by Ann Cleeves
‘Simon Walden,’ she said. ‘He’s dead. He was murdered.’
‘He stopped working here in the autumn.’ The voice was unexpectedly pleasant, a light tenor.
‘I know that.’
‘So why are you bothering me?’
‘You worked with him all season. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me something about him. Something that might help us find his killer.’
‘We weren’t friends. I didn’t know anything about him and I wasn’t interested. He was a decent baker. Reliable enough, but no real attention to detail or presentation. And he couldn’t take instruction.’
‘He didn’t like being bossed around.’ Jen thought she’d struggle to take instruction from this man.
‘He had an attitude problem. Passive aggressive. He thought I didn’t trust him. This is my kitchen. I don’t trust anyone. It caused a negative atmosphere and it affected my work. I couldn’t have that.’ Clarkson’s attention was pulled back to the pan. ‘When did he die?’
‘Yesterday. Sometime in the afternoon.’
‘I was here all day. From mid-morning. We were catering for a wedding. You’ll have to look elsewhere for your killer.’ He moved the pan onto the heat again and turned his back to Jen.
* * *
Jen stood outside the hotel. In a large conservatory with a view of the sea, well-dressed women sat drinking coffee. Through the glass she couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the painted nails and occasional flashes of silver as the sunlight caught bangles and earrings made them seem exotic, glamorous. Brightly coloured birds in an aviary. It was hard to imagine Simon Walden working here. She thought he’d probably hated it, and wouldn’t have come back, even if he’d been offered the chance again.
So, who had lied? Simon or Caroline? Caroline had said that his stay was temporary and soon he’d be moving out of Hope Street. It was one thing to have a strange lodger for a few months, quite another to have him lurking there indefinitely, a reminder that not everyone was as lucky as they’d been. Haunting them, like the albatross he’d had tattooed on his neck.
Jen thought he’d been unlucky at the hotel. The chef was obviously a sociopath. She couldn’t imagine getting on with him either; she’d have clashed with him as Walden had done. She was beginning to feel some sympathy for the man. She walked back to her car.
She phoned Matthew again. There was still no answer, but there was a voicemail from Ross asking her to go back to Hope Street to check the recorded messages on the landline there. By the time she arrived at number twenty, it was mid-afternoon and school chucking out time. Groups of school kids wandered down the high street at the bottom of the road. She let herself into the house with the spare key she’d been given. The CSIs were still working in Walden’s bedroom, and she shouted up to them to let them know she was there. She could tell by the powder on the handset that the phone had already been fingerprinted; she lifted it and dialled 1571 to pick up the message.
It seemed the messages hadn’t been checked recently. There was a list of cold calls: charities seeking donations, insurance companies, one from a dentist reminding Ms Preece that her appointment with the hygienist was due. Nothing personal. The women at number twenty were of the generation when texts were more common than phone calls, certainly more common than phone calls to landlines.
Then there came the message that Matthew had been most interested in. It had been left fifteen days before. First the usual pause that came once the caller realized he wasn’t speaking to a real person. Then a male voice, jaunty, friendly. Jen thought she could catch an undertone of threat, but that could be her imagination; after all, she was looking out for it.
‘How’s this as a blast from the past? Bet you never thought I’d track you down. I told you I would, didn’t I? You can’t escape your old buddies after all.’
She got out her phone and set it to record, then replayed the message. The boss would be eager to hear the recording. They should be able to trace the originating number from the phone company. She played it again and tried to place the accent. It was southern and she found southern voices hard to pin down. Walden had come from Bristol, so perhaps that was it.
Out on the pavement she hesitated for a moment then walked to the corner of the high street. Although the rough sleeper had moved away, a different man stood almost in the same place. He waved a copy of The Big Issue in front of her and she felt in her pocket for change.
‘This your regular spot?’
He nodded.
‘Do you know the people who live at number twenty? Two lasses and a bloke?’
‘You a Scouser?’
‘Yeah, you?’ She’d been able to tell just from those three words and wondered what his story was.
‘Birkenhead,’ he said.
‘What brought you here?’
