Chapter Seventeen

Joe Ashworth thought it was all very well for Vera to give her orders, but prising Holly from the Lister house hadn’t been easy. In the end there’d been a compromise: she said she’d go as soon as the family liaison officer turned up in the afternoon. Which meant that in the morning he was on his own in Barnard Bridge and, while Vera had said someone would know about Jenny’s lover, tracking that person down hadn’t proved easy either. Ashworth had grown up in one of the pit villages in south-east Northumberland – though there hadn’t been many pits left even when he was a small child. It was the sort of place where kids played in the streets and their mams sat on the doorsteps, watching them and gossiping. He had no problem digging out secrets on his old stomping ground. Vera said he was like a magician, that he could conjure confidences from thin air. But there was no magic to it. He’d wander into the nearest social club, slip into the dialect that marked him out as one of their own, and soon the barmaid would be telling him what he wanted to know. Or directing him to someone who could help. Everyone liked telling stories, and Joe was a good listener.

This place was different. He arrived just before nine, thinking that he might catch the young mothers as they dropped their bairns off at school, forgetting of course that there was no longer a school in the village. It had been converted into a swanky house, two big cars parked where once the playground had been. There was the playgroup that Connie Masters’s daughter attended, but that only ran for three days a week. He looked at the notice outside the village hall. Not today. The main street was empty of pedestrians, though there was a steady stream of traffic and the vibrations of the lorries seemed to churn in his head and stopped him thinking clearly. The baby had woken a couple of times in the night and the lack of sleep didn’t help.

In the post office, which served also as a shop, a couple of pensioners queued at the counter. He waited until they’d paid their bills and one had sent his letter to a grown-up child in Australia, before chatting to them. Two elderly men who’d lived in the village all their lives.

‘But it’s not the same, you knaa. One time I’d be able to tell you the name of every man, woman and child in the parish. Now half the houses have people I’ve never seen.’

Ashworth felt his confidence return. Ex-collier or ex-farm labourer, folk were all the same. One of the men lived next door to Jenny Lister. He’d already talked to a police officer, he said shyly, when prompted by his friend. They’d called on everyone in the street the day before. A nice enough lad, but you could tell he was in a hurry. They’d invited him in for tea, but he’d not had the time.

‘Well, I have all the time in the world,’ Ashworth said. ‘And I could murder a cup of coffee.’

The men looked at each other and Ashworth sensed a problem. They didn’t want to be inhospitable, but neither felt they could invite him home. Cuthbert lived well out of the village, and Maurice had been banished for the morning so that his wife could clean and bake in peace. She’d be embarrassed if he turned up with a stranger when she wasn’t prepared for visitors. They had adjoining allotments and had planned to spend their time there. Ashworth thought they’d probably had adjoining desks at school. Cuthbert and Maurice. Cuthbert the talker, the leader. He’d made it to farm manager on one of the big estates, still lived in a tied cottage. Maurice was quieter and spoke with a bit of a stutter. His left arm didn’t seem to work so well. He was the Listers’ neighbour.

Again, Cuthbert took charge. They could go to the caff, he said. Nothing on the allotment that couldn’t wait. And Maurice agreed, as he always would. The caff was right by the river. It had a big new sign outside that read ‘Tyne Teashop’. Fancy, old-fashioned lettering, gold on a green background. At the door the men paused. Ashworth could tell they’d never been inside before, that even Cuthbert was a bit nervous.

‘This a new place?’ Ashworth asked. ‘Looks OK. And it’s my treat of course.’

Things were a bit more relaxed then, and Ashworth could understand that too. His mam had always been in charge of the money in their house; she’d watched over the bank statements every month and given his father his spends on Friday teatimes.

‘It used to be a bakery,’ Cuthbert said. ‘Then Mary retired and some lass from the south bought it up. My wife came in once and said never again. Tourists’ prices.’

They took a table by the window. A middle-aged woman came to take their order. There were five different sorts of coffee on the menu and Maurice seemed a bit flummoxed by that, so Cuthbert ordered cappuccinos for both of them. ‘Mo had a stroke not so long ago,’ he said. ‘Sometimes his speech isn’t what it was. But the four of us had a grand holiday in Italy when we first retired, the galleries and that, and I know what he likes.’ Spoiling Ashworth’s preconceptions of two elderly yokels who’d never left the Tyne valley.

