The Moth Catcher

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘No!’ Annie didn’t want another stranger in the house, and Sam saw any visitor as an intruder. ‘I’ll come to you. Where are you?’ When the woman started describing the office and the pit-village where it was based, Annie interrupted her. ‘Yes, I know where that is.’ Because it was where she came from. She’d lived with her parents not very far from the charity’s office.

  Annie didn’t tell Sam about the phone call or the appointment. They were both thinking that Lizzie would soon be out, but they hadn’t discussed it. Perhaps they were hoping some miracle had happened in the Victorian monstrosity where their daughter had been living for the last few months. That she’d emerge from the big wrought-iron gates gentler and more considerate.

  When he walked into the kitchen with his newspaper under his arm, she was already dressed to go out.

  ‘You don’t mind, love, do you? I really need to escape the valley for a while.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ He put down the newspaper.

  ‘Nah, I might meet up with Jill. Have coffee. Lunch even. Do a bit of shopping.’ He nodded and didn’t ask any more questions. It felt strange lying to him. She didn’t think she’d ever done that before.

  It was weird going back to Bebington. Weird because nothing had really changed. It had been a kind of ghost town since the pits had closed, and she hadn’t known it as very much different; there were still rows of houses with peeling paint and occasional boarded-up windows, the bony men sitting on doorsteps, listless, seeming only to wait for their next fix. In other parts of the country, and the county, the economy had peaked and troughed, but here there’d been nothing but depression. She’d have understood Lizzie’s anger and frustration if her daughter had been brought up in this town, but she’d been born when they were living at the farm. Her playground had been the valley. And even when Sam had given up the tenancy and they’d moved to Kimmerston, Lizzie had been loved and given everything she could possibly need.

  Annie stood for a moment outside the Hope North-East office and tried to remember what used to be in the building. Suddenly she remembered: a little cafe. An old-fashioned greasy spoon, serving bacon stotties and strong tea. Her grandfather had come here sometimes to meet his pals. She pushed open the door and climbed the stairs to the office.

  Three people were sitting at one of the small desks, having some sort of meeting. They had mugs of coffee in front of them. There was a skinny woman who looked middle-aged, but was probably in her early thirties. Lank hair and troubled eyes. A big guy with huge hands and tattoos. And Shirley. From first glance, Annie had realized this must be Shirley. It was the way she dressed and the way she was speaking. She was clearly the person in charge. She stood up. Seeing her close up, Annie thought she was older than she’d first guessed. Late fifties, early sixties. The make-up was discreet, but skilfully applied.

  ‘You must be Annie.’ Shirley held out her hand. ‘Just give me a moment to finish up here and we’ll find somewhere private to talk.’

  There was a brief conversation with her colleagues about diary dates and fund-raising. The big man wandered off downstairs and the little woman returned to her own desk.

  ‘There’s an interview room downstairs,’ Shirley said. ‘We won’t be disturbed there. I’ll make us some coffee, shall I?’ She switched on the kettle, which stood on a tray on the floor, and spooned ground coffee into a cafetière. Annie had been expecting horrible supermarket own-brand instant and was surprised.

  The interview room made Annie think of a prison cell. It was small and square with one high window giving very little light. It was comfortable enough – carpet on the floor, two armchairs, a light-wood coffee table between them – but it made Annie uneasy. It was a place where confessions, or confidences at least, would be expected.

  Shirley poured coffee in silence, as if she had all the time in the world, and it was Annie who spoke first. ‘How was Lizzie when you saw her yesterday?’

  ‘Fine!’ That reassuring voice used by social workers everywhere. ‘Looking forward to seeing you both soon.’ A pause. ‘When I went, she’d just had a visit from a police officer. A detective sergeant. He was asking about the murders in Gilswick.’

  ‘Lizzie couldn’t have had anything to do with those!’

  ‘Of course she couldn’t. But I thought you’d want to know.’ There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘One of the victims worked here as a volunteer. We’re all rather shocked. We can’t understand how he came to be in Gilswick.’ The last sentence came out almost as a question.

