by Ann Cleeves
Sam came up behind her and they looked together down at the burn. ‘We always said we’d do a cruise when we had the time, didn’t we? Let’s just go for it. Book something last-minute. The Med. The Caribbean. It doesn’t matter where it is.’
Oh yes! She imagined herself dressed in something silk and floaty, standing on the deck of a sleek white liner. Then she thought she’d done enough running away, and she turned slowly so that she was facing Sam and put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Let’s do that later,’ she said. ‘When all this is over. I couldn’t enjoy it properly now. Besides, there’s Lizzie to think about. She’ll be home any day. We can’t let her come back to an empty house.’
He shrugged and she could tell he was disappointed. The holiday had been his big idea for making her happy. A sacrifice, because he was never really happy away from home. His comfort zone had distinct geographical boundaries: the Tyne to the south, the North Sea to the east and the Scottish border to the north. He’d venture west into Cumbria if he was pushed, but he didn’t really enjoy it.
She tried to explain. ‘I’m such a control freak. I know I can’t control the police investigation, but at least we can be here, watching what’s happening. Seeing what dirt gets dug up and thrown around. I’d be a nervous wreck if we were too far away to get any information.’ He hadn’t responded to her comment about Lizzie and she decided not to push it. The glass wall that was their daughter still stood between them.
‘You’re paranoid,’ he said, but his voice was gentle.
She stroked his cheek. ‘And you’re very, very kind.’
There was a noise in the yard below them and they saw Lorraine emerge from the farmhouse. She carried a satchel over her shoulder; inside there would be her paints and brushes. She was wearing jeans and a sloppy hand-knitted jersey, and from this distance she looked about eighteen. Annie felt a stab of jealousy. Sometimes she and Jan speculated that Nigel’s wife had had work done on her face. A tuck or a lift, or Botox. And how could she stay so skinny? But really there was no sign of surgery; it must be down to genes or luck. Something must have made Lorraine aware of them looking down at her, because she turned and waved. Annie opened the window.
‘I’m just going to catch the last of this light.’ Lorraine sounded childishly happy. Annie wondered if she’d been drinking already, or if Vera Stanhope’s disappearance had caused her to relax suddenly too. ‘Isn’t it fabulous?’
‘Should you be going out on your own? The police don’t seem to have caught anyone yet.’ Annie could see what Lorraine meant about the light, though. It was seductive. She felt she could walk into it and drown.
‘I’m not going very far, and I’ll stay on the lane. You’ll hear me if I scream.’ Lorraine gave a little giggle, but Annie shivered at the thought of anyone screaming alone in the valley.
‘Come in for a glass of wine when you’ve finished, so we know you’re safe. We’ll get Jan to come along too.’
But Lorraine was already heading down the track and Annie wasn’t sure if she’d heard her.
Sam was cooking supper when Lorraine called at the house. She knocked at the back door and then came straight into the kitchen, still carrying the satchel. She looked radiant. Annie sensed Sam stiffen. The kitchen was his workspace and he didn’t like anyone other than Annie there. Not even a woman as bonny as Lorraine.
‘Come through,’ Annie said. ‘It gets cold when the sun goes down. I’ve just lit the wood-burner.’ She reached into the fridge for a bottle of Prosecco and followed Lorraine out.
In the living room Lorraine sat on the floor in front of the stove. The sun was low now and the room was in shadow.
‘Did you finish your painting?’ Annie twisted the bottle until she felt the pressure behind the cork and poured the wine into the glasses.
‘Not quite.’
So it would be no good asking to see it. Lorraine never showed her work until it was done. Annie had once asked how she’d got into the painting. Lorraine had said she’d run art classes in prison and it had grown from there. Now it seemed to have taken over all her life. As if any minute not painting was wasted.
‘Shall I send Jan a text?’ Annie said. ‘See if she wants to join us?’
‘No point.’ Lorraine grinned. ‘I walked past her house and she’s fast asleep in the rocking chair with those great dogs at her feet. I could hear her snoring from outside.’
