Silent Voices

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It was still cold when they met at Barnard Bridge. Dew on the grass and a low mist over the river. In Mallow Cottage the curtains were drawn and there was no sign of life, so they went to the Eliots’ first. Vera didn’t mind disturbing Veronica, but Connie might have had a bad night with the bairn and Vera thought she could do with a lie-in.

When Vera arrived, Ashworth was already in the village. He was standing outside his car, wearing a duffel coat so that he looked like a student from the days when Vera had been a girl, and was looking down at the bank of the burn where Jenny Lister’s bag had been found. ‘You’d be able to throw it from here,’ he said. ‘No bother.’

‘You might. I wouldn’t get it more than a couple of yards. Never got picked for the rounders team at school.’ She turned and led him up the gravel drive to the white house.

Inside the Eliots were having breakfast and, to her surprise, Hannah was there too. They sat round the table in the smart kitchen where Vera had been taken on her first visit: Veronica, a smartly dressed grey-haired man, whom Vera took to be Christopher the husband, Simon and Hannah. Hannah was still wearing a dressing gown, her hair was matted and she looked barely conscious. Simon had come to the door. No one else made any move. No expression of shock or hostility. It was as if they’d been captured in a photograph. There was the smell of good coffee and warm croissants. A jug of garden flowers stood on the table. The scene could have been a photograph in a smart Sunday supplement.

Vera was thrown by the presence of the young people. She hadn’t been expecting it. But she wasn’t going to let on. She pulled up a chair next to Christopher, leaving Ashworth standing behind her.

Simon seemed amused by the disruption to the family routine and by his parents’ dumbstruck stillness. ‘Coffee, Inspector? Or would you prefer tea? Hannah decided she was OK to stay here last night, so we thought we’d give it a go.’ He reached over and touched the girl’s hand.

Vera thought Hannah didn’t look up to making any decisions of her own. ‘Tea, please, pet. Strong as you like. My sergeant here likes coffee.’ She turned to Simon’s father. ‘We’ve not been introduced. My name’s Vera Stanhope. Inspector with Northumbria Police serious crime squad.’ When the man made no answer she added: ‘I know you’ve been away, but you have heard there’s been a murder in the valley?’

‘Of course.’ He was shocked at last to speech. ‘Hannah’s mother. A terrible tragedy.’ The voice was lovely, deep and resonant. A singer’s voice.

‘Did you know her well?’

‘Not well. We’d met a few times of course, through the children.’ He stood up, brushed a crumb from the grey suit trousers and took his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I must go, I’m afraid. A meeting at nine.’ His body was younger than his face. Vera wondered if he went to the gym. She hadn’t asked if he was a member of the Willows, but surely the name would have been flagged up when the list had been requested. Assume nothing, she told herself, and made a mental note to check. It seemed that everyone involved in the case had a link to the Willows. The place was like the centre of a spider’s web.

‘Does the name Danny Shaw mean anything to you?’

He stopped with his hand on the table. She could smell his aftershave. His fingernails were obsessively clean. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so.’

He left the room then, without waiting to find out why she was asking. She found his lack of curiosity very odd and stared after him through the open kitchen door. She’d expected him to go upstairs to clean his teeth, perhaps to collect papers for work. There were still questions she had to ask him. But instead he stooped to pick up his briefcase, which was standing in the hall, and left the house. It seemed to her that he was running away. She was tempted to call him back, but after all they knew where he’d be and the gesture would have seemed ridiculous. Much better to go to his office and talk to him alone. She’d already checked that he was out of the country the day Jenny Lister died. They heard the sound of his car, the tyres crunching on the gravel.

With his departure, Veronica came to life. ‘What’s so urgent, Inspector, that you’re disturbing us at this hour in the morning?’

‘Murder,’ Vera said, enjoying the moment of melodrama. ‘That’s what’s so important.’

‘We’ve told you all we know about poor Jenny.’ The poor added at the last minute because of Hannah’s presence, though it seemed to Vera that Hannah was hardly aware they were there at all.

‘There’s been another death.’ At last Vera had the response she wanted. Even Hannah looked up, her eyes blurred. Ashworth’s mobile rang, spoiling the moment. Vera glared at him as he left the room to take the call.

‘Who else has been killed?’ Veronica had her palms on the table and had half risen in her seat.

‘A student called Danny Shaw.’

Silence. Again no sign that the name meant anything to them.

Vera leaned across the table towards Hannah. ‘You were at school with him, pet.’ Her voice so low that the others had to strain to make out the words. ‘Can you tell us anything about him?’

