Telling Tales

Chapter Thirty-Four

There is still a wind, but it has turned southerly and is soft and heavy with unspilled rain. Emma sits at her window in the Captain’s House and looks out over the street. It is late afternoon. A light is switched on in the forge. She hasn’t seen Dan Greenwood for days and is hungry for a glimpse of him. But as she is willing him to make an appearance, her attention is caught by four elderly women who bustle out of the church. They all wear hats shaped like upturned button mushrooms made of felt or fake fur and short woollen coats and they seem to peck at each other as they talk. There has been a service. Mid-week evensong or a meeting of the Mothers’ Union. Emma wonders if Mary has been there too, if she’s dragged herself out to face the world. She hopes so. She hates to think of her parents stranded in Springhead House, enveloped by the damp and the silence, brooding on the loss of their son.

Emma considered this story for a few moments. Did it need polishing? Redrafting? Did the women coming out of the church really seem to peck at each other? Was that the right phrase? And was she still hungry to see Dan Greenwood though she knew now he was an ex-detective, whose response to her had been embarrassment not lust? Certainly, she thought. If anything, greedy came closer to describing her feelings. But why? All her certainties were cracking and shifting. The old life, the life of happy families had been founded on secrets and half truths. Now her image of her parents and James had blurred like the outline of a melting candle. Since Christopher’s death, the fantasy of Dan Greenwood seemed more real than anything else in her life. It was a comfort. She held onto it greedily. She wanted him more than ever.

She dragged herself away from the window and went downstairs. James was sitting in the living room with a book on his knee. He hadn’t drawn the curtains. As soon as she came in he started reading again, but she could tell he was fumbling to find his place. It was a show for her benefit. Before that, he’d been staring into the fire, miles away. She wondered for the first time if he had a fantasy lover too. Or even a real one. It had never occurred to her before. Now nothing would have surprised her.

Usually reading absorbed him. His taste was for the improving and informative, even in fiction. This was a travel book he’d seen reviewed in one of the Sundays and had ordered over the net. He said he’d wasted his first chance at education and wanted to catch up. When he discussed his reading, despite her degree, she felt ignorant in comparison. But recently, since Christopher’s death, it seemed nothing held his attention. She wondered if it could be guilt which was eating away at him. He’d never particularly liked Christopher, might even, on that last night, when her brother had been such a pain, have wished him dead.

Perhaps now he was regretting that he’d been so hostile.

She sat on the floor in front of James, her back against his legs, her arms around her knees. She was so close to the fire that she could feel her face turning red. She needed the physical contact. James’s bony legs against her back. The heat on her forehead. It anchored her in the present. Without it she’d get lost in her stories. Muddled. It would be like when Abigail was killed. That same sensation of disbelief.

She turned to him. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Like what?” he asked calmly. He gave up the pretence of reading and set the book aside. There was a picture of a compass on the cover, a big ship’s compass in a brass case.

“Like everything that’s been going on here. Christopher. Abigail. I can’t believe it’s happened again.” The words were inadequate. She couldn’t explain that she’d lost trust in the everyday, in her own memory.

“Of course we’ll talk if you think it would help.” It was clear from his tone that he didn’t see how it could be useful. Usually she would have agreed with him. She’d felt that much of the analysis of relationships which had engaged her friends when she was a student was bizarre, an unnatural entertainment. No more than prying and gossip. She’d found James’s restraint attractive. After Abigail’s death too many people had wanted to discuss her feelings.

“No,” she said quickly. “It won’t bring Christopher back, will it?”

They’d put Matthew to bed and had just finished eating when there was a knock on the door. She was reminded of the night when Christopher had turned up and looked across the table to James, wondering if he’d picked up on the memory, but he was already on his feet, preparing to answer.

She heard a muttered conversation in the hall, then James came in followed by Vera Stanhope and her sergeant. “Inspector Stanhope would like to ask you some questions,” he said. “Do you mind?”

She thought James was annoyed by the interruption, but as always with James, it was hard to tell.

“No. Of course not. Sit down.”

“It’s about Christopher,” Vera said. “Not really my job to be asking questions. There’s a local team investigating his death now. But you already know us. Better, I thought, that I come along than a couple of strangers.”

“Thank you.” Though Emma thought strangers might be less disturbing than this woman who seemed to dominate the small dining room, who had already made herself at home there. She’d flopped onto one of the empty chairs and was pulling off her cardigan, as if the heat was unbearable to her. Emma felt she should apologize for the temperature, stopped herself just in time. This was their home.

“Did Christopher have a mobile phone with him when you saw him?”

“I don’t remember him using one,” Emma said.

“He was seen in the parish council cemetery early on the day he was killed. Near Abigail’s grave. The witness thinks he might have been using a mobile, though we didn’t find one on his body.”

“Surely you can trace if he owned a phone,” James said.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But it’s not that easy,

apparently. Especially the pay as you go sort. People swap them, sell them. There are no bills, it’s hard to get hold of records.” Vera changed tack suddenly, stared at Emma. “Have you ever visited Abigail’s grave?”

“No.” If Emma had thought more about it, she might have been tempted to lie. The bald denial sounded heartless.

“You knew where she was buried though. Did you go to her funeral?”

“No,” Emma said again, adding, “My parents thought it would be upsetting. And although Keith had wanted a quiet burial, apparently the press were all there. I’m glad I stayed away.”

“What about Christopher?”

“He wouldn’t have been there.”

“No? Are you sure? Did you talk about it?”

“There was no need. It would never have happened.”

“He could have slipped out of school. Gone by himself.”

“I suppose so. But someone would have seen him and mentioned it to my parents.”

“Of course.” Vera nodded vigorously. “A place as small as Elvet, you’d think it would be impossible to get away with anything.” She paused. There was no need to say, But two murders. Someone got away with that. “Christopher would have heard where Abigail would be buried though. It’d have been public knowledge.”

“Yes.”

“He must have visited the cemetery before,” Vera said. “Our witness said he went straight to her grave that morning. It was still nearly dark, but he knew whereabouts in the cemetery she was buried.”

“I don’t know.” Emma felt her head spinning. The questions were coming too fast. She had the dizzy feeling of being only half awake, slipping again into a dream. She had to concentrate hard. “Christopher was always very private. Even when he was a boy. He’d disappear for hours and no one knew where he was.”

“Do you ever walk down the lane to the river?” Vera had suddenly changed pace. It was as if she was making polite conversation over tea. “It’d be a nice walk in the right weather. Flat for pushing the pram. Good for a family trip out.” Although the question was directed at Emma, she flashed a sly look at James.

“I’ve walked there,” Emma said, confused by that look, wondering what it could mean. “Occasionally.”

“I’m surprised you never looked at the grave. Just out of curiosity. She was your best friend.”

“I’ve spent my life trying to put Abigail’s murder behind me.”

Vera gave her a quick, appraising stare, but let it go.

“I think Christopher might have used a mobile while he was here,” James said.

“Might have. What does that mean?”

“After the meal he went upstairs to the bathroom. I checked on the baby and heard him talking.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“I don’t make a practice of eavesdropping.”

“Don’t you?” Vera sounded genuinely astonished. “I do it all the time.”

“I assumed,” James said, after a moment of disapproving silence, ‘that he was talking to someone back in Aberdeen. A girlfriend perhaps. To let her know that he’d arrived safely. Our landline’s in the kitchen. We’d have overheard him if he’d used that. I assumed he wanted some privacy.”

“Did it sound like a call to a girlfriend?” Vera asked.

“As I said, I didn’t listen.”

“But his voice, was it tender? Intimate?”

“No,” James said. “It was more businesslike than that.”

Vera pulled a notebook from her bag and jotted down a few scribbled notes. “We don’t understand where he went for the rest of the day,” she said. “He seems to have disappeared. He was at the cemetery at about eight, then we know he took the lane to the river.”

“How do you know that?” James asked. To Emma the question seemed too loud, too urgent. What could it matter to him?

“We found fingerprints in the public phone box there. You know the one,” Vera said. Again Emma thought this didn’t sound right. It was as if the words had another meaning, as if the two of them were talking in a code she couldn’t understand, hadn’t been let in on. “We’ve tested them and we know they are Christopher’s, Vera continued. “So what I want to know is where he went after that. We’ve tracked people who walked their dogs along the shore that morning. No one saw him. There were people about in the village that day. You’d think he’d want something to eat, wouldn’t you? A cup of tea, at least. But he didn’t go into any of the shops or the bakery. He cut quite a striking figure, apparently. Even if the staff didn’t know him by name, you’d think he’d have been noticed. Can you think of anyone who might have put him up? Where he’d have hidden? And who he might have wanted to hide from?”

“No!” she said. “I feel that I knew as little about him as I did about Abigail Mantel. And I won’t have the chance now to know him better.”

“I’m sorry,” Vera stood up suddenly, pulled on the cardigan as she walked towards the door. “This isn’t fair. You’ve enough to cope with. If you think of anything which would help, you can give us a ring.”

The sergeant, Ashworth, followed. He hadn’t said a word since he’d come in, but at the door he stopped, gave Emma a look of such sympathy and pity that she was brought close to tears. “Take care,” he said. It was as if James was no longer in the room.

Suddenly she was a child again. She was in the house in York, sitting on the stairs. She’d been in bed but something had woken her and she’d stumbled down, half asleep. It had been summer and was still light, the garden behind the open door full of sunshine and birdsong. And her parents’ words. They’d been discussing her. She’d heard her name and that had woken her properly and she’d run down to join them. They were sitting on a wooden bench. She’d run out to them. There was a patio made of old flagstones, which were rough against her bare feet but still warm. Her mother had gathered her into her arms. Emma had expected to be included in the conversation, an explanation, for she,” after all, had been at the centre of the discussion.

“What were you talking about?” she’d demanded.

“Nothing, darling. Nothing important.”

And Emma had realized that it wasn’t worth asking again. She’d been irrevocably shut out. Now, in the Captain’s House, she felt just the same.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The next day Emma visited Abigail’s grave. She left the baby with James and went alone, only saying that she seemed to have been stuck in the house for days and she needed some exercise. Usually, on his days off, James went everywhere with her. He liked the three of them to be together as much as possible. Liked the idea of it, at least. Tbday he let her go without comment, without seeming even to listen to her explanation, and she wondered again what was preoccupying him.

Christopher wouldn’t be buried next to Abigail. Although they didn’t know yet when the body would be released, Mary and Robert had already decided that he would be cremated. Mary had said she couldn’t bear the idea of strangers coming to stare at his grave; these days even civilized people seemed to turn into voyeurs whenever a violent crime was reported in the media. Emma hadn’t been consulted over the matter, and she thought that was only right. Of course she was sad that Christopher was dead, but she wasn’t devastated. She wasn’t overwhelmed with grief as you should be when a brother has been killed. She wondered what was wrong with her.

Emma felt guilty too because she’d had so little contact with her parents since Christopher’s death. She could do something about that and she promised herself she’d go soon to Springhead to see how they were getting on. She realized she had viewed their retreat into isolation with something like relief. It meant her father wasn’t turning up on the doorstep every five minutes to offer moral support and guidance. She didn’t have to play at dutiful daughter.

When she reached the cemetery she wasn’t sure why she’d bothered coming. After so long, her presence was probably a meaningless gesture. At the last minute she wished she’d brought flowers. It would have given the visit some point. She tried to fix a picture of Abigail in her mind, but whenever she remembered an occasion they’d spent together, the image of the girl slipped away from her and she was left with the background to the scene. So, there was that time when Abigail had told her triumphantly that she’d finally persuaded Keith to ask Jeanie Long to leave. Friday night. Youth club in the church hall, which Abigail usually turned her nose up at, but which Emma was forced to attend. A couple of pool tables and a ghetto blaster in the corner playing music she’d never heard before. The smell of steamed fish left over from the old people’s lunch club. A stall selling crisps and Cash and Carry cola and cheap sweets: chews, lollipops and twisted bits of brightly coloured candy she’d never seen in proper shops. Emma knew Abigail had looked stunning in a sparkly green top she could remember the pang of envy which had shot through her when Abigail had sauntered into the hall but she couldn’t see her. She could picture the faces of all the lads in the room looking wistful because they’d known she was way out of their league. Including Christopher’s,

because he’d been there too. He’d been playing pool and had straightened up from the table and stared intently for a moment. But not Abigail’s. Emma couldn’t remember at all what Abigail’s response had been to all that attention.

Standing at the grave, her focus shifted. Instead of being part of the background, Christopher took centre stage. This was where he’d last been seen. And if the inspector was right, it was a place he’d visited many times before. She could picture him quite clearly the long flapping anorak, his lank, untidy hair. The face drawn through lack of sleep and a hangover. But she had no idea what had been going on inside his head. She felt the desperation of missed opportunity. If only she’d been more sympathetic or more assertive. If only she had persuaded him to tell her what he knew.

Her attention was caught then by a flurry of activity around the farm buildings across the field. A minibus had arrived in the yard and a gaggle of police officers got out. There were a couple of dogs; she heard shouted instructions. The officers waited, then a car pulled up and two figures, sexless in white paper overalls and white caps, emerged. Someone must have had a key to the house because they went inside. The rest of them stood by the bus, looking at the junk, the piles of rusting machinery, as if they didn’t know where to start. Emma thought Vera Stanhope might turn up and didn’t want to be caught by her at Abigail’s grave. The detective might think it was her comments of the night before which had prompted Emma to come. Emma didn’t want her to have that satisfaction.

As she turned to leave, Emma saw Dan Greenwood leaning against the railings. He must have been watching her. He smiled and raised one hand in greeting. She felt her face flush, a sick excitement in the pit of her stomach. There was still a thrill of connection. That was what made James different, she thought. She never really felt connected to him. He was just a character in one of her stories.

“What do you think they’re doing?” She nodded towards the figures in navy, who had started to organize themselves into groups. One of the parties filed through a gap in the hedge into the field nearest the river.

“They want to find out where Christopher spent the day he was killed. The cemetery was the last place he was seen and the farm’s empty. He could have been in there. They’ll be checking if he left any trace of himself behind.” He didn’t speak as if he was guessing. She supposed he must still have friends in the service who kept him informed.

She walked out through the gate to join him. He smelled of the tobacco he rolled into cigarettes; she stepped away until it was lost in the background scent of dead leaves. Safest not to get too close.

“You haven’t got the baby with you today, then?” he said.

“No:

“You must feel you need some time to yourself occasionally.” “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Let me walk back to the village with you. I don’t like the idea of you being out on your own.”

She thought again that James hadn’t bothered about that. “I can’t see there’d be any danger. Not with all these police around.”

He didn’t answer, but moved over, so he was closest to the road, and fell in step with her. Despite the misty drizzle, he wasn’t wearing a coat, just a jersey of coarse navy wool, and the damp smell of that overlaid the tobacco. She felt awkward, clumsy.

“What made you decide on the pottery when you left the police?” she asked, for something to say.

He didn’t speak for a moment. “It took me a while to decide on anything. I’d had a sort of breakdown. Stress. I knew I wanted to do something creative. When I first left the service I went to art school for a couple of years, but I couldn’t get my head round most of it. Conceptual art. What was that all about? Some of it I liked though. The craft side. Ceramics, producing something concrete for people, something useful.” He paused. “Not making much sense, am I?”

