Hidden Depths--A Vera Stanhope Mystery

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Were you on your own?’

  ‘No, I went with a friend. Peter doesn’t enjoy the theatre very much. Not that sort of play, at least. I was there with Samuel Parr. You met him here last night.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vera said. ‘Samuel the librarian.’ Felicity expected some sly comment, but none came. ‘What time did you arrive home?’

  ‘It probably was nearly midnight. We had supper after the show and it’s quite a trek from town.’

  ‘Thanks for that, then.’ This time Vera did get to her feet. ‘I’m sure you understand why I had to ask. I’ll let you get back to your work, Dr Calvert.’

  Felicity walked the detective back to her car. The sun was covered by a thin layer of mist, but it didn’t look as if it would lead to rain. Gardening would be more pleasant now that it was a bit cooler. She didn’t think she would go back to it, though. A bath, she thought. That would relax her. Then she remembered what the inspector had said about Luke Armstrong being found in the bath and the image of a body, strewn with flowers, flashed in front of her eyes.

  Vera stood by her vehicle. Felicity started to walk back into the house.

  ‘Just one thing, Mrs Calvert. Would you mind if I had a look at the cottage? The place you showed Lily Marsh the day before she died.’

  Felicity had a moment of revulsion. She didn’t want to be in the space where she’d been close to Lily Marsh, close enough to see the stitching on the hem of her skirt as she walked ahead of Felicity up the stairs. Then she told herself that was ridiculous. She’d have to go into the cottage sometime. Why not now? Better, surely, to humour the detective than antagonize her.

  ‘Of course. I’ll just get the key.’

  They walked through the meadow to the cottage door. Inside, it was all as it had been since her last visit, except the roses in the bedroom were dead. Felicity took them from the jug to take to the compost heap, held them carefully because of the thorns. Vera followed her down the stairs, but then she seemed reluctant to leave.

  ‘This was the last time anyone saw her alive,’ she said. ‘Last time anyone will admit to, at least. She didn’t go into school on Friday. We talked to the head teacher this afternoon, finally tracked her down.’ She looked sharply at Felicity. ‘And that’s not for public consumption either.’ She looked out of the window. ‘What a beautiful place. You’d have thought she’d have jumped at the chance to stay here.’

  ‘I wondered if she thought she wouldn’t have been able to afford it.’

  ‘What rent were you going to charge?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t really considered it.’

  ‘Didn’t she ask?’

  ‘No,’ Felicity said. ‘She just said she’d think about it. Then she ran off.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Julie was back in her own home. Her mother opened the door to Vera, pulled her close for a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘We’ve asked her to stay with us for a while, but she says she’d never face coming back. So I’ve moved in to keep an eye. Just for a week or two.’

  Vera nodded, walked on into the house, kept her voice low too.

  ‘What about Laura, Mrs Richardson? How’s she?’

  ‘Eh, I don’t know. Not eating. Keeps to herself. I’ve asked if she wants her friends round but she says not.’

  ‘Is she in now?’

  ‘Aye, she’s in her room.’

  ‘I’ll just go up for a quick word. I’ll see Julie on my way out, if that’s all right. Would you mind telling her I’m here?’

  Laura was lying on her bed, curled on her side, a magazine beside her. It was open but she didn’t seem to be reading. The window was shut and the room was hot. It was at the back of the house, looking out over a paddock, where a couple of tired ponies cropped the parched grass, and then a field of arable. Vera had knocked at the door and walked in without waiting for an answer.

  The girl looked up. ‘What do you want?’ She was skinny, angular. Fourteen but no figure to speak of. Her hair was cut short and spiky. Eyes that glared at you. A rash of freckles across her nose which made her seem younger than she was. Soon, Vera thought, she might become an interesting beauty. Now she was sullen, miserable, lonely. There’d been a time when Vera had been desperate for children. The longing had come on her suddenly, when she was in her late thirties, shocking her with its intensity. It had been more potent than her dreams of men and sex. Just as well it never happened, she thought now. I could never have coped with someone like this.

