The Darkest Evening

by Cleeves, Ann

  ‘But he never had an affair with their mother? With Rosemary?’

  ‘No!’ Juliet imagined her father falling for Rosemary Heslop, so domestic and practical, so physically ordinary, and couldn’t help smiling. ‘She wasn’t his type at all.’

  Dorothy shifted in her seat. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I don’t quite see how this might relate to Constance Browne’s disappearance.’

  Vera smiled. ‘Good question. I’ve been wondering about that myself.’ She turned back to Juliet. ‘You’d have needed someone to talk to while all this was going on. You’d still have been in the primary school when Lorna was born, when your dad was losing his head over a bonnie lass. You wouldn’t have known Dorothy here then. It occurred to me that you might have confided in Connie.’

  Juliet blinked. For a moment she was back in the little school, in the playground surrounded by fields, the sound of sheep. There was a climbing frame where the brave girls hung like bats, their knees round the bar, skirts falling over their heads, so the boys screamed that their knickers were showing. She’d never been one of the brave girls. It must have been April because there were new lambs in the field and someone in the village had been cutting grass. She couldn’t remember how old she’d been. Not in the top class, because one of the older girls came over to her and started jeering about her father. Using words Juliet had never heard before. She’d cried and run inside and had found Miss Browne drinking coffee from a flask she must have brought with her. Even now Juliet could remember the smell of the coffee with the back note of floor polish.

  Somehow, it had all spilled out. ‘I think my father’s going to leave us.’

  Miss Browne had said seriously:

  ‘That wouldn’t be the end of the world though, would it? It would be sad, of course, but not worth crying about. Other pupils in the school have had parents who’ve divorced. You’d cope, Juliet. I promise.’

  That hadn’t been what Juliet had wanted to hear. She’d wanted reassurance, for Miss Browne to laugh and to tell her how stupid she was being. Because, deep down, Juliet had known she wasn’t like the other pupils, she’d known that people gossiped about her family in a way that they never did about anyone else, that as Mummy was always saying, they had a position to maintain. She’d been brought up to believe that she was different.

  Juliet stared back at Vera. ‘I didn’t tell Connie anything that the rest of the village hadn’t guessed. I really can’t see how it might have prompted any drama after all this time.’ She managed a little smile. ‘We’re old news now. It’s three years since my father died.’

  Vera drank her tea. Nobody had eaten anything. Juliet cut a few slices of bread to start them off, in the hope of bringing things back to normal. Vera reached out for a slice, buttered it, cut a lump of cheese. ‘If Lorna was Crispin’s daughter, would she be entitled to anything from the estate?’

  ‘No,’ Juliet said. ‘Absolutely not! I would be the oldest child. Whatever happened, it comes to me. It has come to me. Mummy’s entitled to live here until her death, of course, but I inherited.’

  ‘There was a will then?’

  ‘A very old one. My father made it soon after I was born.’ Juliet wondered if Vera was thinking she might be due some kind of inheritance, but Hector had never been in the running and he’d died several years before Crispin.

  But Vera only seemed mildly amused. ‘Eh, it seems very old-fashioned, doesn’t it? This talk of wills and inheritance. Very genteel. As you say, it’s hard to believe they could have anything to do with the brutal murder of a young woman.’ She bit into a doorstop sandwich. ‘Would it make any difference that Lorna had a son? Don’t boys matter more in situations like this?’

  Juliet kept calm. ‘Not if there was a will. Besides, the house is already mine.’

  Vera turned her attention to Dorothy. ‘You were in Kirkhill this morning? You didn’t see Constance?’

  ‘Yes, I was in the village. We needed a few things from the shop, but I was only gone for twenty minutes. Juliet will tell you.’ Dorothy looked at Juliet, who nodded. ‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t see her.’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to Harriet and Mark,’ Vera said. ‘Are you expecting them home today?’

  ‘Mother will be back for dinner. Mark will stay another night in the city. He has meetings all day tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re sure he didn’t know Lorna?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Juliet managed a little laugh. ‘They didn’t move in the same circles at all.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Apparently, Lorna was quite arty. Perhaps they had more in common than we’d think.’ Vera didn’t seem to expect a response, which was just as well. She finished the food on her plate. ‘Very tasty. I don’t think I’ve got any more questions now. But if you think of anything, you will be in touch?’ She got to her feet.

