by Ann Cleeves
As soon as I arrived I saw there was no danger of that. The house was in shadow but torches on the terrace and along the drive lit it up like a film set. There was a stage with a PA system on the lawn and people were already sitting on the grass. When I joined them I saw the revellers had grand picnics, hampers, champagne, but at that point they were backlit from the house and nothing more than dark, featureless shapes. I was stopped at the gate, as on my last visit, by the woman who’d been collecting the entrance fee for the summer fair. This time she seemed less embarrassed by the extortionate charges. She took my money and nodded me through, urging me to hurry because the event was about to start.
Joanna was waiting at the terrace steps to greet the last of her guests. She had reinvented herself again, this time as a character from Georgette Heyer. She wore white, something simple and high-waisted, with a muslin shawl across her shoulders. Her hair was up, apart from a few curls allowed to escape from a comb. I wasn’t sure if she’d recognize me but she did at once.
‘Lizzie,’ she said. ‘My dear. How kind of you to forgive us. Philip would be so pleased that you’ve decided to support us.’
The mention of Philip embarrassed me, which is probably what she intended. It reminded me that I had things to be forgiven for too, that I had nothing to feel superior about. She waved towards a table, probably the same trestles which had been brought out for the funeral. There were bowls of punch and the underage waitresses from the Alnwick catering firm were ladling it into glasses. ‘You should try some,’ Joanna said. ‘My own recipe. Delicious.’ I wanted to ask her if Dickon was around, but she’d already turned her attention to someone else. We were the latecomers and she was eager for the evening’s entertainment to begin.
The performance of music and poetry had been dreamt up as a fund-raiser, but the Consortium seemed to have turned it into a tribute to Thomas Mariner and Marcus Tate. It was almost as if they had become their first martyrs. I didn’t see Doreen, but if she’d been there she would have wept. I wondered if Joanna had anything to do with the boys featuring so prominently, or if, once it had been suggested, she felt she couldn’t disagree. She could hardly say to the organizers, Well, actually, this is a bit awkward, because Thomas was my husband’s illegitimate son. If she was bothered by the comments made about Thomas’s life she didn’t show it. I was watching her for most of the evening.
After the opening music – a selection of madrigals, I think, sung by a big amateur choir from Newcastle – Ronnie Laing made a speech. I’d expected him to be there, but I hadn’t expected him to take such a role. I’d have thought he’d have hated the attention. He climbed onto the stage and waited for the crowd to settle to silence before speaking. Perhaps it was because it was a sort of performance, but he spoke quite fluently and his stammer was hardly apparent. I looked round for Kay, but she wasn’t there to see how well he was doing. ‘I was surprised when I heard Thomas had joined the Consortium as a volunteer. We hadn’t discussed it beforehand. I suppose we’d reached a stage when we didn’t discuss much at all.’ He paused. There were sympathetic smiles. ‘But I was so pleased that he did. When he died it gave me something I could remember and be proud of. It made me feel I’d made a contribution to his life.’ The crowd got to its feet and cheered. Even I felt a bit emotional. It was only as he was being helped off the stage that I thought Joanna couldn’t have confided the name of Thomas’s real father to him. He couldn’t have put on a performance like that if he’d known Philip was Thomas’s dad. I was pleased. I hoped she’d always keep the secret. The information wasn’t really hers to share. Later, I think, there was a speech by Mr Tate, Marcus’s father, but by then I was watching proceedings from the house and I didn’t hear what was said.
My mind wandered as a third-year student from the performing arts course at Northumbria University read from John Clare. The light was fading quickly now and it was hard to make out any of the figures sitting on the grass, but when I turned back to the terrace I saw Stuart Howdon standing next to Joanna. He was whispering in her ear, so close that at one point he had to brush one of her stray curls away from his face. Joanna was looking out to the stage with an attentive smile. It was impossible to tell what she thought of what she was being told. When I looked back again, they’d gone.
