by Ann Cleeves
‘No!’ Connie stood up to make her point. ‘That was down to me. If I’d followed best practice, if I’d made one phone call to Elias’s teacher, if I’d made the effort to visit in the evening when I knew I’d catch him in with Morgan, I’d still be working and I wouldn’t have had my picture all over the newspapers. I didn’t kill Elias. His mother did that. And Jenny Lister didn’t get me the sack. I managed to cock up my professional life all on my own.’
‘She could have backed you up a bit more, twisted the story to get you out of bother.’
Connie smiled and he saw for the first time that she was an attractive woman. ‘Nah,’ she said, ‘that was never going to happen. Not Jenny’s style.’
‘Where were you yesterday morning?’ He was starting to be convinced by her story, but he wasn’t going to let that show.
‘What time?’
‘Between about eight and eleven-thirty.’
‘I was here until nine, when I took Alice to playgroup. That starts at nine-fifteen. I drove her up to the hall and dropped her off, then went into Hexham for an hour. A treat to myself. Window-shopping and a decent coffee. Not quite the same as going into Newcastle, but all I could manage in the time. It was a nice day, so I brought the car back here and walked into the village to collect Alice.’
Ashworth looked out and saw that the rain had stopped. The sky – what you could see of it through the dripping trees – was starting to lighten. ‘Where did you park in Hexham?’
‘Next to the big supermarket, just up from the station.’
‘I don’t suppose you kept the parking ticket?’
‘I didn’t have a parking ticket!’ She was starting to get annoyed now and he liked her better this way: fiery, standing up for herself, rather than listless, all the energy sucked out of her. ‘There’s free parking there, though it’s a bit of a walk into town. I save on the parking and buy myself a coffee instead. Those are the kind of calculations I have to make, living on benefit and the pitiful maintenance my husband contributes for his daughter.’
‘Did you meet anyone you know?’
‘I don’t know anyone out here in the sticks.’
‘You see,’ Ashworth went on, all reason and calm, ‘Jenny Lister’s body was found in the Willows Health Club. That’s about halfway between here and Hexham. Not very far at all. You’d have passed it on your way into the town. Another coincidence, maybe?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Another coincidence.’ She paused. ‘I’ve been to the Willows a couple of times. If you have dinner in the restaurant you can use the pool. That was in the old days, while I was still married, before we had Alice, when a drive into the country on a summer night was a treat.’ She got to her feet and Ashworth thought she was going to call the interview to a close, but she went into the kitchen and fetched the jug of coffee that had been keeping warm on the filter machine. She topped up his mug without asking and refilled her own. He liked milk and sugar, but she didn’t offer those and he didn’t ask.
‘Tell me about Jenny,’ he said. ‘What sort of woman was she?’
‘Efficient,’ she said. ‘Honest. Private.’
‘Did you like her?’
Connie thought about that. ‘I admired her,’ she said. ‘She never let anyone get in close enough to know if we liked her or not. Nobody at work at least. That was her survival technique, I guess. Some people in social services work the other way: all their mates are people in the same business, who understand the stress and frustration. Jenny always said she wanted to leave her job at the office door. Maybe that was why she chose to live so far away from base.’ She paused before continuing. ‘Jenny was always convinced she was right. Always. She listened to the arguments, but once she’d made up her mind about a situation you couldn’t shift her.’
Ashworth thought he had colleagues like that too. And there were plenty of people in the police service who didn’t like to mix work and home. Most of his mates were cops and that was easier because they could get the jokes, share the tension, but some officers didn’t want to know once the shift was over. It made them a bit isolated, outsiders in the team. Had Jenny come across in that way: aloof, maybe even patronizing?
‘Did she talk about her family at all?’
‘I knew she had a daughter, but that was only because Jenny had a photo of a girl on her desk and I asked about her. And when my husband left, Jenny said the same thing had happened to her, when her child was very young. Apart from that, nothing.’
