by Ann Cleeves
‘There it is.’ Clive, still bent over the telescope, spoke so quietly that only Gary could hear. ‘About four metres in from the fence, on the bare branch just below the top.’ And then Gary was on to it and it was filling his scope. He could see the inside of the bill when it began to call and the colour of its eye. Mind-blowing. Only the sixth British record and it was here in Deepden. Worth falling out of bed at six in the morning and the tension of the drive.
Around him other people had picked up his excitement and they were looking at it too. Then the bird disappeared behind the hedge again and they were all standing around grinning. Some people started wandering off, talking about bacon sandwiches and work. Clive remained focused, though, and when the bird reappeared, further away on a dead tree by the lane, he was the person to find it.
Peter Calvert was full of it. You’d have thought he’d found the bird himself.
‘Every year we get at least one British Birds rarity. A reserve this small. And when we started they all said we were wasting our time.’ Gary thought with amusement that he was still claiming credit for something that had happened forty years before. It didn’t bother him, but he could see why the man got up some people’s noses.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Peter said. ‘I’m giving a lecture this morning. Can’t disappoint my students. Are you coming, Clive? I can give you a lift into town.’
And though you could tell Clive would have liked a bit longer with the bird, he twisted the legs on his tripod and followed Peter to the car. Peter was still his hero. Gary thought he’d have run into a burning house if Peter had given the order. Outside in the lane cars were still arriving. One of the observatory committee was standing at the gate with a bucket, demanding money before he’d let people in.
Samuel and Gary went into the house. They were still paid-up observatory members, so no one could stop them. Once inside the door, Gary was taken back to the time when they’d been regulars. It still smelled of wood smoke in there, though it must have been months since the fire had been lit. Wood smoke and the waterproofing you rubbed into Barbour jackets and leather boots. They made tea, stole a couple of soft biscuits each from the tin in the cupboard and sat outside on the rusty wrought-iron chairs by the pond.
‘What did you make of that business on Friday night?’ Samuel asked.
It took Gary a moment to realize he was talking about the girl by the lighthouse. ‘That business’ seemed an odd way to describe the discovery of a body.
‘I don’t know. That detective turned up at my flat on Saturday. The big woman who was at Fox Mill. The lad who died in Seaton was Julie’s son. She was with me in town on Wednesday night, then she went home and found him. It must seem a strange coincidence, but she appeared to believe me when I said I didn’t know anything about the girl.’
Samuel took a moment to speak. Gary had read a couple of his stories. It always shocked him that Samuel, so good-humoured, so ordinary, could write stuff like that. Stuff that haunted you, so you’d wake up in the night with the pictures still in your head. It was impressive, but a bit scary.
‘You didn’t know Lily Marsh, did you?’ Samuel said at last.
‘No! I’d never seen her before.’
Samuel seemed pleased by the answer. ‘Perhaps we should start coming back here,’ he said. ‘Show them how it’s done.’
But Gary thought Deepden had too many memories for him, of how he’d nearly lost it when Emily had left him. He’d needed the place then and the three good friends who’d held him together. But now, he thought, it was time to move on. Although he didn’t have to be in the Sage until the afternoon, he told Samuel he had to get off to work. He went back into the house to drop off his mug, then he went to his van. The lane was so jammed with cars that it took him nearly half an hour to turn it round.
Chapter Twenty
It was Monday morning. Vera woke up as she always seemed to these days with a faint hangover, a sense that she hadn’t slept properly. Her window was open and her neighbours’ cockerel was drowning out every other sound, seemed to be living somewhere just behind her eyes. She realized she was an object of curiosity to the couple who owned the smallholding. They’d moved from the city and had made an effort to get on with her, had this ridiculous notion that country people had a wisdom about nature, saw it as almost mystical. Then they found out Vera was police and she could tell they thought they should disapprove. They’d gone on marches, saw the police as the enemy. Vera didn’t bother one way or the other. Except occasionally she dreamed about strangling the cockerel.
She shut the window and went to the kitchen to make tea, ignoring the pile of dirty plates in the sink. The first sip of tea and she was already engrossed in the case, her mind buzzing, the guilt about her drinking forgotten. The cockerel dismissed. This was what she was made for.
Today she was planning a trip to Newcastle, the big city. That was how she’d seen it when she was a girl and still thought of a visit to town as an adventure. She collected Joe Ashworth from home on her way through. She knew she wasn’t fit to be let loose on the academic world on her own. She was too loud and brash and she’d end up offending someone. Joe lived in a small estate on the edge of Kimmerston. He too had grown up in the city and this was all he’d ever dreamed of: a new house, professional neighbours, a family. His wife was pregnant again, nine months and uncomfortable. When Vera turned up she’d just emerged from bed, huge belly and swollen tits wrapped in a cotton dressing gown, bleary-eyed. Joe was giving his daughter breakfast to the background noise of Radio 2. The little girl sat in the high chair beaming, while Joe spooned in Ready Brek on a plastic spoon. More happy families, Vera thought. There was all that talk of family breakdown, but wherever she went there were people making a go of it. Making her feel inadequate and depressed.
