by Ann Cleeves
But walking down the wide, gleaming corridor of the flash new hospital, she wondered if that was true. If Jenny Lister was planning a book on the Elias Jones case, she was abusing her client’s trust for her own gain. The true-crime books about famous murders sold in thousands, and one by a social worker involved in the case would attract huge publicity. Jenny Lister could become a wealthy woman. It seemed so out of character for the person she’d thought she was getting to know that Vera could hardly believe it. But why would Mattie make up something like that?
Vera drove fast up the A1 and, just after turning off towards Hexham, she phoned Holly. ‘You still in the Lister house?’
‘Yes.’ Just from the one word Vera could tell she was defensive and sulky. Ashworth would already have been in touch and would have told her to move out.
‘How’s Hannah this morning?’
‘Still pretty shell-shocked and numb, but at least she slept last night. The doctor gave her a sleeping pill and Simon persuaded her to take it.’
‘Is he still there too?’
‘He’s just left,’ Holly said. ‘His father’s just got back from working overseas and he’s gone home to see him. His mother’s cooking a family lunch. There was a three-line whip.’ A pause. ‘Look, boss, I really think I should stay. Hannah shouldn’t be left on her own, and the FLO can’t get here until this afternoon.’
‘No problem,’ Vera said. ‘I need to chat to her anyway, so you pack up your stuff and be ready to leave. I’ll be there in half an hour.’ I must be a truly horrible person, she thought, passing a timber lorry, for that exchange to have given me so much pleasure.
Hannah still seemed doped up when Vera arrived. She sat in a rocking chair by the kitchen window, staring at the blue tits pecking at a string of peanuts hanging from the bird table. Holly gave her a big hug before she left, but Hannah hardly responded. Vera thought Holly wouldn’t have liked that: she was kind-hearted enough, but she needed emotional payback.
‘I don’t know about you,’ Vera said. ‘But I’m starving. Is there anything to eat in this place?’
Hannah turned in her seat, but only shrugged. She looked as if she’d lost pounds just in the two days since her mother had died, and she’d been skinny to start with. Vera thought Holly would have done better to spend her time cooking a proper meal for the girl than to sit around feeding off her grief.
The freezer was well organized and everything labelled. Jenny Lister, superwoman. Vera found a tub of home-made soup and a bag of wholemeal rolls. She set the soup whirring round the microwave and stuck the rolls in the oven to thaw and crisp. Her sort of cooking. She ignored Hannah while she set the table and then called her to come for her lunch.
‘I’m not really hungry.’ Hannah looked at her with blurred, unfocused eyes.
‘Well, I am, and your mam will have taught you it’s rude to sit and watch a person eat.’
Hannah got up from the rocking chair and joined Vera. She sat with her elbows on the table as Vera ladled soup into a bowl. It smelled delicious – of tomato and basil – and, despite herself, the girl dipped in her spoon and reached out to break off a piece of bread.
Vera waited until the soup had gone before she started talking.
‘Did you know your mother went to visit Mattie Jones in prison?’
Hannah looked a bit brighter now, sharper. ‘She didn’t talk much about her work.’
‘Mattie Jones is the young woman who killed her child. You’d have seen about it on the news. It was a big case. Your mother didn’t mention it at the time?’
A pause. ‘I do remember. It was one of the few times I’d seen Mum get angry. She got up and switched off the television. She said she couldn’t stand the way the media demonized the people involved – Mattie and the social worker. The reporters made everything seem so simple, and this case wasn’t simple at all.’ Hannah shut her eyes and there was a little smile. Vera could tell in that moment that her mother had become alive for her again.
‘Did Jenny ever talk about a book she was writing?’
Hannah smiled again. ‘She was always talking about her book, but I don’t think she’d started writing it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Not wanting to put the girl under pressure, not wanting to give away how important the answer might be, Vera raised herself to her feet and filled the kettle.
‘It was her dream. To be a writer.’
‘You mean stories, and that?’ Still with her back to Hannah, Vera dropped teabags into mugs.
