Silent Voices

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ashworth had expected Vera to drag him to the Eliot house immediately, although it was so late. He’d sensed her excitement when Connie Masters had described Veronica’s visit, and Vera had never been the most patient of people. But standing by the cars outside the cottage, she surprised him by saying they’d call it a day.

‘You don’t want to speak to the Eliot woman?’

Vera looked up to where the big house gleamed white in the darkness. ‘Do you think she was staring at us earlier? Is she wondering what we’ve found out about her? I bet she was upstairs at one of the bedroom windows with a pair of binoculars.’

‘Maybe.’

‘We’ll let her stew then, shall we? Give her a sleepless night and go to see her tomorrow.’

‘Do you fancy a pint?’ he asked. His way of making his peace with Vera. He’d sensed her antagonism earlier in the day. They were like a bickering married couple, he thought. In the end, they couldn’t survive without each other and one of them had to give in. Usually, it was him.

‘Thought you’d never ask, pet. Tell you what, it’s my treat. I got a few bottles of Wylam in last time I was in that shop in Hexham where they do the fancy local produce. Come back to mine and I’ll do you a sandwich too.’

And that way you don’t have to drive home after we’ve been to the pub. But he didn’t say anything. He’d have to drive back anyway – Sarah would kill him if he turned up pissed in a taxi. He’d already phoned her to say he’d be very late. She wouldn’t be expecting him yet. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

Vera’s house was the most inconvenient place to live in the whole county. Stuck halfway up a hill along a track that was always blocked by the first snow and that turned into a river as soon as it rained. For her personal use she still drove Hector’s Land Rover, and he’d never known her not show up for work because of the weather. Joe suspected the dippy hippies turned out with shovels to dig her out, in recompense for her turning a blind eye to what went on in their house, or maybe she camped out in the pub in the nearest village if the forecast was bad. She would never move now. She’d grown up in the hills and got twitchy and bad-tempered if she had to leave them for more than a day.

But the view was fantastic, Joe had to give her that. Too dark to appreciate it now, but he remembered it from previous visits. Open moorland as far as you could see, and a small lough where the geese came in winter. In the valley, the River Coquet that ended up at the coast, and from her house a bird’s-eye view of a small grey village and a peel tower. Her neighbours had been through lambing and, even inside, they could hear the ewes. There was never any traffic noise. Nothing but the occasional jet on a training flight from RAF Boulmer as it flew low, following the line of the valley.

They sat in her house and talked about Jenny Lister and then about Danny Shaw. He took a bottle of beer and drank it slowly; she’d had three by the time he’d finished. As good as her word, she made sandwiches and between munches she talked, hardly giving him a chance to speak. Occasions like this, that was his role: to be an audience, her sounding board. It was how she best processed information. Once, exasperated after a late night of listening to her holding forth, he’d asked her why she needed him there at all. ‘You take no notice of anything I say. You’d do just as well without me.’

She’d been astonished. ‘Nonsense, lad. If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t bother to think things through. You make me focus.’ She’d paused. ‘And now and again you come up with a few good ideas.’

So he sat and listened, as outside the moon rose and the breeze dropped. She broke off briefly to throw a match on the fire and turn on the standard lamp with its tatty parchment shade, but soon she continued, ordering her thoughts, reaching conclusions, planning future actions. During the team briefings she used the whiteboard to make her points clear, but Joe could see that she had no need of written notes or charts. It was all in her head; all the links and apparent coincidences seemed fixed in her mind.

And she spoke about the dead woman as if she’d known her. ‘Jenny Lister. The way I see it, she was a proud woman. That was what motivated her. She was good all right: a good mother, a good social worker, a good boss. A good-looker too for her age. We’ve heard that from all the people who knew her. But she thought she was a bit better than everyone else. Clever enough not to show it, but deep down that was what she believed. That’s what the planned book was all about. She thought she had something to teach the world about compassion.’ Vera looked up from her beer. ‘If I’d known her, she’d have got right up my nose. I can’t stand perfect people. And she didn’t have many friends, did she? Not real friends. There’s that teacher, but she was more like an admirer than a friend, and Jenny didn’t confide much in her. She just threw out a few hints to make herself interesting.’

