The Cold Calling

Maiden put on the patch, laid low, blanked out. The holiday cottage was a good place for it, a former dairy with only three rooms and all the walls of whitewashed stone. There was a small kitchen with a hotplate and grill, and Andy had left bread and soup and fruit. He didn’t see too much of Marcus, who was making funeral arrangements, raging at the vicar, who claimed his churchyard was full and Mrs Willis wasn’t local anyway. ‘Fat bastard,’ Marcus fumed. ‘Know where he’s from? Fucking Croydon.’

‘Why don’t you tell him who she was?’

‘Because I don’t know who she was. And that’s official.’

Marcus shoved at him a letter from Mrs Willis’s solicitors, in Hereford. She’d left him five thousand pounds and requested that he should make no inquiries into her past, nor in any way speculate publicly about her.

‘Bloody typical. Unassuming to an almost perverse degree. Didn’t even like being called a healer. Less than a year ago, she cured Amy, at the pub, of bloody skin cancer. Amy knew what it was, the bloody doctors knew what it was … Mrs Willis said it was just a rash. And you’ve heard about Anderson, of course. If you can’t take the word of a trained nurse …’

And me? Maiden wondered. Did she bring me back, by proxy?

Relaxed enough, now, to consider the possibility. Almost dispassionately. He felt sorry about Mrs Willis, of course he did, just like the last hundred deaths, the accidents, the suicides, the murders. But in the end, it wasn’t his tragedy.

Or was it? Why had he urged Andy to get the old girl off the stone? He didn’t know, then or now. Why had he felt so uncomfortable at the place you had to be careful, in front of Marcus, not to call Black Knoll?

‘So no-one’s going to know she was Annie Davies?’

Marcus held up the letter in frustration. ‘Bastards,’ he said.

Maiden wasn’t quite sure who he meant. Perhaps he meant everybody.

Even though they’d agreed that he was Bobby Wilson, Marcus’s nephew, over for the funeral of a woman he’d come to regard as a granny figure, Maiden never went down to the village. Instead, he took long, uneven walks among the hills around St Mary’s, across this strange no man’s land between England and Wales — pink soil and stone, autumn fires on the fields under the dark mantelpiece of the mountains.

Lying down in the grass, a west wind on his face, he thought about the kind of things he wanted to respond to. He thought about painting again. And he thought about Emma Curtis.

The second night, Marcus banged on the cottage door to say Andy was on the phone for him. Police had been waiting for her at home. Wondering if she had any idea of the whereabouts of their missing colleague, about whom they were a little worried.

Also wondering where she’d been, perhaps.

Maiden took the call in Marcus’s study. ‘How did you handle it?’

‘Told them — Jesus God — told ‘em I’d spent the night wi’ a man friend. Refusing to disclose his name on account of he was a doctor and married.’

‘Nice one,’ Maiden said.

‘Aw, sure. Like they were gonny believe there was any doctor still young enough to work who’d take up wi’ an old bat like me.’

‘Or that you’d take up with a doctor, knowing how tired they always are.’

‘Cheeky sod. You’re sounding better, Bobby.’

‘Two nights now.’

‘Did I no tell you about the air? Anyway, I told this guy I had absolutely no idea where you might be and if they found you to bring you back at once, on account we hadn’t yet given your head the all-clear.’

Maiden gazed into the flames jetting between flaking logs in Marcus’s woodstove. ‘Who was this?’

‘CID guy. Sergeant. Said he was a friend of yours.’

‘Mike Beattie?’

‘Aye. Trust him at all?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I did say you’d been very mixed up and restless and it was no big surprise to learn you’d skipped out. That all right for you?’

‘That’s fine. Just one thing. Maybe you could avoid ringing here from home. Call boxes are best.’

‘Aw, hey, come on … they wouldnae-’

‘They might,’ Maiden said. ‘They just might. I mean, if they already are doing, we’re stuffed. But these things can take time to fiddle.’

Amid the clutter on Marcus’s desk of beaten-up mahogany lay a new hardback book with a dark cover and big, silver lettering: Beyond Roswell: The Paranoid Decades.

‘And maybe … I don’t like to ask this, but is there any way you could avoid coming down for the funeral?’

‘They could follow me?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Well,’ Andy said bitterly, ‘if you explain to Marcus. Don’t imagine I’d be missed. I’m no bloody good to her now, am I?’

When he put down the phone, Marcus was furiously polishing his glasses. He put them on and glared through them.

‘Maiden, what kind of shit have you got that woman into?’

Putting himself between Maiden and the stove. He had on what seemed to be his usual leisurewear, which included a long blue cardigan and a mustard bow tie. It had grown dark outside and the fire accounted for most of the light in the room.

‘If you’re going to use my house as some sort of bunker, you can at least tell me precisely why. Am I going to wake up to find the place surrounded by some fucking task force with loud hailers and automatic rifles?’

‘I think we can rule out the armed response unit,’ Maiden said. ‘But that’s probably all we can rule out.’

‘Going to sit down, are we, Maiden?’ Marcus smiled threateningly. ‘Have a drink?’

‘No thanks. No good for head injuries, apparently.’

He found a sofa. Marcus dragged a bottle of Teachers’ whisky and a tumbler from his desk and slumped with them into an easy chair by the stove, white stuffing spurting out of the seat as though the chair was frothing at the mouth.

‘Entertain me,’ he said. ‘Remembering that I spent thirty years interrogating schoolboys. World’s most convincing liar, the schoolboy.’

‘Well …’ Maiden sank into a dusty, brocaded cushion. ‘The bottom line is, I suspect my superior officer would like me out of the picture.’

‘You are out of the picture. You’re eighty miles away. If you mean dead, Maiden, say it.’

‘Dead, then.’

‘Why, precisely?’

Maiden said, ‘For being possibly the only copper in Elham division who hasn’t at some time, to some extent, been on the take.’

Yes, he thought. It is that simple.

Marcus leaned forward, firelight gleaming fiercely in his heavy spectacles. Then he poured himself a Scotch.

‘That’s it, then, is it?’ he said. ‘I mean, do forgive me, Maiden, but I was rather expecting something to test the imagination.’

Only later, when Marcus was too drunk and maudlin to handle and he was trudging across the yard to the cottage, did Maiden realize this hadn’t been sarcasm.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Maiden.’ Marcus holding out his tumbler and gazing into the whisky as if it was the