by Ann Cleeves
Surprisingly, though, the locals loved the place. It was somewhere to meet. Young mums gathered there after dropping kids at nursery, and teenagers dropped in on their way back from school and imagined they were sophisticated. That afternoon it was like a scene from an arty European movie. Steve’s unemployed mates were in, looking dark and brooding, chainsmoking, posing until the lasses from Ashington College arrived back on the bus. Farrier and I moved outside. There were a few rickety garden tables and chairs on the square; he stuck out umbrellas when the wind wasn’t so strong. The sun had come out. Farrier had paid for the coffee. He’d asked for a receipt. I supposed he’d claim it back as informant expenses. I didn’t like the idea of that. Hated the thought of grassing.
‘So this is informal?’ I said.
‘Confidential. The information you give will never be traced back to you.’
‘What did Thomas write in his letter to Shona Murray?’
‘You can’t expect me to tell you that. It’s confidential too.’
‘No deal, then.’
We faced up to each other across the table. A couple of gulls were fighting over some discarded chips on the other side of the square.
‘I need,’ I went on, ‘a gesture of good faith. You must be able to understand that. I know some of it. I know he was intending to become a whistle-blower.’
‘You know most of it, then.’
‘Who was he going to shop?’
Farrier shrugged, as if to say that I’d won and much good may it do me. ‘He didn’t give Ms Murray any details. Honestly. Nothing useful. He said he suspected “a prominent member of the community” of breaking the law. Before he gave her evidence he wanted an assurance that his position would be protected.’
‘What position? His position at work?’
‘I don’t know. Really, Lizzie. Why else would I be here, grovelling to you?’
He was hardly grovelling, but he seemed genuinely frustrated by the lack of information. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth about Thomas’s letter to Shona, but I’d probably had all he was prepared to give.
‘Have you got anything on Harry Pool?’
‘He’s no criminal record.’
‘That’s not what I asked. You must have done some checking. Whistle-blowing implies work, doesn’t it?’
He wiped a smear of foaming milk from his top lip before saying cagily, ‘We haven’t turned up anything significant.’
‘He lives in a bloody big house,’ I said. ‘Even for someone with his own business. Especially when hauliers are supposed to be going bust because of the high fuel charges.’
‘Have you been to see him too?’
I nodded.
‘And?’
‘He didn’t admit to stabbing Thomas to death, if that’s what you’re asking. He makes a big effort to come over all law-abiding and respectable. Condemning the fuel protesters. Standing up for the other members of his trade body. All that.’
‘But?’
‘Dunno if there are any buts. Maybe he’s really a nice guy.’ I paused. ‘Did you know that he’d fallen out with Thomas, a month or so before the murder?’
‘No. Who told you that?’
I paused again. ‘Marcus Tate.’
‘Did you talk to him at the funeral, then?’
‘Everyone went to the pub afterwards.’ That was true, wasn’t it? I still didn’t want to give too much away. ‘You should have come.’
‘I wasn’t invited. What else did Marcus tell you?’
‘Not much.’ I remembered the notes I’d made in Sea View at the kitchen table, could see the spidery writing. ‘That Thomas saw his voluntary work for the Countryside Consortium as a crusade.’
‘He was young,’ Farrier said. ‘Everything’s black and white at that age.’
I would have liked to ask him what he’d been passionate about as a kid. Instead I said, ‘What do you know about the Countryside Consortium?’
‘Not much. It’s a pressure group for the countryside, isn’t it? Pulled together after foot and mouth. Landowners working to limit rights of way, small businessmen, people interested in field sports. It started in the north but now it’s a nationwide thing. There was a rally at Westminster not long ago. Huge numbers turned out. They’re talking about putting up candidates for parliamentary by-elections.’
‘Ronnie Laing is a supporter.’
‘I suppose that’s how Tom Mariner got involved, then.’
‘No. That’s what’s so weird. Tom hated his stepfather.’
‘I should go,’ Farrier said suddenly. Perhaps his wife would have his tea on the table. Perhaps he had an appointment with the thin-lipped Sergeant Miles. I didn’t care.
‘Have you been to Wintrylaw, talked to Joanna?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand why Philip asked me to find Thomas. He and Ronnie Laing were friends. He must have known about a stepson.’
‘Na. Not if they were the sort of friends who only had an interest in common. We’re not like women. We don’t share our life stories over the first pint.’
He looked at his watch. I didn’t want him to leave.
‘Aren’t you interested in what else Marcus told me?’
‘Sure.’ Being polite, playing the game.
‘Thomas was devastated when his girlfriend dumped him but he was convinced he’d get her back.’
‘Was he?’ At least there was a spark of surprise. ‘I interviewed Miss Ravendale. A very tough young lady. She didn’t strike me as someone who’d change her mind. Hasn’t she got a new boyfriend? You were sitting next to them at the funeral.’
‘Dan Meech. I was at college with him.’
‘Were you now? Neither of them was very forthcoming with me. They don’t like the police. Fascist pigs. They didn’t quite say so. Well brought up. Manners. But they made it clear.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you likely to see them again?’
‘No plans to.’