  ‘I’d just like a chat,’ she said. ‘Now you’ve had a chance to think about things.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about what happened that night. I was asleep.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about that, pet. Are you sure you didn’t hear anything? A knock on the door, voices, a scuffle. You might have heard, thought it was Luke and his mates larking about. Nothing to feel guilty about if you did.’

  ‘I don’t feel guilty.’

  ‘Because I find it hard to believe you slept through all that.’

  ‘I sleep like a stone,’ Laura said. ‘Ask Mam.’

  She glared at Vera, who felt out of her depth. She would have pushed another witness, but this was a young girl who’d just lost her brother. ‘Still,’ Vera said. ‘You might be able to help. I need to talk about Luke’s mates, what he got up to, who he mixed with. You’ll have a better idea about that than your mam.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ Aggressive. As if Vera was crazy even to consider it.

  ‘He didn’t talk to you, then?’

  ‘No.’ That tone again. The one teenagers did when they really wanted to wind you up. Sneering. The voice that made you want to slap them. ‘I didn’t want him to.’

  ‘You didn’t get on?’

  Laura pulled herself up onto her elbow. ‘I’ve had all the lectures, OK? From Mam and Nan and the teachers at school. I know it wasn’t his fault, the learning disability. I know I’m a bitch. But I couldn’t stand it. Everyone pointing at me, knowing I was his sister. Sniggering behind my back when he did something stupid. As if I could help it. We didn’t not get on. I just wanted him out of my life.’

  She realized the implication of what she’d said as soon as the words came out, but wasn’t going to show she was sorry. She sank onto the bed and turned her back on Vera. Vera knew something of what she was going through. When she was a kid, people had sniggered about her too. She’d lived on her own with a mad father. No mother. No one to iron the school uniform or bake cakes for sports day. No one to take her to the hairdresser’s or explain about periods. Just Hector, who spent his spare time prowling the hills looking for raptors’ nests, who seemed to care more for his egg-collecting friends than his ugly daughter. But it wouldn’t help if she talked about that to Laura. Young people saw the middle-aged as a different species. How could Vera’s experience mean anything to the miserable girl lying on the bed?

  She reached out and touched Laura’s shoulder. ‘Eh, pet, it’s not your fault. And you might be able to help without realizing.’

  The girl turned onto her back, stared at the ceiling.

  ‘I didn’t know any of his friends.’

  ‘What about Thomas Sharp?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Vera kept her voice even. The team back at Kimmerston would be astonished, she thought, that she could be this patient. ‘But you must have met him when he came to the house.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  There was a silence. Vera wondered if she’d pushed too hard.

  ‘He was OK,’ the girl said at last. ‘Better than the others Luke had knocked around with. A laugh.’

  She liked him, Vera thought. Fancied him, even. Had anything gone on between them? Furtive groping behind her mother’s back? What had Luke made of that?

  ‘It must have been a shock when he died.’

  ‘It was dreadful.’

  ‘Did you go to his funeral?’

  She shook her head. ‘
Mam wouldn’t let me take the day off school. She says I’m the only one with brains in the family and I have to use them.’ She paused. ‘I went with them to the river, though, when they took the flowers.’

  ‘Did Luke ever tell you what happened when Thomas drowned?’

  ‘He said he should have saved him.’ The answer came back loud and angry.

  ‘Do you think he could have saved him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. If he hadn’t been such a daft sod. If he’d made more effort.’ She started to cry, not for her brother, but for his friend.

  ‘Do you know anyone called Lily Marsh?’

  ‘I don’t know any old ladies.’

  ‘Why do you think she’s an old lady?’

  ‘It’s an old lady’s name, isn’t it? Lily.’

  It’s the name of a flower, Vera thought suddenly and wondered why she hadn’t realized before. Does that mean anything? Did Luke have any middle names? Something floral? Were there any male names connected to flowers?

  Laura was getting restive, curious despite herself. ‘Who is she anyway?’

  ‘Not an old person,’ Vera said. ‘A student teacher. Did she ever work in your school?’

  ‘Nah.’ Laura picked up the magazine and pretended to read it.

