by Ann Cleeves
Christine had been a quiet little thing, dark-haired, browneyed, with an awkward gait and slow speech. As he’d matured, started to grow up, she never had. She’d always looked different. When she was thirteen she still brought a doll with her to meetings, still sucked her thumb. His mother had explained that she’d never grow up, because she had Down’s syndrome and had been born that way. A cross that Susan and Cecil had to bear, but a blessing too, because she’d always be innocent. As Matthew remembered, Christine had never left home.
He took the seat next to Susan’s. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
‘I didn’t want Christine to be at your father’s funeral. She gets bored and I was worried she’d start wandering around, upsetting people, getting in the way. My sister lives in Lovacott and she said she’d have her to stay. You remember Grace? My sister? She’s not the most sociable of people and she didn’t mind staying at home. She said Dennis would be there to represent them both.’
Matthew nodded. Of course he remembered Grace, but more because she was Dennis Salter’s wife than in her own right. She’d been kindly enough, but shy, happy to stay in Salter’s shadow. Dennis Salter had a huge personality, and a warmth that held the Brethren together. Until Matthew’s outburst at the meeting, he’d taken the young Matthew under his wing, encouraged him. It was not surprising perhaps that Matthew’s memory of the woman was sketchy. Occasionally she’d brought sweets along to meetings for the children, secretly slipping them from her bag when she thought none of the adults were watching, but he remembered little else about her now. ‘Of course.’
Susan continued:
‘So, Dennis came to collect my Christine on Monday morning and the idea was that she’d stay with them until last night. I was expecting her back before bedtime. When they didn’t bring her home, I assumed they’d decided to keep her an extra night. To give me a break, like. I tried phoning, but Grace don’t always answer. They go to bed early. I thought if there’d been any problem they’d have let me know.’ As the story continued and she became more upset again, Susan’s accent grew stronger. ‘I phoned first thing this morning and Grace told me Christine wasn’t there.’
‘When did she go missing?’ Matthew thought this was the last thing they needed. A vulnerable missing person while they were working on a murder inquiry. He was making links too, wondering about coincidence, because Lucy Braddick lived in Lovacott, and she had Down’s syndrome too.
‘Well, we don’t know that. Not exactly.’
‘Perhaps you’d explain.’
‘Well, she goes to the Woodyard three times a week, to the day centre. To give me a break as much as anything.’
Matthew nodded but felt his pulse racing.
‘Dennis brought her in yesterday as normal. And he came back in the afternoon to wait for her, but she never came out with the others, so he just thought she’d taken the minibus home.’ Her voice suddenly warmed. ‘Poor soul, he’s in such a state. He’s blaming himself for the fact that she’s missing and for not calling me to check. But he got caught up with another emergency. One of the Brethren was taken poorly that afternoon, so they went straight out again when they got back to Lovacott. They were in A&E with him when I phoned them at home last night.’
‘You’re saying that Christine could have gone missing anytime yesterday?’ Matthew paused. ‘Have you checked with the day centre?’ I was there for most of the day. She could have disappeared while I was sitting in the sun, chatting to my husband. He remembered his walk through the day centre and thought that Christine could have been in the kitchen when he passed, peeling potatoes at the sink.
‘I haven’t done anything!’ Susan said. ‘I didn’t know where to start. I just came here to Dorothy’s, because I knew you were a detective. I thought you’d know how to find her.’
He was going to ask why she hadn’t called the police as soon as she’d realized Christine was missing, but the woman felt bad enough. No point making accusations now. She was here and so was he. Back in the family home and making himself useful at last.
‘Have you got a photograph of Christine?’
‘Not here.’ She seemed so distressed that he worried she’d start crying again. ‘I never thought.’
‘I’ll drive you home,’ Matthew said. ‘Mother can come with you, keep you company. You want to be there, don’t you, in case Christine finds her way back.’
‘Oh yes!’ She looked up, horrified. ‘I never thought of that.’ He saw that panic had overwhelmed her; she was drowning in it.
‘In the meantime, I’ll phone the station and get things started. Let’s see if we can find her for you.’
* * *
Susan Shapland lived in a little cottage, the middle of a terrace of three on a creek running in from the Taw, on low-lying land close to Braunton Marsh. It was only a couple of miles from Matthew’s house, and from the place where Walden’s body had been found. Susan must have called a taxi to Matthew’s mother’s house as soon as she realized Christine was missing. An impulse because she knew she couldn’t cope with this crisis on her own. When Matthew had been a boy, the creek had been neglected, overgrown, with remnants of its industrial past: staithes and the rusted remains of a small crane. In the nineteenth century, boats bringing coal to the county had tied up here, and had taken away the clay, which had been dug close by. Now, it formed part of a nature reserve. Colin Marston probably walked along the bank every day while he was doing his bird census.
The Shaplands’ cottage was low and damp. Susan had given up her battle with the wet that seeped in from outside, and there was mould on the window ledges and crawling across the ceiling. Matthew wondered if anyone had suggested that she and Christine should move. Some incomer would buy the place, and make it habitable, but it was barely that now. Perhaps the husband, Cecil, had been the person holding things together. He wondered too when his mother had last come here. He imagined the delight she would take in throwing open windows and spraying the place with bleach, scrubbing until it shone.
