Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street

by Ann Cleeves

  The lounge was empty. George would still be in his room. Kate set down the tray, switched on the gas fire and drew the curtains. The snow had blown into a small drift against the window.

  She was thinking that she’d get a casserole out of the freezer for their supper, when the doorbell rang. If it was another visitor, trapped in the town by the weather, she could put them in room six. She opened the door.

  Outside there was an enormous woman. She wore a shapeless anorak over a tweed skirt. A wide face and small brown eyes. Her hair was covered by the anorak hood. On her feet, wellingtons. Her hair and her body were covered in snow. Behind her another figure, but hidden by her bulk, so that it was impossible to make out any detail.

  The abominable snow-woman, Kate thought.

  The woman spoke. ‘Let us in, pet, will you? It’s freezing out here. My name’s Stanhope. Inspector Vera Stanhope.’

  Chapter Three

  Vera got the call while she was shopping and, when her mobile buzzed in her pocket, she felt a joyous sense of relief. She rarely ventured into Newcastle except for work and this was a nightmare. Christmas shopping: hordes of fraught people with a kind of mad panic in their eyes. Like the rabbits, when her father Hector had gone lamping for meat. Hector had died years ago and Vera had no other family to buy for. Christmas Day she’d go to her hippy neighbours for dinner and they’d all get drunk as skunks, but Jack and Joanna wouldn’t expect presents – except perhaps a decent bottle of whisky – and neither would she.

  Then Holly, one of her team, had devised this scheme. Secret Santa: names in a hat and pull out the name of the person who’d receive your gift. Vera had been hoping for Charlie. A bottle of whisky would have suited him fine too. Vera had picked Holly from the hat, though. Holly wore perfume and make-up and smart clothes, even to work. What could Vera possibly choose for her? So here she was in Fenwick’s department store, sweating because she was still in her outdoor clothes, surrounded by smart and shiny people, just wanting to do a runner, when her phone rang. Joe Ashworth on the other end. If he’d been there she would have kissed him.

  ‘What have you got for me, Joe?’ her voice sang. A sales assistant in a white tunic, who was plastering foundation onto a middle-aged woman perched in a chair like you’d see at the dentist’s, was staring at her.

  ‘Murder,’ he said and her heart lifted again, before the guilt set in and she told herself that the victim would be someone’s relative and friend. They hadn’t died for her entertainment. ‘A stabbing on the Metro.’

  ‘Bit of a scuffle got out of hand?’ That seemed odd. It was the sort of thing you might get late at night, but not in the early afternoon.

  ‘No.’ She knew him well enough to sense that this wasn’t going to be straightforward, and that pleased her too. She liked a bit of complication. A challenge. ‘It’s an elderly lady. I was first on the scene. The CSIs are on their way.’

  ‘Give Holly a shout too.’ Vera was more careful these days to include Holly, who could strop for England if she felt she was missing out. She paused for breath, already pushing her way through the crowds to get to the exit, feeling in her coat pocket for her keys. ‘And dig Charlie from his hole. Who found the body?’

  ‘Jessie,’ Joe Ashworth replied. ‘My daughter Jessie.’

  It took Vera longer than she’d expected to get to Partington Metro station. A couple of inches of snow and the world went mad. A car had slipped across the road in Benton, blocking one lane of traffic. She was in Hector’s Land Rover, which was against all the police authority rules because it was so old, but today she was glad of it. The station was closed, marked by crime-scene tape and protected by a couple of Metro inspectors, enjoying every minute of their moment of glory. On the platform in the distance she saw Joe Ashworth. Her sergeant and her surrogate son, her protégé. And her conscience. The snow was falling around him and he had his back to her. He wore a black overcoat and was speaking into a mobile. No sign of the daughter. Sal would have whipped her away. Both parents were protective of their bairns. Vera thought Jessie would probably have preferred to stay and watch the action. There was something sparky about the girl that gave Vera hope.

