by Ann Cleeves
Vera was moving on, jumping ahead by forty years. ‘Ryan Dewar must have reminded you of Ricky Butt,’ she said.
Malcolm Kerr didn’t seem to hear for a while. It took him longer to move into the present. He was still remembering a hot summer’s night. He lifted his head to look at Vera and she repeated the sentence.
‘I didn’t want to think that way,’ he said. ‘I wanted to believe the best of the lad. But yes, he’s a psychopath too. Cleverer than Butt, and more plausible. No conscience and no shame.’
‘When did you know that he’d killed Margaret?’
‘I didn’t know. I guessed. Worked it out. It clicked for certain when I saw him in the Metro yesterday, watching those school kids talking about the murderer. He looked full of himself. As if he was a pop star or something. A celebrity. When we had that last walk on the beach Margaret told me that Ryan was . . .’ he tried to remember the word ‘. . . irredeemable, and she might have to go to the police. Somehow he’d worked out about her past and was trying to get money from her.’ Malcolm looked up. ‘Before that, she thought she could save him. Turn him round. Or that we could save him together.’
‘You guessed he was trouble, but you still took him on to work at the yard.’ Vera leaned back in her chair. For the first time throughout the interview Joe thought she seemed tired.
Malcolm raised his shoulders. ‘Margaret asked me to,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Vera gave a very sweet smile. ‘And if she’d asked you, you’d have swum three times round Coquet Island.’
He nodded and returned the smile. ‘Naked,’ he said.
‘Oh, pet, I do hope that she was worth it.’
On the way out of the interview room Joe paused and turned back. ‘You saved my girl,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Can you tell me what happened? She was a bit confused when they got her home to her mam.’
Malcolm looked up. ‘That was your lass? A polite little thing. She was in the Metro chatting to her friends, talking about finding Margaret’s body. But Ryan Dewar was there too. I saw him as soon as I got on the train. Fate, I thought. Or Margaret sending me a message. Out of the Metro, your lass got separated from her friends and he was following her. Maybe he thought she’d be able to identify him.’ The man paused. He was staring out of the window replaying the scene in his head ‘Ryan was chatting to her when I found them. Putting on the charm. Offering to get her home safely. But she’d recognized him and was starting to get scared. There was a community-support officer walking past and I asked her to help get your lass home. I got hold of Ryan – he wasn’t going to make a fuss there in the street, with the law looking on – and took him back with me. He thinks he’s a hard man, but he’s a kid. No match for me.’
‘Would you have killed him on the beach if the inspector hadn’t turned up?’
Malcolm looked up sharply, but didn’t answer.
Chapter Forty-Three
Kate Dewar was on her own in the house when she heard a knock on the door, familiar like the personalized ringtone of a phone. Chloe had said she was out with a friend: Kate suspected a boy, but she hadn’t asked. Ryan was away on his wanderings. He’d talked about going into town with some mates and she hadn’t seen him all day. Stuart would come along later. Kate opened the door, recognizing the knock and knowing that Inspector Vera Stanhope would be standing outside.
The woman looked exhausted and she didn’t have her sergeant with her.
‘Come in!’ Kate showed her into the lounge. ‘Would you like a drink? Whisky?’ Because this seemed like an informal visit. It was something to do with the expression on the inspector’s face. She seemed softer and more human.
‘I’d better not, pet. I’m still working. Maybe you should have one, though, eh?’
And that was when Kate had the first idea that something dreadful was about to happen and that her world would never be the same again. ‘What’s wrong? Is somebody dead?’ Because the policeman who’d come to tell her about Robbie’s accident had looked at her in exactly the same way.
Vera shook her head. ‘We’ve got your Ryan in custody. He’s been charged with murder.’
‘No!’ Kate cried. ‘He wouldn’t. Not Margaret . . . he loved her.’ But even as she spoke the words, Kate wondered if they’d ever been true. If her son was capable of loving anyone.
