The Calling

by Alison Bruce

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About nine-thirty this morning I think. They rang the local police immediately, of course, but it wasn’t until a patrol from Ipswich had gone out that we were contacted, after they realized it was likely to be our girl.’

  ‘And it’s definite?’

  ‘Too early for a formal ID, but everything’s matched up so far: right age, right description, right jewellery.’ Sue fell into tight-lipped silence and accelerated.

  Goodhew watched the speedo nudge eighty. ‘We all knew the odds weren’t good, Sue.’

  She didn’t reply, merely shook her head, obviously not wanting to talk. She hooked a wisp of hair back over her ear, and fiddled with a hair clip for a moment or two.

  ‘You knew this might happen, didn’t you?’ he persisted.

  She stopped fiddling with her hair and instead raised her hand, gesturing for him to stop. ‘I know, I know,’ she floundered. The road split and she kept left, skirting around Ipswich while following the signs for Felixstowe. ‘It caught me out,’ she muttered in a hoarse whisper. ‘We all knew she was probably dead, but I’ve been taking all those phone calls and saying positive things to the callers.’

  Goodhew tugged a tissue from the box under the dashboard and passed it across to her.

  ‘I feel so silly for crying, Gary, but I’d talked myself into believing she might still be all right.’

  ‘Wishful thinking.’ Goodhew glanced ahead, across the fields in the direction of flooded gravel quarries lying somewhere just beyond the near horizon. ‘It catches everyone out sometimes.’ He tried to think of a temporary change of subject, but anything not related to the case seemed inappropriate for now, so he settled for a minor diversion. ‘Doreen Kennedy thinks Kaye may have gone shopping in Woodbridge last Saturday.’

  ‘Well, this is the main route from Woodbridge to Cambridge, so she could have been abducted on the way there, or else on the way home.’ They turned off the A14 at Wherstead. The first of the lakes became visible almost immediately.

  ‘Which one?’ Gary surveyed the expanses of water shimmering behind hibernating hedgerows.

  ‘Number Thirty-Seven – pretty name for a lake, don’t you think? But then it’s not exactly the Lake District here, is it?’ Gully grimaced. ‘I’m glad I don’t get the job of telling her mother.’

  ‘I don’t want it either.’ Gary nodded ahead towards a cluster of parked vehicles and a handful of people wearing waxed jackets and anoraks. ‘That must be it, over there. Looks like the press have arrived already.’

  Two uniformed officers stood at the entrance, but Goodhew and Gully were waved through. They parked alongside the other vehicles standing halfway down the lakeside track. Goodhew got out and skirted the lake alone. He could see a few white-suited people milling around in the distance, and within a few moments he spotted DI Marks in discussion with the SOCO, while DC Kincaide stood nearby, as if in meditation, gazing down at a body bag.

  Goodhew changed into a tyvek suit and joined his two male colleagues and the SOCO.

  Marks nodded a greeting to Goodhew. ‘Good, I’m glad you’re here. No real doubt that this is the right girl. She was found nearly an hour and a half ago. We’ve just fished her out. All we know so far is what we can see. She’s bound and gagged. No visible injuries, drowning’s a possibility, but obviously we’ll know more on that later.’ He paused.

  ‘When did she die?’ Goodhew cut in.

  ‘Strangely, initial thoughts are less than eighteen hours ago, and it appears that she was still alive here for quite some time.’

  Gary’s attention strayed as he rested his gaze on the anonymous bag shrouding her remains. The mystery caller’s words stuck in his mind like dark bloodstains: I think when you find her you’ll realize that she was still alive at this point.

  Gary refocused his attention on Marks who was elaborating on the state of the body. ‘She’s a bit of a mess; her jeans are stained with her own urine and faeces, and there are several patches on her body that are extensively bloodstained. The initial inspection indicates chafing from the rope securing her, rather than any other injury.’

  He turned and gestured just beyond the corpse, to where white-suited forensics officers were busy gathering evidence. ‘There is a fairly level patch of grass just there that has been severely disturbed. Hopefully the imprints and stains we find there will provide us with some firm evidence.’ Marks stopped abruptly and eyed first Goodhew and then Kincaide. ‘What are your initial thoughts, Michael?’