“Yes, you are.”

“I had a bit of a pension from the police. Enough to get me started. Then my mother died and left me the money I needed to buy the forge.”

“Is that why you left the police? Because the stress was getting to you?”

“I suppose.” He smiled to make a joke out of it. “Ibo sensitive for my own good, I daresay. I couldn’t forget the victims were real people.”

They walked on in silence until they reached the village. At the door to the forge they paused. Emma knew she should carry on walking, cross the road, let herself into the Captain’s House. James might be looking out for her.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a coffee,” she said. She could feel the colour rising in her face. “As you said, I don’t have the chance to get out much without the baby. I’m not sure I can face the house again just yet.”

“Of course.”

She couldn’t tell at all what he made of her request. Did he think she was going mad? Put it down to grief? “But perhaps you’re too busy,” she added. “Perhaps I should go.”

“No.” The door had warped and caught at the bottom against a flagstone. He put his shoulder against it to push it open. “I’ll be glad of the distraction.” On a bench just inside the door there was a row of jugs he’d hand painted, swirling patterns in intense blues and greens.

“They’re lovely,” she said. “They make you think of water, don’t they? You feel you’re drowning in the colour.”

“Really?” He looked genuinely pleased. “When they’re glazed you must have one.”

The sick excitement came back.

They sat in the small room she’d seen on her first visit. He made the coffee, apologized for the chipped mug, the lack of fresh milk.

“What were you doing at the cemetery?” she asked suddenly. It was hot. She felt ill at ease. Now she was here, she couldn’t carry off the situation with polite conversation. She wished she could do the joking banter which had come naturally to her colleagues at the college. “Were you there to visit Abigail’s grave?” She remembered what he’d said as they’d walked back to the village. “Was it because even though you’d never met her, Abigail Mantel was a real person to you?”

He seemed startled by the question. “No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

“I’m sorry. None of my business.”

“I’d heard the lads were starting a search on Wood-house Farm and even after all this time it’s hard not to be curious. I suppose I miss the police in a way. The friendship, certainly. I keep in touch with some of the lads but it’s not the same.”

It seemed sad to her, the thought of him watching his former colleagues working two fields away.

“Did you ever meet Abigail while she was alive?” She didn’t know where the question had come from, regretted it as soon as it was spoken.

He looked up sharply from the coffee he was cupping in his hands. “No. Of course not. How could I?”

“I’m sorry. It’s brought it all back. Christopher dying.”

“I did meet him! Dan said. “That afternoon you found the girl’s body, I was talking to him in the other room, while my boss was in the kitchen with you and your mother.”

“If he’d seen the murderer he’d have said, wouldn’t he?”

“He answered all my questions. I didn’t have the impression he was keeping anything back. Did he ever say anything to you?”

“No.” She set down her mug. It was still almost full. “I should go. Taking up your time like this.”

“There’s no hurry,” he said. “It’s a lonely business this. Tell you the truth I’m glad of the company.”

“You should find yourself a woman.” She spoke lightly and was quite proud of the jokey tone. It would make him realize she had no designs on him.

“Maybe I’ve already found one. But things aren’t working out quite how I’d hoped.” He stared at her and a ridiculous thought came into her head. He wants me to ask what he means. Is he talking about me?

“Look,” she said. “I must go now. James will be wondering where I am. I don’t want him worried.”

“Come back,” he said. “Whenever you want to talk.”

She didn’t know what to make of that and left without answering. Outside she stood for a moment, trying to recover her composure, before going home. On the other side of the road, the bulky figure of Vera Stanhope appeared in the bakery door. She crooked her finger and beckoned for Emma to join her. Like the witch, Emma thought, out of Hansel and Gretel, tempting her into the gingerbread house. And like the children, she felt compelled to obey.

“What have you been up to?” Vera asked.

“I went for a walk. Bumped into Dan. He invited me in for coffee.”

“Did he now.” There was a pause, loaded with a significance Emma couldn’t guess at. Then Vera added lightly, “At your age you should know better than to go off with strange men.”

“Dan Greenwood’s not strange.”

There was another pause. “Maybe not. All the same, just take care.” The same instruction Joe Ashworth had given at their last meeting. The inspector turned away with a little wave and Emma was left with the impression that she’d been warned off.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Michael Long hadn’t seen Vera for days. Not to speak to. He’d glimpsed her across the street, and once he’d approached her, but she just gave a friendly wave and continued on her way as if she was too busy to talk. At least he thought that was the impression she’d wanted to give and he didn’t think it was fair. He deserved better than that. Not only was he Jeanie’s father, he was the man who’d pointed Vera in the right direction when it came to Keith Mantel. And he was an important witness, the last person to have seen Christopher Winter alive. Michael would never have put it that way, but he felt like a jilted lover. He wanted Vera to take some notice of him again. He stayed at home in case she called. Whenever there was a knock on the door, he hoped it might be her.

Then he thought, Sod it. He wasn’t going to hang around for any woman. He’d do his own research, collect his own information and he’d show her. He imagined presenting her with a fat file on Mantel, all organized and typed. It would provide her with everything she needed to show the man was a murderer. Because that was what Michael wanted to prove to her. Mantel was a monster who’d killed his own daughter and the young Winter lad. And Mantel was to blame for

Jeanie being locked up all that time, for her desperation and suicide.

He got the bus into the town up the coast where Mantel had first made his money. He knew it had a decent-sized library. The high school was there too and he shared the bus with kids on their way in. He told himself this was a nuisance and indeed the noise of shrieking girls and boys locked in continual mock battle irritated him to distraction. He muttered under his breath about feckless parents and bringing back national service. But it had its compensations. The bus was full and he was squeezed on a bench seat which faced into the aisle. Beside him was a girl of fourteen or fifteen, with a white powdery face and narrow eyes lined in black. She seemed too dignified for the chaos surrounding her and was annoyed as he was by the shouting and chucking of missiles. She sat with her legs crossed at the knee and her bag on her lap. “Why don’t you just grow up?” she snapped at a lad with a face scarred with acne when a pencil sharpener missed its target and hit her arm. Then she turned to Michael and rolled her eyes conspiratorially, as if they were the only sane ones there.

When they got off in Crill, in the windswept square close to the se afront he was reluctant to let her go. He was tempted to follow her, just for the pleasure of watching her walk. She had a straight back, long legs, a’ haughty tilt to her head. But he told himself he had work to do. In the square, council workmen were erecting Christmas lights from a truck with a hydraulic lift. The library was a grand building with pillars in the front and wide stone steps leading to a double door. It was shut and wouldn’t open until nine thirty. His irritation returned. He ranted under his breath about the idleness of the staff. He could have walked with the girl as far as the school, after all. Then he told himself it wouldn’t do to get into a state. Peg had always warned him he would get into serious bother one day if he didn’t learn to calm down.

He asked one of the workmen where he could get a coffee and he was pointed down a narrow street. The place was called Val’s Diner and was full of noise and steam. It reminded him of the cafe on the Point. The bacon in his sandwich was just as he liked it crisp and brittle and his temper improved. These days, he thought, it took something that small to alter his mood. He wondered if he’d always been like that and if everyone was the same.

He knew the woman who ran the local history library. She was called Lesley and she was efficient and jolly with a loud voice, which made the readers in the reference section look up and tut in disapproval. He’d first met her just before he’d retired. He’d started to get nostalgic about what he was giving up. Lesley held the archive of the lifeboat station and the pilot office on the Point, and he’d come in to look up the history. There’dbeen one photo, he remembered, of the house where he’d lived all those years with Peg. It had been taken in the twenties, and the Point had been quite different then. The dunes had stretched further and the two cottages and the lighthouse had been the only buildings. Outside their cottage, a man with a large grey moustache had been leaning against the wall by the front door, glaring out at the camera.

Lesley was sitting at her desk and looked up when she saw him approaching. He could see from her face that she’d read about Jeanie in the papers, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t even show that she recognized him, which he found upsetting, because when he’d been doing his research into the Point, he’d thought she liked him. He explained that he was interested in the back issues of the local paper going back twenty, even thirty years. “They are available?”

“Oh yes,” she said, and she smiled. “Are you after anything specific?” Because she was still sitting at her desk, she seemed to be squinting up at him.

“No! Nothing like that. Just general interest.” Immediately he was sorry that he’d been so sharp, but she hadn’t seemed to have noticed. She sat him in front of the microfiche machine and showed him how to use it, repeating the instructions patiently when he asked her to.

“If you need anything, just give me a shout.” Her voice carried across the large room and she could have been talking to any of the customers there.

He started at the time of Abigail’s murder and worked back. At first he found himself distracted by other stories. Not the murder. He moved quickly past that and when he came across a photo of Jeanie he shut his eyes. He couldn’t bear the thought of her captured in the machine where anyone could come and stare at her. It was the less dramatic stories which caught his attention. The largest container ship ever to come into the Humber. Cows wandering across the river at low tide and becoming stranded on a sandbank. A festival of tall ships in the estuary. When he looked up at the clock on the wall it was nearly eleven and he’d found nothing useful. He forced himself to move on more quickly and began to find mentions of

Keith Mantel. Flashes in words and photographs. Michael began tracking him back in time. It was like watching a jerky old film played in reverse.

The most recent reports, the ones he came to first, were positive and he had to stop himself from sneering out loud. There was a picture of Keith Mantel standing beside a giant cardboard cheque, Mantel Development’s donation to a charity which provided respite care for disabled children. A beaming girl reached out from her wheelchair to hold the other end of the cheque. Keith Mantel with a group of others, appointed as NHS trustees for the local hospital. Keith Mantel in Wellingtons, planting a tree in the wildlife garden of a junior school. Michael muttered under his breath about the gullibility of the public, but looking at the smiling, confident face, he thought if he hadn’t known any better, if he hadn’t tangled with Mantel in the village, he’d have fallen for it too. He’d have believed in Mantel, the entrepreneur with a social conscience.

As he followed Mantel’s story back, his memory was wakened. Occasional references triggered a recollection of incidents he’d investigated before, when his only reason for disliking Mantel was that the businessman was an arrogant sod who’d tried to undermine his position in the village. A brief report about the grand opening of a leisure centre took him back to a conversation with an old friend. They’d been to school together, but Lawrence Adams had been promoted within the family business and suddenly turned gentleman. He’d taken up golf and got himself elected as Tory councillor. A couple of big contracts had been awarded to Mantel and Michael had been sniffing around to find out why. They’d met, at Lawrence’s request, in a small, rundown pub near Hull prison. It had seemed a strange place for a rendezvous, not Lawrence’s usual sort of haunt.

“Why here?” Michael had asked.

“No one will recognize me here.”

And Michael had liked that. He’d realized that this was a kindred spirit, someone else to share his paranoia about Mantel.

“Mantel can’t get at you, can he?” He’d thought Lawrence had too much money to be corruptible.

“He can get at anyone. Just keep out of his way.”

And then he’d rambled about the leisure centre, not making too much sense, so Michael thought he’d been drinking before he’d arrived. “It should never have gone to him. We came to a decision at the planning committee. All sorted we thought. Then suddenly the preferred contractor withdrew. No reason given. So it went to Mantel in the end.” Lawrence had looked up from his beer. “You know how he started, don’t you? How he first made his money?” That was when Michael had heard the story of the old lady leaving Mantel her house, the story he’d passed on to Vera Stanhope when she’d knocked at his door. And he still wasn’t sure how true it was.

As they’d left the pub to head for their cars, too drunk to drive legally, but reckless, Lawrence had said, “I mean it. Stay away from him. Look what happened to Marty Shaw. He was no friend of mine, but I’d not wish that on anyone. Mantel was behind it, you know.”

Michael hadn’t heard of Marty Shaw and had no idea what Lawrence was talking about, but he’d made enquiries, found out that he was the man who’d been washed up on the riverbank. Michael had heard about that. Some poor sod from Crill who’d walked into the river and drowned himself. It had been all they’d talked about in the Anchor the day he’d been found. He hadn’t realized at the time that there’d been a link with Mantel, or he’d have taken more notice.

It hadn’t been difficult to pick up the rumours. Michael had had friends everywhere then. He’d been sociable, famous for it. Not like now, when he hid away in his bungalow built for sad old people, drinking alone. Then there’d hardly been a pub on the peninsula where he’d not been known. Everywhere he went there’d be people he’d gone to school with, or served on the lifeboat committee with, or done a favour for. He sat now in the quiet library staring at lines of print through the microfiche machine. They told one story. The memories of those conversations of years before fleshed out the details.

Back again in time. He found the report of the inquest into Shaw’s death. Suicide. He’d left a note so the verdict was inevitable. They hadn’t said what had driven him to it. Poor stupid bastard, Michael thought now. Then he’d been less charitable. He’d always thought suicide was a coward’s way out. The report said the dead man had left behind a wife and a son. Michael couldn’t remember if he’d picked up on that at the time. It felt suddenly grubby, this digging around in the past, and he was tempted to give up. Then he looked out through the long window across the square at the men who were still trying to string up the tacky lights and thought he had nothing better to do.

He almost missed the significance of the photograph. It seemed at first like the more recent stories. Keith Mantel as local hero. This showed the opening of a sheltered housing complex for elderly people. The sort of place Michael would end up living if he didn’t take more care of himself. The picture was taken in a courtyard, paved with plants in tubs. Behind the party the brick building looked brutally new and hard-edged. In the centre the mayor, a plump middle-aged woman, held a pair of scissors to cut the ribbon strung across the front door. Beside her stood Mantel, but around them were crowded a number of councillors and their families. There must have been a free lunch, Michael thought, to have brought so many people out. He read the names idly, putting off the time when he’d have to leave the comfort of the library. Councillor Martin Shaw. James Shaw. James stood next to his father. It was obvious that they were father and son. The resemblance was striking. Marty Shaw’s face seemed familiar and Michael thought perhaps he’d seen pictures at the time of his death. Then an image flashed into his mind of the man in uniform. A pilot’s uniform. Not Marty of course. But Marty’s son.

Then the old paranoia took over and he imagined Keith Mantel and James Bennett working together, a web of conspiracy, which took in Jeanie’s suicide, his own enforced retirement from the pilot service and two murders.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The psychiatrist was a pompous bastard. As soon as she walked into his office in the big new general hospital, Vera saw this would be a waste of time. He seemed too young to be a consultant, with his dark hair and his clipped black beard which looked as if it had been painted on. There wasn’t a trace of grey. She spent a moment wondering if it had been dyed. He looked up from his desk.

“Inspector Stanhope.” He was a man who liked rank. He’d call the nurses sister or staff nurse just to put them in their place. “My secretary said it was urgent.”

“I’m leading an enquiry into the Abigail Mantel murder case.”

“Yes.”

“One of the detectives working on the investigation was a patient of yours.”

He said nothing.

“Daniel Greenwood,” she said. “Is he still your patient?”

“You know better than that, Inspector. I can’t discuss individuals.”

But he was interested, she could tell. He’d been hooked by the drama of a famous murder case, just like the people who slavered over the same story in the tabloids, then said how disgusting they found the publicity. Murder had a glamour all of its own.

“Of course not.” She settled comfortably into the leather chair. She might as well take the opportunity to take the weight off her feet. “I was after more general advice. The benefit of your expertise.”