Annie opened the door of the wood-burner and pushed in another log. She had to reach across Lorraine to do so. Even close to, the woman’s skin was smooth and flawless.
‘What did you make of that detective?’ Lorraine had almost finished the first glass of wine.
‘Quite a character.’ Annie decided to be noncommittal.
‘A bit of a monster, I thought, but clever. She makes you think that she’s really stupid, then comes out with a question that surprises you because it’s so perceptive.’
‘Yes!’ Annie thought just then that Lorraine was one of the most perceptive women she knew.
‘What do you think was going on down there in the big house?’ Lorraine narrowed her eyes. ‘Nigel thinks it was what he called “some random loony”, but I’m not so sure. You wouldn’t just wander into the valley by chance, would you? So what actually happened there that led to two murders?’
‘The detective asked us about an older man – the second victim – who was killed in the attic flat.’ Annie found herself being drawn into the conversation despite herself. She’d been terrified of dying since she was a child. Not the reality of pain or illness, but the idea of the world going on without her. She still had nightmares about suddenly disappearing, being swallowed up by the dark. Yet she found herself fascinated by these sudden deaths. Was it because, although they’d happened so close to home, the people involved were strangers? She felt like an extra in a TV drama. It was hard to believe the situation was real.
‘Martin Benton.’ Lorraine reached out and poured herself more wine. ‘The name’s on the BBC news website now. I checked before I came out. The police are asking for information about him.’
‘Did Vera Stanhope question you about yesterday evening?’ Annie could imagine Lorraine giving quite the wrong impression. She could be flippant, and was given to exaggeration. We were all pissed, of course! We always get pissed on party nights. It’s the only entertainment there is out here.
But Lorraine shook her head. ‘She was more interested in earlier in the day. The late afternoon and early evening. Percy found Patrick Randle’s body when he was driving home from The Lamb at teatime, so they think both murders must have happened before then. The police won’t be bothered by a few pensioners partying later that night.’
‘No.’ But Annie thought the fat detective would be interested in everything they did. She was that sort of woman. She allowed her eyes to glance at the clock on the wall. Sam took food seriously. He’d get moody if he thought the meal he’d prepared was spoiling.
Lorraine must have noticed because she stood up and set her glass carefully on the coffee table. She wasn’t always so tactful. ‘I must go. Nigel might be worrying about me. I’m surprised he hasn’t phoned to check that I’m okay.’
Annie thought Nigel would know exactly where Lorraine was. He watched her. He kept binoculars in the upstairs den and pretended they were to look for birds and animals in the woods, but Annie knew better than that. Sometimes she thought it was lovely that he obviously adored his wife, that he couldn’t let her out of his sight. Mostly she thought it was creepy. It occurred to her that if anyone had seen a stranger in the valley the afternoon before, it would be Nigel, staring out of his upstairs window keeping track of them all.
Annie let Lorraine out of the front door so they wouldn’t disturb Sam in the kitchen. On the stone step Lorraine paused for a moment.
‘I know it is horrible,’ she said. ‘Two deaths in the valley. The police nosing about. But it is interesting too, isn’t it? Thrilling to be so close to violence and sudden death. I can’t help be
ing excited by it.’
Chapter Fifteen
Holly drove slowly through Kimmerston, held up by heavy traffic. Roadworks in the middle of Front Street. Stopped at temporary lights, she was close to a cafe where tables had been set out on the pavement for the first time that spring. An elderly woman was sitting there. She was alone and presumably her companion was inside ordering coffee. She had round spots of rouge on her cheeks and her lipstick had seeped beyond her lips into the face powder. Her clothes were bright: a blue coat and a pink scarf. She was holding a rag doll on the table and bouncing it like a baby, talking to it. Holly had her window shut and couldn’t make out the words, but watched with embarrassment and fascination as the woman stopped bouncing the doll and cradled it in her arms and stroked the hair.
