by Ann Cleeves
They sat for a moment in silence. Holly stood up. ‘I’m going to have another coffee. Want one?’
Kate nodded.
Then the talk was all about Margaret, and Kate couldn’t decide whether she was pleased or sad about that. ‘Did you get the impression that Margaret had been in an abusive relationship?’ Holly asked. She was very serious now.
Was that what I had? An abusive marriage? Again Kate thought that it wasn’t possible to sum up a relationship in one phrase.
‘No, I thought her husband had been the love of her life. Why do you say that?’
‘Because she had a special sympathy for the women at the Haven.’ Holly seemed surprised that Kate had asked. The informal chat had turned into an interrogation. ‘And she seemed to recognize what you were going through, didn’t she?’
‘I suppose she did.’ But Kate thought it wouldn’t have taken personal knowledge to see what was going on with her and Robbie.
‘What about Malcolm Kerr? His wife claims that he hit her. Did Margaret ever say anything to suggest that Malcolm might have been violent towards her too?’
‘No!’ The whole tone of the discussion had changed and Kate felt that she’d been misled, conned somehow by the expensive haircut and the pretence of friendship. ‘I don’t even know if they were an item. I just told your inspector that Malcolm was upset when he turned up at the house yesterday.’
‘You hadn’t seen them together recently?’ Holly finished her coffee and pushed away the plate with the half-eaten pastry.
‘No!
‘He never gave her a lift in his car, for example?’
‘I never saw them together.’ Kate heard her voice rising in pitch. ‘Not in the street. Not in a car.’ She got to her feet and started walking towards the door. How could she have been so stupid as to have trusted this woman? To have thought that they might be friends.
Holly followed her and they walked together back towards Harbour Street, the atmosphere quite different now. There was no schoolgirl giggling over tasteless jokes. Instead, an icy silence. Outside the guest house they stopped.
‘And Stuart? How did he get on with Margaret?’
‘Fine! They got on well together. They had lots in common – a love of music. The countryside. But they didn’t really know each other. They only met occasionally when we invited Margaret to have supper with us.’ Kate sensed she was talking too much and shut her mouth tight. No way was she going to invite the detective into the house.
‘So Margaret didn’t know Stuart before he came here to visit you?’ Holly was pulling her car keys from her bag. This was her last question.
‘No! Of course not! How would she?’ But even as she was speaking, Kate was remembering the first time she’d introduced Margaret to Stuart. It was in the summer, an unusually fine day and she’d put lunch in the small garden at the back of the house. Chilled white wine and cheese and salad. She’d called up to Margaret: ‘Come down and meet the new man in my life.’ Margaret had walked out onto the patio and Stuart had stood to meet her, and for a moment Kate had been sure there’d been a mutual jolt of recognition.
Chapter Seventeen
Joe Ashworth pushed on the door of the church and was surprised when it opened. It was midweek and weren’t all churches locked these days because of a fear of theft and vandalism? But it seemed that he’d walked into the middle of a service. Inside a scattering of elderly women sat on the front pews. They all turned and stared, curious. The priest was kneeling with his back to them and continued to read a prayer. The women turned back to the front and joined in a response. The priest’s voice was deep and musical. Joe took a seat at the back and waited. They stood. A skeletal woman with fingers like claws began a tune on the organ and they sang a hymn. Very slowly. Stopping occasionally to allow the music to catch up. Again the priest’s voice rose above them, carrying them along. The music stopped and they dropped to their knees for a moment of private prayer, before pulling together their belongings and turning to chat. The service, it seemed, was over. The women disappeared into a door to the left of the building and Peter Gruskin swept up the aisle towards Joe.
‘I’m sorry to have interrupted.’ Joe introduced himself.
‘It’s the Mothers’ Union.’ The priest nodded towards the door through which the women had gone. ‘They meet every month and we always start with a short service. They’ll be having coffee and mince pies. The last session before Christmas.’ He sounded wistful and Joe had the sense that he resented being kept away from the pies.
