by Ann Cleeves
Chapter Fourteen
Connie flattened herself against the wall of the post office to let a livestock lorry down the narrow main road of the village. There was a campaign to get a bypass for Barnard Bridge, but nobody really thought it would happen. Outside the hall, waiting again for the end of playgroup, she thought: Twenty-four hours ago I was standing here and I didn’t know Jenny Lister was dead. She ran through her conversation with the young detective. Had she hit the right tone? It was important that he believed her. She couldn’t stand the idea of more publicity, of having to face the same intrusive questions from prying officials. She hadn’t told him everything of course, that would have been impossible. Even now, she hated the idea of appearing a fool.
Veronica Eliot made her way along the street, looking very much the country lady in smart brown trousers and a tweed jacket. She’d parked her car outside the old school. Even from a distance Connie could make out the signature, rather incongruous red lips and red nails. A vampire in cashmere and green Hunter wellies. Why do I hate her so much?
As Veronica approached, Connie braced herself for the icy stare or the barbed comment, the chin in the air as she stalked past, but instead the older woman stopped. She hesitated, uncertain for the first time since Connie had met her. It was still early and there were no other parents around, nobody to witness the meeting.
Connie took a brief moment of pleasure in the woman’s discomfort and said nothing.
‘You’ll have heard about Mrs Lister.’ For Veronica, this was tentative. It didn’t sound like a challenge, or even an attempt to fish for information, which was what Connie had been expecting. She’d felt sure Veronica would have noticed the strange car outside her cottage, and Ashworth was so obviously a detective that Veronica must have guessed there’d been a visitation from the police. She’d want to know all about that.
‘Of course,’ Connie said. ‘It was on the local news last night.’
‘You must have known her. She’d have been a colleague of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Such a terrible shock,’ Veronica said, at last recovering something of her poise. ‘I didn’t know her well, but our children are friends. Have you heard if the police have made any headway in their investigation?’
So she was fishing after all. Or was it just that her desire for gossip outweighed her dislike of Connie?
‘They’d hardly be likely to confide in me, would they?’ Connie felt some of her old strength returning and gave a little laugh to prove it.
‘I suppose not, but I thought you’d still have friends in social services. They might have some idea what’s going on—’ Veronica broke off as a group of mothers walked towards them, then added hurriedly: ‘Look, why don’t you come to lunch. Nothing special. Bring your little girl.’ And she hurried away to greet the gathering women, without waiting for an answer. Watching her, Connie thought she looked like one of the wading birds you see on the beach, her head tipping forward to prod the mud, not for worms, but for information. She didn’t acknowledge Connie’s presence again during the ritual collection of the children, but Connie wondered if the only reason she was there was to have offered the invitation.
She was determined not to go. How dare the woman issue what was close to a summons and expect her just to fall in with the request. But holding Alice by the hand and leading her back through the village, she found herself overwhelmed by curiosity. Not just about what Veronica might want of her, but about the woman’s life and family. That social worker’s compulsion, the need to delve into other people’s lives. And lunch had been offered. Connie hadn’t been shopping for days and there was nothing much to eat in the cottage. She saw Veronica drive past in her Range Rover and wondered what it would be like to belong to her crowd, to be provided for by a rich husband, to live in a big house and drive a big car. There was a moment of envy. I want some of that.
She’d only seen the house from the lane and it felt like an intrusion to go through the big wooden gates and up to the front door. It wasn’t very old or even very grand. A solid square box, built – Connie would guess – in the Fifties, rendered and whitewashed, the silhouette softened by creeper growing along one corner, impressive only because of the large garden. It would have looked more in place in a smart city suburb. A pretend country house for a pretend country lady. Connie felt a moment of superiority: at least her tiny cottage had authenticity. It had been there for hundreds of years and had grown out of the landscape. It was mouldy and dark, but it had style.
Alice was quiet. Playgroup always wore her out. She didn’t even ask why they weren’t going straight home. What would Connie have answered? Mummy wants to know her enemy.