He smiled, pulling his narrow lips back from his teeth. There was a gold crown on an upper molar. She found it hard not to stare. “Anything I can do to help the police, which doesn’t compromise me professionally, Inspector… Of course.”

“I’m interested in…” pausing, an attempt to find the right words, ‘… a person with an obsessive personality.”

“Yes?”

“I’m talking a stalker. Someone who is fascinated by a young woman. Follows her maybe…”

“Such a man could be dangerous.”

The psychiatrist smiled again. Under her polyester trousers, Vera felt her flesh crawl.

“It would be a man?” she asked suddenly.

“No, no. Not necessarily.” He stroked his beard very slowly. “There have been many recorded cases of women taking an unhealthy, delusional interest in a man. Often an ex-lover. Most commonly, they refuse to believe that a relationship is over.”

i Jeanie Long never accepted Mantel didn’t love her, Vera thought. She wasn’t mad.

“But if the object of the obsession was a young woman?” Vera said.

“Then the stalker is more likely to be a man,” the doctor conceded.

“In what way could the obsessive become dangerous?”

“His fantasy would be that the object of his desire shared his feelings. If the fantasy was shattered, he could resort to violence.” He looked at her. “We are talking still in general terms here. I must make it clear that I have no evidence of such behaviour in any of my patients.”

What does that mean? That you suspect Dan Greenwood of stalking and killing Abigail Mantel, but you have no evidence for it? Or that he wouldn’t hurt a fly?

She contained her impatience. She knew he would only enjoy it if she lost her cool. “Is there such a thing as a serial stalker?”

“In what sense?”

“Suppose the scenario you’ve described were played out. The obsessive killed the young woman and got away with it. Is it possible that he could transfer his attention to another victim?”

“Certainly it would be possible.” He paused. She suspected he enjoyed making her wait for the rest of his answer. “He could have been excited, aroused by the violence. While that might have been unintended in the first instance, it could become an integral part of the fantasy in the second.”

“So he’d dream of killing her? That would be his intention?”

“As I’ve said, it’s possible. Certainly not inevitable. As I’m sure you’re aware, very few mentally ill people, not even those who are seriously disturbed, commit acts of violence.”

“Would I know if I met him?” Vera demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“If it was someone I met in the street, or socially, or at work, would I realize he was mad?” She threw in the last word as a provocation. He didn’t rise to the bait.

“In the street, almost certainly not.”

“Would someone be able to function normally, hold down a regular job, and still behave in this way?”

He considered for a while and still couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. “I’m not a forensic psychiatrist. This isn’t really my area of competence.”

“Give me an opinion.”

“It would take considerable control. The separation of the fantasy life and the everyday. It would be exceptional.”

“But not impossible.”

“No. Not impossible.”

Driving back to Elvet, Vera thought she’d made a fool of herself. She should never have gone to the hospital. It had been a spur of the minute impulse, an excuse to get out of the village. She’d over-reacted to Dan Greenwood keeping a few momentos of his last major case. It wouldn’t do to start rumours that Dan was some sort of weirdo. A place like this, that was the last thing he’d need.

She drove through the square and saw that he was working in the forge. She was tempted to stop. Why not just ask him why he’d kept the material on the Mantel case and how he’d come into possession of the photograph? But she continued on the road towards the coast until she came to the crescent of small houses where he lived. She pulled her car into the verge on the main road and walked towards his home. The street was quiet. In one house an elderly woman was watching a game show on the television in her front room. She sat with her swollen legs on a footstool, a Zimmer frame within easy reach. When Vera walked past she kept her gaze fixed on the screen.

Vera stopped before Dan’s place and went up to his neighbour’s front door. She rang the bell. There was no reply. She did the same thing at the house beyond. The street was only built on one side. It curved round a small children’s play area. Satisfied that no one was looking, she approached Dan’s. The door was locked as she knew it would be. She looked under the mat. No spare key. One of his larger pots containing a small evergreen shrub stood next to the doorstep. She shifted it. Nothing. The bedroom window at the front was open, but she didn’t have the build or fitness for climbing drainpipes.

There wasn’t much of a garden, just a square of muddy grass and a low privet hedge to separate it from the houses on each side. No hiding place. Because the Crescent was a terrace, the only access to the back gardens was from the fields. She was about to give up. She wasn’t in the mood for shinning over farm gates or wading ankle-deep in muck. Then she returned to the shrub in the pot and felt around the wood chippings scattered on top of the soil. One mortise lock key. She wiped it clean on her jumper and opened the door. She slipped off her sandals and put them sole up on the carpet. She closed the door behind her and padded barefoot into Daniel’s home.

It’s a skill to search without leaving a sign of the intruder. It takes time. But Daniel’s house was easier to look through than most. He had few possessions and he kept them ordered. Vera started at the top of the house. There was a small bathroom, probably renovated in the eighties, with an avocado suite and black mould in the sealant around the bath. In the mirror-faced wall cabinet, she found a packet of paracetamol and a bottle of antidepressants. These had been prescribed by his GP, not the hospital consultant. Daniel’s room contained a double bed, neatly made with sheets and blankets. No duvet. There was a pine bedside table. He was reading a novel by James Lee Burke, a paperback with a black and purple jacket. In the drawer she found a couple of packets of condoms. Unopened. Wishful thinking? Or had he found a girlfriend? Some secret woman prepared to take him on? He had admitted to bringing Caroline Fletcher home for a drink, after all. Perhaps there was more to that relationship than he’d let slip. His clothes were all folded and neatly hung in a white plastic fitted wardrobe. The laundry basket in the corner was empty. If he had killed Christopher Winter, there would be no forensic evidence to link him to the scene. The second bedroom was at the back and smaller. The curtains were closed. They were heavily lined and when Vera first entered she could see nothing. She switched on the light. In the second before the room was lit, she felt breathless, frightened for what she would find. But at first it seemed there was nothing out of the ordinary. Under the window stood an ornate dressing table, with three mirrors, angled, all surrounded in cheap gilt. Then, next to the wall, a narrow single bed covered in a floral quilt. On the dressing table there was a photograph of a woman. From the style of hair and clothes it had been taken in the early fifties. She was young and smiling into the camera. Daniel’s mother, perhaps? The woman who’d died and left Daniel enough money to buy the forge and set up his business. On the bed lay a pair of women’s panties. Black. Tiny. A heart in sequins sewn on the front. Not the sort of garment Caroline Fletcher would go for. Too brash and down market Vera could see the label inside from where she stood. The garment had come from a chain store which catered to younger buyers. It should be possible to find out when they’d been produced, Vera thought. She hoped they were a recent addition to stock, that they hadn’t been part of the range ten years previously.

Downstairs she found nothing of interest. She was meticulous although she was aware of time passing. Did she want Daniel to find her, so she could confront him and give him a chance to explain? Certainly she took her time, sorting through the CDs in the living room and the drawers in the kitchen, emptying the small freezer compartment in the fridge so she could feel to the back.

At last she was satisfied. She opened the front door and looked out. Still the road was quiet and the playground empty. She put on her sandals and stood on the doorstep. She locked the door and replaced the key. A few bark chippings fell from the pot onto the concrete path. She picked them up and threw them into the gutter as she walked to her car.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Michael knew it was no good going to see Vera Stanhope yet. His mind was fizzing, the thoughts chasing each other, becoming wilder and more fantastic, but he was sane enough to realize that she’d need more than theories and accusations. At the moment she’d see him as a barmy old man with a grudge. Why should she listen to him?

He left the library in a hurry, hardly taking time to thank Lesley, not waiting to put on his bulky coat, gathering it instead under his arm. In the square the men had finished putting up the decorations and were testing the lights. There was nothing magical about them, Michael thought. He couldn’t see the point of all that effort. A whole morning’s work, for what? The bulbs were as big as you’d find in domestic light fittings, but with garish colours, pink, lime green and a sulphurous yellow. There was a snowman which had been cut out of grubby polystyrene and hung from a wife strung between two lamp posts. Its grin leered at passers-by. Michael found the crooked smile disturbing. It followed him down the street to Val’s Diner, where he drank a cup of coffee and tried to order his thoughts. He needed to plan what to do next.

At the bus stop there were a couple of women who’d come into town from Elvet to do their shopping. He heard them talking from a distance. “Only a month until Christmas. Fancy.” They wore little fur-lined suede boots, identical, and there were piles of white carrier bags on the pavement surrounding them, so each was stranded in her own island of plastic. Michael knew them. If he’d allowed himself a moment to think about it, he’d have remembered their names. They’d been friends of Peg’s. But he was still racing after the ideas which seemed to be galloping away from him and nothing else mattered. He stood behind them to form a queue, became suddenly aware that he was being spoken to.

“It’s nice to see you out, Michael. In town on a bit of business?” It was the shorter one with the white bubbly hair. He looked at her sharply, wondering for a moment if there was anything sinister in her question. It even occurred to him briefly that she might be a spy for Mantel. That was the extent of his anxiety. Then he told himself that he was letting his imagination run away with him. He’d spent too long brooding on his own. Still, it was as well to be careful.

“No. Just here to visit the library.”

“You couldn’t find anything that you liked, then?”

“Sorry?”

“Books. You’ve not got any books with you.” She spoke very slowly, then looked pityingly at her neighbour.

“No. I wasn’t there to borrow. I wanted to look something up in the reference.”

“A shame,” she said. “It can be very healing, a good story.”

He was saved the necessity of replying because the bus arrived, spluttering and spewing out diesel fumes from the exhaust into the cold air. Michael had to pay full fare because he’d never bothered to get a pensioner’s pass and half the way home he had to put up with the Elvet women telling him how to go about applying for one. The bus dropped them all outside the church and Michael stood there for a moment to give the women time to move away.

He looked across the street at the Captain’s House. He could see there was a fire in the grate in the front room. Emma Bennett came out and closed the door behind her. She paused for a moment then walked up the street. She looked very smart in a long black coat, and he wondered where she could be going. She didn’t have the baby with her and he thought James must be inside. It was tempting just to knock at the door and confront him with the questions he had to ask. At least that way they wouldn’t still be inside his head. But James had always intimidated him, even when they’d worked together every day. He thought he’d have to find another way. He couldn’t face the bungalow and started walking out of the village, towards the sea.

When he’d been living on the Point with Peg, there’d been nights when he’d walked home from the Anchor. Not because he was scared of getting done for drunk driving once in a blue moon you’d see a cop in Elvet then. It wasn’t like now. Since this latest murder every other person you saw was a stranger and you could tell, even if they weren’t in uniform, that they were police. No, he’d walked then for the pleasure of it. A good night and a belly of beer, then the walk down the Point with the river on one side and the sea on the other, and knowing that Peg would be waiting for him in the big, soft bed. Just the starry sky and anticipation. That was how it had been, hadn’t it? He hated the thought that his memory might be playing tricks.

He’d started out on foot just because there was a relief in the exercise, though the walk seemed harder and longer than he remembered, with a stiff breeze from the south blowing into his face. But it helped him think more clearly too and he saw what he should do. He’d talk to Wendy, the coxswain of the pilot launch. She’d been friendly with James Bennett from the start, before he was so highly qualified, before he’d moved to Elvet. Before he’d married. Michael had even wondered if there’d been more between them than friendship, though he hadn’t been around to find out. He’d only worked with Wendy for a few weeks, a period of han dover before he’d retired. If James Bennett, usually so stiff and reserved, had confided in anyone about his past, it would have been Wendy.

It was mid afternoon before he reached the pilot station and the light was starting to go. Stan, the second coxswain, was on duty. He was sitting at the desk, his legs in front of him, reading the paper and drinking tea. When Michael walked in you’d have thought he’d seen a ghost. “Eh, lad, what are you doing here?”

Michael thought it had been a fair few years since he’d been called a lad.

“Just a bit of a constitutional,” he said. “You’re busy, I see.”

“Another half hour and I’ll be out to collect a pilot.”

“Which one?”

“A new man called Evans. You’ll not know him.”

“Do you know if Wendy’s around?”

“Her day off. She’ll be in the cottage if she’s not out gallivanting.”

“Does she do a lot of that these days?”

“More than she used to. I think there’s a new man in her life, but she’ll not let on.”

Michael went back outside before Stan could ask what he was after. The grey bulk of a tanker was moving up the river, approaching the mouth of the estuary. It had started to spit with rain.

It was odd to knock at the door of the cottage after so many years of just letting himself in. There was a light on upstairs and the sound of music so he knew she was there. He knocked again more loudly. At last there were noises inside water in a drain, someone clattering down the stairs and she opened the door to him. She was wearing a dressing gown and her hair was wrapped in a towel. She recognized him at once and was surprised. If it had been someone else, he thought, she’d have been angry about being disturbed. One good thing about being bereaved. People felt they had to be kind to you.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was in the bath.”

Her feet were bare and he couldn’t stop staring at them, at the feet and the smooth legs which disappeared into the to welling robe. He imagined her lying in the bath, shaving them. Her toenails were painted silver. Who was there to see them this time of year? It wasn’t the weather for sandals. He stared at the painted nails, couldn’t stop.

“Can I help you, Michael?” she said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. He realized she’d been waiting for him to explain why he was there.

“Maybe I should come in. You’ll be catching your death standing there with the door open.”

She nodded, giving in to the inevitable. “Just give me a minute. I’ll get some clothes on.”

She let him into the kitchen and left him there. In Peg’s day he would have taken off his shoes before going in, but now there didn’t seem much point. He would never have recognized it. He could tell that underneath the mess nothing much had changed. They were the same cupboards and benches Peg had chosen from the MFI on the ring road. But everywhere there was clutter. Dirty washing spilling out from a basket, a pyramid of shoes and boots, mucky plates and pots, drying cat food on a purple plastic dish. He didn’t know what to make of it. He tried to work up some indignation, told himself Peg would have a fit if she could see it, then thought it didn’t really matter. When Wendy came back in, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and top, slippers too big for her, she cleared some clothes from a chair and sat down.

“Now then, Michael, what can I do for you?” Not unfriendly but brisk, making it clear she couldn’t give him much of her time. No offer of tea either, and after the walk he was gasping.

Now, he wasn’t sure how to start. On his way he should have planned how to go about it. He shouldn’t have let his mind wander back to the good times.

“It’s about James,” he said. “James Bennett. How well do you know him?”

“What are folk saying?” She narrowed her eyes, seemed to curl back in her chair like a cat ready to spring.

“Nothing. Nothing like that.”

“Only you know what it’s like, one woman working with men, people make up all sorts.”

“No,” he said. “But I thought he might have talked to you, that’s all.”

“What about?”

“His childhood, where he grew up. That sort of thing.”

“Why would you want to know?”

He felt the room swim around him as he grasped for an explanation which would satisfy her. “I thought I might have known him when he was a lad.”

“Oh.”

Again the spinning panic. “Did he go to the Trinity House School?”

“No, he’s not a Trinity House lad.”

“Local, though?”

“I don’t think he’s ever said. He’s not one for chatting. He doesn’t give much of himself away… Michael, what is all this about?”

