Silent Voices

Chapter Seven

At the Lister house, Vera tried to persuade Hannah to move in with Simon’s parents, at least for a few days, but the girl refused. ‘I want to stay up all night and cry. I’ll probably get very drunk. I couldn’t do that anywhere but in my own home.’

‘We can arrange for a liaison officer to camp out with you then.’

‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘Absolutely not. I couldn’t bear it.’

She moved back to the window and stared down at the garden, which was all in shadow now.

‘You’ll stay with her?’ Vera directed the question to Simon. The girl took no notice of them.

‘Of course,’ Simon said. ‘I’ll do whatever she wants.’

He stood behind the girl and wrapped his arms around her. They seemed not to notice Vera’s leaving.

On her way out of the village, Vera saw the white house Hannah had described as Simon’s home, and on impulse she pulled into the gravel drive. She still thought of Simon and Hannah as hardly more than children and she’d feel happier if an adult were involved in the girl’s care, or at least aware of what was going on. Besides, perhaps Simon’s mother and Jenny Lister had been friends. The woman might have useful information.

Vera saw as soon as she drove past the high yew hedge that the garden was immaculate. The daffodils and narcissi were past their best, but still there was colour everywhere: clumps of blue grape hyacinth and forget-me-not and deep-purple hellebores. The lawn had even had its first cut of the season. Either the woman’s a fanatic or she has paid help. Vera couldn’t bear tidy gardens, and she was more interested in growing food than flowers. She let dandelions grow in damp patches and picked the leaves for salad on the rare occasions when she fancied a healthy meal. Her neighbours were ageing hippies who were pleased not to have order in the next-door garden. Vera wondered briefly what they’d make of this.

There was a twitch at an upstairs window. The noise of the car had attracted attention. Vera wondered if news of Jenny’s death had spread throughout the village. Had Simon told his mother on his way out that his girlfriend’s mother was the victim? Possibly not, Vera thought. He’d arrived so quickly to look after Hannah that surely he wouldn’t have had time for any conversation. Nobody appeared at the door. Simon’s mother – if that were the person upstairs – wouldn’t want to be thought a woman who peered out of windows. Or perhaps she just hoped the visitor would drive away?

Vera rang the bell and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and an open door.

‘Yes?’ The woman was tall. She was in her fifties, perhaps the same age as Vera herself, but as well groomed and tidy as the unforgiving garden. Dark hair curled away from her face, grey trousers, a white cotton shirt and a long grey cardigan. Lipstick. Was she on her way out, or did she always wear it? Vera stood on the doorstep and thought how odd some women were.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman was losing patience. She was confused, Vera could tell. The car Vera was driving was large, new and rather expensive. One of the perks of her rank. Mrs Eliot would consider it the sort of car to be driven by a successful man. Yet Vera was large and shambolic, with bare legs and blotchy skin. She never wore make-up. Vera looked poor.

‘I’m from Northumbria Police. Inspector Stanhope.’ Somewhere at the bottom of her bag there was a warrant card, but best not go there. She might find that bit of bacon sandwich discarded from breakfast yesterday.

‘Oh?’ The woman seemed preoccupied but not scared, which was often the response to an unexpected knock from the police. What have I done? Has there been an accident? Has anything happened to my husband, my daughter or my son? Simon’s mother took in the information and seemed almost excited. Perhaps, after all, she had heard of her neighbour’s murder. Though there was no grief, or pretence of grief.

She held out her hand. ‘Veronica Eliot. Are you here about Connie Masters? She changed her name, but I recognized her at once. I knew there’d be charges brought eventually.’

The name was vaguely familiar to Vera, but she refused to be distracted.

‘I’m here about Jenny Lister.’

The woman frowned. Confused? Disappointed? ‘What about Jenny?’

‘So your son didn’t tell you?’ Then, when the woman shook her head. ‘Look, pet, why don’t you let me come in?’

Veronica Eliot moved aside, then let Vera into a large entrance hall. On the wall facing the door was a painting that drew Vera to stare at it. A small water-colour of stone gateposts with a grassy track curving away between them. Vera thought the track was inviting. You’d want to follow it. But in the painting it didn’t seem to be leading anywhere. On the gateposts were carved birds’ heads. Cormorants, maybe. Long necks and long beaks.

‘Where’s that?’ Vera asked.

‘It’s the entrance to Greenhough, my grandfather’s house,’ the woman said.

‘Very grand.’

‘Not any more. There was a fire in the Thirties. The only thing left now is a boathouse. And those gates.’

Veronica deliberately turned her back on the painting. She led Vera down a cool corridor and into the kitchen. Servants’ quarters, Vera thought. So that’s how she thinks of me. Without being asked, the inspector took a seat at the head of the table. ‘Jenny Lister’s dead. Murdered. That’s why your lad’s run off: to take care of Hannah.’

The woman’s face gave nothing away. Another small frown that expressed distaste rather than shock. Slowly she sat down too. The chairs were pale wood to match the table, upholstered in grey. Expensive and classy enough, if you wanted a kitchen that looked like a businessman’s boardroom. The appliances were all at one end, half a mile away, and were stainless-steel and very big.

