write, she could hear the caller’s deep breathing, and traffic surging past faintly in the background.
Gully knew the caller might hang up if she spoke, but then she figured they might hang up if she didn’t. ‘My name is PC Sue Gully and you can speak to me in confidence.’
The breathing stopped and she expected to hear a voice, but the only new sound was a short sniff.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, keeping her voice relaxed and even.
The caller replied, ‘Yes,’ in a stifled whisper.
Gully scribbled ‘Female. Twenties?’ on the page, and waited as the woman fell silent again.
Through her earpiece she heard a heavy bell clanging at a slow beat, and pivoted in her seat to look out from her window and across the rooftops towards the protruding tower of the Great St Mary’s Church. She wrote ‘Phone boxes – Market Hill?’
She imagined the woman huddled in the call box, with her back to the door, hiding her face so no one could see her crying. Gully heard the woman’s breathing become steady and knew she was about to speak.
‘I have some information about the disappearance of Kaye Whiting. I don’t want to give my name.’
‘That’s fine,’ Gully encouraged.
The line clicked and to Gully’s surprise the woman hung up.
Gully dropped the receiver back on to its rest and circled the noteson the paper with three big rings. ‘How odd,’ she murmured. She tore the sheet from its pad and folded it in half. She stood it, like a greetings card, at the back of her desk.
Several calls and fifteen minutes later, Gully took another call. There were no traffic noises, clock chimes or sounds of breathing, but in an instant she knew that she was connected to the same person.
‘I have information about Kaye Whiting.’ The voice was now monotone and bereft of the distress that she’d heard so clearly the first time. ‘You’re WPC Gully, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘It was you before, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Gully repeated as she flattened her original sheet of paper back on to the top of her pad.
‘I bet you think she’s dead.’
Gully didn’t reply, but lodged the receiver under her chin and held the pad still with her left hand while she wrote with her right. ‘Drunk???’ she jotted.
‘Don’t you?’ demanded the woman, and Gully suspected that she was smiling as she’d said it.
Gully decided to play the official line. ‘We are obviously very concerned, but we are not assuming anything at this stage.’
‘That’s good, because I think when you find her you’ll realize that she was still alive at this point.’
The skin at the back of Gully’s neck began to tingle as goosebumps rose beneath her collar. ‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know, not for certain. But I don’t think there’s long before it’s too late.’
Gully bit her lower lip and made sure that the caller had finished before she responded, ‘Where is she?’
Gully heard the woman laugh, in a bitter snort of derision. ‘I can’t tell you that. Peter Walsh, that’s who you need to speak to. He works at Dunwold Insurance and lives at 26 Hanley Road. This is all I can do, phone you and tell you how it is. Do you understand that?’
‘No, not exactly. Can you explain it to me?’ asked Gully, as she repeatedly underlined the word ‘Drunk’.
‘Arrest Peter Walsh and the killings will stop. Do you know, I feel it so much I can guarantee it. One hundred per cent. And if you are really quick, you may save Kaye Whiting.’
Gully realized that she was holding her breath. She exhaled quickly as she spoke. ‘How do you know?’
The caller mumbled, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve told you now and it’s not going to be my fault any more.’
‘Why are you to blame?’ Gully said, just as she realized that she was talking to a dead line.
She picked up the phone again and dialled Goodhew’s mobile. ‘Damn,’ she groaned as she found herself directed to his voicemail.
Gully knew the caller might hang up if she spoke, but then she figured they might hang up if she didn’t. ‘My name is PC Sue Gully and you can speak to me in confidence.’
The breathing stopped and she expected to hear a voice, but the only new sound was a short sniff.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, keeping her voice relaxed and even.
The caller replied, ‘Yes,’ in a stifled whisper.
Gully scribbled ‘Female. Twenties?’ on the page, and waited as the woman fell silent again.
Through her earpiece she heard a heavy bell clanging at a slow beat, and pivoted in her seat to look out from her window and across the rooftops towards the protruding tower of the Great St Mary’s Church. She wrote ‘Phone boxes – Market Hill?’
She imagined the woman huddled in the call box, with her back to the door, hiding her face so no one could see her crying. Gully heard the woman’s breathing become steady and knew she was about to speak.
‘I have some information about the disappearance of Kaye Whiting. I don’t want to give my name.’
‘That’s fine,’ Gully encouraged.
The line clicked and to Gully’s surprise the woman hung up.
Gully dropped the receiver back on to its rest and circled the noteson the paper with three big rings. ‘How odd,’ she murmured. She tore the sheet from its pad and folded it in half. She stood it, like a greetings card, at the back of her desk.
Several calls and fifteen minutes later, Gully took another call. There were no traffic noises, clock chimes or sounds of breathing, but in an instant she knew that she was connected to the same person.
‘I have information about Kaye Whiting.’ The voice was now monotone and bereft of the distress that she’d heard so clearly the first time. ‘You’re WPC Gully, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘It was you before, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Gully repeated as she flattened her original sheet of paper back on to the top of her pad.
‘I bet you think she’s dead.’
Gully didn’t reply, but lodged the receiver under her chin and held the pad still with her left hand while she wrote with her right. ‘Drunk???’ she jotted.
‘Don’t you?’ demanded the woman, and Gully suspected that she was smiling as she’d said it.
Gully decided to play the official line. ‘We are obviously very concerned, but we are not assuming anything at this stage.’
‘That’s good, because I think when you find her you’ll realize that she was still alive at this point.’
The skin at the back of Gully’s neck began to tingle as goosebumps rose beneath her collar. ‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know, not for certain. But I don’t think there’s long before it’s too late.’
Gully bit her lower lip and made sure that the caller had finished before she responded, ‘Where is she?’
Gully heard the woman laugh, in a bitter snort of derision. ‘I can’t tell you that. Peter Walsh, that’s who you need to speak to. He works at Dunwold Insurance and lives at 26 Hanley Road. This is all I can do, phone you and tell you how it is. Do you understand that?’
‘No, not exactly. Can you explain it to me?’ asked Gully, as she repeatedly underlined the word ‘Drunk’.
‘Arrest Peter Walsh and the killings will stop. Do you know, I feel it so much I can guarantee it. One hundred per cent. And if you are really quick, you may save Kaye Whiting.’
Gully realized that she was holding her breath. She exhaled quickly as she spoke. ‘How do you know?’
The caller mumbled, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve told you now and it’s not going to be my fault any more.’
‘Why are you to blame?’ Gully said, just as she realized that she was talking to a dead line.
She picked up the phone again and dialled Goodhew’s mobile. ‘Damn,’ she groaned as she found herself directed to his voicemail.
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