‘You can’t think, then, who might have wanted to kill her.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she had threats,’ Connie said easily, ‘over the years. We all had those.’
‘What do you mean?’
She looked at him as if he were stupid. ‘Our work involved removing children from their families, usually against their will. Of course there were people who hated us. We were challenging their ability to be parents, violating their homes, making them look incompetent or cruel to their neighbours. What do you think the reaction was like? Often it was violent and abusive.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But do I think one of Jenny’s clients killed her? Absolutely not. Most of them live chaotic and disorganized lives and that’s why their children are at risk. No way could they plan a murder like that. They couldn’t even get to the Willows, never mind blag their way inside the health club. I don’t know who killed Jenny Lister, but I’d be astounded if it had anything to do with her being a social worker.’
She gathered up the mugs and took them into the kitchen, came back into the tiny living room to put on outdoor shoes. Ashworth followed her outside. He wasn’t sure it was healthy, living on this low, damp land so close to the water. The garden was overgrown. In a corner rhubarb was starting to sprout, and a few celandines were growing in the long grass. ‘Do you think you’ll be living here long-term then?’ He couldn’t see it. Like she’d said, she was more of a city girl.
‘God, no!’ She pulled a face. ‘But I was desperate to get away from the press, and Frank, my ex, knows the owners. I don’t think I could face a whole winter here.’
At the small gate, which was green with lichen and soft with rot, she paused.
‘There was a stranger in the village,’ she said. ‘Yesterday afternoon. Just after lunch. It’s probably not important. He wasn’t looking for Jenny.’
‘Why don’t you tell me all the same?’
She looked at her watch to check that she had time to wait for a couple of minutes and was reassured.
‘It was a bit odd. We went outside to sit after lunch – there was the first real sun of the spring – and there he was. Alice spotted him on the bridge. He said he’d come on the bus. He was looking for Veronica Eliot. She lives in the big white house by the crossroads. I told him she’d been out when I walked past. I suggested that he wait and offered him tea.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Ashworth disapproved of risk-taking at the best of times. A woman living on her own, it was surely crazy to invite a stranger into her home.
‘I’m not sure. I was lonely. I’m a pariah here since they found out about Elias. I wanted some adult company and he seemed OK. But I wasn’t going to leave Alice alone with him, so I took her in with me to make the tea. And when we got back, he’d disappeared. Like I said: odd. But maybe he saw Veronica’s car turn into her drive. Or maybe he just thought better of hanging out with a mad, desperate housewife and her child.’
Connie gave a small, sad smile and hurried away down the muddy track.
Chapter Twelve
Once the team briefing was over, Vera sat for a moment in her office. She wanted to sort her thoughts. She’d sent Ashworth to Barnard Bridge to talk to Connie Masters. Holly and Charlie were back at the Willows, interviewing the hotel staff members who had been absent the previous day. It seemed to Vera, looking down at the street where the weekly market was already busy, that the choice of the health club as a setting for murder was most significant. Why kill the woman there, when the culprit could be caught at any
time? There must have been other, less complicated places to commit the crime. Jenny’s killer must have known she belonged to the club, or he had followed her there. That implied a stalker, a crime that was premeditated, planned over a long period. Otherwise, Vera thought, the motive was more trivial and banal, and Jenny had been killed because of something she’d witnessed on her visits to the Willows. No planning at all. Murder often happened for the pettiest of reasons, and those crimes were especially tragic.
She phoned the landline number for Jenny’s house in Barnard Bridge. Simon Eliot answered.
‘How’s Hannah?’
‘We didn’t get much sleep,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d call her doctor. Explain. She was talking all night and she needs to rest. Maybe he can give her something to knock her out tonight.’ He paused. ‘She wants to see her mother.’
Not her mother, her mother’s body. Something quite different.
‘That should be fine. I’m tied up, but I’ll arrange for someone to pick you up.’ Vera had already decided she’d send Holly. Maybe Hannah would talk more to someone closer her own age.
