‘We have to ask people these questions. Did any of your members know about Lauren Visser’s campaign?’
He sucked in air through his teeth. ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t tell any of them and no one mentioned it. I didn’t want any of the members getting rattled and as I said, I was hoping it would all die down. Sorry, that’s probably not the best turn of phrase in the circumstances.’
Ali closed his notebook. ‘That sign you’ve put up is unlawful and offensive, Mr Shelton. I’d advise you to remove it and replace it with one that simply states “No Trespassing.”’
Shelton scowled. ‘Everyone is so busy taking offence these days, banging on about other people’s rights. Well, what about my rights? I’m only sticking up for myself because you lot can’t be bothered.’
Ali headed back to the station. One of the anglers could have got wind of Lauren’s campaign and, fed up with her and trespassers, killed her and Rimas. But that didn’t explain the child, and he agreed with the guv that the child had to be significant.
As he came into town, he saw that more green-and-white bunting was being put up for the May festival, “Minster Magic,” which ran through the month. There’d be music, book readings, folk dancing, steel bands, street theatre, cooking demonstrations, a small traditional funfair. It kicked off over the bank holiday weekend with a concert at the harbour and an open-air food market. And the forecast was good, unlike last year when there’d been downpours. Ali loved the general air of festivity and the way people came out of themselves.
Thinking of that, he hoped the guv would come to the restaurant for the get-together. She looked as if she could do with a good night out. He’d never seen anyone freeze at an invitation like that. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to lose Polly, but he knew he’d hate being on his own. He got edgy and miserable if he ever went more than a couple of hours in his own company. Polly laughed at him because on some evenings when she was working and he was home alone, he dropped into Nutmeg for a drink and to read the paper. Just to be around people, with something going on, noise and voices, the clatter of dishes.
The guv seemed more the self-sufficient type. Just as well, in the circumstances.
Chapter Sixteen
Siv left the station after eight o’clock. She’d got through a long list of tasks but seemed to have made little progress. Errol Todd still hadn’t responded to messages. The Valencia police had been dealing with a major road crash and hadn’t yet been able to contact the Buddhists, who had no landline. After speaking to Betty Marshall, she’d phoned Jenna Seaton and asked her what time she’d arrived at work on Monday. Jenna had been icy, saying that she arrived and opened the building at seven sharp. There was CCTV outside the front door and the police could look at it if they wanted to verify that. Siv had emailed Patrick, asking him to follow it up, but it seemed that Jenna couldn’t have managed to get to Lock Lane and commit murder before arriving at work.
Siv had got hold of Bartel Nowak but he said he was working in Pevensey. She’d arranged to meet with him at Polska the following morning. No further forensics had come in. She’d looked at the route drawn by Harvey Seaton, along bridleways, cutting across lanes, skirting farmland. It took him south of town and through Halse woods, far from the westerly reaches of the River Bere at Lock Lane. If that had indeed been his route. She’d googled bridleways around Berminster and saw that there was a network of them leading to the west of where the Seatons lived and joining Lock Lane about a mile from where Lauren and Rimas had died. Then she looked up how fast a horse could canter. Twelve to fifteen miles per hour. That would have given him the time he needed, but there were no hoof prints reported at the scene. She emailed Steve Wooton to double check. The thought of Seaton cantering to the river with a pair of scissors in his pocket seemed ridiculous.
Just as she was shutting down her computer, an email arrived at her work address.
You’ll be wondering how I got hold of your new landlord. He sounds very top drawer. I phoned your landline in London last week and a woman answered. She said you didn’t live there anymore and your mail is being redirected to Berminster. She was kind enough to give me your new address. I googled it and I guessed that you’d got a job with the Berminster police. See, you’re not the only detective in the family! So I had to find out where you’d gone from a stranger and not from my own daughter. Rikka was always difficult with me but you were a much kinder girl, Sivvi. Why on earth are you living in a field like a gypsy, and what made you move back to that hick town? You must miss London. I hope you’re not moping. Don’t forget, you only have one parent left and I always tried to do my best for you, even when things were tough.