Joe said nothing. When Vera was in full flow it was best to let her get on with it. The inspector continued. ‘So why was she murdered? And why in such an elaborate way? You don’t strangle someone just because they get on your tits. And if you want to kill, you choose somewhere private. Not the swimming pool in a flash hotel, where anyone could walk in on you at any minute. This looks like a game to me, a show. And which of our suspects makes the best showman?’

Most of Vera’s questions were rhetorical, but this time, it seemed, she expected an answer.

‘Well? Are you falling asleep here? Am I talking to myself?’

‘Danny Shaw?’ His response was tentative and he was ashamed of that. She always made him feel like an eight-year-old desperate not to make a fool of himself in front of the teacher.

‘Our second victim? So we’re back to Charlie’s theory that Danny was killed in revenge. Nah, I don’t buy that. Oh, I’m sure Danny was a show-off all right, and cocky with it. But maybe lots of lads are at that age. No, I’m thinking of Michael Morgan. Seems to me that his acupuncture business is more about theatre than medicine. He likes to create a scene, cause a distraction. People believe in the magic and that makes them feel better.’

‘Why kill Danny?’ Joe was playing the stooge again, feeding her the lines.

‘We know they met. Maybe Morgan let slip something of what he was planning. Danny was desperate for money. I wouldn’t have put it past him to try a bit of blackmail.’

‘Why would Morgan choose the Willows for his stage set in the first place? He must have realized we’d find out he worked there. And surely he’d be the last person to dump Jenny’s bag in Connie’s garden. He wouldn’t want us raking over the Elias Jones case again.’

Vera sat for a moment in silence. ‘Bugger,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’re right of course. I can’t stand the bastard and I’d like to see him charged for something. Wipe the arrogance off his face. No way to run an investigation, that. You should never let it get personal.’ She grinned at him, aware that she let it get personal all the time. The flames caught one side of her face; the rest was in shadow and for a moment she looked very young, almost flirtatious. ‘What’s your theory then, Joe? Where am I going wrong?’

‘I think Jenny Lister was killed by someone close to home,’ Joe said. He’d only had one beer, but it had given him the confidence to throw out a theory without thinking it through. It had just come into his head as Vera was speaking. ‘The Willows was chosen to throw us off the scent. Unless it was an impulse killing, you wouldn’t choose the place where you worked to commit a murder. So I’m thinking one of Jenny Lister’s contacts from Barnard Bridge. That’s where her bag was found, after all.’

He’d expected her mockery, some comment about him reading too many old-fashioned detective stories, but she took the comment seriously. ‘Well, that limits the field. Are you including Hannah in your suspects?’

That threw him. ‘No! Well, maybe.’

‘We’ve only got her word that she didn’t go with her mam for a swim that morning,’ Vera said. ‘Nobody saw the girl in the health club, but that means nothing. Jenny could have used her card to swipe the girl through. I’ve seen it done.’

‘How would Hannah have got back to Barnard Bridge?’ Joe asked. ‘Lister’s car was still at the Willows, and with public transport it’d take you about a fortnight. It’d be quicker walking.’

‘Simon Eliot could have picked her up. They’d have worked it between them. She wouldn’t have done it without him, however it happened.’

‘Motive?’ Joe couldn’t believe they were considering this. He pictured Hannah Lister as Holly had described her, numb with grief and shock. But maybe killing your mother would do that to you.

‘We know Jenny wasn’t happy about the marriage and had asked them to wait. That relationship is so intense.’ Vera frowned. ‘You have a sense that both the kids are a bit crazy. If Jenny had something on Simon – some way of putting pressure on him to ditch the girl – Hannah would go mad. Literally.’ Vera narrowed her eyes and painted the picture so that Joe was there too. ‘They’re together in the steam room. Outside there’s the noise of the pool, but in there just the two of them, cut off from the world. Almost naked. It’s a place for confidences and serious conversation. Nowhere to hide. If Jenny told the girl there was no way the marriage could go ahead, I can see Hannah losing it and killing her mother. Then phoning Simon and getting him to bale her out.’

