The Heron's Cry

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Grieve said again. ‘That was how it started. Thinking I might make enough to give them the sort of life they deserve.’

  ‘You need to get professional help.’ She was seriously losing patience. More than losing patience. It was the man’s apathy and self-delusion that got under her skin. She imagined slapping him to bring him somehow to his senses and found herself enjoying the image. She nodded to the computer screen. ‘Getting caught up in that nonsense is just pathetic.’

  She thought he was going to lash out then, but he gripped the sides of the desk until his knuckles were white and he said nothing.

  ‘Did Nigel Yeo find out about the gambling and threaten to tell your wife?’

  ‘No!’ Again, the man just seemed confused. ‘What would it have to do with him?’

  If John Grieve was lying, Jen thought, he was good. He might be a gambler, losing money he couldn’t afford, deceiving his wife about his obsession, but she didn’t see him as a murderer. She couldn’t imagine him sticking a weapon into a person’s neck and watching the blood spilling out. And then doing it all over again. He was too weak. He might lash out in a rage, but could he organize all the details around Wesley’s murder? Could he have been sufficiently ruthless to lure Curnow to the Woodyard and then send the text to Eve? It seemed unlikely.

  ‘John!’ It was Sarah calling from the bottom of the stairs. ‘John, what’s going on?’

  Sarah Grieve was just where Jen had left her. There was anxiety in the tension of her body, the face, which was pale despite weeks of sunshine, the protective stance. Her relationship to Grieve was almost maternal. There’d been no attempt to follow Jen’s suggestion to put up her feet and rest with some tea. Now, Jen might not have been there.

  ‘What’s happening?’ The question directed at her husband.

  ‘Are you going to tell her, or am I?’ Jen knew it wasn’t her place to interfere, but she hated to see this family falling apart.

  ‘Is it about these murders?’ Sarah’s voice was squeaky with stress.

  ‘No!’ He was yelling. ‘What sort of man do you both think I am?’

  Neither woman answered.

  ‘I’m going outside,’ Jen said. ‘I need to speak to a colleague. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Give you two a chance to talk.’

  She stood outside the fairy-story thatched cottage, with its clematis on the wall, and the swing hanging from the tree, and phoned Ross.

  ‘Grieve’s not the Crow. He’s been holed up in his office gambling online, not provoking poor depressed souls to kill themselves. You might as well go back to the station.’

  She expected him to say something scathing about her having jumped to conclusions during the briefing, but he was almost sympathetic. ‘No worries. You had to check it out.’

  Back in the cottage, Sarah and John were sitting at the kitchen table. Tension fizzed between them. Jen joined them. ‘Do you need to pick up the girls?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘They’re getting a lift back.’

  ‘Grand.’ One less thing to worry about.

  The question, domestic and ordinary, seemed to relax the situation a little. Sarah looked up at her, glad to be distracted. ‘Have you got kids?’

  Jen nodded. ‘Two. It was a nightmare when they were younger. I felt like a taxi service.’ A beat. ‘Has John told you about his problem?’

  The woman nodded. ‘Some problem! Thousands of pounds in debt when I’ve been working every hour there is.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s very well.’ The two women might have been alone in the room.

  ‘I didn’t know what he was doing up there, all those hours on the computer.’ The words flashed back. Sarah was flushed. ‘I thought it was porn, okay? I’m not up for sex much these days. Not with this weight and this heat. So, I thought, just let him get on with it. Don’t ask. Enjoy the peace.’ She pushed her hair away from her forehead. ‘I thought he was just being moody and I let it go. I had enough on my plate with the dairy and the kids and looking after Frank’s house. I thought we were going through a tough time and everything would get back to normal once the baby was born. But it won’t, will it? Things will never get back to normal again.’

  On the other side of the table John Grieve sat in silence, his head in his hands. It was as if he was trying to make himself invisible and the conversation was going on without him.