There was an interval and the punch was brought out again, and dainty scraps of food which were more decorative than sustaining. I was glad I’d stopped at the chippie at Amble on the way. I’d thought Dickon and Flora might appear at this point, but there was no sign of them until I glanced up at the house and saw Dickon looking down out of a first-floor window. There was nothing wistful about his gaze – I could see clearly because there was a light in his room. He didn’t want to be with us. He despised us for putting ourselves through all this.
When everyone else was called back to the stage for the second part of the show I slipped into the house and ran up the big curving staircase. At every moment I expected to hear shouting, a demand to know what I was up to. Dickon’s room must be at the end of the house, as he was looking out of the last window. I walked quietly along a straight corridor with a threadbare carpet. I didn’t care so much about Joanna, but I didn’t want to meet Flora. I could picture her disdain in the face of my stumbling explanations. I hadn’t seen her in Dickon’s room. If she was there, out of view from the garden, he’d have to bail me out.
In fact he was alone in his room, and his door was open so I could see from the landing that I was safe. The television was on – an American hospital drama, with lots of shouting and blood – but he wasn’t watching it. He was still perched on the window-sill, looking out. I didn’t want to go into the room without invitation and just waited in the doorway until he noticed me. His face brightened and he zapped the telly off. I felt wonderfully flattered.
‘I’m waiting for the fireworks,’ he said, ‘but there’s an awful lot of boring stuff to go through first.’
I hovered outside still.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘It must be over soon and there’ll be a good view from here.’
‘Where’s Flora?’
‘She’s at her mate’s house. A sleepover. She says fireworks are for kids.’
So I sat beside him on the window-sill and looked down.
‘Your mother’s really good at this sort of thing.’ The thought just came into my head. A large woman was singing something classical I didn’t recognize. The audience had become a shadowy blur. The woman stopped, bowed, and there was good-natured clapping.
Dickon smiled. ‘Really good.’
‘I expect it’s because she’s a photographer. She can see the effect she wants in her head.’ Again I was speaking more to myself, but he was lapping up the praise on his mother’s behalf.
‘She’s brilliant at stories too,’ he said. ‘Though she doesn’t have so much time for those any more.’
‘It must be hard for her since your dad died.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I suppose.’
The students were back again, acting a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Phrases drifted up to us. The sash window was open at the top. It was the bit about the wild thyme and the sweet musk rose. A soporific dream seemed to have settled over the audience too. Dickon watched for a few minutes, then lost interest. He suggested showing me his skull and wing collection and pointed out a battered suitcase under his bed. I told him I’d rather wait until I had more time to concentrate properly and we stared out of the window again.
‘They were talking about you earlier,’ he said.
‘Who were? Was it your mother?’
‘No. Mr Howdon and Ronnie Laing.’
‘Oh?’ I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask what they’d said. And I thought Dickon would probably tell me anyway.
‘I didn’t hear much,’ he said regretfully. ‘They were in Daddy’s office while everyone else was helping to set things up. It’s not fair. Mr Howdon never helps.’
‘Too fat.’
‘Yeah.’ He ch
uckled and looked out of the window. I could have kicked myself for interrupting, but he continued, ‘Mr Howdon doesn’t like you much.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘What have you done to piss him off?’
‘Nothing. Not deliberately, anyway.’
‘He said you were a meddling cow.’
‘Not very nice.’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘He didn’t say cow. He said something worse.’
‘Definitely not very nice.’
‘He wants to give you money to keep your nose out of their affairs.’ That threw me a bit. I hadn’t been meddling in their affairs. Not since our ruck at the exhibition at least. I’d been more concerned with Harry Pool and Absalom House since then. Then I thought of course, Marjorie had told him about my visit to Warren Farm.
‘I don’t know what he’s talking about.’
‘Ronnie said that wouldn’t do any good. You weren’t the sort to be bought off.’