  Kincaide raised his voice to lecturing pitch. ‘Well, if there has been no evidence of sexual assault, I’d definitely say that it was perpetrated by someone she knew – someone who had a motive for killing her but didn’t actually have the bottle to finish her off. It certainly wasn’t robbery either, she has a twenty-pound note in her pocket and a nice watch and a ring. If it started as rape, I don’t know why she’d end up being abandoned. I can only think of two reasons for that. Either whoever did it thought she was going to get found or’ – he paused for full effect – ‘they knew she wasn’t going to be found. That would be important, of course, if the killer was someone she knew.’

  Marks’ raised eyebrow twitched. ‘Thanks for that, Michael. Rather a melodramatic way of putting it, but perfectly logical. Do you have anything to add, Gary?’

  ‘Not exactly; that does make sense up to a point.’

  ‘Good.’ Kincaide nodded.

  ‘But,’ Goodhew emphasized, ‘I have some leads of my own to follow up, like—’

  Marks raised his hand to cut him off. ‘Tell me about that later. First I want you to come with me to visit her parents.’

  CHAPTER 16

  WEDNESDAY, 30 MARCH 2011

  It was almost 11 p.m. as Michael Kincaide twirled around and around on the black PVC office chair. He gripped one end of his pilfered Argos pen between his teeth and parted his lips like Clint Eastwood. He savoured the image of Goodhew being silenced and sent to talk to Kaye Whiting’s parents.

  Love it, he thought with glee.

  The front door clicked shut and Kincaide stopped and frowned at his watch. He waited for his wife to speak first. Janice didn’t bother though, and instead he could hear her removing her coat and shoes.

  ‘I’m in the study,’ he called out. He heard her give a tut. ‘Working,’ he added.

  She entered the living room and scowled at him in his makeshift office crammed under their open-plan stairs. ‘Good day?’ she muttered with a perfunctory nod. No smile from her tonight, but so what?

  ‘Absolutely spot on,’ he said.

  ‘So you’ve made progress, then?’ she queried, sounding detached, and began flicking through the TV channels with the remote.

  ‘Yep, we’ve got a body for a start,’ he said, knowing that would draw her attention. She lowered the control and he continued, ‘And that’s a big step in the right direction.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘Of course she’s dead,’ he replied in a how dumb are you tone. ‘She was always going to be dead, Jan. But it’s a big plus getting hold of the body.’

  ‘How can you be so callous?’ she demanded, then turned up the volume and slumped on to the sofa without waiting for a reply.

  He turned his back on her and dragged and dropped a couple of text boxes on to the screen, connecting them with lines and forming the basis of an organization chart. ‘I do well here and I could be headed for promotion.’

  She pretended to ignore him but he knew she would be listening.

  ‘Marks wants me to prepare stuff for the briefing tomorrow. He didn’t ask Goodhew, so I’m the one in the good books this time.’

  He began typing names into the Burrows family tree, waiting for curiosity to make her speak.

  She flicked channels again.

  ‘Look, Jan, I’m trying to work. I need to concentrate.’

  Sudden anger flashed across her face. ‘Tough. I’ve been working all day and I’m entitled to my evening, Michael.’


  ‘Well, as long as your precious career is all right, that’s fine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Here we go again,’ she snapped and jumped to her feet. ‘Fuck you, Michael.’ She disappeared into the kitchen, and he followed her. She ignored him and began slamming cupboard doors.

  He leant against the doorframe. ‘You’ve got a nasty mouth on you, Jan.’ He deliberately smirked, and she glared in return.

  ‘Don’t preach at me. You’re the one who needs to pull his fucking socks up.’ Her bag lay on its side next to the bread bin; she reached into it and withdrew a credit-card bill, then stepped towards him, thrusting it into his face. ‘For example, what the fuck is this?’

  ‘It’s addressed to me,’ he smiled bitterly, ‘but what’s that got to do with anything, right?’

  ‘Clothes, CDs, stupid gadgets … anything but spend money on our home,’ she spat. ‘I need to see it ’cos I’ll end up paying it, won’t I?’ He ignored the question. ‘Won’t I?’ she repeated.

