Alex Barclay - The Caller

She stared at Martinez. ‘You must be the token guy,’ she said.

He frowned.

‘Match the skin of the detective to the skin of the victim,’ she said.

Martinez turned back to her and spoke again in Spanish. She gave a defeated smile and led them in, up a narrow flight of stairs into a small apartment.

The living room was well worn and looked like the centre of entertainment for Mrs Aneto. There were women’s magazines on the sofa, two books balanced on the arm, a tray with a teapot and one cup on it. A bowl at the centre of the coffee table was filled with candy. The TV was widescreen and behind it, there were tall shelves of DVD cases and at the bottom, rows and rows of cassettes with white stickers and handwritten titles.

Mrs Aneto sat down in a high-backed armchair and put the footstool in front of it to one side. Danny and Martinez sat side by side on the sofa. Martinez leaned forward, resting his forearm on his left knee. He spoke in Spanish. ‘The night your son died, you said when he called you it was to say goodnight. Did he say anything else?’

‘Let’s not be rude to our white guest,’ she said and switched to English. ‘Why are you asking me this now?’

‘Because there have been some new developments in the investigation and-’

‘What kind of new developments?’

‘We believe there may be another victim.’

Her eyes were wide. ‘Was the victim white?’

‘Yes,’ said Martinez. ‘In fact, there may be two of them.’

‘Both white.’

‘Yes,’ said Martinez. ‘We’ve spoken with another victim’s family member who got a phone call the night their loved one died – well, a different kind of call than the one you got. We’re wondering if there’s a connection…’

Mrs Aneto closed her eyes. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Then she took a deep breath. ‘My son begins his introduction to detectives as a Latino victim. Strike one. William is gay. Strike two. Strike three would have been what I told you about the phone call. You people did nothing to find William’s killer. Nothing. You did not give a damn. And you’re only back around now because some white boys have gone the same way. I’m telling you now what I didn’t tell you before, because it might be connected. And you will work harder now for three victims than you ever would for William, a lone victim with the wrong-coloured skin-’

‘Mrs Aneto-’ said Danny.

She held up a finger. ‘There is nothing you can say to me that will change my truth.’

‘Your truth, Mrs Aneto,’ said Danny.

She stared him down. ‘I have spent a year having my anger and bitterness grow inside me. And this is my break. I won’t cry for those white boys, because maybe they’ll help me lay my William to rest. This is a tragic spotlight to have shined on my son, but I’ll take the light where I can get it.

‘I have two dead sons,’ she said. ‘Pepe, my youngest, was killed three years ago in drive-by crossfire, some gangs in Alphabet City. I was told he was scoring drugs. I never believed that. Something never seemed right about that to me. His killers have never been found.

‘On the night William died, as you know, he called me. But no, it wasn’t just to say goodnight.’ She paused. ‘I could barely hear him. He sounded drunk, he was sobbing, breathing so badly. He said to me, “Mama? I killed Pepe.” I said, “William. Is everything OK? What is the matter?” He said everything was fine. Then he told me what happened. He told me that he had sent Pepe to pick up drugs for him. And that was why Pepe was there. And that’s why he was shot. William apologized. Over and over. I was so angry with him, but I was so scared for him, he sounded so hopeless. When the police came the next morning to tell me he had been found, I thought it was suicide.’

‘So William was a drug user.’

‘I didn’t know he was. But he must have been at one stage. I knew William was clean when he died – his toxicology proved that – but if I told you what he said in this phone call he made, you wouldn’t get by the fact he had been involved with drugs.’

‘Mrs Aneto, every victim is important to us,’ said Danny. ‘Every single one. No-one gets treated any differently because of the colour of their skin, the lifestyle they have, the choices they make, nothing. We want to find your son’s killer. And we just want all the information we can to do that. We’re not judging that information, running it through any filter. They’re just facts to us – black and white – things that may or may not lead us to a killer.’

Mrs Aneto reached for a photo of William from the sideboard, framed in shiny black wood. She stared down at it. ‘I’m only talking to you today, detectives, because I have hope. I am still bitter, I am still angry, but I have hope. I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you this a year ago. I stand by that decision. Because I hate to think how bad your efforts would have been if you had known he had been into drugs.’

Joe grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He looked around the office.

‘I haven’t eaten yet. I’m going to get breakfast. Anyone need anything?’

He took three food and drink orders and as he was getting out of the elevator, his cell phone rang. It was a number he hadn’t seen in over two years and had never deleted from his contacts: Anna (W).

He frowned. ‘Anna?’

‘Do you know where she is?’ It was Chloe. Her tone had none of its usual confidence.

Joe could not speak. Anna cannot be anywhere other than the W Hotel in Union Square. The number he had programmed into his phone that morning. Just in case.

‘What?’ he said. His hunger had gone, the void in his stomach now filled with something else.

‘I’m sorry. It’s Chloe here. Anna didn’t show up at the shoot this morning. I’ve been trying her cell, the home phone – nothing. I dragged your number out of some next-of-kin thing we had for her. I’m sorry to bother you-’

‘Whoa,’ said Joe. ‘What’s going on? I left her this morning and she was taking the subway to Union Square and everything was fine-’

‘She never showed. It’s not like her. Have you been speaking with her?’

‘Obviously not.’ He had no time to deal with Chloe. He needed to go.

‘And she seemed fine to you this morning?’

‘Yes. Yes she did,’ said Joe, wondering what fine was and if he’d know it if it slapped him in the face.

They both paused. ‘Well?’ said Chloe. ‘What will we do?’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Joe.

‘Thanks,’ said Chloe. ‘I’m… worried about her.’

Sure you are, thought Joe. He stood in the street, his shaky fingers punching buttons on his phone, searching for a text message he’d missed, a phone call he hadn’t heard, anything. Then he dialled Anna’s cell, then the house. Voicemail both times. He looked across the street at his car. And ran for it.

Anna lay on the bed, back in her pyjamas, asleep, curled into the tiniest ball she could, gripping a pillow tightly to her chest. Her body jerked from side to side, then she was on her back, rigid, the pillow thrown to one side. Images washed over her, pinning her down, taking a psychological grip on her that felt physical. Her mouth was clamped shut. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. Choppy and ghost-like, strange eyes and mouths hovered over her, sweeping up her chest, pausing before her face, threatening, then sweeping away again to be replaced by another and another, each one making her feel that the next one was going to be the one to take her away. Her hands were in fists, her eyes pressed shut, a scream desperate to explode from her closed mouth.

She could hear her name being called. Over and over… but the voice was warm. She could associate it with someone kind. Someone who would look after her. Something inside her relaxed. And the scream came out, mixed with a dreadful, plangent moan.