The woman obviously had dementia. Alzheimer’s, perhaps. There must be a carer somewhere, because surely it wasn’t safe to leave her alone there so close to the road. A thought flashed unbidden through Holly’s mind. Why do they allow old people like that out in the community? Wouldn’t she be more comfortable in a home somewhere? Knowing that it wasn’t the woman’s comfort that she was thinking of, but her own. Horrified that she could be so cruel and judgemental, that this reminder that even she might end her life being frail and mad, made her suddenly sick with disgust.
The traffic started moving again and Holly drove on without glancing back at the pavement. She arrived at the station early and waited on the platform for Alicia Randle’s train. The sight of the old woman from the pavement cafe was still troubling her. She’d always considered herself without prejudice, open-minded and fair. How could she have such an appalling reaction to someone who was obviously ill?
Boxes had been planted with flowers all along the platform and there were ornamental cherry trees, white with blossom beside the track; the air was heavy with the smell of them. Holly sat on a bench, suddenly tired. She must have fallen asleep and was only jolted back to consciousness by the screech of brakes as the train arrived. Alnmouth was a small station and few passengers alighted. A woman with very short white hair who’d been waiting further up the platform greeted a friend. They kissed and walked away arm-inarm. Holly tried to remember the last time anyone had greeted her with such affection. Then she saw Alicia Randle. Tall and elegant, dressed in well-cut trousers and a tweed jacket. Classy. Only a big leather shoulder bag for her overnight stay. As she got closer, Holly saw how pale she was, her eyes red-rimmed.
‘Mrs Randle.’ Holly held out her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ What else was there to say? ‘I’m Holly Clarke. We’ve been speaking on the phone.’
The woman’s hand was very cold and dry. She was older than she’d seemed at a distance, certainly in her late sixties. Holly remembered that Patrick had been a late baby, a consolation.
‘It was good of you to meet me.’ Manners would matter to Alicia Randle. Politeness was probably holding her together. It wouldn’t be good form to break down in front of strangers.
‘Let me take your bag and I’ll drive you to your hotel.’
Holly had found a small hotel for Alicia close to the park in Kimmerston. The owners brought them tea in a conservatory at the back of the house. The door was open and the sound of birdsong seemed very loud. Too cheerful for the occasion.
‘We wondered what you’d like to do this evening,’ Holly said. ‘My boss suggested that you might like to have dinner with us, but really if you’d rather stay here on your own, that’s fine too.’ She didn’t want to inflict Vera, with her size and her brash questioning, on this grieving woman. ‘There’s no restaurant here, but I’m sure they’d make some sandwiches for you to have in your room, and I can pick you up in the morning.’
‘That’s very kind.’ The politeness seeing Alicia through again. ‘Though I would like to meet the inspector, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.’
‘It wouldn’t be too much for you?’
Alicia blinked and briefly the mannerly mask cracked. ‘I’ve lost two sons and a husband, Ms Clarke. I’m sure that I can survive dinner with the women who will, I hope, bring Patrick’s killer to justice.’ There was a brief moment of silence filled by birdsong, before she spoke again. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude. You were just trying to be kind.’
The private room in Annie’s was too big for the three of them and it felt cold and unused. The only natural light came from a narrow window. They sat at one end of a large table. In the main restaurant there seemed to be a sixtieth birthday party, three generations celebrating, and whenever the waitress opened the door laughter and children’s voices spilled in. Vera had made an effort. Her hair was combed and she was wearing the suit that she kept in the cupboard at work, in case she was called to court. She was there before them and stood up to greet Alicia Randle. ‘Eh, pet, I’m so sorry.’ Holly thought Vera might attempt to take the woman into her arms, but she sensed in time that the physical contact might not be welcome.
The service was slow and they spoke as they waited for the food. Vera offered Alicia wine and she accepted, so there was a bottle on the table. Holly never took alcohol when she was driving, not even a small glass, so the older women drank it between them. They carried on the conversation too. Holly thought she might not have been there.
‘Tell me about your son.’ A classic Vera opening line. She was spreading butter on a warm roll and was looking at that, not at the woman on the opposite side of the table. Not wanting to make this sound like an interrogation, though the way they were sitting each side of the table reminded Holly of the interview room.
