by Cleeves, Ann
Another nod. A quirky little smile. ‘A levels this year for me.’
‘You’ll both have known Lorna Falstone then. You’ll have been at school together.’
‘She’s five years older than me. I didn’t really know her.’ A pause. ‘We hung round with a different crowd. You know.’
‘All the same, you’d have gone into Kimmerston on the same bus every day. You’d have seen her around.’ Vera was wondering if it was possible for a young lass to be as isolated as Lorna had seemed, in a place where everyone was aware of everyone else’s business. If I was that way inclined, I’d imagine some sort of conspiracy of silence. ‘Both from farming families in the valley, I’d have thought you’d have some things in common.’
‘No,’ Nettie said. ‘Not really. Our parents weren’t friends or anything. Mam and Dad like a bit of a laugh – Dad plays fiddle and there are always folk in the house. The Falstones aren’t ones for socializing.’
‘You heard she’d had a baby? The bairn I took into the kitchen on Friday night. You didn’t recognize him?’
A shake of the head. ‘Like I said, we didn’t mix with them much.’ Another small smile. ‘Besides, we were rushed off our feet that night. I didn’t take much notice.’
Too much information? Too many excuses?
‘There must have been gossip, rumours about who the father was. You’d have heard folk talking.’
This time there was a pause. ‘A place like this there’s always gossip. I try not to listen.’
Vera thought this was harder work than getting info from some of the tough lads they picked up peddling drugs on the coast. She scrabbled in her bag for a card, but couldn’t find one. ‘Look, if you think of anything that might help, give me a ring. Kimmerston police station. They’ll put you through to me if you say who you are and ask.’
‘Okay.’
There was an awkward silence when they stared at each other, Nettie thinking there might be more questions, Vera not able to come up with anything further. In the end she gave a little wave of her hand. ‘Off you go then. I don’t want to keep you.’
The engine roared into life again and the quad bike bumped away down the track. Vera watched it go. She contemplated going back to the Land Rover and driving the long way around to the house. There’d be coffee there and perhaps a bit of flapjack left at the bottom of the tin. Besides, she’d never seen the attraction of walking for its own sake. But this time curiosity did get the better of her. Where had Nettie Heslop come from? Was there some sort of shortcut from Home Farm to the track that led to the cottages and the road? Presumably her father farmed this land. Vera suspected that Nettie might have been curious too, and had wanted a neb at the spot where her father had found Lorna Falstone’s body. The CSIs were still working the crime scene and the young had a taste for the ghoulish. It didn’t hold any fear for them, because they thought that death was so far away.
Vera walked on down the track, which, away from the cottages, became even more potholed and rough, bordered on one side now by a high stone wall, marking the boundary of the walled vegetable garden. Vera had a brief memory of being brought here by Harriet to pick soft fruit on one of the summer visits. She’d been very young then, so it hadn’t been that last visit, the one that had burst into her mind when she’d approached Brockburn on Friday night. She’d been a small, plump, sullen child, led away, no doubt, so Hector and Crispin could shout at each other without an audience. The men had always disliked each other, and Vera suspected both had enjoyed an argument.
At the end of the wall, Brockburn came into view. The track forked. One path, just wide enough for a quad bike, led west into the forest. Vera watched it twist away into the distance, tantalizing and mysterious. She couldn’t imagine where it might lead, but certainly not to farmland. Nettie Heslop must have been checking the sheep in the field behind the cottages. The other led towards the house. From this angle it could have been the back of any shabby country-house hotel: bins full of bottles waiting for the recycling lorry, an outhouse that had obviously been turned into a laundry because, even from here, she could hear the churring of a tumble dryer. Vera could understand why Mark had wanted his party guests to use the grand front drive.
The search team and CSIs had been using another outbuilding as a base. Inside, Vera could see boots on a rack and overalls hanging on pegs. A few officers sat round a trestle, drinking tea. Billy Cartwright was outside on the lawn, inside the tent, though Lorna’s body had been removed. The area was still cordoned off and only the track and the concrete yard by the kitchen door were free for use. The post-mortem would take place the following morning; Paul Keating, the pathologist, was a religious Ulsterman who preferred not to work on the Lord’s Day. There was no rush, Vera thought. The cause of death had been obvious from the start. Billy emerged from the tent and she waved for him to join her.