  She’d pulled on the wellies that she kept in the Land Rover. It had taken an effort – her legs only just squeezed inside. She’d lost weight, though. The boots were new, and a year ago she wouldn’t have fitted into them at all. The platform was slippery and she walked carefully. If she fell over, it would take a crane to get her to her feet. In the brightly lit train compartment she saw white-suited figures at work. She hoped Billy Wainwright would be heading up the team of CSIs. She couldn’t see the body and wouldn’t be allowed in now until they’d finished.

  ‘Joe!’ He turned to look at her and started to walk her way, finishing the call and putting his hands in his pockets.

  As he approached, Vera saw that he was frowning. He would have had other plans for this evening. A night in with Sal and the bairns. Maybe wrapping the presents when the kids were in bed. Sal would be the organized type; she wouldn’t leave her Christmas shopping until the last minute. But Vera knew that Joe got bored with the perfect domestic life, although he’d never admit it, even to himself. Perhaps this murder had come as a lifesaver for him too.

  ‘What have you got for me, Joe?’ They moved into the shelter of the station concourse. Joe leaned against one of the ticket machines. The snow was falling so heavily now that they looked at the train through a shifting white curtain. Not a bad thing, Vera thought. People would blame the weather, not them, for disrupting the Metro system.

  She listened while he described the journey from town, the packed train, the lippy youths and the pissed businessmen. She didn’t take notes at this point. Notes stopped her concentrating. She needed to picture herself in the carriage, listening to the banter.

  She waited until he’d finished talking. ‘All good-tempered then? Nothing that could have led to a Christmas moment of madness? The victim hadn’t made a fuss about kids swearing or putting their feet on the seats?’

  ‘Not that I saw or heard. It was packed in there, but if there’d been any sort of row, I’d probably have noticed. Even when the train stopped and we all had to get out, nobody kicked off.’

  ‘What do we know about the victim?’ This was Vera’s favourite moment in an investigation. She was nosy, loved digging around in another person’s private life. Perhaps, she was forced to concede, because she had no personal life of her own.

  ‘Only what we could get from her Metro pensioner’s pass. She was carrying a handbag, but in it there was nothing but a purse, a set of house keys and a hankie.’

  ‘Money in the purse?’ There were druggies, Vera thought, who’d stab their granny for the price of a fix. But probably not in the Metro in the late afternoon.

  ‘Fifty quid and a bit of change.’

  Not robbed then. ‘So what do we know about her?’

  ‘Her name’s Margaret Krukowski and she’s seventy years old. An address in Mardle. One, Harbour Street.’ Joe had stumbled over the surname.

  ‘What’s that? Russian, Polish?’

  Joe shook his head. What would he know? ‘She was nearly home,’ he said. ‘Only one more stop on the Metro and she’d have been safe.’ Vera thought he was the most sentimental cop she’d ever known.

  ‘Did you see where she got on?’

  ‘Aye, Gosforth.’

  One of Newcastle’s posher suburbs. A long way from Mardle in terms of class and aspiration.

  Joe guessed what she was thinking. ‘More Gosforth than Mardle, from her appearance,’ he said.

  Vera thought about this for a moment and wondered where people would place her in the social order of things, if they saw her. Bag lady? Farmer?

  ‘We’ll go then, shall we?’ she said. ‘See if anyone’s at home waiting for Margaret Krukowski.’

  They sat for a moment in the Land Rover outside the house. The Harbour Guest House. A wooden sign beside the front door, the letters almost obscured
by snow.

  ‘We bring the kids here sometimes, to the Mardle Fisheries,’ Joe said. ‘A treat. It’s supposed to be the best fish and chips in the North-East.’

  Vera had her own memories of Mardle. Hector bribing some boatman to take them out to Coquet Island in the middle of the night. Lights still on in the warden’s house at one end of the island. Music and noise, some party going on there. Her terror that they’d be discovered, while Hector was caught up in the chase for roseate terns’ eggs. He’d always loved the risk. She thought he’d been motivated more by the danger than by the obsession that led him to steal and trade in rare birds’ eggs.

  ‘Well,’ Joe said. ‘Are we going in? I’ve got a home to go to.’

