The Crow Trap

Chapter Fifty-Two.

Vera Stanhope sat on the plaid rug on the grass in front of Baikie’s, gulped champagne and remembered quite clearly the last time she had seen Constance Baikie alive. She was tempted to recount the event to Rachael and Edie because she knew they liked to hear her stories.

Perhaps the taste in her mouth brought the scene back so vividly because they had been drinking champagne that day too. Though Constance was so ill that they had had to hold the glass for her. They had propped her up on the sofa with pillows but by then she was so large that her flesh spread, jelly-like, over the edge of it and she looked in danger of overbalancing and falling off. Vera had come to the cottage with her father. She had driven him in her car because by that time he was getting on too. The week before she had been working nights and she was exhausted. A day with her father always sapped her energy but he had been determined to make the trip and even then, towards the end of his life, he could impose his will on her. Besides, she didn’t want him to visit Connie on his own. It wasn’t only that she was concerned for his safety, she was worried about what he might get up to.

Because her father had been an addict. She hadn’t explained that to the women when she told stories about her childhood in the hills. She hadn’t described her growing understanding of what her father was really after when he took her walking, when he pointed out the nests of skylarks and wheat ears made her watch the peregrine swooping on its prey. Her father had been an inveterate and compulsive stealer of birds’ eggs. Not in the way that a schoolchild might be. For him it was an obsession and a business. It had funded his retirement. She had come to realize, as a child, that she was there as a cover. At dangerous sites, protected by wardens and electric fences, he had even sent her in to steal the eggs.

It wouldn’t have done for an ambitious young detective to see her father in court in contravention of the Wildlife and Countryside Act so she never liked him going into the hills on his own. He swore he had given up collecting but she’d never believed a word he said. Addicts always lied. And even if it was true on his own account, Connie Baikie had always been able to twist him round her little finger. She shared his compulsion. She might be too old and sick to get into mischief now but Hector, Vera’s father, was devoted and would have done anything for the old woman.

The champagne had been his idea. “A treat for the old girl,” he had said. Vera had thought he knew Connie was dying and especially wanted to keep her sweet because he had an eye on her collection. His own was extensive enough. It was kept in locked mahogany cases, each egg held safely in a nest of cotton wool in the spare room, hidden inside an ugly mahogany wardrobe. Vera was supposed not to know about this secret, though most nights he’d shut himself into the room like a dirty old man with a hoard of porn.

Connie’s collection he had leered at and salivated over openly since Vera was a child. Even after the Wildlife Act it had been kept in full view. Occasionally Connie saw Vera looking at the display cabinets.

“They’re quite legal,” she’d say, coughing and panting to get out the words, defying Vera to contradict her. “Collected before the Act was passed.”

Vera, though, had seen new trays added and would have investigated the origins of the collection if it hadn’t been for the Hector connection.

Better not to know.

So they had been in Baikie’s, drinking champagne, silently pondering over the distribution of Connie’s collection after death when there had been an intrusion, a small drama which had perked up the old girl no end. According to Hector the incident had probably kept her going for several extra weeks.

A woman had run into the garden and banged on the French windows. This wasn’t unusual in itself. Walkers occasionally violated Connie’s privacy, asking for water, directions, even to use the lavatory.

Sometimes Connie was gracious, usually she sent them away with a flea in their ear. But this woman was frantic. She banged on the door, hammering with her fist so Vera was afraid she’d break the glass and cut herself.

It was spring. There had been deep snow that year, recently melted, so the burn was very full and fast flowing. Vera could hear the noise of the flood water even above the woman’s hysterical words as she opened the door.

From her position on the sofa Connie couldn’t quite see into the garden and, afraid of missing out on the excitement, ordered Vera to bring the visitor into the room. Stricken, bored, she smelled entertainment. The woman was in her early thirties and seemed unsuitably kit ted out for a walk in the hills. She wore make-up, leggings, white shoes with a heel. Her words tumbled out in a senseless flow.

“What is the matter, my dear?” Connie wheezed, oozing concern. “This lady’s a police officer. I’m sure she’ll be able to help.”

At that the woman took Vera by the arm and dragged her outside to join the search for her baby. That was what the scene was about a lost child. They had driven out from Kimmerston to see the little lambs.

The woman whose name was Bev thought they were really cute and Gary, the new man in her life, had suggested making a day of it. They’d parked on the track just before the gate into the Black Law farmyard and had a picnic. There was a cold wind so they’d stayed in the car where the sun was lovely. They’d let Lee out to play. What harm could he come to, out here in the country? It wasn’t like the town with perverts and madmen lurking behind every lamp-post. Was it?

They must have fallen asleep, Bev said. Vera, noting the tousled appearance, thought this was a euphemism for something more energetic.

Then the next time they looked, Lee had disappeared.

Vera walked back with Bev to the car, reassuring her all the time that by then the two-year-old would surely have turned up again. But at the car there was no sign of him. Gary seemed a pleasant lad, genuinely distraught. He was very young. In the street he could have passed for Lee’s older brother rather than a potential stepfather.

“I’ve shouted myself hoarse,” he said. “And hit the horn. I don’t know what else to do.”

Vera left them there, went back to Black Law and got Dougie to phone for a search party. She and Dougie walked the hill until help arrived.

When she returned to Baikie’s Connie insisted on having everything described to her. The boy, the boyfriend, the mother’s tears. She and Hector seemed to have reached an understanding in Vera’s absence, because a few days later the collection of raptors’ eggs were delivered to the house in Kimmerston. They joined the stock of trays in the spare-room wardrobe. The day after her father died Vera burnt them all, without opening the cases to look, on a huge pyre in the garden, along with his notebooks.

There was no happy ending to the story of the missing toddler. Indeed there was no ending at all because the boy was never found and no body was ever recovered. There was a distressing and bizarre postscript.

A gamekeeper, apparently with an axe to grind, wrote to the local paper suggesting that Lee might have been carried off by a goshawk and fed to its young. Goshawks were vicious and dangerous and should be culled, he said. Woolly-minded conservationists should let keepers get on with their jobs.

The letter was so crazy that Vera suspected Connie might be behind it.

It was the sort of joke she would have loved and she could have carried it out with Hector’s help. Beverly latched onto the explanation, however, and fuelled speculation by remembering suddenly that a large powerful bird had been hovering overhead while Lee was playing. The national press took up the story and had a field day. The case became the English equivalent of the Australian dingo story. Beverly made enough money from photos and interviews to buy Gary a new car and take him on holiday to Cyprus.

Vera thought the little boy must have wandered off towards the burn while the adults were having it away in the car, and had been swept away by the flood water. It was the only sensible explanation. Now, drinking champagne on a sultry afternoon in midsummer, she thought it was quite a coincidence. Two deaths -because the boy must surely have died at almost the same spot so many years apart.

She thought Rachael might be entertained by the story of the goshawk and the gamekeeper but never got a chance to tell it, because Joe Ashworth came out of the house with a serious look on his face and told them about the second murder. Beating her story, she had to admit, into a cocked hat.

Chapter Fifty-Three.

In the car Vera was on the radio shrieking like a madwoman, swearing, trying to get some fix on what was going on. No one was available to talk to her. No one who knew. It wasn’t supposed to have happened like this. She’d hoped the killer would come back. She couldn’t see any other way forward. But to Baikie’s. To her own territory. Not in Langholme.

She veered off the road from Langholme into the Avenue and saw Anne Preece, sitting on the grass bank by the side of the lane, a grey blanket around her shoulders, a mug clasped in both her hands. It was raining and Anne’s hair was lank and straight. She stared ahead of her. Vera thought she looked like a vagrant after the arrival of the soup run.

A young policeman blocked her path, recognized her and let her pass.

She pulled in beside Anne, wound down the window and shouted, “What the shit have you been up to?” Relief gave an edge of anger to her voice.

The policeman, confused, said, “This is Mrs. Preece. She found the body.”

Vera got out of the car. “We have met.”

She ignored the policeman and sat on the grass. All her questions were directed to Anne. “Well? I thought it was a kiddie’s birthday party.

I didn’t think you could get up to much here.”

Anne turned her head to look up towards the house. The police had blocked the road. Cars were backed up as far as the drive and there was chaos and confusion as they tried to turn. Some people had got out of their vehicles and were gawping.

“Do you want to get into the car?” Vera asked gently.