They sat in the cluttered living room while Susan hurried away to find a photograph.
‘A man came to the Woodyard a couple of months ago and took the pictures.’
Christine was still recognizable as the girl he’d once played with. Short, dark-haired, a little dumpy. He thought it was the woman he’d seen helping to cook in the Woodyard. She was smiling shyly at the camera.
‘That’s very useful. How old is she now?’
‘Forty-two,’ Susan said. ‘But not in her mind. In her mind she’s still a little girl.’
‘Has she said anything recently about someone hurting her or asking her to do something that made her feel uncomfortable?’
Jonathan had occasionally brought home anxieties about the sexual abuse of service users in his care. Allegations against relatives, carers. Matthew had never been able to proceed with a prosecution. It was one person’s word against another and often the victims didn’t have the words to explain what had happened to them. A court case was intimidating enough at the best of times and would be so much worse for someone like Christine, with a limited understanding of what was going on.
Something unusual was happening here and ideas and possibilities skittered through his mind, unformed and difficult to catch. Lucy Braddick was brave and she’d been clear that nothing untoward had gone on with Walden. But his behaviour could have been seen as grooming, stalking even, and perhaps Lucy viewed the world through an innocent’s eyes. Although the man hadn’t sounded like the sort of person who’d be excited by having sex with a vulnerable adult, Matthew had never met him. If he’d been close to a breakdown, perhaps he’d find something almost reassuring in being with a woman who’d be compliant, easy to dominate. Walden couldn’t have abducted Christine; he was already dead when she went missing. So, what were they talking here? A circle of abuse with other people involved? And if an adult with a learning disability had been assaulted by Walden and the family had found out, wouldn’t that be a motiv
e for murder?
Susan still hadn’t answered. She was staring at him in horror. At last she spoke. ‘My Christine’s a good girl. She wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘She wouldn’t be responsible,’ Matthew said. ‘It wouldn’t be her fault at all. You do see that? There are men who take advantage of vulnerable women. Has she seemed herself recently? Happy?’
There was another long silence.
‘We didn’t really talk,’ Susan said. ‘Not about things like that. Feelings. Chrissie was closer to her dad. I think they talked. With us it was practical, like. What she wanted for tea and did she have anything that needed washing. Then we watched telly together. We were used to each other. We had a routine. The only time she got upset was when the unexpected things happened. She hated that. She’ll hate what’s happening now. Missing the routine, her days at the Woodyard, Coronation Street on the television.’ She looked up. ‘You’ve got to find her.’
Matthew nodded. He said he’d get off and make sure his officers knew how important it was. He left Susan in the small, dark front room, but his mother followed him to the door to see him out.
‘Would you like me to come back later?’ he asked. ‘I could give you a lift home.’
‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘I might stay over and if I need to go back to Barnstaple, I can always get a taxi.’ Making it quite clear that he hadn’t yet done enough to be forgiven for his loss of faith, for abandoning the Brethren.
Chapter Fifteen
MAURICE BRADDICK HAD DECIDED HE’D KEEP Lucy at home until Walden’s killer was caught. The police obviously believed the Woodyard was involved in some way in the murder and he wasn’t going to put his daughter in danger. No way. Maurice thought it would be good for the two of them to spend a day together in the garden. Lucy could get some of that exercise the social worker was always talking about and since the weather had improved he’d been itching to get out there, to get his hands covered in soil and some fresh air in his lungs. Then they could treat themselves to tea in The Golden Fleece. Lucy would like that; she was always glad of an excuse to dress up.
Lucy, though, had other ideas. She was up and ready just the same as usual, and she had her bag with her when she came in for breakfast.
‘Morning, maid. I thought we’d give the Woodyard a miss today.’ Maurice tried to sound bright, in control.
‘Why?’ She reached out for the box of cereal, filled her bowl to the rim, then stared at him, demanding an answer.
‘We could have a day here and then go to The Fleece for our tea. A bit of a treat.’
‘We could go to The Fleece when I get back from the Woodyard.’ She started to eat, as if the matter was already settled. Maurice thought she got that from her mother: a stubbornness, a refusal to listen to a good argument. But he knew she also loved routine. Anything different threw her.
Still, he gave it one more try. ‘But that man from there was killed.’
‘Not in the Woodyard, Dad. On a beach.’ And he had no answer to that.
‘I’ll give you a lift there and back then. See you safe inside.’
Of course Lucy agreed to the lift because it would save her the walk to and from the bus stop in the square, and the bus ride was no fun any more, without Walden to chat to and feed her sweets. She gave him one of her lovely smiles.
* * *
The wind was stronger. He could see it gusting on the river as they drove down towards Barnstaple. He thought the weather was changing and though he’d lost the heart for it now, he should still spend a bit of time in the garden before the rain came. He parked at the Woodyard and walked with Lucy to the door, then followed her at a distance until she was safely through the glass tunnel and into the day centre. He knew that was ridiculous. What could happen to her here, with all these people about?