‘Might be useful to know why Thomas was so sure they’d get back together. Was she seeing him, do you think, behind Dan’s back?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that would be her style.’
‘If you do get anything out of her, you’ll let me know?’ Then he stood up, without waiting for an answer.
We walked back along the sea wall. The fisherman were still there, but the little girl and her father had gone.
Just before we got to Sea View I said, ‘I was with Marcus Tate the evening before he died.’
Dumb, I know. Perhaps I just wanted Farrier to take more notice of me. It didn’t work at first. He didn’t even stop walking.
‘You said. You all went to the pub.’
‘After that.’
Then he did stop. ‘What happened?’
‘I was pissed. He took me back to the house in Seaton Delaval. Later, he drove me home. It was eleven, eleven-thirty. He wasn’t drunk. There was no way he drove that car over the bridge. Not then.’
He didn’t say anything. He just stared, and it was like he was trying to get his head round the facts, trying to make sense of it.
‘I suppose you want me to make a statement.’
‘No. Never mind that yet. Does anyone else know you were there?’
I shook my head.
‘Don’t tell anyone, Lizzie. Promise. And forget what I said about Nell Ravendale. Just keep your head down. Go away for a while. I don’t want any nasty accidents happening to you.’
He touched my arm lightly and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Farrier was being kind when he suggested that I leave Newbiggin for a few days and I should have taken his advice. But isn’t kindness the biggest turn-on in the world? His concern for me surprised and touched me and I didn’t want to run away. His casual suggestion that I might speak to Nell took on an importance that he hadn’t intended. I felt I’d be doing him an enormous favour. It would please him. I imagined him throwing his arms around me in a hug, spontaneous and father-like. Those were the
pictures I was running in my head. Pathetic, huh?
I was still taking the pills. I don’t want you to think I was delusional. Not at that stage. But stress is a factor and Marcus Tate’s death, his face pressed against the windscreen as the shiny new car fell towards the River Wansbeck, haunted me. I told myself that he would have been unconscious by then, but I pictured him fighting to free himself. Nicky always seemed to be lurking at the back of my mind too at that time. The flashbacks were occurring more frequently, taking me unawares during the day as well as at night. It was better to imagine Farrier, scruffy and safe in his ill-fitting jeans, telling me how brave and clever I was. Those thoughts kept the nightmares at bay.
So I phoned Dan.
‘Hi,’ I said. I’d got hold of him first try in Absalom House. ‘How’re things?’
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Ellen’s even more manic than usual and Nell’s still into this guilt thing about Thomas. I think there’s stuff she’s not telling me.’
‘It must be hard for her.’
‘Yeah.’ I expected him to go on to say it was hard for him too, but he showed uncharacteristic restraint.
‘Do you think it would help her to talk to me about it?’
Social work training’s brilliant. It gives you a cliché for every occasion and the bottle to deliver it straight. He took the question seriously. Perhaps he was thinking that if he could persuade Nell to talk to me it might stop her whingeing at him. But perhaps I was being hard on him.
‘It might,’ he said at last.
‘Maybe we could meet up for a drink sometime.’ I was careful not to be too pushy. Much better if he thought the suggestion had come from him.
‘You doing anything tonight?’ he asked.
‘Nothing important.’
‘I’m running a session for an after-school club at Acting Out. Nell’s going to help. You could meet us there. Sevenish?’
I said that sevenish would be fine.
Acting Out operated from a small community arts centre in North Shields. Once it had been a church and I remembered it still had that religious smell of damp prayer books and old ladies’ clothes. I’d been there a few times before. Dan had first become involved with the group when he was a student and he’d dragged me along to watch him in performance or prancing around with a load of kids. It was where we’d first had sex. I wondered if he remembered the occasion or if I was just one in a string of conquests, and we’d all become blurred in his memory. I suspected that Nell would stand out.
I still remembered it in detail. He’d been helping to rehearse a bunch of older kids for some musical they were doing and by the time it was over it was late. I was bored and wondering how I was going to get back to Newbiggin. They trooped off to the pub to catch last orders, expecting that we’d follow them, but we didn’t. Someone had been sorting through a pile of junk, looking for costumes, and we ended up on that. Perhaps that’s where the smell of musty clothing in my memory came from. The tangle of velvet skirts and threadbare woollens protected our knees and elbows from the wooden floor.
Inside the building hadn’t changed much. The kids were just leaving when I got there, yelling and swearing as they barged out through the double arched door. No one stopped to let me in. I wanted to shout a lecture about manners, but at their age I’d have been just the same. In the lobby posters advertised forthcoming events: a local blues band, a folk festival, Acting Out’s summer play for kids. There were photos to go with that. Dan looked sinister in a top hat, false moustache and long, black cloak. Like an old-fashioned undertaker, I thought, though I’m sure that wasn’t what was intended. The play had a green theme and his character was called Professor Pollution.
As I took a flyer on the folk festival to give to Ray and earn some brownie points from Jess, I saw another poster. It caught my eye because there was a picture of Wintrylaw in the background, faded and slightly out of focus as though seen through a sea mist. The print was bold against it. Country Delights. An evening of music and poetry. Hosted by the Countryside Consortium at Wintrylaw House. I made a note of the date.