‘I’m not sure she wants me there,’ Simon said. ‘I think she’d like to say goodbye on her own.’ Vera caught the pain in his voice.
‘That’s a good thing surely,’ she said. ‘Give you a bit of time to yourself. No point you cracking up too.’ She paused. ‘I’d like to talk to some of Jenny’s friends. Seems there was nobody she was really close to at work, so I’m assuming there must have been people in the village. Your mam didn’t know. Can you help?’
‘Anne Mason,’ he said. ‘She’s a teacher at the primary school up the valley and lives in a barn conversion not far out of the village. They went to the theatre, out for meals. They did the flamenco class together. I think she’s away at the moment. It’s the Easter holidays. She and her husband have a holiday home in Bordeaux and they go there whenever they can. Jenny went with them sometimes.’
‘Don’t suppose you have a mobile number for her?’
‘I don’t, but Hannah might. I’ll check.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘There’s nothing I can do to help her,’ he said at last, a cry from the heart.
‘Nothing anyone can do at the moment, pet.’ And Vera gave him Holly’s name, said she’d be in touch when they had a time for Hannah to go to the mortuary.
Vera had arranged to meet Craig, Jenny’s area manager, for lunch in Kimmerston. He had to be in the town anyway and that was the only window in his day. That was the way he talked: buzzword bingo brought to life. There was a partnership meeting, he’d said on the phone. Inter-agency stuff. That was his working life now, all strategy and politics. He never actually saw a client in his life. Vera thought he sounded bloody pleased about it. I should be like that, all strategy and politics. That’s what the bosses want of me. But, God, think how boring that would be.
He suggested they meet in a wine bar in Front Street. She’d walked past it a few times, but had never been tempted in. She knew exactly how it would be: over-priced and poncy. And full of beautiful people who would stare at her, thinking she was a Big Issue seller who’d wandered in from a night on the pavement. She got there deliberately a little late so that she wouldn’t have to wait on her own for him to arrive, and saw him immediately, a guy in his forties, wearing a suit, reading the Indie. A briefcase on the floor beside him. Vera had never carried a briefcase in her life. The place was almost empty – it was still early for the lunchtime rush – so they wouldn’t be overheard.
When he saw her approaching she noticed the surprise and disappointment on his face. Perhaps he’d been hoping for a Helen Mirren lookalike. These days, people expected senior female officers to walk straight out of Prime Suspect. He got up to shake her hand and she realized he was very tall. There weren’t many men who dwarfed her.
‘This is terrible,’ he said. ‘Jenny Lister was the best social worker I’ve ever met. I’m not sure what we’ll do without her. Her team is in pieces.’ He looked down at her bleakly. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll do without her. She kept the whole show on the road. Officially my deputy, but actually she was the one who kept me straight.’
That made Vera warm to him. Underneath the jargon and the ambition he was human after all. When he ordered a bowl of chips to go with his smoked-salmon baguette she liked him even more.
‘So she was good at her job?’
‘The understatement of the year.’ He dipped a chip into a bowl of mayonnaise. ‘If she’d wanted to, she could have gone to head up a social-services department. She was organized, an excellent supervisor, scarily clever.’
‘So why wasn’t she promoted?’ Vera had never quite believed in saints. What was it about Jenny Lister that she’d stayed in the field instead of taking the opportunity to become a manager?
‘She didn’t want it,’ he said. ‘She said she didn’t need the money or the aggro. And she’d miss working with clients and foster parents. She’d miss the kids.’
‘Did you believe her?’
The man looked up, shocked. ‘Of course! Jenny Lister didn’t lie.’
Not true, Vera thought. We all lie. We wouldn’t survive otherwise. It’s just that some of us do it better than others. Jenny Lister must have been a magnificent liar.
The man continued. ‘She loved being the most talented social worker in the place. Perhaps she knew management wouldn’t be her thing. She wouldn’t have wanted to be second best.’
‘What about her background?’ Vera asked. ‘Was she local?’
