by Ann Cleeves
‘Did you see the body when you were on your way to Crow Point?’
‘No, not until we were on our way back.’
‘And you would have seen the man if he’d been there?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Sharon said. ‘We were talking, catching up. We hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks because Dave had been away with his family for the half-term holiday. But I think we would have seen the body. It wasn’t hidden in any way and we followed the same tracks back in the sand.’
If that was the case, Walden had been killed while Sharon and her lover were walking out to the Point. That had been risky. Perhaps Matthew should be looking for somebody reckless, who enjoyed danger. Or somebody desperate.
She was staring into the empty coffee mug. ‘I didn’t want to be left there on the beach with the dead man. Not on my own. I know I should have stayed with the body, but I just couldn’t face it. So Dave walked with me back to the cars and then he drove off to work. He had a meeting. I phoned the police from there and waited.’
‘Can you give me some timings?’ Matthew asked. ‘When you arrived, when you saw the body?’ Because that would pin down a time of death much more accurately than any information the pathologist could give him.
‘I was supposed to meet Dave at midday, but he was a bit late.’ Matthew imagined her sitting in her car, getting more and more anxious that her lover wouldn’t turn up. ‘It was probably nearer half past when he got there. It was ten past two when we first saw the body. I checked my watch.’
‘Did you see anyone else on the beach?’
‘Nobody that I was aware of. We were talking, you know, making plans for the future, for when our kids are old enough to understand.’
Matthew nodded. He suspected the guy was stringing her along, making promises that he had no intention of keeping. Would she enjoy the affair, anyway, if it stopped being illicit and exciting? But relationship counselling wasn’t in his job description and it wasn’t his place to give advice. He stood up and told her how helpful she’d been and left the house. As he unlocked the car, he heard the music again, compulsive and manic, and thought she was trying to dance away her boredom and her demons.
* * *
In Ilfracombe the breeze was stronger and eddied through the narrow streets. He knew it was a westerly, because he’d heard the shipping forecast that morning, but whichever way he walked it was in his face. He was early here too – punctuality was a curse, inherited from his mother who thought it was a sin to be late – so he left his car at the top of Hope Street and walked down the hill, along the high street, then on towards the harbour. There was a smell of fried fish. A couple of optimistic cafes had opened early in the season. A gift shop owner had stacked all his goods to one side and was mopping the floor.
Verity, Damien Hirst’s sculpture, stood at the end of the pier. A huge pregnant woman. Triumphant, one arm raised. From one side all her internal organs were showing and Matthew was reminded of a body on the pathologist’s table, the skin peeled back. In the Lundy Island ferry offices, there was a short queue of people booking tickets. A woman sat in the waiting room, her coat wrapped round her for protection, looking out of the window.
‘Mrs Bale?’ But he knew it was her without asking. She looked so nervous, so mousy, so scared of the world.
She jumped to her feet. ‘I’ve only got half an hour.’
‘That’s okay. It won’t take longer than that. Perhaps I could buy you lunch.’
‘Oh no. I always bring my own sandwiches. I’ll eat them at my desk later.’
In the end, they sat on a bench, looking out over the water, wrapped up in their coats. Angela Bale seemed happier outside where they couldn’t be overheard.
‘What were you doing in Braunton when you saw Mr Walden?’
‘It was my day off,’ she said. ‘I always meet my mother on my day off. She lives in Braunton, so I get the bus. Then she buys me coffee. The least she can do, she says, because I’ve made the trip over to see her. That place we went to, the cafe by the stream where I saw your man, is our favourite.’
Matthew nodded and saw that this trip to Braunton to see her mother was the highlight of her week. She was still talking.
‘Then I do a bit of supermarket shopping for her and carry it home. She’s got arthritis in her hands and she can’t manage heavy bags these days.’
‘What time do you usually get to the cafe?’ Matthew thought it would be the same time each week. There would be an element of ritual in her days out.