  ‘I never met him!’ Annie was confused and anxious. She’d thought this interview would all be about Lizzie: where she would live and what work she might get. Now it seemed this woman was more intent on getting information about the murders than on helping her daughter. ‘I never met either of them. Why did the police think Lizzie could help?’ This was becoming the worst sort of nightmare. How could the police possibly link Lizzie to the killings? Did they think she and Sam might be responsible for the violence?

  ‘I’m sure they’re just exploring possibilities.’ Shirley smiled. ‘Previous offenders are always easy targets at the start of an inquiry.’ She paused for a beat. ‘The detective asked Lizzie about Jason Crow. Any idea why they might think he’s involved?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Because it’s important that when Lizzie comes out she stays away from people who might get her into trouble again. I’m sure you understand that.’

  Annie breathed deeply. She’d learned that it was important when you were dealing with professional do-gooders to keep calm. Otherwise they judged you. Wrote things like anger-management problems in their reports. Lizzie was always said to have an anger-management problem. ‘One of the reasons we moved back to Gilswick from Kimmerston was to put some distance between Lizzie and the crowd she was hanging around with before.’

  ‘Of course. So it must seem very distressing that the criminal activity has followed you to the country.’

  ‘It’s horrible,’ Annie said. It was starting to feel as if the room was shrinking, as if the air was being sucked out of it, so that she couldn’t breathe. She was wondering what excuse she might give for leaving. The woman sat between her and the door, and Annie measured up this distance to it with her eyes.

  ‘I wonder if it’s a good thing for Lizzie to return to a community where the police are investigating a double-murder.’ Shirley poured more coffee into both mugs, lifted the jug to offer milk. Annie was reminded of all the times she’d drunk coffee with Jan and Lorraine. Sitting in one of the smart houses in Valley Farm, passing on village gossip. Only now they were the subject of all the gossip in Gilswick.

  ‘Better that Lizzie comes home with us than that she goes back to her old haunts in Kimmerston.’ Annie caught her breath. ‘Though of course that has to be her decision. She’s an adult.’

  ‘That’s what I think too.’ Shirley smiled with real warmth and Annie thought the woman was only doing her job; she had been overreacting. The business with the murders had made her panicky since she’d first heard about them, filling her head with all sorts of crazy notions. Shirley continued, ‘And I do think Lizzie would like to come back to you. At least to start with. I think she should be considering going back to college. Maybe the FE college locally to get her A levels, then who knows? She’s certainly bright enough for uni.’

  ‘She’s always hated the idea of studying.’

  ‘I think you might find that prison has changed her. Did you know she signed up for a couple of education classes in Sittingwell? She’s joined the writers’ group and in the short time she’s been attending she’s become a bit of a star. I don’t believe in the short, sharp shock, but being inside for a while certainly works for some people. It gives them time to sort out their priorities. To grow up a bit.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about what she might like to do?’ Annie was finding it hard to believe that this conversation between Shirley and her daughter had actually taken place. All her attempts to
discuss Lizzie’s future had always ended in silence or sulking. Slammed doors and disappearance. On the prison visits Annie hadn’t dared bring the subject up. She’d concentrated on being supportive.

  ‘Not in any detail, but I was wondering about the hospitality industry. Didn’t you and your husband once run a restaurant?’

  ‘Yes.’ She wanted to add: And Lizzie lost it for us, but that seemed petty, now that Lizzie might actually have a future. Annie was blown away by the sudden vision of Lizzie as a normal daughter with a job and a home. A daughter she could chat with and introduce to her friends. A daughter with whom she could link arms and share a joke.

  ‘I was wondering if I might come and visit you all early next week.’ Shirley was pulling out a big diary from her bag. ‘See if we might start to put some plans in place.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Annie thought that if Sam didn’t fancy meeting the woman he could go out in the morning, go into Kimmerston. She knew she shouldn’t build up her hopes for Lizzie’s future. She’d done that too many times before. But perhaps Shirley was right. Perhaps all Lizzie had needed was some time away. A kind of retreat from the world. Annie couldn’t understand her own initial dislike of the charity worker. How foolish she’d been!