Vera said nothing for a while. She just looked. Then she shook her head again. ‘He wanted to make money out of her. He’s a great one for money, your Ryan. Money and lasses, and being his own boss.’ No judgement behind the words. It was just as if she was listing the facts of the case. And Kate knew that Vera was telling the truth. Perhaps she’d been frightened of hearing this knock on the door since Margaret had been killed. Frightened of hearing that her strange, prowling, angry son was a murderer.
‘What happened?’ Kate was staring into the other woman’s face. Vera had poured her a drink and Kate held it with both hands.
The detective sat down opposite to her. ‘Ryan had been thieving,’ she said. ‘Stealing when he was out on his night-time wanderings. Stealing from Margaret’s charity collecting boxes too. I checked with the vicar over the road. The last six months, Margaret’s takings had gone down. She made some excuse, but she must have guessed. Had Ryan been stealing from you? From Stuart and Chloe?’
‘Sometimes I thought he’d taken money from my purse,’ Kate said. ‘But he was clever. It was never much at once, and I couldn’t be certain.’ She thought she wouldn’t have been able to admit that to anyone else in the world.
‘He stole from your Stuart,’ Vera said. ‘Maybe not money, but he took a photograph. A compromising photograph. He used it to try and blackmail Margaret.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Kate drank the whisky and felt it hit the back of her throat. ‘What would Stuart have to do with Margaret?’ One sip and she felt that she was drunk, that the room was spinning out of control around her.
‘No need for you to know the details now,’ Vera said briskly. ‘Time for that later. Ryan stole from the Haven too. That winter fair they organized for the kiddies. George Enderby was there, throwing his money around like water, and at the end of the day Jane Cameron couldn’t work out why they’d made so little. Your Ryan made off with the profits. Dee Robson was there too. She might have had learning difficulties, but she was sharp enough when it came to money.’
‘And that’s why he killed them? Because of money?’ It seemed such a mean and pathetic motive to Kate.
‘Because of the things that money could bring,’ Vera said. ‘Power, control, influence. We think he’s been dealing drugs too. He’s a bit of a bully, your lad. He likes his own way.’ She paused. ‘Margaret thought she could save him. She felt guilty because of something that happened a long time ago, and she thought if she could persuade your boy to behave well, she’d find some peace. But she was fooling herself. I think she realized that in the end.’
Kate stared at the inspector. These were just words. Sounds like humming in the middle of a song. She couldn’t understand what they meant.
There was the sound of a key in the lock. They both looked round and, through the open door, they saw Stuart standing in the hall.
‘I’ve just heard the local news on the radio,’ he said. ‘They’ve made an arrest. A juvenile.’ He walked towards Kate and held her in his arms. She thought he’d guessed about Ryan already. Nobody was surprised, yet nobody had done anything.
Vera Stanhope stood up and walked towards the door. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she said. ‘You didn’t kill those women.’
But Kate knew that in some way she was responsible. And she thought the inspector knew that too.
Chapter Forty-Four
They waited until later in the day to interview Ryan Dewar. ‘Let the boy have his beauty sleep,’ Vera said. ‘He’s still a juvenile. Just. We don’t want some flash lawyer saying we haven’t followed procedures.’ Joe hadn’t offered to go with her to talk to Kate Dewar and she hadn’t asked him.
Vera too
k the time for a half-hour power nap and a shower when she got back from Harbour Street. There was a change of clothes in her office, kept in case she was called suddenly to court, and she looked unusually smart when she joined Joe in the interview room. She could tell that he was impressed by the transformation. It was another cold, sunny day, hoar frost on the roofs outside the station window.
She hardly recognized Kate at first, she looked so lined and withered. The woman had aged overnight. Ryan was super-cool, lounging across the table, loving the attention. The court case would be a dream for him. All those years of being in his sister’s shadow, and now he’d be centre-stage. What made you different? Losing your dad when you were young? Watching him batter your mother? Or were you just born evil? The shrinks will have a field day.
Vera didn’t talk directly to the boy, but to his lawyer. Her way of showing Ryan that he wasn’t as important as he believed himself to be. ‘I hope your client is ready to cooperate, Mr Watson.’
