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The Calling (Dc Goodhew) - Hardcover

Buch 3 von 7: DC Gary Goodhew Mysteries

Bruce, Alison

 
9781569479643: The Calling (Dc Goodhew)
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 156947964X ISBN 13: 9781569479643
Verlag: Soho Constable, 2011

Inhaltsangabe

Kaye Whiting went to buy a birthday present and didn't come back. When DC Goodhew hears the recording of the mysterious call made to the station, informing them that Kaye is still alive and that a man named Peter Walsh is responsbile, he knows it's more than a prank call.  Why does Mr. Walsh not seem surprised to see Goodhew at his doorstep, and who is the woman who goes to the same diner every day, just so she can watch Mr. Walsh walk out of his building with his new lover?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Alison Bruce was born in Surrey but moved to Cambridge in 1998. She is the author of two other Gary Goodhew books, Cambridge Blue and The Siren. She is married with two small children.

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PROLOGUE

MONDAY, 24 AUGUST 2009

My counsellor says I should keep a journal of my dreams.
What does she know?
I need far more help than she can give me.

Blood bubbled through the scored skin, swelling and dripping.
Swelling and dripping. Slipping into a languid crawl before diluting
across the damp enamel, and finally plunging into the water. Each
droplet billowed and unfurled in delicate ribbons before vanishing,
dispersing in the bath where she lay. She watched her wrists bleed.
Strange how peaceful it is, she thought, and sank deeper beneath the
silky bubbles.

The drifting steam swirled above her, entwining the scents of
jasmine foam and rose soap. She slid her head below the water, her
hair floating around her shoulders, shining in the wetness. She no
longer felt like hacking it off. Glad that she hadn’t.

She closed her eyes, content to hear the muffled music from the
radio in the hall, and the muted rain against the window. Thoughts
drifted in and out, along with her breathing.

She looked down along the plane of her outstretched body.
Imagine being beautiful. Imagine being the centre of the world. She
wished she were someone else.

She sighed and closed her eyes again.


He groped for the handle of the back door, located it and held it
tight to stop it rattling.

He peeked into the house. No sign of her; if she was there at all,
she hadn’t heard him.

He turned it slowly, holding it tight keep it quiet. It was unlocked,
providing an open invite for anyone.

No surprise there, though.

He stepped inside and paused, listening. Music trickled down to him.

He flicked the light switch and the fluorescent tube jolted into life,
reflecting a bright strip of light from the stainless-steel draining
board and glinting from the chrome-edged cupboards.

The surfaces lay bare, apart from the bunch of keys and a
screwed-up, tear-sodden tissue marooned together on top of the low
fridge.

He walked the length of the hall.He stopped at the foot of the stairs.


She stirred just enough to twist the hot tap with her foot. The fresh
water rippled into the old, and warmed her.

She shut off the tap again and dozed.

Floating, floating.

And, floating away, she saw someone else with fair hair and blue
eyes. Tired, scared, bewildered blue eyes. Who was it? She couldn’t
see. A girl? A boy?

Someone in the woods with fair hair, fair skin and blue eyes.

She saw more: a pretty girl with a dirty face, tied against a tree.

Like me, but pretty, she thought.


He heard the running water and drew a deep breath, as if to smell her.

He grabbed the handrail, propelling himself towards the bathroom.
Step by step. Quick and quiet.

He tilted his head close to the door, resting his temple against the
frame.

Was she alone?

He waited and listened. No voices, but that didn’t mean anything.

He stroked the satin paint along the doorframe. No whispers or
giggles. Perhaps she really was alone.

Alone with her precious fucking radio.

He grabbed the door handle and tried to open the door. Locked.


Her eyes flashed open at the first crack. The wood ripped apart and
the door splintered open.

Her hands shot under the water, hiding her damaged wrists.
Dark, clotted blood trails streaked in their wake.

He lunged forward, shouting words she couldn’t understand.

‘Don’t hurt me,’ she gasped, as she cowered naked and defenceless
in the tepid bath.

‘What the fuck is going on in your head?’

She couldn’t reply. She stared at him, wide-eyed and shaking, and
began to cry.

Between her sobs she caught the words, ‘Mad bitch’.

‘Answer me,’ he roared.

She shook her head, unable to speak.

She wanted him to stop shouting. To stop hating her.

She began screaming.

The flat of his hand hit her full across the left cheek and the skin
reddened into hot, stinging blotches. Her hysteria subsided.

‘I-can’t-stand-you-any-more.’ He spoke each syllable with cold
deliberation. ‘You’re like a leech, clinging and sucking me dry. Just
being near you revolts me.’

Somehow his words mesmerized her. He hated her; she could see
it clearly in those narrowed eyes and the way his mouth twisted as
he spat out the words.

‘Why do you bang on and on until I lose my temper? Until you
make me snap? And now look at you.’ He gestured as if waving her
away in disgust.

He turned and reached out beyond the broken door, grabbing the
radio from the hall table. He shook it at her ‘If you were so fucking
suicidal, you wouldn’t be lying there listening to this.’

Her brain reacted slowly. She only realized how the radio was
attached to a cable, the cable to a plug, the plug to an electric socket,
as he tossed the whole lot towards the water.

And then it tumbled in the air.

In slow motion, according to her addled mind.

And then she woke.




CHAPTER 1

SATURDAY, 26 MARCH 2011

Margaret Whiting wanted to cry: anger and frustration had bitten
into her, and it clawed at the back of her neck. She wanted the tears
to come, she’d wanted to sob out loud and hear her own voice,
without having it shouted down by her husband or her son.

She’d stood in her kitchen, sorting washing and tossing each item
on to the correct colour pile with an angry flick of her wrist. She
separated her clothes from theirs, thinking theirs weren’t fit to share
the same wash. She knew she couldn’t cry, so she had shouted, and
Mike had then said she was hysterical and was the cause of all the
upset in the family.

Oh, yes, she’d thought, our gloriously happy family! Her son was
a liar and her husband a hypocrite, and yet she was supposed to be
happy.

Just this morning had been the start of it.

The day had begun the same as always, a four hour shift at Histon
Road service station watching the very same people fill the same cars
with petrol, or buy their cigarettes and bread and milk – that had
been the start of it. Each time the till had rolled open, Margaret
looked down at the twenty-pound notes and the Queen looked back.
And each time Margaret felt the Queen was looking a little more
smug. Everyone had money except her, it seemed.

The clock on the cigarette counter had been nudging five past eleven
as Lindsay arrived. Late again. ‘Morning, Margaret. How are you?’

‘Fine. How are the kids?’ Margaret had replied, because that was
the routine.

‘Fine.’

And so it had gone on. ‘Another day the same as every other
bloody day,’ she’d eventually complained. ‘Do you know what,
Lindsay? Every single day of my bloody life is spent worrying about
pennies and watching everyone else spend money like there’s no
tomorrow. I could never spend what they spend on fuel without
feeling bad about it.’ Margaret had felt a surge of bravado even as
she said it. If only she could talk like this to her husband Mike.

‘Lindsay, do you ever feel nosey?’ she’d asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ The other woman had grinned. ‘All the time!’

‘What, with Craig?’

‘Oh, suspicious you mean?’ Lindsay then shrugged. ‘Not really.
Just the odd minute of winding myself up, but that’s about all.
You’re...

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Verlag
Soho Constable
Erscheinungsdatum
2011
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
156947964X
ISBN 13 
9781569479643
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
346
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Buchpark GmbH
gpsr@buchpark.de

Krügerweg 1
Trebbin
Brandenburg
14959
Deutschland

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