Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘I went home for a bit. I was frozen and I needed a hot bath and some warm food. Then I went to the pub.’ He looked up, challenging her to ask for details, but she didn’t bite. She could ask at the Coble what time he turned up there.

  ‘Why were you so upset when you heard about her death?’ Vera’s voice was low and gentle. ‘Had you become friends, like, over the years?’

  He leaned forward, wrapped a cloth around his hand so that he wouldn’t burn himself, opened the door of the stove and threw in a piece of driftwood. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that. But I suppose she reminded me of my youth.’ He paused again. ‘Good times.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Holypool was just a couple of miles inland from Mardle, but Joe Ashworth felt as if he was in a different world when he approached it, a world to which he aspired. He’d always liked the village and occasionally imagined himself living in the small development of new executive housing just behind the pub. On either side of the narrow main street there were stone cottages with long, narrow front gardens. In the summer there would be birdsong. The sun and the overnight traffic had cleared the street, but there was enough snow left on the roofs to make the place look like something from a Christmas card that his nan might have sent.

  In his head an ear-worm, the song ‘White Moon Summer’ that had made Katie Guthrie famous. The melody swam in and out of his consciousness throughout the drive and he remembered himself and Sal, hardly more than bairns, and that month when they’d both finished their exams and nothing mattered except each other and their plans for the future.

  The Haven was based in a house set away from the road, hidden by trees and surrounded by farmland. There was a wooden gate across the drive and, as Joe got out of the car to open it, he heard dripping water – melted ice falling from the branches. The drive was potholed, the pits filled in places with ash and shale, and he had to drive slowly. He wondered what the residents made of the place. He thought most of them would be from the city and that this must seem like the end of the known universe to them. At night how would they cope with the dark and the quiet? Even he shuddered at the thought of it. A bank of cloud covered the sun. He emerged from the trees and pulled onto a flagged courtyard, surrounded on two sides by the stone house and on the third by a series of almost derelict outbuildings.

  A woman in jeans and a sweater appeared from an open wooden structure that might once have been a rickety garage. She was pushing a wheelbarrow full of logs and set it down to stare at him. She watched without moving as he got out of the car to approach her. He felt uncomfortable because he couldn’t place her. Was she a client or a worker? He was happier when he could give people a label.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The words gave no clue to her status. The accent was indeterminate and the voice slightly hostile. Wary at least. Joe stared back, trying to work out if he’d seen her before, if she might have been one of the people in the Metro the afternoon of the murder. There was no spark of recognition. After a brief glimpse of so many people perhaps that was unlikely.

  He was about to ask for the person in charge when the door to the house opened and a golden Labrador bounded out, followed by a middle-aged woman. The woman was short and round and wore a purple cord skirt and a brightly coloured hand-knitted cardigan that made her look fatter than she really was. There were wellingtons on her feet. She called back the dog, which was bouncing towards Joe.

  ‘Sandy, come back here.’ She was Scottish and her voice sounded as if she was laughing.

  Then she repeated the words that had been spoken by the younger woman. ‘Can I help you?’ They were friendly, but demanded an answer.

  Joe stayed where he was. He’d always been suspicious of big dogs since one had jumped up and nipped him on his first day of school. Something else for Vera Stanhope to tease him about. He introduced himself.

  The Scottish woman smiled easily. ‘I assume you have some ID? We’re always a bit wary about strange men turning up at the Haven, aren’t we, Laurie?’

  The young woman sniffed. ‘No need,’ she said. ‘He’s a pig. I can smell them a mile off.’ She bent to the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it around the side of the house.

  Joe waved his warrant card towards the older woman.

  ‘Come in out of the cold,’ she said. ‘We’ll put on the kettle. And it’s almost lunchtime, if you’d like to join us.’