‘I see,’ Veronica said at last. ‘One of her clients, I suppose. I’ve really never understood why anyone would choose to become a social worker. Think of the people you have to deal with. Look at Connie Masters.’

That name again. Vera made a note to check it out when she finally got to the office. Social workers had never been her favourite people, but now, in the face of this woman’s attitude, she had an urge to defend Jenny Lister.

She was forming a comment when Veronica spoke again: ‘It’s sad of course, but at least now there’ll be an end to the ridiculous idea of a wedding!’

‘You don’t like Hannah Lister?’ Vera was surprised. She’d taken to the girl immediately, had thought: If I had a son and he’d taken up with a lass like that, I’d be pleased as Punch.

‘Oh, she’s nice enough, but they’re both so young. And I always thought Simon could do better for himself. He’s at Durham. There are some lovely young women at his college.’ She looked wistful.

My God! Vera thought. Hannah’s right. She’s a real old-fashioned snob. I thought the species had died out years ago.

‘And Mrs Lister approved of the engagement, did she? That wasn’t the impression I had from Hannah.’

‘You could never tell with Jenny. Typical social worker. Sitting on the fence. She said she thought they were too young, but I don’t think she did enough to keep them apart. During the holidays Simon practically lives there. Hannah’s still a schoolgirl. Jenny seemed to realize how ridiculous the relationship was, but she still encouraged Simon into the house.’

‘What does your husband make of the relationship?’ Because there must be a husband, Vera thought. Someone to make the money, to keep Veronica in expensive cosmetics and smart new furniture.

‘Oh, Christopher works away a lot. He’s seldom here. He’s only met Hannah a couple of times.’

‘Did Hannah and Simon meet at school?’

‘No. Hannah was at the comprehensive in Hexham.’ Veronica almost sniffed. ‘We sent Simon to the Royal Grammar in town.’

‘That must have cost you a bit.’

Vera made the comment under her breath and Veronica pretended not to hear it. She continued: ‘They met through music. There’s a scheme for young musicians at the Sage. Simon started giving Hannah lifts home after rehearsals. Then there was a music tour of northern Italy and they came back besotted with each other. They’ve been living in each other’s pockets ever since.’

Vera thought of some of the youngsters she came into contact with at work: the druggies and boozers, the thieves and the fighters, the mothers on sink estates sick with worry. She thought Veronica Eliot had little to complain about. ‘Any idea why someone would want to kill Jenny Lister?’ she asked suddenly. Because so far she’d come across nothing near to a motive. Before Veronica could begin another rant about social-services clients, Vera added, ‘She worked with kids apparently, so at the moment we don’t think the murder is work-related. How did she get on with folk in the village? What did people make of her?’

Veronica appeared to consider. ‘We didn’t really mix in the same circles. She probably wasn’t around much. She was at work all day and she had a long commute. I think it’s important to contribute if you live in a small community. You know the sort of thing: parish council, playgroup committee, board of first school governors. I’m on them all.’

It must be nice to have the time. But Vera knew she’d rather stick pins in her eyes than become one of those professional rural committee members.

‘Are you a member of the Willows Health Club?’

If Veronica was surprised by the question she didn’t show it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not my sort of place, actually. It was a lovely hotel once, but it’s definitely gone downmarket since the chain took over. I was taken there as a guest when the club first opened, but I found it rather tacky.’ She pursed her lips with distaste. ‘They actually expect members to take their own towels.’

Despite her immediate dislike of the woman, Vera supposed it was over-optimistic to consider that Veronica could be a suspect. The inspector would be delighted to take her to the police station, make her wait with the regulars at the desk and question her in a stinking interview room, but of course Veronica would never strangle anybody. She’d bring them down with her superior looks and supercilious words.

‘Can you point me in the direction of someone who knew her well?’ Vera hoped there was someone outside her immediate family who was sorry Jenny was dead, someone who would drink to her memory and tell stories of the good times they’d shared together.

‘Really, Inspector, I don’t think I can help you. Jenny and I knew each other because our children are friends. We had nothing else in common.’ She stood up and walked out of the kitchen and down the corridor. Vera followed. ‘Of course you could try Connie Masters. I suppose they met through Jenny’s work.’ She gave a little triumphant smile, hesitated at the door in the hope of some response and, when none was forthcoming, she closed it and locked it carefully.

Vera was so intrigued that she was tempted to bang on the door to demand information about Connie Masters. But that was clearly what Veronica had been hoping for, and Vera refused to give her the satisfaction. Instead she got into her car and drove away slowly, hoping the scatter of gravel wasn’t chipping the paintwork on her flash new car.

At the crossroads at the edge of the village, she paused to take her bearings. In the cottage squatting in the low ground next to the river on the other side of the road an upstairs light was switched on. It made her realize that it was later than she’d thought. Looking at the clock on the dashboard, she supposed that Ashworth would have finished at the Willows and would already be on his way home to his neat little box on a neat little housing estate just outside Kimmerston. She’d catch up with him in the morning. In the cottage, silhouetted against the light behind, she saw a woman and a child, and was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of loss for a childhood she’d never experienced. The woman in the cottage stood with her arms wrapped around the girl as if protecting her from the world outside the window. Hector hadn’t meant to be cruel, but he’d been careless and Vera had been left to fend for herself.