‘Anything?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure you really want to know.’
‘H’away, Billy man, I’m no shrinking violet. I’ll not faint at the sight of blood.’
‘As the snow melted, we were able to collect brain tissue, pieces of bone. She might have looked peaceful lying in the snow, but it was a brutal attack.’ He looked up. ‘One of the worst I’ve seen. At least it would have been quick.’
She wasn’t sure how to reply. Billy was the least squeamish man she knew, given to black humour and tasteless jokes. Either he was developing some respect in his old age or this had been a horrific assault. ‘Murder weapon?’
‘Nothing yet. We’re still looking.’ He nodded towards the blue-suited team, who’d moved away from the immediate area of the locus. ‘Doc Keating thinks something smooth. A mallet? Even a heavy rock.’
‘So she was definitely killed here?’
He stretched. She thought he looked exhausted. Maybe he was just feeling his age. ‘Killed yes, but Doc Keating found a bruise on the other side of her head too. He thought it possible she was knocked out, stunned at least, elsewhere and carried here to be killed. He’ll know more after the post-mortem.’ He paused. ‘Even if she was battered by something to hand, this was planned, Vera.’
‘Why would anyone move her? It’d be tough going to carry her such a distance in that weather. Were they trying to make a point? Linking her death to the big house to implicate the folk there?’ Vera shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘It makes no sense to kill a young mother.’
She nodded her agreement. There was another sharp shower of sleet but the team worked on. ‘You deserve a medal,’ she said. ‘The lot of you.’
‘Dorothy’s looking after us very well,’ he said. ‘It could be worse.’
Again, Vera wondered at the change in him. Usually he was full of complaint, sardonic and only half-joking. ‘She’s in there today?’ She was surprised. For the last couple of days Dorothy had been working flat out. Surely she deserved a day off. When she’d found the cottage empty, Vera had imagined the family had escaped for a while.
‘Aye, she was already in the kitchen at first light when we arrived. She had tea and bacon stotties organized in minutes. A wonderful woman.’ For a moment, Billy sounded like his old self. He gave a little wave and moved back to his work.
Again, Vera paused, wondering whether she should return to the Land Rover or go on. She wanted to be surer of her facts before she confronted Mark with rumours that he had another woman, and now she was here, so close to the big house, she couldn’t face Harriet and Juliet, the politeness, the stabbing, elegant words that said so little. She’d done what she wanted and had a clearer sense of the geography. She was sure that Lorna had taken the track past the cottages towards the big house. Besides, Vera thought, her role was back at the station, monitoring the investigation as it developed. Here, there was scarcely even any mobile signal. She was effectively out of touch. She’d made up her mind to return to the Land Rover when Dorothy came out through the kitchen door, carrying a laundry basket full of bedding on her hip.
‘Hell
o! I’m afraid the family is out. Harriet insisted on church in the village and then they’ve been invited to friends for lunch.’ A pause. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine they’re very popular at the moment. Everyone’s desperate for news.’
‘Ah, well, I’ll head back then. I’ve left my vehicle on the road.’
‘There’s coffee made if you fancy some. I’ll just stick this in the machine.’
So, Vera found herself back in the Brockburn kitchen, drinking good coffee and eating home-made shortbread, not part of the family, but a hired help, brought in to clear up the mess. Because that was surely what Harriet wanted: for the drama to be over and the killer to be a stranger.
Dorothy poured coffee and sat at the table with her.
‘Did you ever meet Juliet’s father, Crispin?’ Vera had only seen the man fleetingly, had an image of a straight back walking away from her, a spaniel at his heels. He’d been Hector’s nephew, but not very much younger than her father. Hector must have been an afterthought. Or a mistake.