‘The bus gets in at ten forty-five and I walk straight there. Eleven o’clock? Mum was there before me and she’d bagged our favourite table.’
‘You’d caught the bus from Ilfracombe?’
Angela Bale nodded.
‘I don’t suppose you noticed Mr Walden on the bus? We think he came from Ilfracombe too, you see.’
‘No,’ she said, certain now. She’d lost her shyness. ‘He was there before me. Sitting at the table next to ours.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Jeans. A denim jacket.’ She shut her eyes for a moment. ‘He was eating a bacon sandwich. I thought it looked very good, but Mum and I always go for a milky coffee and a scone.’
‘And the woman next to him?’
‘I didn’t see her so clearly because she had her back to me.’
‘What sort of age?’ Matthew was careful not to prompt, not to let his disappointment show.
‘Young. Well, everyone seems young to me these days.’ Angela appeared more confident now. ‘Dark hair. A green coat. I don’t think I saw her face at all.’ A pause. Matthew could tell she was trying her best to remember. She wanted to please him. ‘She was drinking that herby tea. I could smell it. I’ve never seen the point. And she wasn’t eating anything. Not even a bit of toast or a biscuit. It always seems a waste to me, going out to a cafe, if all you choose is something you could have for much less money at home.’
‘That’s really helpful. Who left first? Them or you?’
She didn’t have to think about that. ‘Oh, them. We don’t rush, Mum and me. We like to take our time.’
‘Did you see who paid? The man or the woman?’
This time she took a while to answer. ‘They didn’t pay at the table. They paid at the counter on their way out. I think it was her.’
‘I don’t suppose you noticed whether she paid with cash or a card.’ Matthew kept his voice light. He didn’t want to put her under any pressure. But under the table he was crossing his fingers. If the woman had paid with a card, they’d have a name for her.
Angela shook her head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t see.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I should probably go.’
Matthew stood up. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ That was true because it was possible the woman had paid by card. Most younger people did.
Outside on the pavement, Angela Bale hurried away back to the ferry offices. Matthew stood for a moment. He was trying to remember if he’d seen either of the women from Hope Street in a green coat.
He stopped at the cafe in Braunton where Angela Bale had seen Walden on his way back to Barnstaple. He and Jonathan were regulars; the place did a terrific weekend brunch and on a Saturday morning you had to queue for a table. It was quieter now. A couple of women were taking an early afternoon tea and a businessman engrossed in a laptop was eating a sandwich. Lizzie was at the counter. She owned the place and did most of the front of house.
‘Hi there, Matt! What can I get you?’
He was tempted to order another coffee, but he’d been out of the office for long enough. ‘Sorry, Liz, this is official.’ He put Walden’s photo on the counter. ‘Do you recognize this man?’
She squinted. She wore specs for making up the bills but was too vain to put them on for serving. ‘He’s not a regular.’
‘He’s the guy that was killed on Crow Point on Monday afternoon. We think he had coffee in here on Monday morning.’
Now she did take her glasses f
rom a pocket in her apron to look more carefully. ‘What time?’
‘About ten thirty. Maybe a bit later. We think he was with a woman wearing a green coat.’
‘I don’t remember. You know what it’s like here in the mornings. Pretty manic and people move through really quickly.’
‘He had coffee and a bacon sandwich and she had herbal tea, nothing to eat.’
‘Yeah, I do remember them.’ She was triumphant. ‘At least not them, but the order. I can’t give you any more than you’ve already got, though. I can’t describe them.’ She took off the glasses. ‘You know what I’m like without these.’
‘Did they pay by card or cash?’
‘I’m not sure. Want me to check?’ Without waiting for an answer, she went to the machine and stuck her specs on her nose again. ‘Sorry, it must have been a cash transaction.’
‘No worries. Can you ask the other staff? They might remember something useful.’ He pushed across his card. ‘Give me a shout if you remember anything.’