‘A woman,’ he replied. ‘It’s always a woman, isn’t it?’
She didn’t know what to say to that. ‘I was asking about the people at number twenty.’
‘You a cop? You don’t look like a cop, but I can smell them.’ He touched the side of his nose. Not hostile, just telling it like it was.
She gave a brief nod up the hill towards Caroline Preece’s house. ‘Investigating the murder of the guy who lived there.’ She thought he’d know about that, even if he didn’t have access to morning television. ‘I heard he’d been having a rough time before he moved in there.’
‘What was his name?’
Jen thought the man was buying time, planning his response. He knew already. ‘Simon Walden.’
‘Yeah, I’d seen him around. Bit of a boozer. Seemed to have landed on his feet. Nice place.’
‘Not landed on his feet now, though, has he?’
There was no reply.
‘Any reason why he should have been killed? Had he made any enemies round here? Owe any money?’
‘He wasn’t dealing.’
‘Using?’ Though they’d find out soon enough once they got the post-mortem toxicology report.
The man shook his head. ‘The drink was his poison. He drank in The Anchor at the other end of the high street.’
‘Anything else you can tell me?’
‘I don’t know that he’d ever been sleeping rough. He was one sad bastard, though. I never saw him smile.’
* * *
The Anchor was a locals’ pub, small and dark. There was nothing to attract tourists. No food, no fancy ciders. If strangers did walk in, they’d be stared at, a matter of interest and curiosity rather than resentment. Most visitors found the attention off-putting and left after one drink. At a table in a corner a middle-aged couple were holding hands. They looked as if they’d been there since lunchtime. Behind the bar a little man, thin as a whippet, was cleaning glasses.
Jen held out the photo of Simon Walden. ‘I hear he used to drink in here.’ When the man didn’t answer immediately. ‘I’m a police officer. We’re investigating his murder.’
‘I’d heard he was dead.’
‘Killed,’ she said. ‘Stabbed on the beach at Crow Point. Sounds as if he’d upset someone. Any idea who that might have been?’
The man shook his head. ‘He wasn’t a social drinker. He always turned up early and on his own. Five-ish. Not every night and I hadn’t seen him the last few weeks. I thought he’d moved on. Most of the people who come in at that time are here for the company. A game of dominos, a chat. Older people or guys stopping for a quick pint on their way home from work. He would come with a paper, sit with his back to the room, drink solidly for an hour and then go away. I never even knew his name until I saw his picture on the telly.’
Chapter Eleven
IN THE WOODYARD KITCHEN, THE WORKING day was nearly over, the pans clean, the stainless-steel surfaces scrubbed. It was open to the cafe, separated by a counter, tiny with an oven and a hob on one side and a sink on the other. Matthew had been to the cafe often with Jonathan. The coffee was good and the cakes were better. A few lingering visitors were finishing tea. They p
assed Matthew on their way out as he was taking a seat at the table nearest to the counter. The chef, Bob, was a large man but nimble on his feet. Jonathan had once said that watching him at work was like seeing an elephant dancing. Miraculous. Bob hung a tea towel over the hob and looked at Matthew. ‘I expect you could use a coffee. I’m ready for one myself.’
Once the coffee was made, they moved to a table looking out over the river. ‘Is this about Simon?’
‘You heard?’ Matthew wasn’t surprised. Of course, the news would have spread through the place by now.
‘Saw it on the telly this morning.’
‘He worked with you?’
The big man nodded. ‘As a volunteer. He was a lovely baker. They taught him that in the army. Apparently, he did a couple of tours to Afghanistan. Soldiers have to eat like the rest of us.’
‘Of course.’ Again, Matthew’s perspective on Simon Walden shifted. Had the man been suffering from PTSD? Would that account for the mood swings and obsessions? ‘How did he come to be working with you?’
‘Caroline Preece asked me to take him on. Her dad’s on the board of trustees of this place and it’s not wise to upset Christopher.’
‘Why?’
