The Crow Trap

by Ann Cleeves

  “Edie’ll be back soon. We can share hers.”

  “She’s arriving at about lunchtime. She phoned.”

  “You didn’t tell her what happened?”

  “Not in any detail. I’m too much of a coward. I thought I’d leave that to you. She’ll blame me of course.” No, Rachael thought. She’ll blame herself for once, which’ll be worse.

  Vera Stanhope finished her toast and licked her fingers. “I hear you went chasing after Charlie Noble.”

  “You know about that?” Rachael felt like a naughty school kid “Oh, you can’t keep much from your Auntie Vera.”

  “We did ask Sergeant Ashworth if it was OK.”

  “No problem. It’s a free country.”

  “Do you know Mr. Noble?”

  “I met him. He was living at home when the old man was killed. Why did you go to see him?” “We thought someone might have threatened Bella with exposure. We thought that would explain her suicide.”

  “Well, you thought wrong,” Vera said bluntly. “At least if you had Charlie in mind as blackmailer. It wouldn’t have been him. It would be far too horrid. Charlie’s always avoided anything horrid. That’s why he ditched butchery.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Not since the investigation.”

  “That was years ago. He was hardly more than a child. He could have changed.”

  “You’ve met him. What do you think?” “No,” Rachael said. “I don’t think he’s changed much.”

  “I remember him very well. Surprisingly well after all these years.

  Perhaps because it was the first serious case I had any part in. I remember we talked to him in his bedroom. His hidey-hole. The old man used to bully him and that’s where he escaped. Everything was very tidy. He had peculiar tastes for an adolescent. He collected books, first editions, all about animals. All wrapped in plastic covers. He looked like a school prefect though he’d been working in the business for a while by then. He kept saying it all must have been a terrible mistake, though even he couldn’t pretend he was very sorry his father was dead. I got the impression that once the trial was over it wouldn’t take him long to pick himself up. He certainly knew what he wanted and he wouldn’t find it too hard to believe that nothing as nasty as murder had ever happened.” “He said he tried to visit Bella in the secure hospital. She refused to see him.”

  “Hmph.” Vera could have been mimicking one of Charlie Noble’s horses.

  “I bet he didn’t try very hard.”

  “Why didn’t Bella invite him to her wedding then? He was her only relation.”

  “She’d hardly do that if she were trying to keep her conviction secret.”

  “But she invited you,” Rachael said.

  “She knew I could be discreet.” Vera smiled smugly.

  “Something occurred to me on the way back last night … ” Rachael said tentatively. “You’ll probably think it’s stupid but … “

  “You’re wondering if Charlie could have bashed his father’s brains out?” Vera finished.

  “Well, yes.” She had thought this a brain wave and was disappointed.

  “My colleagues aren’t all as bright as me, I’ll give you that, but they’re not daft.” “Of course not. I thought … “

  “She confessed,” Vera said.

  “I know, but Charles was only seventeen, wasn’t he, when his father died? Perhaps Bella was protecting him.”

  “Her prints were on the statue. She was waiting in the same room when we arrived.”

  “But … “

  “He couldn’t have done it anyway,” Vera said. She chuckled like a seedy stand-up comedian about to give the tag line of a dreadful gag.

  “He was in his father’s office at the back of the slaughterhouse. It was tiny, a portakabin. The place was packed because besides Charlie there was a manager, a secretary and a meat inspector from the Ministry of Agriculture. They all swear that he only left once that morning to go to the lav. He was only away for five minutes. Even if he’d had the bottle to kill his father he couldn’t have done it.”

  “Oh:

  “Nice try,” Vera said magnanimously. “What’s the next theory?”

  “Not a new theory. The same one. About Bella’s suicide. I still think someone threatened her with exposure, told her she wouldn’t be fit to care for Dougie.”

  “And who do you think would do that?” Vera had the air of a nursery teacher humouring a small child.

  “There is someone. Dougie’s son Neville has benefited from her death.

