’ – he shrugs – ‘like a letter or something.’

  Sure enough, he is holding a white envelope with, presumably, a letter inside. Only the envelope has no stamp, and no address. It’s been hand-delivered, slipped through the letter box while they were in here discussing the case. Trish has appeared, halted mid-stride by the sight. Even Andy stops moving about in the silence. Georgie already suspects what it might be.

  She pulls on some gloves and holds out her hand.

  ‘Well, it’s got my name on the front,’ she says to Trish, who’s beside her now and holding her arm back as though she thinks she shouldn’t open it herself. ‘It’s not going to be a bomb, is it?’

  ‘It’s not … wait … what …they’re not here, are they?’ Andy bumps into Trish, and she puts a hand on his arm to steady him.

  Georgie has no idea really why he chose the police for his work experience. He’s hardly got the right character for it – even if it was as exciting as they show it on telly. Especially if it was like that. He said on his application he wanted to see what it felt like, though he didn’t say what ‘it’ was. Policing, she supposed at the time, but maybe he meant being in charge, in a way. Being in control. Not that Georgie has ever seen her job like th
at; it’s not about power. Not for her.

  ‘Everything is okay,’ Georgie says, opening the envelope – it isn’t sealed.

  She pulls out the note, and recognises the paper, and reads the words silently to herself. Foreign Bitch.

  She closes her eyes. She needs to shut it all out, just for a second. It’s like being back there, though; this whole week has been like being back there. The non-stop violence of it. It had seemed like such a different kind of place, Burrowhead, with its sleepy white winters and colourful summers, with its smell of manure from the fields that reminded her of the earth, the slow chugging of old tractors on single-track lanes, the ice-cream van that parked by the playground and sold those old-fashioned cones. Did any of that even exist?

  ‘It seems,’ she says with a sigh, ‘they have added misogyny to racism.’

  Andy makes a snatch for it, but Trish holds him back. ‘Wait, no,’ he’s saying, ‘No, but this is wrong, this—’

  ‘Christ, Andy,’ says Trish. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nowt—’

  ‘Calm down! Calm down, pet, it’s okay.’

  Andy looks mortified; Georgie actually wonders if he’s going to cry.

  ‘You okay, boss?’ he’s saying now. ‘It’s not fair, it’s no’ – his words a jumble – ‘it’s no right.’

  He takes everything to heart, Andy, he feels things, and when this is all over Georgie is going to pay a visit to Ricky Barr’s farm, see if there is anything going on there that someone needs to take a look at. She’s wondering if she should call child protection, though given the size of him now it’s probably too late for that. But he’s jittery, that’s the thing. As though he’s afraid all the time.

  ‘It’s alright now, Andy,’ Trish says. ‘No harm done. But this… This…’

  She looks at Georgie.

  Right then, the front door opens and the brisk footsteps of DS Frazer start marching down the hall towards them.

  ‘I’ve been wondering when they’d get round to me,’ Georgie says quietly, slipping into the office to place the note safely on the desk.

  Trish is shaking her head, fists clenched now. ‘I feel sick. This is repulsive.’

  ‘And simplistic,’ Georgie says. ‘Still, it’s another clue. Let’s look at it that way. Maybe this time we’ll be able to trace them.’

  ‘There’s been another note? Does seem to be a group then,’ Frazer says, standing next to her.

  ‘Good morning,’ Georgie says.

  ‘Not particularly, ma’am.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  Georgie looks around for Andy, not wanting to talk in front of him, but he’s disappeared off somewhere.

  ‘We have at least three different sets of prints so far.’

  Georgie feels a wave of fatigue that’s becoming all too familiar. She’s not sure, but she might be swaying on her feet.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Georgie? Maybe a sit-down?’ Trish is pacing from side to side across the hall now. ‘Fuck! Sorry. It’s awful this is happening. We have to find them, we’ve got to… Sorry. Cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Georgie says, though she appreciates the compassion. ‘I’m not even surprised really.’ Maybe she’s been expecting it, on some level. Waiting for everything to go wrong. It was strange for them not to be targeting her, now she thinks about it – she’s such an obvious target. Maybe she’s never belonged here at all. But then there’s Simon and Trish, Pami, those delicate red butterflies with the purple and yellow wing tips that flutter through her garden every July, and the sky. The sky.

  There’s a noise coming from the kitchen, and Georgie looks up to see Andy wheeling a chair towards her, with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits carefully balanced on the seat. When he gets to where she’s standing, he picks up the mug and the plate.

  ‘Maybe you should have a sit-down, boss. For me, aye?’

  Georgie can’t help but smile – or do as he asks. Though she feels a little silly sitting on a swivel chair in the middle of the corridor. He passes her the tea, which she accepts, and offers her a biscuit. She takes a chocolate digestive.

  ‘That better, boss?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, and takes a sip of her tea. ‘Yes, Andy, it is better.’

