by Ann Cleeves
‘Please.’
‘You have to know, Inspector, that while Frank was still a wealthy man, he’d been a philanthropist since making his fortune, and much of his money had already been given away. However, of course, he still did have considerable assets.’
Now Matthew was tempted to hurry him along, but after all, Mason had already given useful information and he might still have more to pass on. Best to let him give the details in his own way and at his own speed.
‘Westacombe Farm, the house and all its land, was bequeathed to Sarah Grieve and, in the event of her death, to her heirs.’
‘Ah,’ Matthew said. He thought the Grieves should be pleased, relieved. ‘Francis had told them that he didn’t believe in inherited wealth and they were anxious about their future.’
‘There is a stipulation,’ Barton went on. ‘The land should not be sold for commercial development and the family should live in the house and continue to farm traditionally.’ He looked up from the desk. ‘He’d grown up there and had been very fond of his mother, who died there. He had an uncharacteristically emotional attachment to the place and was concerned that its character shouldn’t change.’
Matthew wondered what John Grieve would make of that. The man had clearly wanted a fresh start away from Westacombe, but perhaps being allowed to farm independently, without an onsite landlord, would be enough for him.
Barton was continuing. ‘The freehold of the studios and workshops created from farmyard outbuildings have been left to Wesley Curnow and Eve Yeo respectively, along with twenty thousand pounds each to support their businesses.’ He looked up. ‘Of course, that’s no longer relevant now that Mr Curnow’s dead, and that workshop will revert to the rest of the farm estate.’
‘Is there any specific mention of the Spennicott project and the properties Francis owned there?’ Matthew remembered his visit to the old folks’ home and wondered if there would be any reprieve for the residents.
‘Indeed, yes. That’s one of the more complex and unorthodox stipulations, added relatively recently. Frank left the cottages, public house, shop and the Mount, currently in operation as a care home for the elderly, to a community trust of villagers and stakeholders, yet to be formed.’ Mason gave a grimace. ‘My firm was charged with setting that up. I must say, I’d rather hoped that Frank would outlive me, or that I would have retired before that became necessary. I’m not looking forward to the inevitable endless wrangles and the committee meetings running into the night.’
Matthew smiled in sympathy. ‘And the rest of his investments and savings?’
‘A quarter of a million to the Spennicott Trust, seed money to see it through its set-up. After that it would be expected to live off the rents and profits of the various businesses. Any excess to be invested for the good of the village.’
‘I suppose that makes sense.’
‘Another two hundred and fifty thousand goes to the organization Patients Together.’ Mason looked at the paper on the desk in front of him and read the exact words. ‘To allow this valuable organization to continue to hold the North Devon health trust to account.’
‘So, another of the inheritors is no longer alive to benefit,’ Venn said. ‘Nigel Yeo, who ran it, was our first victim.’ He wondered what Roger Prior would have made of the bequest and the wording.
‘Oh, that sum didn’t go to any individual, but to the organization. The money will still go to Patients Together.’
‘Had he told any of the beneficiaries that they were mentioned in his will?’ Venn remembered his last conversation with Lauren. She’d told him that she was considering applying to run the NDPT. He wondered if the information that she wouldn’t have to scratch around for funding, at least in the short term, could have influenced her decision. He thought it unlikely.
‘That I don’t know.’
‘Were you involved in Mr Ley’s investment in a family business in Instow, the Sandpiper, owned by the Mackenzie family?’
‘Not personally,’ Mason said. ‘Not my area of expertise. But one of my partners drew up the contract.’
‘As I understand it, the money was an interest-free loan rather than a formal investment and it has already been repaid. Could you confirm that?’
‘I’d need to check with my colleague, but it’s the sort of arrangement Frank might have made.’
‘Very generous.’
‘As I said before, Inspector, Frank was a very generous man.’ Mason put the will back into its envelope. ‘The remainder of his wealth will go to a number of national and international charities, but I don’t think there’s anything else relating to your inquiries.’