‘Oh, yes, he was still alive when Juliet and I were at school together.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘He was very much the gentleman, courteous and pleasant. My parents were professional people, both lawyers. Very successful in their field, wealthy, but really, city people. This world of shooting parties and country sports seemed very alien and old-fashioned to me. It was like walking into the pages of Brideshead Revisited.’
Vera took another slice of shortbread without quite realizing what she was doing. ‘I’d heard rumours that Crispin was a bit of a ladies’ man. Did he ever try it on with you?’
Dorothy threw back her head and laughed. ‘No! But then he wouldn’t. I was a gawky schoolgirl, all feet and teeth. I can see how women would have found him attractive, though. He had a way of making one feel special.’
Vera was trying to frame a tactful question about Mark, but the woman was already on her feet. ‘Do you want to wait for them? They might be a while.’
Vera shook her head. ‘No, but I’ll be back. I’ll keep coming back until all this is over.’
Chapter Fifteen
JOE HAD PHONED THE BLACKSTOCKS IN advance and they were waiting for him. They lived just off Front Street, in a large 1930s corner semi, with stained glass in the porch and mellow red brick. An estate agent would have described it as having ‘original features’. Meaning a tiled fireplace and Bakelite door handles. Joe suspected that there’d be a shiny kitchen and central heating and they’d definitely have been more recently installed. As soon as he got out of his car, Joe saw Sophie standing in the bay window, a baby in her arms. When he rang the bell, she didn’t move, and a dark-haired man he’d seen at Brockburn on the night of the murder answered.
‘You’re the detective.’
‘Joe Ashworth.’ He held out his hand.
‘I don’t know what this is about.’ Blackstock was thickset. The accent was local. ‘We’ve already given our statements.’
‘You both knew the murdered woman,’ Joe said mildly. ‘You might be able to help. We didn’t want to keep you at Brockburn when you had a baby to come back to. It seemed kinder to speak to you at home.’
‘That was very kind.’ Sophie had moved into the hall to stand behind her husband. ‘Come on through. We can talk in the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee.’
Holly had described her as anxious and tense, but here in her own home, she seemed relaxed, in charge of the situation. It was the husband who was reluctant, almost truculent. The kitchen had been extended. At one end of the room there was a long dining table and chairs and the men sat there. It felt very formal, as if they were at a meeting for work. Sophie put the baby into a wicker crib and set off an elaborate coffee machine. Joe would have preferred tea, but didn’t say so. The kitchen looked like something people would drool over in a women’s magazine. There was no shortage of money here.
‘You both met Lorna at Halstead House, the hospital where she was being treated for an eating disorder?’
‘I didn’t know her, though,’ Paul Blackstock said quickly. ‘I mean, not really. Not to talk to. I was there to visit my brother.’
‘Did he speak about Lorna?’
‘Sometimes,’ Sophie said. ‘They seemed friendly. In a situation like that, people get close very quickly. All the relationships are intense.’
‘Was it a romantic relationship?’
‘No!’ This time Paul answered. ‘No, I don’t think so. They were friends. Close friends.’
‘Did they keep in touch with each other when they left hospital?’
This time there was no immediate answer. ‘I don’t know,’ Paul said at last. ‘Nat had been allowed home. I thought that was it – he was cured. I didn’t understand the illness properly. I’d moved on. I’d taken over the family business – we run a haulage company – and I’d started seeing Sophie. All the time Nat was in hospital it was as if my life was on hold, ruled by him, the visits, the worry. Then he came home to live with my parents again and I thought everything could go back to normal. It was selfish. I let him down. I didn’t want to see that he was as thin as ever. I thought Mum and Dad were on top of it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said.
‘Lorna came to Nat’s funeral.’ Sophie looked up from the counter where she was setting out cups.
‘Did she?’ Paul seemed surprised.
‘I wasn’t part of the family then.’ She brought coffee to the table, with a plate of mince pies. ‘I was sitting at the back. Lorna came and sat beside me.’
‘Did you talk?’ Joe asked.
‘No, she slipped off straight after the service.’