Hannah pushed her hair away from her face, made an effort to concentrate. ‘He was older than me.’

‘That’s right.’

‘In the sixth form when I was doing GCSEs. We met up on the school bus sometimes.’ She gave a sudden bright smile. ‘He asked me out.’

‘Did you go?’

‘A couple of times.’

Vera wished Ashworth were still in the room. She needed her eyes to be everywhere. Just now she looked at Simon Eliot. Had he known about this previous relationship? Was this the sort of thing young people in love discussed while they walked hand in hand down country lanes in the spring? Had he been jealous, or had the details of previous lovers added spice to their own lovemaking? Because turning her attention back to Hannah, seeing the smile again on her face, Vera thought she and Danny had probably been lovers. Now, it was impossible to tell what Simon thought about that. His arm was around Hannah and his only concern seemed to be for her.

Vera directed the next question to the boy. ‘Did you know Danny? You went to different schools, but you were about the same age.’

‘Yeah, I knew him. I was a bit older, but we had friends in common, went to the same parties. We weren’t close, though.’

‘Have you seen him this holiday?’

Simon hesitated. Because he was trying to remember, or because he had something to hide?

‘Once perhaps. A couple of weeks ago in a pub in Hexham.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Do you remember, sweetie? You were there.’

‘Yes,’ she said immediately. ‘Yes, of course.’ But Vera thought she would have said anything to please him.

‘Why did you only go out with Danny a couple of times?’ Vera asked her. Hannah was so frail that she wondered if she would manage to answer even something as simple as this.

‘Nice body, shame about the personality,’ Hannah said. It wasn’t the first time she’d used the phrase. Perhaps that was how she’d described Danny to Simon. ‘I fancied him like crazy, then I realized he was an arrogant little shit.’

‘So you dumped him?’

‘Yes.’ Again there was the brief flash of a grin. ‘I think it was a new experience for him.’

‘Did he ever meet your mother?’

Vera asked the question as gently as she could, but still she felt the girl’s sudden pain at the memory.

‘Once. At least once. Mum asked him to Sunday lunch.’

‘How did it go?’

‘It was rather hideous actually.’ Hannah pulled a face. ‘You know how it is when you suddenly see a person through someone else’s eyes? I’d been taken in by Danny. He’d impressed me with his talk, his dreams and his plans for the future. He tried the same stuff with Mum, only he couldn’t impress her. She was perfectly pleasant and tactful, but it was obvious to me that she couldn’t stand him.’

‘That’s why you dumped him?’

‘I think so. Not because Mum didn’t like him. But because she made me realize that I didn’t like him much either.’

‘How did he take it?’ Vera realized that Ashworth had slipped into the room again and she felt more confident for his being there.

‘No one likes rejection, do they?’

‘Did he give you any hassle?’ This was Joe’s question.

‘Only enough to give my ego a nice boost. A couple of love letters. Some soppy emails. Just a case of wanting what he couldn’t have, I think.’

‘Has he been in touch recently?’

‘Not for ages. I saw him about, of course. Someone told me he had a girlfriend in Bristol.’

Her voice had become stronger as the conversation progressed. For a couple of minutes she’d forgotten about her mother, felt sympathy instead for this stranger in Bristol who had lost her boyfriend.

‘Did you ever meet Danny Shaw, Mrs Eliot?’ That was Joe Ashworth being suitably deferential.

‘No, how would I?’ Brisk to the point of rudeness.

‘He never came to this house, for example?’ Joe widened the question to include Simon.

‘Of course not!’ Veronica answered for them both.

‘Because someone answering his description asked for directions to your house on the afternoon of Jenny Lister’s death.’

Vera smiled at this. They had no real description of the guy who’d called at Connie’s cottage to ask his way. But it was fine with her if Ashworth chose to stretch the point.

‘I don’t know who gave you that information, Sergeant, but nobody came here.’ Veronica, mouth clamped, was determined not to give in. Danny could have danced naked on the lawn that day, but Veronica wouldn’t tell them now. She was a woman who never admitted to making a mistake.

‘Perhaps you know Danny’s father?’ Vera thought it was time to change tack. ‘Derek Shaw. He’s a builder and developer.’

‘I know of him.’ Veronica’s response was immediate and hostile. ‘Horrible man. He built that disgusting estate on the edge of Effingham. I have a friend with a property there. She said it halved the value of her home.’

