by Ann Cleeves
Why not? Did you make her uncomfortable with your confident voices and your parents’ money?
‘Did she have a boyfriend?’
There was a silence. The women flashed a glance at each other. ‘We think she must have done,’ Emma said at last. ‘There were nights when she didn’t come home. But he never came to the flat. At least, not when we were in.’
‘And she never talked about him?’
‘Not to us.’ Emma paused. ‘Look, Inspector, in some ways Lily was a model tenant. Thoughtful, tidy. That’s why I wanted her to come in with us in the first place. But we were never friends. Not really. I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have wanted to kill her. But I wouldn’t know. Her life was a mystery to us.’
It was lunchtime and Vera brought the team together, bought in sandwiches, proper coffee, doughnuts. Anything to keep up the energy levels. After the catnap in the car she felt on top of the world, but she knew the younger members didn’t have her stamina. Still, they were a bit more alert now. A second body. A bright young woman. Somehow that made the case more exciting. They hadn’t been able to get worked up about a lad with a learning disability, but a pretty student and suddenly they were buzzing. She told herself she was too cynical for her own good.
She filled them in on the visits to Lily’s parents and the flat, walking backwards and forwards at the front of the room, in and out of the light streaming in from the windows.
‘The lasses she shared with are camping out at a neighbour’s house until the search team has finished. Of course we asked if Lily was at the flat on the night Luke Armstrong was killed. She wasn’t there. It wasn’t unusual for her to stay out. That’s why they presumed she had a boyfriend.’
‘Didn’t they ask about him? They must have been curious.’ This was from Holly Lawson. Eager, fresh-faced, looked like a sixth-former. ‘I mean, you might say you respected someone’s privacy, but really you’d want to know. Wouldn’t you?’ She looked around her.
‘You’re probably right. Go back and talk to the flatmates,’ Vera said. ‘You might get more out of them. You’re nearer their age.’ She took a sip from the cardboard cup. The coffee had been OK at the beginning of the meeting, but it was already cold and she could feel the grounds on her tongue. She set the cup on the table, went up to the windows and pulled the blinds to keep the worst of the sun out of her eyes. The room seemed suddenly gloomy, the people in it blurred shadows.
‘I think we’ll have to bite the bullet and have a news conference,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anything about the scene to get out. Not the flowers. Not the cause of death. The last thing we need is a copy-cat killer. I told the group who found the body that if they speak to the press they’ll have me to answer to. But someone must have seen the corpse being carried from the car park to the rocks. There’s that stretch of grass to cover and there’s usually someone there. Dog walkers. Parents with young kids. We’ll get the press liaison people to set it up.
‘Now, what have you got for me?’ Vera had landed on the desk at the front. Like a teacher. She wondered what sort of teacher Lily would have made.
‘We’ve found someone at the university to look at the flowers,’ Holly said. ‘A Dr Calvert. Senior lecturer.’
‘No.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Peter Calvert. He won’t do. He found the second body. At least, his son did. He was on the scene immediately after. We can’t use him.’
‘Oh God, I should have realized. I tracked him down yesterday, before Lily Marsh was killed.’ She blushed, stammered, waited for Vera to let fire the sarcasm. But Vera was feeling kind. She was thinking about Peter Calvert. It was probably a coincidence. It didn’t take a botanist to scatter flowers on a dead body. But if they were looking for someone who liked to play games, it could be seen as a calling card, a signature.
‘Get someone else,’ she said. ‘Not from Newcastle University. Try Northumbria or Sunderland. There must be another botanist somewhere in the north east. And check out what Dr Calvert was doing the night Luke was killed. Just to show we’re tying up all the loose ends.’ She remembered the scene on the veranda she’d walked into the night before. Four men sitting at the table. One woman. About the same age as her, but elegant, made-up. Desired. An interesting group, she thought again. ‘On second thoughts, you can leave Dr Calvert to me.’ It would be an excuse to go back. ‘Can’t trust you lot with the gentry.’
