Free The Caller by Alex Barclay Page A

flight of stairs into a small apartment.
    The living room was well worn and looked like the centre of entertainment for Mrs Aneto. Therewere 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