  ‘Really,’ Jen said. ‘There’s no reason why not. Now you know and John can get help.’ She paused. ‘Frank had made a will. He left all this, the house and the farm, to you. But you won’t be able to sell it for development. You’ll have to farm it trad- itionally, as you have been doing.’

  There was another longer silence as Sarah seemed to be assimilating the news. She looked at her husband, then back at Jen. ‘So, the cottage and the farm will be ours?’

  ‘And the big house. As long as you meet those conditions. Eve would still keep her workshop and her flat.’

  ‘You’re joking? We’d have all that space?’ She seemed astounded. ‘John, do you see what this means?’

  He lifted his head. Jen wondered if he was thinking he’d never escape from Westacombe now. He’d never have that farm on the edge of the moor he’d been dreaming of. Gambling on.

  ‘It’ll be a whole fresh start!’ Sarah said.

  Maybe. Jen didn’t think it would be that easy. She’d never quite believed in simple happy endings.

  ‘You really didn’t know what Frank was intending?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No idea at all. Frank was always ranting about inherited wealth: worthless people who had power just because their parents had made a fortune.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t think you were worthless,’ Jen said. ‘Perhaps he thought you both deserved it.’

  God, she thought, that sounds like one of those quotes that my soppy friends spread around on Facebook. Along with the images of their perfect families. The ones that make me want to throw up.

  Sarah, though, seemed to buy into the idea and to take the words seriously. She was probably the sort to share deep and meaningful words of calm and meditation all over her social media.

  ‘It’s horrible that Frank killed himself. Of course it is. But it’s like he’s giving us a second chance.’ She got up from her seat, walked behind her husband and put her arms around his shoulders. ‘We can get through this. Together. Can’t we?’

  John stood up too and held his wife close to him. But he still didn’t answer.

  * * *

  Walking across the yard to her car in the rosy evening light, Jen thought the air seemed heavy. It felt hard to breathe. She reran the conversation with John Grieve in her head. Her response to him had been unprofessional and out of proportion. He was clearly addicted to gambling. Police officers had been trained to be sympathetic, controlled and he’d got under her skin. She’d almost lost it. The memory of the interview triggered another idea, a possible explanation for Nigel Yeo’s murder, which was so unlikely that she wasn’t sure she could share it yet with Matthew. She’d reached her vehicle and was wondering if she should do some private investigations of her own when the phone rang. Matthew Venn could read minds, it seemed, even at a distance.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just walking back to the car. Did Ross tell you? John Grieve was spending all those hours on his computer because he was betting online. His wife had no idea. That was why he seemed so secretive and ashamed.’

  ‘Yes. Did you believe his story?’

  ‘Absolutely. He was shit-scared of telling Sarah about it. We can get someone to look at his browsing history, though.’

  ‘Could you go back and check something out for me?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Jen knew she didn’t sound enthusiastic, but she thought she’d escaped the farm and its inhabitants for one day.

  ‘Could you go to Eve Yeo’s flat and her studio? It seems that she’s gone missing.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  JONATHAN WAS IN HI
S OFFICE, FOCUSED on spreadsheets and the minutes from the last trustees’ meeting, and didn’t realize that Eve was late until an extra half hour had passed. It wasn’t like her not to be on time. Once, she’d described her punctuality as a curse, something she’d inherited from her father.

  ‘Mum always kept us waiting. It drove Dad crazy.’

  He’d had his phone on silent and checked it for missed calls and messages. Nothing. He called her mobile and heard it go straight to voicemail. Leaving his office, he wandered downstairs to look for Eve there. She could be waiting in the lobby or in the cafe. The place was satisfyingly full. That evening there would be a production in the Woodyard’s small theatre and the audience was already arriving, catching up with friends in the bar, having an early supper. He looked into the cafe but there was no sign of her, at the table he’d reserved for them, or chatting to Bob.

  Jonathan went to the counter and called in to the manager. ‘Have you seen Eve Yeo?’

  Bob was so busy that he barely looked up. ‘Nah, sorry, but you can see what it’s like.’

