by Ann Cleeves
‘And do we believe her?’ Come on, Joe. Commit yourself.
‘Yeah,’ he said and she wanted to cheer. Joe Ashworth spent so much of his time sitting on the fence that he should have a blister on his arse. ‘At first it seems impossible – a place that small and they’ve not bumped into each other – but Masters has only been living there for a few months, and Lister would be out all day at work. The times when she might be around, in the evenings, Connie Masters is at home with her bairn.’
‘They didn’t socialize at all when they were working together?’ Holly liked her evenings in the pub with the lads when a case was closed. Liked being fancied.
‘Apparently not. Not Jenny’s way of working. She liked to keep home and the office separate.’
‘Still seems a bit of a coincidence . . .’ Holly pushing it.
‘The boss asked me what I thought, and I’m telling you.’ They glared at each other, the two bright kids in the school vying to be top of the class.
‘Have we tracked down Michael Morgan yet?’ Vera asked. Sometimes the rivalry between the younger members of her team amused her, but now she needed them to pull together and focus. Then, when everyone looked at her as if they didn’t have an idea what she was talking about, she added sharply: ‘Mattie Jones’s boyfriend. The man she fell for, the man she’ll have us believe she killed for. The man who became a sort of stepdad to Elias. So far, all I know about him is that he was weird. I might be wrong here, but aren’t we looking for weird? Do we know if he’s still sticking pins into people for a living? I guess he’d have to have a basic knowledge of anatomy if he trained as an acupuncturist. Might come in handy if you wanted to strangle a fit, healthy woman. I don’t suppose we’ve checked if he was a member of the Willows.’
She was glad that they looked sheepish, though she was as guilty as they were of having forgotten about Mattie’s lover. She’d concentrated, as they had, on Jenny Lister’s private life.
‘I want that information first thing tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Address, recent employment history and crosscheck with the Willows’ membership. But don’t make contact yet. We need to know more about him first. I have the impression he’s a slippery kind of character. I’ll maybe take a trip to Durham and chat to Mattie before we make a move on him.’
‘She’s not there.’ She hadn’t been sure Charlie had even been listening, but now he chipped in, a great smirk all over his face.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mattie Jones isn’t in Durham nick.’
‘Where is she then?’ Vera glared at him. All the female lifers in the region were sent to the high-security wing in Durham. And Vera couldn’t stand her team playing games at her expense.
‘Hospital.’ Charlie was almost apologetic now. ‘Appendicitis. She was taken in as an emergency the day before yesterday. Picked up some sort of infection and she’s still there.’
‘I’d best buy a nice bag of grapes then. She’ll be ready for a visit.’
There was a moment of silence. Vera was suddenly aware of how tired everyone was. A day into the investigation and there was already too much information. Nothing here was simple. She needed to raise the energy level and hold their attention. Maybe they could all do with a swim or a workout at the gym. She grinned at the thought of Charlie on a treadmill.
‘The Willows,’ she said. ‘What do we have from there?’
‘I reckon Lister must have been killed before nine-thirty,’ Charlie said.
‘The pathologist won’t be that specific.’
‘Don’t care,’ he said. ‘Nine-thirty the cheap deal starts, and that’s when all the wrinklies and the yummy mummies turn up. They stand around chatting as much as swimming. Most of the old folk blind as bats without their specs in the pool, which is why it took so long for anyone to realize the woman was dead, but the killer wouldn’t have known that. Before nine-thirty it’s the business people, in for a quick swim before work. No lifeguard on duty, according to Joe. I chatted to the staff. Hardly any of the early-morning swimmers use the steam room. They’re in too much of a rush.’
‘Makes sense,’ Vera conceded. Sometimes you had to throw Charlie a scrap of praise to keep him motivated.
‘There’ve been reports of petty thieving.’ This was Ashworth wanting to move things to a close. Vera saw him take a quick look at the clock on the wall. His missus always gave him a hard time when he wasn’t back in time to see the kids before bedtime. ‘Could be a motive, if Lister saw one of them stealing.’
‘Who’s the main suspect?’
