Crow Trap

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Can we come in?’ Throughout the visit Anne Preece took the lead. Rachael thought the business at Baikie’s had mellowed her. At one time she would have refused to do Vera Stanhope’s dirty work, but here she was, her foot against the door so the old woman couldn’t shut it on them again.

  Nancy felt in the pocket of her cardigan and brought out a pair of enormous false teeth, covered in black fluff. She put them into her mouth and bared the teeth like a caged animal.

  ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

  She turned and led them down a passage into a small, cluttered room haphazardly furnished by junk. It seemed that she slept and lived in this room though there was no evidence that the house was shared by another occupant. A narrow divan was covered by a blanket of different coloured knitted squares. On a frayed wicker chair was a crumpled pile of clothes topped by a black felt hat. By the window, blocking out most of the light, was a birdcage on a stand. The door of the cage was open and a blue budgie flew over their heads and came to rest on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Grace is dead,’ the old lady said, more distinctly. It was as if talking was something she had to get used to.

  ‘You know about it.’ Anne sat on the divan. ‘We wanted to make sure.’

  Nancy pushed the pile of clothes from the chair and sat on it. She leant back, her eyes half closed. Rachael stood for a moment just inside the door then felt conspicuous and sat on the floor with her back to the wall.

  ‘What do you want?’ Nancy demanded.

  ‘Just that. To know you’d heard. We thought you’d want to be told. Grace mentioned you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘We worked together. Out at Black Law Fell.’

  ‘Near to the Hall then.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they invited her round. I don’t suppose Lady bloody high and mighty Olivia cooked her tea.’

  ‘No,’ Anne replied. ‘I don’t think they even knew she was there.’

  ‘The ferret will always get the rat,’ Nancy said cryptically. ‘If it’s got an empty belly.’

  Anne and Rachael looked at each other. Sunlight slanted through the latticed window and through the bars of the birdcage, spotlighting the floating specks of dusk, an elaborate cobweb in the empty grate, the faded colours of a proggie mat.

  ‘How did you know Grace was dead?’ Anne asked.

  There was another pause. Nancy looked at them, weighing them up.

  ‘Ed comes to see me,’ she said at last. ‘He’s the only one of them who does. The only one I’d let in.’

  ‘The warden said you’d not had any visitors recently.’

  ‘Huh. What would that one know? Money and meetings. That’s all her job’s about. And chasing after her fancy man.’

  ‘What about Grace? Did she ever visit?’

  ‘She’s been away a lot. University. Walking. Sometimes Ed brought her.’

  ‘Lately?’

  The old woman shook her head crossly. ‘I didn’t expect it. She was young. She had her own life to lead. But she’s always written. Wherever she’s lived she’s written me letters. And Edmund would read them when he came to visit. My eyes are bad. I can’t see to read no more.’ She glared at them, defying them to contradict this explanation.

  ‘Did you keep the letters?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Grace was a friend. We don’t have much to remember her by. If we could just have the letters for a while . . . It would be like talking to her, wouldn’t it? We’d bring them back.’

  ‘I don’t throw much away,’ the woman conceded.

  ‘So we would be able to look at them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it.’

  She crashed the teeth together awkwardly and looked at them again, maliciously aware that they were frustrated by her indecision, challenging Anne to push the point.

  But Anne asked, ‘When did Mr Fulwell come to tell you that Grace was dead?’

  ‘The day after it happened. He said he didn’t want me to hear about it on the news, though I wouldn’t because I always switch off when the news comes on the wireless. I only like the old tunes. But it was kind. He’s always been like that. He don’t own a car so his friend brought him.’

  ‘Which friend? Mr Owen?’

  ‘Don’t know. Didn’t see. Didn’t ask him in. Only Ed.’

  ‘Did you see the car?’

  ‘Not from here.’ Which was true, because all they could see through the window was the courtyard and an elderly man in stockinged feet who had pulled a kitchen chair onto his doorstep so he could sit in the sun.

  ‘Did Edmund give you any details of what had happened?’