Love Mutsi xx
She read it twice. It was classic Mutsi: self-serving, nosy, persistent, insensitive, manipulative. Her own special air-brushed version of the past. I hope you’re not moping. She started a reply but deleted the email.
She drove away from the station, thinking that so far in this case she was learning all about carp fishing, the close season and horse speeds but not much else. Hunger pangs steered her towards Minster Beach where the Horizon café did wonderful fish and chips. She sat on their heated terrace, drinking a glass of white wine and making her way through a large plate of cod and chips. As she ate, she googled Mason Granger. There were lots of hits concerning Minstergreen. He featured on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, as well as popping up on local radio and TV. She watched a film clip of him talking about how to volunteer and the kinds of work the group did. As well as speaking well and easily, he was enthusiastic and friendly. He had a Minstergreen column in the weekly free newspaper, Berminster Herald. She read the most recent about migrating birds arriving at Bere Marsh nature reserve. It was witty and engaging. She wondered if sober, plodding Lauren had been jealous of his easy manner.
She put her phone down and finished her meal. The tide was rushing in, rattling the shingle, and there was a milky haze out at sea. She watched and listened. Tears pricked her eyes and she brushed them away.
Their father had brought her and Rikka here the day Mutsi put them on a train from Victoria and then phoned him after it had departed. He’d met them at the station, touched them both on the head, put their bags in the boot of his car and driven straight to the café for an early dinner. The café had been revamped since but the owners were the same and the food as excellent as it had been back then. Her father had eaten little, probably through shock, but she and Rikka had wolfed down dinner and pudding because their mother had forgotten to give them any money and they hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
‘Where’s your mother gone this time?’ was the only reference he’d made to her.
‘Helsinki, to marry Bjork von Essen,’ Rikka had told him.
‘He’s a baronet,’ Siv added. ‘She met him at a reception at the Finnish embassy.’
‘It won’t last, even though she’s really desperate this time. The men never do last. Like you, Dad,’ Rikka said bluntly.
Their father had stared out to sea. He was a bony, pale man with an androgynous, otherworldly look, and dealing with his ex-wife accentuated his mystified expression. Truth was, they hardly knew him. Mutsi had run off with another man when Siv was two, taking the girls with her, and their father had spent much of the intervening years working in Dubai. Since he’d moved to Berminster, they’d visited once and seen him twice in London.
When they’d got back to his house that evening, they’d tried to find enough pillows and bedding to make up beds but had to settle for a mixture of sheets, cushions and sleeping bags. We’ll get things sorted. I’m not geared up for visitors, their father had said, standing in a muddle of crumpled linen. She and Rikka had looked at each other without much optimism. His house was a time warp from the 1970s, with high-ceilinged rooms decorated in oranges and sludge browns. It had been a vicarage until their father bought it and there was a hint of incense in the air still and the shape of a crucifix imprinted on the living room wallpaper.
That first night Siv had watched in wonder as her father made the cocoa in a saucepan, slowly mixing powder to a paste and then carefully adding milk and sugar. His steady movements and patient stirring reassured her. She’d rarely seen her mother use a cooker. After a huge mug of creamy cocoa and biscuits, Siv had climbed into a torn sleeping bag with a dusty corduroy cushion for a pillow. The ridges rubbed at her cheek. She’d gazed around at the wallpaper, patterned with ochre and green circles. Her stomach was full and a glance in the kitchen cupboards had shown that they were satisfyingly full of tins and packets of food.
As she’d drifted off to sleep, she’d thought she must be dreaming but if she was, she never wanted to wake up.
The waiter dragged her back from the past, asking if she’d like anything else. She paid the bill and then walked down to the narrow strip of shoreline left untouched by the tide. She wandered along, her shoes crunching the shingle, thinking about Lauren Visser’s childhood and the father she’d never known.