‘No! She said she’d never be any good at fiction. She wanted to do a sort of popular guide to social work. Real cases – the individuals disguised of course – to bring it alive for the reader. So people could understand the strains and the dilemmas that social workers face.’
Vera set a mug of tea in front of Hannah, ferreted in a tin for a couple of biscuits.
‘I think she started writing it,’ Vera said. ‘Researching it anyway. Are you sure she didn’t work on it at home?’
‘Not sure, no. We both led our own lives. She spent quite a lot of time working here on her laptop. Maybe she wanted to start her book in secret. You know what it’s like when you talk about your dreams. People have expectations, put the pressure on. I can imagine her completing it, even waiting before she got a deal with the publisher before telling me. Then it would be: Ta-da, look what I’ve done! And a bottle of fizz to celebrate.’ Hannah looked up, her eyes as feverish as Mattie’s had been. ‘But now it’ll never happen, will it?’
‘Would she have written it straight onto the laptop?’ Because there was no record of any document of that kind saved. The techies had already been through the material on the computer.
‘No, probably not. She was a great one for longhand. She still wrote letters! Real ones, every Christmas, to all her friends and the ageing aunts. It was one of the pieces of advice she gave me about essays at school: Anything tricky, write it out first. There’s a direct
line between the brain and the pen. It never worked for me, but it would have done for her.’
‘So we’re looking for a notebook somewhere.’ Vera was talking to herself more than the girl, but Hannah answered.
‘Yeah! A4, hardback. She bought them from an old-fashioned stationer’s in Hexham. Used them all the time for work. Why? Is it important?’
It could help us find out who killed your mother. But Vera didn’t say that. She just smiled and made more tea.
‘Did Holly ask you about your mam’s handbag?’ They were still sitting at the table, the teapot between them.
‘I don’t think so.’
Of course not. Anger and satisfaction mixed. She’d have an excuse for bollocking Holly when they next met.
‘We haven’t found it yet,’ Vera said, ‘and it could be important. Could you describe it to me? And did she use a briefcase?’
‘It was big enough for her to get all her files in, so she didn’t need a briefcase.’ Hannah gave a sudden smile. ‘She loved it. It was made of soft, red leather.’
‘These notebooks you’re talking about, she’d have carried them in the bag too?’
‘Probably.’ Hannah was losing interest now. She was staring out of the window. ‘Do you think Simon will be back soon?’ As if the boy could somehow save her from her sadness, as if he was the only person who could.
Chapter Seventeen
Joe Ashworth thought it was all very well for Vera to give her orders, but prising Holly from the Lister house hadn’t been easy. In the end there’d been a compromise: she said she’d go as soon as the family liaison officer turned up in the afternoon. Which meant that in the morning he was on his own in Barnard Bridge and, while Vera had said someone would know about Jenny’s lover, tracking that person down hadn’t proved easy either. Ashworth had grown up in one of the pit villages in south-east Northumberland – though there hadn’t been many pits left even when he was a small child. It was the sort of place where kids played in the streets and their mams sat on the doorsteps, watc
hing them and gossiping. He had no problem digging out secrets on his old stomping ground. Vera said he was like a magician, that he could conjure confidences from thin air. But there was no magic to it. He’d wander into the nearest social club, slip into the dialect that marked him out as one of their own, and soon the barmaid would be telling him what he wanted to know. Or directing him to someone who could help. Everyone liked telling stories, and Joe was a good listener.
This place was different. He arrived just before nine, thinking that he might catch the young mothers as they dropped their bairns off at school, forgetting of course that there was no longer a school in the village. It had been converted into a swanky house, two big cars parked where once the playground had been. There was the playgroup that Connie Masters’s daughter attended, but that only ran for three days a week. He looked at the notice outside the village hall. Not today. The main street was empty of pedestrians, though there was a steady stream of traffic and the vibrations of the lorries seemed to churn in his head and stopped him thinking clearly. The baby had woken a couple of times in the night and the lack of sleep didn’t help.
In the post office, which served also as a shop, a couple of pensioners queued at the counter. He waited until they’d paid their bills and one had sent his letter to a grown-up child in Australia, before chatting to them. Two elderly men who’d lived in the village all their lives.
