by Ann Cleeves
Holly looked up, startled. ‘Prof. Craggs said that the only time he had a real conversation with Margaret was one evening in the lounge at the guest house. He’d bought her a drink. They were on their own and Craggs asked her about her husband. She said he was long gone and told him that all she had left were secrets.’
‘Margaret Krukowski and her bloody secrets.’ Vera wondered if there were any secrets. Perhaps Margaret spoke about the past like that just to make herself interesting. Perhaps they were the fantasies of a lonely, elderly woman. She looked up. ‘Sorry, Hol. Carry on.’
Holly seemed taken aback. Vera thought it was good to surprise the team with a change of tone occasionally. ‘After the press conference was shown on television yesterday evening, we had more calls from people who were on the Metro. A few could remember being in the front carriage. There was one guy who was in the group of businessmen Joe remembered. They’d all been to a Christmas lunch. The witness didn’t see anything, but he’s given us some more names to check. And the lasses, who Joe saw with their boyfriends, got in touch through their parents. They’re from St Anne’s, that posh school in Jesmond. They got out at Gosforth and they didn’t notice Margaret Krukowski.’
‘Thanks, Holly. Good work. Get someone round to take a statement from both.’
Holly beamed.
Good God, Vera thought. Is this all it takes to keep the team happy? A bit of praise? She thought Holly was like the scruffy collie that belonged to her neighbours. All it needed was a bowl of food at the end of the day and a pat on the head from its owners. She nodded for Joe Ashworth to get to his feet, to talk about the Haven and Margaret’s relationship with the women there. And all the time Vera was trying to get inside the head of the victim. Elegant, from a smart family, yet content to live alone in a tiny flat in the roof of a guest house in a rundown coastal town. Hadn’t Margaret wanted more than that? If not a family of her own, then work to satisfy her. Vera couldn’t imagine life without her work. It was what defined her.
She realized that Joe had finished speaking and that the team was staring at her. She stood up, still feeling somehow that she was standing in Margaret’s narrow shoes, balancing on the small heels. She shook her head to clear the image.
‘Anyone heard of Dee Robson? Probable alcoholic and sex worker?’ Charlie raised a hand and nodded wearily. Vera continued. ‘She lives in the flats on Percy Street. Margaret met Dee when she had a short stay at the Haven and had been keeping an eye on her ever since. Dee was in the Metro when Margaret was killed. I don’t see her as a murderer, and she looks so distinctive that someone would have mentioned her by now, if she was in the same carriage. But it’s another link and we need to check. Dee claims to have been with a bloke in his flat that afternoon. Charlie, put the word out and see if we can trace him.’
Charlie nodded, even more wearily.
‘Holly, I want you in Mardle again. Have a chat to Kate Dewar. She spent all those years living with Margaret and I can’t believe she knows as little as she says. Maybe she thinks she’s protecting the woman’s memory in some way. Joe, you do the priest. Same thing. Charlie, I know the CCTV on the platform at Gosforth Metro station was covered by snow, but see if we can find a trace of Malcolm Kerr’s Golf anywhere en route from Mardle to Gosforth that afternoon. Craggs said that they got in from Coquet Island at three-ish, so Kerr would have had plenty of time to drive there, to get on the train after Margaret. And he’d have needed to go back later to pick up his car. No Metros were running, so check local taxi firms.’ She paused for breath. ‘And while you’re at it, let’s see if we can find out where Dee got onto the train. Either her knowledge of geography away from Mardle is non-existent or she’s playing games with us. If you can look at CCTV for earlier in the afternoon you might also find the man she was with.’
They got up and started to wander out. Vera called Holly back. They stood alone in the big briefing room. ‘Before you head out to Mardle, Hol, do me a favour. Give social services a ring and ask them to check on Dee Robson. I can never talk to them for more than a minute before I lose my temper.’ Which was something to do with the way they’d trusted Hector to look after her when her mam died. ‘Margaret used to keep an eye on Dee, and I don’t think the poor lass will manage in that flat on her own. She’s a danger to herself and her neighbours.’