  She nodded and climbed out of the vehicle, trying to remember if the guest house had been here when she’d been a kid. She remembered the street as rundown, almost squalid, but that had been more than forty years ago. She rang the bell.

  The woman who answered was about the right age to be the victim’s daughter. Late thirties, early forties. Curly black hair and brown eyes, the colour of conkers, a pleasant, almost professional smile. She reminded Vera of a nurse. When Vera introduced herself, she stood aside to let them in. ‘Is there some problem?’

  When the police turned up at the door people felt either guilty or scared. Vera couldn’t work out which the reaction was here. She followed the woman to the back of the house, into a warm lounge furnished with heavy furniture that would have seemed out of place in a smaller room, and they sat down on plush, velvet sofas. There was an upright piano against one wall, music on the stand, and against another a sideboard with decanters and bottles of spirits. Vera thought a tot of malt whisky was just what she needed after hanging around on a cold Metro station, but she knew better than to say anything. The curtains had been drawn and the place decorated for Christmas, with holly and sprayed silver pine cones along the mantelpiece and tall red candles on the occasional tables. It looked like a Victorian drawing room.

  The lounge was empty, but there was a tea tray on a small table. The presence of the tray seemed to bother their hostess. She kept glancing towards it apologetically. Joe followed them and took a seat by the gas fire.

  ‘Nice place,’ he said. ‘Cosy.’

  The woman smiled and seemed to relax a little.

  ‘Could you give us your name, please?’ Joe again.

  ‘Dewar.’ The woman had her back to Vera now. ‘Kate Dewar.’

  The door opened and they were interrupted by a large, bald man with a pleasant smile and an easy manner.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘More guests, Kate? More waifs from the storm?’ He turned so that his smile included Vera and Joe. ‘You’re very welcome.’ It could have been his home. ‘Would you like tea? I’m sure there’s plenty in the pot, and Kate will bring more cups.’

  ‘These aren’t guests, George. These are police officers.’ Was there a warning in the words? Watch what you say.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. He stopped for a beat and looked round awkwardly. ‘I’ll be in the way then. Don’t want to intrude. I’ll take the tea to my room, shall I?’ Picking up the tray, he walked out without a backward glance. Vera thought she’d have been too curious to do that. She’d have asked if she could help, found some excuse to hang around and find out what was going on.

  ‘A guest?’ She nodded towards the door.

  ‘George Enderby, one of my regulars.’

  ‘And Margaret Krukowski? Is she one of your regulars? Only she’s given this as her address.’

  ‘Margaret? Is she ill? Is that why you’re here?’

  Vera sensed relief in the voice and wondered what else the woman might have to fear from a visit from the police. ‘Margaret does live here then? A relative, is she?’

  ‘Not a relative. A friend. And an employee, I suppose. She helps out in the house. We run the place together.’ A flashed smile. ‘I couldn’t manage without her.’

  Vera leaned forward and kept her voice gentle. ‘Margaret Krukowski’s dead,’ she said. ‘She was stabbed in the Metro on her way home from town this afternoon. I need you to tell me all about her.’

  Chapter Four

  Vera wondered, as she sat in the hot lounge, if it was still snowing. If it was, she thought she probably wouldn’t get up the steep hill to the house where she’d lived since she was a child, even in the Land Rover. But this would probably be an all-nighter anyway, so there was no point worrying about that.

  Kate Dewar was sitting on the edge of one of the heavy sofas, crying. No fuss or noise, but silent tears. Joe Ashworth had provided her with a small packet of tissues. He was like a Boy Scout, Joe. Always prepared.

  ‘How long have you known Margaret?’ Sometimes Vera thought it was best to start with simple facts. Something for the person to hang on to, to pull their thoughts away from the shock and the grief.

  Kate dabbed at her eyes. ‘Ten years,’ she said. ‘The kids were small. My aunt died – she was some sort of distant relative by marriage. I never knew her, and we lived up the coast. But she’d left me this house in her will. It wasn’t a guest house then, but it had been converted into a bunch of bedsits and flats. All tatty. Most empty. Margaret was the only tenant with any sort of lease.’ She paused for breath. ‘I was bored. It wasn’t the best time of my life. My husband worked away a lot. Ryan was already at school, Chloe at playgroup. I thought it would be a project, that Mardle was on its way up and that soon the tourists would arrive. Got that one wrong, didn’t I?’

