by Ann Cleeves
After breakfast she’d heard Lizzie on her phone, arranging to meet someone. Annie told herself that it was probably an old school friend, but in this febrile mood everything seemed sinister to her. It was as if they were all spies, telling half-truths, planning deception. Lizzie’s phone wasn’t out of her possession for a second. If she’d been able to sneak a look, Annie might have stooped to checking out the call record. Why can’t I relax? Why can’t I just accept everything she says?
She went upstairs as soon as Lizzie left the house. Not into Lizzie’s room. That would have seemed an intrusion too far today, but to the window on the landing, which still had a reasonable view. It wasn’t raining, but the day was overcast and gloomy and Lizzie’s jacket provided a patch of colour. Annie saw her daughter walk down the lane until she disappeared from view behind a clump of trees. Lizzie seemed to have a very jaunty stride, defiant, as if she knew her mother was watching. She only carried a small bag over her shoulder and that gave Annie some comfort. But as the slight figure disappeared, Annie felt suddenly bereft. She could believe that her girl was disappearing from her life forever. At least when Lizzie had been in prison she was contained and safe. Annie told herself she was overreacting. It was these murders. Everyone was on edge; even Janet, who was usually so calm and motherly. They were all given to strange outbursts of emotion. She couldn’t stare down the valley after Lizzie every time she left the house.
Sam was still doing the crossword. He at least seemed not to feel the need to change his routine. He looked up when Annie came into the room. ‘Shall we go into Newcastle? Have a spot of lunch somewhere nice?’
‘No!’ Her response was immediate and violent. She couldn’t leave the valley until Lizzie was back. Then she thought that she was being quite ridiculous. Why shouldn’t they go into Newcastle? It might help her put things into perspective, and if she waited here she’d only fret. She kissed the top of Sam’s head. ‘But why not? That’d be fun. Give me a couple of minutes to change.’ When she looked down the valley from the landing window on her way to their bedroom she thought she saw a speck of blue, right at the end of the lane. When she came out of her room later there was no sign at all of Lizzie.
They had a pleasant day in the city, though anxiety rumbled at the back of Annie’s mind. On the way in, she’d texted Lizzie: Dad and I in Newcastle. Can still give you a lift later if you need one. There’d been an immediate reply. Laconic. OK.
They wandered round the stores in Eldon Square. Sam wanted to buy Annie a gift – clothes, jewellery, something to cheer her up – but she was intimidated by the choice. She preferred browsing in the few shops in Kimmerston. ‘Really, I’m happy just looking.’ Time seemed to go very slowly. She wondered if she’d be less stressed about Lizzie once the murderer had been caught. Perhaps it wasn’t so crazy to be anxious, when the killer of three people was on the loose. But she knew she wasn’t seeing Lizzie as a victim. She was worried about what Lizzie might do, rather than what might be done to her. She was pleased beyond belief that Lizzie had been in prison while the murders were committed. It wasn’t too hard to imagine her wielding a knife, slashing into someone’s flesh. After all, she’d attacked another woman with a broken bottle.
While Sam was looking at the kitchenware in Fenwick’s, Annie’s phone rang. She answered it quickly, hoping it might be Lizzie, but it was the young sergeant who looked scarcely more than a boy. Inspector Stanhope wanted to speak to them. Nothing urgent. She explained that they were in Newcastle. Then Ashworth asked about Lizzie.
‘She’s with friends in Kimmerston. And I really don’t see how she can help you.’ Knowing she sounded almost rude.
Sam wandered back from inspecting cast-iron pans to ask who’d called.
‘The police again. Nothing important. I said we’d be in later.’
They had lunch in a French restaurant near the Quayside. The chef had worked for them in Kimmerston for a while and seemed pleased to see them. The food was simple and well prepared. Annie found she was hungry and drank more than her share of a bottle of wine. Sam kept topping up her glass. ‘I’ll drive, and I can go into Kimmerston later if Lizzie needs a lift.’ When they came out into the city afternoon there was a grey drizzle, so they could hardly see the far bank of the Tyne. The Baltic art gallery was a block of shadow and the reflective glass of the Sage Gateshead was a faint shimmer in the gloom.