“No.” Anne shook her head violently. “If you don’t mind, I need the air.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“God knows. Probably still drinking champagne and playing to the gallery.”

“What happened?”

“I was bored. It wasn’t my thing. Precocious brats and the kids not much nicer.” Vera smiled appreciatively, nodded encouragement.

“I’d been talking to Robert. About his family. He asked about Grace and then said something about her being like her father. Their both needing help. As if he’d seen Edmund recently. So I wondered… “

“If he’d felt guilty enough to give him the help he needed?”

“Something like that. And I knew this house had been empty since Neville Furness left it. I mean, I didn’t set out to interfere but it was on my way home and I was curious.” “You should have told me,” Vera said. “But I’d probably have done the same thing myself.”

The kitchen door was unlocked.”

“Where was he?”

“In the living room, lying on the settee. At first I thought he was just drunk. There was an empty whisky bottle on the coffee table. But drunk people make lots of noises when they’re sleeping, don’t they? He wasn’t snoring. And he looked peaceful. I mean there wasn’t any blood. Do you think he killed himself?” Before Vera could answer she added, “I suppose it was Edmund? He looked the right sort of age but I’ve never met him.”

Vera looked up at the policeman who nodded.

“The brother gave a positive ID.” “Was there anyone else in the house?” Vera asked.

“No! At least I didn’t see or hear anyone. I didn’t go upstairs.”

“What did you do?”

“Got out as soon as I could. I know it was stupid but I couldn’t face looking at him.”

“Was there a phone in the house?” “I didn’t stop to check. I thought about it when I was outside but I couldn’t go back in. I couldn’t decide what would be best. I suppose it was the shock. My brain seemed to work so slowly. I banged on the door of the next house but no one was in. I didn’t want to go back to the Hall to phone you. All those people drinking and laughing. So I ran to the phone box in the village and dialled 999. Then I came back here to wait.”

“What would you like to do now? We can find your husband. Take you home.”

“Oh God. I couldn’t face Jeremy. Can’t I go back to Baikie’s? Spend the last night there as I planned?”

“I don’t see why not. If you can put up with Edie fussing over you.

She and Rachael are still there with Joe Ashworth. I’ll get someone to give you a lift.” Vera started away then turned back. “Did you see anyone when you went into Langholme to use the phone?”

“Why? Don’t you believe me?”

“It’s not that. Did you see any strangers? Anything unusual?”

Anne shook her head.

“And when you were waiting here for us to arrive?”

“A few cars passed. People leaving the party early. Mostly with kids.

But not many. The fireworks had just started.”

Vera was just about to get back into her car. Then she looked at the blocked Avenue and thought she’d be better off walking.

The young policeman still stood outside the ordinary, red-brick house.

“Do you want to go in?” “No,” she said. “I’ll keep my big feet out until the experts have finished. I’ll get more out of the living.” She Robert and Lily Fulwell in the middle of a row. The party was almost over. A few hardened drinkers stood under a makeshift canopy formed by the roof of the partially deflated bouncy castle. They had a bottle of wine which they passed between them. The rain was already collecting in pools on the compacted ground and the staff putting down the trestles and stacking the chairs weren’t happy in their work.

Nobody stopped Vera as she approached the house and she’d been there often enough to find her way around. Robert and Lily were in the kitchen. She heard them before she saw them.

“How could you have been so fucking stupid!” Lily screamed. “He was trouble. He’d always been trouble. Your mother knew that.”

“I don’t think this is the time to talk like that. I think it’s inappropriate, actually.” Robert was dogged but slightly defensive.

“My brother’s dead, for Christ’s sake. Most people might think that deserved a little sympathy.”

“Oh, come off it.” Vera had come to the open door and could see Lily leaning back in her chair, a gesture of incredulity, as she spoke.

“He was my brother. I couldn’t turn him away.”

Lily thrust her face towards her husband’s. “Can’t you see what you’ve done? So far we’ve managed to distance ourselves from that affair on the hill. But now your stupid brother’s killed himself in one of our cottages. The press will be all over the place. Can’t you imagine the effect that’ll have on us? On the boys?”

Vera stepped forward. “We don’t know that he killed himself. Not yet.

Not unless you know something I don’t.”

Lily swung round. For one glorious moment Vera thought she’d swear at her too, but she managed to restrain herself. “Inspector Stanhope.

What are you saying?”

“Nothing. Just that I don’t know what happened. Can’t jump to any conclusions. It might have been natural causes.”

“Is that likely?” Lily was clutching at straws. Vera let her. She shrugged. “He was a heavy drinker,” she said.

“Yes.” Lily was almost composed. “So I understand.” She stood up, scraping the chair on the quarry-tile floor. “We were just about to have some tea, Inspector. Would you like some?”

Wine would go down a treat, Vera thought, if you’ve got any left. But she feigned gratitude. “Aye,” she said, emphasizing the accent, ‘ would be champion.”

Lily moved the kettle onto the hot plate of the Aga. It hissed.

“Don’t tell me you do it yourself.” Vera went on in mock astonishment.

“I thought a place like this, there’d be servants.”

Lily looked at her, not quite sure if she was being serious, and decided a non-committal reply would be safest.

“Oh, we’re all part of a team here. Everyone’s outside, clearing up.

We just muck in.”

“Very nice.” Vera stretched her legs in front of her. There were dried splashes of mud from when she’d crossed the lawn. “This must be very upsetting for you, Mr. Fulwell. First your niece, then your brother and all a spit from where you live.”

“It is.” He shot a glance of recrimination at Lily, but she took no notice.

“When did you last see your brother alive?”

“This morning.”

“You knew he was holed up there then?” “Yes. I should have told you. Perhaps if I had… But I couldn’t turn him away. Not after what had happened to his daughter.”

“What time did you see him?”

“I went down there twice. At ten o’clock I took him some food. Then I went back at about eleven thirty.”

“Why? Wasn’t that risky? If you’d wanted to keep his whereabouts secret I’d have thought you’d keep visits to a minimum.”

“It wasn’t so risky during the day. The family who live next door are generally out then. But yes, I tried not to go too often. It wasn’t just that I was worried I’d he seen. I didn’t know what to say to him.”

“So why twice today?”

“He phoned me. Here. It was crazy. He said he was desperate for a drink. He even talked about going into the village to the pub. I thought he was making a terrible mistake hiding out from you and all along I was trying to persuade him to give himself up. But the last thing I wanted was for him to come up to the house and make a scene today.”

I bet you didn’t, Vera thought. The child bride would have gone ape.

“So you took him a bottle of whisky.”

“Yes. I don’t know why he was suddenly so agitated. He’d been calm until then. I’d almost talked him round.” “You said he phoned. You’d left the phone connected?”

“Yes.”

“Could he have spoken to someone? Would that explain his changed mood?”

“He wouldn’t have phoned out. At the end he was paranoid. He wouldn’t have told anyone else where he was.”

Lily set the teapot violently on the table.

“Look,” she said. “He was mad. Mentally disturbed. Up and down like a yo-yo. That’s why Robert’s mother couldn’t handle him. That’s why he ended up being shut in St. Nick’s.”

Vera ignored her. “Didn’t he give you any indication why he was suddenly so upset?” she asked Robert.

“He wasn’t terribly coherent and to be honest I didn’t really want to know. I mean, I thought I’d done my bit by giving him a place to stay.

There was lots of talk about betrayal. As I said, it verged on the paranoid.”

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”

Vera bared her teeth. No one else smiled. She watched Lily pour tea into blue cups. “You can leave mine in the pot a bit longer, pet. I like to taste what I’m drinking. Has he been staying here since he left the restaurant?”

“Good God, no.” Robert was horrified. “I wouldn’t have been able to stand the strain.”

“When then?”

“He went to Nancy Deakin’s first. You asked me about her once before.

I don’t know exactly what made him bolt there. Something put the wind up him. When his daughter’s body was first found he seemed content to stay at the restaurant.”

“You were in touch then?”

“Of course.” Robert was gruffly embarrassed. “Ib offer condolences.

That sort of thing. I thought he was bearing up very well.”

“Had you been in regular contact?”

“No, but at a time like that, one has to make an effort.”

“Why did he leave Nancy’s?”

“The two women who’d been working with Grace went round there. They were asking questions. He thought you’d sent them, so he got in touch with me.” “Tut, tut,” Vera said. “Paranoia indeed. How did you get him here?”

“I picked him up in the car late one night. Nobody saw.”

