Burial of Ghosts

Chapter Twenty-eight

I had a shock when I got back to Sea View. There was Inspector Farrier sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and chatting to Jess like he was one of the Newbiggin Mafia and they’d been friends for ever. I’d got right into the room before they saw me. Farrier looked up first. His face creased into a cross between a smile and a wink, but Jess was so wrapped up in what she was telling him that she didn’t notice me. ‘Our Lizzie’s a sensible girl, Inspector. A bit headstrong at times, but that’s hardly surprising, is it, after all she’s been through? And really, she’s not been a peck of bother since she arrived.’

I could feel myself blushing, at least my skin turning hot. Farrier was enjoying every minute. He grinned and that’s when Jessie realized I was there. She was startled – ‘Hey, man, Lizzie, don’t creep up like that.’ But not embarrassed. She made an excuse about nipping to the shop to pick up extra milk, but Farrier said he’d been sat all day and maybe I wouldn’t mind a walk either. We could pick up the milk on our way back.

I let him out through the front door. He admired the little garden and the view, but I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about what he could be doing there. He must have found out that I’d left the pub with Marcus Tate that evening before he died. There were a couple of lads in waders fishing from the beach, and a father and daughter flying a kite, but no one to overhear us. A breeze was blowing from the water, gusting so the kite swooped and dived, and we started walking along the sea wall. It wasn’t sunbathing weather.

‘I should have been round before,’ Farrier said, ‘to apologize in person. I believed Howdon. I couldn’t see what he had to gain by lying.’

‘He’s a lawyer. You should have known better. It’s what they do for a living.’ It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but I felt awkward. Apology doesn’t come naturally to policemen and, despite the warm and fuzzy image, that’s what Farrier was. Then I realized. ‘You’ve not come all this way just for that.’

‘I had a phone call from your MP,’ he said. ‘Shona Murray. You went to see her.’

‘I had to do something.’ Defensive, because I was sure he was going to warn me about meddling. ‘You thought I was a murderer.’

‘No,’ he said, so softly I could hardly hear the words above the water breaking on the rocks and the wind. ‘I never did.’

I wanted to believe him. ‘Did she show you the letter Thomas wrote?’

‘Aye. It took her a bit of time to get round to it, the silly woman, but she got in touch eventually.’

‘I told her to. I gave her your name.’ It’s not my style to crawl, but I needed the brownie points. I wanted him to tell me what was in the letter.

He stopped, leaned his back against the painted railings. ‘You could have come to me, Lizzie. I’d have chased it up for you.’

I looked at him. Couldn’t help it. I could hardly walk on without him. He was dressed like a student who’s come to learning late, in middle age. There were a few of them at university. Nerdy jeans, too baggy round the legs, a hand-knitted sweater, ribbed, beige with little brown flecks. In the winter he’d probably wear a duffel coat. Whenever I’d seen him before he’d been in a suit and tie, and I couldn’t work out what the scruffy gear was all about. Was this his day off or had he dressed down on purpose, a way of persuading me to lower my guard?

‘What do you want from me?’

I knew I sounded rude, but the persuasion was starting to work. I could feel myself being seduced by the fatherly voice, the patience and the kindness. I’m a sucker for older men. Look at Ronnie Laing. I’ve got the discrimination of a rabbit. Manic depressives are always being taken in by unsuitable people.

The wind was making his eyes water. He took a white hanky from the jeans pocket and wiped them.

‘I want to know who else you’ve been talking to, what else you’ve found out.’

‘Picking my brains?’

‘Yes. Just that.’

‘Why isn’t this official, then? Why aren’t you with the skinny cow with the notebook? Why not get me down to the station, take a proper statement?’

‘Is that what you’d prefer?’

‘I just want to know where I stand.’

He didn’t answer.

‘They still think I did it, don’t they? They think it was done by a crazy, so it must be me.’

‘Some of them think that,’ he said. ‘Not me.’ He looked out at the sea. ‘Did you ever meet Marcus Tate?’

