Hidden Depths--A Vera Stanhope Mystery

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘It shouldn’t take long. Just a few questions about Lily Marsh.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Poor Lily. It was a shock. One hears about these things happening, but it’s seldom to a person one knows.’ Vera thought the shock seemed well hidden. Her attention was still caught by one of the papers in her hand.

  ‘Would she have made a good teacher?’

  Annie hesitated for a moment, focused for the first time on the conversation. ‘I’d probably describe her as competent but uninspired. And that’s more than I could say for most of the students in her group. She worked very hard, prepared the lessons, related OK to the kids, but I didn’t think her heart was in it. I couldn’t see her still being a classroom teacher in twenty years.’

  ‘Did she ever seem depressed or anxious?’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything, but then I probably wouldn’t. This is a short course and there’s not much contact time. You’d be better talking to her friends about that.’

  I would, pet. But I’m not sure she had any.

  ‘How did she end up doing her teaching practice in Hepworth?’

  ‘She requested it. She said she’d read the school’s Ofsted report and thought she’d get a lot out of a placement there. I was pleased that she was showing some passion for teaching and tried to wangle it for her.’

  ‘How was she doing?’

  ‘Well. I had a chat with the head teacher a couple of weeks ago. She said Lily was making a real effort to build relationships with the kids. Before that, I’d felt her teaching had been a bit mechanistic. I was pleased.’

  ‘Did you know anything about her private life?’

  Annie Slater looked up then, apparently astonished by the idea.

  ‘Of course not. We were never in any sense friends.’

  ‘You lived in the same street, you socialized with her flatmates.’

  ‘That’s rather different. There’s a family connection to Emma.’

  You moved in different circles. Vera had been at the wrong end of snobbishness, could sense it a mile off. Perhaps that’s what prompted her to persist. ‘You’d not heard any rumours, then, about Lily having a relationship with one of the staff here?’

  ‘I don’t listen to university gossip, Inspector.’ Which wasn’t any sort of answer at all. She turned back to the letter and left Vera to find her own way out.

  * * *

  Vera met up with Joe outside the Hancock Museum. They had to wait until a crocodile of small school children had been shepherded inside by teachers and parents. There was a dinosaur exhibition – reconstructed skeletons, models which moved. The adverts had been all over the city; tyrannosaurus heads leered out from posters on buses, the metro and shop fronts. The children were unusually quiet, overawed by the building, the thought of enormous beasts, Jurassic Park come to Newcastle.

  Vera and Ashworth followed them in and stood in the lobby, enjoying the coolness of the museum, when Clive Stringer arrived to collect them.

  ‘Great, isn’t it?’ Ashworth said, watching the children disappear into the gallery. ‘Hooking the kids while they’re so young.’ A couple of years, Vera thought, and he’d be bringing his own lass here.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Clive blinked uncertainly behind thick round spectacles. ‘I don’t really deal with the public.’

  His kingdom lay behind a wooden door, opened by a swipe card. There was a series of high-ceilinged rooms, rows of dusty cabinets. There seemed to be few other staff around. He led them into a workroom. It reminded Vera of the place in Wansbeck General where John Keating had performed the post-mortem on Lily Marsh. There was a long table in the middle, deep sinks at one end, the smell of chemicals and death. Though everything here was older, wood and enamel instead of stainless steel, and it didn’t have the scrubbed, sterile feel. The windows were so dirty that the light seemed filtered through them.

  On a board lay the corpse of a black and white bird. Beside it a scalpel, wads of cotton wool, small metal bowls. Another sort of dissection.

  ‘Isn’t that a little auk?’

  ‘Yes. First winter. It was blown inland during those gales last November and found dead in a garden in Cramlington. The householder brought it in. I’ve had it in the freezer since then, but I want to do a cabinet skin.’ He looked at Ashworth, saw he didn’t understand the term. ‘We preserve the skin for research, not display. It’s kept here at the museum, a resource for students and scientists.’

  Vera’s father, Hector, had been an amateur taxidermist. He’d worked on the kitchen table in the old station master’s house. He hadn’t bothered with cabinet skins, though. He claimed his interest was about science, but Vera had known he was deluding himself even then. He’d prepared mounted birds, always moorland species. Usually the object of his attention was a bird of prey, a trophy for whichever gamekeeper had killed it. That was art too in a way, she thought. At the end of his career the activity was illegal, but that had never bothered Hector. If anything, it had increased his pleasure and excitement. He’d been an egg collector too. When he died Vera had set fire to the whole collection. A huge bonfire in the garden. She’d drunk his favourite malt whisky and realized she wasn’t grieving at all. She’d just felt relief that he’d gone.

  ‘How long have you worked here?’ Ashworth was asking Stringer.

  ‘Since I left school.’

  ‘You don’t need a degree to do something like this?’

  ‘I started as a trainee.’ He paused. ‘I was lucky. Peter knew the curator and put in a word for me.’

  ‘That’s Dr Calvert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve known him for a long time?’

  ‘Yes, he was my trainer when I started ringing. I was fifteen then.’