The front door opened and Veronica was standing there. Did she want to hurry Connie inside before her friends could see that they were fraternizing? Was fraternizing even a word you could use for women? Lack of sleep and the events of the previous day had left Connie light-headed. She felt as if she’d been drinking and other strange thoughts chased through her mind. Nobody knew she was here. One woman from the village had been murdered already. Was she the next intended victim? She found herself smiling at the idea of Veronica as killer, at the image of the sharp red nails ripping into soft flesh.
‘Thank you for coming along.’
Veronica had got her way and now she was conciliatory. Connie walked into a hall with a polished parquet floor, flowers in a big copper bowl on a little table, paintings. In pride of place the graduation photograph of a dark young man in cap and gown.
‘I’ve put out some lunch in the kitchen.’ And an effort had been made. There was a salad – ‘the first leaves from the cold frame’ – cold meat, a local pâté and Northumberland goat’s cheese. A loaf from the Rothbury bakery. White wine chilling in the fridge. For Alice, little sausages, carrot sticks and a homemade cake. Had Veronica spent the morning planning this, or was her larder always packed with goodies?
She wants more than bits of gossip to pass on to her friends.
But despite herself, Connie found she was feeling grateful for the attention. Her fight had gone. She could think of nothing nicer than sitting here in this light, white kitchen drinking cold wine while Veronica found old toys for Alice to play with: Dinky Toys that had belonged not just to her son but to his father, a wooden jigsaw puzzle and a bucket of plastic bricks.
‘Is your husband still working away?’ It was the ordinary stuff of conversation, but Veronica looked at her, as if she were searching for a deeper meaning to the question, some slight or sarcasm. She must have been reassured because she answered almost immediately.
‘Yes, a conference in Rotterdam.’
‘But your son’s home for the Easter holidays?’ Connie thought the art of social intercourse wasn’t so hard after all. The skill was coming back to her.
Again there was a pause, a quick appraising glance. No answer this time, but Veronica had a question of her own. ‘Did you know Simon, my son, was going out with Jenny Lister’s daughter?’
‘No!’ Connie took a while to process the information. The photo on Jenny’s desk had been of a slight, red-haired child, but of course now she’d be older, a young woman. ‘How dreadful all this must be for her! I never met her, but I had the impression that she and Jenny were very close.’
Veronica reached over and poured a little more wine into her visitor’s glass. ‘I suppose you went to visit Jenny. You were almost neighbours after all.’ Connie saw she was drinking very little herself.
‘No! I didn’t even know she lived in the village.’ If I say it often enough, will people believe me?
Veronica did seem to believe her, because suddenly she relaxed and gave a thin, wide smile, a red crescent tipped on its back. ‘Ah, so you weren’t good friends then.’
‘I don’t think Jenny made friends with anyone she worked with. A deliberate choice to keep home and work separate.’
‘Very wise. That’s my husband’s philosophy too. I know hardly anyone from his office.�
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She sounded wistful and Connie thought how bored and lonely Veronica must be. Her son independent and no longer needy, her husband never at home. No wonder she haunted the playgroup committee and the WI. How else could she believe herself useful? Connie almost felt sorry for her, then she remembered the hostile glares from the playgroup mothers, the snide remarks. She couldn’t forgive so easily after all.
Veronica continued: ‘I host dinner parties, of course, for his clients, but that’s rather different. That’s just an extension of his work. As if he’d moved the office here for the night.’ At last she poured herself a full glass of wine. A pale light from the garden shone through it and gave it a greenish tinge. ‘I don’t mind. I’m glad to support him.’
‘Work followed me home rather uncomfortably over the past couple of years.’ Connie turned her attention from the glass to Veronica. She’d decided she wasn’t ready to let this woman off the hook entirely, that after all she couldn’t exchange months of catty comments for a peaceful lunch. ‘There was no rest from it and no escape. I’d hoped there’d be some respite after I moved here, but of course the scandal followed me. People who only knew part of the story were very unkind.’