‘Perhaps that’s it,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve had our summer.’
In the car he asked Annie to phone Lizzie. ‘We might as well pick her up on our way through.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps I should just text.’
‘Don’t be daft. All this texting. Why don’t folk just talk any more?’
So she dialled Lizzie’s number, but it went straight through to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.
‘Not answering? Halfway to getting pissed, maybe.’ Sam stared at the road. He put most of Lizzie’s troubles down to booze. Annie remembered Lizzie’s tempers when she was still a child, the yelling and the swearing. She hadn’t been drinking then. Annie thought her daughter’s problems were more complicated than either of them had realized. She sent a text: On our way back if you want a lift as we go through. This time there was no answer.
When they arrived back at Valley Farm, Vera Stanhope’s Land Rover was parked in the courtyard. ‘Blasted woman!’ Sam was mumbling under his breath. ‘I thought we might have escaped her.’ There was no light in their house, and Annie had worked out that Lizzie should be back in Gilswick and they should have passed her as they drove up the lane, if she’d got the bus.
She opened the door and shouted up, just in case she’d got a lift from a mate or a taxi, ‘Lizzie, we’re back!’
No response.
‘I told you,’ Sam said. ‘She’ll be pissed. Or worse.’ His belief in the miracle of prison seemed to be fading already. ‘Ring her again.’
Annie pressed redial on her mobile, but there was still no reply. Sam switched the kettle on. There was a tap on the back door. ‘Come in!’ they shouted together, but when they turned it wasn’t Lizzie, who would have come straight in anyway, but the huge bulk of Vera Stanhope.
Chapter Forty
Monday morning and they were back in the valley. On her first visit Vera had seen it as idyllic. Now the steep hills rising on either side of the burn and the fact that the lane disappeared into a dead-end made her feel trapped, so claustrophobic that she felt like screaming. The drizzle had closed in behind her as she left the village and now she could see no way out. She hoped the case would soon be over and that she’d never have to come here again. She waited outside Gilswick Hall for Joe and Holly. The Carswells had been in touch saying that their first grandchild – a little girl – had been born and they’d be home the following week. She imagined that they’d slide back into their routines and responsibilities. The garden and the dogs. The magistrates’ bench and the WRVS. They’d remain aloof from their neighbours in the farm conversion. Still lords of the manor in spirit, if not in name. As distant as if they were still in Australia.
Joe and Holly arrived in the same car. Vera thought Holly looked pale, frozen. They stood for a moment on the gravel outside the big house. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen.’ Vera started for the door. She had no real plan and a reluctance to venture further up the valley to face the retired hedonists. ‘The CSIs have finished downstairs, and it’s daft to get wet before we start.’
Inside there was the background warmth of the Aga. Vera stood with her back to it, toasting her bum. There was still fingerprint powder around the back door and the window ledges. ‘They didn’t find any sign of a break-in.’
She nodded to the chairs by the table. ‘You might as well take the weight off your feet.’ Now, in the warm room, she’d lost any sense of urgency. The cosiness of the place made her think of tea, hot crumpets dripping with butter.
‘What’s all this about?’ Joe was scratchy after a whole evening at home. He pretended to love his time with t
he bairns, but he could only take so much. Vera knew he used work as an excuse when Sal started making demands.
‘We decided last night our killer must be someone who knows the valley well.’ She paused. ‘Hol did some digging for me, while you were off playing Happy Families. She made some interesting connections.’ She moved away from the Aga and joined them at the table. ‘Show him, Hol.’
‘A connection’s not a motive, though, is it?’ Joe was at his most churlish. He’d looked at the records and seen this was a breakthrough, but was too childish to congratulate Holly on her work. ‘What’s the plan?’