‘I’ll not keep you long.’
Gruskin sighed and sat on the pew next to Joe. Under his cassock he was wearing black cord trousers and old-fashioned black shoes. The men were of a similar age, but had nothing at all in common. Joe saw that there was a hole in the priest’s sock, near the ribbing, and he wondered what it must be like to live alone in a place like Mardle, with only elderly women to keep you company. Because Joe was sure that Gruskin was single.
Through the open door came the high-pitched chatter of women’s voices, the clink of teaspoons against crockery.
‘I suppose you’re here about Margaret Krukowski,’ Gruskin said. ‘There were two women detectives the other day. I told them everything I knew then.’
‘Sometimes’ – Joe chose his words carefully – ‘it isn’t just about what people know.’ He paused. ‘It can be useful to hear what people think, or guess, or suspect. Usually we wouldn’t encourage idle gossip, but in a case like this, that sort of unconfirmed suspicion can make all the difference.’ He turned in the pew so that he was looking at the priest. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
There was a moment of silence, the background hiss of a tea urn.
‘There was some resentment in the parish because Margaret kept herself to herself,’ Gruskin said at last. ‘It was viewed in some quarters as a kind of snobbishness. She spoke differently from the rest of the congregation and didn’t have the shared experiences. I suspect that people made up their own stories to fill the gaps.’
‘And what sort of stories were those?’
‘There was an implication of a somewhat colourful past.’ Gruskin shifted uneasily. Joe thought the priest had found the stories exciting. Perhaps he’d even encouraged them, or elaborated on them in his imagination when he was alone. There was something very creepy about him. ‘Male friends. You know.’
‘Did Malcolm Kerr ever feature in these tales?’ Joe thought he was even starting to sound like Gruskin now and rephrased the question. ‘Were there rumours that Margaret and Kerr had been lovers?’
Gruskin looked horrified. ‘I’m not sure that the gossip was that specific.’
‘Have you heard rumours about a relationship between Margaret and Kerr?’ Joe was starting to lose patience. He could see why Vera had been so irritated by this man.
‘There were probably rumours about a relationship between Margaret and every man in Mardle.’ The priest was being waspish now. ‘My congregation thought she was stand-offish and proud, because she spoke with an educated accent, read books and refused to get involved with their gossip. They could be cruel.’
‘But specifically about her and Kerr?’
‘Yes, there were those rumours. The relationship was supposed to have caused the breakdown of Margaret’s marriage. I don’t believe it. Margaret still spoke of her ex-husband with great affection.’ Gruskin gave a small smile. ‘Of course that was long before my time here. I would have been a baby. But Mardle people have long memories.’
‘Margaret was seen in Kerr’s car the day before she died,’ Joe said. ‘He took her out to the Haven. Was he in the habit of giving her a lift, do you know?’
There was another silence. Joe had the impression that Gruskin was surprised by this information. ‘I really don’t think so,’ he said at last. Joe waited for him to continue. ‘I offered to take her out to Holypool on a number of occasions, but she always refused. She said she preferred to use public transport.’
‘Did you know that Margaret was ill?’ Joe paused for a beat, but Gruskin didn’t reply immediately and he continued. ‘She had bowel cancer.’
The Mothers’ Union party was getting into full swing. The voices were louder and there was a burst of laughter.
‘No.’ Gruskin stared out towards the altar. ‘I wish she had confided in me about that. I might have been able to help.’ But his voice was petulant and Joe thought the priest resented Margaret’s obsession with privacy as much as his parishioners had. He would have been able to do nothing to help her.
They were interrupted by the elderly organist. She carried a tray, with two cups of coffee and a plate of mince pies. Her progress up the aisle was as slow as the tempo of her music.
‘No need for these, Ida,’ Gruskin said. ‘I was just coming to join you. I think Sergeant Ashworth has finished now.’
