by Cleeves, Ann
‘Where could I see them?’
‘Well, not here. They’d get lost in a gallery this size. There’s an exhibition in a little place in Kimmerston.’
Holly nodded. ‘I’ll go and look out for it.’ A pause. ‘Has he got a girlfriend?’ There was a silence. It didn’t seem a hard question and she couldn’t understand why they couldn’t answer immediately. ‘Well?’ She was losing patience with them, then realized the assumption she’d made, found herself blushing. ‘A boyfriend?’
‘Nah.’ Jonnie laughed. ‘He’s not gay, but he’s got this secret woman, someone he won’t tell us about. We thought he might bring her to the party on Friday – he hinted that he might. Then he turned up on his own.’
‘And drank himself stupid all night,’ Oliver said. ‘We thought he might be broken-hearted, that maybe he’d just been dumped.’
‘You don’t know anything about her? A name?’
‘Nope. I wondered if she was married, someone his family might disapprove of. He’s always been very close to his parents and sees his dad as a kind of hero. He’d hate to upset them.’
Holly looked at the clock again. Now it was time to drive back to Kimmerston to the evening briefing. She’d go right past her flat on the way there and for a moment, she wondered if she could go home, just phone in what she’d discovered during the day. Then she thought that she had important information, information that Vera would value, and she didn’t want to miss being there for that. But there was something in the flat that she wanted to collect, so she just called in briefly and was on her way.
Chapter Twenty-Three
JOE ASHWORTH WAS HALFWAY HOME FROM Cumbria, had just crossed into Northumberland, and was following the line of Hadrian’s Wall, feeling a sense of relief at being back on familiar territory, when his phone rang. He’d already had a call from Vera to tell him about the disappearance of Constance Browne, but this was a number he didn’t recognize. He answered it anyway.
‘Sergeant Ashworth? It’s Joanne Simmons Wright.’ The psychologist from Halstead House.
He pulled into a lay-by. The car was buffeted by a northerly wind and there was a view of bare moorland. If he got home at a reasonable time tonight, they’d get the wood-burner going, the curtains drawn, spend a bit of time with the kids. His vision of board games and hot chocolate around the fire never seemed to work out in reality – the children got bored, distracted, and started demanding their screens back and Sal was ultra-competitive – but in the middle of this bleakness, the idea was appealing. Joanne started talking and he had to make an effort to listen.
‘I had a few days’ leave at the end of last week, and then there was yoga and my meeting with you, so I’ve only just had the chance to check my voicemail.’
‘Yes?’ He was still planning his idyllic evening in. Perhaps they’d get takeaway pizza. The kids would love that and it would save Sal cooking.
‘There was a message from Lorna Falstone.’
Now she had his full attention. ‘When did she phone you?’
‘Thursday morning.’
Thursday was when Lorna had left Thomas with Connie because she’d had something urgent to do.
‘What did she say?’
‘It’s rather a long message,’ Joanne said. ‘In fact, she called twice. Would you like to come back to hear it?’
He hesitated for a moment. He was halfway home and the over-heated, familiar office in Kimmerston nick seemed very attractive. ‘Of course. I’ll be there in less than an hour.’
The psychologist was waiting for him in the reception hall. Joe could tell she was restless, distraught. She’d changed from the Lycra and sweatshirt into a long skirt over boots, a jersey the colour of chestnuts. ‘I keep thinking that if I’d been here to answer her call, she might not have died.’
She took him back into the same office. There was a filter coffee machine on a sideboard, the jug still almost full, and she poured out two mugs, offered him a little carton of UHT milk. He shook his head. He would have liked sugar, but that didn’t seem to be on offer.
‘This was the first call.’ She pressed a button. Joe had already taken out his phone and set it to record. Lorna seemed to come back to life for a moment, to became more real to him than she had at any time during the investigation. She sounded very young, her accent the gentle rural Northumberland lilt of the hills. It was very similar to Vera’s, but Lorna’s voice was panicky, in places almost shrill.