‘At Thomas’s funeral.’ It was a relief. I thought I’d have a chance now to share my anxieties. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so lonely. But he didn’t follow it up, he just started walking again. I stood where I was and shouted after him, not caring now who could hear. ‘Marcus Tate… Do you really believe that was an accident?’

He stopped and turned. ‘There’s no reason to believe otherwise.’

‘But you?’ I was screaming and not just to be heard above the tide. ‘What do you think happened?’

‘Why don’t you tell me what you think?’ His voice was measured, but I wasn’t taken in. He’d stuck his neck out coming to see me. He was as obsessed by the case as I was. He’d have his own reasons for that – things to prove at work, old scores to settle – but he was committed to digging away until he found reasons he could believe in. It kept him awake at night too. A sharp gust of wind blew a shower of spindrift. I could taste the salt on my tongue.

‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ I asked. ‘There’s a new place along the prom that does a decent cappuccino.’

He’d been tense, standing there, waiting to see if I’d confide in him. He nodded uncertainly, not sure whether or not he’d got an answer. Let him wait a bit longer.

The café was on a square, part of the same development as the new promenade. Brick and block paving and Victorian-style street furniture. Bland and unimaginative, it had nothing in common with the original east coast fishing village. I wondered if the architect had been there since it was built, if he woke up with nightmares. I knew Steve, the lad who ran the café. He’d sunk his redundancy from Ellington pit into the lease of the building and the purchase of a seriously impressive Italian coffee machine. He’d probably bought into the council’s dream that a couple of wrought-iron lampposts would bring the tourists flocking. I’d been there on the opening night and he’d talked about turning it into a classy, cosmopolitan place, hiring a chef to serve Mediterranean food in the evenings. But it wasn’t going to turn him into a second Harry Pool. Anyone could have told him that people from outside wouldn’t leave their cars unattended in Newbiggin at night.

Surprisingly, though, the locals loved the place. It was somewhere to meet. Young mums gathered there after dropping kids at nursery, and teenagers dropped in on their way back from school and imagined they were sophisticated. That afternoon it was like a scene from an arty European movie. Steve’s unemployed mates were in, looking dark and brooding, chainsmoking, posing until the lasses from Ashington College arrived back on the bus. Farrier and I moved outside. There were a few rickety garden tables and chairs on the square; he stuck out umbrellas when the wind wasn’t so strong. The sun had come out. Farrier had paid for the coffee. He’d asked for a receipt. I supposed he’d claim it back as informant expenses. I didn’t like the idea of that. Hated the thought of grassing.

‘So this is informal?’ I said.

‘Confidential. The information you give will never be traced back to you.’

‘What did Thomas write in his letter to Shona Murray?’

‘You can’t expect me to tell you that. It’s confidential too.’

‘No deal, then.’

We faced up to each other across the table. A couple of gulls were fighting over some discarded chips on the other side of the square.

‘I need,’ I went on, ‘a gesture of good faith. You must be able to understand that. I know some of it. I know he was intending to become a whistle-blower.’

‘You know most of it, then.’

‘Who was he going to shop?’

Farrier shrugged, as if to say that I’d won and much good may it do me. ‘He didn’t give Ms Murray any details. Honestly. Nothing useful. He said he suspected “a prominent member of the community” of breaking the law. Before he gave her evidence he wanted an assurance that his position would be protected.’

‘What position? His position at work?’

‘I don’t know. Really, Lizzie. Why else would I be here, grovelling to you?’

He was hardly grovelling, but he seemed genuinely frustrated by the lack of information. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth about Thomas’s letter to Shona, but I’d probably had all he was prepared to give.

‘Have you got anything on Harry Pool?’

‘He’s no criminal record.’

‘That’s not what I asked. You must have done some checking. Whistle-blowing implies work, doesn’t it?’

He wiped a smear of foaming milk from his top lip before saying cagily, ‘We haven’t turned up anything significant.’

‘He lives in a bloody big house,’ I said. ‘Even for someone with his own business. Especially when hauliers are supposed to be going bust because of the high fuel charges.’

‘Have you been to see him too?’

I nodded.

‘And?’