‘Danny Shaw?’

‘Same theory as with Morgan? He was there, saw what happened and tried to blackmail them.’ She looked up suddenly. ‘We still don’t know if he and Hannah knew each other at school. But I think he’d certainly recognize her. Not that many young folk living in the valley.’

‘Why would Hannah dump the bag next to Connie’s cottage?’

Vera gave a sudden loud laugh. ‘God knows. To throw us off the scent? I really don’t believe any of it. No way did Hannah kill her mother. You just have to be with her to see she’s grieving. We’re in Jackanory territory here, bonny lad. The land of make-believe.’

‘The rest of the Eliots then?’

Vera didn’t answer. She went to the window and looked down the valley, then walked unsteadily upstairs to the bathroom. Joe heard the toilet flush, the gurgle of water in old pipes. He stood up too. There was a half moon and a clear sky. A dizzying view of points of light in the village below. It was like looking out of a plane at night. He could feel the chill through the glass. Vera came back.

‘The Eliots,’ she said as if she hadn’t left the room. ‘Not lords of the manor. No real land and no old money. Not any more. Local, you can tell that by the name. One of the Border Reiver clans, the Eliots. But seems to me Christopher Eliot’s family would have been tradespeople or farmers, not aristocracy. Veronica’s a bit different, though. She likes to play the role of lady. Status is important to her. And once her granddad did have a grand house, servants and a big estate. It’s still rotting down by the river, and that’s odd too. Worth following up. Does she care enough about her good name to kill? I’m not sure, but people have committed murder for less.’

She returned to her seat by the fire and Ashworth followed.

‘Our Veronica’s hiding something,’ Vera said. ‘But that doesn’t make her a killer. She could have nicked a few quid from WI funds and be shitting herself that we’ll find out. I’d love to know why she’s become so pally with Connie Masters all of a sudden. I really don’t get what’s going on there. Can’t see that there’d be any connection with Danny Shaw, though, unless she’d chosen him for her toy boy.’

‘Shaw could have been the man who called at Connie’s cottage the afternoon of the murder.’

‘So he could.’ Mocking him gently, because of course she’d already thought of that.

‘Is that the plan for the morning? Head off for Barnard Bridge. Show Connie Danny Shaw’s photo, and chat to Veronica.’

‘Aye.’ Vera yawned. ‘That’ll do for a start. And if we can get a recent photo of Morgan with his hair shaved off, get Connie to look at that too.’ She looked over at him. ‘Are you planning on staying all night? I don’t know about you, but I need my beauty sleep. And your missus will have forgotten what you look like. Off you go.’

Joe was astonished. Usually Vera was desperate to keep him there until the early hours. Many times she’d offered him the bed in her spare room: Don’t be a spoilsport, Joey lad. Have a few drinks and keep an old lady company. ‘We haven’t talked about Elias Jones,’ he said.

‘Nor we haven’t.’ She grinned at him. ‘Now what’s that saying?’ She appeared to drag the phrase from her memory. ‘The elephant in the room. That’s what Elias Jones is in this case. We all know he’s there, but we’ve stopped talking about him.’

Joe suspected she was pretending to be drunker than she really was. She could drink most of the men he knew under the table. Anyway, he thought, best to go now before she changed her mind. He got to his feet and made his way to the door, half expecting her to call him back. But she stayed where she was, staring into the fire.

Outside it was so cold that for a moment it took his breath away. The metallic smell of ice in the air, maybe the last frost of the season. He stopped for a moment and looked back through the window at Vera, slumped in her chair, her eyes closed. Even from here and seeing her half asleep, he could feel the force of her personality.

If anyone’s the elephant in the room, he thought, it’s Vera Stanhope.