“And you saw it as a short-term measure until you could persuade him to talk to us?”

“Exactly that. Yes.”

“Who knew you were helping him?”

“Nancy Deakin. I didn’t tell anyone else. Not even Lily. I couldn’t have her involved.” Haddaway and shite, Vera thought. You’re scared of her.

“Could anyone have found out he was there by chance?”

“I don’t know how. Everyone on the estate knew the house was empty. He wouldn’t have opened the door to a salesman or visitor.” Robert paused. “Look. There’s something I want to say. I wouldn’t have been prepared to help him if I’d thought he’d killed his daughter. If that’s what you think then you’ve got it all wrong. He was devastated.

He talked about it being his fault, but that didn’t mean he’d strangled her. He said he should have protected her. He’d never been much of a father. And he was frightened. That’s why he was in such a state this morning.”

“But the kitchen door was open. If it turns out he was killed he let his murderer in.”

“I don’t care.” In the face of these two fierce women Robert had become stubborn. “I might not have seen much of him recently but we were brothers. We grew up together and I tell you he was scared.”

Chapter Fifty-Four.

It was late by the time Vera got back to Baikie’s but she thought the women would still be up. They’d want to know what had happened. Not that she’d have had much to tell them even if she’d been prepared to pass the information on. The pathologist was an old friend, more willing than most of them to commit himself after a first inspection, but still he’d been tentative.

She’d caught him as he came out of the cottage on his way to his car and they stood sheltering under his large black umbrella.

“There’s nothing obvious,” he said. “He wasn’t stabbed and he wasn’t strangled.”

“Not like the daughter then.”

“No.”

“But you must have some idea.”

“Most likely scenario at the moment? That he’d drunk himself insensible.”

“And that killed him?”

“It made things easier for the murderer.”

“You think it was murder?”

“That’s what I’m working towards.” He paused. “My intuition. If you believe in such things.”

“I believe in yours.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to find that he’d been suffocated, smothered.

You do realize I’m just thinking aloud at this stage?”

“How?”

“I’m not a clairvoyant.” But despite the words he didn’t sound irritated. He stood, patiently, with the rain drumming on the umbrella. Vera thought, He’s got nothing to go home to either. He asked, “Have you been inside?”

“Not yet.”

“The house was partly furnished. Apparently it was let like that to employees. There’s a three-piece suite with a few scatter cushions.

One of the cushions could have done it. But there’s no sign of struggle. He’d hardly have known what was happening.” “Thanks,” she said. “And the time of death?”

“I never like to commit myself on that.”

“I know.”

“After midday, before five o’clock. I really can’t be more specific.

It’s only a guess.”

“Understood.”

He was a thin man in his sixties, always dark-suited and gently spoken, reassuring, like a family undertaker. He had once told Vera that he was an elder in a small Presbyterian church. So far as she knew that was the nearest he had to family. Would it be enough for him when he retired?

He walked her to her car, holding the umbrella over her, though she was already wet from her walk from the house and the drips must be going down his neck.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as there’s anything definite.”

“I know,” she said. Her hand brushed his as she fumbled in her bag for her keys.

As she had expected there was a light still on in Baikie’s. No one had bothered to draw the curtains and she felt a flash of anger at Joe Ashworth or whoever had replaced him. The women were sitting targets like that for anyone lurking in the garden or on the hill beyond. Then she thought, but that’s what I made them. That’s what my strategy boiled down to in the end.

She had been so convinced that she’d been right. She’d known that the murder had something to do with the development for the quarry. She’d felt it in her bones. She’d grown up with this countryside, with people who were passionate about it and she’d thought she’d understood.

She’d seen the murderer as a nutter with a strange obsession about this landscape or these women, or both. She’d thought that if they’d stayed put eventually he would come back. He wouldn’t be able to resist it. But obviously she’d been wrong. She’d have to start again with an open mind. That meant work. More than she knew if she could handle.

She parked her car in the yard and went in through the kitchen. Her sandals were squelching wet so she took them off at the door and went on, leaving damp footprints on the lino. The sound of rain on the roof and windows must have drowned out the noise of her car because she surprised them. They were sitting at the table playing cards. Joe Ashworth had been replaced by a constable in uniform and he held a hand too. They turned, fixed for a moment, in the soft light of the standard lamp.

Vera crossed the room and drew the curtains over the French windows.

“That’s a lot more cosy,” she said. Then: “Is there any of that booze left? I could murder a Scotch.”

Edie poured some into a tumbler.

“Mrs. Preece’ll have told you what happened.”

“That Edmund’s dead,” Rachael said. “Is it all over then? He killed Grace because she wouldn’t lie for him to stop the quarry, and now he’s killed himself.”

“Too early to say.”

Whatever the pathologist had told her had been in confidence. She might be a gabby cow who broke more rules than she kept but that information wasn’t to be passed on.

“But he couldn’t have been murdered?” They’ve been celebrating, Vera thought. Not with a great fuss because that wouldn’t be very nice with two people dead. But they really think it’s all over. Case closed. No more looking over their shoulders on the hill or in their mirrors on the road.

“Look,” she said. “It’s impossible to tell until the doctor’s done all his tests. I have to assume it’s a suspicious death until I hear otherwise. If I didn’t I’d waste hours, even days of an investigation.

So there’ll be questions to ask. And no doubt you’ve got questions too.”

“What was he doing here?” Edie asked.

“Hiding out, though we’re not sure why. We didn’t really consider him as a suspect until he disappeared.”

“Guilt perhaps,” Edie said. “If he’d killed his daughter.”

“Perhaps.” Vera looked at Anne and Rachael. She wanted them to lighten up. She felt responsible for bringing their celebration to an end. “He was at Nancy Deakin’s when you went there to talk to her.” “No!” She had succeeded. They were amused by the old lady’s duplicity. “He must have been in the bedroom all the time. No wonder she didn’t want us to go upstairs.”

“I heard a noise but I thought it was the budgie.”

“Is that why he moved on to the estate?” Rachael asked. “Because we went to Nancy’s?”

“Probably.”

“So we might have provoked his death. At least he had someone to keep an eye on him there.”

“It’s not your fault,” Vera said. “I asked you to go.” She leant across the table. They had discarded their cards which lay on the table as down-turned fans. “Now look. I’ve got to carry on as if Edmund was murdered. It doesn’t mean he was but that’s the assumption I’ve got to make. Do you understand?”

They nodded.

“When Rachael suggested that Bella and Edmund might have known each other, that they might have been in hospital at the same time, I didn’t take it seriously because it didn’t seem relevant. Grace was the victim. Edmund had hardly had any contact with her. But now it could be more important. Perhaps Rachael was right all along. Can you remember anything Bella said which could have linked them?”

“No. How could I? I didn’t even know she’d been in hospital until after her suicide.”

“I mean more recently. Anything to suggest Bella and Edmund kept in touch?”

“No, she never mentioned friends. Apart from people in Langholme who’d known Dougie for years and she wasn’t close to any of them.”

“But she must have left the farm sometimes.”

“She went to Kimmerston on Wednesdays. Market day. That was when she did all the shopping. And she always had lunch out. Her little treat.

Social services sent someone to sit with Dougie while she was away.”

“Where did she go for lunch when she was in town?”

“I don’t know. I suppose the White Hart, like all the other farmers.”

Vera had a picture of Bella and Edmund sitting in the gloomy dining room. Surely they wouldn’t have met there. Not if Bella valued her privacy. Not where they could have been seen by any of Dougie’s farming friends.

“No.” Rachael interrupted her thoughts. “There’s a coffee shop in the precinct where she went. I remember her coming back one day when I was staying at Baikie’s. She came in for some tea and a chat but wouldn’t have a biscuit. She said she’d had the biggest meringue in the world.

The coffee shop did the best she’d ever tasted.” Rachael stopped.

“This seems so trivial.”

“That’s what most of my job is. Trivia. Chat and gossip. That’s why I’m so bloody good at it.” It came out confidently enough but to Vera it sounded hollow. “Tell me again what happened when you last went to see Charlie Noble.” “We told you.”

“OK. I wasn’t listening properly. It didn’t seem important. Edie?”

“Bella had phoned a week before she died and got through to Charlie’s wife, Louise. Louise promised to tell Charles that she’d been in touch but she didn’t until much later, until after our first visit. Bella said that she’d phone back.”

“But they never heard from her again?” “That’s what they said.”