  It wasn’t very much warmer inside the house. There were stone flags on the floor of the hall too, and he had to climb over a clutter of boots, a child’s tricycle and a big old-fashioned pram. The hall was wide and high and in one corner there was an enormous Christmas tree decorated with handmade paper chains and foil stars. The woman led him past it and into an office furnished with an elderly desk, a sofa so low in the middle that it was almost on the floor, and a couple of kitchen chairs. ‘I should introduce myself. Jane Cameron. I run this place, for my sins.’ Then she left him where he was and disappeared. He heard her shouting into the distance for someone to be a sweetheart and bring through a pot of coffee. Then she was back, and her personality seemed to fill the room and warm it. He thought he’d never met anyone quite like her.

  ‘Now, Sergeant Ashworth, why don’t you tell me what this is all about?’ She’d perched on the desk and he was on the sofa, so she was looking down at him. He had the sense that she was giving him her undivided attention.

  ‘You have a volunteer called Margaret Krukowski?’

  ‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You didn’t see the local news last night? Father Gruskin didn’t call to tell you?’

  ‘I haven’t heard from Peter in the last few days and we didn’t see any television last night. The electricity went off between six and eleven. All very dramatic. We made do with candles and a big fire. The women moaned, but actually I think they enjoyed the drama of it. By the time the lights came back on we were all in bed.’

  ‘Margaret Krukowski was murdered,’ Joe said. ‘We’re talking to everyone who knew her.’

  Jane Cameron stared at him. Suddenly she seemed older, paler. ‘I don’t believe it. Who would want to kill Margaret?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Joe said. ‘I thought you might be able to help with that.’

  There was a tap on the door and the woman he’d seen previously came in, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, a plastic bottle of milk and two mugs. On a plate were some biscuits similar to those he’d already eaten in the guest house in Harbour Street. So Margaret had baked here too. Laurie set the tray on the desk. She looked at Jane and noticed the change in her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then Jane realized that the woman was worried. ‘Really, I’m fine. We’ll come through and explain. Just give us a few minutes.’

  Laurie looked furiously at Joe Ashworth, as if she blamed him for Jane’s distress, and left the room.

  Jane poured coffee, offered milk and sugar in a distracted way. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t take this in. Margaret seemed indestructible. She had more energy than anyone I knew. And we’ll all miss her here so much. She was very much part of the family. She even brought Kate’s children along with her sometimes. She still does occasionally, if we’re running a special event. We had a winter fair a couple of weeks ago to raise some cash and Kate and the kids came along to that.’ She gave a tight little grin. ‘We’re always strapped for money here. Always under threat of closure, and these events never seem to make as much as I hope.’

  ‘Tell me about the Haven.’

  ‘It’s been running for about twenty years. I’ve been here for all that time, and Margaret started volunteering soon after I arrived. It’s a place for women who need somewhere safe to stay on a temporary basis. Not just a refuge for victims of domestic violence, but women with problems of addiction, or who need support after leaving care or being discharged from psychiatric hospital or prison. We can take the kids of residents too, though we don’t have any staying with us just now.’ She
looked up and smiled. ‘I was working as a senior social worker in the city and took a six-month sabbatical to set the place up. I never left. A cop-out perhaps, but much less stressful in some ways. But it’s a chance to work intensively with people and to build a community. I still stay in touch with ex-residents. We have reunions sometimes – loads of them turned up to the fair. It’s brilliant to see what some of the women have achieved. I’ll be here until I retire now – it’s my life’s work.’ She smiled to show that she didn’t take the thought, or herself, too seriously.

  ‘And you live here?’ Joe wondered what that must be like. Sal thought he gave every spare minute to his work. Your soul belongs to the fat woman. But Jane Cameron could have no escape from hers.

  ‘I’ve got my own flat,’ Jane said. ‘The women are usually pretty good at respecting my privacy. And I have friends in town – they put me up when I need a break or a bit of culture.’

  But no family of your own? No partner? Vera would have asked, but he couldn’t bring himself to put the question.

  ‘You must have problems over the years,’ he said. ‘Abusive husbands. Dealers. Pimps. Coming here and causing trouble.’