‘People felt very strongly,’ Veronica said. ‘They always do when there’s a child involved.’ The response was sharp and swift.
‘I made a mistake at work.’ Why did she feel the need to justify herself? ‘Other people, who earn a load more money than I ever did, make mistakes at work, but they don’t get their picture all over the newspapers.’
‘But a child died!’ It came out as a wail and Connie thought this was more personal. Veronica’s campaign against her hadn’t just been the interference of a busybody. Had she lost a baby, had a miscarriage, a stillbirth? Alice, startled by the noise, looked up from her game. Seeing the women, still apparently in friendly conversation at the table, she returned to it.
‘Yes,’ Connie said quietly. ‘A child died. And I’ve thought about that every day since. I didn’t need you to remind me.’
They sat for a moment in silence. Outside, the sun slid from behind thin cloud and there was a startling light, brilliant on the damp grass, making all the colours garish and unreal. Veronica stood up and opened a window and the sudden sound of a blackbird outside seemed almost deafening.
‘I worry about Simon,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him caught up in all this. He has an academic career ahead of him. He insists on staying with Hannah at the house. I’ve invited her here, but she says she wants to feel close to her mother. That seems morbid. Her father has said she should stay with him, but she won’t go.’
Connie didn’t know what to say. I’m the last person to give you advice about your child. Alice, suddenly bored, got up from the floor and climbed onto her mother’s knee. She put her thumb in her mouth and was almost asleep. Connie stroked her forehead. She was aware of Veronica watching them, almost greedily.
‘How lucky you are!’ Veronica said. ‘It’s a lovely age.’
Conventional words, but with such force behind them that Connie felt uncomfortable. She could tell Veronica longed to hold a small child in her arms. She was about to come out with something easy and meaningless: Perhaps there’ll be grandchildren before too long. But even as the words were forming in her head she knew they would be no consolation. Veronica wanted a child of her own. Flesh and blood, immediate and not once-removed. Subconsciously Connie found herself holding Alice a little tighter.
‘Let’s have some coffee!’ Veronica got to her feet and the tension was broken. Connie thought she was letting her imagination run away from her. It was the stress of the past day, and it had never been a good idea to drink at lunchtime. Now Alice was properly asleep. Connie shifted her weight so that she had a hand free to hold the mug. The smell of the coffee was wonderful, reminded her suddenly of her first holiday in France with Frank. A cafe in the Cévennes. Heat and dust and a post-sex languor.
‘I’m so glad we had this conversation.’ Veronica was sitting very close now, her face poking forward, with the prodding, wading-bird mannerism Connie had noticed earlier. ‘I’m so glad we’ve sorted things out.’
Connie was confused. What had been sorted?
‘You must come again. Bring Alice to play in the garden. And if you need a babysitter, you only have to ask.’
Connie finished the coffee and stood up, setting Alice on her feet. ‘Come on, sweetie, it’s time to go. Wake up, or you’ll never sleep tonight.’ She felt the need to escape the house, and the woman whose switch of attitude was incomprehensible. At the front door she paused. She wanted to end the encounter with a normal exchange, not the sense that she was running away.
‘By the way, did that man find you?’
Veronica frowned. ‘What man?’
‘Yesterday lunchtime someone turned up at the cottage, asking for you. Young, charming. I wasn’t sure if you were in, but I pointed him in the right direction.’
‘Oh.’ With a supreme effort Veronica turned on a smile. ‘I expect it was a friend of Simon’s.’ But before that, Connie had seen her look at Alice with the same hungry desperation.
Chapter Fifteen
Late afternoon Vera called the whole team together for a meeting in the incident room. Tea, and iced buns from the bakery over the road. So much was going on in this case that she needed to keep a fix on the strands of the investigation. Once, she’d been interviewed for the Police Gazette and asked for the most important attribute of a good senior detective. She’d answered ‘concentration’. If she couldn’t keep the various possible scenarios in her head, she couldn’t expect her staff to keep on top of things.