“Do you think they might be lying?”

“I don’t know. I got the impression that Louise hadn’t wanted Charlie to tell me about the call. Perhaps they both regretted it. Certainly they weren’t very forthcoming. And it seems strange that Bella didn’t phone back.”

Anne had been listening in silence. She stood up and seemed very thin and gaunt lit below by the lamp. Shadows fell over her face, lengthening her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so tired. I’ll have to go to bed.”

“Of course!”

“I probably won’t see you tomorrow. I’m leaving early.” “I’ll be in touch,” Vera said.

“More questions?”

“Oh, there are always more questions. And you two will be going tomorrow too,” Vera said after Anne had left the room, after they’d heard her footsteps on the bare stairs. “This place will be empty.

Nothing left but Connie’s ghost.” She paused awkwardly, tried to phrase her question to Rachael delicately, then decided that bluff and hearty was more her style and got to the point quicker anyway. “Are you planning to see Mr. Furness again?”

“Why?”

“Because you should know I’ll be asking him more questions too.”

“What has he got to do with Edmund’s death?”

“Nothing. Probably. Except that he used to live in that house. And according to Robert Fulwell no one can remember him handing back his keys.”

There was a silence. “We’re kidding ourselves, aren’t we?” Rachael said

“Edmund was murdered.”

Vera didn’t answer.

Chapter Fifty-Five.

Vera woke early, just before the first Edinburgh train started to growl in the distance. She waited until it had screamed past, rattling the sash windows in her bedroom, before she got up. The train hadn’t woken her. She’d grown up with the trains, could remember steam, trolleys of milk churns on the platform, wicker baskets of racing pigeons delivered by old men in tweed caps.

Vera didn’t know why Hector had bought this house by the railway line soon after she was born. She would never have asked him. The junction, closed long ago, had served a hamlet half a mile away and nearby farms. Their house, grey stone, small windowed, stood end on to the track. She supposed it had suited him. It was near enough to the hills for his forays after birds’ eggs and then, while the trains still stopped, it was only a twenty-minute ride away from Kimmerston where he taught in the grammar school. He was solitary by nature. She couldn’t imagine him on a smart new estate making conversation about the mortgage rate or the latest model of Vauxhall.

It had occurred to her as an adult that the Gregorys had attracted him there. Mr. Gregory had been the stationmaster and his wife looked after Vera until she was old enough to let herself in from school and have her dad’s tea ready by the time his train got in. It was possible that some arrangement had been made with Mrs. Gregory before they moved. Nothing was said but Vera fancied that Mr. Gregory could have been one of the brotherhood of egg collectors. He had that pedantic, meticulous way about him. And certainly Hector hadn’t minded being by the railway line. She’d caught him writing down train numbers in one of his bird-watching notebooks.

Vera had liked Mrs. Gregory. She was a soft, motherly woman whose children had all grown up and married. Even when Hector had stopped paying Mrs. Gregory to look after her, Vera had treated the Station House as a second home. When the junction was closed and the Gregorys had moved away she’d cried, though she’d never let Hector see.

She got out of bed and opened the curtains. Her room faced away from the track over a low meadow towards the hills. Now the grass was long and mixed with buttercups and clover. The rain had stopped but everything was wet, gleaming. She looked at her watch. Six o’clock.

Too early to phone Ashworth. Just.

Since the Gregorys had moved the Station House had changed hands several times. Recently a couple in their forties, vaguely New Age in character, had taken over. They’d bought the field on the other side of the lane and grew vegetables and kept animals. From her window Vera could see a tethered goat and a wire mesh chicken run. The cockerel crowed. Perhaps that was what had wakened her.

She lay in the bath and planned her day. If she hadn’t been used to it the room would have depressed her. The bath had chipped and scaled enamel. The walls were white tile with greying cement. There were dead flies trapped in the frosted glass bowl which covered the light bulb. Apart from burning the contents of the spare-room wardrobe she hadn’t made any changes in the house since her father’s death. Plans but no changes.

By the time she was dressed it was ten to seven and she thought, Bugger it. If he’s not awake by now he ought to be.

Joe Ashworth answered immediately, but with the shocked voice of someone startled in the middle of a dream.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” she said.

“Yes.” He was short. It wasn’t like him to be bad-tempered.

“I thought babies got up early.”

“He’s been awake all night with his teeth. We’ve only just got him back down.” “Sorry,” she said. Meaning it even if it didn’t sound as if she did.

“What can I do for you?”

“There are a couple of things I want to sort out this morning. Can you get over to Holme Park? Start putting together a list of the people who were there yesterday afternoon. Lily Fulwell should have one. See if there are any names we recognize.”

“Like who?”

“Anyone connected with the quarry. Godfrey Waugh, Peter Kemp, Neville Furness. They were business acquaintances of the Fulwells. It’s possible they got an invite.”

“Wouldn’t Mrs. Preece have mentioned seeing them?”

“I didn’t ask. She was very shocked still. And there was quite a crowd milling around. She might not even have noticed.”

“Can I ask what you’ll be doing?”

“Me? I’ll be going out for coffee.”

The night before she’d arranged for an officer to visit Rod Owen. He’d supported Edmund more than the family and deserved to be told personally about his death. With what she thought of as great consideration she waited until after she’d finished her Shredded Wheat before phoning him. She presumed that restaurateurs kept late hours.

When he answered, however, he sounded brisk, businesslike. “The Harbour Lights.”

She started to give her name but he seemed to recognize her voice and broke in. “Any news?”

“Not yet. A question though. Did Edmund have a regular day off?”

“Yes. Right from the beginning. Since he started working here again after leaving hospital. He didn’t have much routine in his existence but it was something he hung on to. A sort of superstition I think.”

“What day was that?”

“Wednesday.”

“Do you know what he did?”

“Not specifically but he always went out. Even if he’d been on a bit of a bender he usually managed to spruce himself up, have a shave. He’d leave the flat by about ten thirty.”

“But he worked for you all those years and never told you where he went?”

“I didn’t ask. None of my business. It could have been some sort of therapy, couldn’t it? Personal.”

“It must have been somewhere local because Edmund didn’t drive. If it was therapy, after care, would that have been held in St. Nick’s?”

“He definitely didn’t go to the hospital. He told me it still gave him the jitters walking past and he never wanted to step foot in the place.

Actually I don’t think it was anywhere in town. I saw him once in a queue at the bus stop near the harbour.”

“Do you know where the bus was going?”

“You must be joking. It was years ago. Even if I’d noticed I wouldn’t remember now.”

On her way into Kimmerston, Vera passed the woman from the Station House. She was climbing over the wire mesh of the hen-run, carrying a shallow basket of eggs. She waved, then gestured a pantomime to show that she had plenty spare if Vera wanted any. The couple had rather taken Vera under their wing. She wondered if they knew what she did for a living and if they’d be quite so friendly if they found out.

The police station in Kimmerston was red brick and gloomy, set right onto the pavement opposite the bus station. There was dusty blue paint and the brass handles on the outside doors were tarnished. Vera was tempted to stop and find out the times of the buses from the harbour to Kimmerston on a Wednesday morning. She thought that from her office window she could have seen Edmund get off one of the brown and cream buses. If this was where he was heading. Which she felt in her bones that it was.

But she didn’t stop. If she went into work now she’d never get away.

She drove on past the police station towards the car park near the shopping precinct. It was nearly nine o’clock and the traffic was heavy. She felt her blood pressure rising, resisted the temptation to hit her horn or stick up a finger at the slick young man in the silver Mondeo who pulled out in front of her.

There was only one cafe in the shopping centre. Despite the delay, when she got there it was still closed. It faced into an enclosed square in the precinct. Sunlight streamed through the glass roof, formed patterns on the concrete as it shone through raindrops. There were white plastic tables and chairs on the paved square outside the shop, but they were piled one on top of the other. Patience had never been one of Vera’s virtues. She rattled the locked door of the cafe and began to bang on the glass.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A middle-aged woman with a straight back and a fierce expression came up to her from behind.

“What does it look like?”

“We don’t open until ten. There’s a machine in the arcade if you’re that desperate.”

“I don’t want coffee,” Vera snapped. “I want the answer to some questions.”

She showed her warrant card. The woman was unimpressed.

“Well, you should know better,” she said. “What sort of impression does it give to the youngsters? This used to be a well-mannered town.”