  ‘So shall we say Monday morning at eleven o’clock?’ Shirley wrote a note in the diary and then looked up for Annie’s agreement. ‘That’ll give you a day to settle back together again. For you to get to know your daughter.’ Now she was writing on a little appointment card and she slid it across the table.

  Out on the street Annie felt a ridiculous rush of optimism. Perhaps Lizzie had been changed by the shock of the court case and prison – the few months away from the dealers to get herself clean. The murders in the valley had nothing to do with them, after all. It was the act of a random lunatic. She’d seen occasional cases on the television news. Sick bastards riding down country roads with a shotgun, killing any strangers who got in their way. Glorying in the violence. The police always caught those people.

  She drove back towards Gilswick with the car window open, listening to birdsong. Thinking that she would have to explain about Lizzie to Sam. They couldn’t put off talking about their daughter any longer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was still early when Vera arrived at the big house. She’d phoned the station to set back the briefing for an hour and she’d demanded Billy’s presence at Gilswick Hall. He might be a randy old goat, but he was the most meticulous crime-scene manager she’d ever worked with. The officer in charge of the search team was new to her. He was a big bald-headed Scot called Peter MacBride and he was waiting for her by the front door of the Carswell house when she drove up. Getting out of the car, she heard a cuckoo and thought how rare that was these days. When she was a kid they listened out for them every year. She had a sudden sense of nature being knocked out of kilter. A heatwave in April, wasps out of season and the cuckoos disappearing. Two strangers killed in a place people thought of as paradise.

  MacBride was apologetic. ‘Sorry it’s taken so long. It made sense to work our way from the house towards the road and the ditch where the body was found. The veggie patch is at the back, so we’ve only just got to that.’

  ‘You had an early start today.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’m a persistent bugger. It’s been eating away at me that we haven’t been able to find the murder scene for the young man. I got the team to assemble just before dawn, so we could make a prompt start at first light.’

  Vera followed him round the side of the house. She’d looked out at the vegetable garden from the upstairs windows, but hadn’t ventured here. It was big and well tended, almost commercial in scale. Fruit bushes in a cage, strawberry plants under netting, rows of vegetables already starting to push through the soil. Everything labelled and almost weed-free. She wondered again if Patrick had been expected to work out here. Now that was even more relevant and she made a note to ask Joe to check with the house-sitting agency.

  A row of cold-frames stood beyond the fruit cage. Solid wooden frames with the glass lids now removed. Inside mostly salad crops – radish, lettuce and spring onions. The lettuce was the cut-and-come-again variety and was ready for harvest. On the corner of the far edge of one frame a dark stain that could be blood.

  ‘Of course we’ll need a sample for DNA testing?’

  He nodded to show that it was already being sorted. ‘And as soon as you’ve finished here, we’ll cover it and let the scientists do their thing.’

  ‘Lorna Dawson’s testing the soil from his shoes?’ Vera liked the man. His competence and lack of drama.

  He nodded again. ‘I’ve been in touch and she says she’ll try to visit. It’s a long way from Aberdeen, though, and it depends what else she has on.’

  Inside the frame the plants were crushed. ‘So what’s your theory?’ Vera had dozens of scenarios dancing in her brain, but none of them made sense yet.

  ‘I think the victim was out here working. Someone came up behind him and hit him. He twisted as he fell into the frame and that’s how we have blood on that side of it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that ties in with the injuries on the body.’ But Vera thought it didn’t tie in with anything else. They knew that Patrick had picked Benton up from the bus in Gilswick and had driven him back to the big house. There were two mugs in the kitchen in the flat, so they’d had tea together. Why would Patrick leave the older man alone to come out and do a spot of gardening? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘There were no defensive injuries.’ She was speaking almost to herself now. ‘What does that tell us?’