‘Patrick was a joy from the moment he was born. I was already in my forties and never thought I would have another child. Simon . . .’ Alicia looked at them to check that they knew she’d had another son, ‘was born while I was still a student and he died not long after Patrick was conceived. Perhaps it was because I was already middle-aged that Patrick was so calm and relaxed. My husband was considerably older than me and he died when Patrick was a boy.’
‘And now you’re on your own.’ A statement of fact.
‘I have friends, but Patrick and I were very close. I didn’t think anything could be worse than losing Simon, but I was wrong. Losing my husband wasn’t so terrible. He’d been ill for a while when he passed away, so it wasn’t a shock.’ She paused. ‘But this is horrible. Nobody should have to suffer in this way. I’m not sure I’ll get through this intact.’
‘Of course you will.’ It was Vera at her most bossy. ‘You’re strong. I can tell that.’ She paused for just a beat. ‘Did you find another man, after your husband died?’
Holly almost gasped at the bluntness of the question, but Alicia gave a little smile. ‘Yes. A widower. He’s really rather special. We were planning to get married in the summer. Now? I don’t think I can face it. Not just yet. It’s not a time for celebration.’
‘Did you not want to bring him with you today?’ Vera was poised with the bread close to her mouth.
‘No. This was something I had to do on my own.’
Vera nodded as if she quite understood. ‘You were telling me about your boy. Patrick.’
‘He was an easy child. Self-contained. He could spend hours lying on his stomach on the grass staring at bugs. He did his homework without being asked, and he never went through that teenage time of rebellion.’ Holly could tell she loved talking about her son. She was grateful to Vera for giving her the time and the space to do so. ‘I even liked his girlfriends. Simon was much more normal.’
‘He did go through the teenage rebellion thing?’ Vera reached out for more bread.
‘Well, you know, he slammed a few doors in his time.’ She paused. ‘Actually it was worse than that for a few years. He mixed with kids I didn’t really approve of. He even had a brush with the law. Drugs. Though I never told Patrick that. Patrick always thought of Simon as some sort of role-model. And Simon did pull his life around. He got into Oxford. He was very bright. Very ambitious. In the end, I think that was what caused the suicide
. He could never live up to his own expectations. He’d only been there six months when he died.’ A pause. ‘I was careful not to put Patrick under any pressure academically.’
The waitress came in with their food. They ate without noticing what was on the plates.
‘You said that you liked Patrick’s girlfriends,’ Vera said. ‘Was there anyone special at the moment?’
‘He’d been in a relationship for three years. All the time that he was doing his PhD in Exeter. She was a medical student. Rebecca. They were living together, and I was imagining that they’d marry. I must admit that I’d started to think about the wedding, hoping for grandchildren.’ Alicia put down her cutlery and sat for a moment staring into space. There would be no grandchildren now. ‘Then a little while ago they separated.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. Patrick wouldn’t talk about it, and that wasn’t like him. He came home for a month before he started house-sitting. He seemed a bit withdrawn and moody, but he didn’t even tell me that the relationship was over until I asked when Rebecca was coming to stay.’ Alicia paused. ‘I supposed that she’d finished with him, found someone else perhaps, and that he didn’t want to admit that he was hurting. The male-pride thing.’
‘We’ll need to talk to Rebecca,’ Vera said. ‘You’ll have her contact details. Perhaps you could give them to Holly here, when she drives you home.’
Alicia nodded. ‘I was tempted to speak to Rebecca myself when they separated. I even thought about coming up to Durham to meet her. But I knew Patrick would hate it if I interfered. And really it was none of my business. I just hated seeing him so unhappy.’
‘Was he still unhappy?’ Vera had finished her meal before the rest of them and sat back in her chair. She poured the last of the wine into Alicia’s glass. She wasn’t usually so moderate in her drinking, so Holly supposed Vera would be driving later. At least she wouldn’t have to taxi Vera home. ‘You’ll have been in touch with him since the two short contracts he did for the house-sitting agency. How did he seem?’