‘Joanne, I need to talk to you. I thought I was doing fine. I was doing fine. But something’s happened. I need to talk to someone. It feels like it did before, as if it’s all unravelling. I’m losing control. I worry that I’ll be ill again, that I won’t be fit to care for Thomas. That I might hurt myself. Can I come in to see you? I could borrow a car, come over tomorrow. I know it’s early and you probably won’t be in yet. I’ll try again later.’
‘Couldn’t she have asked to speak to another counsellor?’
‘She could,’ Joanne said, ‘but it’s a long time since she was resident here. Staff move on. She couldn’t have guaranteed speaking to someone she knew.’
‘You said there was a second message.’
‘Yes, that came a couple of hours later. The first call came through at seven-thirty in the morning.’
While Joanne reset the phone, Joe put himself in Lorna’s place. Had she had a bad night with Thomas? The toddler was of an age when he’d be teething. Joe could remember how that felt, a child whingeing and refusing to settle, the exhaustion and the guilt because by morning you’d run out of patience and any sympathy you might have felt had long since gone. No partner and parents you didn’t feel you could ask for help. No wonder if she’d felt she needed someone to talk to. But Joe thought the call had been prompted by more than that. Lorna Falstone had sounded seriously scared.
‘Are you ready for the next message?’ Joanne had her finger poised over the button. He set his phone and nodded. ‘This was timed just after nine.’
So just before Lorna had gone to Constance and asked her to babysit.
‘Joanne, it’s me again. Lorna. I’m sorry if I was a bit melodramatic before. I’m a bit calmer this time. Look, I’ve found someone to talk to. Someone who runs one of the groups. I still need to speak to you, though. I don’t think anyone else would properly understand. You’re the only person who can help. I know you’re busy and you have other patients now, but please come back to me if you pick this up.’
Joe looked across at Joanne and saw she was almost in tears.
‘She’ll have thought I didn’t care enough to get back to her. She died thinking that.’
Joe shook his head. ‘If she knew you, she’d have understood you’d have called her back if you could.’ He paused. ‘What was the group she was talking about?’
‘It could be an informal group for sufferers of anorexia. Or a fellowship on the Alcoholics Anonymous model. When she left Halstead House, she’d have been given a list of meetings, a phone number to ring. Some people find that kind of support very helpful.’
‘Could you give me the list that she had?’
‘Of course.’ Joanne seemed relieved to be given something practical to do. She went to her computer and the printer started whirring.
Joe scanned the paper. There was a list of venues with contact details next to each one. ‘The closest seems to be in Newcastle.’ Perhaps that was where she was going on her bus trips to the city. To find support in her illness. A lot less glamorous than meeting the wealthy boyfriend invented by village gossip.
‘We try to keep the list updated. She might have been given slightly different information.’ Joanne seemed to have calmed a little now. She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I have to see another patient.’
Joe nodded and got to his feet. It would be afternoon before he got back to Kimmerston, but he’d have time to phone the leader of the Newcastle support group before the briefing. If Lorna had gone to that meeting on the day before she died an
d confided in the group, they might have a much clearer idea about the motive for her murder.
Chapter Twenty-Four
VERA SAT IN THE CUPBOARD OF an office, which she’d managed to cling on to even when the rest of the team had been forced to go open-plan. It was gloomy even in summer and this time of year the desk lamp was always on. She’d made coffee and wrapped her hands round the mug. The office was either sweltering or freezing and this was one of the days when the heating wasn’t working. She was sitting in her coat. In her more paranoid moments, she wondered if the faltering radiators were part of a conspiracy designed by her unpleasant boss to force her into early retirement. Or into sharing a desk in the office like a goldfish bowl.