  Trish grabs another two chairs from the kitchen so they can all sit together in the hall and take a moment. Except for DS Frazer, who clearly wants to get on with solving the case. Georgie swivels around on her chair and looks down the corridor to the reception and the front door. It all feels strangely peaceful now.

  ‘Andy,’ she says after a minute, on an impulse really, but the idea’s been lurking in her mind since Walt mentioned it, and now she’s noticed the mud Andy’s walked into the station. ‘Do you ever go out to the old church ruin?’

  ‘What, boss? What d’you mean, boss?’

  He looks at Trish, at Georgie, at Trish, at Georgie, at Trish. Georgie fights back the urge to pat him on the head.

  ‘It’s nothing bad, Andy. Nothing bad at all, don’t you worry. It’s just that I thought young adults like yourself might hang out there sometimes. Heaven knows there’s not much for you to do in the village.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘No, boss. Not me. No way.’

  Georgie’s a little surprised by the desperation of his denial. It’s fairly clear he’s been there.

  ‘Look, we need to get that note over to the lab. I’ll arrange a courier,’ says Frazer. ‘If that’s alright?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Georgie says. ‘Please, go ahead.’

  ‘And Andy,’ Trish adds, ‘we’ll call you when we’re ready for the interview. Till then, can you keep an eye on the front door for us?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that, absolutely, that’s a useful thing.’ He edges awkwardly past them then dashes down the hall and nearly walks head first into the door to the reception before opening it and wandering through.

  Trish is shaking her head, grinning. ‘There are only two reasons a kid his age would be out at the old church, Georgie, and that’s to meet a girl or to smoke a spliff. Either way, he’s not likely to go confessing to you.’

  ‘I suppose not, Trish,’ Georgie smiles. ‘I wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s a good kid, our Andy,’ Trish laughs. ‘But he’s a teenager like any other.’

  It’s good to have a smile. She bets Trish was a terror when she was a teenager. Still, it won’t go away, her inkling about the old church ruin, her sense that there’s something out there, something dark; she’ll head up there at lunch, take a look around. Get a feel for the place again. She’s not been there for years, had no reason to, but it’s a place, out of the village, where people could go unseen, or hide, or worse. And she finds herself worrying about Dawn Helmsteading, Trish’s number one suspect. In a strange way, Georgie hopes she is a suspect. She hopes that she’s a killer. The alternative is that she’s a victim for whom they’ve done nothing so far to help.

  LOST IN THE MIST

  I am standing ankle-deep in the biting waves, holding the worry doll in my palm. Her eyes are made of tiny blue beads and she has red crosses of stitching for a mouth.

  Please look at me, he begs from behind me.

  I tighten my hand until her face is hidden and all I can see are her green stripy legs, the little red shoes she wears.

  No.

  I raise my arm high over my head, channel all my strength and throw her to the desperate sea. She arcs through the air, through wind gasping like nightmares and down into the waves to sink, to drown, and for a moment I am free of it all. In the distance I can see the orange lights of the harbour up the coast.

  Then he croaks my name.

  Overhead is the sick green of the day. But I cannot keep staring at the sky. Looking down, I see that he is dying on the floor; his skin thin as rice paper, drool collecting in the corners of his mouth. His eyes are pleading for me to help. I gaze deep into the cave, but the rock is solid and still, and between us the worry doll has washed up right back at my feet.
/>   It is time to face him.

  WHAT SOME FOLK ARE LIKE

  Andy’s doing well, Trish thinks. He was adamant he didn’t want his dad called in. She gives him a reassuring smile each time he looks up at her before answering Georgie’s questions. He’s worried he’ll get in trouble for underage drinking, the daft kid. All those school visits of Georgie’s, all that emphasis on education and information and support, and still he’s a bit afraid. Not of her, as such – not of Georgie – but of the police, maybe. Of getting in trouble. Of something.

  So Bobby’s the one been buying them cans of cheap lager. When Trish was at school there was someone similar, course, the older brother of a girl in her year; there’s always someone.

  ‘Anything stronger than lager?’ Georgie asks.

  Andy looks at her; Trish nods her head.

  ‘Just cans,’ he says.

  ‘And cigarettes, when you were younger?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Georgie raises her eyebrows.

  Andy looks at Trish.

  ‘My da’d kill me if I took anything else.’

  ‘Did Bobby offer you anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Andy looks at Trish. She can remember it clearly, but at the same time it’s a lifetime away, her years spent at that school. She was taking a lot more than lager and fags, so she’d bet Andy is too. She’ll let it go though, for now. He’s doing well, all things considered – and he’ll be scared of dropping his mates in it too. She’d never have done that, always took the blame if she was caught, drove Uncle Walt to distraction at times. He never lost his temper though. Probably let her get away with too much, after her mum died, after that summer of watching her struggle, but then she had to do something to get through it, and it meant he could stay on her side. That’s what she always had, when she was growing up: Uncle Walt on her side. Sure, she grew up angry, but she was never lost. It’s different, for Andy. His mum’s gone and there’s no one on his side.