  Nancy breathed down through her nose, pulling her lips back from her gums. ‘Of course not. He was upset, wasn’t he? And I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About who might have killed her.’

  ‘No . . .’ She hesitated but decided not to continue.

  ‘How did Edmund seem when he was here?’

  ‘How do you think?’ She paused again. ‘He was angry.’

  ‘Did he think he knew who’d strangled her?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him that. Not that it’s any of your business.’ She held out a long finger for the budgie to perch on. Anne leant over to stroke it.

  ‘Could we see those letters?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ Nancy’s voice was firm.

  ‘We’d like to find out a bit more about her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I said. We were friends. We miss her. And they’re a valuable record of her life.’

  ‘They’re in a box upstairs. I don’t manage the stairs very well these days.’

  ‘I’ll get them.’ Anne got up from the divan.

  ‘No.’ With a surprising agility Nancy stood up and moved to block the door. ‘I don’t want you nebbing round my things. You wait here. I’ll fetch them.’

  They heard her banging about in the room above them. She seemed to be muttering to herself. Then a door shut and they heard her move heavily down the stairs. They went out into the passage to wait for her there. She held in her hand not a pile of letters but one white envelope.

  ‘This was all I could find.’ She grinned so they would know she was lying.

  ‘That’s very kind.’ Anne took the letter and added, ‘Do you know where Edmund Fulwell is?’

  ‘Home, I suppose.’

  ‘No. No one’s seen him for days.’

  ‘He’s always been a bit wild.’

  ‘If he gets in touch,’ Anne said, ‘you should tell the police. They’re worried about him.’

  ‘No need to be worried. He can look after himself that one.’

  She opened the front door to let them out. Upstairs there was a movement, a noise. They stood still, startled, and stared up the gloomy stairwell. From the shadows the budgerigar flew over the banister straight towards them. It circled as if to make its escape through the open door then landed on Nancy’s shoulder. She stroked its beak and cooed.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The letter from Grace was dated two years previously. The address was a small town in south-west Scotland. In the envelope along with the letter was a picture postcard showing the scene of a river and meadows with a church tower in the distance. Nothing was written on the blank side of the card but the picture was marked with a cross and Grace had written over it in biro, ‘This is where I camped last night.’

  Rachael was moved by the picture and the scribbled note. Grace had been so odd in her last few weeks that Rachael had thought of her as a wraith moving among them causing disturbance and upset. This made her human, real. It was the sort of thing Rachael might have sent to Edie to keep her off her back.

  Vera was there as they passed the card between them. She must have been waiting for their return because they had just lit the gas to make tea when they heard her thump on the kitchen door. She came in without wai
ting to be asked.

  ‘Why did the old bat choose this one to give you?’ she demanded. Rachael had expected the inspector to be grateful because they’d returned with a trophy but she seemed more bad-tempered than she’d been since the beginning of the investigation. According to Edie she’d been in Kimmerston all afternoon.

  ‘She probably chose a letter at random just to get rid of us,’ Anne said. ‘She won’t admit it but I don’t think she can read.’

  Vera, in truculent mood, had to contradict even this. ‘I don’t think so. Surely she’d keep them in some sort of chronological order and just take the one on the top. There must have been one since this. Grace might even have written from here. Did she ever write letters?’

  ‘I never saw her but how would we know?’

  ‘Not much of a letter, is it?’ Vera held up the single sheet between her thumb and finger. ‘Why do you think she bothered?’

  ‘She probably thought of Nancy almost as family,’ Edie said. ‘Perhaps she saw it as a duty, like writing thank-you letters to grandparents.’

  ‘Go on then.’ Vera dropped the letter on the table in front of Anne. ‘Read it out.’

  Anne looked round to make sure she had their attention and began to read, like a mother telling a bedtime story.