“Like I said, I thought I knew him. Came across an old photo. It was the spitting image. But he wasn’t calling himself Bennett in those days. Shaw, that was his name. I wondered if he’d talked about it to you.” He realized he was gabbling. She was looking at him as if he was one of those mad old men let out into community care, who rant to themselves as they walk down the street. He wondered, as he had that day talking to Peg’in the cemetery, if that was what he’d come to in the end. Perhaps that was what he’d come to already.

“Why would he change his name?” she said reasonably. “You must have made a mistake. You can’t really tell from an old photo, can you? Why don’t you ask him next time you see him, if it’s troubling you.”

“He must have said something about his family, what he did before he joined the pilotage. You know how you get chatting while you’re waiting for a ship.”

“James doesn’t chat,” she said. “He’s always pleasant and polite, but he likes his privacy. And so do I.” She stood up and he saw he’d have to go.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you. You’re right. It must have been a mistake. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not myself at the moment.”

Then she felt sorry for him again. “Look, how did you get here? Give me a minute and I’ll take you back to the village.”

“No, I’ll not trouble you. Stan said he was bringing in a pilot. I’ll get a lift back with him.”

They stood awkwardly. She was blocking his way to the door and moved to let him out. At exactly that moment there was a sound upstairs, a slight creak. One of the floorboards in the bedroom had been loose even in his day. She saw that he’d heard it.

“Must be the cat,” she said.

Aye.” Though he knew it wasn’t any cat. It wasn’t just the sound from upstairs, which had more weight behind it than the heaviest cat. It was the way she looked as she said it, furtive and excited at the same time, as if she was playing a secret game. After she’d shut the door behind him, he stood in the small garden and looked upstairs where the light had been, but now the curtains were drawn and he couldn’t see anything. The single car parked behind the cottage he recognized as Wendy’s.

The launch was out and he waited beside the office for it to come back to the jetty. He didn’t feel he could just let himself into the office any more. The boat nosed back through the gloom and he felt the stab of nostalgia which he’d expected to feel in the house. Later, he stood with Stan looking out towards the river while the pilot made a call to the data centre.

“Who is it that Wendy’s taken up with? You live next door, man. You must have seen him go in and out.”

“Never. He must be like the Invisible Man.”

“There’ll be rumours. I know what the gossip’s like round this place.”

“One thing’s obvious.” Stan touched the side of his nose with his finger. “He’s married, isn’t he? Why else would she keep him secret?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

They sat in church, in their usual places. Mary and Robert, Emma with the baby on her knee and James. At Mary’s feet the dreadful fat handbag which Emma hated and which was always full of rubbish. A splash of sunlight shone through the glass, coloured the dust which swirled in the draught from the door and stained the surplus of the priest who walked down the nave to shake the hands of the congregation as they shared the peace. He reached across James to touch Emma’s head. “Peace be with you, my dear.”

The sun had shone briefly in just the same way on the morning of their wedding. James remembered sitting on the front pew, next to Geoff, the colleague he’d persuaded to be his best man. It had taken some persuasion, he thought now. Not that Geoff hadn’t been pleased to be asked, but he’d been surprised, unable to hide his bewilderment. “Of course I’d love to. But usually it’s family, isn’t it? Or some mate you’ve been to school with. Someone you’ve known for years at least.” James had said there wasn’t anyone. No one he’d rather have than Geoff.

So, he’d been sitting at the front of the church, surprisingly calm, knowing absolutely that this was the right thing to do. The music had started. Not “The

Wedding March.” They’d decided against that. “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’. He’d known Emma was on her way, but he’d not looked round, not immediately. He’d waited a few beats before turning. And just at that moment the sun had come out, bleeding the colour from the stained glass onto the ivory satin of her dress. She’d caught his eye and smiled nervously, and it had come to him, like the melodramatic ending of a romantic novel, that everything had worked out for the best. His father’s death, the shame and the scandal, everything that followed, had all led to this moment, to his taking this beautiful young woman to be his wife.

The intensity of the sensation had quickly passed. The procession Emma on her father’s arm, two small bridesmaids in a state of imploding excitement had moved on towards the altar and he had to focus on getting the ritual right, but he was left with an optimism which had remained, unshaken, until the recent drama.

Now, sitting in the church, as the sun shone through the window and the elderly priest took his hand, the sense of well being returned. There was, after all, nothing to be concerned about. The unpleasantness of the last few weeks would pass, and things would go back to normal. He would continue to bring boats safely up the river, then return home to his wife and child. Nothing would disturb the equilibrium of their lives.

He had thought Mary and Robert would be unwilling to face the sc rum around the coffee pots and plates of biscuits in the church hall and they did pause for a moment in the porch.

“Would you rather go straight home?” Robert asked his wife. James had always thought of him as a strong and reliable man. The sort of man to hold his family together. And even immediately after Christopher’s death it had seemed he was still playing that role. Today though he appeared indecisive, vague. He wanted Mary to tell him what they should do.

“No,” she said. James saw that Springhead was the last place she wanted to be. “We’ll have a coffee first, shall we?”

Inside the hall she seemed embarrassed to be a customer and was all for rushing into the kitchen to find an apron and begin the washing-up.

“Sit down,” James said. “I’ll bring your drink over.” He stood in the queue and looked at them, holding each other’s hands across the Formica table, not speaking. They looked old. Around them the parishioners circled like birds of prey over a carcass, eager to make contact, to give their condolences. To get news.

Emma had stayed in the church after the rest of the congregation had left. She’d whispered to James at the end of the service that she needed time to herself. He respected that. She was very young to have suffered so much. Now she walked into the hall, oblivious to the sympathetic glances, her face pale and still, without expression. He had never been able to tell what she was thinking, and since Christopher’s death she had become more distant from him. He disliked violent displays of emotion. There had been too much shouting and raving, too many tears, when he was young. But now he wondered if he should have encouraged her to weep, if when she had asked if they might talk, he should have made it easier for her to confide in him.

He set the cups of coffee in front of his parents-in law. Two women had plucked up sufficient courage to approach them and Robert seemed to have recovered his spirits under their attention. James went to Emma, who was standing by the window, looking out over the churchyard, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

“I’d like to invite Robert and Mary to lunch,” he said. “Would you mind?”

“No.” She seemed surprised to be asked, as if usually he would have made the invitation without consulting her. And perhaps that was true, he thought. Throughout their marriage she’d been so passive that he’d always taken her consent for granted. Had he been more like a father than a lover to her?

In the Captain’s House he insisted on preparing lunch. He sat Mary and Robert in the living room and threw some logs onto the embers of the fire. The logs were dry and the bark caught immediately, curling back from the wood and sending sparks up the chimney. The couple stared into the grate, mesmerized, only moving when he handed them a glass of sherry each. Still they weren’t talking. Emma was upstairs settling Matthew into his cot for a sleep. A little later he heard her come down. He thought she would join her parents, but instead she came into the kitchen. She came up behind him and kissed his neck.

“Thank you for being so kind to them.”

She slipped away before he could respond and he heard her voice, no more than a murmur, in the other room.

This is who I am, he told himself. A kind man who cares for his family. Perhaps even a good man. There is no deception here.

At the table Robert became more himself again,

brightening as he had earlier, surrounded by people, in the hall. He said grace and complimented James on his cooking. He drank more than he usually did and James was reminded of Christopher’s last meal in the house. He had never thought father and son had much in common, but now he could detect a resemblance. A dramatic quality. The possibility of excess.

“Why don’t you both stay here for the night?” Emma asked. Mary didn’t like driving Robert’s car and James saw she thought her father was already over the limit. “You can go back early tomorrow.”

“No,” Robert said. “I need to get home. I’d like to go into work tomorrow.”

“Is that wise?” James had never questioned Robert’s judgement before and felt rather brave. “I’m sure they’d understand that you need more time. You could have until Christmas at least. It’s hardly worth going back for a few weeks.”

“I’d prefer to be at work. I brood too much at home.” But Robert reached out for the bottle of wine and topped up his glass.

“Besides,” Mary said suddenly, ‘if I don’t go home today, I’ll never face it.” She saw that she’d shocked them. “I know it’s foolish, but that’s the way I feel. I’ll never be able to walk through the door.”

“Why don’t I drive you back later this evening?” James said. “Then you can stay for a while, relax, have another drink. I’ll pick Robert up first thing in the morning so he can collect his car.”

Emma smiled at him and brushed her fingertips over the back of his hand.

Later there was an old film on the television. The room was hot. Robert and Mary both fell asleep. Mary had her mouth slightly open and snored occasionally. Matthew lay on his stomach on the rug surrounded by toys.

“I think the doctor gave them tranquillizers,” Emma said. “They seem spaced out, don’t they? Dad especially. But a bit more relaxed, at least.”

When they woke she made tea for them, and James toasted crumpets in front of the fire. He crouched and held his arm outstretched because the embers were still so hot.

“Comfort food,” Emma said. She watched with satisfaction as Mary finished a mouthful then licked the butter from her fingers. James thought Emma had worn the same expression when she’d persuaded Matthew to take baby rice from a spoon for the first time.

“We should go,” Robert stood up. The tray was still on the floor, the toasting fork lying on the hearth. “Are you ready, my dear?”

Outside, on the other side of the road, someone was waiting under the bus shelter.

“He’ll be there a long time,” James said, hoping to lighten the mood. “There are no buses on a Sunday. Do you think I should tell him?”

The man turned and stared at them though he couldn’t have made out the words. His face was lit by the orange glow of a street light.

“It’s Michael Long,” Robert said. James had recognized him at the same instant. “Perhaps it would be better to leave him alone.”

James went into Springhead with them. He’d always liked the house despite its discomfort and inconvenience. It was where Emma had grown up and there were reminders of her everywhere. School photos, books with her name in, her Wellingtons just inside the door. Now, as he stood awkwardly in the kitchen while Robert and Mary fussed with the lights, he wondered how they could bear the gloomy paint, the threadbare carpets, the piles of slightly damp books. He was irritated that they’d never organized the improvements which were needed.

“Will you stay here?” he asked. “You won’t move?”

“Of course not!” Mary spoke as if he’d suggested something unthinkable. “Where would we go?”

“I’m not sure. You could get somewhere smaller. In the village perhaps. Close to the shops and to Emma…” He tailed off as he saw her reaction.

“Impossible,” she said.

“It’s just that earlier you seemed reluctant to come back…”

“It’s painful. But this place is all we have of Christopher now.”

She didn’t speak to him again and he thought he’d offended her. Then, as he was getting into his car in the yard, she came running out to him, still in her slippers, a coat thrown over her shoulders.

“Thank you for this afternoon. For lunch. For looking after us so well.”

He wondered if the medication had worn off because she seemed desperate, rather manic.

“No problem. You know you’re always welcome.”

“I’d like to do something for you. For you and Emma. She was looking so pale today, didn’t you think?”

“It’s been a dreadful time for you all.”

“Let me have Matthew for an evening. So you can spend some time on your own together. Go out for a drink perhaps. I’d like to. If you’d trust me.”

“Of course we trust you. Have him whenever you like.”

“Tomorrow then. Bring him here.”

She rushed back to the house and James wondered if Robert had even realized she’d gone.

When James drew up outside the Captain’s House, Michael Long was still standing at the bus stop, his hands in his pockets, muffled in his coat. He watched James climb out of the car, held his glance, a sort of challenge. It was too far for James to shout and he started to walk over the road towards him. The church clock began to strike the hour. Michael stood his ground for a moment, then he turned and hurried away towards his bungalow.

Inside Matthew was in bed and Emma was loading the dishwasher.

“Were they all right?” she asked.

“I think so. They’re so self-contained, aren’t they? It’s hard to tell.”

“I thought that’s what you admired in them.”

“Perhaps it’s not always a good thing.”

“Can we go to bed?” she said.

He felt nervous as if it was the first time. Afraid of doing something wrong, something which would upset her, spoil the mood. “Of course.”

He was in the bedroom before her, went to close the curtains. Michael Long was back at his post under the bus shelter. He was looking up at the window.

Chapter Forty

Vera Stanhope liked Dan Greenwood, had done since the first time she’d met him at one of those dreadful training days her boss had forced her to attend. All keen young officers behaving like corporate managers, fighting amongst themselves to be most enthusiastic, most positive. No negative talk allowed there. Dan Greenwood had looked at her helplessly across the conference room, with its beech-effect tables and chairs, as if he’d been thrown into the middle of a game and he didn’t understand the rules. As if she was the only one there on his side. She’d thought, looking at him, that he shouldn’t be caged inside a building at all. Looking at him, scruffy and feral, you’d have thought he should be a gamekeeper, someone used to being outdoors. Perhaps he’d thought that was what the police would be like, keeping things ordered, tidying up vermin.

“Don’t worry, pet,” she’d said to him over coffee. “They don’t mean any of it. All that positive talk. Back at the station they’ll be griping the same as you and me, sloping home early and coming in late.”

“What’s the point, then?” he’d said, and she’d thought that he really didn’t understand. He had no ambition and no desire to impress. She’d thought then that he was incapable of deception.

That was before she’d seen the file on Abigail Mantel, which he kept in his desk and pored over, like some pervert slobbering over downloaded porn.

Pride had stopped her acting immediately. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that she could be that wrong about anyone. Then she’d stood in the village and watched him walking with Emma Bennett up the lane from the river, attentive and careful, and she’d seen the way Emma had looked at him. This was another bonny young lass. Not as young as Abigail had been when she’d died, but there were some days when Emma still looked like a teenager. And she’d known Abigail, found the body. Perhaps there was a thrill in that for Dan. You could never tell how some people’s minds worked. Not even the psychiatrist could manage that. Or perhaps he wanted to get close to Emma to find out how much she remembered. If he’d had any sort of relationship with the dead girl, he’d want to know if she talked about it before she was killed.

Pride was a terrible thing, Vera thought. It had always let her down.

So she swallowed her pride and went to see Caroline Fletcher. She did it properly too, calling in advance to check if it was convenient. There was no fuss this time when she stood on the doorstep of the desirable executive home, no show.

Caroline had changed from her business suit into jeans and a baggy jumper which reached almost to her knees. The boyfriend was nowhere to be seen and Vera didn’t ask after him. He’d be playing squash, she thought. Or staying late at the office. Something normal In the living room there was a bottle of white wine standing in a cooler on the floor by the armchair, one glass taken out of it. Caroline had been holding the glass when she opened the door.

“Would you like some?” she said, seeming ready to build bridges herself.

Vera preferred red, but it would have been churlish to refuse.

“What’s this about?” The woman’s voice was cautious but not unfriendly.

“Dan Greenwood,” Vera said.

“What about him?”

“What did you make of him?” Caroline looked at her without answering and Vera was forced to elaborate. “You worked closely with him. Did you ever have any concerns? I mean, did the breakdown come out of the blue?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“As a colleague. A friend.”

“I wasn’t expecting it,” Caroline said. “He seemed to be holding it together. Perhaps, though, it was inevitable. He let things get to him, took them to heart.” She paused. “I don’t think he’s stupid, but he wasn’t really up to the job. The politics, the games you have to play. The rules you have to keep to or bend. He says what he means and he can’t understand when other people don’t do the same. He talked about resigning at the same time as me. I shouldn’t have discouraged it.”

“You’d resigned before he went on sick leave?”

“Yes. Getting Jeanie Long to court was the last thing I did.” She paused. “Everyone said I was going out on a high.”