Vera muttered under her breath, stamping her feet impatiently as the woman unlocked the door and followed her in.

“I might as well have a cup of coffee while I’m here,” she said.

Belligerently.

“You’ll have to wait until I get the machine going. Unless you can make do with instant.”

“Instant’ll do.”

The woman plugged in the kettle, spooned powder into a mug. She took a green overall from a drawer and put it on, then set the steaming mug in front of Vera.

“That’ll be sixty pence.” Vera wanted to argue but thought better of it and paid up.

“It’s about some of your customers.”

Despite herself the woman was curious. She stopped fidgeting with crockery in the kitchen and sat at Vera’s table. “What about them?”

“I’m interested in a woman called Bella Furness. She came in here regularly on a Wednesday.”

The woman shook her head. “Wednesday’s our busiest day and I don’t know many customers by name. Not even the regulars.”

Vera took out a snap which she’d nicked from the bedroom at Black Law.

“That ring any bells?”

“Oh aye. I remember her. Every Wednesday as regular as clockwork. A toasted tuna and sweet corn followed by a chocolate meringue. Until a couple of months ago. She hasn’t been in lately. I wondered what I’d done to offend her. She was a bit on the brusque side. The sort who might take offence.”

“She died,” Vera said. “Was she here on her own?”

“No. She usually met a gentleman friend.”

Out of her large floppy briefcase Vera took a photograph of Edmund Fulwell, the one which had been shown in the local paper requesting information and which today would be on the front page of all the nationals. The woman apparently wasn’t interested in the news. At least she made no comment about having seen the photo before. “Aye,” she said. “That’s the one.”

“When you say gentleman friend, did you have the impression that they were romantically involved?”

As she waited for an answer Vera wondered what Rachael would make of that. St. Bella having a bit on the side. It could ruin her faith in human nature.

The woman considered the question. “Hard to say. She was usually here before him. He arrived flustered as if it had been a bit of a rush. He always gave her a kiss. Only a peck on the cheek but at their age anything more wouldn’t have been seemly. Still, these days… Folks always seem to be kissing and hugging, don’t they? Even people who’ve only just met. So I don’t really know.”

Vera contained her impatience. “But what’s your instinct? After having thought about it. You work with people all day. You must get a feel for things like that.”

She was flattered, which was what Vera had intended. “I suppose you do. On balance then, I’d say close friends. Not lovers.” She paused.

“If anything I’d say he was more attracted to the other one.”

“What other one?”

“The other woman. She wasn’t in very often -perhaps three times all together. But when she was he made a fuss of her.”

“Any idea of her name?”

“None at all.” She seemed pleased that she couldn’t help.

“What did she look like?”

“She was younger than them but not that much younger. She knew how to dress if you know what I mean. Perhaps a bit overdressed. Too smart for town on a Wednesday.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

But the woman had already lost interest. She looked at her watch.

“No,” she said. “I can’t really remember her. Just the impression that I got of her at the time.”

“But if I showed you a photo you’d be able to say whether it was the woman or not?”

“No, not a chance. Like I said, Wednesday’s a busy day.” Thanks, Vera thought, for nothing.

Chapter Fifty-Six.

Vera walked back through the precinct to her car. The town was busier now, mostly with elderly people who couldn’t use their bus passes until after nine o’clock. One couple stood outside the grocer’s shop bickering about whether they should buy cabbage or turnip to go with their dinner.

Vera had a stab of recognition which made her stop in her tracks. For a moment the woman, overweight, aggressive, seen reflected in the shop window, looked very much like her.

What’ll I do when I retire?” she thought. I’ll not even have anyone to fight with.

Then a young woman pushed a buggy into her shins. Vera turned and glowered and the brief moment of despair passed.

She had intended to go back to the police station but at the last minute changed her mind and took the familiar road out of Kimmerston towards Langholme. Now that she had evidence that Bella and Edmund Fulwell had kept in touch since they’d left the hospital, she wished she’d listened more carefully when Rachael and Edie had been wittering on about the Nobles. But she thought she’d be able to rattle Charlie’s cage.

The stables were quiet. A teenage girl in a green sweater with KIMMERSTON EQUESTRIAN CENTRE emblazoned on the breast was forking mucky straw into a barrow. Two stout middle-aged women prepared to mount their horses. Vera thought it all looked very prosperous and well-ordered. There was a customers’ car park, properly laid with tarmac, marked with white lines and bordered by wooden tubs full of bedding plants. Charlie had turned into a canny businessman just like his dad.

She approached the girl.

“Mr. Noble?”

The girl looked at her dubiously. Vera was wearing her floral crimplene dress and her sandals. “Do you want to book a ride?”

I want to talk to Mr. Noble.”

“I think he’s in the house. But he doesn’t really like being disturbed in the mornings.”

“Why? What does he get up to?”

The girl blushed, confused.

Only joking, pet,” Vera said. “Never mind, I’ll find my own way.”

She strode on, past the newly converted stable block to the freshly painted house, thinking that if she smelled anything at all, it was money.

Charlie Noble himself opened the door. She didn’t think she’d have recognized him if she’d bumped into him in the street. He was younger than her. When she’d last seen him he’d hardly looked more than a schoolboy, spotty, graceless, obviously cowed by his bully of a father.

He had the same expression but now he was old, stooped, bespectacled.

“Yes?” he said crossly. He was wearing a sweater and breeches. “I was just going out.”

“Don’t you recognize me, Charlie?” she asked, hearty as a jolly aunt.

“I’m sorry… ” He hesitated, squinting at her over his specs.

Good God, she thought. I must have aged as much as him. “Come on, Charlie. I may have put on a few pounds but I can’t have changed that much. Or perhaps you don’t recognize me without the uniform? We spent a lot of time together, you and I, in that mausoleum of a house when your dad passed away. Drinking cups of tea while we waited for the bosses to get their act together.”

He stared at her. She thrust out her hand, grasped his unresisting one. “Vera Stanhope,” she said, beaming. “Inspector now. Only a constable then.”

“Yes.” He stepped back from her as if she was a dog you had to treat with caution. “I remember.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in then? A cup of tea for old times’ sake.”

“I was going out,” he said uncertainly.

“You must have a few minutes for a chat. And I’d like to meet your lady wife.”

She stepped past him into the house. “Mrs. Noble!” she shouted into the silence. “You’ve got a visitor. Put the kettle on, pet.”

They drank filter coffee in the room where Edie and Rachael had been taken on their last visit. Louise carried it in. She was wearing a sleeveless linen dress, navy, very smart, and said breathlessly that she’d leave them to it. She was meeting some friends for lunch and she needed to get ready.

“You look ready enough to me,” Vera said. “I’ll not keep you now but I’d be grateful if you could spare me a few minutes of your precious time later. Before you leave.” She smiled fondly.

Louise shot a look at her husband. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.” She backed out of the room and shut the door.

“What’s this about?” Charles said.

“Well, I’m not just here for a chat though it’s always nice to catch up on old acquaintances. It’s about Bella.”

“I didn’t know anything about her suicide before those women came to tell me.” “So they said. Shocking, isn’t it? All those years living just up the valley and never met.” Vera paused. “She killed the old man for you, didn’t she, Charlie?”

He stared at her in horror.

“I thought so at the time, though I was only a plod and a girl at that so who would listen to me? When I came to the slaughterhouse to tell you your dad was dead you were expecting it. But you were very good.

Have you ever thought of joining the Kimmerston Amateur Dramatic Society? They’re always short of a strong male lead. But you weren’t really surprised.”

He started to splutter a response but she wouldn’t allow him to speak.

“Did he beat you up when you were a kid?”

There was a silence. A nerve in his cheek twitched angrily.

“Not just when I was a kid. Until he got ill.”

“So she felt guilty for leaving you there, going away to college, being a teacher, enjoying every minute of it. And I bet you made her feel guilty. Why didn’t you leave yourself?”

“I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me. And I didn’t have any qualifications. What could I have done?” “Didn’t have the guts,” Vera said dismissively. “It wasn’t only the old man who wanted her back, was it? It was you as well.”

“You don’t know what it was like.”

“No?” She spoke softly, deliberately. “Listen, Charlie, you understand nothing about me or what I know.”

“It was just talk, wishful thinking. I didn’t really mean her to kill him.”

“Didn’t you? But you planned it. And every day you put pressure on her. So she had the old man on her back all day and you all night. No wonder she cracked.” She poured herself more coffee. “How did you know it was going to be that day?”