Dan and Nell were perched on the stage in the main hall. The house lights were off and they were lit by a green spot which made them look like aliens. Someone was in the lighting box running a technical test, but Dan had nothing to do with it. He was talking to Nell. From the back I couldn’t hear what they were saying. They were frozen in the green light, turned towards each other. The setting made the contact seem dramatic and intense, but the conversation could have been aimless, banal. All I could tell was that there was nothing funny. Neither was laughing. When the door swung to behind me with a bang they stopped. The hall was still dark and they couldn’t see who’d come in.
‘Hi, Lizzie!’ Dan called. ‘Is that you?’
I walked to the front to join them.
‘What are you doing here?’ Nell asked. Direct but not unfriendly.
‘Dan suggested we meet up for a drink.’
I was surprised. I’d thought he’d have prepared her. She looked at him and seemed to guess what I was thinking, then smiled. It was as if she was letting him off the hook. He hadn’t had the guts to tell her he’d set up the meeting, but she understood.
‘I’ve got to lock up,’ he said quickly. ‘You two go on. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Dan’s pissed off because I can’t stop talking about Thomas,’ Nell said.
‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk about him too.’
She jumped down from the stage. ‘We’ll be at Connie’s.’
He nodded, as if that was what he’d been expecting.
Dan’s usual taste in pubs was basic. He liked drinking holes, street-corner places where the same elderly men sat over their pints of mild and the only food available was a dusty bag of pork scratchings or a jar of cockles. Connie’s was different. It was a café-bar on the fish quay, part of a big building which had once been a chandler’s. It had slowly whirring ceiling fans and a jungle of plants in pots, a lot of bamboo and pale wood. Connie’s had tables outside but Nell led me in. It reminded me of the place in Morpeth where Joanna had held her exhibition, not in the style of the décor but the clientele. It was the sort of place where I felt intimidated by the smart clothes and the knowing voices. But Nell acted as if she owned it. Seventeen and so cool.
‘Have you been here before?’
I shook my head. A kind of admission that I didn’t move in the right circles or know the right people.
‘Connie’s Thai. Fat Sammy had the place before. It was OK. Nothing special. Then he went on holiday and brought her back. Bought her, according to rumour. Thought she’d be a nice, subservient, Oriental wife. Stay in the background, wash up, clean, save on staff costs. But it didn’t work out like that. She took over, introduced her own menu. She bullies him.’ She leaned against the bar. ‘We’d better have a bottle, hadn’t we?’
‘I’m driving. I’ll only want a glass.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s not so much choice by the glass.’
‘White and cold, it’ll be fine for me.’
We sat by the window. Nell chose the table. Perhaps she wanted warning of Dan’s approach. Perhaps she just wanted to enjoy the view.
‘I can’t get Thomas out of my head,’ she said. ‘My parents talk about counselling.’
‘It might help.’
‘I think it’s normal to think about him,’ she said. ‘Someone you’ve cared about dies as violently as that, you’re going to be upset. It would be stranger to forget.’
‘Did you still care about him?’
‘Of course.’
‘But enough to go out with him again?’
She looked at me. There was a crust of green paint just above her eyebrow, like a toad’s wart. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Were you still seeing him? Sleeping with him? Even after you were going out with Dan.’
She stared at me as if I were a monster. Kids can be such prudes. I’ve noticed it before. It’s the middle-a
ged who have affairs and screw around. Kids are intense. They take fidelity seriously. They talk about love as if it means something.
‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’
From behind the counter came the sound of orders barked in broken English, the crash of crockery.
‘Why did you dump him? Was it just because you’d met Dan?’
‘No.’ She paused, sorting out her thoughts and her words. ‘He was all drama and mystery. It was impossible to tell what was real.’
‘So you never led him to believe that you’d go out with him again?’
‘What is this about?’ She was imperious. Again I was astounded by her confidence. Perhaps it was having parents who believed she was a creative genius, a boyfriend who worshipped her. But I had the feeling that even with all that I’d never have faith in myself. Not as she did.
‘You wanted to talk about Thomas. I’m talking. Did you ever have any second thoughts about dumping him?’
‘Not really.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that if I’d known he was going to die horribly and suddenly like that, I wouldn’t have left him. I’d have hung on for a few months. It would have made life much easier. I’d have got more sympathy, wouldn’t I? Instead people don’t expect me to care. They put me down as cruel and hard-hearted.’ She looked suddenly wretched. ‘I do care, you know. But it wouldn’t have worked out between us.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A couple of weeks before he died.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was waiting for me outside school. I was late getting out. There’d been an English exam. Shakespeare. And afterwards we were talking with the teachers. The usual post-mortem. He was there, waiting. Patient. He could have been there all day, and I had the feeling that if I hadn’t come out then, he’d have waited until the morning to catch me on my way back in. I knew it was me he was there for. I could tell by his face when he saw me walk out of the gate. But I said, “Hey. What are you doing here?” Friendly but casual. I didn’t want to encourage him. “Why aren’t you at work?”’