  ‘Is Lucy around?’ Lucy would recognize Eve.

  ‘Her shift finished at five. She’ll be back later just before the play starts.’

  That was when Jonathan had a real sense of unease, so he called Eve again and left her a message.

  ‘Hey, love, where are you? Can you give me a ring?’

  And that was when he went back to his office to call Matthew.

  After the call, he sat for a moment, staring at the blank computer screen, but he knew that it would be impossible to concentrate on work. He’d asked Matthew if he should go to Westacombe to check on Eve.

  ‘No need,’ Matthew had said. ‘Jen’s already there. I’ll get her to look.’

  So, Jonathan was left, helpless and restless, with nothing useful to do. He locked his office and went back to the lobby. Lucy Braddick was just walking in, dressed in a bright green dress, swinging a big straw bag.

  ‘Hi, Luce. You back to help with the play?’

  She nodded. ‘I just went home for my tea.’

  ‘I’m looking for Eve Yeo. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?’

  ‘Eve, who makes the glass?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She was here earlier.’ Lucy gave one of her delightful smiles. ‘She was waiting for you!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘’Course I’m sure.’ Lucy sounded offended.

  ‘Was Eve on her own when you saw her?’

  ‘Yeah, she was just coming out of the ladies’ loos.’

  ‘And what time was that? It’s really quite important, Luce.’

  ‘It was five o’clock.’ Lucy was definite. ‘I was just on my way home.’

  * * *

  Back in his office, pacing now, not able to sit, Jonathan was on the phone again to Matthew.

  ‘Is Lucy certain?’ Matthew paused. ‘You know what Oldham’ll say if we shift the whole focus of the investigation to the Woodyard on the evidence of a learning-disabled adult and Eve’s car is still at Westacombe.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be driving if she was going to meet me for supper!’ Despite his anxiety, Jonathan allowed a trace of amusement into his voice. ‘We always shared a bottle of wine when we met up. I’d already booked a taxi to get me home. And yeah, Lucy was positive.’

  ‘Was Eve with anyone when Lucy saw her?’

  Jonathan thought he could sense Matthew holding his breath, waiting for an answer. ‘No. Luce saw her outside the ladies’ loos, so even if she’d come to the centre with someone else, she’d be on her own in there.’ Jonathan paused. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Start a search of the place. We’ll be there.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  IT WAS NEARLY EIGHT O’CLOCK WHEN Jonathan phoned to say that Eve had been seen in the Woodyard, and by then Matthew was frantic. He could feel his self-control unravelling. Outside, the humidity, which had been growing all day, seemed unbearable and in the station, there was little light. After the full blast of sunshine that had lit up the building for weeks, it felt as if they were suddenly in a different season, a different world.

  Stress had been ratcheting up throughout the evening as they failed to get news of the glass blower and Matthew had been left with a sense of failure and fear.

  His team had been squashed into his office, their focus still on Westacombe Farm.

  ‘Jen, you looked in Eve’s flat and workshop. Anything?’

  She’d shaken her head, looked across at him and then taken a breath. ‘But while I was talking to Grieve in the cottage, something occurred to me. A sort of theory. I know it sounds crazy and there’s nothing concrete at all, but listen to this…’

  She’d continued talking and Matthew had listened, because he recognized listening as his one great skill, and he took confidence from it. The facts of the case had shifted in his head and formed a different pattern altogether, like the coloured pieces in a child’s kaleidoscope moving when the cardboard tube is turned.

  ‘Of course,’ he’d said. ‘We’ve been asking all the wrong questions. Talk me through the conversation you had with Lucy Braddick again.’

  Jen had repeated Lucy’s story of seeing the big black car driving into the Woodyard car park as she was waiting for her friends to come off the Bideford bus.

  ‘That would work then,’ he’d said. ‘Yes, I can see how that would tie in too.’

  ‘What now?’ Ross, always eager for action, had already jumped to his feet.