  ‘Ringing?’

  ‘The study of migration. Birds are caught in nets or traps and small metal rings are put on the legs. If they’re caught again or found dead, we can tell where and when they were first ringed.’

  ‘And Mr Parr and Mr Wright are ringers too? That’s how you met?’

  ‘We don’t ring so much now. I’m the only regular at the observatory up the coast at Deepden and I don’t go so often. The rest have other lives. More exciting lives. But we’re still friends. We still go birdwatching together.’

  ‘Sea watching?’ Vera asked, joining in the conversation for the first time.

  Clive gave something approaching a smile. ‘Gary’s the passionate sea watcher. The right time of the year he’ll spend hours in the watch tower. I say it’s because he’s so idle. He doesn’t mind the waiting. He says it’s a form of meditation.’

  ‘It must have been a shock, coming upon the body on Friday night.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But perhaps not so much for you as the others,’ she said. ‘You work with corpses every day.’

  ‘The corpses of birds and animals. Not young women.’

  ‘No. Not attractive young women.’ She paused a beat. ‘Do you have a girlfriend, Mr Stringer?’

  When she’d first seen him at the mill, she’d thought he looked like an overgrown, prematurely balding schoolboy. Now he blushed, furiously, and the image came back to her. She felt almost sorry for him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’

  ‘Are you gay?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked at him, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘I find it difficult to approach women,’ he said at last. ‘I suppose I’m shy. And I don’t socialize much. I live with my mother. She was widowed when I was a baby and now she’s not very well. I’m all she has.’

  Vera wanted to tell him to get out and get a life while he still had a chance. But it wasn’t her place.

  ‘Does Dr Calvert have a girlfriend?’

  Clive stared at her, horrified. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A mistress. A lover.’

  ‘Of course not. He’s married to Felicity.’

  ‘This might come as a bit of a shock, pet. But some married men do c
ommit adultery.’

  ‘But not Peter. You’ve seen them together. They’re happy.’

  They put on a good show, Vera thought. That’s not the same thing at all.

  But she smiled at him. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She nodded towards Ashworth for him to take over the questions.

  ‘Were you working last Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes, until four-thirty. I start at eight and I’m supposed to finish at four, but it’s usually half past before I leave.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I went home. I called at the supermarket on the way. We had a meal together. Mother usually goes to bed early. Around nine. After that I stopped up and watched television. I’d videoed a documentary on the rain forest. Mother tends to talk through programmes which don’t interest her.’

  ‘You didn’t go out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You seem to have a very clear memory of what you did that night,’ Vera said.

  ‘I do have a good memory. I told you on Friday night, I’m good at detail.’

  ‘Do you drive?’

  ‘I can drive. I mean, I passed my test and I hold a driving licence. But I don’t enjoy it. I’m always aware of the potential danger. And I have a conscience about the environment. Greenhouse gases. I decided a couple of years ago to do without a car. Public transport’s quite good into the city centre. And I have a bike.’

  Vera could tell Clive was uncomfortable. Although the building was gloomy and cool, he’d started to sweat. He fidgeted with the scalpel on the board in front of him. She told herself not to read too much into it. This was probably the longest conversation he’d had with anyone other than his mother for years. When he was with his friends, he’d be a listener not a talker. Now, she kept her voice easy, gossipy. His mother would probably enjoy a good gossip.

  ‘Did Gary tell you about his new woman?’

  The change of tone in the question seemed to surprise him and he took a moment to answer. ‘He told us all about it.’ He paused. ‘It wasn’t unusual. There’s always some new woman in his life. He’s mad about all of them. For about a week. None of them stay.’

  ‘He said this one’s different,’ Vera said.

  Clive smiled again. Like smiling was something he did about once every six months. ‘That’s what he always says. Ever since Emily left he’s been looking for someone to replace her.’

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘They were engaged. She dumped him.’

  ‘Did you know Julie, the latest girlfriend?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t take me out on his dates.’

  ‘Her son was the lad who was murdered,’ Vera said. ‘Strangled. Like Lily Marsh.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know a family called the Sharps?’ she said, not really expecting a response.

  ‘Davy Sharp lives in our road. When he’s not in prison.’

  ‘You came across the boy, Thomas?’

  ‘I saw him about. My mother looked after him sometimes when he was a baby. She took a shine to him. He was there sometimes when I got home from work. Not recently, of course. Not once he was old enough to fend for himself.’

  ‘She must have been upset when he died.’

  ‘Yes, we went down to the river. She’d seen the flowers on the water on the news and wanted to see. To pay her respects.’ He paused. ‘There wasn’t much to look at when we got there. The tide was on its way out. It had carried the flowers out to sea.’

  They sat in silence. Through the open window came the sound of a siren, shouted voices.

  ‘Tell me about these mates of yours,’ Vera said at last. ‘Gary, Peter and Samuel. They are your mates? Only you don’t seem to have much in common. Except the birding.’

  ‘We’re close. Like family.’