They smiled, not bothered. One less job for them and whoever heard of a university lecturer as a murderer?
She turned back to the group. ‘Who’s been checking out Geoff Armstrong’s alibi?’
‘Me.’ Charlie Robson. Charlie was older than her. She thought he must be up for retirement soon. He didn’t like working for a woman, but he’d had to get on with it.
‘Well?’
‘First I had a word with the guy he does most of his work for. Barry Middleton. Small builder. Does kitchens, bathrooms, loft extensions. He’s known Geoff for years, even before he started passing work his way. He says Geoff always had a temper on him. One of those people who could take offence if you looked at him the wrong way. There were a couple of scraps on site. He lashed out at a foreman when he was working in London. That’s why he turned up back here without a job. But apparently he changed completely when he remarried. Now he’s a real family man, according to Barry. Devoted to Kath and the little girl. He’d even started to build bridges with Julie.’
‘That’s what he said to me.’ But do I believe it? Vera thought. Do I believe people change that easily?
‘I went onto the estate this morning,’ Charlie went on. ‘Geoff and the family were leaving just as I got there. Looked like a trip to the beach. They had towels, a picnic.’
‘Very domestic,’ Vera said.
‘They didn’t see me. I had a word with the neighbours. Everyone said the same. They’re a lovely family. He’s a bit quiet. Doesn’t go to the pub or the club. Stays in to mind the bairn while the wife’s at work. But nobody had a word to say against him.’
‘What about Wednesday night? Did anyone see him leave the house?’
‘No, and one couple is certain they would have done if he’d taken his car out. They were having a barbecue, had invited a few friends round. They’d even asked Geoff. They only live a couple of doors down the street and thought he could keep calling back to check the little girl was OK. He didn’t go in the end, said he didn’t like leaving Rebecca. But they were out in the garden all evening. It’s on the corner and they’d have seen if he left. That’s what they reckon.’
Vera was pleased they could count Geoff out of the investigation. She imagined the three of them on a beach somewhere. Tynemouth, maybe. Kath laid out on a towel catching up on some sleep, Geoff keeping the girl amused, holding her hand as she jumped the waves, building sandcastles, buying ice cream. She must be going soft in her old age. She thought he deserved a second chance.
She realized the team was waiting for her to go on. ‘Let’s leave Geoff Armstrong, then. Unless anything else comes up. I want someone to talk to Luke’s consultant. Find out if Lily Marsh was treated at St George’s too. She probably wouldn’t be an inpatient. Her flatmates would know about that. She might have gone to a clinic, though. We know her dad had a history of mental illness. It’s an outside chance but worth following up. And I’d like you to check out Lily Marsh’s finances. Bank account, credit cards. All that. The way it looks, she was living way beyond her means. Did she have some other income? A rich lover, maybe. And we need to trace the lad she had the crush on when she was at school. His name’s Ben Craven. He could still be living locally.’
She thought there’d been enough talk. They all liked talk. Talk and coffee and buns saved them having to go out there and mix it with real people.
She stood up, made sure she had their attention. ‘The first priority is to make some link between the victims. Something that places them together, a person they have in common.’
They sat, stari
ng up at her.
‘Well, go on, then,’ she said, raising her voice, teacher again. ‘You’re not going to find it in here, are you?’
Chapter Sixteen
It was Saturday and the sun was still shining, but at Fox Mill there were no preparations for the picnic Felicity had been planning as an extra celebration for Peter’s birthday. Everyone had stayed the night and they ate a late, subdued breakfast in the kitchen. The four men seemed preoccupied and washed out. Perhaps they were suffering from a collective hangover. Even James was unusually quiet and mooched back to his room to watch children’s television.