“How soon after the court case was Dan’s illness?”

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to judge time when you look back from this distance. It all becomes a bit of a blur. Not long though. A couple of months. Six at the most. You could check. Personnel might still have it on file. Someone there would probably remember better than me.”

“I don’t really want to make it official. Not yet.”

Vera sipped the wine which was still cold and very dry. Caroline looked at her over her glass. “What’s all this about?” she said again, more forcefully, meaning, Cut the crap, lady. I’ve played these games too in my time.

“Are you sleeping with him?” Vera asked, matter of fact.

“No!” Caroline gave a hoot of laughter, so spontaneous and joyful Vera knew it was genuine. “Where did you get that idea?”

“We all get daft notions in our heads from time to time.”

“You didn’t come out here just to ask me that.”

For a moment Vera didn’t respond. In this investigation, she’d started off thinking she couldn’t trust this woman as far as she could throw her. It came hard now to pass on information she hadn’t even shared with Joe Ashworth.

“Dan Greenwood has a file on the Mantel case. He keeps it in his desk at the pottery, takes it out and reads it every now and again. It could mean anything. Guilt because he didn’t stand up to you over the Jeanie Long arrest. Nostalgia for a time when he was part of a team and he had friends he seems a bit of a loner now. Or it could be more sinister. Some sort of trophy, maybe. It could mean he killed her.”

Caroline listened carefully. She didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand. She knew what it had cost Vera to be there.

“What’s in the file?”

Vera shrugged. “I didn’t have much of a chance to look. Duplicates of the case papers and the investigation log. A duplicate of the post-mortem report. Postmortem photographs. A glossy picture of the girl before she died, looking dressed up and glamorous.”

“We might have asked Keith for a photo for publicity,” Caroline said quickly. An appeal through the media asking for witnesses to come forward. It doesn’t mean Dan knew her before she died.”

“I thought you didn’t bother much with that sort of publicity. You took Jeanie Long into custody pretty quickly.”

“It doesn’t mean we didn’t make other plans at the beginning…”

“Do you remember asking Keith for a photo?”

“No, but I wouldn’t after all this time.”

“Strange, anyway, Dan holding onto it for ten years.”

“Yes,” Caroline said. “Perhaps.” She poured herself another glass and waved the bottle towards Vera, who shook her head. She’d wait until she got back to the hotel, then have a proper drink. They sat again in silence.

“What happened to the clothes Abigail was wearing when she died?” Vera asked.

“God knows. After all this time… Why do you want to know?”

“No reason.”

Caroline looked at her suspiciously, but didn’t push it. “Dan was a bit of a loner even then. I mean friendly enough, a part of the team, no one ever minded being partnered up with him, but not really one of the lads. Do you know what I mean?”

Vera nodded. He wouldn’t get pissed with them. He wouldn’t swear about the bosses, or get sentimental and pour out his heart.

“Has he ever been married? I didn’t check that either.”

“God, no.” Caroline considered, then added. “I don’t know why that should seem so unthinkable. I suppose he didn’t seem the type. And he never mentioned anyone.”

“Gay?”

“No.” Then after more thought, “At least I don’t think so.”

“He fancied you, didn’t he?”

“Probably, but you get used to that. A woman in a team of men who feel the job’s screwed up all the other relationships in their lives. After a while it’s not flattering any more.”

I’d be flattered, Vera thought. Trust me.

“You never felt threatened by his attentions?”

“Not once.”

“Is there any way he could have got to know Abigail socially?”

“I can’t think of one.”

“Perhaps you invited him to one of Keith’s parties?”

“None of my colleagues knew about Keith. We were very discreet.”

“Dan guessed. During the investigation.”

“Did he? He never said.” Caroline seemed amused rather than surprised.

“Where was Dan living when Abigail was murdered?”

“In Crill. He had a flat in one of those big terraced houses on the se afront I picked him up from there a couple of times.”

“Did you ever go in?”

“Once or twice. Sometimes he wasn’t ready if I was early to collect him for a job. Once he asked me in for a beer at the end of a shift.”

“What was it like in there?”

“Bloody cold,” she said. “It had old sash windows that let in all the draughts.” She looked sharply at Vera. “There weren’t any photos of naked schoolgirls on the walls, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did you see inside his bedroom?”

“No. I’ve told you. We weren’t on those terms.”

Well then, Vera thought.

She said, “Abigail was at school in Crill, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, and the bus took her straight there and brought her straight back in the evening.”

“Except when she bunked off.”

“What are you saying?” Caroline demanded. “That Dan Greenwood picked her up on the street and had sex with her?”

I’m investigating possibilities.” Vera stretched out and put her empty glass on the table. There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Is he that sort? Into young girls?”

“Most of the men I’ve ever known have been that sort. They see a schoolgirl walking down the street, fifteen or sixteen years old, face plastered in make-up, uniform, short skirt, they look. It doesn’t mean they do anything.”

“Did Dan Greenwood look?”

“I don’t know!” Caroline was losing patience. “I’m just saying.”

“What sort of family does lie come from?”

“What!”

“Humour me.”

Caroline looked at her as if she should be locked up, but answered anyway. “He’s an only child. I think his parents were getting on when they had him. His father was already dead when he joined the team. He was close to his mum, but I think she’s died since. Money from the sale of her house gave him the cash to start the pottery. Is that enough for you?”

“Aye,” Vera said. “It’ll do.”

“He was a good policeman. Sometimes I thought he took it all too seriously. You could imagine him going home and thinking about work all evening and dreaming it at night. A bit intense, I suppose, and that worried me. He saw everything in black and white. But he worked on other cases involving young girls and I never had any concerns about how he handled them. There was no talk among the team, no complaints from the public’

Vera hoisted herself to her feet. She should have been pleased. Caroline had told her what she wanted to hear. But still she felt bad tempered, edgy.

At the door Caroline started talking again. It was as if she had continued thinking about Dan and like Vera felt that there were still things to say.

“I’m not very good at summing people up,” she said. “I mean it’s so hard to tell. You look at someone and they do something a bit odd, but they could be shy or weird or dangerous. How do you know? The most dangerous man I ever met looked as if he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“I’d have put Dan Greenwood down as harmless,” Vera muttered. “So what does that mean?”

“I could imagine him killing someone,” Caroline said. “If he thought it was the right thing to do. The lesser of two evils. But I’d say the same about most of the men I worked with.”

She shut the door then. Vera stood for a moment on the step, looking down the sloping front garden into the street. In the house opposite the curtains were still not drawn and two children were lying on their stomachs in front of the television. In the distance a car alarm was ringing. Standing there, considering Caroline’s words, she had another sudden goshawk moment, a brief glimpse of the whole picture. She walked on slowly to her car.

She and Joe Ashworth had dinner that night in the hotel. They’d only managed it a couple of times before. Usually the restaurant was already closed when they got in and they’d made do with takeaways in the car or bags of chips. Tonight they only just made it in time. Everyone else was already onto puddings or coffee and the room emptied as they ate. There was no one to overhear. The waitresses were in end-of-shift mood and stood by the desk chatting and giggling. The sweet trolley had been reduced to three sad profiteroles, some browning fruit salad and half a trifle.

Vera told him about finding the Mantel file in Dan Greenwood’s desk. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kept it to myself.”

“Do you want to get a warrant? Have a proper look round?”

She sat for so long in silence that he was about to repeat the question. “No,” she said at last. “No need. I had a hit of a poke about myself.” She explained about her search of the house in the Crescent, felt like a guilty kid.

Ashworth looked at her as if she should know better. “How do you want to handle it?”

“We’ll keep it to ourselves for the time being. No need to tell the Yorkies. We don’t want the rumours flying if there’s nothing to it. There’s nothing to link him to the Winter case. But we’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll go and have a chat tomorrow. See if I pick up on anything.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve got something special for you. A bit of a fishing trip. An away day. You’ll love it.”

Chapter Forty-One

Emma drove Matthew to Springhead. Arriving at the house, she sat for a moment in the car, reluctant to take him inside. She wasn’t sure now that she wanted to let him out of her sight. Would her parents be able to cope with him?

Inside though, Mary was looking out for them. She must have heard the car and the kitchen curtain was pulled aside. Emma saw her silhouetted against the yellow light and imagined her peering into the darkness. She gathered Matthew into her arms and prepared to be cheerful. Inside, her parents were drinking tea, pretending not to be waiting.

“I’ve expressed some milk so I don’t have to hurry back,” Emma said in a jolly voice she hardly recognized as her own. She handed the baby to Robert. She wanted to say, He’s only a loan. Not a replacement for Christopher. Not yours to keep. But that would have been foolish.

Back at the Captain’s House, she and James sat awkwardly at the kitchen table. She thought there was a peculiar restraint between them, a shyness. They were like a couple in a Victorian novel who had escaped the chaperone, though Matthew could hardly count as a chaperone. Now they were alone they weren’t quite sure how to proceed.

“What would you like to do?” James asked. “I could cook for you. We could go out for a quiet meal.”

“I’m not sure I want quiet,” she said. “There’s been too much of that recently. Noise would be good. Music. Talk. Would you really hate it if we just went for a drink in the Anchor?”

“People will want to ask about Christopher,” he said. “You know what they’re like. You won’t mind?”

“No. I think I’d like it. It seems healthier somehow than pretending it didn’t happen. There might be people who knew him there. Friends from school.”

“It could be a sort of wake?”

“Yes,” she said gratefully. “Exactly that.”

She went upstairs to run a bath. The oil she used had sandalwood in it and patchouli. He’d teased her when she first used it, called her a hippy, but she’d never been the sort to camp out at Glastonbury and hadn’t known what he was on about until he explained. On his way to the bedroom to change, he stopped on the landing and looked in on her. She’d propped open the door to let out the steam. The bathtub was old, made of a hard, stained enamel. It was very deep. She’d lit candles on the window sill and their scent mixed with the bath oil. She’d already washed her hair and tied it in a thin silk scarf in a knot on the top of her head. She lay back in the water, allowing her legs to float and her eyes to shut. Then she opened her eyes and saw him there, staring at her.

“Come in,” she said. He seemed poised to make an announcement. There was a long silence. She thought he was composing a sentence in his head and wondered what he could have to say. Suddenly he seemed to lose his nerve.

“I’ll leave you in peace,” he said. “Let you relax.” But the moment was spoilt for her and she climbed from the tub.

She made special preparations to go out, although they were only going across the road to the pub and she wasn’t dressing up. She’d already put jeans and the striped jersey she’d bought on her last trip to town on the chair. She came into the bedroom wrapped in a big bath towel, and sat in front of the dressing table. She used straighteners on her hair after drying it, her eyes fixed on the mirror. The towel slipped when she raised her arms above her head and she had to fasten it again. Then she took time to apply her make-up. Throughout, she was aware of James sitting on the bed and watching her.

She waited for him to come behind her and touch her, but he sat, quite still, watching. She felt breathless, light-headed. Let’s stay here, she was tempted to say. Let’s not bother to go out. I’m making all this effort for you. But the same shyness prevented her and anyway she thought she would enjoy the anticipation, being in the same room as him surrounded by people, aware of his eyes on her, knowing that soon they would come back here.

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled.

“Well?” she asked. “Will I do?”

“You’re fishing for compliments.” Now he did stand behind her. He reached out and stroked her neck. She caught her breath, but didn’t give herself away.

“No, really. I’ve never been sure I’m doing it right and I’m out of practice.”

“You look lovely,” he said. “Really.”

“It’s warpaint, of course. I’m quite nervous about facing people. I need something to hide behind.”

“Hide behind me,” he said. She caught his eye again and they laughed together at the soppiness. She felt herself relax.

By the time they arrived at the Anchor all the regulars were there. James opened the door to let Emma in first. She paused when inside to see if there was anyone she recognized. A group of kids had gathered around the pool table. She thought she’d seen them waiting for the school bus. Certainly they didn’t seem old enough to be drinking, but in these country towns what else was there for kids to do? Of course she’d never had the option of the pub. She remembered long, boring evenings at Springhead. Until she’d gone away to college her only entertainment had been the church youth club under the watchful eye of her father.

Their entrance had been noticed. Some of the life boatmen were playing darts and they stopped for a moment to nod towards James. Veronica behind the bar smiled at Emma, trying to hide her surprise. Veronica was familiar to them both. She came to church, not as a regular worshipper but on special occasions, Easter Sunday, midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. She always donated a couple of bottles for the summer fay re Her son had been to school with Christopher. They’d been in the same class. Emma struggled now to remember his name.

“How’s Ray?” It had come to her suddenly.

“He’s fine.”

“What’s he doing these days?” Emma wondered how she was performing. She wasn’t used to this sort of conversation any more.

“He’s joined the fire brigade. Leeds. Of course he was never as clever as your Christopher, but we’re very proud of him.” She paused. “I’m so sorry about what happened, love. We all are.”

“I know,” Emma said. “I know.”

“Have the police got anyone for it yet?” Barry had appeared suddenly from the back. He stood with his hands flat on the bar and he stared at Emma. The question shot out, without politeness or preamble.

“They haven’t said.”

“It’s a disgrace,” Barry said and Emma couldn’t tell whether he considered the murder a disgrace, or the police’s inability to find a suspect, or the lack of communication.

One of the darts players who’d come to the bar for another round muttered his agreement.

“Have these on me,” James said. “In memory, you know, of Chris.”

Half an hour later and there was as much noise as Emma could have wished. The kids had put something on the jukebox and in the other bar they were watching football on the wide screen and occasionally the cheers and groans were loud enough to swamp the music.

She sat by the window chatting to one of the life boatmen girlfriends. Someone else who’d been to school with her. She heard the woman talking about a new bloke, a whirlwind romance, a proposal, but all the time she was aware of James, standing at the bar, looking at her. What does he want from me? she thought. What does he want to say?

Then the door opened and Michael Long walked in. He let the door swing to behind him, but there was so much noise that no one took much notice. He walked with a swagger to the bar. Emma couldn’t hear the conversation, but guessed James was offering to buy the man a drink. She thought he had already been drinking. He looked dishevelled and unsteady.

“You’ve got a nerve.”

She could just make out the words and sensed the hostility; it was palpable, like a smell. She watched, horrified. The chatter beside her continued. James obviously hadn’t heard and must have asked Michael to repeat himself.

Michael opened his mouth wide and roared, so everyone could hear him, even above the racket. “I said, you’ve got a bloody nerve.”

The conversation faded. On the jukebox the record came to an end and no one replaced it. From the other bar there was a round of sarcastic applause as a penalty was missed. Michael seemed pleased to be the centre of attention. He turned to them all with a theatrical gesture. “You wouldn’t be drinking with him if you knew what I know.”

Veronica leaned across the bar. “You’re not well, love. Maybe you should get yourself home.”

Michael appeared not to hear her. “Do you know who you’re drinking with? Do you? You all think you know him, don’t you? Family man, pilot, churchgoer Well his whole life’s a lie. Even the name’s made up.” Michael began to speak more quietly, almost as if he and James were alone together in a small room, but Emma could hear him. The bar was silent. Everyone was watching and listening. He didn’t need to shout. “It shouldn’t have happened like this. I was going to get more evidence then go to that inspector. But I couldn’t stand it, seeing you in here, laughing and talking. Everyone feeling sorry for you.”