  ‘Of course.’ Juliet stood too. She walked with Vera to the door. In the far distance, the blue-suited officers were still in the woodland, moving so slowly that they could have been motionless, some strange art installation. Antony Gormley, perhaps. Vera reached out and touched Juliet’s shoulder. ‘Someone will be back to take that DNA sample. You just take care.’ Then she disappeared into her Land Rover without a backward glance.

  Later, when Dorothy had gone back to the cottage to spend an hour with Karan and Duncan, Juliet slipped upstairs. Again, she remembered being a child, snooping, listening. She’d gone through her parents’ letters then, looking for anything that would make sense of what was going on around her. Now, she paused outside her mother’s room and wondered if it was time for her to search again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  HOLLY SPENT THE MORNING IN KIMMERSTON police station. She was there when Vera called through Constance Browne’s disappearance, and still at her desk in the early afternoon, answering calls from the public, staring at blotchy CCTV picked up from the main street in Kirkhill. She thought the boss had lost it big style this time and that she was seriously overreacting. Constance Browne had been close to Lorna Falstone, so surely it wasn’t beyond the bounds of reason that she might change her routine a little, decide she wanted to escape the village for a day. If Holly lived in Kirkhill, she’d want to escape. And so what, if it was a spur-of-the-moment decision and she’d left before breakfast? Perhaps Connie had suddenly lusted after eggs Benedict for brunch in one of the classier coffee shops in Newcastle. That would have been Holly’s idea of heaven. As the morning wore on, though, and Connie still wasn’t responding to her phone or her email, Holly began to understand Vera’s disquiet.

  It was two o’clock when Vera phoned again.

  ‘Can you go into Newcastle and have a chat to Mark Bolitho? Apparently, he left home at six this morning to get into town before the morning rush hour. If he has witnesses to say he was in the theatre that early, I can’t see how he could have been involved in Connie’s disappearance. But you know there are rumours in the village that Lorna made trips into Newcastle to see a wealthy fancy man. And Bolitho has a reputation as a bit of a womanizer. That could tie up. After all, there’s nobody else who could meet the description. He and Connie might even have been friends. Two arty souls among the philistines of Kirkhill.’ Vera gave a little laugh. ‘He might have an idea where she’s run off to.’

  Despite the laugh, Holly sensed Vera’s anxiety. Was it because Connie was a spinster of a certain age and she felt some affinity for the woman? Was Vera hoping that people might look for her if she suddenly did a runner?

  But at least chatting to Bolitho would give her an excuse to get away from her desk. ‘Doesn’t Josh Heslop spend time in Newcastle too?’

  ‘Aye, he does and he was a student there until recently. He and Lorna could have arranged to meet in the city away from prying eyes if they were having a fling. I’m not quite sure why they’d feel they had to keep that relationship secret, though, unless Lorna had that obsession to be in control of things again. Secrets are a sort of control, aren’t they?’ The boss paused, seemed to be thi
nking. ‘You’re right, though, Hol. We need to check. While you’re in the toon, talk to Heslop’s mates, the ones he claims can confirm he was partying on Friday night. I’ll forward the names and numbers he gave to me yesterday.’

  So Holly drove back into the city that felt like home. As much as anywhere did. She parked close to the Quayside and watched the Tyne blown into waves, the reflection of the Sage Music Centre chopped and cut by the wind. The famous bridges. Then she turned her back to the river and made the short walk to the Live Theatre, the wind in her face.

  It was early afternoon and a school party was watching a kids’ matinee, an adaptation by David Almond of one of his own novels. She’d loved the books as a child and was almost tempted into the auditorium. Music and children’s laughter seeped out. Holly stood by the box office, waited until a woman had bought a couple of tickets for the evening performance, then asked for Mark Bolitho.

  ‘I’m not sure if he’s free. Can somebody else help? If it’s about a role in the new show, you’ll have to arrange an audition through your agent.’