Holly looked as if she thought the inspector was a little bit mad, but Vera was used to that. ‘A favour, Hol,’ she repeated, losing patience. ‘Is that okay?’
Holly nodded and left the room without speaking.
Chapter Sixteen
It was the last day of the school term. Non-uniform day. Chloe left home first in a long black sweater and jeans. Ryan looked super-cool in the jacket he’d bought with his last wage packet from Kerr. Kate thought the boatman must be paying him too much, but liked her son’s style. She saw him as he was on his way out and asked quietly if it was a good idea to wear it to school. ‘You might lose it, or it could get damaged.’
He responded with one of his volcanic outbursts. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mam, get off my case. I’m not a kid. I can decide for myself what I’m going to wear.’ The sudden temper reminded her of Rob and for a moment she shrank from him. Then he saw that he’d scared her and was smiling and apologetic. ‘Look, nobody at school would steal anything from me, and I’ll look after it.’ He kissed her before he went through the door. Teenagers, she thought. They’re like toddlers with hormones.
The house was quiet. The only visitor booked in before Christmas was George Enderby for one night on his way south from Scotland. Kate Dewar felt lighter, somehow frivolous, as if she’d shed a burden of responsibility. And she had to admit that Margaret’s death had something to do with that. She’d loved Margaret to bits of course, and had depended on her, but after the first shock of knowing that she was dead, she realized how much she’d cared what Margaret thought. She’d always felt that Margaret was judging her. About the way she ran the guest house, the way she was bringing up the kids, even the way she dressed. Her relationship with Stu. Nothing was ever said, but she’d wanted Margaret to approve. If Ryan slipped out of the house without saying where he was going, if there was a complaint from a visitor about something to do with their stay at the guest house, or if Chloe had one of her strops, Kate’s first thought was for Margaret’s reaction. What would she make of it?
Now Kate felt wild and silly. She wondered if she could phone up a couple of friends and suggest they go out for lunch. A trip to Newcastle, an Italian meal, too much wine. She imagined herself staggering back on the Metro, too tipsy to care if Chloe was working herself to death. Stuart would be out at an end-of-term dinner with his colleagues tonight and she wouldn’t see him until the morning. But the first friend she tried had sounded as if Kate was quite mad. ‘Newcastle? The week before Christmas? It’ll be a total nightmare. Besides, I’m rushed off my feet.’ So Kate felt deflated again. Perhaps, after all, she should be sensible. She should do the Christmas preparation. Bake mince pies for the freezer. Ice the cake. Wrap some of the kids’ presents while they were out of the way.
Still, the sun was shining and the frost on the roof of Malcolm Kerr’s shed made the building look almost festive, so Kate decided that at least she could leave the house. There was a new place in Mardle, an ice-cream parlour and coffee shop, which had opened with the same optimism as had lain behind her own decision to develop the guest house. At least she could get a decent coffee and a pastry to celebrate her mood. And give some support to the new venture. Perhaps Mardle would see a change in its fortunes and tourists would arrive at last.
She was on her way out. She opened the front door and there on the step was a young woman. The visitor definitely wasn’t from Mardle. She was stylish. The boots and the haircut were expensive. Kate felt untidy and rattled by the shock of almost walking into the woman.
‘I’m sorry.’ Why do I always apologize? ‘Can I help you?’
The woman introduced herself – another detective. Even t
oday there was to be no escape from Margaret’s death.
Kate felt flustered. ‘I was just on my way out. Since we heard about the murder I seem to have been trapped in the house. And it’s the kids’ last day at school. My last day of freedom.’ Because although this newcomer, this Detective Constable Holly Clarke, was young and smart and obviously didn’t have children, Kate thought that she might understand.
‘Where were you off to?’ The woman stepped back onto the pavement to give her space, and Kate felt that she had more room to breathe.
‘Just for a coffee.’ Kate gave a shrug. ‘That’s about as exciting as my life gets.’
‘Tell me about it. And I could murder a latte.’ Holly seemed to realize what she’d said. ‘Ooh, sorry!’ But by then they were both giggling, like schoolgirls, as they walked up the street towards the town.