* * *
In his office at the station, someone had left a note on his desk. The writing was rather beautiful and he spent a moment wondering which of his team might have written it. Then he read the contents: Your mother rang. Can you visit her at home? She says it’s urgent.
Chapter Fourteen
HIS MOTHER LIVED IN A NEAT little bungalow on a tidy estate of seventies houses at the edge of the town. It was set on a hill and there was a view all the way down to the estuary. The bungalow looked as if it belonged to an older person, but the family had lived there even when Matthew was a boy. His parents had bought it when they were first married. Matthew wouldn’t have been surprised if his mother hadn’t already been planning ahead for the time when they might not be able to manage the stairs. She’d never discovered the knack of living in the present.
Matthew sat outside in the car for a moment, worrying. His mother had said it was urgent that she see him, but if there had been some medical emergency, she would have called a friend from the Brethren and not him. He’d only found out that his father was ill through a third person. Now he was nervous, wondering how he would react to her if she let rip again, if that was why she had phoned him: to accuse him again of killing his father.
He wondered how it had come to this, replayed again the moment when faith had been replaced by a different kind of certainty and his life had fractured. It had been his first year at university and he’d come home for the Easter holidays. His parents had taken him to a meeting on his second night home, wanting to show him off. The bright boy who’d got into Bristol University, who was a credit to them all. But things had already started falling apart, his confidence unravelling, anxiety taking hold. He might have been considered bright in a comprehensive school in Barnstaple, but there’d been gaps in his knowledge and understanding. He’d struggled to make friends in Bristol, knew people laughed at him behind his back, felt ill at ease, not right in his own skin. And he’d been forced to think for himself, to challenge the belief system he’d grown up with.
The meeting had been held in a hired village hall, somewhere on the edge of Exmoor. It had felt damp and dusty, and there was a smell of paraffin from the heaters. There’d been quite a crowd, perhaps fifty people. Brethren from all over the county were there, not to see him, but because it was one of the quarterly sessions when decisions were made. He’d sat near the back with his parents. Dennis Salter, who had conducted his father’s funeral, had been taking the service. He’d been younger then, of course, but still the acknowledged leader. Dennis had welcomed them as they came into the hall, had taken Matthew into his arms and held him for a moment. ‘I couldn’t be more proud, son.’ As if he wished Matthew really was his son.
Looking at the assembled group, the families and the ardent young converts, Matthew had had a sudden understanding, as the early evening sunshine shone through the dusty glass, a vision close to a religious experience: this was all a sham. The earnest elderly women in their mushroom-shaped hats, the bluff good-natured men – they were all deluding themselves. They were here for their own reasons, for the power trip or because they’d grown up with the group and couldn’t let go. Through cowardice or habit. With the understanding there’d come a liberation, a sense that he was now free to do what he wanted and be who he wanted to be.
Perhaps it had been youthful arrogance or perhaps he’d been suffering some stress-related minor breakdown, but he’d needed to speak about this sudden new insight, to spread the word. He’d felt different, lit-up, excited. To sit there, listening to the worship, knowing he didn’t believe a word, had made him want to yell at them all; he couldn’t just sit there pretending. At the end when Salter had asked if anyone wanted to share with the group, Matthew had raised his hand and got to his feet.
‘None of this is true. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe any of it. You must be mad if you think it’s true!’
There’d been silence. He still had an image of faces turned towards him in horror and disbelief. His mother had given a little gasp. After that, he could remember little detail. There were muddled memories of confusion and embarrassment. His mother and father shepherding him out of the hall. Dennis Salter standing at the door, sad and stern-faced. ‘Are you sure, boy? You’re turning your back on the Brethren?’
‘I can’t lie.’ He’d still been a little defiant then.
‘You’ll always be welcome back when you see the light, but until then, you’re a stranger to us.’ Then the door had been shut on them and they’d driven home, his mother weeping all the way.