He looked up from his food. ‘Yes, born-and-bred Northumberland. Went south to university, but lived the rest of her life here.’
‘Are her parents still alive?’ Maybe Jenny had confided in them if they were local. Maybe they’d have Hannah to stay for a while.
‘No,’ he said. ‘She never talked about it, but my wife’s a local-history buff and came across the story in an old copy of the Hexham Courant. Jenny’s dad was a solicitor, seemed he was defrauding his clients. He took his own life before the case could go to court. The mother lived for a good few years after that, but she was never the same apparently. She couldn’t stand the shame. I think she lived in residential care somewhere on the coast. She died about ten years ago. I remember Jenny going to the funeral.’
Another woman with a crook for a father, Vera thought. Perhaps she and Jenny would have had things in common after all.
On the way back to the station, pushing her way against the market-day flow of people on the wide pavement, Vera’s mobile beeped to show she had a text. She’d never really understood the text thing. Why not phone and leave a message? Really she needed specs, but was too vain and too disorganized to go for an eye test, and here in the busy street she couldn’t be arsed to try to read it. She’d be flattened by the elderly farmers and the county ladies walking in the opposite direction. In her office, she made coffee before checking her phone. The message was from Simon Eliot. Of course, that was the way the young communicated. Jenny’s friend Anne just home from holiday. Happy to talk to you. Then a phone number.
She was about to phone Anne Mason when there was a call on her landline. It was Holly, just back from taking Hannah to the mortuary, speaking in a sort of stage whisper. ‘Is it OK if I stay with her, boss? She’s in a real state. She’s only a kid.’ Was there a touch of accusation in the tone? As if Vera was a heartless beast for not taking better care of the girl?
‘Sure, if she wants you there.’
‘She’s so knackered I’m not quite sure what she wants, but she’s asked if I can hang around.’
‘That’s great then. See if you can get her to talk. So far all we have on Jenny Lister is that she’s a cross between Saint Theresa and Gandhi. With about as much of a love life.’
‘Yeah,’ Holly was enthusiastic, glad to have something to get her teeth into. ‘Her husband left when Hannah was a baby. There must have been men in her life since then. I mean, that was years ago.’
She seemed not to real
ize there was anything cruel in the comment, and Vera let it go. Vera had never had a man in her life. What would Holly have made of that?
Anne Mason lived halfway up a hill looking down over the valley, where Barnard Bridge village ran the length of the burn. Vera didn’t much like this sort of barn conversion – a massive structure that left you with echoing spaces and an exposed roof. The design reminded Vera of a church, and where would you put all your junk if you didn’t have an attic? She could see Anne’s place from the beginning of the narrow lane, which branched off the main road a couple of miles out of the village. The lane ran along the Tyne for a while and her view was hidden by woodland. Then the car emerged into open countryside and she saw the building again, the milky sun reflected from the glass that had replaced the wide barn doors.
Anne Mason didn’t seem to be the sort of woman who would collect much junk. She was slight and fine with small hands, sensible short grey hair. She was still wearing the cotton trousers and walking boots in which she’d travelled.
They sat in stylish Scandinavian chairs looking down at the valley.
‘We got Simon’s phone call when we were driving up the A1. I can’t believe it. Jenny of all people.’ There was a rucksack on the polished wooden floor close to the door. Occasionally she would glance at it and Vera could tell that, despite her friend’s death, it irked her not to be unpacking immediately. She was a woman who would hate untidiness, unfinished business. Unbidden, a phrase from the Elias Jones report came into Vera’s head: Michael hates clutter. The women weren’t soulmates then. Jenny’s house had been comfortably cluttered; it wouldn’t have bothered her to go off to work with a couple of mucky plates on the counter.
‘Where’s your husband now?’ Vera asked. If Jenny had gone on holiday with them both in the past, the man might have something useful to contribute.
‘He’s gone to collect our dog from the kennel.’ Anne gave an apologetic grin. ‘We don’t have children. The dog’s our baby.’