  ‘With you and Gary as brothers and Samuel and Peter as mummy and daddy?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  She knew she was pushing him, wanted to see if he ever lost that control. He was very flushed.

  ‘OK, then,’ she said. ‘So they’re not really like family. Tell me why you get on so well together, what it is that’s kept you together over all these years.’ She was really interested and it showed. She wasn’t sure about friendship. She had colleagues, the people she’d grown up with, who lived close to her in the valley. But no one she felt any obligation to, no one she had to put herself out for. She thought it could be a two-edged sword, friendship. You’d end up giving more than you got.

  ‘Partly it’s the birding,’ he said. ‘People outside don’t understand. They think you must be geeky, weird. But it’s more than that. Although we’re very different, we trust each other. I feel supported by them.’

  She gave a chuckle. ‘Eh, pet, you’ve lost me now. That sounds like something from a women’s magazine.’

  He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘What about Friday?’ Ashworth asked. He gave the impression that he too was irritated by Vera’s comments and questions, that he didn’t want to be here all day. ‘What did you do before you went to Fox Mill for dinner?’

  ‘I met Peter for lunch.’

  ‘Another birthday celebration?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. We meet most Fridays. Just a pint and a sandwich. When we were more active ringers that’s when the weekend would start. I work flexi so I could take the time off, we’d have lunch then Peter would give me a lift up the coast to the observatory. The others would join us later. We don’t go out so much now, but still have lunch when we can.’

  Vera thought sadly that it was probably the highlight of his week. Lunch with an ageing, self-obsessed man who only wanted an admirer.

  ‘How was Dr Calvert?’

  ‘Fine. Like always. Looking forward to the weekend.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘You must remember. You have a brilliant memory. Detail. It’s what you do.’

  ‘He’s writing a book. We talked about that.’

  ‘And after lunch?’

  ‘I went home to spend a couple of hours with my mother.’

  ‘What about Dr Calvert?’ Ashworth said. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Back to the university. At least, I presume that’s where he went. He didn’t say, but he walked off in that direction.’

  ‘How did you get to Fox Mill?’

  ‘Gary gave me a lift.’

  ‘He picked you up from home?’

  ‘No, he was running late and coming straight from work at the Sage, so we arranged to meet in town. I got the metro.’

  He picked up the scalpel again, turned over the dead bird on the board, ran his finger over the skull. ‘Really, I should be getting on with this. I don’t understand the need for all these questions. I was there when a body was found. That was all. I’d never met either of the victims.’

  Vera looked over at Ashworth to see if he had anything else to say. He shook his head. ‘We’ll leave it at that, then,’ she said. ‘For the time being.’

  ‘I’ll show you out.’ Clive dragged his attention away from the little auk, walked ahead of them down the corridors, through the dust caught in shafts of sunlight from the long windows. He opened the door which separated the staff territory from the public domain, hesitated as if reluctant to go further. Vera stopped too and faced him.

  ‘Would you tell us if you suspected one of your friends of committing these murders?’

  He answered immediately. ‘Of course not. I trust them. I know that if they’ve done something as appalling as commit murder, they must have a good reason.’

  He turned and walked away, leaving Vera and Joe staring after him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Felicity wandered back from the garden. She was holding a colander of beans for supper, too many she realized. There would be only the two of them this evening; James had arranged to be out with a friend. In the kitchen she had a moment of unease a
s she imagined herself and Peter, sitting at opposite ends of the table, eating dinner. She wasn’t sure what they’d say to each other. She imagined Lily Marsh there too. A beautiful ghost, coming between them.

  It was ridiculous the effect the death of a stranger was having on her. She told herself not to be hysterical. But this life she’d spent years creating – the house, the garden, the contented family – suddenly seemed very fragile. She had a picture of Vera Stanhope shattering it with her loud, intrusive voice, her big feet, the heavy hands slammed against the table. With her questions, Vera would wreck it all.

  She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. There were pictures of birds instead of numbers and their calls marked the hours. It was a joke present from Clive to Peter for one of his birthdays. She hated it but Peter had insisted on putting it up. It would soon be two o’clock. There were at least four hours before Peter would be home. She ran upstairs, changed from trousers into a skirt, put on lipstick and a splash of perfume. As the wren finished calling she snatched up the car keys from the hall table and almost ran outside.

  She had never visited Samuel at work. She wasn’t even sure where he would be. Certainly, she thought, he would disapprove of this unplanned meeting. He kept his life in separate boxes. But she couldn’t stay at home fretting. She had never made demands before. He would understand that the pressure was intolerable.

  She drove along the straight, narrow roads, impatient when she had to slow down for a tractor. It was an old car, without air conditioning, and she had the windows open. The sun shone hot on her arm and shoulder. In the town she slid into a parking space in the street next to the library. Now she sat for a moment thinking again that this trip had been a terrible mistake. Samuel was a clever man. If he’d thought it sensible for them to meet, to discuss strategies, he would have suggested it. He would consider this a rash, foolish gesture. In the end her desire to see him made her give up on reason. She shut the windows and got out of the car. She was a member of the library after all. She had every right to be there.