  ‘I’m not getting into this, Jan.’ He calmed his voice to an oily trickle. ‘I’m working on the briefing notes for tomorrow, remember?’

  ‘You’re a wanker, Michael.’

  The corners of his mouth curled downwards in distaste and he poked the Argos pen towards her. ‘You don’t appreciate other people’s needs, that’s your problem. You’re not the only person on the fucking planet who’s chasing promotion, you know. Staying late with the boss isn’t the only way to get it.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ She stepped across the room, closing in on him. ‘Michael, what the hell is up with you?’ she hissed. ‘Every night you’re in a stinking mood. I think you can’t handle it because I earn more.’

  He turned away and headed back to his PC. ‘Just for once, Jan, I wish you could be a bit supportive.’ He paused but couldn’t resist throwing in a final snipe. ‘It isn’t in your nature, though, is it?’ He dropped into the chair and tried to pick up his earlier train of thought.

  His concentration failed, though. He knew he needed somewhere else to redirect his anger, so he chose his favourite target and mentally wandered back to an imaginary Goodhew. He pictured Goodhew looking stupid.

  He hated that his colleague was Marks’ golden boy. Well, fuck him.

  And, as if she’d somehow read his mind, a quieter Jan then returned to the room. She still held the credit-card statement and passed it to him. ‘Is this something about Gary?’

  Kincaide shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  ‘He winds you up, though?’

  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell her a little. ‘He’s getting extra money from somewhere. A lot of it. For a start that flat he lives in, right in the centre, he says he rents it, but it was transferred into his own name a few months back.’

  ‘So he’s bought it?’

  ‘No mortgage and most of his salary’s just accumulating in his bank account.’

  ‘So, you’ve said before how he’s got next to no social life.’

  ‘Right, but he’s managed to book himself and his girlfriend on to a trip to Hawaii.’

  ‘I thought you said they’d split up?’

  ‘That’s not my point. No one ever saw them together in the first place, so maybe she didn’t exist. But he has booked the trip and paid off his mortgage, and spends bugger all.’

  Jan sighed. ‘Inherited?’

  Kincaide sighed more loudly. ‘His grandfather died when he was a kid, but the rest of his family are all alive and well.’

  ‘How do you know all of this, anyway?’

  ‘Jan, if I delivered milk or painted walls for a living, I could understand that question.’ He was starting to wonder why he’d thought he could ever get through to her but he added, ‘No one starts acquiring money out of the blue like that.’

  Jan crossed her arms and fixed him with her serious look. ‘If he’s bent, drop him in it, Michael.’

  Kincaide curled his feet under his chair and slid his hands under his thighs. ‘It’s not that simple.’ He puffed out his cheeks with a deflated sigh. ‘Marks won’t act.’

  ‘Because he thinks Goodhew does no wrong?’

  ‘No, I could live with that. Marks knows Gary’s breaking the rules, and he just lets him get on with it. No one else would ever get away with it like Gary does. We all push the boundaries sometimes, but Marks is there to slap us back behind the line before we’ve even crossed it. But with Goodhew? No.’

  ‘But you’re saying Goodhew’s done worse than that? You’re saying this money’s got a dodgy source.’

  Kincaide shrugged, although he wanted to nod. ‘Maybe, yes, but I don’t know that I can prove it. And without proof…’

  She raised her eyes towards the ceiling but in thought more than exasperation. When she spoke again her voice contained an unusually sympathetic tone. ‘You’re looking at this all wrong, Michael. Goodhew’s money’s not hurting you in any way. Until you can prove where it came from and have evidence that it’s part of something illegal, forget about it. What’s really getting to you is Marks and the unfairness of the situation.’ She paused and Kincaide nodded. ‘Marks cuts Goodhew slack because Goodhew’s getting him results. So Goodhew’s had a couple of winning performances? So what? He’s been in the right place at the right time, that’s all. Marks knows that Gary doesn’t have your experience or skills. You just need to beat him to the prize …’

  Kincaide sat quietly as she continued with such flattery for the next few minutes, as the sudden disappearance of the earlier tension between them had caught him off guard. He even ignored the patronizing twang that accompanied a couple of the comments, and held on to her two main points: Marks would pay attention to results, and the end would justify the means.