She was glad when the guests left before lunch. Peter tried to persuade them to stay, but they must have realized she wanted them out of the house. Today even Samuel was no comfort. In the afternoon Peter locked himself in his office. He had a grand project. A book about the effect of weather on the movement of seabirds. One of the larger natural history publishers had expressed a vague, polite interest, but no firm offer had been made. They’d have to see the completed work, they said. Peter’s theories had grown more complex as he analysed the material. There were days when she thought she would never see it finished.
Felicity went into the garden and began weeding the beds at the front of the house. She enjoyed the methodical, mindless activity, the instant result. There was the sound of a car in the lane. She ignored it at first. Walkers sometimes parked on the verge before setting off on the footpath to the coast. Then she could tell it had turned into the drive and she straightened, pulling off her gloves, tucking her shirt back into her jeans, preparing to meet the visitor. She had thought it might be Samuel. He would have realized she was upset. It would be like him to think the matter over and come back to check that she had recovered. She was already planning the words she would use to him, the apology for being so crabby, so inhospitable. The lie. You know I didn’t mind you being here. It was the others. Just too much.
But it wasn’t Samuel. It was a car she didn’t recognize. She felt a sudden disquiet, then saw the big female detective from the night before struggle out from the driver’s seat. There was the moment of quiet superiority she always felt when she saw a woman of around her own age who had let herself go. The detective’s face could even be attractive if she made more effort. Her clothes were shapeless, her hair badly cut. Did she really not care what she looked like? Felicity couldn’t understand it. Somehow it made Vera Stanhope invulnerable. She’d always enjoyed being admired. She couldn’t imagine not caring what other people thought.
‘Inspector’ She checked that her hand was clean and held it out. The woman took it with a brief, sharp grip, but her attention was on the garden.
‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘It’ll take a lot of work.’
‘Oh,’ Felicity knew she was being flattered but was still pleased. ‘We have help, of course. An elderly man from the village.’
‘Of course,’ the detective said.
Felicity heard the sarcasm, wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Just a few more questions. You know how it is. Things come up.’
How can I know how it is? Felicity thought. I’ve never found a body before.
‘Your friends have gone?’
‘Yes, they had to get away. I think Gary is working tonight.’ She felt awkward standing there, grubby and unprepared.
‘What do they do? Gary told us, but what about the others?’ Vera had moved into the shade of the house and Felicity followed.
‘Samuel’s a librarian. Also a rather fine writer. Short stories, mostly. Clive works as an assistant at the Hancock Museum. The natural history section.’
‘Does he? I loved it in there when I was a kid. My dad used to take me. It had a smell all of its own. I haven’t been there for years.’ Vera seemed lost for a moment in the memory. ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘He’s in the office,’ Felicity said. ‘Come through.’
‘Is he working too?’
‘On his research, yes.’
‘I understand he’s a botanist. That must be useful when it comes to gardening.’ The voice was jolly, impressed. Felicity didn’t know what to make of it. She decided not to explain about the seabird book. It might be considered a hobby, not work at all, and she wanted the detective to take Peter seriously.
‘We often stop for tea at about this time. Perhaps you’ll join us? I’ll give Peter a shout.’
Felicity wouldn’t have been surprised if the detective had insisted on disturbing Peter in his office, but it seemed she’d decided to be conciliatory.
‘Why not? I’m gasping.’
‘We could sit outside, make the most of the sunshine.’
‘I’d rather not, pet. I have this allergy. Direct sunlight. Makes me come out in lumps and blotches.’
So they sat up to the kitchen table. Felicity had made to take the tea things through to the living room on a tray, but Vera had touched her arm to stop her. ‘Eh, we don’t want any fuss. I’m more the hired help than visiting gentry.’
Felicity knew the detective was playing with her and wasn’t quite sure how to take it. She just nodded her agreement, sliced the scones she’d fetched out of the freezer the afternoon before and spooned homemade jam into a pot. When Peter came out from his office, Vera had her mouth full, and spattered crumbs over the table as she tried to speak. Felicity wanted to say to Peter: Don’t be taken in by this woman. She wants you to believe she’s a clown. She’s brighter than she looks. But she could tell that Peter had already dismissed her as a fool. As she choked and coughed and swilled tea, he raised his eyes to the ceiling.
