Phil Rickman - The Cold Calling

‘Don’t ask me about it,’ Marcus said. ‘Just don’t bloody ask me.’

Maiden looked slowly from side to side. As though he was seeing the place for the first time. As though he’d fallen asleep somewhere else and awoken here. Marcus was aware of his eyes. He didn’t usually register the colour of people’s eyes. But these were blue and clear and unblinking. Once had these inane, born-again Christians at the door. Or maybe it was Mormons. Fanatics, anyway. They all had eyes like this.

‘Better get some breakfast.’ Marcus turned, unnerved, and headed back towards the farm.

The radio said, Police investigating the brutal stabbing of a thirty-two-year-old woman in a hotel room in South Wales say they want to question a senior detective from the Midlands. Detective Inspector Bobby Maiden disappeared from the hospital where he was being treated for serious head injuries. Peter Tilley reports .

Andy did sit down. On the sofa by the bookcase. She felt her face muscles go slack. In a framed black and white photograph on the wall opposite, the early sun came up between the pinnacles of the tower of St Mary’s church.

On the radio, the reporter said, Mrs Emma Curtis, daughter of a Midlands businessman, was found dead early this morning by staff at the four-star Collen Hall Hotel, near Abergavenny. She had multiple stab wounds resulting from what police have described as a frenzied and vicious attack .

Police say Mrs Curtis, a divorcee, was staying at the hotel with thirty-six-year-old Detective Inspector Maiden, who was based at Elham in the West Midlands. Several days ago he disappeared from the town’s General Hospital where he was being treated for head injuries following a hit-and-run incident near his home .

Police in Gwent and West Mercia have declined to expand on a joint statement naming Inspector Maiden as the only person they want to question in connection with the killing. Anyone with information about his whereabouts is asked to contact police but advised under no circumstances to approach Mr Maiden, who may be in an unstable state of mind. He’s described as …

Riggs switched off. ‘I think we both know what he looks like.’

Malcolm the dog had eyes on different levels in his big, white face. They could give you the idea that Malcolm was unstable, dangerous even. Plus, he was part bull-terrier, with a mouth like a gin-trap.

But Bobby Maiden knew that Malcolm was basically innocent. Whatever was happening, he just wanted to be part of it, part of the pack. Bobby Maiden petted the dog and talked to him because this was simple and warming and it didn’t make you cry.

He sat in the study, on a hard chair, with his back to the window. He didn’t need ever to move. The study was lined with bookshelves separated by bricks. There were thousands of books.

Books about Big Mysteries.

Marcus said, ‘What the hell’s the matter with him? What have you done to him?’

‘Not me.’ Cindy had been back to the pub for a change of clothing. He looked neat and clean and powdered and coiffeured, his bangles jangling. But the eyes were bloodshot and the make-up extra thick to hide the lines of strain.

‘He’s like a bloody backward child!’ Marcus said.

‘He will be fine. Why don’t you make us all some tea, Marcus. Feel free to take your time.’

They’d fed Bobby Maiden local honey on a slice of crisp toast. The honey tasted incredible. Probably nothing had tasted this good since he was a kid.

Which was wrong. Nothing should taste good this morning. Why did the honey taste good? Why did the air taste pure? Why was he aware of breathing? When, not twelve hours ago, he was sitting in the dark by a dry fountain wishing he was properly dead because of his inability to do the business … and the real horror only just beginning?

There was a clock over the fireplace, the only wall without books. The clock did not tick. It went thock, thock, thock . The clock said 8.40.

Malcolm yawned. His eyes closed tight and opened.

Maiden thought about Emma Curtis. He remembered awakening once and seeing her eyes in the haze around the candle on the stone, as clearly as he saw Malcolm’s eyes now.

She was dead. He didn’t know why she died. There was no earthly reason she should have died. Been killed.

Malcolm became a blur.

‘Marcus is, I suppose you’d say, in denial.’

Cindy’s left-hand bangle displayed amethysts; each stone had a vivid interior life.

‘Like little Grayle Underhill, spent most of his life, he has, wanting to believe, and then something happens and he goes into denial. Seen it before. Happened to me, even. A long time ago. No, I’m lying, it still happens. There’s always a part of us that doesn’t want to believe, and sometimes it takes over and we get angry with ourselves for being so credulous. A phase, it is, that’s all.’

Bobby Maiden was thinking about painting. One week, soon after Liz moved out, he’d painted only in white — acrylic, layer upon layer, different densities, all white.

Cindy held up a white envelope that bulged.

‘Don’t you want to know what’s in this, Bobby?’

‘Not just now, if that’s OK with you.’

‘Don’t you want to ask if you are going through a phase?’

Maiden stroked Malcolm’s ears.

‘Yours isn’t a phase, Bobby. You’ve got trouble. You can deal with it or you can run away. This is just a respite. Thinking time. It isn’t even denial. Your denial came after you were killed, and that wasn’t even a conscious thing. Your inner self blocked it, and just as well, my love, or you’d be in a psychiatric hospital by now.’

‘Go bloody mad,’ Maiden said, in Norman Plod’s voice. ‘Cut their ears off.’

Hunched on the edge of her sofa, Andy felt her insides contract. Looked at her roughened hands.

Did these things bring back a killer?

Her eyes rose to the photo of the Golden Valley from High Knoll.

‘A shock for all of us, Mrs Anderson.’ Riggs had his arms folded. ‘You think you know someone, but you never do, quite.’

How was a state registered nurse supposed to live with this? She found it hard to look at Riggs. A long second passed.

‘Going to destroy his father,’ Riggs said. ‘I met him recently. At the hospital. Old-fashioned, letter-of-the-law copper. Very sad.’

‘How can you be sure? How can you be sure this is down to Bobby?’

‘Mrs Anderson, I’d give anything if it wasn’t, believe me.’ The guy looked bowed down with grief. ‘We’re waiting for forensics, obviously. But, ask yourself why, if he had nothing to do with it, did he leave the scene? And when does this kind of murderer ever strike in a hotel room booked for two?’

She felt Bobby’s head between her hands. The incredible holiness of the moment less than two weeks ago. Oh Jesus God .

‘Think about it,’ Riggs said. ‘Call me.’ He placed a card on the top of the TV set. ‘My mobile.’

‘I can’t help you,’ Andy said. ‘I’m sorry.’

She stood up. Riggs turned slowly and examined the picture on the wall.

‘Mysterious.’ Like this was a social call. ‘You take this, Mrs Anderson?’

‘No. A friend.’

‘I’m trying to place it. Cotswolds?’

‘Herefordshire,’ Andy said, dry-mouthed.

‘Welsh border. I see. Spend holidays there?’

‘Once or twice.’

Riggs nodded, moved to the door.

‘Look, if he was the kind to kill a woman,’ Andy said desperately, ‘then, my God, would that wee bitch Lizzie Turner be alive today?’

‘Perhaps she was lucky.’ Riggs turned at the door. ‘Look, if it helps you, he won’t wind up in Dartmoor. He’s a sick man. He’ll get the care he needs.’