Harbour Street

Chapter Twenty-Three

They were at the early-morning briefing and the focus was on George Enderby.

‘Why would Enderby come north to stay in Harbour Street if he’s not here for work?’ Vera was pacing up and down in front of the whiteboard. Since Holly had come up with the information, Vera had been worrying at the notion. She couldn’t see the man as a killer, but couldn’t imagine why he would lie. She looked around the room. Most of the team were bleary-eyed and untidy. No energy. She’d dragged them in early. ‘What do we know about him? Holly?’

‘Nothing,’ Holly said. She was still sharp and smart. ‘No record.’

‘Have we got him on CCTV?’

‘A possible sighting of him walking down Harbour Street towards the Coble with another guy on the day that Margaret died, but it’s just a back view from the Metro, so it’s hard to tell.’

Vera wondered if Holly had been to bed or if she’d been in the station all night. ‘Do we know where he is now?’

‘He checked into the Harbour Guest House yesterday. I phoned in the evening and got Chloe, Kate Dewar’s daughter. Apparently he asked if he could stay an extra night, so he’s not scheduled to leave until tomorrow. I’ve asked the team canvassing in the area to keep a lookout for his car, in case he changes his mind.’

Vera thought about that. ‘Okay. So why would Enderby want to hang around in Mardle if he’s the killer? Why not get away from the place as soon as he had the chance?’

Charlie raised a hand. ‘Some killers do haunt the crime scene. They get a thrill out of watching the investigation.’

Vera could imagine that. Enderby with his spy stories, watching the action playing out in front of him, thinking that he could outwit the police. She paused and came to a decision. ‘Hol, you carry on the good work here. Any connection between Enderby and Margaret or Dee, we want to know about it. He told me that he supported Margaret’s good causes with cash. Did he help out more directly, go to the Haven or meet up with Dee Robson at any time? Let’s make some connections. Joe, you’re with me.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To the Coble. If Enderby was heading in that direction the day Margaret died, that’s probably where he ended up. Let’s go and see.’

The pub was closed. Outside a scattering of cigarette ends on the pavement and, even from where they stood, the smell of stale beer. Inside a tiny woman was pushing a Hoover across the floor. It was as big as she was. Vera banged on the window, but the woman didn’t hear until she turned off the machine. She shook her head and pointed to her watch. Vera held up her warrant card to the dirty window and eventually the door was unbolted.

‘Do you run this place?’

‘Nah, I’m just the cleaner.’ She was nervous. Vera suspected she was paid cash in hand and still claimed benefit.

‘Who does?’

‘Lawrence. He lives in the flat upstairs.’

‘Well, give him a shout, pet. Then you can get on.’

‘I’ll unlock the door and you can go up yourself.’ She was as skinny and shapeless as a ten-year-old girl. Nicotine on her fingers, and Vera could tell she was desperate for a tab. She’d be outside on the pavement smoking as soon as she’d got rid of them.

She led them through the lounge bar to a back corridor and took a string of keys on a chain from her apron pocket. Vera was reminded of a prison officer at locking-up time.

Lawrence was up, but only just. He was wearing jogging bottoms and a vest and his feet were bare. Vera had knocked on the door at the top of the narrow stairs, Joe standing behind her. The landlord was probably expecting the cleaner, a demand for payment or for new dusters.

‘Who are you?’ A giant of a man, but somehow gentle with it. Vera would have sworn like a trooper, if strangers had turned up in her home at this hour of the morning. He stood back to let them in. The room looked out over Harbour Street and onto the water.

‘Were you in the bar on the night Margaret Krukowski was murdered in the Metro?’

‘I was working early on,’ he said, ‘but not when the news first came through. The other bar staff had come in by then and I was up here, taking my break.’

‘Quiet, was it, early on?’

‘Yeah, dead. Snow had been forecast and everyone was keen to get home.’ He leaned against the windowsill and turned to look out into the street.

‘So you’d remember anyone in the bar that evening?’

‘Early on, like I said. Not later. The Metro closed down and folk couldn’t get into town, so they all piled in here.’

‘George Enderby,’ Vera said. He didn’t respond straight away, so she continued, ‘He’s one of the regular guests at Kate Dewar’s guest house.’

Lawrence nodded to show that he knew who they were talking about. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘He was in that afternoon with a mate. Older. Kind of scruffy.’

‘Malcolm Kerr?’

‘Nah!’ Lawrence said. ‘He was in later, and he had a skinful. I didn’t know the other man.’