  CHAPTER 17

  WEDNESDAY, 30 MARCH 2011

  The plan had been to meet Bryn for a beer and a game of pool, but by early evening Goodhew decided he was in the wrong frame of mind and he sent Bryn a text to cancel.

  Goodhew retreated to the second-floor study and lit the fire. He had been lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, for some time when the doorbell rang.

  He found Bryn waiting on the doorstep, holding two packs of beer and a takeaway.

  ‘You shouldn’t cancel by text, Gary.’

  ‘You do it all the time.’

  ‘Yeah, but to girls not mates. Made me think you were going to vanish for another month. Can I come in or what?’

  It wasn’t that Goodhew consciously kept people out; more that the need for them to come in never really arose. He stepped back and let Bryn into the hallway. ‘Second floor.’

  Bryn walked up the stairs ahead of him and Goodhew followed, wondering whether his friend would start to ask questions about who lived in the rest of the building, and not wanting to either tell him the truth or lie.

  But, in typical style, he showed no curiosity about the building or conducting any personal conversation whatsoever. For the first thirty minutes Bryn’s attention was evenly split between the lager and the curry.

  Eventually his interest moved away from food and found its way on to the Kaye Whiting case.

  Now Bryn was perching on the edge of the armchair as he screwed up pages of scrap newspaper into balls and tossed them into the fire, aiming at the glowing orange gaps between the logs. The flames glowed through his latest bottle of Stella Artois. ‘I couldn’t tell someone that kind of news.’

  Gary shrugged. ‘Someone has to, don’t they?’ He drained his own bottle and slipped upstairs to the kitchen, returning with two fresh ones. ‘I’ll tell you what, though; it really is the worst thing.’ He left Bryn’s fresh bottle on the hearth and sank on to the settee.

  ‘How did they take it?’

  ‘Badly, of course.’ Gary took a quick swig. ‘Each time I’ve gone to visit Kaye’s mother, she’s been there all on her own and she’s opened the front door before I’ve even reached it. Like she’s standing behind it just waiting for me. This time I thought she was out. I went with Marks and he waited
at the front while I looked round the back. Mrs Whiting opened the door just after I’d gone. She took one look at Marks and knew why we’d come.’ The memory made him wince.

  Bryn rolled two of the pages into a tube and nudged a stray sliver of kindling wood from the edge of the fire into its heart. ‘Poor woman,’ he murmured.

  Gary thought about Margaret Whiting and the way she’d put her hands first over her ears and then over her face, as if trying to block everything out. Then she’d collapsed into one of her low-seated armchairs. She’d pressed herself against its big soft arm, rocking slightly and groaning, ‘No, no, no,’ until she’d accepted the news enough to ask them what had happened.

  Bryn’s newspaper ignited and he still held it like a torch as it blazed above the hearth, until the paper was burning within an inch of his fingers, then he dropped it into the grate. ‘So what happens next?’ he asked.

  ‘Attempted arson charge?’

  Bryn dropped back into the chair and continued to throw paper balls. ‘It’s addictive.’

  Gary ignored him. ‘Usual stuff, family and so on, plus finding this anonymous caller. Hopefully she’ll ring back, now the body’s been found.’ Gary paused, about to take another swig, but lowered his bottle again. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Listen to you, waiting for a girl to ring.’ Bryn smirked, and carried on. ‘Then again, she might be a psychopath, in which case you might as well see my sister!’

  ‘I don’t think so, Bryn, not unless you’ve got another one I haven’t met.’

  ‘Sorry, just Shelly.’ Bryn’s smile faded.

  Goodhew’s did too. ‘Forget I talked about the case.’

  ‘Of course. But who else have you got at the moment?’

  ‘You really know how to cheer me up, don’t you?’

  They finished off another two bottles before either of them spoke again.

  ‘Gary, are you in trouble?’

  ‘No, why?’ Gary frowned, puzzled.

  ‘Money trouble? I mean, you can’t afford this place on what you earn. I know it’s none of my business but I’ve seen how much renting a flat round here costs. Debt creeps up on people. Is that why you don’t go out much and can’t buy yourself a car?’