‘Not quite.’ Joe took the cup and a pie from the plate the woman held. ‘There are just a few more questions.’ He waited until she had disappeared before he continued the conversation. In that time Gruskin ate two pies, very quickly and with a glum concentration. ‘I wanted to ask you about Dee Robson.’
‘You think she might be involved in Margaret’s murder?’ The priest looked up sharply and seemed almost relieved.
‘No, there’s no question of that. She’s on the edge of the inquiry. A possible witness. I understand that she was asked to leave the Haven. I wondered if you could explain why.’
‘Ah,’ Gruskin said. ‘Deirdre Robson. An unfortunate woman, with limited intellectual capacity. We couldn’t keep her at the Haven, though. Not after the incident. Jane Cameron, who runs the place, made that quite clear and the trustees supported her judgement.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened.’ Joe spoke sharply. Now that Gruskin had been given something to eat he seemed prepared to sit and chat. Joe found the atmosphere in the church oppressive and wanted to be away.
‘She had cards printed at one of those machines in the Metro station. Advertising her . . .’ Gruskin paused for a moment ‘. . . services. Using the Haven’s address and telephone number. They appeared all over Mardle. Jane was bothered by unsavoury phone calls at all hours of the night. A couple of men even turned up in cars, mistaking the place for . . .’ He paused again.
‘A brothel?’
‘Quite.’ Gruskin blinked rapidly. ‘Dee was already on a final warning, after turning up at the house drunk. We contacted her social worker and asked that he find somewhere more suitable.’
Joe thought of the bleak flat on Percy Street. That didn’t seem suitable accommodation for anyone. ‘But Margaret kept in touch with her.’
Gruskin sniffed. ‘She didn’t take it as seriously as we did. She even questioned whether Dee would have been capable of having the cards printed, and suggested that one of the other women might have had a tasteless joke at Dee’s expense.’
‘What did you think?’
Gruskin shrugged. ‘Jane seemed to find Dee a disruptive element within the Haven. She is the professional, she lives there and has more experience than the rest of us put together. I felt that we had to trust her judgement. It was clear to me that the woman would have to leave.’
‘When did this happen?’ Joe had disapproved of Dee Robson, but he wished that this priest would show a more Christian attitude to a sinner. The man’s ruthlessness made him uncomfortable.
Gruskin considered for a moment. ‘Six weeks ago.’
‘Did Margaret tell you that she was continuing to visit Dee?’
‘She made no secret of it. She was angry about the way the trustees dealt with it, actually. I wondered if she would stop volunteering at the Haven. Her relationship with Jane became rather strained.’
Ashworth thought back to his meeting with the women in the Haven and with the warden. Jane wouldn’t have mentioned Dee Robson at all, if one of the others hadn’t suggested that she should be informed of the murder. He wondered if the smiling and competent Scotswoman had something to hide. Perhaps she’d simply been embarrassed to have fallen out with one of her volunteers, just before she was murdered. He stood up. ‘Thanks.’
The priest walked with him to the door. ‘I hope this matter is cleared up quickly,’ he said. It was the middle of the day, but outside it was so gloomy that already the street lights had come on. ‘It’s unsettling for us all.’ Then he disappeared quickly back into the church.
Joe Ashworth stood for a minute. The light was on in the basement kitchen of the guest house. Kate Dewar sat on a stool holding an acoustic guitar. Her head was turned away from the window, so she didn’t see him. He wished that he could hear what she was singing. He would have loved his own personal performance of ‘White Moon Summer’.
Ashworth arrived in the high school during the lunch break. Kids were screaming around the playground and through the corridors, excited because it was the end of term, and everywhere there was the smell of fried food and cheese sauce. The receptionist was fierce. ‘The head doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’
Joe was tempted to bark back, Vera-style, but kept his temper. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to work in a place where there was no escape from children. He would never have admitted it, especially to Sal, but by the end of their two-week summer holiday in Cornwall he’d been longing to get back to work. They’d rented a small cottage that looked idyllic in the brochure, but it had rained for four days on the run and there’d been sod all for the kids to do. Now, after explaining that he was investigating the murder of Margaret Krukowski, he smiled apologetically. ‘It is rather urgent.’ The woman scurried away without a word.