  ‘I’m not an actor.’ Holly showed her ID.

  ‘Oh, it’ll be about that terrible murder in his house out at Kirkhill. I’ll give him a ring.’ There was a whispered phone conversation, then the woman turned back. ‘He’ll be down in a minute.’

  Mark took Holly into his office at the top of the building and made her coffee. There were posters for shows she’d been to see on the walls. A shelf full of plays and books about theatre. He was pleasant enough, but she sensed his impatience. The phone rang. He frowned but left it unanswered. ‘I really don’t think I can help you. I told you everything I know at the weekend. I am very busy.’

  ‘Has your wife called you since you left home?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’ve just come out of a lunchtime planning meeting and I haven’t had a chance to check my phone.’

  ‘A woman called Constance Browne has disappeared. Lorna was driving her car the night she was murdered and we’re starting to get a little concerned.’

  ‘You think Lorna was killed by mistake? That they were after Connie Browne all the time?’

  This had never occurred to Holly. It seemed unlikely – even in the dark a retired teacher couldn’t be mistaken for Lorna Falstone and the woman hadn’t been killed in the car – but it was something she might suggest as a possibility at the evening’s briefing. Vera liked her detectives to show initiative and Constance seemed to be the focus of her attention at the moment. ‘You know Miss Browne?’

  ‘Yes. Juliet’s very fond of her. She even invited her to our wedding. We hold occasional fund-raising events in the gardens – the church fete, that sort of thing – and Connie’s always one of the main movers. She seems to run every committee going in the village. I’ve talked to her recently about becoming involved in my theatre project. She’d make a brilliant volunteer and a kind of advocate in the village for my plans. She seemed very keen.’

  ‘What time did you get to the theatre this morning?’

  ‘Just before nine.’

  ‘According to your wife, you left home just after six.’ Holly felt awkward about the way the conversation was going, the inevitable tone of accusation in her voice. Mark Bolitho was an influential creative, at least here in the North-East. She couldn’t imagine him abducting an elderly woman, or helping her to flee from justice. ‘It wouldn’t take you three hours to get here.’

  ‘Of course not. I went to my flat first and dropped off some of my stuff. I’m staying there tonight. Then I had breakfast in the place close by. I’m a regular. They’ll remember me.’ He smiled at her, as if he understood the position that she was in. ‘Avocado on sourdough with a poached egg and a double espresso to kickstart the day. Always the same.’

  ‘We think Lorna Falstone came into Newcastle sometimes on the bus. We’re trying to find out what she did in the city, who she met. Are you sure she never came here?’

  ‘I told you, in Brockburn, I didn’t know her.’ His tone was frosty.

  ‘There are rumours in Kirkhill that the two of you were friendly.’

  For a moment, Holly thought Bolitho was furious. He stared at her, his body still and tense. Then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘They believe I’m the father of her child? You do know that’s completely ridiculous.’

  Holly wasn’t quite sure what else there was to say. She couldn’t accuse him of lying about a potential relationship with Lorna without any evidence at all. She remembered her last conversation with Karan and Dorothy. She’d asked them if Mark and Juliet were happy. Now she reworded the same question. ‘It must be hard splitting your time between the theatre and the big house in the country. Doesn’t it feel . . .’ she paused to find the right words, ‘. . . a bit schizophrenic?’

  He laughed again. ‘I suppose it does. But in a good way. I think I’d go a bit mad if all I had was the life of a country gent. The house, the dogs, Harriet playing lady of the manor. This way I can escape the Brideshead myth for a couple of days a week.’

  ‘You don’t have to be here full-time?’

  He shook his head. ‘I job-share with a woman who’s just had a baby. Sophie Blackstock. You met her, I think, because she was one of the guests at the party. I’m covering her maternity leave at the moment, but I’ll go back to part-time in a few months. It suits us both. Even now, I can work a lot from home. I’ve got an office at Brockburn. But if the new project works out, I’ll have the best of both worlds. Bringing theatre to rural Northumberland is something I’m passionate about and there’s something pitifully indulgent about that huge place standing almost empty.’

