by Ann Cleeves
‘No worries. I can work better in an empty house anyway.’ Ella stood up. ‘Look. I’ll go and get the food.You grab a shower, sort yourself out. Want your usual?’
‘Yeah, fab, thanks.’ Jen’s head was so filled with ideas about Walden and the women in Hope Street that she couldn’t even begin to think about what she might want to eat.
* * *
The room was already full when Jen arrived at the police station and she’d made an effort to get in early so she could catch up with Ross before they started. She’d felt a flutter of excitement as she climbed the stone steps to the door. A relief at escaping the house and the demands of the family. Matthew Venn was there at the front, chatting to the crime scene manager. Ross was hovering beside them, obviously trying to get a word in, not realizing that he’d just piss them both off by interrupting. He had the social skills of a worm, but because he was Oldham’s favourite nobody had the nerve to tell him. Jen went up and tapped him on the shoulder, got him to turn around so he wouldn’t seem to be hassling them.
‘Any news on the phone call?’
‘Yeah, it’s just come through. I was going to tell the boss.’ He shot a glance over his shoulder.
‘Well, now you can tell me.’
Ross was just about to speak when Venn called everyone to order. The room fell silent so quickly that the inspector seemed a little shocked, as if he was surprised by the authority he had. Jen loved that about him: his lack of macho bullshit, his courtesy.
He stood in front of them and spoke just loud enough for them all to hear. He knew there was no need to shout. They’d all be listening. ‘Let’s get through this as quickly as we can, shall we? We’ve all had a long day. Ross, I know you’ve been doing the detailed work here in the station. Anything worth-while from the callers after this morning’s media?’
‘We managed to phone everyone back. I’ve left a report with the contact list on your desk.’
‘Anyone been in touch admitting to owning one of the cars Colin Marston saw parked by the dunes the afternoon of the murder?’
Jen thought that interview with the Marstons in the toll keeper’s cottage felt like weeks ago. That was how it was at the beginning of a case: so many people and ideas crammed into just a couple of days, time seeming elastic.
‘Two,’ Ross said. ‘The elderly couple with the Volvo. But it doesn’t sound hopeful – they said they were walking the other way, down the river and away from the point. They’ve left contact details and I said someone will be in touch.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A few possible leads. A woman called Bale claims to have seen Walden in conversation with a woman in a cafe in Braunton yesterday.’
‘That could be significant and needs following up,’ Jen said. ‘According to Caroline Preece, Walden didn’t need a lift into Barnstaple yesterday morning because he was skipping his group therapy session. He’d told her there were things he needed to sort out. She thought he was going to Kingsley House to discuss his return to work, but we know now that couldn’t have been true. They weren’t prepared to have him back.’
‘And he’d have had to go through Braunton to get to Crow Point,’ Matthew nodded, agreeing it could be important. ‘We know he doesn’t drive any more, but he could have walked it from there, just about. So that’s an action for tomorrow: get the witness in to make a statement. She can give us a description of the woman Walden was with and if we’re lucky, she’ll have overheard them talking.’ He paused. ‘There was also a phone message left for Walden. Jen, you heard it on the landline voicemail at the house in Ilfracombe.’
‘I took a recording.’ She got out her phone and played it. The male voice sounded thin and tinny in the big room. ‘It could just be an old friend, trying to get in touch, but I don’t know…’ She looked around the room. ‘It might be my imagination, but I think I can hear a threat in there.’
Nobody spoke; they were unwilling to commit themselves.
‘Do we know who it is?’ Matthew asked.
Ross stuck his hand up, too eager, too desperate to impress. Jen wondered if she’d ever been like that.
‘It came from a mobile phone registered to a guy named Springer. Alan Springer. He lives in Bristol.’
‘That makes sense – after all, it’s where Walden comes from. Of course, it could just be an old friend, but it would have taken an effort to track Walden down at the Ilfracombe address. He must really have wanted to speak to him. I think you’re right, Jen. There’s something a bit odd about it.’ Venn looked at Ross. ‘Do we know anything about Mr Alan Springer?’
‘No police record. I haven’t got much beyond that. The phone company only got back to us half an hour ago.’
‘That’s something else for tomorrow then. Let’s see what there is to know about him. Find out if he can account for his movements. And even if we can rule him out as a suspect, he might be able to give us some information about Walden. I’m still curious about how a married man, running his own restaurant, ended up sleeping rough and throwing himself on the mercy of the Church.’
‘He killed a child,’ Jen said. ‘That would do terrible things to you.’
‘You’re right. Of course it would.’ A moment of silence. ‘How did the child’s parents react at the time of the accident? Did they swear revenge? Demand compensation? It might be a possible motive.’
‘No,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve looked the story up online.’ He paused. ‘They said they forgave him. The papers made a big deal of it.’
‘Perhaps that was their reaction immediately after the child’s death,’ Matthew said, ‘but things change over time. Families break up under the stress of bereavement. Resentment grows. I’d like to know if the family is still together.’ He looked sharply at Ross. ‘I suppose their name wasn’t Springer?’