‘But it’s not the same, you knaa. One time I’d be able to tell you the name of every man, woman and child in the parish. Now half the houses have people I’ve never seen.’
Ashworth felt his confidence return. Ex-collier or ex-farm labourer, folk were all the same. One of the men lived next door to Jenny Lister. He’d already talked to a police officer, he said shyly, when prompted by his friend. They’d called on everyone in the street the day before. A nice enough lad, but you could tell he was in a hurry. They’d invited him in for tea, but he’d not had the time.
‘Well, I have all the time in the world,’ Ashworth said. ‘And I could murder a cup of coffee.’
The men looked at each other and Ashworth sensed a problem. They didn’t want to be inhospitable, but neither felt they could invite him home. Cuthbert lived well out of the village, and Maurice had been banished for the morning so that his wife could clean and bake in peace. She’d be embarrassed if he turned up with a stranger when she wasn’t prepared for visitors. They had adjoining allotments and had planned to spend their time there. Ashworth thought they’d probably had adjoining desks at school. Cuthbert and Maurice. Cuthbert the talker, the leader. He’d made it to farm manager on one of the big estates, still lived in a tied cottage. Maurice was quieter and spoke with a bit of a stutter. His left arm didn’t seem to work so well. He was the Listers’ neighbour.
Again, Cuthbert took charge. They could go to the caff, he said. Nothing on the allotment that couldn’t wait. And Maurice agreed, as he always would. The caff was right by the river. It had a big new sign outside that read ‘Tyne Teashop’. Fancy, old-fashioned lettering, gold on a green background. At the door the men paused. Ashworth could tell they’d never been inside before, that even Cuthbert was a bit nervous.
‘This a new place?’ Ashworth asked. ‘Looks OK. And it’s my treat of course.’
Things were a bit more relaxed then, and Ashworth could understand that too. His mam had always been in charge of the money in their house; she’d watched over the bank statements every month and given his father his spends on Friday teatimes.
‘It used to be a bakery,’ Cuthbert said. ‘Then Mary retired and some lass from the south bought it up. My wife came in once and said never again. Tourists’ prices.’
They took a table by the window. A middle-aged woman came to take their order. There were five different sorts of coffee on the menu and Maurice seemed a bit flummoxed by that, so Cuthbert ordered cappuccinos for both of them. ‘Mo had a stroke not so long ago,’ he said. ‘Sometimes his speech isn’t what it was. But the four of us had a grand holiday in Italy when we first retired, the galleries and that, and I know what he likes.’ Spoiling Ashworth’s preconceptions of two elderly yokels who’d never left the Tyne valley.
‘Anything to eat?’ The owner was pleasant and, from her voice, Ashworth judged she’d come from no further south than York.
They went for a selection of mixed fancies. The woman served them, then disappeared into the kitchen, and Ashworth could gently bring them back to the subject of Jenny Lister.
‘You must have known her since she first moved in?’ He directed his questions to both men. Maurice didn’t seem to mind having Cuthbert speak for him, but Cuthbert turned back to his friend and let him answer.
‘Aye, the lass was still a baby. My Hilda used to help out, babysitting. We never had bairns ourselves and she was glad to do it.’
‘You got on, then?’
‘Oh, they were lovely neighbours. Jenny brought my Hilda to visit me in the hospital when I had the stroke. Every evening for a week.’ Maurice bit into a dainty cake with pink icing, licked his stubby brown fingers.
‘I have to ask some personal questions,’ Ashworth said. ‘There’d be things Jenny wouldn’t want spread about the village, and I know you’d respect that. But this is different. This isn’t just tittle-tattle. It might help us find out who killed her.’
They nodded. Very serious, pleased to be useful again.
‘We think she had a boyfriend,’ Ashworth said. ‘But nobody knows who he is. Did you see anyone come to the house?’