  ‘There’s a grass path almost all the way from the house.’ MacBride looked back towards the building. ‘If Randle was bending over the frame working, he might not have heard the killer approaching.’

  Vera didn’t answer immediately. She was picturing the scene. Late afternoon. Warm. Forget about Benton for a while and focus on what was happening here. There had been no blood stains on Randle’s jersey or jacket, only on his shirt, so perhaps he had been gardening. He’d taken off his jumper and jacket and put them on the ground close by. ‘Maybe.’ But why would he work in the garden when he had a guest – Benton – in the flat?

  She straightened and paused, hoping to catch the sound of the cuckoo again, but all she could hear were woodpigeons. ‘It’s a bloody long way from here to the ditch by the road. The killer must have had access to a vehicle. It’d be struggle enough to get him to the drive.’ She wondered why the killer had bothered. If there’d only been one murder, she’d have understood it. It could have been an attempt to make the whole thing look like an accident. A hit-and-run. And that might explain why the jacket and jersey had been replaced. But the body in the flat was going to be found eventually and then there was no way the authorities wouldn’t link the two deaths. It all seemed too complicated. Too weird. Again she thought that the timing of the men’s deaths was the key to this. But she knew there was no way Paul Keating would be able to tell her which of the victims had died first.

  She stretched and looked at her watch. She should get back to the station. In Kimmerston the troops would be waiting for the briefing. The sun was almost warm now. MacBride’s team were making their way in a line through the small orchard between the back of the house and the hill.

  He followed her gaze. ‘Just in case someone came down to the house from the footpath that runs along the ridge. But we’ll be packing up by the end of the day.’

  ‘Aye, well, thank them. And thank you.’ They were almost at the house when she had another idea. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve come across a moth trap? Wooden or plastic contraption, with a funnel and a very bright bulb.’

  ‘Is that what they are? We left them in situ. This way.’ He led her down a beaten path through the trees that separated the house from the road. Sunlight slanted onto the patches of clear fell and the bright-green spears of bluebells. In some places the plants were in flower, giving the undergrowth a bluish sheen. Birdsong everywhere.
She thought this was what had brought the people in the new development at the end of the track to live in the valley. They imagined it would always be like this.

  ‘Did you find anything else of interest here?’

  ‘Four sweetie wrappers. Unusual because they’re from a local manufacturer. Kimmerston Confectionery. Only sold in a few outlets. They do the old-fashioned sweets – black bullets, pear drops, sherbet lemons. All individually wrapped. No telling how long they’ve been here, though, and they could have blown in from the road. Or been eaten by Randle when he was setting up the traps.’

  Vera didn’t say anything. She didn’t think Randle was the sort of chap who’d drop litter. And she knew she’d seen a bowl of the sweets recently, though she couldn’t for the life of her remember where.

  MacBride stopped so suddenly that Vera almost walked into the back of him. By the side of the path there were two moth traps, set quite close to each other. Huge car batteries to power them. ‘They were full of insects,’ he said. ‘We didn’t know what to do with them.’

  ‘The traps will be on a timer,’ she said. ‘They’ll only be lit at night.’ The light would attract the insects, luring them into the funnel and the soft cardboard egg boxes below.

  Vera lowered herself into a crouch, heard her knee joints cracking, then wondered what she was doing down here. She wouldn’t know a rare moth if it bit her on the nose. ‘Can you get the contents to an expert? The Hancock Museum will have someone. Or one of the unis. And we’ll need Fingerprints to look at the traps.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Something unusual. These creatures are the only things that linked the victims.’

  ‘You don’t think two men were killed because of these?’

  Vera didn’t answer. Perhaps the idea was that Benton would stay until the following morning and the victims would examine the contents together. But all this was speculation and probably a waste of time. She pictured what Holly Clarke would make of her theories, as she struggled to get to her feet. MacBride looked away as if he didn’t want to add to her embarrassment. ‘Eh, pet, give me a hand, will you? Otherwise we’ll be here all day.’