The head teacher was small and bald and had a face that gave away nothing of what he was thinking. ‘I’m not sure how I can help you, Sergeant, but of course I’ll do anything I can.’
‘You’ll have heard of the murder.’ The office was on the third floor and looked down over the playground. The dark clouds gave a strange sense of dusk.
‘Of course. Two of our students lived in the same house as the victim. She was almost part of their family. I’ve asked their class teachers to keep an eye on them. They’ll obviously be upset.’ The teacher looked up at Ashworth. ‘I assume there’s no question that they’re involved in the crime.’
‘Would you be surprised if they were?’
There was a moment’s hesitation, but when he spoke his voice was unequivocal. ‘Astonished. Chloe is an outstanding pupil. She has ambitions for Oxbridge and has every chance of getting there.’ He paused. ‘We all feel that she puts too much pressure on herself. Sometimes I wish she were a little less driven. Adolescent girls can make themselves ill . . .’ His voice tailed away. ‘Ryan’s less academic, and I know that his mother has concerns about his progress. Comparisons are always being made with his sister. There have been a couple of unexplained absences, but I don’t think he has plans to go into the sixth form, so we’re reluctant to make a big issue of it. It’s tough for boys growing up without a man in the house.’
An electronic bell rang and children skittered across the playground and into the building.
‘But there is a man in the house now. At least, there soon will be.’
‘Ah, you’re here about Stuart.’ The man frowned. ‘Of course there’s been talk in the staffroom about that relationship.’ He paused. ‘We didn’t make the connection about Mrs Dewar’s musical past until she performed in the Whitley Bay Playhouse recently. Stuart persuaded some of us to go along to support her and it was a great evening. The students have never heard of Katie Guthrie of course, but for people of our age she’s rather a celebrity. We’re glad that she chose Mardle High for her children.’ Joe thought that the head had been a bit star-struck too.
‘So there was a lot of gossip about the relationship?’
The head gave a little smile. ‘Well, this is the first sign Stuart’s ever shown that he might tie the knot. Some of the female teachers have tried to persuade him over the years, but he’s always been
wary of settling with anyone. The idea that he’s taking on a wife and stepchildren has fascinated us all, because it’s so out of character. The romance has become Mardle High’s very own soap.’
‘We’re asking about anyone who knew Mrs Krukowski,’ Joe said. ‘Routine. You’ll understand. Has Mr Booth been at Mardle long?’
‘As long as the school. It was built in the Eighties and he was one of the first intake of staff. He’s been head of music for the past fifteen years. He’s talking about retiring to support Kate in her career, and we’ll miss him. He’s given himself heart and soul to the kids. Not just the timetabled lessons, but all the extracurricular stuff. Music, of course – the choir and the wind band – but he’s keen on the great outdoors too. He leads our Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme. It’s rare these days to find a teacher with such passion for his work.’
‘He’s passionate about Kate Dewar too?’
The head smiled. ‘Apparently so.’
‘Was he in school the afternoon of the murder?’
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Checking alibis, Sergeant?’ He was suddenly more alert. Tense.
‘As I said, sir. Routine.’
The teacher turned to the computer on his desk to check the electronic diary. ‘That was the evening of our Christmas concert. Stuart didn’t leave the building all day. He taught in the afternoon and then took the kids for a final rehearsal before the performance. I remember it because of the snow. We wondered if we should cancel, but most of our students live within walking distance, so we went ahead anyway.’
He looked up from the computer and Ashworth sensed that he was disproportionately relieved that his colleague was in the clear. Perhaps that was the natural response of a head teacher who was anxious about his school’s reputation. Or perhaps he had a suspicion that Stuart Booth might be capable of murder.
Chapter Eighteen