  He’ll be taking over the farm.” When Vera didn’t respond she went on, “You met him at Bella’s wedding.”

  “Would he have known about her conviction?”

  “He could have done. She’d kept a newspaper cutting, some details of her past in the farmhouse. He could have found them and followed up the leads in the same way that we did.” She paused. “He’s Godfrey Waugh’s assistant. He works for Slateburn Quarries.” “I remember him from the wedding,” Vera said. “A good-looking young man. I wouldn’t mind meeting him again.” She looked at Rachael through narrowed eyes. “You keep your neb out. No more playing private eyes. Leave Mr. Furness to me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine.

  After Rachael’s dramatic incident with the car on the track Vera Stanhope’s methods seemed to become even more unorthodox. She took to haunting Baikie’s. Rachael wondered, as their work was coming to an end, if this was a deliberate ploy to hold them up. Like a lonely host delaying the departure of dinner-party guests, she didn’t want the women to leave.

  Anne had noticed the tactics too, was amused but slightly unsettled by the constant presence.

  “Haven’t you got a home to go to?” she asked one night. It was late.

  She and Rachael had been out since dusk, trying unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of an otter, and had returned to find the inspector cloistered with Edie.

  “Not much of one,” Vera said. And glared, daring them to ask any more.

  “Do you take all your cases so personally?”

  She didn’t answer that but began pacing up and down the living room. As always she was wearing sandals and they slapped against the soles of her feet.

  “Look,” she said, “I’ve got to find Edmund bloody Fulwell. He can’t have disappeared into thin air. Someone must know where he is. I’d have expected him to turn up in a nick or in the casualty department by now’

  Rachael was surprised. She had never seen Vera so intense. Perhaps Vera knew Edmund, she thought. They’d be of a similar age. Perhaps he was invited to Constance’s parties too. She might even have had a teenage crush on him.

  Vera continued to walk and to mutter.

  “Rod Owen says he doesn’t know where Edmund is and I believe him. He seems really fed up. It can’t be much fun doing all the cooking. I suppose Edmund’s holed up in some hostel or B & B, drinking himself silly. Or he could have run away abroad again. He’s run away before when things have got too heavy for him.”

  Edie had been sitting in a corner, apparently reading. She set aside her book. “Would he be able to afford that?”

  “Not on a chefs salary. But perhaps his family helped him out. You could see why they’d want him out of the way. They wouldn’t like Edmund wheeled out for the press, talking about his daughter. Very tacky. Very bad for family image. Not that they’d admit to anything of course.”

  The pacing and the muttering had an element of performance. She wanted them to know she was worried and the way her mind was working, but Rachael thought she already knew what she was going to do. She stopped abruptly.

  “I’ve tracked down Grace’s social worker.” Finally. You’d think she’d have come forward of her own accord, wouldn’t you?” She claims she’s been in France on three weeks’ holiday. Nice for some.”

  “What’s her name?” Edie asked.

  “Why?”

  “I might know her. Lots of my friends work for social services.”

&nbs
p; “Poor them.” Vera paused. “Poor you. She calls herself Antonia Thorne. She’s been married for years but didn’t get round to changing her name.”

  Edie shrugged. “I don’t know her.”

  “You could ask around. See what your friends make of her. She’s based out on the coast. I wasn’t very impressed. Sounds a real wimp. One of those voices that grate. But I’ve not met her yet, so I suppose I shouldn’t judge.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “She did say something interesting.”

  Rachael sensed that now they were getting to the point of the amateur dramatics. “Oh?” she prompted helpfully.

  “She said, “I wonder if Nan’s been told that Grace is dead. She’d want to know.” ‘

  “Who’s Nan?” “That’s what I asked. A woman called Nancy Deakin. She worked in the kitchen at the Hall when Edmund was a kid, ended up looking after him because no one else could control him.” She looked at Anne Preece.