The news that Crispin had paid Lorna’s hospital fees had shaken Vera, but it hadn’t surprised her. She hadn’t been convinced by Juliet’s assertion that Crispin couldn’t be Lorna’s father. The response had come too swiftly and too stridently. Vera thought the relationship was a possibility that Juliet must have already considered for herself. Perhaps it had been so distasteful to her that she’d pushed it to the back of her mind, but it hadn’t come as a new idea.
This had implications. Personal implications. If Juliet and Lorna had been half-sisters, then Vera would have been related to the lass too. A cousin of some description. Vera felt an unusual ache of familial responsibility. She couldn’t have known about Lorna’s problems but felt the pain of guilt all the same, a sense that she should have been there to protect the young woman. And now, it seemed, she might also be some kind of distant relative to Thomas. That too might bring with it unwanted obligations.
She was still sitting in her office, mulling over the day’s events, when the team started to gather for the evening briefing. Vera was feeling odd. She was used to being alone in the world. She had her colleagues and felt no need for a family. She’d looked after Hector in his last months out of a sense of duty. Because she was all he had.
She’d known about Juliet and Harriet, of course, but had never thought of making contact, even after Hector’s death. She had too much pride. If she’d made an effort to know them, they might have thought she was on the scrounge too. And it wasn’t as if they needed her. They had the big house and centuries of entitlement and had never acknowledged her as part of the Stanhope clan. What could they possibly have in common?
Now, it seemed, there was that scrap of a child who might have a claim on her affections. The thought that there could be another generation of Stanhopes, as excluded as she had been, made Vera think differently about herself. Of course she couldn’t care for the baby! That would never work. But perhaps she should look out for him in some way. Be a kind of mentor as he was growing up. Not let any bastard take advantage.
Vera picked up her notebook and made her way to the ops room. Everyone was gathered. They must have been waiting for her. She looked at the clock and saw she was five minutes late.
‘Sorry, everyone!’ It was time to focus, to shut out any other emotion until the case was over. ‘Right. What have you got for me? Joe, I got the message that you went back to the private clinic in Cumbria. What was that all about? Your psychologist friend wanted more of your scintillating company?’
There was a snigger from the back.
Joe explained about the voicemails from Lorna. Vera listened to the messages and then asked him to play them again. Joe switched off his phone and stood up so he was facing the room. ‘Mrs Simmons Wright gave me a list of possible anorexic support groups, of people Lorna might have contacted. The nearest to Kirkhill is in Kimmerston. I’ve been trying to call the number on the list and I’ve just got through.’
‘Is that where Lorna was on the Thursday before she died, the day Connie Browne was looking after the bairn?’
‘Yes, at least there was no group meeting that morning, but they met up in the woman’s home.’ He paused. ‘I couldn’t get much out of her over the phone. She’s called Olivia Best, she’s a midwife and she was just rushing out to go on shift, but I’ve arranged to visit tomorrow morning. She lives just down the road from me.’
‘Champion.’ Vera felt a spark of optimism. It was clear from the voicemail message that Lorna had been frantic, that she had something important to discuss. They had to find out what that was. ‘You’ve had a productive morning, Joe. For the rest of you, our sergeant here discovered that Crispin, father of Juliet, paid all Lorna’s hospital fees. Now, he could just have been a charitable soul, with a sense of obligation to his tenants. But as he had a reputation as a lecherous old goat, there’s also a possibility that he was Lorna’s dad.’ She pointed at Charlie. ‘I’ve warned Juliet that we’ll need a DNA sample from her. Can we do that asap? I’m not sure how that’ll move us forward in the inquiry, but it might explain Robert Falstone’s coldness to his daughter, and that’s one fewer thing to chase up.’ A pause. ‘How did you get on with the Blackstocks yesterday, Joe? And was your psychologist able to shed further light on any relationship between them and Lorna?’
‘She remembered them both – Paul and Sophie – but my impression was that neither was particularly close to Lorna.’
‘Just a coincidence then that they happened to be in Brockburn the night Lorna died?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Sophie job-shares with Mark, and he’s running the place full-time while she’s on maternity leave. That’s why they came to be there.’