Holly had been reluctant to come in when Vera had phoned her: ‘I think I should stay here. Hannah’s falling apart and we’ve developed a great relationship.’
Vera had insisted. ‘You’re doing her no favours if you make her dependent on you. Great for your ego, but a bastard for her. And we have to know what you’ve found out from her. You can go back later if you have to, but get a family liaison officer to take over tomorrow. They’re trained for that work, and you’re not.’
So Holly was there, an overnight bag at her feet, a badge that she was needed. Loving feeling indispensable, Vera could tell, despite the warning. Charlie was already into his second bun, a smudge of icing on his nose, crumbs down the front of his jacket. And Ashworth was frowning as he checked through his notes, looking almost grown-up. Vera wasn’t sure his extra family responsibilities were good for him. He’d lost his sense of fun, his joy in his work. She’d lost her playmate.
‘OK,’ she said, calling them to attention, poised in front of the whiteboard with the thick, black marker in her hand. ‘Let’s see what you know. Holly? Have we found out any more about Jenny’s private life? I see the search team’s been through the house. Any news on that?’
Holly pushed her hair away from her face and pretended not to like the attention. ‘Hannah doesn’t know anything about a recent boyfriend. She says there’ve been men in the past. One guy who worked for he National Park. According to Hannah, he was besotted, but Jenny dumped him about a year ago. Hannah was surprised; she’d thought her mother was keen too. Since then, nothing.’
‘You’ve got the name of this man?’ Vera knew Holly would have. Holly was ambitious and knew better than to leave herself open to criticism.
‘Sure. Lawrence May. Age: late forties. Divorced. No kids. They went walking and birdwatching together.’ Vera thought Hector, her father, might have known him. Hector had been keen on birds too, but best of all he’d liked killing and stuffing them. When she’d taken over his house in the hills she’d found the freezer full of corpses waiting for his attention. As a taxidermist on the shady side of legal, he’d have seen May as the enemy. A lily-livered robin-stroker without any idea of what the countryside was all about.
‘Spoken to him?’
‘Not yet.’
Of course not. She’d been too busy playing Mother Teresa with the girl.
‘Get onto it first thing tomorrow.’ Vera looked at the plate of buns and saw it was empty. Her fault. She should have known better than to leave it within reach of Charlie. ‘Did the search team turn up anything interesting from her home or her office?’
‘The team found her laptop at home,’ Holly said. ‘If she’s still in touch with Lawrence May, there should be emails. There was an electronic diary on it, but that was mostly work. IT is sorting through the rest now.’
‘We still haven’t found her handbag,’ Vera said. ‘A woman like that, surely she’d have a handbag. Probably a briefcase too. Holly, can you ask Hannah? She’d know what her mother usually carried her stuff around in.’
Holly nodded, but Vera could tell that her mind wasn’t on such mundane details. She was still thinking about bringing comfort to the girl.
‘According to her best mate, there was a new man in her life,’ Vera said. ‘A secret lover. If she’d started going out with May again, no reason surely why she’d keep it secret.’
‘Unless she just wanted to see how it worked out before going public,’ Joe Ashworth chipped in. Sometimes Vera thought he represented her feminine side. He had the empathy and she had the muscle. Well, the bulk. Muscle, she had to admit, was sorely lacking. ‘She wouldn’t want to make a fool of herself, announce they were an item again, only for it all to fall apart.’
‘The friend thought the new bloke might be married,’ Vera said. ‘Something to keep in mind. We haven’t got much else as a motive.’
‘Except for the Elias Jones case.’ Charlie still had his mouth full. ‘Lots of hatred stirred up over that.’
‘So let’s look at that again.’ Vera wrote the child’s name on the whiteboard. ‘How far have we got with it? Joe, you spoke to the social worker, the one that was pilloried in the press. Connie Masters. Do we think she killed her boss?’
‘She claims she didn’t even know Lister was living in the village.’