‘Anything to eat?’ The owner was pleasant and, from her voice, Ashworth judged she’d come from no further south than York.

They went for a selection of mixed fancies. The woman served them, then disappeared into the kitchen, and Ashworth could gently bring them back to the subject of Jenny Lister.

‘You must have known her since she first moved in?’ He directed his questions to both men. Maurice didn’t seem to mind having Cuthbert speak for him, but Cuthbert turned back to his friend and let him answer.

‘Aye, the lass was still a baby. My Hilda used to help out, babysitting. We never had bairns ourselves and she was glad to do it.’

‘You got on, then?’

‘Oh, they were lovely neighbours. Jenny brought my Hilda to visit me in the hospital when I had the stroke. Every evening for a week.’ Maurice bit into a dainty cake with pink icing, licked his stubby brown fingers.

‘I have to ask some personal questions,’ Ashworth said. ‘There’d be things Jenny wouldn’t want spread about the village, and I know you’d respect that. But this is different. This isn’t just tittle-tattle. It might help us find out who killed her.’

They nodded. Very serious, pleased to be useful again.

‘We think she had a boyfriend,’ Ashworth said. ‘But nobody knows who he is. Did you see anyone come to the house?’

Maurice shook his head slowly. ‘Only the lass’s friends. And they were canny too, mind. You read things about young people today, but they always had a word and a bit of a joke. The woman who teaches in that school in Effingham called in sometimes, but I never saw anyone else. Not that I remember.’ He looked up at Ashworth with a crooked smile. ‘Not that my memory’s what it was since the stroke.’

‘Would Hilda know?’

Cuthbert began to chuckle and choked on the last crumbs of his cake. ‘Of course Hilda would know. She’s to the Tyne valley what that spy place in Cheltenham is to the security services.’

‘But not a gossip,’ Maurice stammered. ‘Not really.’

‘Well, she knows more than she lets on.’ Cuthbert was indulgent. ‘That’s certainly true.’

‘Would she talk to me, do you think?’ Ashworth was certain he could winkle information from the formidable Hilda. Old ladies loved him. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to disturb her if she’s busy, but you can tell how urgent it is.’

Maurice hesitated.

‘Come on, Mo!’ Cuthbert said. ‘A chance to talk to a bonny lad like this. She’d jump at it. You’ll be in more bother if you don’t take him to see her. Besides, she’ll have all the vacuuming done by now, and the washing’ll be on the line. She’ll be sat watching some nonsense on the telly with a cup of coffee.’

Maurice smiled his lopsided smile and got to his feet.


Hilda hadn’t quite finished the housework. When they arrived she was mopping the kitchen floor. They stood in the hall and saw her wide bottom, swaying to the movement of the mop.

‘What’s all this about?’ Fierce, but concerned too. Maybe she thought Maurice had been taken ill again.

‘It’s about Jenny Lister,’ Cuthbert said.

Hilda gave him a sharp look that Ashworth couldn’t quite interpret. She made them stand in the hall while she finished the floor, then took them straight into the small living room, leaving the door open so she could shout through to them from the kitchen. It could have been Ashworth’s nana’s house. Gleaming dark-wood furniture, and everywhere lace mats. On the wall embroidered samplers. A smell of beeswax and peppermint. The window was small and covered with a net curtain that let in very little light.

‘Tea or coffee?’ She’d emptied her bucket and was polishing the floor dry.

Maurice grinned at Cuthbert. It seemed they’d made the right decision.

The coffee was very weak, instant made with warm milk, but there were home-made flapjacks and scones still warm, with so much butter that it drizzled over their fingers as they ate. The cakes in the tea shop had been hardly a mouthful.

‘Who’s this then?’

‘He’s the police.’ Maurice looked at her anxiously.

‘Well, I guessed that much!’ She turned to Ashworth. ‘I suppose you have a name.’

So he introduced himself and answered her questions about where he’d been born and where he lived. It seemed she’d worked at Parson’s as a secretary when she was younger and had known one of his aunts.

‘What do you want to know then? I’m guessing it’ll be about Jenny Lister.’

‘Whatever you can tell me,’ Ashworth said. ‘We don’t always know the best questions to ask.’