“The inspector already knows,” James said. “I told her.”

For a moment Michael couldn’t take that in. He stared, open-mouthed, a fleck of saliva on his lower lip, trying to convince himself that James was lying.

“Why hasn’t she arrested you, then?”

“I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not illegal to change your name.”

“But you were a friend of Mantel’s. I’ve seen photos. The two of you smiling together.”

“My father was Mantel’s friend,” James said. “He was nothing to do with me.”

Michael shook his head as if it would take violence to clear his thoughts. “You killed the girl and got my Jeanie locked up.” His voice was desperate. “You must be involved. Why would you live a lie like this if you didn’t have anything to hide?”

“I’ve reason enough to hate Keith Mantel,” James said, ‘but I didn’t kill his daughter.”

Veronica had come out from the bar and now she came up to Michael and put her arm around his shoulder. “You’re not yourself, love. Not surprising all the things you’ve been through. Come into the back with me. I’ll make you a hot drink and we’ll get the doctor to have a look at you.”

Michael allowed himself to be led away. Behind the bar, Barry’s eyes were darting from one person to another, glittering with pleasure.

Emma was frozen. Her reactions had slowed, shut down. She watched James approach her but she couldn’t move.

“Come home,” he said quietly. “We can’t talk here.”

This is what happens, she thought, when you let down your guard. How can I make a happy ending out of this?

“Come home,” he said again. She felt the staring faces and prying eyes. She stood up and followed him out. But once they’d crossed the road she stopped on the pavement and faced up to him. Branches from the tree beside their house blew across the street light and threw moving shadows onto her upturned face.

“Was any of that true?”

“Some of it. I changed my name when I was twenty-one. Legally. There were reasons. I can tell you, if you want to know.”

“What about your family? Are they really all dead?”

“Not all of them.”

“So you lied to me from the beginning.”

“No. By the time I met you, this is who I was.”

“Did you kill my brother?”

“No,” he cried. “Why would I?”

“Why would you lie to me?”

She couldn’t face it. She needed the comfort of a familiar story. She turned suddenly and ran back across the street towards the forge.

Emma runs across the square and, keeping to the shadows in case the drinkers in the Anchor are still watching, she reaches the forge. She pushes open one of the big doors which form an arch, like the door of a church, and she stands inside. The roof is high and she can see through the curved rafters to the tiles. She feels the heat of the kiln and sees the dusty shelves holding unglazed pots.

At first, it seems that the pottery is empty. Everything is quiet. She shuts the big door behind her, still making no noise. It stands a little ajar, but a person walking past on the square outside would see nothing but a strip of light. She walks slowly forward. She knows that Dan is here. She can sense it. Soon he will come out. He will take her into his arms. He will come with her to Springhead so she can be with her baby. She can’t face all this alone.

“Dan.” The word is strained, like a whimper, but still it echoes around the high space. “Are you there, Dan?”

From the little storeroom there comes a scrabbling. Hardly human. It makes Emma think of rats nosing through rubbish.

“Dan,” she says again, and then he does appear, as she has always imagined, crumpled and untidy and eager to see her. She stands very close to him and can smell the clay on his hands. She waits for him to touch her. As she looks up, she sees someone else framed in the storeroom door. Not the inspector this time. Someone altogether unexpected.

Chapter Forty-Two

After seeing Ashworth off on his fishing trip, Vera went to the pottery. The doors were closed and padlocked. It was still early so she drove to the little house on the Crescent where Dan lived, but when she knocked on the door, no one answered. A young woman, with a toddler in a buggy, came out of the house next door. Just as well she’d been out the day before, Vera thought.

“Mr. Greenwood won’t be in at all today,” the woman said. A trade fair. Harrogate. He left very early and he’s not back until this evening, then he’ll have to go to the pottery to unload.”

“Oh,” Vera said. “Right.” She was surprised that Dan had given away so much. She’d always thought of him as being very private. The woman was attractive in a pale, washed-out way. Perhaps they were more than neighbours. Perhaps she wore black sequinned pants, though Vera couldn’t really picture it.

“Is it business?” the young woman said. “I can always take a message.”

“No, no message. I’m an old friend. I’ll call again.”

She spent the rest of the day at headquarters in Crill. She breezed into Holness’s office. “Can I borrow one of your people for an hour or two. A bit of research.”

He looked up from a desk piled with paper. Worse than hers, she saw with satisfaction. “Is it urgent?” He was probing for information on the Mantel enquiry. Well, he’d get nothing from her.

“It’ll not take long. A few phone calls, a bit of sniffing around.”

“I’ll need more than that before I release someone,” he said.

“Bugger off then, I’ll do it myself.” She flashed him a grin and he didn’t know how to react.

She walked into the incident room, responding to the stare of the officer at the nearest computer with a wave. “Don’t mind me, pet. You’ll not know I’m here.”

She found herself a spare desk and a phone and began a lot of fruitless conversations with the manufacturers of ladies’ underwear. At the same time she was eavesdropping on the Winter enquiry. The way she saw things, they hadn’t much to go on. They were still trying to trace the details of Christopher’s mobile, but he hadn’t bothered registering it, and they hadn’t found anyone in Aberdeen who had the number. He’d never given the number to Emma, or to his parents, which Vera thought was odd. After an hour she got bored and went back to pester Holness. She leaned on his door frame and looked into his office.

“Did anything come of the search of that farm by the cemetery?”

“The lad was there,” Holness said. “There was a fingerprint on the door of the stable.”

“Did you find anything to suggest he met someone?”

“A couple of other prints both left by one other person. No one known to us. Might be useful if we ever get as far as pulling in a suspect.”

“And he wasn’t seen all day?”

“We think he must have hidden out in the farm until it got dark. Otherwise he’d have been noticed. Elvet’s that sort of place. Nosy.”

Halfway through the afternoon she cracked and phoned Ashworth. She’d been thinking about him since he’d left in the morning. It was clear he couldn’t talk without being overheard. He sounded pleased with himself, though, and she wished she’d taken on the job. Delegation was supposed to be about shipping out the crap, but she’d never seemed to have got the hang of it. Usually she was left with that stuff herself. She went back to the hotel, had a long bath and tried to contain her impatience.

Her phone rang at about eight thirty and she snatched it from the bedside cupboard, thinking it would be Joe Ashworth at last with some news. It was Paul Holness and disappointment made her lose concentration for a moment. She missed what he was saying because she was wondering what could have happened to Joe.

“Sorry,” she said, ‘it’s a terrible line. Would you mind repeating that?”

IWe’ve just had a phone call from Veronica Lee, the landlady at the Anchor. It seems Michael Long’s made some sort of scene there. He’s in a bit of a state, she says. Wants to speak to you. We could send one of our lads if you like, but I thought you might want to go. Jeanie’s dad, isn’t he? Nothing really to do with us.”

“Yes,” she said. “Probably best if I do it. He knows me! She thought she was a sad old bat, because a phone call like that could suddenly make her come alive.

She parked in the square and noticed that there was a light on in the Old Forge. She hesitated briefly, tempted to go there first to talk to Dan. But that could wait, she thought. He wouldn’t be leaving the village again tonight. She’d best see what had rattled Michael’s cage first. There was no sign of drama in the Anchor when she went in. Half a dozen kids were gathered round the pool table, a few middle-aged couples sat at the tables in the window, two large-bellied men were playing darts. They stared at her, then looked away. By now everyone in the village knew who she was.

“Veronica about?”

The barman was thin and spotty and scarcely looked more than a boy himself.

“She’s out the back. She said to go on in.” The short side of the bar was hinged. He lifted it for her to go through. She felt a sudden thrill to be there, standing behind the bar between the taps and the optics. It was like going backstage at a theatre. She imagined herself retired, running a small pub in a village in the hills, but knew it would never happen. She’d offend the customers and drink all the profits.

She’d thought the door behind the bar would lead through to the landlady’s living quarters, but she emerged into a kitchen where, earlier in the evening, bar meals had been cooked. The sink was full of dirty pans. Michael sat at the table looking dazed. A half-drunk cup of tea, with a film already forming on the top, stood in front of him. Veronica was looking at him anxiously. A man with pebbly eyes stood leaning against the counter looking down at them. He was eating a cheese roll and his mouth was half full.

“You’d best go back, Barry,” Veronica said. “Someone needs to keep an eye on the bar.”

“Sam’ll manage.”

“No,” she said. “He won’t. I’ll not be long myself. Michael doesn’t need an audience.”

Barry seemed inclined to argue again, but she shot him a look and he slouched off, still clutching the cheese roll.

“What’s all this about, then?” Vera said. She realized she was speaking as if Michael was an invalid or a naughty child and tried again. “They said you wanted to talk to me.”

He looked up and seemed to recognize her for the first time.

“I found out about that pilot. He used to know Mantel, changed his name. I imagined all sorts. You know the way your mind can work. He was in here tonight with that young wife of his.” The words tumbled over themselves. He looked at her fearfully, anticipating her disapproval. She saw that he’d fallen apart since she’d last seen him. Jeanie’s death had finally caught up with him.

“Did you tell her what you’d found out?” she asked. “Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“He told the whole bar,” Veronica said. “Made a bit of a scene. I should have realized what sort of strain he was under. I thought he was coping. I’ve called the doctor.”

Vera took a seat beside Michael. “You should have come to me. I’d have explained.” But what? she thought. What could I have told him?

“It was Mantel, wasn’t it?” Michael said, desperately. “He was behind it all.”

Again, she didn’t know what to answer. “It won’t be long now,” she said. “This time tomorrow we should have someone in custody. It’ll not bring Jeanie back…”

He finished the sentence for her. “But I’ll know…” For a moment he seemed to be more himself. Veronica reached across the table and took his hand.

Out in the square, Vera stood to collect her thoughts. A dog or a fox had been at a bin and scraps of rubbish blew across the street. They wouldn’t like that, the respectable people of Elvet. They liked their muck firmly shut away. She walked to the Captain’s House and banged on the door. James opened it almost immediately. At first she misinterpreted his anxiety.

“Sorry,” she said. “I should have thought before making that noise. I’d forgotten there was a baby in the house.”

“No, Matthew’s not here. Robert and Mary are looking after him. I thought you were Emma.”

“Where is she?”

“There was a scene in the pub. She ran off.” He hesitated. “You were right, of course. I should have told her myself.”

“Where’s she gone? To her parents?”

“No. The car’s still here.”

“And you just let her go off by herself?” In the dark? A week after her brother was murdered?

“She’s quite safe,” he said. “I saw where she went. She ran over to the forge. Dan will look after her.”

“Why did she go to Dan?”

“I suppose she needed someone to talk to. He’s my friend. Perhaps she thought he’d understand, make her understand. Perhaps she thought I’d discussed it with him.”

“Are they close, the two of them?”

“No,” he cried. “Not like that.”

“I’ll go over,” she said. “See what’s going on.”

“I’ll come with you:

“Best not. Give her a chance to think about it. Mind, I work for the police, not marriage guidance. I’ll not try to persuade her either way.” If she’s there. Alive and safe.

Back on the pavement she saw at once that there was now no light in the forge. She thought there had been when she’d left the pub, but she’d not heard a car leaving when she’d been talking to James. Standing just inside the hall, the door still open, she’d have heard, might even have heard the big doors being shut to, the snap of the padlock. She remembered what Dan’s young neighbour had said about his unloading after the trade fair. Perhaps there’d been a van parked in the yard in the back. Perhaps they’d left in that. But where would he take her?

All this she was thinking as she hurried across to the pottery, and then came the fanciful thought that she was like a piece of rubbish, blown backwards and forwards across the square.

The doors were bolted inside, but not padlocked. She banged on them with the flat of her hand, rattling them until her palms were stinging, but there was no reply and she moved on down the street, looking for a way into the yard at the back.

Access was through a tunnel, which cut through a terrace of houses. It led to an alley where domestic cars were parked. At the end of the alley was a set of wooden gates, now propped open, and the yard at the back of the pottery. There were no street lights in the alley, but it was lit from the windows at the back of the houses. This was considered private space and many hadn’t bothered to shut curtains. She had brief glimpses of ordinary lives: a mother hanging nappies on a radiator, an elderly man washing-up. In another room a young couple sat after a late supper, the kitchen table transformed for romance with a paper tablecloth, a candle and a bottle of wine.

The yard behind the pottery was empty. If Dan had been there with a van, he’d already gone. He must have Emma with him, unless he’d left her inside. Vera had a picture of her in the dusty storeroom, tied perhaps, scared, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. Was she dead already? Strangled like her brother and her best friend? Vera shook her head, trying to clear away the nightmare. She wiped dust and cobwebs from the narrow windowpane with her sleeve and peered in, but it was dark inside and impossible to see. There was a small back door. She tried that, but it was locked. The paint was peeling from it, but the wood was sound and she wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to break in. She leaned her shoulder against it and shoved. Nothing moved. She thumped on the door then put her ear to it and listened. There was no sound. She gave up.

James was watching from his window. As she approached the house the curtain fell back into place but she’d seen his white face pressed against the glass and the door opened before she knocked.

“She’s not there, is she? I can tell the place is all locked up.”

“Has she got a mobile phone?”

She watched panic flash across his face. “Like Christopher, you mean? You think there’s some connection?”

“No,” she said. “Not like Christopher. You could call her. Find out where she’s gone.”

He gave an embarrassed laugh, lifted the phone in the hall and dialled. Vera realized they were both holding their breath, that she was straining to hear Emma’s voice. From the kitchen came an electronic tune. Something lively which she recognized. Something from an old film. The Entertainer. Slowly James replaced the receiver. “That’s her mobile,” he said. “She must have left it here. Probably thought she wouldn’t need it in the pub. She knew I had mine with me.” He paused, made an effort to hold himself together. “She’ll be all right with Dan, though. He used to be a policeman.”

“Yes,” Vera said. “I know.”

She left him in the house. Someone had to be there, she said. Emma couldn’t come home and find the place empty. Besides, Dan might talk some sense into her. She would probably phone.

She sat in the car, knowing that James would be watching and expecting immediate action. People were coming out of the pub though it wasn’t quite closing time. Every time the door opened, there was a blast of music like cold air. She didn’t know where to go or what to do. There was the baby to think of too. It wasn’t like her to be indecisive and the lack of direction made her anxious, the first stage of panic. Her phone rang and she punched the button, glad to be distracted for the moment at least.

It was Ashworth. “You were right,” he said. “But then you always are.”

No, she thought. Not any more. My judgement’s worth nothing these days. I thought I was sure about Dan Greenwood. Once.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“On my way to the house. That’s what you want, is it?”

Is it? “Yes.”

“I’ll see you there, shall I?”

“Yes,” she said again, more quickly, glad that the decision had been made for her.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Of course.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Ashworth was sitting in his car at the end of the drive to Springhead. Vera pulled into a gateway leading into a small patch of woodland and walked down the road to join him. There was a smell of wet leaves and cows. She felt better, though anxiety about Emma had settled at the pit of her stomach, a dull ache. She couldn’t cope with breaking more bad news. And she couldn’t cope with being wrong about what had happened here. She climbed into the passenger seat. Joe was listening to the radio. Classic FM. He was doing an evening class in music appreciation. She reached over and switched it off.

