The Long Call

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s something I’d like to show you. I can’t leave St Cuthbert’s. Is there any way you could come here?’

  * * *

  St Cuthbert’s was right in the middle of Barnstaple on a cobbled lane that ran on to a series of alms houses, black and white timbered, ancient but still used for their original purpose of caring for the elderly. It was too narrow for cars, though pedestrians used the lane to cross between two busy streets. The church itself was newer, Victorian, rather too grand for its setting, and it backed onto the road, shutting out the traffic noise. Beside it, and surrounded by grass holding a couple of mature oaks, stood a former dame’s school, of the same age as the alms houses. It had been used for many years as the church hall, but recently it had been renovated and it housed the charity where Caroline Preece worked. Jen had always loved this part of the town. She’d felt she was stepping back in time. It was an oasis of peace.

  A skinny young man with bad skin stood outside the old school, smoking a roll-up cigarette. He took no notice of Jen. The doors were arched and locked. There was no bell. The young man finally looked up. ‘You’ll need to go around the back.’

  The building had been extended at the back, and was connected to the church by a new, open cloister of stone and wood. The extension was beautifully done, but Jen wondered how it had slid past planning rules. Surely the old school was listed. Perhaps Christopher Preece had influence with the council, or perhaps, because it wasn’t immediately visible from the lane, it had been allowed through anyway. As Jen approached the door that led into the newer part of the building, a young man in a clerical collar emerged. He nodded to her and walked down the cloister and into the church. Jen supposed this was Edward, Caroline’s curate.

  Inside, there was a reception space with a desk and a middleaged woman staring at a computer screen. She looked up and smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to see Caroline Preece. It’s Jen Rafferty.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll let her know you’re here.’

  Caroline led her past rooms where it seemed various forms of group therapy were taking place. In one, women lay on the floor. Yoga or some form of meditation. Jen liked the idea of yoga, but didn’t have the patience for it. The building was deceptively spacious and light. There were posters on the walls, semi-religious imagery of rainbows and doves, slogans about taking power, and loving the inner you. Here it seemed hope and the possibility of redemption abounded. It made Jen feel like punching someone.

  Caroline’s office was in the old school. It might once have been a small classroom, but her desk and the shelves and filing system were bright and new. It looked out over the courtyard and had a view of the trees. Two easy chairs faced a small coffee table on one side of the desk and Caroline sat there and waited for Jen to join her. Jen supposed this was where she talked to her clients, to the desperate suicidal, the ill.

  ‘You wanted to see me.’ Jen had planned to talk to Caroline anyway, but let her think Jen was doing her a favour by coming to her.

  Caroline brought out a Yale key on a ring attached to a plastic bird and set it on the table. ‘We found this yesterday. At least Gaby found it in some laundry Simon had left in the washing machine. I thought it might be important.’

  It lay on the table between them. A vindication of Jen’s theory that Walden had a hideaway somewhere. She thought of it as a secret place, because he’d never mentioned it, had he? They’d all thought he’d been homeless, and they’d taken him in as a charity case. But it was worth checking again. ‘You’ve no idea what it might be for? He never mentioned another place?’

  Caroline shook her head. ‘This bird. It’s an albatross, isn’t it? Like the tattoo on his neck. It must belong to Simon.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s to his former home, his wife’s house,’ Jen said, though she didn’t believe for a moment that was true. ‘He could have kept it for sentimental reasons.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Caroline shook her head again. ‘He always said he’d left his old life behind.’

  Jen thought they’d get a photo of the key and the ring off to Kate just to check.

  ‘I was planning to see you,’ Jen said. ‘We need to talk again about Simon Walden.’

  ‘Sure.’ Caroline blinked behind the big round specs. ‘Of course. Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘When he turned up at the church that night, drunk, desperate, you had the impression that he was homeless?’

  ‘Yes.’ Caroline was unsure now, though. Jen could tell. Outside in the corridor, footsteps came and went as somebody paced.

  ‘Did he tell you he had nowhere to live?’