  ‘We don’t do anything in a rush. We don’t have nearly enough information for a warrant!’ Matthew thought that trying to contain Ross was like training an overactive puppy. But his own thoughts were overactive too, racing and not fully formed. He hated working like this, making plans on the hoof.

  Ross was still standing, rocking back and forwards on the balls of his feet. Matthew wanted to scream at him to be still. How can I think when you’re fidgeting like a toddler? When will you grow up? He could feel the tension in his back and his neck, and was worried that he might not be able to resist the temptation to let rip.

  That was when the call came through from Jonathan, and his husband, usually so relaxed, sounded fearful, overwhelmed by panic. Matthew’s team stared at their boss. Even Ross was still as he waited for Matthew to speak.

  ‘Okay,’ Venn said at last. ‘This is what we do.’ A pause. ‘We don’t waste our resources with another sweep at Westacombe. Round up as many people as we can to canvass people in the Woodyard, and we’ll need a proper search there. I know Jonathan has his people looking, but only in the public areas. The Woodyard is where Wesley died, after all, and it’s a warren of a place.’

  Matthew turned to Jen. ‘That night at the Priors’ party,’ he said. ‘I think something must have happened there to trigger all this. You chatted to Nigel. I know I’ve asked you this before, but looking back, did you notice anything which might have been important?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I’m so sorry. It was a party. I was halfway pissed before he arrived. He was very straight. Nice enough but maybe a bit uptight. That’s all.’

  Matthew thought for a moment. ‘Ross, I want you to go to the Priors’ house. We’ve got a sharper focus now. We know what we’re looking for. Talk to Cynthia. This is important. If nothing else, it might provide some confirmation of Jen’s theory.’

  ‘Sure, boss.’ Ross didn’t move, though. Now he had something concrete to do, the restlessness seemed to have left him, and this wasn’t what he’d been expecting or hoping for. It wasn’t a real call to action.

  ‘Go now.’ Matthew raised his voice. ‘Let’s move quickly. Very quickly. I don’t think I could stand another death.’

  He meant the words literally. If there was another lost life while he was in charge of the investigation, he knew he’d collapse under the weight of guilt and his life would never be the same again.

  Ross was already out of the door and sprinting across the open-plan offi
ce beyond.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Jen had finished her call and was on her feet too.

  Matthew couldn’t answer immediately. He had another moment of panic, caught perhaps from Jonathan; incoherent thoughts followed by a desire to run away. Anything not to be forced to make decisions, to take responsibility. To fail. He supposed this was how Ley and the other members of the chatroom must have felt. Suicide, after all, was the ultimate escape. Then everything clicked back into place. Some measure of confidence was restored. He wasn’t good at much, but he was a competent detective. He made decisions all the time.

  ‘We go to the Woodyard,’ he said. ‘To the last place Eve was seen. And we find her.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  THE RAIN STARTED AS THEY WERE running to their cars outside the police station, a couple of huge drops that soaked into the parched ground and disappeared. By the time they reached the arts centre, there was a deluge, and a crack of lightning in the distance lit the Woodyard, making it look Gothic, Jen thought, like a building in one of the fantasy films Ella loved to watch. By the time they reached the entrance hall, where Jonathan was waiting, they were drenched.

  ‘Where’s Lucy?’ Matthew was talking to Jonathan.

  Jen could sense both men’s tension. She was shaking the rain from her hair, wiping it from her face with her hands, but the boss seemed not to notice her presence.

  ‘In my office. I thought you’d want to talk to her.’ Jonathan reached out and touched his husband’s shoulder.

  Now Matthew did turn to her. ‘Jen, will you do that? You saw her last. I’ll get the search organized.’

  Jen nodded and followed Jonathan upstairs. Lucy was staring through the office window, fascinated by the rain streaming down the pane and the lightning in the distance.

  ‘My dad’s scared of thunder and lightning,’ she said, turning back into the room. ‘I hope he’s okay.’