  Vera saw she’d get nothing more out of her today. ‘I need to talk to your mam now,’ she said. ‘If you think of anything give me a ring. I’ll leave my card here on the window sill.’

  Julie was sitting in her front room, staring at the television screen. Saturday teatime. Daft celebrities getting families to do daft stunts. Despite the heat she was wearing jogging pants and a sweater. When she saw Vera she jumped up and switched off the television, embarrassed perhaps to be caught doing something so normal. The room was the same size as Sal’s next door, but more cluttered. There’d be reminders of Luke everywhere – his clothes would still be in the plastic laundry basket next to the ironing board, his favourite video in the pile on the floor.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Julie said. ‘You know…’

  Vera nodded, happy to accept the excuse, but she knew it would always be messy. Probably messier than it was now, because Mrs Richardson was here, keeping on top of things. Julie wouldn’t be one for a tidy house. Not like Kath on the prim estate in Wallsend.

  Mrs Richardson hovered just inside the door. ‘Tea, Inspector?’

  ‘Champion.’ If I have more tea, I’ll drown, Vera thought, but she didn’t want the mother listening in to this. She sat on an armchair covered by a puce chenille throw, beckoned for Julie to sit down again too.

  ‘It’s about Gary,’ she said. ‘Gary Wright.’

  Julie moved her head very slowly until she was looking at Vera. ‘What about him?’

  ‘You do know him?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I was with him the night Luke was killed. I mean, not with him, not like that. We never left the club. But dancing together, having a laugh.’ She snapped her mouth shut as if the thought of laughter was obscene.

  ‘That wasn’t the first time you met him?’

  ‘No, a few weeks ago I was in the Harbour Bell with my mam and da. Sunday afternoon. Just before they let Luke out of hospital. Laura was spending the day with a friend. Da likes his music. If you let him, he’ll bore you for hours about the old days. The Animals. The clubs in town where he used to go in the sixties. The Bell has live music on Sunday afternoons and there was a band he wanted to hear. I’d had my dinner at theirs and went just for the ride. I had a good time. Gary was doing the sound.’ Julie’s voice tailed off. She looked straight at Vera. ‘You know, that could have been months ago. Years. It feels as if everything has changed. It’s me I’m talking about but it’s like I’m describing a different person.’

  ‘I know,’ Vera said.

  ‘Gary made me laugh,’ Julie went on. ‘At first you could tell he was just showing off. Telling stories about his work. The musicians he’d done the sound for. You could tell he’d come out with the same stuff to anyone. Any woman, at least, aged between fifteen and fifty.’

  Even me? Vera thought.

  ‘Then we just clicked. We found out we’d been to the same primary school, started chatting about the people we could remember. Mam had to come and get me in the end. She was worried we’d miss visiting time at the hospital. She was coming with me to see Luke.’

  ‘And you arranged to meet him in town?’ Vera said.

  ‘No. It wasn’t a firm arrangement. Not really.’ But Vera could tell it had been firm enough for Julie. Special. ‘He just asked if I ever got into town, and I said, hardly ever. Then I remembered Jan’s birthday and how the girls had asked me to go with them. So I said I’d be there. That night.’

  Vera could imagine how that had been. The mother listening in. Julie keeping her voice casual, but making sure he’d made a note of the date, the places the girls always went. Not the Bigg Market. We’re a bit old for that. She’d have been looking out for him all night. And he’d turned up. She’d have felt like a sixteen-year-old, giddy, triumphant. And she’d arrived home to find her son strangled, scattered with flowers.

  Mrs Richardson appeared from the kitchen, a mug in each hand. Vera accepted hers, then tipped most of the contents into the compost of a sad umbrella plant when the woman went to get biscuits. Julie, staring at the blank television screen, didn’t notice.

  ‘A great cup of tea,’ Vera said, slurping the dregs. ‘Just what I needed.’ Now the two women sat, looking at her. Perhaps they could tell she had something else to say. ‘There’s been another murder. A young woman. A student. She was called Lily Marsh. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  They shook their heads. They didn’t really care about the death of a strange woman. Luke was all that mattered to them. Vera found a space for the mug on the coffee table. ‘I wanted you to know,’ she said. ‘It’ll be in the press. And it might make it easier for us to find Luke’s killer. It’ll give us more to go on.’ That was the theory, at least. She stood up. ‘I’ll be off now, Mrs Richardson. If there’s any news, I’ll be in touch.’

