by Ann Cleeves
‘Sorry?’
‘Ronnie knew that Thomas had moved in to help with the rent. I told him. Not long before Thomas died. I felt really bad about it afterwards, because Thomas hadn’t wanted anyone to know he was here. It was a big thing for him. He’d almost sworn me to secrecy. The typical grand gesture that he really liked.’
‘What happened?’
‘There was a CC pro-hunting rally in town. By the Monument. I wasn’t taking part. I don’t actually believe in hunting. I went out with my stepmother a couple of times and couldn’t see the point. And now I’m not working for them . . . But I was in town anyway and I watched from the pavement with everyone else. Ronnie was in there, taking it all really seriously. I mean he was marching, head up, not shuffling along like the rest of them. He saw me, recognized me as a mate of Thomas’s. He came over and asked if I’d seen anything of him lately. I told him I’d asked Thomas to move in.’
‘Why did you tell him? If Thomas had told you not to?’ I can’t stand a grass.
Marcus looked awkward. ‘It’s hard to say no to Ronnie Laing.’ I thought that was just an excuse but I didn’t say anything.
‘When was that? Exactly?’
‘I don’t know. A week or so before Thomas died.’
‘Ronnie didn’t say anything to Thomas’s mother.’ I remembered how Kay had looked when she scribbled her work number on a scrap of paper, asking me to let her have news of her son. And she’d given me the hostel address. She hadn’t known he’d moved on. I told myself that Ronnie was trying to protect his wife from anxiety. She’d think Thomas was safe if he was in Absalom House.
‘He didn’t like having Thomas around,’ Marcus said. ‘I can understand it in a way. He could be a pain and Ronnie likes a quiet life. You know, needs his own space.’ Suddenly it seemed Marcus knew more about Ronnie than he’d originally let on.
‘Why’s that?’
But Marcus just shrugged. He wasn’t going to give anything more away about Ronnie.
‘Tell me about Thomas.’
‘He tried too hard. It was like he could never relax. He had to be entertaining, playing to the crowd, making sure people liked him.’
‘Exhausting,’ I said.
‘Yeah, for him and for us. I think that’s why Nell dumped him. He wore her out.’
‘How did he take that?’
‘He was absolutely sure he’d get her back.’
We looked at each other. We both understood the folly of his certainty, both felt sad that we’d never get a chance to be proved wrong.
‘What were you doing at Wintrylaw that weekend? Why help the Consortium if you don’t believe in what it stands for and you don’t work for them any more?’
‘I believe some of it.’ He was defensive. ‘Anyway, they were paying. A percentage for every member I joined up.’
‘That’s why you were so keen to recruit me?’
‘Of course.’ He gave a smile which was arrogant and disarming all at once. ‘Why else?’ He stood up. I watched him carry the plates into the kitchen and stack them neatly beside the sink. He called through the open door, ‘Coffee?’
‘Why not?’ I thought perhaps I should offer to wash up, but I still wasn’t sure I could stand without the dizziness coming back. And he’d brought me here, hadn’t he? I was his guest. He filled a machine with water, spooned coffee into a filter paper and switched it on. The smell of coffee dripping into the jug helped clear my head.
I asked, ‘Did Thomas ever talk about his work at the haulage yard?’
‘Not much. It wasn’t like a vocation, was it? He was there for the pay cheque, like me at the Consortium.’
‘Did he seem worried by anything that was going on there?’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘I’m not sure. Health and safety issues? Drivers working too long without a break? Lorries not being properly serviced?’ Red diesel? Green diesel?
What else would have made him talk to Shona Murray about whistle-blowing?
‘There’d been something going on between him and his boss.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘I don’t know. A row. A misunderstanding. At one point Thomas talked about leaving. I told you he was a dreamer. He was going on about setting up in business on his own. Then it all seemed to blow over.’
‘You’ve really no idea what it was about?’
Marcus didn’t answer. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said. He brought in the Pyrex coffee jug and two mugs and put them on the carpet between us. ‘I mean, what has it got to do with you?’