The man nodded. She knew that he had teenage lads of his own. Was he wondering what his sons got up to when they weren’t at home?
Now she did turn to Ryan. ‘Let me tell you about that day in the Metro, the day you killed Margaret Krukowski. You’d bunked off school at lunchtime again, and gone into town to hook up with a mate and a couple of lasses from the posh school. I bet they thought they were so grown-up, going out with a dangerous moron like you. Thief, petty drug dealer and full-time scrote. I spoke to Emily Robertson, who was at St Anne’s too, and she knew all about you. You were one of the reasons she ended up in a place like the Haven. She saw you at the winter fair there and she freaked out big-style, asked to go back to the hospital rather than having to face you and your taunts.’
Vera paused before returning to the thread of the story. ‘So there you were, playing the lad about town, and who should catch on but Margaret Krukowski.’ Vera took another breath, watched the sun edge over the roof of the building opposite, and found that her mind was wandering. She’d be glad to get home. She’d ask her neighbours in for a drink. A big drink. They’d stay up and see Christmas Day in together. She didn’t fancy being alone tonight, dreaming of vulnerable women and violent men. Or perhaps Joe Ashworth would be let off the leash for an hour to come back with her.
She turned her attention back to the boy whom she thought of as Ricky Butt reincarnated. ‘And she saw you, missing lessons, having lied to your mother again. Maybe that was when she decided she couldn’t let it go any longer, that she couldn’t save you. You weren’t to be her route to salvation after all.’
Vera saw that they were looking at her strangely and, when she continued, her voice was crisp and matter-of-fact. ‘Margaret had seen you in town before, of course. There was the day she took Dee Robson into Newcastle to buy her a winter coat. She’d told Dee that the Haven charity would pay for it, but of course that wasn’t true. She’d paid for it herself. Margaret was a kind woman. A good woman. She saw you swaggering through town, playing truant, playing whatever game made you money. She knew your mam was worried about you and she chased after you, hoping to make you see sense. And what did you do? You ran away.’
For the first time since she’d started talking Vera looked at Kate Dewar. She was a good woman too. A woman who had wanted to think well of her son. A woman who had hoped for some joy and excitement as she reached middle age.
‘Dee Robson saw you,’ Vera continued. ‘She saw you run off into the crowd. And she was on the Metro the day you killed Margaret. Pissed and hardly aware of anything, but you knew her, didn’t you? Everyone in Harbour Street knew the fat slag Dee Robson.’
The boy looked up, almost provoked to speak. There was a moment of silence. Vera changed the subject abruptly.
‘Tell me about the photograph, Ryan. The photograph that you stole from Mr Booth’s wallet.’ Vera knew this would be upsetting to Kate, but at this point her lover’s past was less important than getting the boy to talk.
‘It was gross.’ Ryan’s face was red, the picture of righteous indignation. ‘Margaret dressed in hardly anything. Stockings. Posing. Like those cards that Dee Robson stuck up all over the Metro station.’
Vera shot a glance at Kate, but her face was blank. Vera thought she couldn’t take in this extra information.
‘You’d looked in Mr Booth’s wallet for money?’
‘He had plenty.’ Ryan looked up and gave that slow, sly smile. ‘He’d have given it to me, if I’d asked. I just couldn’t stand the lecture that would’ve come with it.’
‘And you thought the photo would be much more valuable?’
‘I was shocked,’ Ryan said. ‘I wasn’t thinking like that. I just took it.’
And brooded about it. And wondered how you could best make use of it.
‘You showed it to Margaret.’ Not a question. Vera still wasn’t sure how this had worked, but she wasn’t going to let the boy see that.
‘I gave her the chance to explain,’ he said. ‘That only seemed right.’
‘And when was that, Ryan?’ As if she just needed her memory jogging.
‘A couple of nights before . . .’ he said.
‘. . . before you killed her?’
‘I went up to her room,’ he said. ‘Knocked at her door.’
Vera pictured him slouched against the door frame. Made cocky by the photo. Information is power. But still nervous inside. Still the little boy who’d had nightmares, who’d run away from Margaret in town.