“Well?” she said.

“I did as you suggested, talked to the neighbours. It wasn’t very useful at first. Most of them had moved in since the Winters left. It’s one of those classy areas where everyone’s too busy to wonder what’s going on behind closed doors. Big houses, lots of garden. Then I tracked down one elderly woman who remembered them. “A lovely family,” she said. “Such a shame when they moved.” He put on an old lady’s voice, high pitched, with a BBC accent. Vera thought he’d be good in the local pan to He could play the dame.

Joe went on. “She was a widow even then and she used to babysit for the Winters when the kids were small. Until they stopped asking. She’d been upset by that, wondered if she’d done something wrong, if the children had taken against her for some reason. It troubled her so much that she went to see Mary. “Of course I was worrying quite unnecessarily. One of Robert’s colleagues had a daughter who needed the money. It was only natural that they should ask her instead.”

“Ah,” Vera said. A sigh of relief and satisfaction.

“The colleague’s name is Maggie Sullivan. There’d only been four of them working together. Three architects and someone to run the office. Two of them an architect and the office manager had been close to retirement, a bit old to have teenage daughters, so it wasn’t hard to work out she was the most likely. She’s still working in York. When I explained what I was there for, she was only too pleased to see me. She felt guilty because she hadn’t gone to the police when it happened.”

And what, exactly, did happen?”

“Robert Winter became obsessed with the daughter. He followed her around, waited for her outside school. Made a real nuisance of himself.” Ashworth paused. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. Not really. But there had to be something to make them change their lives so dramatically.” And there was something about him, something that made my flesh crawl. And the psychiatrist said someone sufficiently controlled could get away with it.

“To make him turn to God?”

Aye, I suppose…” She nodded towards the house. “What’s happening in there?”

“I don’t know. It’s been quiet while I’ve been here.”

“You’ve not seen Emma Bennett go in?”

“No, but I’ve only just arrived.”

“She’s had a row with her husband and gone missing.” Vera explained about Michael Long and the scene in the Anchor. “Probably nothing, but I’ve got a nasty feeling about it.”

“It can’t be significant, can it?” He turned to her easily. He thought he knew now exactly who’d killed Abigail and Christopher. She didn’t answer immediately. Now it came to it, she wasn’t sure any more.

“Maybe not.”

“How do you want to play it?” he said. “We could wait until morning, get a warrant. The boy’s mobile has still not been found. If that’s in there, we’ve got a result.”

Vera thought she couldn’t stand to wait until morning. She hated this case. She hated all the pretending, the unfinished grieving, the foul, flat country. She wanted to be home. Besides, there was Emma and the bairn to consider.

“Why don’t we go in?”

“Now?”

“No big deal. A few informal questions. And we’ve got an excuse. We’re looking for Emma.”

“What if we scare him away?”

“I don’t think that’s likely, do you?” Ashworth considered for a moment. “No,” he said. “Someone like that, he wants to be caught.”

Vera didn’t think Joe had got that quite right, but she was still hoping to persuade him to bend a few rules, so she didn’t say anything.

Ashworth reached for the key to turn on the engine, but she stopped him.

“We’ll walk in. Don’t want to give any warning.”

And she needed time to work it all out. Not so much that, to psyche herself up, to believe again that she was up to the job. To forget that moment of panic outside the Captain’s House. They walked up the straight, flat drive to the house and their eyes got used to the dark, so after a while they didn’t need Joe Ashworth’s torch. It was a clear night. It might freeze later, like the night Christopher was killed. Would Robert and Mary be looking out at the stars, remembering? There was enough light from the traffic passing on the road and the moon. To their right, the coast was marked by the red lamp on the pilot mast and ahead of them were two orange squares, one above the other. One downstairs and one upstairs window in the ugly square house. Another sort of beacon.

The curtains at the kitchen window weren’t drawn, and Vera stood, pressed against the wall so she couldn’t be seen from inside, looking in. Robert and Mary were sitting at the kitchen table. Mary stood up, took a pan of milk from the Aga and poured it into mugs. Only two mugs, Vera saw. Something of the panic returned. Where was Emma? From another room there came a noise, a howl.

Then Emma walked in and Vera felt her pulse slow. She was carrying a screaming baby on her hip and her eyes were red from crying. Mary offered to take Matthew from her, but she held onto him. She paced up and down, rubbing his back until the cries subsided, then she took her place at the table. Immediately Robert started to talk to her.

All this talk, Vera thought. Everyone sitting around telling stories to justify themselves or shift the guilt. She wondered what could have happened. Had Emma been to the pottery at all? Perhaps Dan had given her a lift. Another story, Vera thought. More explanations. Emma had come to Springhead to collect the baby of course, not to talk to her parents. She’d never confided in them.

She continued to stand there in the yard looking in. Outside was the huge winter sky, which made you dizzy just to think of it, inside a small family drama, a soap opera. And she was in the middle. Even if they’d been able to make out her shadow in the darkness, she thought they wouldn’t have noticed. They were engrossed in conversation and she could hear everything which was going on. Springhead House had never run to double glazing.

Mary was talking now. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would James do such a thing?”

“I don’t understand either. He lied to me. What else is there to know? If Mr. Long hadn’t dug up his past he probably never would have told me.”

“Shouldn’t you ask him?”

“Perhaps he lied because he killed Abigail. I don’t want to hear that.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mary said. “James changed his name. It doesn’t make him a different person. He didn’t lie about anything important. And you married him, you had his child. It’s not something you can just walk out of. You can’t run away.” She was clutching the big patchwork bag on her knee as if she had a baby of her own.

“Why not? Isn’t that what he did? He didn’t like who he was, so he ran away.”

“You should phone him,” Robert said. “He’ll be worried.”

“Good.” Emma could have been fifteen again, defiant, determined to get her own way. Vera thought she must have had exactly that expression before she set off to meet Abigail in the Old Chapel, venting her fury in her battle against the wind. “I hope he’s desperate with worry.”

Vera walked away from the window and knocked on the kitchen door. Not too loud. The state of their nerves, she’d give them all heart attacks. But they’d probably think it was James. She imagined them staring at each other, trying to decide who should answer. Eventually, Emma opened the door. That would be what the parents had wanted, Vera thought. They always knew what was best for her, and they always got their way. The young woman stood in the doorway, still holding the baby, glaring out at them.

“I can’t believe James got you involved with this,” Emma said. “It’s not police business. Nothing to do with you.”

“He was worried,” Vera said mildly. “It’d do no harm to let him know you’re safe. Are you going to let us in?”

“What do you want from us at this time of night?”

A few questions. As you’re all up anyway.”

The fight seemed to leave Emma suddenly and she became passive again, wan, girlish. She stood aside to let them past. Why does she do it? Vera thought. Why does she turn into a child every time there’s trouble? That little-girl look. The big sad eyes. Is it conscious?

Does she think it will keep her out of bother? Make Dan Greenwood love her?

“How did you get here?” Vera asked. Emma, in this mode, made her want to lash out and the question came out brutally.

“I got a lift.”

“Where is he now?”

“Who?” But already Emma was blushing. It started at her neck and ears and moved up her face.

“Dan Greenwood. You went to see him. He gave you a lift here. Don’t mess me about. If I ask you questions, it’s because I need information.”

“I don’t know where he is now.” Emma seemed on the verge of tears. Vera could sense Ashworth behind her, winding himself up to be chivalrous. Any minute now he’d be offering the lass his hankie. He was always taken in by a pretty face and a sob story. She moved through to the kitchen where the Winters were sitting just as they’d been when she’d watched them through the window.

“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” she said.

Nobody spoke. They stared at her.

“I’ve just told Emma, there are a few more questions.” And then, she thought, with a bit of luck she’d be away from this place and these people. They were getting under her skin. She could almost believe that they were the cause of the allergy on her legs, the itching and scratching. It was the people, or the stagnant water in the ditches, or the rotting weeds in the set-aside fields. Then she told herself not to be so daft and get on with the job.

“An investigation like this,” she said, ‘we have to dig deep. People have secrets…”

“Are you talking about James?” Robert interrupted. “Emma has already explained about that. There was no need for you to come all the way out here.”

“No,” Vera said. “Not James.” She stopped, turned to Emma. “But why don’t you phone him? Put the poor man out of his misery.”

“What other secrets can there be?” Emma said.

Vera didn’t answer directly. “Phone James. Listen to what he has to say.”

“Why do you want me out of the way?” Emma said. “I’m not a child. You can talk in front of me.”

Vera looked at her sadly.

“Sergeant Ashworth has been doing most of the leg work. He spent the day in York.” Robert Winter was sitting opposite her. She was watching for a reaction, but none came. Perhaps he’d been expecting this. Perhaps he’d been waiting for it from the time news of Jeanie Long’s innocence was released. Beside her, Mary, who had been restless all evening, was becoming even more agitated.

“We don’t need to discuss this now, do we? It’s late. As you can tell, Inspector, we have our own family problems. Emma’s very upset.”

“Mr. Winter?”

“What do you want to know?” His voice was professionally courteous, with just a hint of a threat. I hope you’re not here with allegations you can’t substantiate. We’re victims. You should treat us with respect and compassion.

“I spoke to your former business partner, Mrs. Sullivan.” Joe Ashworth was still standing by the door. They all looked up at him. At one time it would have made him awkward to be the centre of attention. Vera was proud of his new confidence, liked to think she had something to do with it.

“Maggie and I parted in rather unfriendly circumstances,” Robert said. “She felt she’d lost out financially. I don’t think you should depend on her version of events.”

“She told me you developed an obsession with her teenage daughter.”

“Ridiculous.”

“She said that she was the one to dissolve the partnership. She felt she was forced to break professional links with you, because she was so concerned about your relationship with Zoe.”

“Look,” Robert said. He put a smile into his voice, sounded like a politician at his most sincere. “Maggie Sullivan’s husband left them when Zoe was still a baby. I was a father figure. I admit I took an interest in the girl, but I thought I was helping.”

“I’m sure that was how it started. She was almost a part of the family, wasn’t she? She spent a lot of time in your home and she helped with your children.”

“She was an only child,” Robert said. “She loved them.”

“Then you started phoning her when you knew her mother wasn’t in the house. You took to waiting for her outside school, following her home. You wrote her love letters. Mrs. Sullivan described you as a stalker. She threatened to go to the police, but disliked the idea of heir daughter becoming involved in a court case.”

“You make it sound so squalid,” Robert said. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?” Vera asked, as if she was just curious, as if it was a bit of gossip over the tea table.

“I suppose I was going through a crisis in my life. Everything seemed pointless. I was very depressed. Helping Zoe gave me some sense of worth. I believed I could make a difference. Bring some love into her life. It’s easy to be cynical about something like that, but it was how I felt. It was at that point that I discovered the importance of faith. It was all meant, you see. The misunderstanding with Zoe and Maggie, the problems at work, they all helped to bring me to Christ.”

His voice was calm and reasonable. He could have been presenting evidence about an offender in the magistrates court. There was a silence. For a moment even Vera could think of nothing to say. She considered laughter to be the only response to such a distortion of the truth, but she’d seen Emma’s face, which was pinched and white, and knew that this was no laughing matter.

Robert stared round at them. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Nobody replied.

Chapter Forty-Four

There was a brief, intense silence and then the phone rang. No one moved, but it continued to ring. Mary got to her feet, walked into the hall and answered it. They could hear her words quite clearly. “She’s here, James. She was just going to ring you. Yes, she’s fine. Perhaps you could collect her. Not immediately. Give her half an hour.”

She came back into the kitchen and took her place without a word. Vera looked at them, waited for someone to speak.

“You lied,” Emma said to her father. She seemed more in control. Her voice was as calm as his had been. “You’re no better than James.”

“You were very young. It was complicated.”

“I remember Zoe. They’re good memories a barbecue in the garden. Her helping me with piano practice. She was musical, wasn’t she? She played the flute. It’s one of my clearest childhood memories, sitting in the1 garden in York, listening to her practise. I wonder what she’s doing now. Do you know?”

She looked around at her parents, but they both ignored her.

“I wondered why she stopped looking after us.

Chris missed her more than I did. She understood his projects. They were very close.”

“What did you make of it, Mary?” Vera’s voice was very quiet. They could have been alone in the room.

“Of Robert’s fondness for Zoe? It was a difficult time. He blamed me for the friendship. If I’d been a different sort of wife it would never have happened, he said. If I’d been younger, more attractive, more attentive…”

“You didn’t believe that?”

“I didn’t know what to believe. When she first started coming to the house, I’d watch them together, and see that she made him happier than I ever could.”

She looked at Robert, but he said nothing to contradict her.

“Then, when he became a Christian, I was relieved. I thought things would change. He’d been very low. Sometimes he talked about suicide. I tried to persuade him to see a doctor, but he wouldn’t go. I felt responsible. For him and for poor Zoe. I thought I could hold the family together and make it work. Pride, I suppose. I didn’t want to admit that we weren’t as close as we appeared.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Emma said. “None of it.”

Mary didn’t answer. “I believed the move to Elvet would be a fresh start for us all. A wonderful new beginning. And no real harm had been done after all. We still had a chance to put things back to how they’d been. But that was never really possible. We were different. We’d all been affected by what had happened in York, even the children, although they were really too young to notice what was going on, and we tried to protect them. I suppose it was inevitable.”

“Did anything change?” Vera asked.

“Yes, of course! At the beginning! Robert loved his work. He felt fulfilled and valued. We had the structure of our life in the church. I began to relax. I thought everything would turn out well.”

“Then what happened?”

She didn’t reply and Emma answered for her. “He fell for Abigail. For the red hair and the short skirts.” Again her voice was calm, matter of fact. “I can remember when he first met her. That time on the Point, when the sun was shining and we were all eating ice creams. Then at youth club. He told me that he’d never met Abigail, but it wasn’t true. I should have remembered the club. That was one of the first things he did when he arrived in Elvet, he set up the club. He can’t have really changed, can he? If he’d really changed that would be the last thing he’d do. Put himself in a position where he’d meet young girls. I’d forgotten all about that until recently, forgotten that Abigail was ever there. She wasn’t a regular, but she did come occasionally, showing off, making the rest of us look pathetic. Dressed up in her smart clothes. The first time she came was for a disco, wasn’t it? I’d asked her and I was so excited when she agreed to come. It was the last meeting before the summer holidays. Dad was sitting on the stage watching the dancing. I remember. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. I was so stupid. I thdught it was because she was a good dancer. Then Keith got held up and couldn’t take her home and Dad gave her a lift back. Chris and I came back to Springhead with Mum.” She looked at her father for the first time. “Is that when it started?”

“Mantel was never a real father,” Robert said. “She needed someone to talk to.”

“Like Zoe?” Vera asked. “Did you pick Abigail up from school too? Meet her when she bunked off lessons?”

“I never encouraged that. I tried to persuade her to go back. I acted like her social worker, that’s all.”

“My God,” Emma said. “You had sex with her.”

“No! She wanted to. The opportunity was there. I admit I was tempted, but we never had sex.” He looked at Mary. “You must believe me.”

Vera had a sudden picture of Bill Clinton. I never had sexual relations with that woman. But perhaps Robert was telling more than the literal truth.