  “Olivia Fulwell talked about her when she came round for that chat the other afternoon.” “I remember.” Anne smiled, mimicked Lily’s affectation: “Half gypsy and not terribly hygienic” ‘

  “That’s the one.” Vera paused. “The social worker took Grace to visit her a few times. I’m not sure why. Couldn’t get to the bottom of that one. Antonia wittered on about the importance of a child being rooted in its own past. But it wasn’t Grace’s past, was it? Not really. By then Nan was camping out in an old caravan on the estate, much to the family’s embarrassment. They could hardly evict her after she’d brought up Edmund single-handed. Eventually they got her to move into the almshouses in Kimmerston. Robert’s a trustee.” “Very convenient,” Anne said.

  “I bet Lily Fulwell’s not been to see her to tell her Grace’s dead,” Vera continued as if Anne hadn’t interrupted. They didn’t seem on visiting terms. Someone should go. It’s only decent.” She fixed her bulging eyes on Anne, who stared back.

  “Me? Why?”

  “Well, you’re almost a friend of the family’s, aren’t you?”

  “Hardly.”

  And you did know Grace.”

  “Not very well.”

  “Look.” Vera Stanhope seemed to lose patience with the subtle approach. “I’ll tell you how it is. I’ve had everyone I can spare out looking for Edmund Fuwell. If he’s drinking he’s on a bloody long bender. It’s starting to look as if he might have something to hide.”

  “You think he killed his daughter?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think until I find him. Nancy Deakin looked out for him in the past. It just occurred to me that he might have gone to her again if he thought he was in bother.”

  “Well, send one of your chaps round to ask.”

  “Oh aye. And I expect she’d tell him! We don’t know much about Nancy but we do know that she can’t stand anyone in authority. I doubt if even I with all my charm could get much information from her. But you could go along as Grace’s friend. You could say that Grace had talked about her, that you thought she ought to be told what had happened. She might talk to you.” When there was no response she added, “Come on now. Give me a break. What do I have to do? Get down on my knees?” “No,” Anne said slowly. “We’ll go, Rachael, won’t we?”

  Rachael was startled by the question. She hadn’t expected to be included. She felt like a child usually left out of games and picked suddenly for a team. She nodded.

  Edie had returned to her book and still seemed absorbed. Now she spoke without looking up. “I don’t know how you get away with that sort of trick, Inspector Stanhope.”

  Vera’s answer was sharp and immediate. “Because I get results, pet.

  And in the end that’s what counts. That’s all the bosses want.”

  Later that night when Rachael was in bed, but had the light on, still reading, there was a knock on her door. Thinking it was Edie she didn’t answer. Let Edie think she was already asleep. But the knock was repeated and Anne came in. She was wearing striped pyjamas with a drawstring and a fly. Some man’s. Left behind after a night of passion.

  “Sorry,” Rachael said. “I thought it was my mother.”

  “What is it between you and Edie? She seems OK.”

  Usually Rachael would have shrugged, given an answer which meant nothing. And anyway Anne would be the last person she’d choose as confidante. But tonight she said, “Because she’s such a hypocrite.”

  “In what way?”

  “All the time I was growing up I was filled with the liberal party line. Openness. Trust. The need to talk things through. But when I asked her about stuff that was important to me the same rules didn’t apply.”

  “What did you want to know?”

  “About my father.”

  “What specifically?”

  “A name would have been a start.”

  “Don’t you know anything about him?”

  “Not a thing. And there’s no way of finding out. I checked.”

  “Perhaps she had a good reason.”

  “Like what? He was a murderer? A lunatic? I’m not even sure I want to get in touch with him, but I’d like the chance to make the choice.

  I’m an adult. I don’t need protecting.”

  “Maybe it’s no big deal. When I was a kid I’d willingly have disowned my old man, through boredom.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Not quite. I left home as soon as I could but I was there when he died. Why don’t you talk to her again? Explain how you feel.”

  “She knows how I feel.”

  “Don’t you think that here, on your own territory, it might be a bit different?”

  There was a pause. “Perhaps,” Rachael said.

  “Worth a try then.”

  “Before we leave. Yes.”