At last the pantomime was over and Vera began to speak.
‘I got interrupted last night,’ she said. ‘There are a few questions. You’ll understand. Formalities.’
‘Of course.’
‘You work at the university, Dr Calvert? Miss Marsh was a student there. On the post-graduate education course. You’re sure you didn’t know her?’
‘What did she take for her first degree?’
‘English. She did that at Newcastle too.’
‘However, I never met her, Inspector. My subject is botany. Our paths never crossed. I’m afraid it must be a coincidence. Her teaching our son, enquiring about accommodation and then our stumbling across her like that on the shore.’
A random occurrence, Felicity thought. Like sea watching. Like birds flying past just when you’re there to see them. Except, of course, it wasn’t chance which connected the birders and the birds, as Peter had described it in the watch tower the night before. They took steps to make sure they were there at the right time. They listened to the shipping forecast every night to hear which way the wind was blowing. They consulted tide tables.
‘The girl was murdered,’ Vera said suddenly. ‘Strangled. But you know that already. I told you last night. Something that elaborate, staged, you’d think it’d be easy to find out who did it. They’d leave traces. A jilted lover, maybe.’ She paused. ‘Jilted. That’s an old-fashioned kind of word. And it seemed like an old-fashioned sort of crime, at first. Something from a gentler age. Looked peaceful, didn’t she, lying there. The flowers. But there was nothing peaceful about her dying. I can’t believe she wanted to go.’
Felicity felt tears in her eyes. As if, somehow, she was being held responsible. She was pleased that Peter seemed moved too, that he kept quiet.
The detective continued. ‘And there are other complications. There was another victim. A lad was killed two days earlier. Name of Luke Armstrong.’ She looked at them both. ‘Are you sure you don’t know the name?’
‘You mentioned him before,’ Felicity said. ‘And I saw it on the local news. He came from Seaton.’
‘What I didn’t tell you was that he was put in a bath. Covered with flowers. Like I said last night, it could hinder our investigation if something like that became common knowledge. But you do see what I’m saying. It’s not simple any more. A jilted lover isn’t goin
g to kill a sixteen-year-old boy as a sort of practice run. Why take the risk? Far too elaborate. I’m looking for links here. The mother’s name is Julie. Julie Armstrong.’
‘Wasn’t that woman Gary was raving about called Julie?’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth Felicity regretted them. It was such a stupid thing to say. Why point the inspector in the direction of Gary, who wouldn’t hurt a fly? She could feel Peter glaring at her and tried to rescue the situation. ‘I mean, it’s a really common name. I’m sure it doesn’t mean…’
‘Why don’t you tell me anyway, pet?’
‘He met this woman, that’s all. Some gig he was doing the sound for. A local band in a pub in North Shields. That place with the view over the river. Bumped into her in the bar after. They got talking and found out they’d been to school together. You know how it is.’
‘I’m not sure I do. Why don’t you explain?’
‘He talks a big game, Gary. I mean, to hear him, you’d think he had women all over the country. But since his fiancée left him, I don’t think he’s had a real girlfriend. He loved Emily, really loved her. When she went off with someone else, he was devastated. I just got the impression that he clicked with this Julie. He hoped to meet her again.’
‘Did he say any more about her? Like whether she had kids?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What about you, Dr Calvert? Did he talk to you about this woman?’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. It’s not really the sort of thing men talk about.’
‘Isn’t it?’ As if she was genuinely surprised. ‘Well, I can ask Gary about it, can’t I? Get it straight from the horse’s mouth.’
Felicity thought that the ordeal was over then. Vera Stanhope licked her finger, swept up the remaining pieces of scone from her plate, drained her teacup.
‘What were you both doing on Wednesday night? Late. Between ten and midnight.’
Felicity looked at Peter, waiting for him to answer first.