* * *
They’d decided to have a curry tonight. They were tucked into a booth in World of Spices, sipping lager. Julia loved fiery food and was having lamb madras. Betty had gone for a milder chicken korma. Julia’d had her hair dyed a lovely dark blonde with golden highlights and as usual looked assured in grey jeans and a soft blue linen shirt. With her stringy neck and pinched features she was by no means a pretty woman, but she made the most of what she had. Betty thought she should get something done with her own salt-and-pepper mop of hair but lacked the courage. What if it didn’t turn out well and they sniggered behind her back at work? She wished she didn’t care so much what people thought, but she’d always been that way. After Terry left, she’d gone into hiding for months, not wanting pity and remembering what a woman at work had said about a friend whose husband had strayed. There’s always two sides to every story. He must have gone after what he couldn’t get at home.
‘She talked to everyone,’ Betty relayed, ‘including some of the parents. Wanted to know all about Lauren.’
Julia scooped up fluffy golden rice. ‘Did you tell her you suspected Lauren was seeing someone else?’
‘I did mention it. I thought that was the right thing to do.’
‘Oh yes, you did the right thing. You have to be frank with the police.’
Julia was always so sure about everything, so cut and dried. Betty was slightly in awe of her friend’s calm resolve. Her pragmatism made life seem simpler. She liked the way Julia was always so neatly turned out and in charge of herself. She’d told Betty about her husband’s sudden death at fifty-eight. They’d been sitting watching TV. He’d eaten a slice of cake, sighed, clutched his arm and died of a heart attack. Julia said that although it had been a terrible shock, in some ways being widowed had been the making of her. It had forced her to look at the world with clear eyes, and mirrored her own experience after Terry left.
‘The inspector’s coming to Polska. I presume that’s about Matis Rimas, because he used to call in now and again,’ Julia said, cutting into the lamb. ‘So I’ll meet her myself. People have been subdued there this week. Matis was such a pleasant young man, very cheery and friendly. We’ve started a collection for him, just a gesture for his family in Lithuania.’
‘It’s all so sad. I was with my Erica when she died. Held her, told her I loved her. It must be terrible to know your loved one has been murdered hundreds of miles away,’ Betty said.
Julia arranged her cutlery on her empty plate. ‘All pointless death is dreadful. All young death is dreadful. You were kind and supportive to Lauren. I hope she appreciated having you in her life.’
‘I was fond of her, although sometimes I did feel as if she took me a bit for granted.’
Julia raised her large, pale eyes and nodded. ‘That’s certainly true. Think of all the support and advice you gave her about getting qualified at work, as well as listening to her marital woes. She never even bought you a bunch of flowers by way of a thank-you.’
‘No . . . well, I didn’t do it for the thanks.’
‘Still, some appreciation goes a long way. Matis was always polite. Lauren seems to have lacked manners. Oh dear, I suppose I shouldn’t say that about someone who’s died.’
Betty leaned in. ‘I think the police suspect Jenna Seaton. They’ve been checking up on her.’
‘Interesting. Maybe they’ve found out some background we don’t know about. From what you’ve told me, the Seatons and Vissers were friendly. Friends can fall out. Anyway, enough of sad events. Are you looking forward to the festival?’
‘I certainly am. I’ve bought a new dress to wear. Not my usual kind of thing. I took your advice, went a bit upmarket, made a braver choice.’
They talked on about the festival, looking at a programme between them. Betty pictured her new dress. It gave her a less rounded, more fluid look. She was tired of appearing comfy and maternal, a motherly type with no one to mother. She thought she might approach a makeover in stages. Wear the dress and then tackle her hair, maybe try a new lipstick.
* * *
Siv climbed the squeaking stairs in the tall, narrow house. On the first landing, she stopped to look at the view of the harbour from the side window. Light white clouds were moving fast out to sea and oystercatchers were wading in the muddy foreshore. There was a stall selling fish near the road and she could make out the grey, white and brown sheen of their skin and the bright green of samphire. So much fish in this case, she thought. She carried on to the flat on the third floor.