Vera didn’t like to admit that she had no plan. ‘It’s too early to make an arrest. I want to speak to our respectable friends in Valley Farm again. Let’s make it a bit more formal this time. We don’t have the grounds to take them to the station, and anyway the press would have a field day if we interviewed them there. But let’s bring them down here. One at a time. Get them out of their comfort zone.’ Making up a strategy as she went along. Lazy policing. She turned to Joe. ‘Nip back to the village, would you? Get some essential supplies. Tea, coffee and milk.’ She could tell he was starting to sulk because she’d asked him and not Holly. It served him right and she shouted after him, ‘And biscuits. But not Rich Teas. I can’t stand Rich Teas.’
They called Nigel Lucas in first. Vera phoned him. It was hard to tell when he answered what he made of the summons. He had a veneer of good humour, slick and shiny, that he never seemed to lose. ‘Of course, Inspector, if you think it would help.’
He knocked at the kitchen door and looked around him as he came in. Vera could tell he’d never been in the house before and that he was disappointed. He’d been expecting something grander, more in keeping with the squire’s residence. They’d set out the big kitchen table as if they were conducting an interview: the three of them on one side and Lucas on the other. There were glasses and a jug of water. Vera had already said they wouldn’t be wasting the chocolate biscuits on the witnesses. Holly was furthest away from Lucas and she was taking notes. Vera had decided on Lucas first because she’d thought this would be the most difficult conversation. There was a confidence she couldn’t break unless she had to – and she still couldn’t see that Lorraine’s illness was relevant – so it would all be about choosing the right words.
He sat, waiting for her to break the silence. The room must have seemed warm to him, coming in from the cold, and he’d taken off his jacket and was sitting in shirt sleeves. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
‘We’re confused about the latest killing.’ Vera gave a little shake of her head. ‘Shirley Hewarth. She wasn’t stabbed where she was found. So why bring her to the valley? I’m wondering if the murderer was trying to tell us something.’
‘To implicate us, you mean?’
‘Aye, maybe. Any reason they’d want to do that?’ Vera leaned forward, her elbows on the table. She could feel the grain of the wood on her skin.
‘None at all. We get on very well with other people in the village.’
‘Had you met Shirley Hewarth? Had you seen her in court? She used to go sometimes with her clients. I understand you sit on the bench.’
‘I’ve not long completed my training,’ Lucas said. ‘I’ve been in a few times to observe. It’s fascinating, I must say, Inspector. I certainly don’t remember meeting Mrs Hewarth.’
‘Perhaps in another context then?’ Vera poured herself a glass of water and sipped it.
Lucas shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I don’t think I can help you.’
‘Your wife worked in prisoner education. That might have been a point of contact between you. When she was a probation officer Mrs Hewarth was in the welfare department of a number of institutions.’ Vera maintained a polite persistence. Stubborn. Hoping to make him so irritated that he’d give something away.
‘That was when we lived in the South,’ Lucas said. ‘And Lorrie certainly didn’t bring her work home.’ He paused. ‘She was ill not very long after we married. Breast cancer. She took early retirement. Part of our decision to move north and settle in the valley. Luckily she’s well now.’
Vera didn’t respond to that. ‘Tell me about your relationship with Jason Crow.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Jason Crow. The builder who worked on your house. He’d converted the barns and you employed him to do the renovations. So I understand. According to the inspector who checked the building regs.’
‘Is that what the boss is called? The company’s name is Kimmerston Building Services. That’s what’s on their letter-heading and written on the side of their vans.’ Lucas tried a small smile. ‘That’s who I wrote the cheque out to. Cost me a bloody fortune.’
‘So you never met Mr Crow?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Friday afternoon.’ Vera changed the subject without a beat, and for a moment Lucas looked confused.
‘What about it?’
‘Let’s go through your movements again.’
‘I’ve already given a statement. Someone came to the house on Saturday afternoon.’ He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his forehead.
‘I know, pet. I’ve got it here.’ She set the document in front of her. ‘Just humour me, eh? Go through it again. Starting at lunchtime.’
‘Lorrie and I had lunch at home. She stayed in her studio to finish a painting. We were having our friends round that evening, so I popped into Kimmerston to buy the booze and some nibbles. I showed your colleague the supermarket receipt. It’s timed at 4 p.m.’ He was starting to get exasperated. In her head Vera cheered.