  ‘“Dear Nan, I went for a walk today to look for signs of otter and it reminded me of the walks you used to take me on when I was a little girl. I’m employed on contract here by the Wildlife Trust. They offered to find me somewhere to stay but I prefer to be on my own so I brought a tent and I’m camping in the field marked on the card. It’s a lovely spot. The Trust had a student doing the same work before me but he left suddenly and I haven’t been at all impressed by his results. There was too much guessing and not enough counting so far as I was concerned. So that means I have to walk the parts of river he’s supposed to have surveyed to check his results. It would be a lot easier if everyone followed the rules. If you’ve been properly trained it’s not difficult. I hope you’re continuing to be well and you’re still enjoying living in Kimmerston. Perhaps when I’m next in the area I’ll come with Dad to visit.”’ Anne looked up. ‘It’s just signed Grace. Not love, or best wishes, or anything.’

  ‘Hardly riveting stuff,’ Vera said. ‘And what’s the point of her writing if the old woman can’t read?’

  ‘Edmund read it to her.’

  ‘When did she last see him?’

  ‘He went to tell her Grace was dead. He didn’t want her to hear from anyone else.’

  ‘It sounds as if he was pretty rational then, at least.’ Vera looked up at Anne. ‘Did you ask her where he was?’

  ‘Of course. She claimed not to know.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’

  Anne shrugged. ‘She enjoys making mischief. I wouldn’t put it past her to lie.’

  Vera pushed the letter away from her in disgust. ‘Well, that doesn’t tell us much, does it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Rachael said reluctantly.

  ‘What?’ Vera growled. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Anne and I have always been surprised by the results of the otter counts Grace took on the rivers in the survey area. It’s never been systematically studied before but counts in similar bits of the county have never come up with anything like her figures. Since she died we’ve retraced some of her walks. It looks as if the counts are wildly exaggerated. There was a possibility she’d made a mistake, but this letter suggests that she was aware of the danger of over-estimation so that doesn’t seem very likely.’

  ‘Exactly what are you getting at?’

  Anne Preece replied, ‘Either she was madder than we thought and hallucinated legions of otters marching over the Langholme Valley or she was telling porky-pies.’

  ‘Why would she do that? She’s a scientist.’

  ‘Scientists have been known to falsify records for their own reasons.’

  ‘What sort of reasons?’

  ‘Personal glory. Because they’ve been nobbled.’

  ‘Are you saying she’d been bribed by the quarry company to exaggerate her records?’

  ‘No,’ Anne said. ‘Of course not. From the quarry’s point of view that would be completely counterproductive. Just the opposite to what they’d want. The purpose of the Environmental Impact Assessment is to see what effect the proposed development would have on this landscape. It’s in the company’s interest that we find nothing of conservation value on the site. Then they can claim at the public inquiry that the quarry wouldn’t cause significant environmental damage. If the report claimed the biggest concentration of otters in the county they’d find it hard to make any sort of case for the quarry to go ahead. Otters are furry and cute. Every protest group in the country would be here waving banners.’

  ‘So you’re saying she was nobbled by the opposition?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’ Anne was clearly starting to get exasperated. ‘I don’t know what was going through her head. But from the letter it doesn’t seem likely she was just mistaken.’

  Edie had been listening to the exchange and asked, ‘Who is the opposition?’

  Usually Vera seemed to welcome Edie’s contributions to these discussions, but now, still angry and frustrated, she turned on her. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  Edie raised her eyebrows as if commenting on the behaviour of a spoilt child and answered calmly, ‘I mean, is there an organized opposition group? A campaign HQ? People in charge? And is there any evidence that Grace knew anyone involved in it? Or any of the other conservation pressure groups? Perhaps she falsified her records out of the mistaken belief that she was serving a cause she believed in.’

  Vera was chastened. ‘I don’t know. We can check.’

  ‘There’s a group of people in Langholme who’ve been fighting the development,’ Anne said, ‘but I don’t think they’ve been particularly effective. And so far as I know they haven’t got any of the big pressure groups on their side yet. It’s more a matter of the locals worrying about a decline in house prices if there’s a massive quarry on the doorstep and lorries rumbling through the village night and day. Typical nimby stuff.’