  ‘That night he was so confused and distressed that he didn’t say much at all. Nothing that made sense.’ Caroline closed her eyes again as if she were trying to remember. ‘We put him up in St Cuthbert’s because he wasn’t safe to let out on his own. He was so full of self-disgust. He was clearly having suicidal thoughts. He said he’d be better dead.’

  ‘That was the end of October. Halloween.’

  ‘As a church, we don’t recognize that as a festival.’ She pulled a face to show her distaste. ‘But yes, I remember there were kids trick or treating in Hope Street before I went out to the meeting.’ A pause. ‘Gaby encouraged them by dressing up as a witch, jumping out at them when they knocked at the door, trying to scare them.’ Another pause. ‘I suppose I assumed that he was homeless. He left the next morning with the worst kind of hangover, but the following week he came here again. He was waiting outside the door when I arrived at nine o’clock. I brought him into my office for an assessment. I needed to get a medical history. He said he hadn’t seen a doctor since he’d left the army.’ She looked up at Jen. ‘That was when I asked for his address. I told him I’d need it for the records.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t answer,’ Caroline said. ‘Not really. I thought at the time he was embarrassed because he didn’t have a place of his own. He didn’t look as if he’d been rough sleeping for a long time, but I thought maybe he’d been sofa-surfing. Or he had a certain pride so he’d found somewhere for a shower. Some guys go to the sports centre. He told me he’d left the hotel at the end of September and that his accommodation there had gone with the job. The implication was that he hadn’t found anywhere permanent since. I should have pushed him, perhaps, found out where he’d been staying in the meantime.’

  ‘It seems he had money. And we think he could have been renting somewhere. Can you explain why he accepted a room in Hope Street when he already had his own place?’

  There was silence except for the screeching of a gull outside the window, the relentless pacing of the person in the corridor.

  ‘Perhaps he was lonely,’ Caroline said. ‘Perhaps he was worried he might do something foolish if he was living on his own. He settled well here at St Cuthbert’s, but we only run during the day. The nights must have seemed very long and very lonely.’

  Jen nodded. That made sense. And it was possible that Walden had believed he wouldn’t be made welcome in Hope Street if they thought he already had a home. Gaby was already unsympathetic. She’d have been glad of an excuse to force him out.

  ‘A woman with learning disabilities, who attends the Woodyard day centre three days a week, has gone missing.’ A breeze was moving the new leaves on the tree outside the window. ‘Her name’s Christine Shapland. Does that mean anything to you? Did Simon ever mention her? We know he’d become friendly with Lucy Braddick, another woman who attended the day centre.’

  Caroline shook her head. Jen thought she was still digesting the news that Walden might already have had his own home when he accepted her charity. Was she feeling betrayed because he hadn’t trusted her enough to confide in her? She’d thought she’d saved him with her offer of a room, companionship. Now it seemed he hadn’t needed her quite as much as she’d believed.

  ‘It could be a coincidence of course,’ Jen went on, ‘but it seems o
dd. Two dramas connected to the Woodyard within a few days.’

  She waited for Caroline to comment, but she said nothing and Jen continued:

  ‘In the last couple of weeks before he died, Simon travelled back to Lovacott on the same bus as Lucy and sat beside her. Can you explain that?’

  ‘No!’ Now Caroline seemed distraught. Her perfect client, the man she’d thought she’d fixed, made whole again, had kept secrets from her and had followed a woman with a learning disability home. Perhaps he’d been a predator, a stalker, and quite different from the man she’d believed him to be.

  Jen wondered if that would undermine Caroline’s faith in the work she was doing. And if she might be more forthcoming about Walden now she knew he hadn’t been entirely honest with her. Because sins of omission were still sins. ‘Why do you think Simon might have wanted to keep all this secret from you?’

  ‘I don’t think it was about secrets,’ Caroline said. ‘He was a private person, that’s all. He could just have been protecting his privacy.’

  Jen was about to say that was rubbish, that he’d created a story about himself that was nowhere near the truth, when her phone rang. Ross. ‘Sorry, I’ll need to take this.’ She left the office and stood in the corridor.

