Read Online The Calling by Alison Bruce - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alison Bruce
Tags: Mystery
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MARCH 2011
Goodhew checked the street map in the station lobby. He found Hanley Road in Newnham, to the south-west of the city centre. It ran behind Barton Road, in a small development of starter homes built on land sold off by the local authority.
He already knew the general area and in less than ten minutes his car crawled into the low-number end of Hanley Road itself. The light brick houses sat in terraces of four or six, the general pattern occasionally punctuated by a couple of boxy detached three-beds or a two-storey block of studio flats.
Through the gaps in the newer buildings, on the even-number side, sprawled the long narrow back gardens of 1930s semis, mostly drowning in uncut weather-beaten grass and impaled by rusted washing-line posts. On the odd-number side, the houses backed on to an old allotment strewn with broken cold frames and choked with weeds.
It wasn’t the prettiest road in Cambridge but, because of its close proximity to the town centre, it had become popular with the young professionals in the nine to five-thirty office regime.
Goodhew pulled up outside number 15, and opposite number 18. He counted out four houses along, to Walsh’s number 26. He checked his watch: quarter to five. He then stepped from his car and clicked the door shut. He didn’t bother locking it.
The sulphurous orange light from the street lamp outside number 22 spilt on to the front of Walsh’s unlit home. Goodhew knocked and waited, and knocked again, then crossed back to his unmarked car.
The house was neat, and the garden consisted of a few shrubs and a small patch of lawn, indicating very low maintenance. Tidy paintwork, tidy curtains, too. Goodhew ran his eye over the adjoining houses. Lights shone, through unlined curtains, on to handkerchief gardens, most decorated with hebe and cotoneaster shrubs and the first shoots of spring daffodils. These residences were all very similar, efficient, practical investments for the future.
Headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror, and a car parked behind him. A middle-aged man stepped out, locked the door with a remote, and crossed to number 20. Goodhew relaxed again and waited.
He decided to wait until 5.30 before making some enquiries of neighbours.
At 5.20 precisely, a man walked past Goodhew’s car, crossed in front of it and pulled out a door key as he approached number 26. Goodhew guessed this was Peter Walsh, and watched him open the door, then slip out of his jacket and drape it on the middle coat hook, in one practised move. As he turned to close the door, the man realized he had a visitor.
‘Peter Walsh?’ Goodhew asked.
Walsh was about Goodhew’s height, with a crop of dark hair which sprang out over his forehead, giving him a mildly surprised look.
‘Yes, what can I do for you?’ But the young man seemed relaxed enough, as he undid his tie and ruffled his hair while he waited for Goodhew to respond.
Goodhew held up his police ID. ‘DC Goodhew from Cambridge CID. I’d like to ask you a couple of routine questions.’ Goodhew stepped briskly into the small lobby area.
‘Come through.’ Walsh led the way into the lounge area and dropped into one of two large armchairs. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, motioning towards the other.
‘Thanks.’ Goodhew nodded. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘About six years.’
‘Just before the prices shot up again?’
‘That’s right. I couldn’t afford it now, I suppose.’ Walsh drummed his fingers on one knee, and he gave a puzzled frown. ‘Can I get you something to drink, tea or coffee?’
‘No, no.’ Goodhew shook his head. ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of a local girl, Kaye Whiting. You may have heard about it?’
‘In yesterday’s Cambridge News ?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Goodhew dipped into his breast pocket and produced a snapshot of a blonde girl holding a tabby cat up towards the camera. She was smiling. ‘Recognize her?’
‘No.’ Walsh smiled slightly then.
Goodhew checked the street map in the station lobby. He found Hanley Road in Newnham, to the south-west of the city centre. It ran behind Barton Road, in a small development of starter homes built on land sold off by the local authority.
He already knew the general area and in less than ten minutes his car crawled into the low-number end of Hanley Road itself. The light brick houses sat in terraces of four or six, the general pattern occasionally punctuated by a couple of boxy detached three-beds or a two-storey block of studio flats.
Through the gaps in the newer buildings, on the even-number side, sprawled the long narrow back gardens of 1930s semis, mostly drowning in uncut weather-beaten grass and impaled by rusted washing-line posts. On the odd-number side, the houses backed on to an old allotment strewn with broken cold frames and choked with weeds.
It wasn’t the prettiest road in Cambridge but, because of its close proximity to the town centre, it had become popular with the young professionals in the nine to five-thirty office regime.
Goodhew pulled up outside number 15, and opposite number 18. He counted out four houses along, to Walsh’s number 26. He checked his watch: quarter to five. He then stepped from his car and clicked the door shut. He didn’t bother locking it.
The sulphurous orange light from the street lamp outside number 22 spilt on to the front of Walsh’s unlit home. Goodhew knocked and waited, and knocked again, then crossed back to his unmarked car.
The house was neat, and the garden consisted of a few shrubs and a small patch of lawn, indicating very low maintenance. Tidy paintwork, tidy curtains, too. Goodhew ran his eye over the adjoining houses. Lights shone, through unlined curtains, on to handkerchief gardens, most decorated with hebe and cotoneaster shrubs and the first shoots of spring daffodils. These residences were all very similar, efficient, practical investments for the future.
Headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror, and a car parked behind him. A middle-aged man stepped out, locked the door with a remote, and crossed to number 20. Goodhew relaxed again and waited.
He decided to wait until 5.30 before making some enquiries of neighbours.
At 5.20 precisely, a man walked past Goodhew’s car, crossed in front of it and pulled out a door key as he approached number 26. Goodhew guessed this was Peter Walsh, and watched him open the door, then slip out of his jacket and drape it on the middle coat hook, in one practised move. As he turned to close the door, the man realized he had a visitor.
‘Peter Walsh?’ Goodhew asked.
Walsh was about Goodhew’s height, with a crop of dark hair which sprang out over his forehead, giving him a mildly surprised look.
‘Yes, what can I do for you?’ But the young man seemed relaxed enough, as he undid his tie and ruffled his hair while he waited for Goodhew to respond.
Goodhew held up his police ID. ‘DC Goodhew from Cambridge CID. I’d like to ask you a couple of routine questions.’ Goodhew stepped briskly into the small lobby area.
‘Come through.’ Walsh led the way into the lounge area and dropped into one of two large armchairs. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, motioning towards the other.
‘Thanks.’ Goodhew nodded. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘About six years.’
‘Just before the prices shot up again?’
‘That’s right. I couldn’t afford it now, I suppose.’ Walsh drummed his fingers on one knee, and he gave a puzzled frown. ‘Can I get you something to drink, tea or coffee?’
‘No, no.’ Goodhew shook his head. ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of a local girl, Kaye Whiting. You may have heard about it?’
‘In yesterday’s Cambridge News ?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Goodhew dipped into his breast pocket and produced a snapshot of a blonde girl holding a tabby cat up towards the camera. She was smiling. ‘Recognize her?’
‘No.’ Walsh smiled slightly then.
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