‘They’ve accused Lisa, the lass from the west end, but the assistant manager reckons she’s just a scapegoat. My money’s on Danny, the student. The thefts only started after he got the temporary work, and he’s an arrogant sort of bastard. You could see he’d think he’d get away with it. His boss thinks he wouldn’t risk his future career for a few trinkets, but I’m not so sure. He’s a chancer.’
Vera suddenly longed for a drink. Beer, she thought. There were a few cans of Speckled Hen left in the larder at home. If he behaved himself, she might even give one to Joe Ashworth. Her place was on his way home. Almost.
‘Seems to me we have three separate areas of enquiry,’ she said briskly. ‘First, Jenny Lister’s private life. We need to trace her secret lover. Why was she so desperate to keep him secret? If he’s married, we could be looking at a jealous wife. Then there’s the Elias Jones case. Is it relevant to the present investigation? If so, how? And finally, the thefts at the Willows. Doesn’t seem much of a motive, but people have killed for less.’
She winced at the cliché, but her team seemed happy enough with her summary. They’d have been happy whatever she’d said. They were bored now by all the talking and just wanted to get out of the room.
Ashworth took less persuading than she’d expected to come back with her for a drink. Perhaps he preferred to arrive home when the chaos of bath and bedtime was over, when the house was quiet and he could have his wife to himself. Joe liked to think of himself as a perfect family man, but everyone was allowed his little self-deception. It was a still evening, and dusk when they arrived at Vera’s house. She got out of her car and smelled gorse flowers and damp foliage and cows. If Hector had given her nothing else, he had given her this house and she would always be grateful to him for that. During this investigation, with all the talk of parenting, she’d found herself thinking about him, and it came to her suddenly that he was an easy scapegoat. She blamed him for all the ills in her life and that might not be quite fair. Hector might be the cause of most of them, but not all.
She lit the fire already laid in the grate, not because it was particularly cold, but because the rest of the room was a mess and it would give them something to look at. And because she knew Joe liked it. Her neighbours had bartered half a lamb for a load of apple logs with a guy in the Borders and had donated her some of the wood; she’d arrived home one night and found the logs neatly stacked in the lean-to at the back of her house. The couple were capable of these acts of kindness and she was grateful they were there, happily tolerated the occasional solstice party when dozens of odd people set up camp on the field in front of her house, turned a blind eye to their dope-smoking – even when it happened, thoughtlessly, in her home.
Vera left the curtains undrawn and fetched beer from the kitchen, a loaf of bread on a board, a lump of cheese. They sat on the two low chairs, their feet to the fire. Vera thought this was as happy as she would ever get.
Ashworth broke into her thoughts. ‘What do you make of this Elias Jones connection? Important or just a distraction?’
She considered for a moment, felt the metallic taste of beer and can on her tongue. ‘Important anyway,’ she said. ‘I mean, even if it doesn’t provide a direct motive. Because it tells us a lot about Jenny Lister.’
‘Like?’
‘She was efficient, organized. A control freak. She didn’t like mixing home and work. Principled. Principles don’t always make you popular. If she
caught someone doing something she considered wrong, she wouldn’t keep quiet about it.’
‘You’re thinking about the thefts at the Willows?’
Vera took time to consider that one. ‘Maybe, though it seems very petty. More likely something going on in the village.’ She was thinking about Veronica Eliot and her pristine house and her model family. Nothing was ever that perfect, so what, exactly, was happening under the surface?
Ashworth looked at his watch.
‘It’s all right, Joe,’ she said indulgently. ‘You’re safe to go home now. The bairns’ll be in bed. Tomorrow, prise Holly away from the daughter and see if one of you can track down Jenny’s secret lover. A village that size, someone will know. They’ll have seen a strange car, bumped into them in Hexham.’
He stood up. His face was red from the fire. Or maybe the dig about the children had struck home. ‘What about you?’
She didn’t move. He could find his own way out. ‘Me, like I said, I’m going hospital visiting.’