“Is that when the blackmail started?” she asked. “When you refused to sleep with her. We know she was a very mixed-up young lady.”

“Yes,” he said. “She threatened to tell the whole village that we’d been lovers. “We could announce it at the youth club. Deceit’s a sin. We should stand on the stage, holding hands, and tell the world.” Then she’d burst out laughing, as if she’d been drinking or she was mad and I never knew whether or not she was serious. I tried to stay away from her, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I thought I was the only one who could save her.”

“Then you killed her,” Emma said in a whisper. “You strangled her, and left her out by the ditch for me to find.” There was a moment of silence, of horror. “Did you kill Christopher, because he’d found out?”

They were all staring at Robert, waiting for an answer. He said nothing and Emma continued talking.

“I think I’ve always known. I think I even knew at the time. Not about Zoe, not the details at least, but even then I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t believe the miraculous conversion. There was one night when I couldn’t sleep, and I came downstairs. You were in the garden talking about it. There was a smell of honeysuckle. You were planning how you could leave York. I must have heard something…

“And Abigail must have wanted me to know. What a game it would have been for her. There was the way she talked about my father, all teasing and secretive. How many hints had she dropped? And I never picked up on them. Or I didn’t want to. She’d have told me eventually, of course. She’d have loved it, made out that it was for my own good, that she felt I had a right to know the sort of man my father was. And I’d already guessed. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. I didn’t want to believe it.”

Vera, watching, heard the self-dramatization, thought she couldn’t wait to get away from them all.

“Did you kill her?” Robert asked.

Emma looked at him as if he was a fool. “Me? Of course not. Do you really think I could do that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Get out,” she said.

Robert stood up and seemed about to say more. She looked away from him.

“I’ll phone James,” he said. “Tell him to come now.” It was as if he hadn’t spoken. He looked around, expecting a response. Even Mary seemed unaware of his presence. He left the room. Ashworth slipped out after him.

Chapter Forty-Five

Vera cleared her throat. She’d heard enough. It was time for her to take centre stage. It was usually a position she loved, but somehow tonight, she couldn’t get into the mood.

“Robert didn’t kill Abigail,” Vera said. “At first I thought he did, but it wouldn’t have been possible. Not physically. You all described that Sunday to Caroline Fletcher. Her records aren’t brilliant, but she made a note of that. Emma, you and your father were together in here, washing-up.” She paused. “How did Christopher get out of helping?”

“He probably claimed he had homework to do. Some project. He could usually dream up something urgent for school after Sunday lunch. Something to get him out of domestic duties.” Emma watched Vera warily across the table.

Vera stared back. “Christopher would have been upstairs, then?”

“Yes.”

And your mother would have been in the living room, reading the paper. That was the Sunday routine. She cooked the lunch and then she was allowed some peace. Nobody would have disturbed her.”

“She deserved some time to herself. We all appreciated that.”

“Oh, we all deserve some peace.” Even me. Even an old cop, who spends her life meddling in other people’s business. Vera looked at the women, thought suddenly that she’d made a terrible mistake, that she’d got the whole case wrong. Then her confidence returned as suddenly as it had deserted her. This is it, she thought. Let’s get it over. Then I can go home.

“But there was no peace for you that day, was there, Mary? You waited until Robert and Emma were washing-up and then you left the house by the door into the garden. You’d arranged to meet Abigail. How did you manage that, Mary? Did you send her a note, pretending to be Robert?”

“I didn’t think that she’d come,” Mary said.

“What happened to the note? It was never found.”

“She had it with her when we met. She was waving it at me, taunting. I snatched it from her hand.”

“I don’t think for a moment you intended to kill the girl. You thought you could reason with her. You’d explain that Robert was a good man with a lot to lose. You only meant to protect him. You were more like a mother than a wife, weren’t you? It doesn’t seem fair that you had to live like that. Holding the family together, keeping up appearances in the parish. You’d never all have survived another move.”

For the first time that evening Mary was quite still. She could have been carved from wax. She stared ahead of her and she didn’t answer.

“But Abigail was never reasonable. She was disturbed and wilful. She liked to create trouble. She would have been delighted to see you. Someone else to be her audience. Did she gloat about her power over Robert? It would all have been a game to her. Did she laugh?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “She laughed.”

“And she wouldn’t stop?”

At first Vera thought Mary would refuse to answer, that she’d made a terrible mistake, coming here so late, provoking a confrontation. The silence seemed to last for hours. Then Mary spoke, her words as considered as always. She wanted her story told in her own way. “It was so loud. Louder than the rooks and the sound of the wind. Even there, miles from anywhere, I was afraid someone would hear.”

“You wanted her to be quiet.”

“Yes,” Mary said. “I wanted the noise to go away.”

The door opened and Ashworth came quietly into the room. Mary didn’t notice.

“Perhaps we should talk about this later,” Vera said. “Somewhere else. When there’s a lawyer to look after your interests.”

“Let me tell you now.” Her voice was urgent.

“I should warn you that you’ll be charged and that you don’t have to say anything…”

“I know all about that,” Mary interrupted impatiently. “But I want you to know. Before anyone else puts words into my mouth…”

“Let her speak,” Emma said. “I have to know.”

“Go on.”

Abigail was laughing. Suddenly it felt so undignified, standing there, shouting at the girl. I reached out to make her stop, so I wouldn’t have to yell. I caught both ends of her scarf and pulled them. To make her listen at first. Just to make her take me seriously. Then she was quiet and limp and I could hear the rooks again and the wind. I left her and I went home. I took off my wet shoes and my jacket and put them in the cupboard under the stairs. I went into the kitchen. No one had missed me. I didn’t really believe she was dead. I thought I’d given her a fright, she was young and fit, and she’d run back to the Chapel.”

“You can’t really have believed that,” Vera said. “Because you followed Emma out.”

“I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want Emma to find Abigail and be alone. I suppose I thought I might have killed her.”

“You never told Robert?”

“He didn’t realize I knew he was seeing her. He thought it was a big secret.”

“Weren’t you angry that he was making a fool of himself over her?” Emma asked. “Jealous?”

“He couldn’t help himself,” Mary said. “And he had so much to give. So much good work still to do.”

There was another silence. Vera knew she should move on. It was one of the rules she’d passed on to Ashworth. Don’t let them get to you. Whatever they’ve done, you can’t take it personally. You’d go crazy. But she allowed herself one unnecessary question. “How could you let Jeanie go to prison?”

“I couldn’t think about it. I had Robert to look after and the children. They wouldn’t have survived without me. She was young, strong. I thought she’d be out in a few years.”

Vera said nothing. She thought of the prison on the top of the cliff, Jeanie Long protesting her innocence, facing the parole board and refusing to play the game which would have got her released.

“If you had children,” Mary said, ‘you’d understand.”

“Did Christopher see you out in the field that afternoon?”

“No. No one saw me!

“Why did he have to die?” “He didn’t have to die. Of course not. Do you think I wanted to kill him?”

“I don’t understand. You’ll have to explain.”

“That summer, he was obsessed by Abigail Mantel too. It was as if she’d cast a spell over the whole family, over Emma and Robert and Christopher. I was the only one who could see through her. That first day, when we’d ridden our bikes to the Point and we were eating ice creams, and she turned up with her father in that fast car, I could tell then that she resented us. We had a closeness that she missed. Her father was out with different women, tied up with work. She wanted to be like us but she couldn’t and so she had to spoil things.”

She was a child, Vera thought. Screwed up and miserable. But she let Mary go on.

“Christopher saw Robert and Abigail together. He didn’t say anything then. Perhaps it didn’t mean much at the time. He’d had the afternoon off school. A dentist’s appointment. He saw them together in Crill. Then he watched her. I think there were other occasions.”

“Did he ask you about it?”

“No. Of course not. He was a secretive boy and children seldom confide in their parents.”

“How do you know, then, that he saw Abigail and your husband together?”

“He told me when he came here last week.”

“The day that he died?”

“Yes.”

“The day that you killed him?”

There was a long pause. “Yes.”

“Did he phone you that morning?”

“Robert had left for work. I started later in the library, and I was on my way out when the phone went. It was Christopher, calling on his mobile. He sounded dreadfully upset, almost incoherent. He was in that derelict farm near the parish cemetery. He was accusing Robert of killing Abigail. He said he should have realized, said something at the time. I didn’t know what to do. I thought we were safe. Robert was working hard. He’d put the nonsense of Abigail Mantel behind him and nothing of the sort had happened since. We had a new family, Emma and James and the baby…”

“More people for you to be responsible for.”

“Yes,” Mary said gratefully. “You see, you do understand.”

“Did you go to see Christopher at the farm?”

“No. I needed time to consider what I should do for the best. I told him I’d ring him later, that we could meet. I hoped he’d get bored with waiting. He was very easily bored. I didn’t think he’d make a scene in public. I hoped he’d just go back to Aberdeen and forget. Later, when I’d had time to put together a proper explanation, I’d go to visit him and make him see. I understood then why he’d been so reluctant to visit us, to be a part of the family. I thought if I had time, I could make it right. That we could be close again.”

“Easy-going,” Vera said. “Relaxed. Like other families.”

“Yes,” Mary said. “Exactly.”

So the second set of fingerprints at the farm hadn’t belonged to the murderer. Another false lead. Vera thought there was probably little forensic evidence connecting Mary to Christopher. But now they had a confession. And she wouldn’t go back on that, whatever her lawyers would tell her. The role of martyr suited her.

“Was killing him one of the options you considered?” “Of course not.” She was horrified. “He was my only son.”

“What did you do with his mobile phone?” “It’s upstairs. In my drawer in the bedroom.” Vera knew she should be triumphant, but looking at the dumpy woman with the untidy ponytail, she only felt sick. No doubt Mary would end up in Spinney Fen too. She would be a model prisoner. She’d volunteer for the groups to tackle offender behaviour. Robert and Emma would visit. Robert wouldn’t be able to work there any more, but the probation service was supposed to be compassionate. They’d find him something else.

“Why did you arrange to meet him in the lane outside the Mantel house?”

“I didn’t. He must have made his way here. Hoping to make a scene perhaps. Some sort of confrontation. James and Emma must have mentioned the fireworks. When he came here and the house was empty, he crossed the fields to the Chapel.”

Taking the path Abigail had used ten years before. “When I went to fetch my coat, he was waiting by the car. It was a terrible shock. It was as I told you. I switched on the headlights and there he was. He was very cold. He’d been waiting for a long time. He looked like a tramp. I hardly recognized him. He said his father had killed Abigail. I told him that was ridiculous, that it wasn’t true. He got out his mobile and said he was going to phone the police. I had to stop him. Of course I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Didn’t you? thought Vera, no longer convinced. Was it really another accident? Like Abigail? It’s much easier to love a dead son, than a live, inconvenient one.

“He was your son,” she said, forgetting again the rule about staying detached. “Yet afterwards, you kept to your story. When we talked to you the next day you were very calm.”

“It was the greatest sacrifice a woman can make,” Mary said. “I did it to protect Robert, to keep the rest of the family together. I couldn’t let the sacrifice be in vain.”

Bollocks. You panicked and you did it to protect yourself. “What did you hit him with?”

“There was a torch in the car. Long, very heavy. He turned away to make the phone call. I hit him. He fell into the ditch. He fell awkwardly. All you could see was that horrible anorak. I moved him so that he looked more peaceful. He wasn’t breathing. I checked. There was nothing anyone could do to save him. And he wasn’t happy any more. He wasn’t happy as he’d been when he was a boy, living with us.”

“What did you do with the torch?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “It had blood on it. I wiped it on his anorak. That was dirty anyway. Then I put it back into my bag.”

And I let you carry it away, Vera thought. I knew we’d have to search your car, but we didn’t search you. I thought you were too distressed to bear it. How long will I have to live that one down? She was already wondering if there was some way that could be left out of the final report.

She realized then that Emma was crying. She wasn’t making any noise, but tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Chapter Forty-Six

Vera caught up with Dan Greenwood in Wendy’s cottage on the Point. She thought she deserved some light relief before she left for the north. It was the next morning. She hadn’t been to bed. The night had been a blur, a nightmare. She remembered Robert standing by the kitchen door at Springhead as they’d led his wife away into the freezing night. “One day, Mary, I hope I’ll be able to forgive you.” What had all that been about? A grand theatrical gesture which meant fuck all. She’d have liked to charge him too, but Ashworth had persuaded her that they had no grounds. Winter had never had sex with Zoe Sullivan. The mother had been quite clear about that. Probably not with Abigail either. Two murders and nothing but a sad, middle-aged man’s fantasies as a reason for them. A sad middle-aged man and a mad middle-aged woman. He’d be back at church on Sunday and no doubt the old ladies would rally round, offering him home-made soup and sympathy.

Wendy opened the door. She was in her dressing gown.

“I want to see Greenwood,” Vera said.

Wendy hesitated.

“Don’t piss me around. I know he’s here. Emma Bennett saw you together last night in the pottery.”

“Poor Emma,” Wendy said. “I think she had a bit of a crush.”

“Don’t tell Danny boy that. You don’t want to flatter him. He’s not in any bother. I’m just here to say goodbye.” She raised her voice. “Come on down, Dan. Decent or not.”

She followed Wendy into the cottage. She wondered if she was wearing knickers under the dressing gown. Black knickers with a sequinned heart. Of all the places in El vet, this was the house where Vera felt most at home. She loved the untidiness, the view over the water. Danny emerged down the stairs. He was still pulling a jersey over his head. “How long’s this been going on?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. A couple of months.” Wendy was grinning, couldn’t help herself. She perched on the arm of the chair where Danny was sitting, could hardly stop herself from touching him.

“Why did you keep it quiet?”

“Wouldn’t you? A place like this?”

“Aye, maybe.” She stood by the window, looked out. “It’s all over,” she said. “There’s someone in custody.”

“Who?” Danny asked.

“Mary Winter, the mother of the lass who found the body.”

“My God!” He sat quite still for a moment, trying to take it in. “Why did she kill them?”

“God knows,” Vera said. “She says she thought she was acting for the best, but I’m not sure I believe her. Simple jealousy perhaps, because the lass was young and bonny and the husband fancied her. That’s for the lawyers to fight over. But it’ll make no difference to the verdict. It’s over.”

“A bit late for Jeanie Long.”

“Not for you, though. Time to set it behind you.” A tanker was easing slowly up the river. “I found that file in your desk.”

“I wondered if you’d seen it.”

“For a while I wondered if you’d killed her.”

“No,” he said. “That was a different kind of obsession. I thought one day I might be able to put it right. Find the real murderer. Not that I did anything about it. Just took the file out every now and again to rub salt in the wound.”

“What will you do with it now?”

“Burn it.”

“Good luck,” Vera said, ‘with everything.”

“Thanks.”

“Right then. I’m off.”

“Home?”

“Aye,” she said. “North of the Tyne. Civilization.” She smiled broadly. “No offence.”

She had to drive through the village to pick Ashworth up from the hotel. She was forced to slow down at the Captain’s House to let a couple of kids run across the road and saw that Emma Bennett had returned home to James. She was sitting in the bedroom window, looking out over the square, apparently lost in thought. Like the heroine of some Victorian melodrama, Vera thought.

It was about time she got a life.