Hilda took off her apron, sat on a high-backed chair and folded her hands on her lap. When she spoke it was with the concentration of a Mastermind contestant answering questions on her specialist subject. ‘Jenny Lister moved into the village in…’ a very brief pause ‘… 1993. The summer. Hannah was a baby, and Jenny was still on maternity leave.’ Another pause and a little sniff to show she disapproved of the concept. A touch of jealousy? Ashworth wondered. If I’d had bairns, I’d have stayed at home and looked after them myself. ‘The father, Jenny’s husband, had gone back to London, where he’d come from.’

The same sort of history as Connie Masters, Joe Ashworth thought. Her man left her while she had a young child. Was the shared experience relevant? Or would the stress of holding together a marriage, a new child and a stressful job be too much for most relationships? Maybe it happened all the time. His wife hadn’t worked since their first child had been born. He couldn’t imagine how he’d survive if she were out all day. It seemed strange to him that he’d never realized how much he depended on her holding the show together.

Hilda continued. ‘Jenny was what they called a generic social worker in those days. She dealt with everything. Then there was a change in the system and she specialized in children. She ended up as the fostering and adoption officer.’ She looked at Ashworth through small, square spectacles. ‘But you’ll know that already.’

He nodded. ‘All the same, it’s useful to have someone sum it up.’ The other men might as well not have been in the room. Maurice seemed to be dropping off to sleep. The lorries rolling past the window provided a background rumble.

‘She had a boyfriend,’ Hilda said suddenly. ‘Lawrence. Worked as a ranger with the National Park. Nice enough. We invited them round to dinner one night. Before Maurice was taken ill, we liked to entertain. Still do, but only close friends these days.’

‘What happened with this Lawrence?’

‘I don’t know. They were talking about setting up home together, and the next thing I heard they’d parted.’

‘Did Jenny ever talk to you about it?’

‘She wasn’t one for weeping on folks’ shoulders,’ Hilda said. With the apron removed, Ashworth saw she was rather stylishly dressed. A pleated skirt and a yellow cotton blouse. A smart woman, in every sense of the word.

‘But you’d have been the nearest thing she had to a mother.’

‘I saw her in the garden soon after it happened. She looked dreadful. Pale as a ghost, and you could tell she’d been crying. I asked her in for coffee. She told me they’d split up. I made a comment about men – you know how you do when someone’s upset: “Don’t worry about it. Most of them are commitment-phobic.” Something of that sort. But she said Lawrence wasn’t like that, and it had been her decision to stop seeing him.’

‘Did she say why? Was there someone else?’

‘Aye.’ Hilda looked up at him. ‘Someone completely unsuitable. Her words not mine. “I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself. He makes me feel alive.” That’s what she told me.’

‘Did she tell you any more about him? You do realize how important this might be?’

‘She was ashamed of the relationship.’ The dumpy little woman looked up at Ashworth to make sure he understood what she was saying. ‘It didn’t seem healthy to me. You should never have to apologize for your choice of man. Maybe she’d met him by chance, had what they call a one-night stand. Or I wondered if she’d come across him through work.’

‘A colleague?’ Ashworth could tell how that might be frowned upon, but surely sleeping with a social worker wasn’t necessarily a matter of shame.

‘More likely a client, don’t you think?’ Hilda was speaking to Ashworth now as if he were an equal, almost as perceptive as herself. ‘I could see that happening. She’d feel sorry for someone, try to help him, then get too emotionally involved.’

Ashworth could see how that might happen too, and why it would have to be a secret. It would probably be against the rules of her profession, and Jenny would also be afraid of appearing a fool. The cool professional tangled up with some loser. How would that look?

‘It could have been a married man,’ Ashworth said. ‘Someone local, someone you know maybe, so she wouldn’t want to tell you about him.’ The idea of Jenny falling for a client made more sense to him, but he had to explore other options.

‘Maybe.’ Hilda seemed unconvinced. ‘But people don’t seem too bothered about having affairs these days. I don’t know that Jenny would have been that upset. Besides, if it had been someone local, I might well have heard about it before now.’ Implying that there was no doubt about it.

‘Cuthbert says he doesn’t know half the folk who live in the village these days.’

Hilda gave a wicked grin. ‘Aye, well. Cuthbert doesn’t belong to the WI.’

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