‘No!’ He looked at his notes. ‘Sally and James Thorne. I think we can dismiss them from our enquiries. They emigrated, moved to Australia to be close to her family. She grew up there. I’ve checked and they’re at home in Adelaide.’
‘You spoke to them?’
‘They were at work. I spoke to Sally’s mother. She was going to tell them about Walden’s death, but she seemed unfazed by the news, as if somehow it wasn’t a big deal for them. She said they’d all moved on.’
Jen thought that was a weird thing to say. How could you move on so easily after the death of a child? But perhaps people survived in different ways.
Venn considered this for a moment, then he nodded. It was dark outside now. One of the strip lights in the room was faulty and flickered, but nobody moved to switch it off. ‘Jen, fill in the rest of the team on Walden’s housemates. We know a bit more about them now and about how he fitted in there.’
Jen stood up again. She’d never minded being the centre of attention; she just didn’t crave it like Ross. She tried to capture the atmosphere of the house in Ilfracombe, described the two close friends who’d found a way of living together despite their differences. ‘They’re bright women, confident, good at what they do. Then Walden came in and threw the household out of balance. They thought he’d be leaving at Easter, but his boss at Kingsley House told me there’d be no way they’d have him back. So, unless he’d found another job, they were stuck with him.’
‘Why wouldn’t the hotel employ Walden again?’
‘The chef didn’t like him. I don’t think there was any more to it than that. And Walden was a moody bastard, not prepared to play their games.’
‘He got on well enough with the chef at the Woodyard,’ Matthew said. ‘They seem to have confided in each other. And I spoke to Christopher Preece, Caroline’s dad and one of the trustees at the Woodyard. He used to work in hospitality and said he’d have employed him.’
‘There’d be less pressure at the Woodyard, perhaps. It’s high-end dining at the Kingsley. The sort of place where they charge you an arm and a leg and you still come out starving.’
The room was quiet for a moment. They were waiting for Ven
n to speak. ‘Our Mr Walden seems a complicated character,’ he said at last. ‘Moody and aggressive, according to some witnesses, yet when he travelled to Lovacott he sat next to Lucy Braddick on the bus and made her laugh. Made her day. Even Gaby Henry, who took against him, admits there was something about him that attracted her. She painted him in the hope of understanding him better.’
‘Any idea what he was doing in Lovacott, boss?’ The question bordered on rudeness. Ross wanted to make it clear that he didn’t see the point in the character analysis, couldn’t understand how it could help them to find the killer. He wanted them to move on and to stick to the facts.
‘According to the landlady of The Golden Fleece, he was waiting for a woman,’ Matthew said. ‘But that was just guesswork. It sounds as if he was waiting for someone who didn’t show up, though.’
He leaned back against a desk. ‘We’ll continue the enquiries in Braunton and Ilfracombe. Let’s track Walden’s movements from the moment he left the house that morning. How did he get to Braunton? Did he take the bus, or did the person he was meeting there give him a lift? There’s CCTV in Ilfracombe high street and at the bus station and we might find something in Braunton too. But I want to know more about our victim and to do that we need to speak to the people close to him.’ He paused and looked at Jen. ‘How would you be fixed for a trip to Bristol tomorrow? I’d like you to speak to Walden’s wife. And while you’re there, to arrange a meeting with Alan Springer, the chap who left the message on the landline in Hope Street.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ As she answered, she was thinking that it would be another early start and late finish, that the kids would have to get themselves to school again, but there was no hesitation.
‘Take Ross with you,’ Matthew said. ‘It’d be useful to have two perspectives.’
Oh great, she thought. Bloody great.
Chapter Thirteen
MATTHEW WAS IN HIS OFFICE EARLY the next morning. The sun was shining again on the mound of Castle Hill, making the grass look new and impossibly green. He’d woken to a high tide; the sound of the water outside the bedroom window had invaded his dreams. Even on waking, he’d still believed for a moment that he’d been in a boat and had a brief sense of drowning, of disappearing under a black wave, high as a cliff. Then he’d realized where he was and that it was his turn to make the coffee. Jonathan was barely moving and only sat up in bed when Matthew came back into the room with his hands cupped round the mug. Poised in the doorway, Matthew stared at him for a moment: blond-haired, bare-chested. Beautiful.
At his desk, Matthew looked at the contact list Ross had left for him the night before. There were a few people to follow up and he’d pass them on to other members of the team. He looked at the details of the woman who’d seen Walden in the Braunton cafe on the morning of his death. Her name was Angela Bale and there was a mobile number. Matthew phoned it.
‘Hello?’ She sounded suspicious because she didn’t recognize the number.
‘Miss Bale.’
‘Mrs.’
‘This is Matthew Venn. I’m a police officer working on the Simon Walden case. I wonder if you could come into the station to give us a statement. You said you saw the victim on the day he was killed. In a cafe in Braunton.’
‘I can’t come today,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not convenient. I’m working.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘For the Landmark Trust. In the booking office for the Oldenburg at Ilfracombe Harbour. The season has only just started and we’re very busy.’ The Oldenburg was the Lundy Island ferry. He and Jonathan had spent a few days in a tiny cottage on Lundy in the autumn. It had been wild and rainy. He’d been sick on the boat across but Jonathan had loved the stormy sea. They’d spent most of their stay hiding from the weather, either in bed or in the Marisco Tavern, the island pub. Or arguing to relieve the boredom and then making up.