He seemed very young and unformed standing there, looking down at me. He’d experienced so little I thought there was nothing for me to get to know. A pretty face. Perhaps that’s why I was tempted to confide in him. He couldn’t understand what I’d been through, so it didn’t matter. It was almost like talking to myself.
‘I’m interested,’ I said. ‘I try not to be, but I can’t help it. The police had me down as the killer for a few days. They almost had me convinced I’d done it. I suppose I think I’ve got a right to know what happened.’
‘You should let it go,’ he said roughly.
‘What do you know about it?’
‘Nothing. But if you don’t it’ll become an obsession. No one can live like that.’
I thought, What can you know about obsession? What can you know about anything with your sheltered life, and your riding, and your daddy who has enough money to buy you a house and clean away the remains of your murdered friend?
Then I thought I was being unfair. I stretched out and poured the coffee. He took a mug and sat down. The question I’d failed to ask earlier came into my mind. ‘Is Joanna Samson one of the Consortium’s supporters?’
‘She’s the patron.’
‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged. ‘She’s a well-known photographer. She lets them put her name on the letter heading, holds fund-raisers, garden parties.’
Like the queen, I thought. She’d enjoy that.
‘Do you know her?’ he asked.
‘I knew her husband.’ Just saying that made me feel good.
He leaned down and poured more coffee. The mugs were matching, white with royal-blue bands.
‘Have you ever heard of Stuart Howdon?’ I asked. ‘Is he involved too?’
He twisted the mug, his long fingers splayed across the rim, moving it backwards and forwards over the carpet. ‘I’ve told you. You should let it go.’
‘Do you know who killed Thomas?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘Perhaps I fall for older women. Something to do with my mother having walked out when I was so young.’ I could tell he regretted the flip remark as soon as it had shot out of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused a beat. ‘You were drunk. You wouldn’t tell me where you lived. I didn’t want you driving.’ He broke off again, this time for longer. ‘Honestly. I told you, this is my first day back. I couldn’t face coming back here alone after the funeral.’
‘Is there anywhere else you can go? Or I could probably stay tonight, if you like.’
He shook his head. ‘It was just then, coming in through the door. Knowing he wouldn’t be here. It’s not that we were close. Not specially. Not any more. But we’d been friends for a long time.’ He stood up. ‘I’m OK to drive. I’ll take you home.’
I let him, though nobody else connected to Thomas’s murder, except Dan, who for some reason didn’t seem to count, knew I lived in Newbiggin. I made Marcus park at the church and said I’d walk from there. It wasn’t raining but way out to sea there was a storm; a crack of lightning lit the horizon. He’d got out of the car to say goodbye, opened the passenger door to let me out. The perfect gentleman. I had the impression there was something more he wanted to say, but he just stood awkwardly, next to the open door. I pulled his head towards me and kissed his forehead, then his lips lightly. I suppose I was still drunk, but it seemed the right th
ing to do.
Chapter Twenty-five
That night Marcus died. An accident apparently.
I found out about it the next day. I’d gone to Whitley to collect my car from outside Nell’s house. On the way there on the bus I’d noticed the inside lane of the Spine Road was closed, but I’d put it down to bridge repairs. There have been roadworks along that stretch for as long as I can remember. Back at Sea View Jess was cooking chilli; you could smell it from the yard, and hear her singing through the open window, so I knew Ray would be there. Chilli’s his favourite and Jess only sings when she’s content. They asked me to eat with them and I said that I would because I like chilli too. As I’ve said before, I’ve got no pride.
She grinned at me, pleased that we’d be playing happy families. ‘It’ll be ten minutes. I’ve got the rice on.’
It would be brown rice. Ray was a health freak and brought it from the wholefood place on Gosforth High Street.
I wandered through to the living room and flicked the local news on the telly. There was a new lass reading the headlines. Young. Bonny. Blond, short hair. I was going to call through to Jess to ask what had happened to the old bald guy who used to do it, when a photograph of Marcus came up onto the screen. He was wearing a white V-necked jersey and looked as if he’d been playing cricket or tennis. I stood there staring at him while she described the accident. He’d driven his car off the bridge on the Spine Road, the high bridge which crosses the River Wansbeck, just before it runs into the sea.