  She could tell Ross was excited. She knew he was out at the marsh, talking to the reserve volunteers and regular dog-walkers, showing them Christine Shapland’s photo.

  ‘Has someone seen the missing woman?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s a dead end here. A complete waste of time. But I’ve just had a call from Barnstaple. They’ve found it.’

  She thought she knew what he meant but she asked just the same. ‘What have they found?’

  ‘Simon Walden’s place.’

  ‘So, I was right.’

  But Ross wasn’t listening and certainly wasn’t prepared to give her a moment of glory. ‘It’s in Braunton. A flat over a betting shop. One of the streets off the main road. I’m heading out there now.’

  ‘I know where you mean.’

  ‘We can’t get in yet. The letting agent is the only person with a key and he’s out all day. Matthew said to meet up there as soon as we can; we might be able to find a way in. He reckons the workers in the betting shop might have a key.’

  ‘No need for that.’ She paused, savouring the moment. ‘I think I’ve got a key myself.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  MATTHEW WAS VISITING ROSA HOLSWORTHY and her parents when news came through that Jen had been right about Simon having another home of his own. He’d gone to visit the Holsworthys on impulse, because he’d forgotten to ask anyone else to do it the night before. Besides, it was close to the police station, in the terrace of houses that had once looked out towards the cattle market that had long gone, and he was glad of the chance for a walk.

  Rosa was younger than Lucy Braddick, thinner, dark-haired. Less mature. Matthew wouldn’t have known she had a learning disability apart from a vague look of anxiety in her eyes, the sense that the world was a mystery to her and not somewhere she felt at ease. Her legs jiggled as if she found it impossible to keep still. She flashed him a grin when she was introduced to him. ‘Are you all right?’ As if she needed to make sure that everyone around her was settled, comfortable. As if she wanted to please them. Or it could have been a verbal tic. Her parents were both at home with her. Ron Holsworthy walked with a stick.

  ‘Arthritis,’ his wife said. ‘He’s had it since he was a young man. He had to give up his job and he’s in terrible pain. The social took his benefit away; they say he could work if he tried. I do nights in an old folks’ home.’

  ‘It must be a struggle.’

  They were wary of him and had only asked him in when he insisted. Matthew thought their whole life had been a struggle: against bureaucracy, doctors, social workers. They would have been suspicious of anyone in authority turning up on the doorstep.

  ‘You took Rosa out of the Woodyard.’

  ‘She never really liked it,’ Ron said. ‘Not in that big old place. It wasn’t the same as the centre they had before.’

  ‘Nothing happened? To make you take her away?’

  ‘No, there was nothing like that,’ Janet, the mother, said. ‘We’d just rather have her at home. She’s company for Ron when I’m working and she’s a good girl. She looks after him, makes him a cup of tea, helps him to the bathroom when he needs to go.’

  Matthew nodded. He could understand why the couple had decided to keep their daughter at home. She was as much a carer as someone who needed to be looked after. ‘She was a friend of Christine Shapland, in the old day centre. Christine’s gone missing. I wonder if you have any idea where she might be.’

  The couple looked at each other in horror. And vindication perhaps that they’d made the right decision in keeping their daughter at home.

  ‘No,’ Ron said. ‘We haven’t seen Christine since Rosa stopped going to the Woodyard. We keep ourselves to ourselves mostly. I hear from Maurice Braddick occasionally and he’s been over for tea with his daughter. But that’s once in a blue moon. Usually I go days without seeing a soul. Janet has to catch up on her sleep. There’s only Rosa. I’d be lost without her.’

  Matthew was thinking again that the Holsworthys had their own reasons for keeping Rosa at home when the call came through that they’d tracked down Walden’s secret accommodation.