‘You’ll have a lunch break, though? Perhaps we could speak to you then.’
There was silence at the end of the line. ‘My husband said I shouldn’t have spoken to you, that I might have made a mistake. That I shouldn’t get involved.’
‘What do you think?’ Matthew asked. ‘Do you think you made a mistake?’
Another silence before she spoke. ‘No.’
‘Then it would be very helpful if you’d make a statement.’
‘Would you be the person I’d be speaking to?’
‘If you’d find that easier.’
‘Meet me at work then. Twelve o’clock.’
He felt a moment of joy at having an excuse to leave the office. It occurred to him that he should call into Chivenor on his way to Ilfracombe. The dog-walker who’d found Walden’s body still hadn’t made a formal statement. He’d have to leave soon to allow himself time to speak to her, and thinking of that, he felt as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. The claustrophobia that overwhelmed him sometimes in the office had become almost pathological. He’d need to deal with it; he couldn’t spend his working life on a bus or drinking tea in witnesses’ houses.
* * *
When Matthew had been growing up, Chivenor had been an RAF station and the yellow search and rescue coastguard helicopters had been based there. He remembered one Christmas, during a brisk post-lunch walk on the beach, seeing an officer dressed as Father Christmas being winched down to the sand to the delight of the other children. He’d been carrying a sack full of sweets. Matthew had been entranced. He’d wanted so much to believe that Santa was real despite his parents’ telling him otherwise. His mother had been horrified and had muttered loudly about blasphemy and filling children’s heads with dangerous nonsense, while other parents had glared at her for spoiling the magic.
Now, the base was still there, but much of the land had been sold off for housing. Sharon Winstone, the woman who’d discovered Walden’s body, lived in a cul-de-sac of raw, red-brick properties, detached from their neighbours by barely more than six inches. He was early and when he arrived, loud music was playing. Through the living room window, he saw that she was watching a keep-fit DVD and exercising violently to pumped-up music. Although her face was red and she was sweating, her hair, which looked rather like a brown helmet, hardly moved. He rang the bell, but there was no response. He leaned on it and at last she heard the ringing over the noise. She turned, gave him a little wave, switched off the screen and came to the door. She was wearing purple floral leggings and a long T-shirt.
‘Sorry, I thought I’d have time for a shower before you got here.’ She seemed bothered by her appearance and he thought she was going to ask him to wait while she changed. In the end, she led him straight into the room where she’d been doing the workout. ‘I saw about the poor man at Crow Point on the TV. I thought you’d be in touch.’
She offered him coffee and brought in a couple of mugs of instant, put a coaster on the pale wood table before setting it down for him. She’d told Ross she had a boy at school but there was no sign of him here. Any toys in the place had been hidden away. The house was spotless, a show home, bland. A small dog lay in a basket with a floral print cushion to match the curtains. It had lifted its head when Matthew came in, then went back to sleep.
‘I know you spoke to my DC,’ Matthew said, ‘but could you take me through what happened on that day? I’ll make some notes and ask you to sign a statement.’
‘Sure.’ Any upset she might have felt at coming across a dead man on the beach had long gone. He thought she was enjoying the attention, perhaps even the company.
‘You don’t work?’
‘Not at the moment.’ A tight smile. ‘Taking a career break.’
He wondered what that was all about. Had she been recently sacked? Given up work because of stress? She didn’t seem the anxious type, though there was something driven about the exercise. ‘So, you were walking your dog on the beach at Crow Point. Had you taken your car down the toll road?’
‘Yes. I parked close to the house by the shore, crossed the dunes onto th
e beach and walked towards the point. I was on my way back when I saw the guy lying on the sand.’
‘You were on your own?’
There was a pause and he could tell she was wondering whether she’d get away with a lie.
‘We’re told all sorts of things during an investigation. Not all of them are relevant and not everything comes out in court. But we do need the details.’
‘I was meeting a friend on the beach,’ she said. ‘A man.’
‘I’ll need his contact details.’
‘Okay.’ She looked up at him, a kind of challenge. ‘But he’s married, so can you catch him at work?’
He nodded. ‘We’ll try. Where did you meet him that day? Did you park together?’ He was thinking of the evidence Colin Marston had given.
She nodded.
‘And he drives a Passat and you drive a Fiesta and he’s older than you?’
‘Yes!’ A look of total astonishment. ‘He was my boss at work and it came out that we were seeing each other. So embarrassing. I had to leave my job.’
No, you didn’t have to leave. He could have been the one to go. Matthew thought he should get Jen Rafferty to bring her statement back to be signed. She might talk some sense into the woman.
Sharon looked at him. ‘My husband doesn’t know. He thinks I left work because I was bored in the office. He doesn’t mind. He likes me at home to keep on top of things, to be around for our son.’ A pause. ‘Nothing happened that afternoon on the beach. We’re not kids. We didn’t make passionate love in the dunes.’ Another moment of silence. ‘But I’d been missing him. I love his company.’