The new cafe had giant espresso machines and trays of home-made cakes and pastries. The realist in Kate thought that it wouldn’t last more than six months in Mardle, but its novelty value meant that it was full now.
‘What do you fancy?’ Holly asked. ‘My treat.’ She’d already shepherded Kate towards a table in the corner. The room echoed with the sound of conversation and the machines behind the counter. Kate knew she was being offered cake in return for information, but still she didn’t care. It felt almost as if she’d found a new friend.
‘How can I help you? I suppose this is about Margaret?’
‘Hey, no rush! Let’s enjoy this first.’
And instead of asking about Margaret, Holly began talking to Kate about her. The woman was full of questions, chatty and gossipy. She wanted to know about Kate’s time as a musician, the stars with whom she’d worked, the nightmare of touring. She asked how Kate had come to be running Harbour Street in the first place; about the kids and then about Robbie. ‘How did he die?’ Looking up from her latte with an interest and sympathy that Kate hadn’t expected.
In the bubble of the warm room, Kate began to talk about her marriage. She said things that she’d never even discussed with Margaret, though she’d sometimes suspected that Margaret had guessed what the relationship was like. ‘Robbie was a Scot. From the west coast. All dark hair, flashing eyes and Gallic passion. I was still in the music business then and we met at a gig.’ She paused, expecting more questions from Holly, questions about Margaret, but none came and Kate continued. ‘It was a lovely venue, an arts centre in the Borders. Intimate, you know. I started chatting to Robbie in the bar afterwards.’ And she relived the scene in her head: the smoky bar and Robbie Dewar, the handsomest man in the room, walking towards her as if in slow motion, like a scene in a really soppy movie. She’d been chatted up by fans before, but Robbie had charmed her with an old-fashioned courtesy. He’d made her laugh.
They’d spent the night together in her hotel room. She’d thought it would be a one-night stand – after all, she had no plans then to settle down – but two days later he was knocking at the door of her parents’ house, tidy in a clean shirt, carrying a bunch of roses, asking if she’d like to go out for a meal. Kate broke off in the middle of the story to look up at Holly. ‘He drove sixty miles that day just to spend an evening with me and drove back sixty miles at the end of the night.’
‘Wow!’ Holly smiled. ‘Romantic or what?’
And Kate agreed that it had been. ‘I was bowled over by him. Most men only seemed interested in my music. The money. Or managing my career. Robbie liked my singing, but he was too proud to live off me. He wanted to be the provider.’
‘So you stopped singing?’ Holly looked up, and Kate could tell that she was shocked. This woman wouldn’t let any man get in the way of her career.
‘Not straight away.’ Kate was defensive. How could she make this modern and confident young woman understand? ‘And when we were first married I was happy to take things easy for a bit. I loved the business, but it was tough. The travelling. The pressure of media stuff. I missed the performing, though. That response you get from an audience. Stuart, my new bloke, set up a gig for me in a little theatre in Whitley Bay a month ago and it was fantastic to be onstage again. Addictive.’
She paused, remembering the event. A middle-aged audience who’d still remembered her hits, who’d got to their feet and cheered a couple of bars into the intro. Who’d queued up afterwards to buy the new CD that Stuart and a couple of his friends had helped her to produce.
But Holly was still waiting for the end of the story.
‘When we had the kids I couldn’t tour any more and the bookings dried up. It’s a fickle business. You’re quickly forgotten.’
‘Couldn’t your husband do some of the childcare?’ Again Holly looked at her as if she were mad. ‘Or you could have hired a nanny.’
‘Robbie was an engineer,’ Kate said. ‘And that was before the time we talked much about work–life balance.’ She smiled at the idea of Robbie managing two small kids in the morning. Breakfast and the school run. Of Robbie joining in with ‘Wheels on the Bus’ at the toddlers’ group, making small talk about breastfeeding and house prices with the other parents.
‘So you just gave it all up? All your ambitions and your dreams?’
‘Not consciously. They just kind of slipped away. And I loved Robbie. I thought it was admirable that he wanted to care for us.’