  She shrugged wryly.

  ‘At first I thought having Margaret here would be a problem – that she’d, sort of, get in the way.’ Kate stopped again and gave a wide and lovely smile. ‘But that couldn’t have been further from the truth. She was wonderful, and it would have been a nightmare without her. She was like a mother and a best friend all rolled into one. We negotiated a deal. She’d keep her little flat in the attic, rent-free, and help out in the house. And I’d pay her when I could. She’s been on a proper salary since the first guests arrived.’

  From the corner of her eye Vera saw Joe Ashworth making notes, but she was trying to picture this big house being renovated, the builders in, two women full of plans and ideas for its future, small kids under their feet. That would make you close, and she felt a pang of loss – she’d never had a best friend, no one with whom she could share her dreams. The nearest she had was Joe Ashworth.

  ‘Margaret Krukowski,’ she said. ‘That’s a Polish name?’

  ‘Yes, but Margaret wasn’t Polish. North-East born and bred, and from a respectable Newcastle family. She married a Polish seaman when she was very young. Her parents were outraged, but it was the Sixties and she said he was very handsome and a refugee, which made it all the more romantic.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Vera liked this victim already, liked the complexity of her. Joe had said Margaret looked more Gosforth than Mardle, but she’d taken up with a Polish asylum-seeker and ended up alone in a scuzzy bedsit. Still keeping up appearances, though. Still smart, with the boots and the red lipstick; the long coat that would have cost a fortune new.

  ‘He left her only a couple of years after they married. Ran off with a woman with more money than Margaret had. She said she was heartbroken, but too proud to go running back to her parents. She trained as a bookkeeper and worked for a couple of local companies. When I first knew her she’d already retired. Or been made redundant.’ Kate smiled again. ‘She was a whizz with figures and saved me from the VAT man a number of times.’

  ‘But she kept her husband’s name?’ Vera thought that couldn’t have been easy all those years ago. A single woman with airs and graces, a strange name and aspirations to style.

  ‘She told me she never stopped loving him,’ Kate replied. ‘Like I said, she was always a romantic.’

  ‘And your husband?’ Vera asked. ‘Is he still working away?’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘No,’ Kate said. ‘He died. An accident at work in
the North Sea. The rigs. He drowned. His body was never found.’ And she began to cry again.

  Kate led them up the stairs to Margaret’s flat. ‘As she got older, I asked if she’d like to move to one of the downstairs rooms, but she said this felt like home now and the stairs kept her fit.’

  ‘She was a healthy woman then? Good for her age?’ Despite her new regime and the trips to the pool, Vera was panting, so the words came out in tiny gasps.

  ‘Oh yes. The business is doing well enough now. We have our regular guests and we do some outside catering, but Margaret said she wouldn’t think of retiring.’ Kate stopped at the door. Joe took out the bunch of keys that the CSIs had found on the body.

  ‘You don’t have a master key?’ Vera leaned against the wall to catch her breath.

  ‘For all the other rooms, but not this one. I offered to keep one in case of emergency, but she never seemed keen. The cleaner never went in here, though I’d have been happy for her to service it with all the rest. Mags liked her privacy.’

  ‘Did she have any visitors?’

  ‘I was invited in for afternoon tea occasionally,’ Kate said. ‘Lovely. Always something a bit special. Sometimes smoked salmon from the fishery, on little pancakes. Sometimes a fancy cake she’d baked herself. Once a bottle of pink champagne because she said she had something to celebrate. I never saw anyone else come in to see her.’

  She hovered on the landing, obviously wondering if she was expected to go into the room with them.

  Vera reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘That’s all right, pet. We can take it from here.’

  Kate nodded and turned back. Joe Ashworth waited until she was halfway down the stairs before trying a key in the lock. There were three keys. Vera wondered about the other two – one was probably for the front door of the guest house. What about the other? Joe pushed open the door.