So Ronnie knew who I was. But how much did he know? Surely not that Philip had hired me to find Thomas? Or were they all involved? Was there some elaborate conspiracy after all?
‘Was Ronnie a friend of your dad’s?’
Dickon considered. Friendship wasn’t an idea to be taken lightly. ‘Dad was sorry for him. He said he’d had a bad time and he’d done really well to sort himself out. Most people would have gone under.’
‘What sort of bad time?’
‘Dunno. Never asked.’
‘Your dad was a magistrate, wasn’t he? Could he have met Ronnie in court?’
‘I’m not sure. He didn’t talk much about court. He said he wasn’t allowed.’ He pulled on my sleeve to attract my attention back to the scene outside. ‘Do you think the fireworks’ll start soon?’
‘What do you make of Ronnie Laing?’ I asked, because Dickon’s opinion was all I could get at the moment.
‘I think he’s OK. He helped me build a den in the wood. We had a campfire. And he came with me badger watching. Do you know you have to stick coloured cellophane over your torch to stop the light frightening the badgers away?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘You could come sometime. They haven’t got cubs any more but you can get really close . . .’
I interrupted. ‘Has Ronnie ever talked about his stepson, Tom?’
‘Has he got a son?’ That grabbed Dickon’s attention for a minute. ‘No, he never said. Perhaps he’ll bring him over to play.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. They’d have been brothers.
The show was coming to a close. All the performers got onto the stage to take a final bow. I wondered if Joanna would make a speech, but she was back at her place on the terrace next to Howdon. Dickon saw me looking at them.
‘She doesn’t like Mr Howdon,’ he said angrily. ‘Not in that way. She can’t do. I asked her why he’s always here these days and she said it was business.’
‘Do you know what sort of business?’ I asked, but the first of the fireworks were being let off and I knew I’d lost him.
‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘Bye.’
He didn’t look away from the garden. ‘See you.’
I took a scrap of paper from my bag and wrote down my phone numbers – Sea View, my mobile. ‘If you want a chat any time, give me a ring.’ It was for my benefit, not his. I couldn’t cope with the thought that I might not bump into him again. He took the paper from me and stuck it into his jeans pocket, his eyes still fixed on the coloured lights outside.
I sat with the crowd until the display was over. I didn’t want to have to make conversation with Joanna while Howdon was there. The state I was in, I’d only have confronted him and caused a scene. How much did you think you could pay me off with?
When the last rocket was fired over the sea, I pushed my way out towards my car. I hoped to be among the first to leave, but everyone else had the same idea and there was a crush of people heading for the car park. That’s when I saw Dan and Nell. They were some way in front of me, hand in hand as they always were. Nell was in a long silk skirt. Black or dark purple. I couldn’t really tell in the dark. But it was certainly them. There was no mistake about that. Their faces were caught in a car headlight and they looked stern and determined.
I told myself there was nothing sinister about their presence. Dan would still have contacts with the university. He mixed with an arty set. Probably some of their mates were acting and singing. But I wasn’t really convinced.
Chapter Thirty-three
The next morning I phoned Farrier, not thinking I’d get through to him, expecting to be fobbed off. But after I’d hung on for five minutes he came onto the line.
‘Lizzie?’ He sounded concerned, anxious even. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
There was a silence which implied, Well, why are you bothering me, then? I was suddenly awkward and tongue-tied. ‘Look, this is probably like teaching my grandfather to suck eggs . . .’
‘But?’
‘You would check if anyone close to Tom had a criminal record, wouldn’t you?’
‘Depends how close.’
‘Stepfather close.’
‘What makes you think Ronnie Laing has a criminal record?’ The tone was sharp. He didn’t sound anything like a friendly grandfather now.
‘Nothing specific. I mean really. I suppose it’s more a wild guess.’
‘You promised you’d keep out of it.’
‘I am! I have!’ Protesting too much. I didn’t like lying to him, but he seemed taken in by it.