  “And tomorrow we’re off to do Vera’s dirty work,” Anne said.

  “It looks like it.”

  “She can’t really think Edmund killed his daughter.” She hesitated. “I was wondering if she was making up all that stuff about Nancy to put us off the scent. It seems as if it’s an elaborate game to her but she’s deadly serious. Do you think she knows who the murderer is but doesn’t have the evidence to make an arrest?”

  “Are you saying she suspects one of us?”

  “No … I don’t know … She and Edie are pretty thick. She hasn’t let anything slip to her?”

  “If she had,” Rachael said bitterly, “Edie hasn’t passed it on.”

  “Don’t worry about it then. Perhaps I’ve just got a suspicious nature.” Anne went out, closing the door behind her, leaving Rachael to wonder what the exchange had really been about. She switched off the bedside lamp and lay in the milky gleam of the midsummer night.

  Through the open window came the sound of water rattling over pebbles.

  Chapter Forty.

  The almshouses were in the old centre of Kimmerston, reached by a narrow alley from the main street. They featured as postcards of the town and occasionally tourists wandered into the courtyard to gawp.

  They were listed buildings and, although not practical for wheelchairs or zimmer frames, the courtyard was still cobbled.

  Rachael and Anne arrived in late afternoon. It was very hot. In the distance there was the buzz of traffic, but the courtyard was deserted.

  There was no noise from the grey stone houses.

  Then a door opened and a small middle-aged woman emerged. She wore a striped shirt and jacket and held a shiny black handbag under her chin as she used both hands to pull to the heavy warped door and lock it.

  She hurried across the cobbles, stiletto heels clattering.

  “Excuse me!” Anne shouted.

  She stopped, turned on her heels, looked at her watch in annoyance.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re looking for the warden.”

  “You’ve found her but I can’t stop. There’s a trustee meeting and I’m late already.”

  “We were hoping to speak to Nancy Deakin.”

>   “What do you want with her?”

  “A chat, that’s all. She doesn’t get many visitors, does she?”

  “That’s not my fault.” The warden was immediately defensive. “We’ve all tried but she’s hardly sociable.”

  “Has anyone been to see her lately?”

  “I haven’t seen anyone and she hasn’t said. But then she wouldn’t.

  You’re welcome to have a go. Number four. Don’t drink the tea.” She turned and teetered on.

  It was very bright in the courtyard and when the front door of the cottage was opened a crack, at first they couldn’t make out the shadowy figure inside.

  “Miss. Deakin?” Anne asked. “Nancy?”

  The door shut again. Anne banged on it with her fist.

  “Perhaps we should go.” Rachael was embarrassed. She imagined people staring from the blank net-covered windows. Anne took no notice and hit the door again. “We’re friends of Grace’s,” she shouted. “Nancy, can you hear me?”

  The door opened. Nancy Deakin was very old and here, inside this house, with its latticed windows and steep roof she looked like a witch in a children’s picture book. She wore a long woollen skirt and a black cardigan with holes in the elbows. She glared at them, then spoke in a series of splutters and coughs which neither woman could understand.

  “Can we come in?” Throughout the visit Anne Preece took the lead.

  Rachael thought the business at Baikie’s had mellowed her. At one time she would have refused to do Vera Stanhope’s dirty work, but here she was, her foot against the door so the old woman couldn’t shut it on them again.

  Nancy felt in the pocket of her cardigan and brought out a pair of enormous false teeth, covered in black fluff. She put them into her mouth and bared the teeth like a caged animal.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  She turned and led them down a passage into a small, cluttered room haphazardly furnished by junk. It seemed that she slept and lived in this room though there was no evidence that the house was shared by another occupant. A narrow divan was covered by a blanket of different coloured knitted squares. On a frayed wicker chair was a crumpled pile of clothes topped by a black felt hat. By the window, blocking out most of the light, was a birdcage on a stand. The door of the cage was open and a blue budgie flew over their heads and came to rest on the mantelpiece.