There was a moment of silence before Joe asked, ‘You work with Mark Bolitho?’
‘Yes. I soon realized I wouldn’t make it as an actor.’ Sophie smiled. ‘I’m not sufficiently thick-skinned. All the auditions, all the rejections. I enjoyed the residency at the hospital, but that was stressful in its own way too. I moved into admin at the Live Theatre, starting out as Mark’s assistant. When he married Juliet and moved out into the wilds, he offered me a job-share.’
‘That suits you better?’ Joe took a mince pie while he was waiting for an answer.
‘I love it! We make a good partnership. Mark’s very creative and I’m more organized, better at the figures and the finance.’
‘You were already friends?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was shameless nepotism that got me the job.’
‘Mark was Sophie’s first boyfriend,’ Paul said. ‘The love of her life.’ He gave a little laugh, but there was an edge of jealousy in his voice. ‘And now he’s trying to tap me for sponsorship for his project.’
‘I was only his girlfriend when I was eighteen.’ She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘And I was at Brockburn as his colleague. I’m sure he didn’t see us as potential donors.’ There was a pause. No response from the husband. ‘You do know that I wouldn’t swap what I have here for anything.’ Joe thought she’d said that before. Paul Blackstock was a man who needed reassurance.
‘What’s Mark like as a boss?’ Joe asked.
‘Great! Really understanding and supportive. Not every manager’s as flexible about maternity leave in a small company.’
Joe wondered what it must be like to have a boss who was so helpful, then he thought he’d rather work for Vera than Mark Bolitho any day.
The baby in the crib began to grizzle. Sophie got to her feet, picked her up and stroked her head. Joe stood up too. He thought he’d done all he could here. Vera always said she didn’t believe in coincidence, but the link between the couple and Lorna Falstone was so tenuous that he couldn’t believe it was important.
Chapter Sixteen
HOLLY WASN’T COMFORTABLE IN PUBS. She’d never seen the attraction, even when she was a teenager and it had been a rite of passage to con an underage drink in the bars that weren’t too fussy. The chaos and the shouting, the loud and raucous laughter, the closeness of stran
gers had unnerved her. The worst were the city pubs with TV screens showing endless snooker, blaring music competing with the beeps of slot machines, but even here in the Stanhope Arms in Kirkhill, she had a moment of panic. In the bar, a large screen was showing a Premier League football match and a group of middle-aged men had pulled chairs into a semicircle to watch it. There were occasional groans and at one point they all got to their feet and cheered. The lounge had started serving early Sunday lunch and though it was quieter there, the acoustics made it seem as if all the diners were shouting.
In contrast, Charlie seemed entirely at ease. He stood behind the football fans and cheered with them when a goal was scored. He must have sensed Holly’s discomfort.
‘Why don’t you leave me here? You take the old people’s bungalows on the edge of the village. They’re in the same little estate where Lorna had her house. The old gadgees will find it easier to chat to a woman and if anyone knows the village gossip it’ll be them.’ Charlie gave a sudden grin. ‘You’ll probably have to drive back, like. I’ll not get this crowd to talk to me if I’ve not got a pint in my hand.’
Holly nodded and found herself outside, looking down the grey empty street. The shops seemed shut and the hills beyond were covered in cloud. When it lifted a little, she saw that there was still snow on the ground on the tops. She walked down the main street, past a butcher advertising home-made pies, and a greengrocer. Only the Co-op was open and that was empty. She knew Lorna’s address and the layout of the village. Basic research. Vera had never been able to fault her on that. Sometimes, Holly wondered what it would take to get her boss’s admiration, her approval even.
Charlie had been right. There was a small terrace of council houses, a few already decorated for Christmas, with a glowing Santa on one wall and flashing fairy lights on another. Further down the slope towards the village stood four detached bungalows, smart, tidy. Holly knew that in one of these lived Constance Browne, and Vera had already been there. Past the house where Lorna had lived, the road curved up and led to six more bungalows, older, semi-detached, obviously designed for elderly or disabled people. Some had ramps and some had grab rails. They were not at all smart.