  ‘Juliet and Harriet don’t mind?’

  ‘Juliet’s as excited by it as I am and Harriet realizes it’s the only way to stop the roof falling in, unless she turns the place into a hotel or has glampers in the garden, and she’d hate that. Besides, she doesn’t really have much say. The place is Juliet’s. Her father gave it to her when she was still quite young. Some wheeze to avoid inheritance tax. So, Harriet can like it or lump it.’ Mark sounded gleeful. A schoolboy.

  Holly got to her feet. She’d check the cafe where Mark had claimed to have breakfast – Vera insisted on rigour, on not making assumptions – but she couldn’t see that Bolitho would have murdered anyone. And what reason would he have to lie if he’d helped Constance to run away?

  The cafe was on the ground floor of the block where Bolitho had his apartment. The building was stylish and cool with a view of the Tyne and the Blinking Eye bridge. Holly wouldn’t have been able to afford a place here and she could see why some Kirkhill residents might consider him minted. The cafe was busy. It was near the Crown Court and there were smart lawyers in suits and business people having a late lunch, women who’d escaped the busy pre-Christmas town centre for tea and cake. Holly ordered coffee and waited for a lull in the service before going back to the counter and introducing herself.

  ‘You know Mark Bolitho?’

  ‘The theatre guy? Sure.’ He was in his twenties, confident in ripped jeans and black T-shirt, but still with a trace of adolescent acne, a teenager’s inability to keep still. ‘He’s a regular.’

  ‘Was he in for breakfast this morning?’

  ‘Probably.’ He started wiping down the fancy coffee machine.

  ‘You don’t remember specifically?’ Holly wanted to shout, to tell him to pay attention, to focus. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Look, it’s crazy here at breakfast time. I don’t have time to look at the faces. I see the hands with the debit cards, swiping through contactless, the coffees, the orders.’

  ‘He always has avocado on sourdough.’

  ‘Ah, he can’t have been here this morning then. We couldn’t get any avocado. There was nearly a fucking riot.’ Now he did look up at her. ‘First-world problems, huh?’

  Oh, Mark, she thought and she smiled. Why did you lie?

  She was walking away when she turned back. ‘Have you ever seen him here with a woman?’ />
  ‘Tall? Skinny? Yeah. Not recently though. Not for a while.’

  Joshua Heslop’s friends both worked in the same place, the Baltic Gallery on the south side of the river. Once it had been a ruined flour warehouse, now it housed contemporary art, strange installations, interesting sculpture. Holly tried to imagine Vera here and failed. Oliver worked in the gift shop and Jonnie was an outreach worker, planning projects to hook in kids. They were a couple and they’d both been at university with Joshua. There was a bar overlooking the Tyne and she met them there. They’d just finished their shift and were drinking beer. She ordered a mint tea; any more caffeine and she’d be as jumpy as the barista she’d just been interviewing.

  The light had drained away and now the reflections in the river were street lights, the neon signs advertising the bars and restaurants on the north side of the Tyne. There was a hooter and the Millennium Bridge slowly swung open, the eye blinking not to let through a ship but just to show that it could.

  ‘Joshua stayed with you on Friday night?’

  ‘Yeah. It was a party, a kind of reunion of the gang we were at uni with.’ Oliver was pale, slender, still. He could have been a sculpture, carved from white marble. ‘Josh was always going to stay. He wouldn’t have been able to get back to the farm by public transport. In the end, of course, the weather made it impossible and he was with us until Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘You’re close friends?’

  ‘The best,’ Jonnie said. ‘We shared a student house when we were at Northumbria Uni.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’ Holly looked at the clock on the wall of the bar. She had plenty of time before the evening briefing. There was no need to rush this.

  ‘He’s not complicated,’ Jonnie said. ‘There’s no artistic angst. He likes the simple life, his family, the farm. He loves his art too, of course, but that’s all related.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He does meticulous watercolours, which draw you into the painting, into the detail. They’re not photographic, I don’t mean that. You’ll have to see them to understand. His work is different from anyone else I can think of. He captures his place in the landscape.’