The next day he’d left for Bristol, seen his tutor and told him he was leaving university. The day after he’d got a job entering data for an insurance company, because he needed to earn a living. The following week he’d applied to join the police. He’d realized that he still needed rules and the idea of justice, that chaos made him panic. He’d tried to communicate with his parents, but half-heartedly, through birthday cards, a present at Christmas. There’d been no response. In the beginning, his father had phoned occasionally, begging him to reconsider his denial of faith. ‘Can’t you just go along with it for the sake of your mother? She’s in pieces.’
But Matthew was stubborn. ‘She taught me not to bear false witness.’ He’d dropped them a note when he moved to Barnstaple, but they hadn’t got in touch. The separation had gone on for so long that neither side had known how to bridge the gap.
When he’d heard about his father’s condition from a neighbour, Matthew had called his mother immediately. She’d been almost speechless with rage.
‘I don’t know how you’ve got the nerve to speak to me. You do know it’s your fault, the heart attack? We saw it in the North Devon Journal. Marriage to a man.’ The last phrase explosive, as if she was spitting into the telephone. Spitting at him.
He’d wanted to visit his father in hospital, but had never been brave enough to go, anxious that there might be some truth in her accusation, or that he might bump into her in the hospital ward. She’d never minded making a scene. But he’d longed to see his father, to chat about football and music as they had on those summer days when Matthew had gone with him visiting the coastal farms, to hold his hand.
The net curtain at the window moved. She’d seen him. He got out of the car and rang the doorbell. She wouldn’t want him to know that she’d been looking out for him, so it was best to pretend he hadn’t seen the twitching curtain.
He hadn’t seen her for twenty years, except a couple of times by chance recently, at a distance, in the street. She hadn’t changed so much. She was small, fit for her age. The obsession with healthy eating might not have saved his father, but it had worked for her. She still walked most days into town to get her own shopping. She’d never learned to drive. She stood aside to let him in quickly, so ashamed of who he was, it seemed, that she didn’t want the neighbours to know he was there.
‘I was expecting you earlier.’
‘I’ve only just been given your message
. I was out working.’ He tried to keep the fight out of his voice and to remember the good times: her reading to him when he was very small, putting on silly voices to make him laugh, her cheering him on at sports day, telling him how well he’d done even when he came next to last. Telling him, and everyone else who would listen, that he’d grow up to be a great preacher.
‘Susan Shapland’s here,’ she said. ‘She’s out of her mind with worry.’ It sounded like an apology of sorts.
They were standing in the hall. There was the same woodchip wallpaper. His father had put on a fresh coat of paint every two years. It still looked clean and bright so perhaps he’d done it just before he became ill. His mother continued speaking in a whisper. ‘She came here because she didn’t know what else to do. She thought you’d be able to help.’
Susan Shapland was a widow, his mother’s closest friend. She would have been by her side at the funeral, taking Matthew’s place. He didn’t know what to say.
‘Come on through,’ his mother said. ‘She’ll explain herself.’
He stepped into the front room and back in time. This wasn’t a Proust madeleine moment. Memory here was triggered by a series of objects, not taste or smell. There was the paperweight with a dandelion seed head trapped in the glass, the wooden solitaire set on the coffee table, the beads smooth and in their place, his parents’ wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, next to the picture of him in his uniform, his first day at the Park School, a mug he’d made in pottery class when he was eleven. Susan was sitting in the easy chair next to the gas fire, where his father had always sat, and Matthew felt a moment of affront. But the woman had been crying and the feeling passed quickly.
‘It’s Susan’s Christine,’ his mother said. ‘She’s missing.’
Only then did Matthew remember that Susan had a daughter, about the same age as himself. They’d played together occasionally when Brethren meetings dragged on, the members lingering to discuss esoteric points of dogma and practice. Should hats be worn or not worn at meetings? What was really meant by the virgin birth? As he recalled, both questions had been considered equally seriously.