‘And later?’
‘I came home. Lorrie and I had a cup of tea together. With some of Annie’s biscuits. She and Sam bake as if they’re still running a restaurant business and give most of their stuff away.’ He paused. Vera let the silence stretch. ‘Then we went to The Lamb in the village. Percy Douglas was there and we had a chat. Always full of stories about the old days, is Perce. He’ll tell you he was chatting to us. We had one drink. It was just to get Lorrie out of the house because she’d been in all day. Then back to prepare to party.’
‘What time did you arrive back from the supermarket?’
‘About quarter to five. I didn’t have time to kill anyone!’ He looked round at them as if he’d cracked a joke and was waiting for the laughter. None came.
‘Did you leave the party for any reason?’
‘Once, to look at the stars. That’s still a novelty, Inspector. It’s the first time I’ve lived anywhere without street lights.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘I called Lorrie out to see them. I love my wife. We were middle-aged when we got together and I’d given up finding anyone to share my life with. Standing there outside our dream house in the company of Lorrie, surrounded by the darkness, was pretty special.’
Lorraine Lucas looked frail and insubstantial. Her skin stretched tightly over her cheekbones. She wore a thin blue smock laced with silver thread, but had wrapped a hand-knitted jacket over the top. Even here in the warm kitchen it seemed she felt cold.
‘Can we get you anything?’ Vera thought the woman needed feeding. She had the ridiculous notion that if they gave her wholesome bowls of soup, hearty and warming, she’d get better.
Lorraine shook her head. Even that seemed to take an effort. ‘Sorry. It’s not such a good day.’
‘Maybe you should tell your husband that you’re not well?’ They could have been on their own at the table. Holly and Joe seemed part of the furniture, along with the rush mat in front of the Aga and the crockery in the dresser.
‘It might come to that. In days, rather than weeks. But I’d prefer to wait until things are back to normal, until you’ve caught your killer. Do you think that might be soon?’
‘Very soon. But I need your help first.’
Lorraine didn’t answer, but gave a little shrug of acquiescence.
‘Tell me how you c
ame to work in the prison.’
Lorraine leaned back in her chair. ‘I was a teacher in a big comprehensive in Essex. Coping. Loving it, actually. The performance. I managed to hold the students’ attention and occasionally there was a star. A kid with passion for art, who saw the world differently from the rest of it and managed to capture the vision.’ She looked up and grinned, self-mocking. ‘Listen to me! I sound like one of those adverts to persuade gullible young people into the profession.’
Vera said nothing. Outside, water dripped from a leaking gutter and she saw that it was raining more heavily.
Lorraine closed her eyes briefly. ‘Then there was a divorce. Nothing unusual. My husband fell for a younger woman, a colleague. It was all rather banal. But it knocked my confidence. Suddenly I couldn’t stand up in front of a class and control the little sods. The anxiety kept me awake at night. I needed a more amenable audience.’
‘And prison provided that?’
‘Offenders are unlikely to kick off, if there’s an officer standing in the corner.’ She paused. ‘Usually it was the adult equivalent of child-minding. Providing meaningful activity, in the jargon, though actually it was pretty meaningless. Sometimes there was a man with a spark of interest. But it was a way of earning a living without the stress of being in a school.’
‘How did you meet Nigel?’ Vera thought the question was hardly necessary. Lorraine was telling her life story, was glad to have the chance perhaps, as her time ran out.
‘It was at a social event. An awards-do for arts and crafts created in prison. Nigel’s company was one of the sponsors and I had a student shortlisted. It was one of those dinners where the food’s dreadful and the speeches go on forever, and everyone survives by drinking too much cheap wine. We sat next to each other and started talking. He was very charming and thoughtful.’ She paused for a moment. ‘It wasn’t love at first sight. Not for me. But I’d had that with my first husband, and look how that had ended.’ Another pause. ‘Honestly, it helped that Nigel was rich. I liked everything that went with that. The lack of worry. The treats, like weekends away in Paris. Meals in the very best restaurants. I got used to being spoiled.’