She’d phoned Peter Calvert at home on Sunday night and made an appointment to meet him at the university. She wanted to see him away from his ideal home and his ideal wife. She used the flowers as an excuse. ‘It would be useful for us to know where they might have been collected. It will take time for the forensic people to release them. You saw them, at the second crime scene at least. It could give us a head start…’
And he’d been delighted to be asked. She could tell that. ‘I understand you’re an expert,’ she said and had almost heard him purring.
They arrived at the university a little early and he was at the end of a lecture. They stood at the back of the theatre, listening. Vera didn’t take in what he was saying, just watched him perform. She’d been sent on a course once. Body language. She tried to remember what the psychologist had said about it, but nothing of it came back to her. What she could tell now was that Peter Calvert liked the young women. There were a couple of pretty lasses sitting a couple of rows from the front. They wore frilled muslin skirts and lacy tops you could almost see through, and he seemed to be directing his words straight at them. When one of them asked a question he complimented her on making an intelligent point and gave a little frown, to show he was taking her seriously. But maybe all sixty-year-old men would be the same, Vera thought. No harm in looking, even if you did make a fool of yourself. She didn’t mind looking at young men, though she tried to be discreet.
Calvert still seemed to be in a good mood when he took them into his office. He fiddled with a filter coffee machine which stood on the window sill.
‘I can only offer you black, I’m afraid. I don’t take milk myself. Though I could probably borrow some from a colleague. You wanted to ask about the flowers.’
‘Informally,’ Vera said quickly. ‘Not as an expert witness. We’ll deal with that later if we need to. But speed is important at this point in an enquiry.’
‘Of course.’
‘You did see the flowers when your son found the body?’
‘Yes. I mean, my first priority was to move James away. He was upset enough as it was. Bad enough to come across something like that. Even worse when we found out he knew her. So I didn’t have time t
o study the blooms in detail, but of course I noticed them.’
‘What did you make of them?’
‘There seemed to be a mixture,’ he said. ‘Some wild flowers, the sort you’d find in a hay meadow. Poppies, ox-eye daisies, buttercups. The rest garden flowers. Perennials. I didn’t see anything exotic or unusual.’
‘Not the sort of thing you buy in a florist, then?’
‘Oh no. Nothing like that. Picked. And fairly recently. Or kept in fresh water. They hadn’t wilted. At least I don’t remember them looking dead or tired.’
‘Were there any you’d have in your own garden? I was thinking you could show us. We can look them up in a book, but it wouldn’t be the same. And it might trigger your memory.’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said easily. ‘You’d think I’d know, but Felicity is the gardener. You’re very welcome to come round and have a look. Any evening you like. We’re usually both in.’
‘And you’re absolutely certain you can’t tell us anything about Lily Marsh?’
‘Positive, Inspector. As you can see, this is a big community. Our paths never crossed.’
There was a knock at the door. A young man stuck his head round. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me sometime today, Dr Calvert. Is this a good time?’
‘Ah yes, Tim. Just give me a minute. If you’ve finished, Inspector… This close to the end of term everything’s pretty hectic. There are some students I have to see.’
Vera thought this was too convenient. She wouldn’t have put it past Peter Calvert to arrange the meeting with the student so the interview with the police didn’t drag on. That didn’t mean he had anything to hide, of course. He could just be an arrogant bastard who thought his time was too precious to waste on catching a killer. She smiled sweetly and led Ashworth out of the room.
Along the corridor there was an open-plan office where three middle-aged women sat in front of PCs. There were plants on the shelves, photos of grandchildren. They seemed to be having an intense conversation which had little to do with the university. Vera thought these might be people who enjoyed gossip as much as she did. She tapped on the open door and walked in, leaving Ashworth lurking outside. The room fell silent, but she thought they were curious, not hostile.
‘I wonder if you can help me. My name’s Vera Stanhope. I’m heading up the investigation into the murder of one of your students.’ That had them gripped, as she’d known it would. It would keep them talking through until the lunch break. ‘Dr Calvert’s been giving us some expert advice. He’s with a student and I don’t want to interrupt him. I was wondering if one of you looked after his diary. I need to check a couple of dates, see when he’s next free.’
A plump, motherly woman with grey hair waved her hand, like an excited child at the back of the class with the answer to a difficult question. ‘That’s me, for my sins. Marjorie. Marjorie Beckwith.’
Vera beamed. ‘He updates it on the PC, I presume.’
‘He’s supposed to,’ Marjorie said indulgently, ‘so the rest of the department knows what he’s up to, but he’s not one for following guidelines, I’m afraid.’ And she reached to a shelf behind her and handed a black, hard-back book to Vera. It was that easy. Vera took it to an empty table, sitting so she had her back to the room and flipped through the pages. The day of Luke’s death, Peter Calvert had attended a meeting of the department in the morning. At five o’clock he’d planned a tutorial with two students. There were no names, only initials. The entry had been scored through with two lines and someone had neatly written cancelled in the middle of them. The following Friday – the day of Lily’s murder – he had a lunch appointment. No name. Just 12.30-2.00 lunch out, unavailable. Presumably that was for Marjorie’s benefit. The rest of Friday was clear. Vera flipped back the pages. It seemed the lunch appointment was a regular feature.