Bob shrugged. ‘He’s a wealthy man and he’s used to getting his own way. He runs the board. And he dotes on that daughter of his. But Simon was okay. Not like most of the volunteers, who are pains in the arse. Chatty bloody women. He just did what was needed. I could leave him to get on with it. Some days he’d come in early – no fun on the bus from Ilfracombe – to start the bread. We do all our own baking. It would pretty well be ready when I got here. Saved me a bit of work.’
‘He didn’t drive?’
The cook shook his head. ‘He killed a child once. He never got behind a wheel again. You can understand it.’
Matthew thought Walden had confided in Bob more than he had the women with whom he was living. That made sense. They were men together, closer in age. ‘Lucy Braddick works here too?’
‘Only a day a week at the moment.’ Bob showed no curiosity in why Matthew was asking. ‘Her group at the day centre take it in turns. Not in the kitchen but waitressing, clearing tables. She’s one of the good ones, Lucy. A great little worker. And sunny. Always smiling. The customers love her.’ He paused. ‘I’m thinking of taking her on properly, paying her a living wage if the day centre is up for it. It only seems fair; she’s every bit as good as the regular staff.’
‘Would she have met Simon Walden?’
‘Well, we keep the day centre chaps this side of the counter. Health and safety. You know how it is. Anyway, no room to swing a cat back there. But yeah, they chatted to each other. Simon was brilliant with all the regulars from the centre. I think Lucy was a favourite.’
Matthew nodded and thought that was one mystery cleared up. Lucy had recognized Walden from the kitchen. It didn’t explain, though, why she’d seemed so vague about where they’d met or why he’d made the trek to Lovacott on the days before he’d died, making a point of sitting next to her on the bus.
* * *
By the time Matthew had finished talking in the cafe, it was late afternoon. Outside, there was still a bit of heat to the sun. Matthew could feel it on the back of his neck as he walked to his car. He crossed the bridge and drove into the town, planning to get to his desk at last, to catch up with what had been going on at the station, to put Ross out of his misery by allowing him to show off what he’d achieved during the day. But at the last minute he changed his mind and headed towards his old school and the big houses that looked out over Rock Park. He’d been given Christopher Preece’s address by Jonathan. He was interested to meet Caroline’s father, the man whose money had given birth to the Woodyard.
The house was detached, built in the arts and crafts style, with mellow brick and mullioned windows, small dormer windows to break the roof-line, not very old but traditional. A row of trees marked the border of the garden; there was a small pond and a terrace. A pleasant garden, slightly left to run wild. Wrought-iron gates stood open but Matthew parked outside in the street. He rang the bell and the door was opened almost immediately by a middle-aged man, tall, attractive, healthy-looking, in jeans. Matthew realized he had seen him a few times before: in their old flat in Barnstaple and at Woodyard social events. He and Jonathan usually kept their working lives separate, but occasionally he was dragged along to meet the great and the good, councillors and potential donors.
‘Hello?’ It was clear that Preece wasn’t accustomed to strangers turning up on the doorstep, but this was a smart stranger so he didn’t just close the door. And perhaps there was a brief moment of recognition too. He smiled, like a politician, anxious not to alienate a voter whom he might have met before.
‘Matthew Venn. Devon Police.’ Matthew held out a card. ‘I’m here about Simon Walden. He was murdered yesterday. He was living in the same house as your daughter and her friends.’
‘Of course. I heard about it. And I’m sorry, of course I should have recognized you. You’re Jonathan’s partner. Do come in.’ A serious frown, followed by the same politician’s smile and a good firm handshake. Preece led him into a back room. A long window looked out onto a lawn, shrubs. Inside, there was an upright piano, comfortable chairs gathered around an open grate. Lots of photos of Caroline, framed music exam certificates, pony club rosettes. It seemed it had been a comfortable childhood. Until her mother had died. Matthew looked for a picture of the mother, but there was just a wedding photograph, formal. Preece and a fair, willowy woman standing on church steps. She wore traditional white and carried flowers. Nothing more recent. ‘Can I get you something? Coffee?’
Matthew shook his head. ‘Did you know Simon Walden?’