Then Marcus left the screen and there was a shot of his car, hardly recognizable, on the side of the river bank. The incident must have taken place in the early hours of the morning, the reporter said. There were no witnesses. Then she went on to describe the visit of the Princess Royal to a nursery school in Alnwick and Jess called me through for my tea.
What I felt first was a terrible sense of loss. It was entirely selfish. Marcus might have become a friend and now I wouldn’t have the chance to know him better. At that point I didn’t consider his death objectively. It didn’t hit me then that, coming so soon after Thomas’s, it might be more than a terrible coincidence. I didn’t feel in danger myself.
I didn’t mention the accident to Jess and Ray. I didn’t want to talk about it. The next day there were more details in the Journal. The paper had made the link between Marcus and Tom and talked about a tragedy. But the implication was that it had been Marcus’s fault. The tone of the report was sanctimonious. Blood tests showed a high alcohol level. It was understandable that he’d been drinking on the night of his friend’s funeral, but reckless. Someone else could have been killed.
I couldn’t take it in. Nothing seemed to fit. I’d left Marcus at eleven-thirty and there were plenty of cars on the Spine Road then. He’d been drinking earlier in the day, but not as heavily as the rest of us and he’d stopped six hours before. He’d had nothing with me in the house in Delaval. His driving when he’d taken me home had been anything but reckless. He had a new car, properly new, not like mine, another present from Daddy, and he was being very cautious. No way would he have been speeding. Then the old fear came back. Perhaps I wasn’t remembering it properly. Perhaps the confusion was mine. More paranoia.
I was tempted to go to Farrier. I could have explained that Marcus was fine when he left me. But that wouldn’t have explained the alcohol level in his blood. Where had he been? It had been too late for the pub when he left me. Besides, I didn’t want to tell the inspector that I’d been with Marcus just before he died. I could picture him raising his eyebrows and giving me his kind, fatherly look. What is it with you and young lads, Lizzie Bartholomew? You’re the kiss of death to them. I wouldn’t have blamed him. If I’d have been a detective it’d have me suspicious. Besides, all my instincts told me it was crazy to get mixed up voluntarily with the police.
So for two days I sat in Sea View and brooded about it. As Marcus had said, I was given to obsession, even in my well-behaved medication-taking days. If not an accident, then suicide or murder. Suicide because he’d been responsible for Thomas’s death? Or murder because he knew too much about it? I sat at the kitchen table and wrote notes. My writing was very small and cramped, not my usual style at all. I recorded my conversation with Marcus, word for word, as best I could remember it. There’d been a row with Harry Pool, Ronnie Laing had known that Thomas was living with Marcus but hadn’t passed on the information to Kay, Tom had seen his work at the Countryside Consortium as a crusade. Was there anything else? Anything I’d missed?
Jess hovered around me at this time, brewing tea and feeding me home-made cake, growing more concerned. On the third day she brought herself to speak. ‘You should get out, pet. I’m no company for you. Go and spend some time with your friends. What about that nice lad who brought you the flowers?’
She meant Dan. I presumed he’d still be working in Absalom House. With Ellen. Like a shock, I remembered the conversation we’d had in the pub on the afternoon of Thomas’s funeral. ‘He was troubled,’ Ellen had said, as she gripped my arm. Perhaps he’d talked to her, given her more than the few hints he’d dropped to Marcus Tate.
She answered the phone herself when I rang the hostel.
‘It’s Lizzie Bartholomew,’ I said. ‘I wondered if I might come and talk to you. As we agreed.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The same double hiss which was a habit of speech, almost a nervous tic. ‘As soon as you like. Whenever you can.’
‘Can I buy you lunch somewhere? It might be easier to talk away from Absalom House.’ There’d be fewer interruptions, I thought. No one to overhear. No Dan to stir up memories.