‘I was thinking of meeting up with him on Friday afternoon,’ Vera said, turning the diary a week on, seeing the page was empty. ‘There’s nothing here. He doesn’t have a regular commitment? A lecture?’
‘Oh no,’ Marjorie said. ‘Dr Calvert never lectures on Fridays.’ She looked up, eager to help. ‘Shall I make you a provisional appointment?’
‘No thanks, pet. I’ll give him a ring later in the week if we need his assistance.’ Vera put the book back on the shelf, gave a little wave to the three women and returned to where Joe was still keeping watch in the corridor.
‘Well?’
‘He was free both afternoons. The Wednesday before Luke’s death and the Friday before Lily’s. He cancelled a tutorial at five o’clock on the Wednesday.’
‘So he had the opportunity,’ Ashworth said. ‘Along with fifty per cent of the population of the north east. But there was no motive. No connection, even. So far as we know he hadn’t ever met the victims.’
Vera was going to say she didn’t care. She didn’t like the man. But she couldn’t face a lecture from Ashworth about detachment and objectivity so she let it go.
Outside, it was still hot. There were students lying on the grass or sauntering into town in the shade of the Gothic buildings. They had more than an hour to kill before the next appointment and Vera had a sense of time passing, time wasted. She got on the phone to Kimmerston but there was no news. Holly had arranged to meet Lily’s flatmates later in the afternoon and Charlie was trying to prise information out of her bank. They had a news conference set up for the following day and local plods would be at the lighthouse in the afternoon to ask regular walkers if they’d seen anything. The press officer would take the news conference. Vera was pleased. Those occasions always made her feel like a performing bear. She switched off the phone.
‘Coffee,’ Ashworth said. ‘And a bun. I didn’t have time for breakfast.’ He could sense her frustration, knew food might calm her for a while. Vera thought he treated her as he did his daughter; he was distracting her before she threw a tantrum.
He sat her in the shade of an umbrella, on one of the seats set out on the pavement, while he went inside. The cafe was close to the university and seemed full of idle students. A couple of young women approached her table and she glared at them, hoping to frighten them off. Then she recognized them. They were the lasses from the lecture theatre, the ones Peter Calvert had been performing for.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘No problem. You’re welcome to join us. Let me move my bag.’
They looked at her uncertainly. As if she were a dangerous dog, she thought. Were the young taught any manners these days? Didn’t they know they should be polite to their elders? Then Ashworth turned up, all soft words and smiles, and she realized why she’d come to rely on him.
‘Let me buy you a coffee,’ he said. ‘You’re students, right? I remember what that’s like. Especially at the end of term when the loan’s run out.’
One of them laughed. ‘My loan disappeared a week after we started.’
‘I’ll get them,’ Vera said and she went inside to buy the extra drinks, leaving him to tell a story which would pull them in.
When she returned, carrying a tray, they were laughing, easy together. He could have been a student too, though she knew fine well that he’d never stepped foot inside a university.
They introduced themselves. Fancy southern names which she couldn’t remember five minutes after they’d told her. Camilla? Amelia? Jemima? It didn’t matter. Ashworth would have made a note of them.
‘This is Vera,’ Ashworth said. ‘My aunty.’
They sipped their frothy coffee and looked at him with pity. A duty day out, they thought. A treat for her birthday. Or maybe he was taking her to an outpatient appointment at the RVI. Vera gritted her teeth and let him get on with it.
‘So you do botany,’ he said. ‘A mate of mine did that a few years ago. What’s the lecturer called, the famous one? Calvin?’
‘Peter Calvert. He likes to think he’s famous but it’s years since he published anything.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘He’s a creep.
Like, he’s really old, but he still comes on to you.’
‘Yeah, and everyone knows he’s got a wife and four kids. I mean, you’d think someone in his position would have a bit more dignity. The whole department knows what he’s like. But some people play up to it. You know, flirt, in the hope of getting extra marks.’
‘Just flirt?’ Ashworth asked, keeping his voice light. Like he was cracking a joke.
‘God, you’d have to be really desperate to go any further. Can you imagine him touching you? God, you’d just throw up.’
‘There was that rumour,’ the other said. ‘You remember, at the beginning of the term. Someone saw him out in town with a much younger woman. It got round that he was having an affair with a student.’
‘Oh?’ Ashworth said. Not really interested. Just being polite. I’ve taught you well, Vera thought.
‘It was probably just a story,’ the student said. ‘No one got any details. And we tried hard enough to find out what was going on. I mean, it could have been anyone. His daughter, even. It certainly wasn’t one of us. Not a botanist.’
And they floated off to the sound of the bangles clinking on bare brown arms, soft twittering voices.
Chapter Twenty-One
Joe seemed happy to sit there in the sun, nursing his fancy coffee until it was time to meet Clive Stringer, but Vera was impatient and restless. ‘I’m going to see if I can track down Annie Slater, the woman who put up Lily’s flatmates the night she died. She was one of Lily’s tutors. And they lived in the same street. I’ll see you at the museum.’