Chapter Sixteen
Mattie was in a side-ward; a female prison officer sat in the corner with a pile of fashion magazines on her lap and a bag of Maltesers in her hand. God, Vera thought. I bet the woman can’t believe her luck. All this time off the wing! The officer looked about the same age as the patient in the bed, she was a dirty blonde and big-busted, the buttons straining on her white uniform shirt. Easy-going, the sort who’d really enjoy a good night out and a couple of days sitting on her arse with a load of trashy reads and chocolate.
‘Hiya!’ Friendly too. Vera was pleased about that. Whatever Mattie had done, Vera didn’t like to think of her terrified and friendless in hospital. ‘The sister said you’d be coming. I’ll make myself scarce, shall I, so you can have a chat? Tell you the truth, I’m desperate for a tab.’ Her eyes were inquisitive, but she set the magazines on the chair and disappeared, her craving for nicotine stronger than her curiosity.
Vera pulled the chair closer to the bed. The woman lying there looked very young. There was a fan on the bedside locker, but she was still flushed and feverish. ‘She’s still got a nasty temperature,’ the sister had said. ‘Was hallucinating in the night about all sorts. But the antibiotics seem to be starting to work this morning.’
‘What sort of hallucinations?’ Might be the temperature, Vera thought. But it could be guilt or fear. Nothing like guilt to bring on nightmares.
‘Oh, you know, monsters and devils. The usual stuff.’ And the sister had laughed. She’d seen it all before.
Mattie seemed to be dozing now. Vera called her name and she opened her eyes, blinked, confused.
‘Where’s Sal?’
‘She the prison officer?’
Mattie nodded her head.
‘Gone to get a fag. I just need a few words. My name’s Vera Stanhope.’
‘You a doctor?’ She had a little-girl voice too. You’d never think she was old enough to have had a child at school.
Vera laughed. ‘Nah, pet. I’m the fuzz.’
Mattie closed her eyes again, as if she just wanted to shut Vera out, as if she preferred her dreams of monsters and devils.
‘I’m not here to cause bother,’ Vera said. ‘Just for some information, for a bit of a talk. I think you can help me.’
Mattie looked at her. ‘I told the police everything the first time.’
‘I know you did.’ Vera paused. ‘Have you seen the news lately?’ There was a television on a stand on the wall, but it was coin-operated, the NHS making money where it could.
Mattie followed her gaze. ‘Sal got it to work for me. She used her own cash. But we haven’t watched the news.’
Of course, Vera thought. Mattie would like the kids’ cartoons, and for Sal it’d be Britain’s Next Top Model and Wife Swap.
‘Jenny Lister is dead,’ Vera said. ‘You remember Jenny?’
Mattie nodded. Her eyes seemed very big. ‘She came to visit me in prison.’ A tear rolled down her face. ‘What happened?’
‘She was murdered.’
‘Why are you here?’ Mattie seemed wide awake now, even tried to sit herself up a bit. ‘That had nothing to do with me.’
‘You knew her,’ Vera said. ‘I’m talking to the people who knew her. That’s all.’
‘You can’t blame me.’ Now the words were hysterical and so loud that Vera was worried they’d attract attention from the nurses’ station. ‘I was locked up. I couldn’t get out if I’d wanted to.’ And Vera saw that she probably wouldn’t want to. She would feel safe in prison, segregated probably on a wing for vulnerable offenders, comforted by kind prison officers like Sal and by the daily routine of education and meals. Besides, it seemed Mattie didn’t even know the date of Jenny’s death. She’d been in hospital, not in prison, when it had happened.
‘No one’s blaming you,’ Vera said. ‘I need your help. That’s why I’m here.’
Mattie looked confused. The idea that someone might need her was obviously alien. She’d always been the needy one.
‘I liked Jenny. I wish she wasn’t dead.’ A pause followed by another wail, an outburst of self-pity. ‘I’ll miss her. Who’ll come to visit me now?’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Last Thursday.’ The answer came quickly.
‘You’re sure?’ Vera had expected some vague date in the past.
‘She always came on Thursday.’
‘Every week?’ Vera was astounded. For a busy woman, this was surely above and beyond the call of duty.