He stood up and stared out of the window so he had his back to her.

Pretending that she wasn’t there, that he couldn’t hear her.

“You had such a lot to gain,” Vera went on. “We would have thought it was you, if you’d had the opportunity. That’s why it was such a good day for it to happen. You were at work with all those witnesses. Not just your colleagues, but the Ministry of Agriculture inspector. And you didn’t leave your office, did you? Except for five minutes to go to the lav. Did you phone her then? Tell her that you couldn’t stand any more of the old man’s bullying? If something didn’t happen soon you’d top yourself? And God knows why but she cared about you. Like I said, she cracked.” He continued to look into the distance, gave no indication that he’d heard her.

“But I’m not here to discuss that now,” Vera said conversationally.

“That’s all water under the bridge. No one took any notice of me then.

They might now, but what point would there be in mentioning it? It’s not a crime to make a phone call.”

Charles turned back to face her. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

“So why don’t you get your lovely wife in for a chat and we’ll say no more about it.”

She watched him carefully as he left the room, making sure he understood the threat implied in the last remark.

When Louise came into the room Vera stood up as if they’d never met before, as if it was someone else entirely who’d brought in the coffee earlier.

“Come on, Charlie,” she said jovially. “You make the introductions.”

When he didn’t speak immediately she went on, “My name’s Stanhope.

Inspector Vera Stanhope. I want a few words about Bella Furness.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“You’ve spoken to her though, on the phone. Edie Lambert told me.” Vera thought the Nobles were two of a kind. Neither seemed able to face the real world.

“Only once.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“It was a week before she died. It can’t have had anything to do with her suicide.”

Vera watched Louise calmly. Again she was reminded of a girl. A child who, accused of being naughty, covers up too eagerly, too elaborately with lies. And yet, so far, she had been accused of nothing. An idea formed.

“I’m surprised that she only phoned once. She said she would call back. You’d think she’d want to speak to her brother, her only relative before she died.” She turned to Charles. “Are you certain she didn’t speak to you?”

“Of course.” And you wouldn’t dare lie, Vera thought. Not with what I’ve got on you.

“Mrs. Noble?”

The woman twisted her coffee cup in its saucer.

“I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk to the Lamberts,” Vera continued. “Why should you? Two nosey women turning up late at night, wanting to know your business. But this is different. This is a police matter. Besides, we could always check the telephone records for the relevant dates.”

Louise looked up. “She did phone. Later that week.”

“You didn’t say.” Charles was stunned, hurt. Poor dear, Vera thought maliciously. This has all been too much for him.

“What did she want?” she asked.

“To speak to Charles. But he was away for the weekend. Some of our young riders were at a show in Richmond and he’d gone with them. I told her that. She said I’d have to do. She couldn’t wait.” Louise hesitated. “She said she needed her money.”

“What money would that be?” Vera’s voice was bland.

“When he sold their father’s house he put the money into an account for her.”

“In her name,” Vera said. “Of course. Edie Lambert told me.”

“No,” Charles said. “Not in her name. It was a separate account, but I signed for it. Of course it was meant for her.”

“Ah.”

“We hadn’t heard anything from her. She’d been out of prison for years, but not bothered to get in touch. We didn’t know where she was.

The money was just lying there.”

“So you spent it?”

“We invested it in the business. We need to expand. Holiday cottages.

A leisure complex. We’ve our daughter to think of. I saw it as an investment for Bella.”

It was hard to see the Nobles as ruthless business tycoons. They were too pathetic. So what had driven them? Vera thought they were like spoilt children with a bag of sweeties. They’d wanted the cash. They didn’t want to share it. So they’d taken it. There was no more to it than that.

“What did you tell Bella?” she asked Louise “That there was no money. What else could I say? I couldn’t magic it for her out of thin air.” Louise was defensive again, sulky. “She couldn’t really have needed it. I mean, whoever’s heard of a poor farmer?” Bella was poor, Vera thought. So poor that she was desperate. She couldn’t face telling Dougie that they’d have to leave the farm. And the next day she killed herself.

She kept the smile fixed on her face. “Quite,” she said. “We’ve all heard the stories about farmers. They moan about EC subsidies but they all drive new cars. Did you ever meet Bella?”

“No!” Louise was horrified by the suggestion.

“Weren’t you curious? I thought you might have suggested meeting her.

Not here or at the farm. Somewhere neutral. For coffee perhaps in Kimmerston.”

“Heavens, no.” Louise pulled a face. “I found the whole thing horrid.

I never wanted to hear from her again.”

“No danger of that now,” Vera said.

Chapter Fifty-Seven.

Outside the police station a small group of reporters had gathered on the pavement. Vera saw them before they saw her, debated whether they could be of any use to her and decided against it. She strode through them, ignoring their calls for comments or a photograph. The momentum carried her on up the stairs, gathered Joe Ashworth from his room in her wake and landed her at last in her office. There she set her bag heavily on the desk. The flap was unfastened and the contents spilled out, papers, keys, photos, five biros and a half-eaten doughnut wrapped in cling film slid onto the floor. She threw the doughnut into the bin.

Leaving the rest of the debris on the floor she pressed a button on the phone and began to listen to her voice mail Without waiting to be asked Joe Ashworth crouched in the corner and switched on the plastic kettle which stood with mugs and jars on a stained tray. He pretended not to hear the angry voice of Vera’s boss, demanding to know what the hell she thought she was buggering about at and to report to him as soon as she got in. The voice was slightly querulous. The superintendent knew that he was no match for Vera. He wasn’t very bright and she always had an answer.

The room, was as high as it was wide, painted in pale green gloss, cell-shaped. There was one window with a frosted glass pane. It reminded Vera of a women’s public lavatory yet she would have resisted moving elsewhere. It had been hers since her promotion to inspector, a refuge at least from the complaints and demands of her father. There were no pictures or plants, nothing personal, nothing to give information to the nosy bastards who were curious about where or how she lived. Ashworth was the only one of her colleagues who’d seen her home and that was when he’d dropped her off there late at night after work. She’d have liked to invite him in for a drink but hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. They were already calling him teacher’s pet or worse.

“I’ve just got in from Holme Park,” he said.

“Anything?”

“I didn’t get to speak to Lord or Lady Muck.”

“Don’t tell me they’re too upset for visitors.”

“Hardly. They’re in a meeting.”

“Who with?”

“Slateburn Quarries at the office here in Kimmerston. Apparently it was arranged a while ago.”

“To discuss the preliminary findings of the Environmental Impact Assessment,” Vera said almost to herself. “Probably. But I bet they’ll be taking the opportunity to talk about the effect Edmund Fulwell’s death will have on public opinion. I wonder if it’ll be enough to stop Waugh going ahead. Lily will be upset if he starts getting cold feet.”

“You don’t like the idea of this quarry, do you?”

“What I like is neither here nor there. So, was it a wasted trip?”

“Not entirely. I had a mooch round, had a chat with all the staff I could get hold of. None of them had any idea that Edmund was hiding out in the house at the end of the Avenue. Robert must have been careful. It must be hard to keep secrets in a place like that.”

“Did you manage to speak to the keeper’s wife in the house next door?”

“Yes. It’s a madhouse. Kids, music, animals. Everyone shouting at each other. You could have a rock band practising and they’d not hear.”

“They didn’t see anyone hanging about yesterday?”

“They were at the Hall all day helping to prepare for the party. Even the teenagers had been roped in.”

“So we’re not much further forward?”

“Olivia’s secretary gave me a list of the guests who were at the party.

I didn’t recognize anyone connected with the quarry. It was mostly friends of the family and people from the village.” He pulled a face.

“The secretary said that Olivia wanted it to be a real community event.”

“Very civic-minded. Though it doesn’t make much difference to the investigation. Once the jamboree had started there’d be no witnesses in the Avenue and while the guests were arriving no one would have taken any notice of strangers. Very convenient. I wonder if that’s why he was killed yesterday? In that case the murderer must have known about the party, even if he didn’t attend it.” She looked down at Ashworth. “I suppose it was common knowledge.”

“Oh aye. Apparently everyone in Langholme was fighting for an invite.”

The kettle had eventually boiled. He poured water over a tea bag in a grimy mug, poked it with a spoon until the liquid was thick and brown and stirred in whitener from the tin.

“Aren’t you having one?” Vera asked.