  ‘Besides,’ Rachael interrupted, ‘Grace wasn’t stupid. I mean, I know you think she was a bit loopy when she was here, but she must have known that in the long term that sort of fraud wouldn’t work. The only reason EIAs are accepted in public inquiries is because they’re considered unbiased. If inspectors were to lose faith in them conservationists would give up any voice they’ve got in the planning process. Grace must have realized that.’

  ‘I think she hated doing it,’ Rachael said. ‘Someone must have been forcing her to lie. You’ve read that letter. She was obsessed about getting things right. Perhaps that’s why she seemed so stressed out while she was here. She couldn’t bear the pretence. I can understand. It would have driven me crazy too. I should have seen what was happening. She certainly needed to talk to someone.’

  ‘Aye,’ Vera said. ‘Well, it seems she realized that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I had a meeting with her social worker today. Ms Antonia Thorne. Funny sort of business that welfare work. Couldn’t do it myself. I always thought you had to be a heartless sod to be a cop, but it must be worse in that line. This woman had known Grace Fulwell since she was a baby, placed her with one set of foster carers after another until she found ones that would suit. You’d have thought she’d have some sort of feeling for the girl, affection even, but once Grace went off to university she washed her hands of her. Didn’t even send her a card at Christmas. You’d have thought she’d be curious at least, but apparently not. She said she’d forgotten all about her until she’d heard she was dead.’

  ‘I think,’ Edie said, ‘they’re trained not to get involved.’

  ‘With a kid?’ Vera shook her head. ‘It seems all wrong.’

  ‘Anyway . . .’ Edie prompted.

  ‘Anyway, when Ms Thorne got back from her holidays in the sun there wa
s a pile of mail waiting for her. She hadn’t looked at it when I spoke to her earlier in the week. One of the letters was from Grace. I suppose she had no one else to turn to. Sad, that.’ She paused, lost in thought, and this time Rachael didn’t think it was for dramatic effect. ‘Grace said that something was bothering her. There was something she needed to discuss. Although she wasn’t still officially on the social services caseload would Ms Thorne see her?’

  ‘Oh,’ Rachael was almost in tears. ‘If she’d been there perhaps Grace would still be alive.’

  ‘Couldn’t someone else in the office have dealt with it?’ Anne asked angrily.

  ‘It was marked personal. It wasn’t even opened.’

  ‘Are you saying that’s why Grace was killed?’ Edie asked.

  ‘To prevent her from telling anyone that she was falsifying her otter records? I must say it doesn’t seem sufficiently important.’

  ‘Motives for murder seldom are,’ Vera spat back.

  ‘In that case you need to know who put pressure on her to lie in the first place.’

  ‘Oh, I think we know that, don’t we?’ Vera said. ‘Who resented the crowd at Holme Park? Who wouldn’t want them to make a profit out of selling land to a development company? Edmund bloody Fulwell. And he seems to have disappeared like a mirage. Like all Grace’s bloody otters.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Late that evening Peter Kemp turned up, powering down the track in his new white Land Rover. Rachael had phoned him from Black Law in a moment of panic. A couple of days before Grace’s death she’d passed on the preliminary otter counts. Now Rachael wanted him to know they were probably inaccurate before he made a fool of them all by going public.

  Amelia, the debby wife with the big teeth, answered the phone. In the background there were voices, laughter. In explanation Amelia said, ‘Just a few friends round to dinner,’ and Rachael thought she and Peter never seemed to be on their own together. She told Peter it wasn’t urgent, there certainly was no need to rush out to Baikie’s but he seemed glad of an excuse to leave.

  Although it was ten o’clock when he arrived Rachael suggested they went out for a walk. She hadn’t forgotten the Sunday lunch in the house in Kimmerston and couldn’t stand the thought of Edie’s sneers. Besides, she hadn’t been on the hill all day and was feeling restless and caged in. Outside it was still light, though the sun was down and the colour had seeped out of the heather and the old bracken. They walked in silence and, without either of them appearing to decide where to go, followed the track through the edge of the conifer plantation to the tarn, high on the moor. The pool, surrounded by reed, was full to overflowing despite the recent dry weather, and reflected the last of the light. The sky was enormous, lavender and grey streaked with gold.