She paused. Now she was coming to the difficult part of the story. She could just stop there, of course. It was none of this detective’s business after all. What did Kate’s private life have to do with the murder of Margaret Krukowski? But after all these years she wanted to tell it – she’d started now.
‘Then Robbie was made redundant,’ she said. ‘The firm he’d been with since he was an apprentice got taken over and they laid off most of the skilled workers. He had a bit of redundancy money, but we knew that wouldn’t last long. My manager offered me a UK tour – something gentle to remind people I was still there. When I talked about it to Robbie, he lost it. Absolutely refused to consider the idea. It was a crazy time. He was so unhappy. He’d walk out of the door and not come back until a couple of days later. And I wondered if he was turning up on another lass’s doorstep, in a clean shirt, carrying a bunch of flowers.’ She stopped because she was running out of breath, and because she was afraid that she might cry in front of this immaculate young detective.
‘When did you move to Mardle?’ Holly asked.
‘Then. This aunt I’d never heard of died, leaving me the house on Harbour Street. It seemed like the most wonderful piece of luck. A place of our own and the chance of a steady income. I remortgaged to do the renovations. I thought Robbie might be excited too. He might see it as a possibility.’
‘But it wasn’t his thing?’ Holly had chosen a cake for herself, but it lay untouched on her plate. She gave Kate her full attention.
‘He told me he’d got a job on the rigs. A couple of his mates were there already. And I thought it might work. Two weeks on, two weeks off. And it would give me a break when he was working away. It’s hard to describe what he was like when we were here. He was so restless and he had so much energy, but it was destructive. Like it wasn’t the sort of energy that got walls painted or the house cleaned. He just prowled like a lion in a cage.’
‘It sounds as if he might have been depressed,’ Holly said.
‘Yeah? Well, I think I was depressed too.’ Kate paused for a moment. She knew what she wanted to say, but couldn’t quite find the words. In the end she continued in a rush. ‘Do you know what I felt, when the news came that Robbie had died in an accident offshore? Relief. I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about him any more. I wouldn’t have that constant anxiety when he stamped around the house, shouting at the kids.’
‘Was he violent?’ Holly asked the question as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And for a detective perhaps it was natural. Her working day would be spent with people who kicked off at the least provocation.
‘Sometimes,’ Kate said quietly. ‘When he had a drink inside h
im. I mean, he never broke any bones, but he could lash out. Not with the kids, but sometimes with me.’ And the children saw. She pictured them, white, terrified, backed into a corner in the sitting room, watching. Ryan’s nightmares had started about then. The nightmares and the wandering. ‘It was more that he was unpredictable. You never knew from one day to the next what sort of mood he’d be in.’
‘I can see why you’d be relieved that he was dead then.’ Holly sounded perfectly matter-of-fact. And finally she cut a corner off the cake. She looked up. ‘Did Margaret know he had a temper?’
‘I don’t think she ever heard us arguing.’ Thinking back to that time when they’d first moved into the Harbour Guest House, Kate found that she was feeling tense and cold. It was remembering the big house and the kids, and dreading the days when Robbie would come back from the rigs. ‘And I didn’t know her so well then. But she’d have picked up that there was an atmosphere. One day she said to me: “You’re a different woman when Robbie’s away.”’
‘Would you have divorced him if he hadn’t died?’
Kate thought Holly probably didn’t have anyone serious in her life. Otherwise she wouldn’t ask these questions as if there was one simple answer. ‘I’m not sure,’ Kate said in the end. ‘Even when he was angry and restless I felt sorry for him. Responsible. As if he was another kid. And partly I was responsible. If he hadn’t hooked up with me, if I hadn’t dragged him to Mardle, perhaps he could still have had the life he always wanted. The perfect wife and kids, the happy family.’
‘You didn’t consider going back to the music, once he was dead?’
Kate thought about that and tried to answer honestly. ‘I’d lost all my confidence,’ she said. ‘I sang for me and the kids. Taught them to play the piano. But I thought all I was good for was to be a guest-house landlady. Until Stuart came along and persuaded me otherwise. There was no pressure, but he let me believe in myself again.’ As she said the words they sounded like the worst sort of cliché, too cheesy even to use in a song, but still she thought that they were true.