‘Ever thought of developing that land where your grandfather’s house once stood?’ Vera asked. ‘That’s close to Effingham. Greenhough, isn’t that what you said the place was called? The land would be worth a fortune, wouldn’t it, even these days?’ The question had been niggling at the back of her mind since she’d wandered through the cormorant-headed gateposts.

‘We wouldn’t get planning permission,’ Veronica snapped back. ‘And we like it the way it is. Even if it were possible to build, I wouldn’t get Shaw involved.’

‘He’s lost his son.’ Simon spoke softly, but they all looked at him. ‘Whatever you think about him, he’s lost a child.’ Did he really care about the young man’s loss? Or was he simply warning his mother to be more tactful?

‘Of course!’ And now Veronica did seem stricken. ‘I’m so sorry, Inspector, that was unforgivably heartless.’

Ashworth and Vera walked slowly away from the house. Vera insisted on going to the cafe for breakfast before they called at the cottage. The smell of food in the Eliot kitchen had driven her wild. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate without a bacon stottie inside her. The cafe wasn’t open, but the Yorkshire woman was already there, took pity on them and let them in.

‘That was Holly on the phone,’ Ashworth said. He’d tried to explain before, but Vera’s focus had all been about finding food. ‘There’s some interesting information on Veronica. Might explain why she gave Connie Masters such a hard time when she first moved into the village.’

‘Go on.’

‘She lost a child. A toddler. A little boy called Patrick. He drowned in the river. He was playing down on the beach near Connie’s house and he wandered under the bridge and slipped into the river. Veronica was there, but Simon, who was a bit older, was with her too. He’d run off towards the road and she’d chased after him, worried that he might get in the path of a car. When she got back, the little one was face-down in the water. She tried to resuscitate him, but it didn’t work.’

‘Poor woman.’ That stopped Vera in her tracks. ‘Poor, poor woman.’ Vera tried to think what that sort of guilt would do to you. How could the family still live in that house, looking down every day at the point where their son had drowned? The memory of it must have eaten into Veronica’s brain and her bones, scarring her forever. Her upbringing would have prevented her from seeking help. No counselling for her. No getting pissed with her friends either. Stiff upper lip and life must go on. Or had that been impossible in the end?

Then Connie Masters had moved into the village: another woman who had allowed a child to drown.

And what had the accident done to Simon? The son who had distracted his mother and indirectly caused the death of his brother. Had he ever been told about his part in the tragedy?

Vera found herself near to tears. But she was exhilarated too. Perhaps this was the breakthrough in the case they’d been waiting for. If Veronica blamed Connie for Elias Jones’s death, had she held Jenny Lister ultimately responsible for it? In killing the social worker, had she found a sort of redemption for her own child’s drowning?

Nah, Vera thought. Real life doesn’t work like that. She’d never been one for psycho-babble, and the death of a strange child wouldn’t move a woman to murder. Veronica would only have cared about her own son’s drowning.

But all the same, Vera felt she was inching towards a solution. The Eliots were hiding something. If Connie Masters could identify Danny Shaw as the man who’d called at the cottage, then they had a link between them and Shaw, and that should be enough to move the investigation forward. She finished the last mouthful of sandwich, took a slurp from her mug and almost ran from the cafe, leaving a ten-pound note on the table. At the door she paused only to make sure Ashworth was following her.

But when they arrived at Connie’s place, the cottage was empty and her car was gone. They knocked on the door, knowing there would be no answer. Vera felt under the plant pot near the front door. No spare key. She walked round to the back of the house and moved the wheelie bin that stood just outside the kitchen. A key lay on the bare soil and they let themselves in.

‘Is this strictly legal?’ Ashworth knew Vera wouldn’t care, but he wanted to make a point.

‘We’re worried that Connie’s had an accident,’ Vera said, all mock concern. ‘It’s our duty to check.’

The house looked as if it had been left very quickly. There were dirty bowls in the sink and the kettle was still warm. Upstairs neither of the beds had been made.

‘Maybe she’s just taken the lass to playgroup?’

Ashworth shook his head. ‘It’s not on today.’

‘Gone shopping then?’

‘She knew we were coming to see her with the photos of Shaw and Morgan. And she’d have seen our cars parked out in the road.’

‘So she’s run away,’ Vera said. ‘Why would she do that?’

She lifted the phone in the living room and dialled 1471 to trace the last call made to the number. A distant female voice told her that the caller had withheld their number.

‘Or maybe,’ Vera said, staring out at the river where Patrick Eliot had died, ‘maybe she’s been frightened away.’