  ‘All of those,’ she replied. ‘We’ve built up a very good relationship with the community police officers, who turn out to help when needed. But there’s been no hassle recently. And there was no reason why anyone would target Margaret. She was a volunteer and her style was unobtrusive. She befriended the women once they arrived here. She had nothing to do with persuading them to come in the first place.’

  Joe drank his coffee. ‘I’ll need to talk to your residents. Margaret might have confided in them, told them if anything was worrying her.’ He looked up. ‘She didn’t mention anything of that sort to you?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘I learned from the start that Margaret was very private. She didn’t talk about herself. If anything, I was the one who confided in her. I’ll miss her.’ She paused. ‘Though when she was last here she did say that she’d like a chat sometime, that she could use some advice. I was busy and asked if next week would do.’ The social worker looked up, horrified. ‘I should have made time for her. All those hours she gave to us and I couldn’t squeeze a few minutes from my schedule. But she seemed okay about the delay. At least, she said she was.’

  ‘And you have no idea what she was concerned about?’

  Jane shook her head sadly. ‘Why don’t you come and meet the others. Margaret might have talked to one of them. It’s almost lunchtime and you can join us. I warn you that they’ll be extremely upset. As I said, Margaret was like a family member. More like a mother or a grandmother to them than a volunteer. You can be sure that none of our residents killed Margaret.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said. ‘I can’t rule anyone out at this stage.’

  She gave a sudden wide smile. ‘Not even me? Of course I appreciate the importance of an open mind, but really on this occasion it would be foolish to pursue that line of enquiry. As I said, none of our residents killed Margaret, Sergeant. The weather was so foul yesterday that nobody went out at all. They were here all afternoon. I can vouch for that.’ She looked up at Joe, challenging him to contradict her, but he said nothing.

  The residents were sitting in a large and untidy kitchen. It was warmer there – heat came from a chipped and grubby Aga. Children’s paintings were stuck on the walls, the corners distorted with age. The dog had curled up in a basket near the stove. Mince pies cooled on a wire tray on the bench. Joe recognized Laurie, who’d been carting in the logs, and there were five others, ranging in age from a teenager – skinny and nervy with a pale, angelic face and long curly red hair – to an elderly woman who was stirring soup on the hob.

  ‘This is Sergeant Ashworth, girls, and he’s come to talk to us. I’ve suggested he join us for lunch.’ Jane put rolls onto a plate and took a tub of margarine from the fridge.

  Laurie was laying the table and looked up. ‘What does he want?’

  Joe stared back at her. ‘Margaret was murdered yesterday.’ He thought he might as well get this over. The soup smelled good, but he couldn’t imagine sitting at the table with them, putting questions while they all ate. Vera might be an expert at cosy chats. He preferred a proper formality.

  Nobody moved. It was as if they were struggling to take in the news. He saw tears running down the cheeks of the old woman by the stove as she stirred the pan. The girl with the long, red hair was frozen like a statue.

  ‘Why the fuck would anyone kill Margaret?’ It was Laurie, so tense and angry that Joe thought she might be capable of murder. Jane put an arm around her shoulder and held her very tight, part comfort, part restraint. Laurie continued, looking round the room: ‘Well? She was amazing, wasn’t she? Everyone here adored her.’ She stared at Joe. ‘You can’t think we had anything to do with it?’

  ‘I think you might be able to help us find her killer.’

  There was silence in the room. Outside it seemed suddenly very dark and a gust of wind blew a branch against the window. Jane moved away from Laurie to switch on the light.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ she said. ‘You know how Margaret liked good food. We can eat and remember her, and tell Joe everything we know about her.’

  So despite his intentions and the flurries of snow that threatened to cut him off from the outside world, Joe found himself sitting at the table, sharing a meal with seven women, listening to their memories of Margaret Krukowski.