She suggested a coffee shop in Cullercoats, not far from the sea front. We arranged to meet at twelve; she had a meeting in the afternoon. I offered to postpone to a more convenient day but she was insistent. ‘Today,’ she said. ‘I want to meet today.’ When I replaced the receiver I felt lighter, as if a terrible headache had begun to clear. Relief, perhaps, at being able to walk away from my writing. Jess watched me leave the house with a mixture of anxiety and pride, like a mother sending her child to school for the first time. She was pleased I’d taken her advice but not sure I was fit to be let out alone.
Ellen was already there when I arrived. I saw her hair from the street. She was at a table in the bay window and seemed lost in thought. She didn’t notice me until I joined her. It was one of those places where all the staff and most of the customers are over fifty. Restful, but irritating if you’re in a hurry. We ordered coffee and sandwiches and then we were left alone for twenty minutes to talk.
‘You said that Thomas was troubled. What did you mean?’ I had a notebook and pen. It wasn’t just that I wanted to look the part. I didn’t want to take any chances with my memory.
‘I’m not sure this should go into the article,’ she said. ‘Not specific details. It wouldn’t be fair. To him or his family.’
‘Off the record, then.’ I said, closing the notebook.
‘Thomas came to me for advice,’ Ellen said. ‘He was concerned that our conversation should be confidential. I haven’t been to the police. It hardly seems relevant to his death. But it makes a general point which I’d like you to put in your piece. It shows what a responsibility parents have for their children, even when they’re older. It shows how careful we have to be. How thoughtful. We can’t take them for granted.’
I wondered again about her own son. What had she done to drive him onto the streets. Probably nothing. Nothing terrible. But she’d felt guilty for thirty years.
‘I wouldn’t submit anything without showing you first.’
‘He didn’t get on with his stepfather.’
So, I thought, tell me something I don’t know.
‘I had gathered that.’ I said it gently, though. Social work had taught me patience. People have to tell their stories in their own ways.
Ellen took a packet of cigarettes from her bag. She set it on the table and looked at it. ‘It made him fantasize about his natural father
. Who he might be. Thomas had got it into his head that it might be a man of some importance, some wealth. He was desperate to trace him.’
‘Had his mother never told him his father’s name?’
‘Never. All the time he was growing up, he was just told it was someone she’d worked with when she had a part-time job. The grandparents had been given the same story. According to Thomas, they’d assumed the father was a student too, but his mother wouldn’t even confirm that to him. Thomas couldn’t let it go. He pushed and pushed to know.’
‘Is that why she threw him out of the house?’
‘He believed that had something to do with it.’ Ellen paused as a flat-footed middle-aged woman approached. She was dressed in the sort of nylon overall I’d made Jess throw away. In slow motion she put a pot of coffee and two cups and saucers on the table, then walked off. Ellen watched until she was out of earshot and continued. ‘He felt it as a terrible injustice. He thought he had a right to know, that his father would want to meet him and his mother had deliberately kept them apart.’
‘Perhaps she was doing it to protect Thomas. If she knew the father wasn’t interested . . .’
‘Of course. I explained that. But he couldn’t accept it.’
I couldn’t accept it either. Philip had been thinking of Thomas before he died. He was a kind man. It might have been difficult for his wife and family, but he would have wanted to get to know the boy.
‘I think he’d guessed, or believed he’d guessed, the identity of his father,’ Ellen said. ‘He hinted as much just before he left Absalom House.’ I expected her to mention Marcus Tate’s death then, but she said nothing. Perhaps Thomas had never told her Marcus’s name, so the report of the accident meant nothing to her. Perhaps she hadn’t heard about it.
‘Did he tell you his father’s name?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He wanted to be sure before he told anyone. There was someone he needed to talk to, he said, to confirm it. And it wasn’t my place to pry.’
She broke off again as the waitress appeared with our food. Thoughts were tumbling into my head. I would have liked to write them down but Ellen would have been suspicious of that. Perhaps this was the explanation for Thomas’s interest in the Countryside Consortium. If someone had led him to believe that Philip was his father, he might have seen it as a way of getting close to the Samson family. Joanna’s name appeared on all the publicity material. It would be a big step to confront a stranger with the knowledge that you were his son. He might want to see something of the man first.