Maurice shook his head slowly. ‘Only the lass’s friends. And they were canny too, mind. You read things about young people today, but they always had a word and a bit of a joke. The woman who teaches in that school in Effingham called in sometimes, but I never saw anyone else. Not that I remember.’ He looked up at Ashworth with a crooked smile. ‘Not that my memory’s what it was since the stroke.’
‘Would Hilda know?’
Cuthbert began to chuckle and choked on the last crumbs of his cake. ‘Of course Hilda would know. She’s to the Tyne valley what that spy place in Cheltenham is to the security services.’
‘But not a gossip,’ Maurice stammered. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, she knows more than she lets on.’ Cuthbert was indulgent. ‘That’s certainly true.’
‘Would she talk to me, do you think?’ Ashworth was certain he could winkle information from the formidable Hilda. Old ladies loved him. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to disturb her if she’s busy, but you can tell how urgent it is.’
Maurice hesitated.
‘Come on, Mo!’ Cuthbert said. ‘A chance to talk to a bonny lad like this. She’d jump at it. You’ll be in more bother if you don’t take him to see her. Besides, she’ll have all the vacuuming done by now, and the washing’ll be on the line. She’ll be sat watching some nonsense on the telly with a cup of coffee.’
Maurice smiled his lopsided smile and got to his feet.
Hilda hadn’t quite finished the housework. When they arrived she was mopping the kitchen floor. They stood in the hall and saw her wide bottom, swaying to the movement of the mop.
‘What’s all this about?’ Fierce, but concerned too. Maybe she thought Maurice had been taken ill again.
‘It’s about Jenny Lister,’ Cuthbert said.
Hilda gave him a sharp look that Ashworth couldn’t quite interpret. She made them stand in the hall while she finished the floor, then took them straight into the small living room, leaving the door open so she could shout through to them from the kitchen. It could have been Ashworth’s nana’s house. Gleaming dark-wood furniture, and everywhere lace mats. On the wall embroidered samplers. A smell of beeswax and peppermint. The window was small and covered with a net curtain that let in very little light.
‘Tea or coffee?’ She’d emptied her bucket and was polishing the floor dry.
Maurice grinned at Cuthbert. It seemed they’d made the right decision.
The coffee was very weak, instant made with warm milk, but
there were home-made flapjacks and scones still warm, with so much butter that it drizzled over their fingers as they ate. The cakes in the tea shop had been hardly a mouthful.
‘Who’s this then?’
‘He’s the police.’ Maurice looked at her anxiously.
‘Well, I guessed that much!’ She turned to Ashworth. ‘I suppose you have a name.’
So he introduced himself and answered her questions about where he’d been born and where he lived. It seemed she’d worked at Parson’s as a secretary when she was younger and had known one of his aunts.
‘What do you want to know then? I’m guessing it’ll be about Jenny Lister.’
‘Whatever you can tell me,’ Ashworth said. ‘We don’t always know the best questions to ask.’
Hilda took off her apron, sat on a high-backed chair and folded her hands on her lap. When she spoke it was with the concentration of a Mastermind contestant answering questions on her specialist subject. ‘Jenny Lister moved into the village in . . .’ a very brief pause ‘. . . 1993. The summer. Hannah was a baby, and Jenny was still on maternity leave.’ Another pause and a little sniff to show she disapproved of the concept. A touch of jealousy? Ashworth wondered. If I’d had bairns, I’d have stayed at home and looked after them myself. ‘The father, Jenny’s husband, had gone back to London, where he’d come from.’
The same sort of history as Connie Masters, Joe Ashworth thought. Her man left her while she had a young child. Was the shared experience relevant? Or would the stress of holding together a marriage, a new child and a stressful job be too much for most relationships? Maybe it happened all the time. His wife hadn’t worked since their first child had been born. He couldn’t imagine how he’d survive if she were out all day. It seemed strange to him that he’d never realized how much he depended on her holding the show together.
Hilda continued. ‘Jenny was what they called a generic social worker in those days. She dealt with everything. Then there was a change in the system and she specialized in children. She ended up as the fostering and adoption officer.’ She looked at Ashworth through small, square spectacles. ‘But you’ll know that already.’