But even in the day centre, there were sometimes accidents. Perhaps Lucy’s friend Rosa’s parents had had the right idea taking her away and keeping her safe at home. Maurice thought this notion of giving people like Lucy more independence was going too far. Of course they shouldn’t go back to the Dark Ages when folk were locked away in institutions, as if there was something shameful about them. But they needed to be protected. Properly cared for. In the past he’d seen the day centre as a place of safety. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Maurice couldn’t face driving home straight away; he knew he’d be too restless to settle to anything. Instead, he went to the cafe, ordered a sausage toastie and sat there, staring out of the window, watching the scudding clouds reflected in the water, until the place filled up and they needed his table.
Chapter Sixteen
THEY HAD AN EARLY START. Jen pulled rank and insisted on driving because she’d get paid the mileage and she needed the cash. When she got to Ross’s immaculate little house on a smart new estate on the edge of town, Melanie let her in.
‘Come and wait for a moment. He’s nearly ready. You know what he’s like in the morning, he spends more time in the bathroom than me.’ Melanie rolled her eyes in mock-despair, but Jen could tell she’d forgive Ross anything. Jen wished there was something to dislike about Melanie. She was as immaculate as the house, with flawless skin and hair already styled for work. But she was kind too. She worked as a manager in an old people’s home, had started as a care assistant straight from school at sixteen and still took her turn at wiping bums and laying out the dead when they were short-staffed. As far as Jen could tell, her only fault was her taste in men. She and Ross had been going out together since they were teenagers, but Melanie still worshipped him.
He appeared at the bottom of the stairs, gave Jen a quick nod that might have been an apology for keeping her waiting, and hugged his wife. A real hug, full of affection but sexy too. At that moment Jen realized what she really felt for the couple was envy.
All the way up the M5 Ross was talking, rambling about the previous weekend’s rugby match against a Cornish team, about his moment of glory, saving the day with a last-minute drop goal. Jen’s ex had been into football and the story didn’t sound so different from the ones she’d been forced to fake interest in at home. This was different, though, because Ross was just a colleague, and she was different. She didn’t have to pretend to care. When he paused for breath, she broke in.
‘You do know I don’t give a flying fuck about this sporting crap?’
He stopped, shocked and offended, and they spent the next few miles in silence. Then she thought this was ridiculous. Ross wasn’t Robbie and they had work to do. She should make more of an effort to get on with him.
‘So, you made appointments with Walden’s wife and Alan Springer. Who are we seeing first?’
‘Springer. It was hard to pin him down. He didn’t want us going to his home.’
‘Has he got something to hide, do you think?’
‘Maybe, but I didn’t think I should push it. We don’t want him disappearing and all we have at the moment is that phone call. There’s no record from the GPS on his mobile that he was anywhere near North Devon when Walden died.’
‘So, where are we meeting him?’ Jen indicated and pulled off the motorway.
‘The local nick. Bedminster. I’ve booked an interview room. The boss knows an inspector there and pulled some strings.’
‘Stringer preferred to come to the police station rather than talk to us at home?’
‘Yeah.’
Jen hoped the man wasn’t messing them around, buying time. She hoped he’d turn up.
* * *
In the end, Springer was there before them. He was waiting when they walked in and the officer on the counter nodded towards him. Tall and well-built, muscular, sandy hair and blue eyes. In the interview room, he sat on the other side of the table from them, apparently easy and relaxed.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet us.’
‘No worries. I was sorry to hear about Simon.’ A Bristol accent, the one Jen had heard on the answer machine.
‘How did you know him?’ They’d decided
she’d take the lead on the interview.
‘We were in the army together. We became friends, both from the same neck of the woods. You know. Got married at about the same time and I left the forces soon after he did. When he set up the business with Kate, his ex, I put a bit of money in.’ He looked straight at Jen. ‘Big mistake. Never do business with a mate.’
‘Tell us about that.’
‘Kate was the driving force behind it. She’d worked in hospitality. When Si left the army, she said she wanted to see a bit more of him. She hated being a forces’ wife, left behind, moving every few years. So, when he came out, they bought a little restaurant. He’d be the chef and she’d do the admin and front of house. A partnership.’ Springer paused. ‘Si wasn’t so fussed about the idea. He’d have been happy working in a kitchen somewhere, finish at the end of the day. No responsibility. He wasn’t ambitious and he needed time to settle back in civvy street. The last thing he needed was more stress.’
He paused, stretched his legs. ‘It worked well at first, though. Si was a good cook and they built up a local following, then things started to fall apart. Maybe the business grew too quickly, maybe it was the pressure of being in charge. He started drinking. Often the way old soldiers deal with pressure.’
‘He started drinking because he killed a child.’
Springer shook his head. ‘The other way round. He killed a child because he’d been drinking.’
‘Not over the legal limit.’
‘Yeah, well, he must have been bloody lucky because I was with him that day and I wouldn’t have driven home.’
Silence in the room. Someone was swearing in the corridor outside.