‘Yes, we would check family members for past offending.’ He was humouring me, mock long-suffering. This time I used the silence.
‘Really, Lizzie, you can’t expect me to tell you.’
More silence.
‘OK, then, to put your mind at rest. Ronnie’s clean as a whistle. Never been charged. A model citizen.’
But a model citizen with a troubled past, I thought. Philip had told Dickon that, and I trusted Dickon’s memory and Philip’s judgement. What had happened to him? A family tragedy, mental breakdown, bankruptcy? There were two ways to find out. I could ask Ronnie Laing himself. Even to me that seemed unnecessarily foolhardy. Or I could ask his wife. I fished out the scrap of paper with her work number on it and dialled.
I’d expected Kay to be hostile, but she was almost embarrassingly eager to see me. ‘Come this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Straight after school. Three o’clock. It’s the last day of term, so there’ll be no meetings. Everyone will want to be away on time.’ The directions she gave were very precise and businesslike, but her voice was shaking.
The school was in Wallsend in a busy street not far from the town centre. Cranes from the shipyard towered above cramped houses. The building was redbrick Victorian and could once have been a workhouse. The kids came out a class at a time with their teachers. I don’t know if that was a regular thing, or if it was meant to give the parents a chance to say goodbye before the long holiday. Kay’s class was the last into the playground. She held a mucky little boy firmly by the hand and the other children filed out in a crocodile behind her. They were remarkably well behaved and even the parents seemed daunted by her. They collected the kids and kept their distance. But once the yard was empty, the bright professional smile disappeared. She looked ten years older and wretched.
I walked through the gate into the playground and was six years old again, thinking, Another school. Another routine to understand. More teachers to please. Then Kay saw me and I turned back into the adult. I was the one with the responsibility to make things right. She hurried over and took my hand impulsively. ‘Miss Bartholomew, it was good of you to contact me. Come in.’ I wasn’t sure the responsibility was something I was up to. She seemed to be expecting too much.
We talked in her classroom, perched on low tables. She hadn’t had a chance to clear up after the school day. There were still jam jars with paintbrushes on the bench, sand on the floor, piles of flash cards and library
books.
‘I’ll come in over the weekend to clear up,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can face it today.’ Usually, I could tell, she wouldn’t have dreamt of leaving it in a mess.
‘I was so sorry,’ I said. ‘About Thomas.’
‘You found him, the police said.’
I nodded, waited for her to lead the conversation. I was feeling my way here. Everything had to be at her pace.
‘Was it the first time you’d visited? Or had you managed to see him before?’
‘It was my first visit. I never met him.’ I was going to add ‘alive’, but that would have been crass.
‘Ah.’ She tried to control her disappointment. What had she hoped to get from me? Absolution? Don’t worry. Thomas forgave you for pushing him out of the house. He told me he loved you. He understood. Would that have helped? Anyway, it wasn’t something I was prepared to lie about.
‘I wish I’d done things differently,’ she said simply.
‘You’re not guilty. You didn’t kill him.’
‘But I feel as if I did.’ She paused. ‘It was my decision to ask him to leave, you know, not Ronnie’s.’ She seemed to be expecting me to speak. Would it have made her feel better if I’d had a go at her? Is that why she’d asked me there? ‘Ronnie doesn’t mean to put me under pressure,’ she went on. ‘But he needs me. More perhaps than Thomas ever did. Thomas never understood that.’
I didn’t answer. Of course Thomas wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t understand. She was his mother. At last she continued. ‘It wasn’t Ronnie’s fault. Honestly.’
‘Why does he need you so much?’ I’d lost patience. I mean, he was a grown man, wasn’t he? Capable of looking after himself.
She took a long time to reply. In the distance there was the hum of a floor polisher. The tap at the sink in the corner was dripping.
‘When he was young he saw action overseas. Some of the things he witnessed still give him nightmares.’