‘He didn’t admit to stabbing Thomas to death, if that’s what you’re asking. He makes a big effort to come over all law-abiding and respectable. Condemning the fuel protesters. Standing up for the other members of his trade body. All that.’

‘But?’

‘Dunno if there are any buts. Maybe he’s really a nice guy.’ I paused. ‘Did you know that he’d fallen out with Thomas, a month or so before the murder?’

‘No. Who told you that?’

I paused again. ‘Marcus Tate.’

‘Did you talk to him at the funeral, then?’

‘Everyone went to the pub afterwards.’ That was true, wasn’t it? I still didn’t want to give too much away. ‘You should have come.’

‘I wasn’t invited. What else did Marcus tell you?’

‘Not much.’ I remembered the notes I’d made in Sea View at the kitchen table, could see the spidery writing. ‘That Thomas saw his voluntary work for the Countryside Consortium as a crusade.’

‘He was young,’ Farrier said. ‘Everything’s black and white at that age.’

I would have liked to ask him what he’d been passionate about as a kid. Instead I said, ‘What do you know about the Countryside Consortium?’

‘Not much. It’s a pressure group for the countryside, isn’t it? Pulled together after foot and mouth. Landowners working to limit rights of way, small businessmen, people interested in field sports. It started in the north but now it’s a nationwide thing. There was a rally at Westminster not long ago. Huge numbers turned out. They’re talking about putting up candidates for parliamentary by-elections.’

‘Ronnie Laing is a supporter.’

‘I suppose that’s how Tom Mariner got involved, then.’

‘No. That’s what’s so weird. Tom hated his stepfather.’

‘I should go,’ Farrier said suddenly. Perhaps his wife would have his tea on the table. Perhaps he had an appointment with the thin-lipped Sergeant Miles. I didn’t care.

‘Have you been to Wintrylaw, talked to Joanna?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t understand why Philip asked me to find Thomas. He and Ronnie Laing were friends. He must have known about a stepson.’

‘Na. Not if they were the sort of friends who only had an interest in common. We’re not like women. We don’t share our life stories over the first pint.’

He looked at his watch. I didn’t want him to leave.

‘Aren’t you interested in what else Marcus told me?’

‘Sure.’ Being polite, playing the game.

‘Thomas was devastated when his girlfriend dumped him but he was convinced he’d get her back.’

‘Was he?’ At least there was a spark of surprise. ‘I interviewed Miss Ravendale. A very tough young lady. She didn’t strike me as someone who’d change her mind. Hasn’t she got a new boyfriend? You were sitting next to them at the funeral.’

‘Dan Meech. I was at college with him.’

‘Were you now? Neither of them was very forthcoming with me. They don’t like the police. Fascist pigs. They didn’t quite say so. Well brought up. Manners. But they made it clear.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you likely to see them again?’

‘No plans to.’

‘Might be useful to know why Thomas was so sure they’d get back together. Was she seeing him, do you think, behind Dan’s back?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that would be her style.’

‘If you do get anything out of her, you’ll let me know?’ Then he stood up, without waiting for an answer.

We walked back along the sea wall. The fisherman were still there, but the little girl and her father had gone.

Just before we got to Sea View I said, ‘I was with Marcus Tate the evening before he died.’

Dumb, I know. Perhaps I just wanted Farrier to take more notice of me. It didn’t work at first. He didn’t even stop walking.

‘You said. You all went to the pub.’

‘After that.’

Then he did stop. ‘What happened?’

‘I was pissed. He took me back to the house in Seaton Delaval. Later, he drove me home. It was eleven, eleven-thirty. He wasn’t drunk. There was no way he drove that car over the bridge. Not then.’

He didn’t say anything. He just stared, and it was like he was trying to get his head round the facts, trying to make sense of it.

‘I suppose you want me to make a statement.’

‘No. Never mind that yet. Does anyone else know you were there?’

I shook my head.

‘Don’t tell anyone, Lizzie. Promise. And forget what I said about Nell Ravendale. Just keep your head down. Go away for a while. I don’t want any nasty accidents happening to you.’

He touched my arm lightly and walked away.