‘Thursday. Afternoon visits.’
‘What did you talk about on Thursday afternoon when she came to visit?’ Vera thought it couldn’t have been much of a conversation. Whatever had dragged Jenny to Durham jail every week, it hadn’t been the scintillating chat. Was it guilt? Had the social worker blamed herself for the death of the boy and Mattie’s imprisonment?
‘The same stuff as usual,’ Mattie said.
‘And what was that?’ Vera found her sympathy was running out. She felt like shaking the lass, telling her to sharpen up her act, that Vera had a murderer to catch. Next time, she thought, she’d send Joe Ashworth to interview Mattie Jones. Vera had managed to toughen him up a bit over the years, but he was still a soppy bugger.
‘About me,’ Mattie said with a touch of pride. ‘About my childhood and that.’
‘A sort of therapy session?’ Vera wondered what had been the point of that. This woman was locked up. She wasn’t going to murder anyone else in the near future. Why hadn’t Jenny Lister saved whatever skill she had in poking around in other folk’s brains for the clients who needed her?
Mattie looked puzzled. The concept of therapy had passed her by. ‘It was for her book,’ she said.
‘What book?’
‘Mrs Lister was writing a book about me.’ The woman smiled, a child given a sudden treat. ‘It was going to have a photograph of me on the cover and everything.’
The prison officer appeared at the door. Even from where she sat, Vera could smell the smoke around her. She was carrying a cardboard mug of coffee and a can of Coke. ‘Everything all right in here?’ she asked breezily. She put the Coke on the bedside locker next to the fan. Another gesture of kindness that Vera failed to notice at that moment.
‘Did you know about this?’
‘What?’ The officer was immediately defensive and Vera softened her tone.
‘That Mattie’s social worker was planning to write a book about her, about the Elias Jones case?’
The officer shook her head. ‘Mattie got regular visits from her social worker. We all thought that was dead kind, because no other bugger came to see her.’
Vera turned back to the patient, who’d managed to reach the Coke and was ripping the pull-tab from the can.
‘Michael never came to see you then?’ she asked. ‘You never got a visit from him in prison?’
Mattie was very still for a moment, poised with the Coke halfway to her mouth. Then she shook her head.
�
��Did you ask him to come? Have you spoken to him on the phone? Is he still working at the same place?’
Too many questions, Vera saw at once. Mattie couldn’t take them all in. Vera was about to start again, more slowly, when the young woman answered, moving awkwardly in the bed as she spoke.
‘He told me he’s got another girlfriend. She’s having his baby. He told me I shouldn’t bother him again.’
‘Did you tell Mrs Lister about all that?’ Vera leaned forward. She could do gentle and maternal when the situation demanded. And here they had a possible motive. If Michael Morgan was about to become a father, social services might want to be involved. They might consider the child at risk.
‘I was upset,’ Mattie said. ‘I’d used my phone card to speak to him and he told me about the baby. He hadn’t liked my boy and he’d said he never wanted a baby with me, but he made one with his new lass. It wasn’t fair. That afternoon Mrs Lister came, and I started crying and telling her all about it.’
‘When was that?’ Vera asked. ‘How long ago was that, Mattie?’
Mattie shook her head. ‘Not very long,’ she said.
‘Was it Mrs Lister’s last visit to you? The one before?’
But Mattie couldn’t say. She began to cry quietly, not this time for the dead social worker, but for herself, abandoned by the man with whom she’d fancied herself in love.
Sal shifted uneasily, protective of the young woman in her charge, but wanting to help. ‘Mattie got upset around the time of the anniversary of Elias’s death,’ she said. ‘That was when she contacted Morgan again. I think some of the other girls had seen it on the local news and had been having a go at her.’
Vera flashed a smile at her. ‘Thanks, pet.’ She turned away from the bed and lowered her voice. ‘If Mattie remembers anything about the social worker, get in touch with me. I need to catch her killer.’ She fished a card out of the canvas Sainsbury’s shopping bag she used as a briefcase and scribbled her personal mobile number on the back. ‘Jenny Lister was a good woman.’