He shook his head. “I asked Mary Sawyer to visit Nancy Deakin. I thought

… “

“Good choice!” Mary was unflappable, classy but not bossy. “Any joy?”

“Nancy was heartbroken. Robert Fulwell hadn’t bothered telling her Edmund was dead.”

“Did she get anything useful?”

“Lots of childhood reminiscences. Apparently Nancy’s quite sane when she talks about the past. Less reliable about the present.”

Aren’t we all, Vera thought. Especially if it’s the past that’s spooked us.

According to Nancy, Edmund was never wanted. His mother had a hard time giving birth to Robert and didn’t want to go through it again.

She’d had a boy. That was enough. When Edmund was born she hardly acknowledged him. Hardly surprising he grew up a bit weird.”

“Does she know who Edmund was scared of?”

“If she does she isn’t telling.” He sat across the desk from Vera. “Go on then, what have you been up to?”

“Me? I’ve spent the morning doing Rachael Lambert’s dirty work. I’ve been trying to find out why Bella Furness killed herself.” She grinned. “It’s all right, lad, I’ve not lost my marbles. It is relevant. Every Wednesday Edmund Fulwell caught the bus from the coast and met Bella in Kimmerston. They must have kept in touch since they were in hospital together. Only friends, I think. But close friends, confidants. Occasionally they were joined by another woman. I’d give my back teeth to know who that was. Age and description could match Anne Preece and she lived in Langholme, could have known them both.

But if it was her, why didn’t she tell us?”

She stopped, dreamy-eyed, lost in thought, considering wild possibilities.

“Did you find out?” Ashworth asked.

“Mmrn?”

“Why Mrs. Furness killed herself?”

“I think so. Though even that doesn’t quite make sense. She and Dougie are broke. In danger of losing the farm. She tries to get in touch with her brother, to ask for the money he put by for her after the sale of the family home. Her money. Instead she gets through to the wife, who does a very sweet little girl lost act but who’s as ruthless as they come. She tells Bella the money’s been spent.”

“That makes sense. She was depending on money from her brother to bail her out. When she had to face losing the farm she hanged herself.

Rachael was wrong. There was no conspiracy.”

“No. It won’t work. It wasn’t in character. Bella was tough. She’d survived years in the loony bin. Not complaining. Seeing it out. Then she ran that business on her own after Dougie’s illness. She must have seen there were other options. Why didn’t she talk to Neville?

According to Rachel they’d been getting on better. He was sympathetic.”

“If he was telling the truth.”

Vera glared at him. “Of course. I realized the possibility that he’s been lying. I’m not daft, lad. But why didn’t she stick it out for a few more months? If the quarry was approved she’d be able to flog the access to the mine for a fortune. It might not have appealed to have Godfrey Waugh’s lorries going through the yard but it must have been better than moving into town or jumping off a bale with a rope round your neck.” Joe Ashworth said nothing. Better to keep quiet. Vera didn’t want intelligent comment at this point only an admiring audience. N

She went on, “So, there were other pressures. Something that closed down those options. Something that stopped her seeing straight.”

Still Ashworth kept his mouth shut. A mistake.

“Well?” she demanded crossly. A teacher pr ising an answer out of a reluctant child. “What do you think that might have been?”

“Caring for Dougie?”

“Nonsense. She’d been doing that for years. She thrived on it.” She paused. “Let me give you a clue. I told you she’d been seeing Edmund Fulwell. They were friends. Close friends. They’d seen each other through some bad times.”

“And he would have hated the idea of her selling off land to Slateburn Quarry or even coming to an access agreement with Godfrey Waugh.”

“Exactly.”

“That would explain why she was under so much stress. She was desperate to stay at Black Law but Fulwell saw it as some sort of test of loyalty.”

“It’s possible, don’t you think?”

He didn’t give a direct answer. “Inspector, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How does this relate to the murder of Grace Fulwell? Or even to that of her father?”

“Piss off, Ashworth. Don’t be such a smart alec. If I knew that I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be out making an arrest.” But the question had amused her. She chuckled into her tea.

Chapter Fifty-Eight.

The psychiatrist who had been consultant at St. Nicholas1 Hospital when Bella Noble and Edmund Fulwell were patients had moved on to become professor of a southern university. Vera spoke to him on the telephone without much hope. He was unexpectedly human and laughed out loud at her questions.

“Good heavens, you can’t expect me to remember individuals after all this time.” Not unfriendly though and not in so much of a hurry that he wouldn’t let her go on.

“They weren’t ordinary patients. Bella Noble came to you from a secure hospital on Merseyside to prepare for discharge. She’d killed her father. Edmund was one of the Fulwells from Holme Park.”

“I remember him. At least I remember wondering why he was slumming it on the NHS instead of being treated in a private clinic. I have some recollection of the transfer of the woman but only because it was a bureaucratic nightmare. As I recall she didn’t stay long. She wasn’t ill and even in those days we needed the beds. Why do you want to know?”

“They’re both dead.” “Ah.” He paused. “I’m sorry but I can’t say I’m surprised. Community care only works if there’s adequate supervision. It’s tough on the street. People get depressed, angry. There’s always a danger of suicide or violence.”

“Bella married a farmer and seems to have lived happily, caring for him after he had a stroke. Edmund had the same job since he left the hospital.” “Ah,” he said again. This time sheepishly. “And I’m always telling my students not to resort to stereotypes. You’ve given me a text for my next lecture. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Any notes will be at St. Nick’s.”

“I’ve seen them. I was wondering if there was anyone else who would remember Bella and Edmund. Someone who would have had more day to day contact than you. A nurse perhaps or a junior doctor.”

“Some of the nursing staff might still be there. Talk to the auxiliaries. In the Health Service the higher up the hierarchy you go the more time you spend in an office. The junior doctors came and went with such frequency that sometimes I couldn’t even remember their names.” There was a silence while he considered. “Better still talk to Christina. Christina Flood. She’s a psychologist. St. Nick’s was her first permanent appointment and she was like a breath of fresh air in the place. She was interested in group work, art therapy, drama.

Not all of it was useful but it was about engaging with the patients rather than hiding away from them and letting them sit around until the drugs started to work. If anyone can remember those individuals it’ll be Christina.”

“Do you know where she’s working now?”

Vera held her breath. The woman was idealistic, enthusiastic. It would be just her luck if she’d decided to become a missionary in Africa.

“Still in Northumberland. Still on the coast. She’s moved on since then though. She’s in charge of the Community Service based at an outpatient clinic. When you talk to her pass on my best wishes. And my admiration for sticking in there. I escaped from the patients too in the end.”

Eventually Vera tracked down Christina Flood to her home. She was on maternity leave and had given birth the evening before to a daughter.

She’d just returned from hospital. The partner to whom Vera spoke on the phone had just returned from hospital. He was so full of goodwill, so proud of the new infant and his part in creating it that he would have invited the whole CID into the house but Ashworth was horrified.

“You can’t intrude today,” he said. “They’ll want some time on their own. She’ll not feel up to it. She only came out of the labour ward this morning.”

“That’ll surely not have taken away her ability to talk.”

Anyway, I can’t think why it’s so important.”

“Because something went on in that hospital that brought those two together and kept them together for years. I need to know what it was.” She looked up at him. “You like babies. Do you want to come along?” “No,” he said, brave for once. “I think it’s harassment and I want no part of it.” Then, as she hesitated at the door, he added, “You’re not frightened of going on your own, are you? It’s only a baby. It’ll not bite.”

Christina Flood lived in a narrow, three-storeyed house close to the seafront in Tynemouth. A skinny man in a scarlet, hand knitted sweater opened the door to Vera. Against his shoulder he held a white, wrapped bundle. He leant forward slightly, tilting from the waist so that Vera could see the baby’s face.

“Isn’t she lovely?”

He seemed to find it impossible to keep still, skipping from one leg to another like an excited child but the baby slept, puckering its face occasionally as if it were dreaming. “We haven’t decided on a name yet. Chrissie wants something solid and respectable.” He seemed to take Vera’s interest for granted. “I think she’s going to be outrageous. She should have something to suit.”

The ground floor of the house was one large room set up as a workshop.

On a grimy central heating boiler a ginger cat slept on a blanket.

There was a serious angle poise lamp on one of the benches but that wasn’t switched on and the only light came from a small dusty window, the corners in shadow. There were rows of shelves made of dull metal, racks of tools, a vice. Vera sensed a secret passion. In a room like this Hector would have met the brotherhood to inject eggs and blow them.