Mason Granger opened the door as soon as she pressed the bell and let her into a light-filled converted loft with a panoramic view over the town. A couple of deep armchairs were arranged in front of the wide plate-glass window. The brick on the internal walls had been left exposed and painted white. The wall to the right of the window had a massive indoor vertical garden made with six wooden pallets and featuring different succulents. She gazed at colourful large-leafed plants, interspersed with smaller pale grey and green varieties. It was a stunning mixture of colour and shape and she wondered if she could work up a similar piece of origami.
Granger was a tall, stringy man in his late twenties with short black hair and smoky lensed glasses. He invited Siv to sit down and checked the laptop on the dining table before closing the lid and taking an armchair.
‘I haven’t noticed a TV in here but you don’t need one with this view,’ Siv said.
He nodded. ‘I have a TV in my bedroom but I don’t use it much. As you say, sitting here and looking out, there’s never a dull moment.’ He had a wide smile, neat teeth and perfectly shaped, symmetrical eyebrows.
She couldn’t see his eyes behind the tinted lenses. ‘I need to ask you about Lauren Visser.’
‘Lauren — my God, that was savage. I couldn’t believe when I heard about her.’
‘How did you hear?’ she asked.
‘Cilla phoned me. Cilla Falkner. She’s in Minstergreen and one of her kids goes to the nursery where Lauren worked.’
‘Where were you last Monday morning between 6 and 8.30 a.m.?’
‘Here, working. I work from home.’
‘Was anyone with you?’
‘No. I live on my own. I got up around eight fifteen and started replying to emails. Some from the States come in overnight.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought you’d ask me that. No one can vouch for me, I’m afraid. Is it a problem?’
‘For me or for you?’
‘Could be for me, I suppose, if I was a murderer. Which I’m not.’
‘I’ll note that you told me that. What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m an animator. I work mainly on games. I usually go up to London a day or so a week for consultations. Otherwise I’m working here.’
He looked out of the window most of the time, so that she was seeing his profile. She wanted to turn the chairs around and get him to take his glasses off.
‘Tell me about how you knew Lauren,’ she said.
He crossed his ankle over
the knee of the other leg, foot pointing outwards. He wore soft yellow and black trainers with orange laces. He looped a finger through a lace and played with it. ‘I met her a couple of years ago when we set up Minstergreen. She was on our committee, so I saw her regularly — usually every week. We worked on strategies, publicity, campaigns, all that kind of stuff.’
‘How did you get on?’
‘Okay-ish. We had different styles and approaches.’
‘Elaborate for me.’
‘Okay. Let me see.’ He rested his chin on the back of his hand, in thoughtful pose. Grandstanding. ‘I thought we needed to take a longer term view with our work, plan ahead more. I wanted to broaden the Minstergreen agenda, keep it in the public eye. I’m pretty skilled in networking and strategic positioning. That’s partly why the members agreed that I should be chair. I’m an ideas person, if you like. I understand that you have to work hard at engaging people and making conservation fun. Lauren could be a bit of a drag sometimes, to be honest, a bit of a virtue signaller. She was keen on keeping our focus small, sticking to what we know. Our volunteer numbers have been dropping and we need to get more people, especially younger ones, working with us. I wanted us to go into schools, colleges, workplaces, anywhere you get numbers of people, and do presentations about us, but Lauren argued that would distract from our main task of hands on conservation.’
She could see that he liked the sound of his own voice. He was getting into his stride. ‘I understand that you had a disagreement at the committee meeting the week before she died.’
‘Yes, and it wasn’t the first time we’d seen things differently. But that’s how it goes in all organizations. People have strong feelings. I thought Lauren was too plodding. She could be kind of dogged and I’d had feedback that some volunteers were put off by her tunnel vision and her insistence that they keep to the hours they’d offered. We had to take her off managing the rota because if volunteers couldn’t make a session, she’d be on the phone to them, telling them off. You have to work flexibly with volunteers, not guilt-trip them and manage them as if they’re in paid employment. Lauren bludgeoned people with facts. Like I said, what we do is serious work, but you don’t want to frighten people all the time. Fear can paralyse rather than inspire action. You have to make conservation enjoyable or helpers fade away.’
These Little Lies Page 16