‘I met him a couple of times,’ Preece said. ‘Caroline asked me not to interfere, but I wanted to judge him for myself.’
‘Did you see him at the house in Ilfracombe?’
‘Not the first occasion. I saw him in the house a few times later when I’d calmed down.’ Preece paused. ‘I’m afraid I lost my temper when I heard she’d invited him to stay there. It seemed such a very reckless thing to do. But Caroline made it clear that her tenants were none of my business. I might have helped provide the deposit for the place but she said it was her house, her decision who lives there.’ Another of the smiles, self-deprecating, confiding. ‘You see, Inspector, it seems that I’m only welcome if I’m invited. And perhaps that’s as it should be. I still think of her as my little girl, but I do understand that she needs to be independent.’
‘So, where did you meet him first?’
Preece took a while to answer. ‘I asked him to come here. I was worried about a stranger with apparent mental health problems moving into my daughter’s home.’ Matthew wondered what Preece made of Caroline’s career choice – after all, she spent every day working with people with mental health problems – but he was still speaking. ‘As I told you, at the very least, I wanted to make my own assessment of the man.’
Preece stared into the garden. ‘I didn’t want to see Walden in the Woodyard where he was a volunteer. That would have been too formal, too complicated. I’ve always tried to leave the practical business there to the professionals. I wouldn’t want them to think I was meddling. In this case, I was, of course, but in my daughter’s affairs, not the Woodyard’s.’
‘You did get him the place in the Woodyard cafe.’ Surely, Matthew thought, that was interference of a sort.
‘The volunteering was Caroline’s idea, Inspector. Nothing to do with me.’
Matthew imagined Walden here, summoned to this calm and comfortable house. Surely it must have been an intimidating encounter. ‘What did you make of him?’
Preece thought about that. ‘He wasn’t quite what I expected. I liked him.’ He paused for a moment. ‘He told me he’d killed a child. A road traffic accident. He’d been drinking. Not enough to be over the limit but enough to lose concentration for a moment. I was impressed by his honesty. He
told me he’d carried the guilt around with him ever since. We had that in common. The guilt. Survivors’ guilt. If you’ve been to the Woodyard, you’ll have heard about my wife.’
‘As you said, Jonathan Church is my husband. He explained that she’d taken her own life. I’m very sorry.’
‘Becca had suffered depression on and off since soon after we met. It was much worse in the last five years of her life. I didn’t understand it. I wanted to help but I couldn’t see how and that was a nightmare for me. I’m a control freak. I make things right. But I couldn’t make her right. And there was nowhere to go for help. The medical profession was completely useless. I think I took out my frustration and irritation on her. We had a row the night that she died. My last words to her were that she was selfish. I said if she cared at all about Caroline, she’d pull herself together and give more time to her daughter.’ He stopped and turned away. ‘That was unforgiveable and I’ve been punished ever since because that conversation is the last memory I have of her.’ He turned back to Matthew. ‘I went out to calm down, walked along the river for an hour. When I got back she’d hanged herself.’
‘And that happened in this house?’ Matthew didn’t think he’d be able to stay here with such dreadful memories. He wasn’t sure what to make of Preece. The story seemed to come easily. Was this something he’d repeated many times before so he’d become distanced from it, or was he confiding in Matthew because he was a stranger?
‘Caroline wasn’t here when her mother died,’ Preece said. ‘It was a weekend and she was at a festival. Something for young Christians. She’d developed a strong faith even before her mother’s death. Afterwards, she didn’t want to move, so I didn’t think I had the right to make her.’ He was still for a moment, lost in thought. Matthew could tell there was more to come. ‘I hadn’t expected the guilt when Becca died. I expected the grief. Missing her, missing the woman I’d loved and married. But, you see, part of me was glad she was dead. I walked into the house and saw her there, hanging from the bannister in the hall, and there was a brief moment of relief. It had been such a strain living with her, the moods and the anger, the days of total withdrawal, the helplessness because I couldn’t help her or make her well. And it was that moment that caused the guilt. That was what prompted me to get involved in St Cuthbert’s and in setting up the Woodyard.’