‘Was Dee Robson in then too? We know she was in sometime that afternoon. She picked up a guy called Jason. Then she was back later in the evening.’ Vera remembered seeing the woman coming out of the pub, tottering on her heels, bowled along by the jeers.

Lawrence thought for a minute. ‘I don’t think she was in at the same time as the men. They were on their own in the lounge.’

‘What were they talking about?’

Lawrence shook his head. ‘No idea! There was music and they were in the far corner. When I went to collect their glasses they shut up.’

‘But you’d have got some impression of their mood,’ Vera said. ‘It’d be instinctive, wouldn’t it, picking up the atmosphere in the pub. Keeping an eye out for trouble.’

Lawrence gave a little chuckle. ‘Those two would be no trouble. A couple of old gadgies, sitting over a pint. But one of them was upset. At one point he was crying.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one you were asking about. George Enderby.’

Then Vera’s brain was buzzing. Because George couldn’t have been crying for Margaret Krukowski. At that point she was still alive, making her way to the solicitor’s office in Gosforth, to talk about her will. Perhaps she’d talked to George and told him that she was dying, but then there’d be no need for the man to have lied to the police. And he’d still have had time to drive to Gosforth, to follow Margaret onto the Metro and to have killed her. Then plenty of time to collect his car and drive back to Harbour Street, arriving in the guest house just before Vera and Joe had turned up. But he’d been so charming then, so confident and pleasant. Not the demeanour of a man who’d just committed murder. Or that of a man who’d sat in a pub earlier in the day crying.

‘You really don’t know who the other bloke was?’ This was Joe, getting impatient, while she was staring out of the window lost in thought.

‘I’ve seen him about in Harbour Street,’ Lawrence said. ‘He goes out with Malcolm Kerr in the boat to the island. Some sort of research.’

Mike Craggs, who’d also lied. He’d said he drove home to the Tyne Valley as soon as he got back from Coquet Island.

Vera thought that Enderby and Craggs were stupid men. She couldn’t see them as killers, so why hadn’t they told the truth? Unless this was a great conspiracy and all the suspects were in it together. She smiled at the thought. She was back to Enderby and his fantasies, his wild fictions. ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

Lawrence didn’t ask anything about the investigation. She liked his gentleness and his lack of curiosity. He’d make a better priest than Peter Gruskin. ‘I’ll show you out,’ he said and padded ahead of them, his bare feet splayed and huge like a bear’s.

Downstairs it was quiet. The cleaner had moved into the toilets. In the lounge there was a painting of a fat old woman. She was leaning forward with her elbows on the bar. It wasn’t a brilliant painting, but it gave an impression of someone strong and eccentric.

‘Who’s that?’ Vera nodded towards it as they passed.

‘Val Butt.’ Lawrence smiled. ‘She managed this place for years. I took over from her. She was quite a character. A fierce lady. People still tell stories about her.’

Out in the street the morning was moving on. Women were already in the fisheries preparing to open for lunchtime. Vera phoned Holly. ‘Tell me you’ve found another connection between Margaret and Enderby.’ Looking up the street, she could see that his car was still there. Why was he staying two more days, instead of only his usual one? Perhaps he was one of the ghouls who found a murder investigation exciting, who travelled from crime scene to crime scene like a rock-star groupie.

‘Nothing of any real importance. As we already know, he went along to the winter fair at the Haven a few weeks ago. He’d donated some books for them to sell and acted as their Father Christmas. According to the woman in charge, he spent a fortune on raffle tickets and whenever he won a prize he put it back on the stall.’

‘Did you get a list of residents who were staying there then?’

‘Of course.’ Holly was still full of herself after making the discovery about Enderby. ‘The same bunch as are there now, apart from an emergency admission, a woman who’d been beaten by her husband. She’s since got an injunction and is back in the family house.’ She paused. ‘Dee Robson was there for the afternoon too. Margaret took her along for a treat.’

Vera remembered Jane Cameron’s words. Not just for a treat, but to make a point.

‘Boss?’ Holly still on the line and impatient.

‘See if you can track down Professor Craggs,’ Vera said. ‘We need to talk to him too.’

She switched off the phone and started up Harbour Street. Joe Ashworth followed and caught up with her, so they were walking side by side. ‘You can’t really think that Enderby and Craggs planned the murder?’ He thought she was mad.

‘They’ve lied to me,’ she said. ‘Both of them.’

‘People lie to the police for all sorts of reasons.’

‘But they shouldn’t.’ She stopped abruptly to catch her breath. ‘They shouldn’t lie to me.’