  Julie got up from her chair too. ‘Why did you want to know about Gary?’

  ‘No reason, pet. Just routine.’

  At the door Vera stopped. ‘Did Luke have a middle name?’

  ‘Geoffrey,’ Julie said. ‘Like his dad.’

  Nothing floral, then. No connection there.

  As Vera walked into the street she could sense the eyes behind net curtains; the neighbours would wait until she’d driven off before getting on the phone to share the latest rumours.

  Chapter Eighteen

  One time, he wouldn’t have admitted to living in North Shields, Gary thought. Certainly not if he was chatting up a woman, trying to impress. People from outside had a picture of it. All charity shops and boarded-up buildings, Wilkinson’s and Poundstretchers the only stores doing business. Even now, if you waited at the metro, you’d share the platform with teenage mothers and gangs of lads who skipped off the trains whenever the ticket inspector arrived. But it was changing. Now if he said he lived in Shields people nodded, understanding. It was the sort of place where people in his business might live. Still not quite respectable, but interesting. There were new apartments, bars and restaurants on the Fish Quay. A couple of writers had taken up residence. House prices in Tynemouth were so high that people had crossed the boundary, blurring the edges. There was no shame to living in Shields these days. Sunday’s Quiz Night at the Maggie Bank pub was full of lecturers and social workers. Gary had been a regular once, but only bothered going now to catch up with old friends. Even though he could score on the music round, he had no chance of winning.

  He lived in a newish development on one of the steep streets between the Fish Quay and the town, a four-storey block of flats, with a Gothic stone Methodist chapel on one side and a carpet warehouse on the other. He’d bought it soon after he split up from Emily; thinking back, he couldn’t remember much about
moving in. He’d been pissed when he signed the contract, swore at the estate agent about something that had irritated him. Clive had helped him carry the few bits of furniture they couldn’t get into the lift up the stairs, organized Northern Electric to get the power on, even made the tea. That was the sort of friend he was. He never made a fuss but was there when he was needed. Gary hoped he’d act the same way if the circumstances were reversed, but he wasn’t sure. Now the flat felt more like home than anywhere he’d lived since he was a kid. It would be a wrench to leave.

  That morning, he’d given Clive a lift back from Fox Mill. In the car, they’d talked about the dead girl in the pool, tuned the radio to the local BBC station in case it had made the news. Gary had done most of the talking. Clive hadn’t said much, but then he never did. Perhaps that’s why they got on so well: Gary liked a ready-made audience. At school Clive had been a loner. He still didn’t have any other friends. Only Gary, Samuel and Peter. The discovery of the body headed up the news, but there were no details. Nothing about the way she was found or the flowers. Not even her name.

  Gary wandered out onto the balcony and looked over the town and down to the river. Upstream the ferry was sliding away from the South Shields jetty. He had his phone with him and leaned on the rail to dial. He was on the top floor and there wasn’t too much noise from the street. He was about to press the buttons when the intercom buzzer sounded and he went inside to see who was waiting in the lobby. He wasn’t sorry to have to put off his phone call. He still hadn’t decided quite what to say.

  ‘It’s me, pet. Vera Stanhope.’ The detective of the night before. He thought he’d answered all her questions and her presence threw him. At one time he’d have been able to take this in his stride. He’d had the confidence to talk himself into any event, out of any bother. Now, it wasn’t so easy. But he couldn’t leave her there, waiting.

  ‘Come on up.’ Keeping the voice light, to show he had nothing to hide.

  He checked his appearance in the long mirror. Habit. Reassurance. Like spending a fortune on the right haircut, a decent pair of shoes. Then he opened the door of the flat and stood there, waiting for her to appear. He couldn’t hear the lift and was wondering if she’d been called away on more urgent business, when she appeared at the top of the stairs, wheezing, heaving for breath.