‘When will you inform the people who’ll benefit from Mr Ley’s will of their good fortune?’
‘Letters will go out today to the individuals and organizations involved. Of course, probate will take a while and they won’t receive the money for some time. But it’s important that the Grieves continue to manage Westacombe, and they’re more likely to do that if they know they have a stake in the place.’
Venn nodded and got to his feet. Mason walked down the stairs with him to show him out, and shook his hand at the door. Outside, the air felt a little different. The sky was still clear but it was humid and sultry, as if soon the heatwave would break, as if they were on the brink of a thunderstorm.
Chapter Forty
JEN STAYED AT HOME LONG ENOUGH to have breakfast with the kids. Since Nigel Yeo’s murder they’d all been working ridiculous hours and no way would the overtime budget stretch to cover it all. She was due a bit of time off, and it felt as if she’d hardly seen them for days.
Ella was up, showered and dressed without any prompting, but Ben was still in bed when Jen had everything on the table. She knocked at the door of his room and went in. It was a small room, always dark. He never drew the curtains. It smelled of teenage boy, unwashed sheets and stale pizza. On the desk next to the bed, his computer seemed more alive than her son. Something was flashing. He’d probably been on it for most of the night. Some game with his friends. Killing people for fun. Or checking out unsavoury chatrooms? She was tempted to look, but he woke, looked at her, grunted.
‘You’ll be late for school.’ She couldn’t bring herself to be cross. He looked very young, half asleep. ‘Breakfast is on the table.’
* * *
When they were both on their way to school, Jen made herself more coffee, then followed Matthew’s suggestion and arranged to meet Lucy Braddick in her new flat in River Bank, a small complex of apartments for learning-disabled adults. She phoned Lucy’s dad, Maurice, to find out when would be a good time to visit.
‘Well, really,’ he said, ‘you should be phoning our Luce. The social workers say that I should be letting her make those sorts of decisions. She should be speaking for herself.’ His voice was slow, his accent as rich and broad as his daughter’s.
‘I don’t have her phone number, though.’ Jen left a pause. ‘I was hoping you might be there, Maurice. She’ll be a bit more confident with you around, and I don’t always understand her speech so well.’
‘She’s not on shift at the Woodyard until this afternoon,’ Maurice replied. ‘I suppose I could phone her and ask her to stay in this morning, warn her that we’ll be calling by.’ Jen could tell that he was delighted to have an excuse to visit his daughter. ‘I was planning to come into Barnstaple to do a bit of shopping anyway.’
While she was waiting until it was time to visit Lucy, Jen pulled together images of the women Wesley Curnow had known. She was reminded of the Simon Walden investigation, another occasion when she’d shown photographs to a woman with Down syndrome, but then Lucy had been a potential victim, not a witness. Jen found pictures of Martha and Janey Mackenzie; they’d appeared in the local newspaper at the time of Mack’s death. Both women were wearing black and looked gaunt. Even Martha was looking away from the camera, not playing up to the crowd. George was there too, and the article used his words, as he’d railed against the system that had let his son down
. Cynthia was easy to find. Jen chose an image of her friend wearing a vivid red and pink silk dress. She looked at it for a moment and experienced something akin to grief because the friendship they shared was slipping away. It felt like a kind of bereavement.
Lucy lived in a three-storey block of new flats built on land which had once been owned by the timber factory. The building itself had been transformed into the Woodyard Centre, but the land had been released for development and the independent living apartments were part of the site. They stood next to a small estate of family social housing and looked out over a children’s playground. Jen used the Woodyard car park and walked past the centre to reach Lucy’s place. Just as she was passing the Woodyard entrance, she saw Cynthia approaching from inside. She was carrying a rolled-up yoga mat. It would be impossible to avoid bumping into her.
‘How’s it going?’ Jen thought no fucking way was Lady Cynth just going to march past with her nose in the air as if they didn’t know each other, as if they hadn’t once been best mates.