  * * *

  Now, Matthew stood with Ross outside the betting shop, looking out for Jen. Ross had picked Matthew up at the police station and they’d travelled to Braunton together. They must have looked like reluctant punters, hanging around on the pavement. Ross was all for going inside and asking if the bookies’ manager had a key to the flat above, but Matthew decided to wait for a while – he wanted to get a feel for the neighbourhood first – and moved them down the street a little so they wouldn’t draw attention to themselves. This was a still a place for locals and they were already attracting attention. There was a convenience store on the corner and a hardware shop, a bakery selling cakes with brightly coloured icing. Nothing healthy. Nothing here for the tourists. The breeze was still westerly and mild. Matthew imagined Walden living in the flat, letting himself out occasionally to buy food and booze. Because he’d been troubled here. Depressed and guilty, drinking heavily. Otherwise, why would he have turned up at the church in Barnstaple looking for salvation? Why would he have moved into the house in Hope Street?

  He walked into the convenience store, leaving Ross outside. The place was almost empty; it was too late for schoolkids buying sweets on their way to school, too early for people looking for lunchtime snacks. On the shelves behind the counter were jars of old-fashioned confectionary: sherbet lemons, rhubarb and custard chews, humbugs. This must have been where Walden had bought the sweets he’d given to Lucy. Matthew showed the man behind the counter Walden’s photo.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  The shopkeeper was of South Asian heritage, shiny-haired, handsome. He looked up from his phone and considered the picture. ‘Yeah. He was a regular for a bit, then he didn’t come in for a while. I thought he’d moved away from the area. But he’s been back again a few times more recently.’

  ‘He’s the guy that was killed out at Crow Point. We think he used to live round here.’

  The man shook his head, as if this meant nothing to him. There was a pile of North Devon Journals on the counter, the headline – Man killed at local beauty spot – was large and dramatic. But it seemed that he sold the papers; he didn’t read them.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about him? Did he have any friends round here?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The shopkeeper sounded genuine. He was giving Matthew his full attention now. ‘When I first met him, he came into the shop every couple of days, that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘What did he buy?’

  The man could answer that. ‘Tea, milk, bread. And booze. Always booze.’ A pause. ‘I think he must have given up drinking, though, because he�
��s been back a few times recently and now he’s just buying sweets. Perhaps it helps. Like when people give up the fags.’

  Through the glass door, Matthew saw Jen walking down the street towards them. She was wearing a long raincoat, reaching almost to her ankles, and pulled it round her to keep off the drizzle. Her head was bare and the red hair was a blast of colour in the greyness. She stepped off the pavement to let an elderly woman with a shopping trolley walk past. Matthew thanked the shopkeeper and went outside.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’d been talking to Caroline at St Cuthbert’s and I couldn’t just dash away without saying goodbye.’ Jen pulled the key from her pocket, like a conjuror lifting a rabbit from a hat, with a flourish and a grin. ‘I hope it works after all this. I’ll look a right twat otherwise.’ She held it out so they could see the albatross key ring. ‘Gaby Henry found it in a pile of washing Walden had left in their machine.’

  It did work. The key turned easily and smoothly in the lock. The door to the flat went straight from the pavement and was right next to the entrance to the betting shop. Inside, a narrow, bare staircase. They stood just inside the door to pull on scene suits, away from public view, struggling in the cramped hallway. The space was lit by a bare bulb that swung above them.

  ‘Hello!’ Matthew shouted up the stairs. He still had the irrational idea that they might find Christine Shapland here, and he didn’t want to scare her. Three police officers looking like something from a horror film in suits and masks would look like aliens, hardly human. There was no response and he went up.

  He’d been expecting a bare, clear, organized space, like Walden’s bedroom in Ilfracombe. The man had been in the army. Even at times of distress it would be his habit to be tidy. But they walked into chaos. The stairs led straight into the living area, a kitchen and living room separated by a breakfast bar. The floor was scattered with cutlery and broken crockery, drawers had been turned upside down, dry food had been emptied from packets and there was a blue snow of washing powder on the grey lino. Beyond the breakfast bar there was a small sofa and a cupboard on which a television stood. The cushions had been pulled from their covers, the base of the sofa had been slashed and the contents of the cupboard now lay on the floor. The detectives stood where they were.