‘They’re just colleagues? Nothing closer?’
He shrugged again, unwilling to commit himself either way, and Vera turned her attention to Holly.
‘You’ve had a day in the city, Hol. What have you got for us?’
‘I’ve found out that Mark Bolitho’s a liar.’
‘Is he, now? And how do we know this?’
‘He left home at six this morning. At that time of day, it wouldn’t have taken longer than an hour to get into work, but he didn’t get to his office until nine. He claims he had breakfast in a cafe near his flat. Avocado on toast.’
Vera wondered when that had become a thing. ‘I’m not sure we need a breakdown of his breakfast preferences.’
‘Trust me, boss, it’s relevant. I checked with the cafe. This morning there was no avocado.’
‘Oh, Mr Bolitho! If you hadn’t been so clever, adding the details in the hope we’d believe you, so arrogant, we’d never have caught you out.’ Vera gave a little chuckle. ‘Well done, Hol. Any idea what he was doing in his spare two hours?’
‘I’m checking CCTV in the city.’
‘Check CCTV out to the coast too. Maybe he went to Tynemouth to see the lovely Sophie.’
Holly nodded. ‘The guy in the cafe did say he went in sometimes with a skinny young woman. That could have been Sophie. She was a colleague.’
Vera considered for a moment. ‘Or it could have been Lorna.’ She had a brief tremor of revulsion. She hoped desperately that this lying city boy wasn’t the father of the child, with whom she now imagined she had a connection. How unimaginative, how pathetic, if Mark had followed in his father-in-law’s footsteps and slept with one of the Brockburn tenants! She couldn’t think how Juliet might cope with the knowledge.
Holly was talking again. ‘I spoke to Joshua Heslop’s friends. He was definitely with them on Friday night, so we can rule him out of Lorna’s murder. Even though he didn’t join them until eight-thirty, he couldn’t have killed Lorna and got to Newcastle in that weather. He must have left Kirkhill earlier in the day.’
‘Did we learn anything more about him?’
‘They admire his art. He has an exhibition in a small gallery here in Kimmerston. They were expecting him to bring a girlfriend with him, but she didn’t show.’
That sparked Vera’s interest. ‘Had they met her? Was she Lorna?’
‘They didn’t know anything about her. He’d been very mysterious. Friday was to be the evening when he’d finally introduce her to his arty mates.’
Holly paused, but Vera could tell there was something else. ‘What’s bothering you, Hol
? Spit it out!’
‘When Charlie and I looked round Lorna’s house on Sunday, we saw her paintings. There was one subject that she painted over and over again. It seemed to haunt her. A cottage in the forest. I haven’t been able to forget it because it seemed so important to her. I thought the image was imaginary, kind of symbolic. Only one was titled and that was wintry, the most recent. She’d called it “The Darkest Evening”, and that seemed familiar. There was a book of poetry on her desk – a collection of Robert Frost’s work. It’s been inscribed inside by Constance. I did Frost’s poetry at school and I still had the book at home. I picked it up on my way through from the Baltic Gallery.’
Holly paused. Vera could tell the others in the room were bored, but she was interested. She nodded for Holly to continue.
‘One of the poems is called “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”.’ Holly stopped and opened the book. ‘This is the second verse:
‘My little horse must think it queer . . .’ She was interrupted by a muffled snigger from the back of the room.
Vera turned to the offender. ‘You’re not in the playground now! How old are you? Go on, Hol.’
‘. . . To stop without a farmhouse near /
Between the woods and frozen lake /
The darkest evening of the year.
‘And it ends like this:
‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, /
But I have promises to keep /
And miles to go before I sleep /
And miles to go before I sleep.’
Holly looked up. ‘She must have got the title of the painting from the poem, don’t you think? There’s a feeling of a fairy tale in it.’
The room was growing even more restless; poetry obviously wasn’t their thing. Vera felt sorry for her.
‘You think it’s relevant that Constance gave her the book?’