Cynthia stopped and shrugged. ‘Pretty dreadful.’ It sounded like an admission of failure. This wasn’t the old Cynthia of high energy and endless optimism. ‘Roger hardly speaks. He’s working twelve-hour days and when he’s home he locks himself in the office. He seems to be awake most of the night.’ She looked straight at Jen. ‘I’m worried about him. Even when things were really bad in London, he wasn’t this low.’
‘You think he’s depressed? I mean, clinically depressed?’
‘Yeah, I do.’ Cynthia was on the verge of tears. ‘I’ve said he should go to a doctor, but he tells me to leave him alone. There’s this anger. I mean, if he was just sitting in a corner weeping, I could handle it, but there’s a terrible rage. Against the world and me. For some reason he blames me for all that’s happening to him.’ A pause. ‘We were never soulmates, you know. We never lived in each other’s pockets. But in a way, that was why it worked. We were so different that we learned from each other, there was something new to discuss when we did come together. But now? I feel as if I’ve lost him.’
Jen thought this was one of the unconsidered effects of two murders; stress and suspicion were causing individuals, relationships and even communities to fall apart. She looked at her watch. She should be chatting to Lucy. ‘Will you be around all morning? I’ll call in, shall I? You can make me one of your spectacular coffees.’
A moment of silence. Jen thought that if the offer was rejected, the friendship would be over for good. No way back. But Cynthia smiled. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’d really like that.’
* * *
Maurice was already in the flat when Jen got there, but it was Lucy who let Jen in, proud as punch. She held her arms wide. ‘Welcome.’
The place gave out the vibe of a student hall of residence, but Lucy had her own living space – a sitting room with a kitchen at one end – as well as the bedroom and a shower room. She insisted on showing Jen round, before putting the kettle on and carefully spooning instant coffee into three mugs.
‘There’s a care worker onsite,’ Maurice said, ‘but Luce manages everything, don’t you, maid?’
‘Yep.’ She beamed.
‘We need your help again,’ Jen said, ‘but there’s no danger this time. Honest.’ The last statement was aimed at Maurice, not Lucy. ‘I just need you to look at a few pictures. Let me know if you saw any of these women on Sunday after Wesley had been in the cafe. If you finished work soon after, you might have noticed someone while you were walking home.’
‘Sure,’ Lucy said.
Jen thought she was proud to be asked and desperate to help. She worried that Lucy would try too hard, would convince herself that she recognized one of the faces just to please. ‘It’s not a test, Luce. It’s just as important you tell me if you don’t see anyone you know. Just as useful.’
Lucy nodded.
But in the end, when Lucy just stared blankly at the pictures, even at someone like Cynthia, who was a regular in the cafe, they all had a sense of disappointment.
‘I just don’t remember seeing anyone,’ she said. ‘When I left work, a bus came in to the stop in front of the Woodyard and people got off. I knew two of my friends from River Bank had gone to Bideford to see their families and I was looking out for them. They’d texted to say they were on their way home. I thought I could walk back to the flat with them. I saw them get off the bus and I waited for them to join me. There was a car coming in and for a minute they couldn’t see me, even though I was waving. The car blocked their view.’ She paused for a moment. ‘That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Because the centre was closing, so why would anyone come in?’
‘What sort of car, Lucy?’ Jen tried to keep any sense of urgency from her voice.
‘I don’t know anything about cars.’ Now she was starting to sound anxious and upset. Jen could tell that Maurice was about to call a halt to the whole conversation. He fidgeted in his seat and wiped his forehead with a large, white handkerchief.
‘Oh, nor do I.’ Jen jumped in before he could speak. ‘Nothing at all. But you might remember a colour.’
‘Yes!’ Lucy was triumphant. ‘It was black! A big, black car.’
‘I don’t suppose you could tell if it was being driven by a man or a woman?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I didn’t see. I was looking out for my mates getting off the bus, and then we were chatting.’
Jen left Maurice and Lucy sitting together and drinking more coffee. She was thinking that the father needed the company far more than the daughter did.