‘She let you in?’ Vera allowed a little surprise into her voice. ‘She liked her privacy.’
‘She said that she wanted to talk.’ He was less certain now. ‘She made me tea.’
‘And you showed her the photograph.’
‘I put it on the table.’ He paused and looked away.
‘And she was angry,’ Vera said. ‘I’d guess she was very angry.’
‘She had no right.’ His face turned red again. ‘She was the one dressed up like a slut. She was the one whose photo was in Stuart’s wallet.’
‘What did she say exactly, Ryan? This is very important. We need it word-for-word if you can.’
‘She said that if I expected her to pay for the return of the picture, I was very much mistaken.’ He was a natural mimic and for the first time Vera thought she could hear Margaret’s voice. Clear, decisive. ‘She said that she’d made allowances for my behaviour. I’d had a tough time. She’d asked Malcolm to give me work and she’d been pleased with my progress there. But this was my last chance. If she caught me thieving or skipping school again, she’d go to the police. She’d tell them that I’d stolen from Stuart and from the Haven, and that I’d attempted to blackmail her.’ He broke off and his natural voice returned. ‘As if I was bothered. She was a snooty cow. And a tart.’
‘What did she do with the photo, please, Ryan?’ Because they hadn’t found it in her room, but she’d have taken it off the boy.
‘She took it from me and burned it.’ He sounded like a sulky toddler. ‘She held it over the flame of a candle.’
‘So let’s move on to the afternoon of her murder, shall we, Ryan? Your friends got off the Metro, and Margaret Krukowski got on. The woman who could land you in the shite big-time. She’d given you one last chance, but here you were bunking off school again. What did she say to you? Whatever she said, it must have been pretty strong, because you followed her to her seat and took out the knife you always carry . . .’ Just like Ricky Butt. ‘. . . and when she turned away from you – when she dared to turn her back on you – you stabbed her.’ Vera had allowed disgust to colour her voice. Kate Dewar was sobbing. She’d probably been sobbing all night.
‘Well, Ryan?’ Vera insisted. Looking, she saw that he was sitting upright now. Very tense. Reliving the humiliation of being put in his place by an elderly woman. White with anger.
‘She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to say anything. She looked at me. Kind as if I was a naughty kid. She’d been a prostitute. She had no right to look at me like tha
t.’
‘So you killed her.’
‘Yes!’ Temper constricting his throat, so that his voice was hoarse. He half-rose to his feet and, when he spoke again, he sent a spray of spit across the table. ‘I killed her.’
There was a moment of silence in the room, broken only by Kate’s muffled cries.
Vera nodded at Joe Ashworth to continue the story. ‘I was in the Metro,’ Joe said. ‘I saw you with the girls, and I hated the way you treated them. It never occurred to me that you were a killer, though. Just a little jumped-up yob, I thought. And that’s what you were. A jumped-up yob who thought it was clever to sell drugs to vulnerable kids and stab an old lady to death.’
‘You left the Metro at Partington with all the other passengers,’ Vera said. ‘Hidden by the snow. The Metro bus was waiting and drove you back to Mardle. You got home late.’ Vera paused. ‘But your mother didn’t realize. She thought you’d come in from school with Chloe.’
Kate looked up. ‘I heard him come in,’ she said. Appalled, as if this tiny example of ignorance made her complicit in his guilt. ‘I heard the door and I thought it was just the wind rattling the letter box. It always rattles when the wind’s northerly.’
‘Did Chloe know?’ Vera thought this might be an even worse sin than murder, to involve his brainy sister, to make her choose between sibling loyalty and justice for Margaret. Because she’d feel guilty anyway – the favoured child, the apple of her mother’s eye. She had a brief flash of memory: her and the neighbours, and herself in a rare moment of honesty after too much drink, talking about a case when she’d failed; and Jack, wise and gentle, saying: ‘Hey, Vera. Just dump the guilt.’
Ryan looked up, suddenly defensive; the anger was spent, but he was still tense. ‘I didn’t tell Chloe.’
‘But she guessed?’
He turned away and said nothing.