The Calling Read Online Free
nearby Parkside police station. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Missing person.’ Marks paused. ‘I’m up to my ears and short of staff today … I want you to speak to her mother.’
CHAPTER 3
SUNDAY, 27 MARCH 2011
A wave of nausea shuddered through Margaret Whiting, making her sweat and tremble, and pressing hard against her lungs. ‘Keep calm,’ the police officer had told her on the phone, but each time her breathing steadied, another wave of sickness hit her. And, like breakers crashing on a pebble beach, dragging stones in the undercurrent, it clawed across the pit of her stomach.
She leant on the windowsill and strained to see any traffic coming down Arbury Road. She watched for cars slowing down and indicating. She knew they wouldn’t be that quick, but there was nothing else she could do than wait.
She removed her glasses and pressed her cheekbone tight against the cold pane. Her breath created a small round pool of condensation , so she scribbled through it with her index finger and watched the dribbles begin to spoil the symmetry. Two daughters and a son had its own symmetry, so why had she complained, she wondered. A heavy rock of guilt weighed down on her. She hadn’t meant it, but she’d thought it, and years of inbuilt superstition told her that this was enough.
Today she didn’t want to cry, at all. She felt far too numb for tears.
Another car swung into the road, so she lifted her head above the misty patch of glass to watch. It drove on by, but then it was still too soon – only minutes since she’d phoned them.
She felt a trickle of sweat meander from her armpit and head towards her elbow. She massaged the blouse sleeve against it,mopping it, and would have then left it except for the stain which formed darkly on the grey rayon.
‘Damn!’ she whispered and, after one more glance at the empty road, she tore herself away from the window to change.
She tossed the blouse on to the bed and fumbled in the wardrobe for another. She felt clumsy and listless. She pulled at the clothes hanging there, dithering, until she glanced again out the bedroom window. A black saloon hesitated three doors away, then it spurted forward as if its driver were checking house numbers. She pulled the nearest blouse from its hanger.
The man parked just across the street, and she watched him as she dashed to button up her replacement top. He looked too young. They’d sent a junior.
Her fingers continued fidgeting with the buttons until, frustrated, she shoved the lower part of her shirt into her waistband and scuttled back downstairs, anxious to open the door as soon as he knocked, to show him how important this was.
She managed to reach the door before he’d even closed the front gate. She stood with it slightly ajar until he was close enough.
‘Mrs Whiting?’ he enquired.
She nodded and beckoned him inside before he could introduce himself.
‘I’m DC Goodhew, Cambridge CID.’
She nodded again and led him to the sitting room, where she perched on the edge of a low armchair. DC , she thought to herself. That means Detective Constable . A total beginner, then.
He removed his jacket, before choosing the settee.
‘I’ve been briefed on your conversation with our control room, Mrs Whiting, so I know the basics. And you’ve still heard nothing from Kaye?’
She shook her head. ‘She should have been there with us last night. She wouldn’t have missed it.’
‘This was the party you mentioned?’
‘Yes, my mother’s eightieth. It was planned for weeks. Kaye rang me from work on Friday, when I was out, but she left a message to say she’d see me the next night.’ Margaret wrapped her hands across her stomach and shivered.
‘And you haven’t seen her at all since?’ he asked.
‘No, I last saw her on Tuesday. She stopped by on her way home,’ she replied.
‘And did she seem OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘And how did she sound on the phone?’ Goodhew had been watching her carefully since
‘Missing person.’ Marks paused. ‘I’m up to my ears and short of staff today … I want you to speak to her mother.’
CHAPTER 3
SUNDAY, 27 MARCH 2011
A wave of nausea shuddered through Margaret Whiting, making her sweat and tremble, and pressing hard against her lungs. ‘Keep calm,’ the police officer had told her on the phone, but each time her breathing steadied, another wave of sickness hit her. And, like breakers crashing on a pebble beach, dragging stones in the undercurrent, it clawed across the pit of her stomach.
She leant on the windowsill and strained to see any traffic coming down Arbury Road. She watched for cars slowing down and indicating. She knew they wouldn’t be that quick, but there was nothing else she could do than wait.
She removed her glasses and pressed her cheekbone tight against the cold pane. Her breath created a small round pool of condensation , so she scribbled through it with her index finger and watched the dribbles begin to spoil the symmetry. Two daughters and a son had its own symmetry, so why had she complained, she wondered. A heavy rock of guilt weighed down on her. She hadn’t meant it, but she’d thought it, and years of inbuilt superstition told her that this was enough.
Today she didn’t want to cry, at all. She felt far too numb for tears.
Another car swung into the road, so she lifted her head above the misty patch of glass to watch. It drove on by, but then it was still too soon – only minutes since she’d phoned them.
She felt a trickle of sweat meander from her armpit and head towards her elbow. She massaged the blouse sleeve against it,mopping it, and would have then left it except for the stain which formed darkly on the grey rayon.
‘Damn!’ she whispered and, after one more glance at the empty road, she tore herself away from the window to change.
She tossed the blouse on to the bed and fumbled in the wardrobe for another. She felt clumsy and listless. She pulled at the clothes hanging there, dithering, until she glanced again out the bedroom window. A black saloon hesitated three doors away, then it spurted forward as if its driver were checking house numbers. She pulled the nearest blouse from its hanger.
The man parked just across the street, and she watched him as she dashed to button up her replacement top. He looked too young. They’d sent a junior.
Her fingers continued fidgeting with the buttons until, frustrated, she shoved the lower part of her shirt into her waistband and scuttled back downstairs, anxious to open the door as soon as he knocked, to show him how important this was.
She managed to reach the door before he’d even closed the front gate. She stood with it slightly ajar until he was close enough.
‘Mrs Whiting?’ he enquired.
She nodded and beckoned him inside before he could introduce himself.
‘I’m DC Goodhew, Cambridge CID.’
She nodded again and led him to the sitting room, where she perched on the edge of a low armchair. DC , she thought to herself. That means Detective Constable . A total beginner, then.
He removed his jacket, before choosing the settee.
‘I’ve been briefed on your conversation with our control room, Mrs Whiting, so I know the basics. And you’ve still heard nothing from Kaye?’
She shook her head. ‘She should have been there with us last night. She wouldn’t have missed it.’
‘This was the party you mentioned?’
‘Yes, my mother’s eightieth. It was planned for weeks. Kaye rang me from work on Friday, when I was out, but she left a message to say she’d see me the next night.’ Margaret wrapped her hands across her stomach and shivered.
‘And you haven’t seen her at all since?’ he asked.
‘No, I last saw her on Tuesday. She stopped by on her way home,’ she replied.
‘And did she seem OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘And how did she sound on the phone?’ Goodhew had been watching her carefully since
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