The Calling by Neil Cross Page B

you were surprised by this woman’s size?’
    ‘I think we all were.’
    Luther makes a note to check all applications to the IVF programme, see who’s been rejected for obesity. It’ll be a long list, but it could take them somewhere.
    He says, ‘What was their story?’
    ‘In what sense?’
    ‘I mean, what did they tell you about themselves?’
    ‘This isn’t Alcoholics Anonymous. We’re a drop-in centre. We don’t pressure new couples. For a lot of them, just coming along is a giant step. If they want to sit in silence, fine.’
    ‘So how did they behave, Barry and Lynda?’
    ‘She was . . . sweet.’
    ‘When you say sweet,’ Luther says, ‘you say it with certain emphasis.’
    ‘She was . . . she was very pretty, in a strange way. But there was something grotesque about her. I don’t mean in terms of her weight. I mean there was something – Shirley Temple-ish. She wore very girly clothes, pinks and ribbons. Knee-high socks. And she had this teeny, tiny, little mousey voice.’
    Luther’s heart is hastening. He says, ‘And him?’
    ‘He was—’
    ‘Dominant? Submissive?’
    ‘Neither. He was distant. They just didn’t feel like a couple.’
    ‘So he wasn’t paying attention to his partner?’
    ‘No. They sat next to each other. She was smiling at everyone. Little rosebud lips.’
    ‘And he was . . .’
    ‘Smug and over-assertive. Sat there like this, with his legs splayed.’
    ‘I’m sorry to be vulgar,’ Luther says. ‘But a crotch display like that, a certain kind of man thinks it’s a turn-on. He’s sitting with his legs wide apart, advertising the goods. So were there any innuendos, any double-meanings, off-colour remarks? Joking offers to get women pregnant, maybe?’
    ‘None of that,’ Pope says. ‘Besides which, I know how to tread on that pretty quickly and pretty efficiently.’
    Luther bets she does. He nods, once, in professional recognition. ‘So I wonder – did Barry pay any particular attention to any member of the group?’
    Pope’s eyes head up and to the right. She searches her memory.
    Then she looks at Luther.
    She considers her answer for a long time.
    ‘He sat there,’ she said, ‘leering at Sarah Lambert like she was a ripe peach. He made them both uncomfortable. Tom and Sarah. I think that’s the last time they came to the group.’
    Luther and Howie walk into the blaring London noise, the grit and filth.
    Luther says, ‘You ever think about it? Kids?’
    Howie shrugs. ‘What about you?’
    ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘My wife and I had a pact. When we got together.’
    ‘Seriously?’ Howie says. ‘Whose idea was that?’
    ‘Both of ours, I think.’
    ‘And it still stands?’
    ‘Apparently.’
    She flashes him an enquiring look.
    ‘Who knows,’ he says. ‘The stupid things you say when you’re twenty-one.’
    Howie says, ‘Are you okay, Boss?’
    He snaps out of it. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘miles away.’
    Detective Sergeant Justin Ripley, curly hair and a trusting face, has been seconded to the Lambert investigation. He drives to Y2K Cleaning. He’s partnered with Detective Constable Theresa Delpy.
    Y2K Cleaning is run out of an office between a newsagent and a dry cleaners on Green Lanes.
    Ripley badges the elderly receptionist. He and Delpy wait for ten minutes, sipping cups of water from the cooler and reading trade magazines – Cleaning and Hygiene Today , Cleansing Matters – until the owner appears: a short, bearded, fat man in a plaid tank top.
    He shakes Ripley’s hand, asks what the problem is.
    Ripley asks about Tom and Sarah Lambert’s current cleaner.
    The owner comes back in five minutes. ‘Her name’s Sheena Kwalingana. I can show you a file copy of her visa if you like.’
    Ripley declines. ‘How long has Sheena Kwalingana been working for the Lamberts?’
    ‘Three years, four months. No complaints.’
    Ripley thanks the owner and drives to Finsbury Park Road, where Sheena Kwalingana has a weekly appointment to clean a