* * *
Jen went through the garden gate and round to the back of Cynthia’s house, so she didn’t have to go into the house past Roger’s office. Even if Cynthia wasn’t outside, she’d be in the kitchen, and Jen could knock on the back door. In the end, Cynthia was in the garden, in the chair where they’d had their last conversation. There was a bottle of Pinot Gris in an ice bucket and she’d already poured herself a glass. No chance of a fancy coffee, then.
‘You’re starting a bit early.’ Jen took a seat beside her. She thought this was like being in an entirely different country or continent. The rainforest or some maharaja’s garden in India. She’d never been to either, but despite the drought, there was something exotic about the bright colours and the lush vegetation.
‘It’s lunchtime,’ Cynthia said. ‘It’s civilized to have a small glass with lunch.’ On the table, there was a tray of cheese and cold meat, salad, French bread, a bowl of grapes and strawberries. Two plates, two knives and another glass. ‘You will join me?’
‘Are you joking? Of course! I’m starving!’
Cynthia pushed across a plate and a knife, then poured Jen a glass of wine. She seemed more composed than when she’d bumped into Jen outside the Woodyard, more in control. She’d prepared herself for the encounter.
‘I shouldn’t have the wine. You know the boss. A stickler.’ But Jen took a sip all the same. This was more important than Venn’s rules. ‘What do you think’s going on with Roger?’ She pulled a piece of bread from the loaf and cut a slice of oozing brie, gave all her attention to the taste. Re-establishing a friendship was important, of course. But so was eating when you were given a chance in the middle of an investigation.
‘Well, I don’t think he killed Nigel Yeo and the others.’ Cynthia was prickly again. The tension made her voice shrill.
‘I’m here as a mate,’ Jen said. ‘Not a cop.’
‘You’re always a cop.’
There was no real answer to that and it was Cynthia who spoke next. ‘He’s so stressed. I’m worried about what he might do. I know he would never harm other people. He’s given his life to the NHS, to saving lives. He might not be a medic, but he’s supported them, fought for them. Battled with the government for more resources. More staff. It was that passion that made me fall for him.’
‘Do you think he might be so depressed that he’d consider taking his own life? Is that what you’re saying?’
Th
ere was a moment of silence broken by the raucous call of a magpie.
‘Yes,’ Cynthia said. ‘You know, really, I think that he might.’
‘Do you know what he’s doing when he’s spending all that time in the house in his office?’
‘What do you mean?’ Cynthia had drunk her wine. She poured herself another glass.
‘We’ve been investigating Mack Mackenzie’s browsing history. He was a member of a chatroom called Peace at Last. It’s a support group for people considering suicide. Within that, there’s a core group who call themselves the Suicide Club. That seems to be made up of more desperate members. We’re worried that one or more of those people are actively encouraging or provoking people to kill themselves.’
‘You think Roger might be a member?’ Now soundless tears were running down Cynthia’s face. ‘That he could be considering suicide?’
‘I’m worried that it might be possible. He was in touch with the professionals treating Luke Wallace, as well as those looking after Mack. We know that both young men were members of the group.’
‘And they both killed themselves.’
‘Yes, they both killed themselves. And Roger might have had access to enough information from the medics treating them to find the site.’ Jen paused. ‘It could have started off as professional interest, a way of proving that something other than healthcare negligence had contributed to the suicides.’
‘I don’t know what to do.’ The tears were still streaming down Cynthia’s face. She’d turned from a confident, competent woman into a child desperate for reassurance, looking for someone to make decisions for her.
‘Do you have the passcode for his computer? We could get in and look.’ And I could find out whether or not he calls himself the Crow.
‘No!’ Cynthia said. ‘The office is his personal space. I never go in when he’s not here.’
Jen was forming an argument in her head. If you’re anxious about his safety, don’t you think that’s more important than intruding on his personal space? But she didn’t have time to speak, because the phone in her pocket buzzed. A text from Matthew Venn, asking her whereabouts and requesting that she come back to the station as soon as possible.