  It seemed that the nervy teenager, Emily, had arrived at the Haven two months before. ‘Margaret seemed lovely, but I didn’t really know her. We went for a walk one day, but that was just me moaning and her listening. You’d be better to talk to one of the others.’ She didn’t look at him when she spoke. Her voice was soft and well educated, and Joe wondered what she was doing living in a hostel. Didn’t she have parents who would care for her? She looked as if she should still be at school. On one occasion her sleeve slipped back as she ate her soup and he saw cuts on her inner arm. She was a self-harmer. Hardly older than his Jessie.

  The elderly woman who’d made the soup seemed either deaf or to live in a world of her own. She continued to cry, but her expression remained blank, and made him unsure whether this was grief for Margaret or a manifestation of chronic depression. Laurie spoke most, turning to the others occasionally, to check that they agreed with her. Jane didn’t interrupt them.

  ‘There are other volunteers, but they all have their own agendas. Like they’re religious, or they want us to be grateful to them because they’ve dropped in a few kids’ clothes. Or they want to get a job in social work, and helping out here looks good on their CV. But Margaret had none of that shit going on. She was here because she wanted to be, and she liked us and she wanted to make things better for us. By doing simple things like baking a cake for someone’s birthday. Or more complicated stuff like sitting in on supervised access, so that some of us could get to see our kids without a social worker having to be there all the time.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Joe thought this was all very well, and Vera would be interested, but now he needed some facts.

  ‘The day before yesterday.’ This was Laurie again, looking round before she answered to make sure she’d got it right.

  ‘How did she get here?’ This time the question was directed at Jane Cameron and she answered.

  ‘On the bus usually. Sometimes I picked her up, if I was going into town. But she was quite independent. She had her bus pass, she said. She might as well use it.’

  ‘And her last visit?’

  ‘Someone gave her a lift.’ Laurie jumped in before Jane could answer. ‘I was working in the garden and a car dropped her off at the gate.’

  ‘Did you see the driver?’ Joe thought this was significant. Kate Dewar hadn’t mentioned bringing Margaret to the Haven, and any other contact might be important.

  Laurie frowned. ‘No. They didn’t get out of the car. But it was a silver Golf. Not a new one. X-reg.’


  ‘Are you sure?’ Joe never noticed cars and, in his experience, women were even less likely to be aware of them.

  ‘Oh yes, Sergeant.’ For the first time Laurie grinned. ‘I’m an expert. All my previous offences have been vehicle-related.’

  Jane invited him to stay for tea and mince pies, but he looked out of the window at the snow still covering much of the ground and said he should leave. He’d just stood up when Laurie spoke again. ‘Someone should make sure that Dee knows Margaret is dead.’

  ‘Dee?’ Now all he wanted to do was get out of this place. In this weather the countryside held less appeal. He wasn’t sure he’d want to live in Holypool after all.

  ‘Dee Robson, one of our former residents.’ Jane walked with him past the Christmas tree and into the hall so that they wouldn’t be overheard, and they continued the conversation by the front door. ‘She never settled here. Not her fault perhaps. She has minor learning difficulties that were never picked up at school, a chaotic childhood.’ Jane gave a brief grin. ‘We have very few rules here, but Dee broke every one of them. Booze, men, aggression – you name it. In the end the other residents forced her out. But Margaret developed a special relationship with her and continued to mentor Dee even when she left. She didn’t judge her. I’m not quite sure how Dee will cope without her.’

  ‘Where does Dee live now?’

  ‘In Mardle, in a flat in Percy Street.’ Jane opened the door. ‘You will get someone to tell her, won’t you Sergeant, and check that she’s okay? She’ll have a social worker. Some poor soul trying to keep her safe.’

  He nodded and wondered why Jane’s charity didn’t run to her telling Dee about Margaret’s killing. Outside it seemed a little milder and the snow was now soft and damp. As he turned back to the house he saw Emily, the pale teenager, staring back at him through an upstairs window. He was reminded of a children’s fairy tale, a princess imprisoned in a tower.