“What goes on here?” she asked. She was glad for a moment to escape baby talk.

“I make flutes. And repair them and other woodwind instruments.” From then on Vera saw him as a pied piper, dressed in scarlet, piping to his baby.

“Chrissie’s upstairs. I’ve told her she should be in bed, but she’ll not listen to me.” He danced on, up a flight of bare wooden stairs into a wide thin room with a view over water and down the Tyne as far as the docks at North Shields. Christina Flood sat on a green linen sofa with her legs up. She was wearing trousers and a loose white tunic. She had strong features, a square jaw, black eyebrows. Her hair was cut in a straight fringe. The room was filled with flowers and a hand-painted banner saying WELCOME HOME was strung above the window. Christina saw Vera looking at it.

“I know. What is he like? I was gone for less than twenty-four hours.” She turned to the man. “For Christ’s sake, Patrick, put her in the carry cot Why don’t you make yourself useful and get some tea?”

With one lithe movement he knelt and put the baby on its back in the basket, which stood on the floor.

“Spoilsport,” he said and left the room.

“Patrick said you wanted to talk to me about Edmund Fulwell but I’m not sure I can help. He wasn’t a client of mine. Not really. He’d been stable for some time. If he did need medication he’d probably get it from his GP.”

“I’ve seen his recent records. I’m more interested in the time he spent in St. Nick’s. Do you remember working with him there?”

“Very well. It was an exciting time for me. My first chance to put my ideas and my training into practice.”

“Do you remember a patient called Bella Noble?”

“Yes. She was there at the same time. A member of the group. I’ve not even seen her since she was discharged.”

“But you had seen Edmund?”

“Not professionally, but Patrick and I go quite regularly to the Harbour Lights. At least we did.” She smiled at the baby. “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to do that sort of thing so often now.”

“Did you know that his daughter had been murdered?”

“Yes. I’d heard that a woman had been killed near Langholme but I hadn’t connected her with Edmund until Rod told us. We were in the restaurant the night after she was found. I went upstairs to see Edmund. Just to tell him how sorry I was. To offer my support.”

“Was he as you would have expected?”

“More together, I’d say. More rational. I was afraid it would start his drinking again but he was sober. I asked him if I could help in any way. He said not yet. He needed to sort things out in his own mind first. But it must all have been a brave show. When we went back a week later he’d disappeared.”

“Did you have the feeling that he knew something about Grace’s death?

Not that he’d killed her, I don’t mean that. But some idea about what might have been the reason for it. I’m looking into a motive for his own murder. If he’d worked out who killed Grace it’s possible he was murdered so he couldn’t tell anyone else.”

“I suppose it’s possible. I just took him to mean that he needed to come to terms with the fact that his daughter was dead. They hadn’t been conventionally close but he was very fond of her. Very proud.” “You said that Bella Noble was in the same group as Edmund. What group was that?”

“One of the first things I did when I went to St. Nick’s was to develop the idea of group therapy. The patients were isolated, not used to trusting people. If you’ve been you’ll know what it’s like.

Everyone sitting in his own private hell staring at the telly or at those bloody fish. Bella and Edmund were in the first group. I wanted it to be a success so I chose the participants carefully. Not just those I thought would get most out of it but people who could make it work. Bella was one of those. She was solid as a rock. All the same I think she benefited as much as anyone.”

“In what way?”

“You know she killed her father?”

Vera nodded.

“She’d never talked about it. Before the trial her lawyers persuaded her to plead guilty to manslaughter. They told her hospital would be better than prison. In the secure hospital she was isolated and uncommunicative. That was one of the reasons they kept her in. At first in the group she was as silent as ever. She’d join in the exercises and give support to everyone else but she wouldn’t talk about herself. Of course the others loved that. Most of us would rather have an audience than listen to other people’s troubles. It was Edmund who persuaded her to tell us what had happened. He said, “You’re not a stupid woman. Even if it was hell at home I don’t understand why you didn’t just walk away from it.” ‘

“And Bella said it wasn’t only herself she had to worry about.”

Christina looked at Vera with respect. “You know about that?”

“Since Bella died I’ve had a long conversation with her brother. He won’t admit to anything. Nothing we could charge him with at least, but I understand what sort of pressure she was under.”

“I didn’t realize Bella was dead too.”

Vera gave an expurgated version of the story which led up to Bella’s suicide. “She and Edmund stayed friends.”

“Did they?” Christina seemed pleased. “Couldn’t he have helped her out financially? His family was loaded.”

“I don’t think he saw any of their money.”

“No, I don’t think he did. None of them ever came to visit him in hospital. Except Grace.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Not to speak to. I saw her occasionally, hovering in the distance.

Waiting for him.”

“Sometimes I feel she’s doing that to me. Hovering in the distance waiting for me to sort out what happened to her.”

“I’d help more if I could.”

Vera pounced. “Could you give me a list of everyone in the group? Not now. Write it down. Names if possible and something on the background of each of them.”

“I don’t know.”

“I realize it’s difficult after all this time.”

“It’s not that. At least not only that. In one of the boxes in the workshop there are notes. I always meant to turn them into a book. Or at least into a paper. It’s more a question of confidentiality.”

“I’ll come here. I won’t take the list away. You knew them. Grace, Edmund and Bella. I don’t want the medical details. They wouldn’t mean anything. More your personal impression. A reason.” “OK,” she said. “OK.”

Patrick must have been listening at the door because he came in that moment with tea. He talked about flutes and folk bands and about how now he’d got a kid he’d really have to get more involved in the fight to keep music in schools. The baby stirred and

Christina started to unbutton her tunic to feed her. Hurriedly Vera said it was time to leave and that she’d see herself out. She left them, sitting together on the sofa, bickering amiably about the baby’s name.

Chapter Fifty-Nine.

When Vera arrived back at Kimmerston it was seven o’clock. She bought chips from the fish shop opposite the police station. The skeletal middle-aged man in the long apron behind the counter recognized her in the queue and served her first, handing the greasy parcel over the heads of the people waiting, waving away her money, saying he’d take it off her next time.

Still eating the chips she stood at the door of the big room where Joe Ashworth was working, staring glassy eyed at a computer screen.

“Where are the other buggers?” she demanded.

“Still working through the guest list from Holme Park. Lots of them were out during the day.”

“Anything?”

“No one saw anyone going into the house at the end of the Avenue. No one saw a car parked outside. There were people on foot going up to the Hall but descriptions are pretty sketchy.”

“Have you managed to contact Neville Furness yet?”

“He’s been out on a site visit. And not answering his mobile.”

Reluctantly he turned away from the screen. “What about you?”

“More evidence that Bella and Edmund were very close. At the hospital they confided in each other, trusted each other. But as to how relevant that is now?” She shrugged. Rolled the chip paper into a ball and lobbed it towards a waste bin.

“Anne Preece has been trying to get in touch with you.”

“What for?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. Implied it was women’s stuff. Anyway, she said she’ll be in all evening if you want to give her a ring.”

Vera felt more cheerful. It was a reprieve. She could put off for several hours her return to the house by the railway with its ghost of her father. And of herself as a child, lonely, ugly as a bagful of nails. Once, at an attempt at kindness, Hector had said, “I wouldn’t mind, you know, if you’d like to bring a friend back to tea.” She hadn’t told him there was no one to ask and worried for weeks that he would mention it again.

I should sell the place, she thought. Get out. Buy a flat in Kimmerston. Something small and easy to manage. Rent even. Spend the profit on a few holidays abroad and a smart new car.

But she wouldn’t. It was an impossible dream, like winning the lottery. She was tied to the house and the memories of it. Better the ghosts than no sense of belonging at all. She realized that Ashworth was staring at her, waiting for her perhaps to pick up the phone to call Anne.

“I’ll go and see her,” Vera said. “She might have remembered something. It’s better done face to face.”

“Do you want me to come?” He put as much enthusiasm as he could summon into the question but she wasn’t deceived.

“No,” she said. “Go home to your babby.” She thought of Patrick and Christina in their house overlooking the Tyne and wondered what was wrong with her. Even when she’d been younger the thought of producing kids had made her feel ill. “The other bastards on the team’ll be home already. They’ll have their feet up in front of the telly. Why shouldn’t you?”

He was already piling papers away into a drawer, stuffing his thermos flask into his briefcase.

“Well,” he said. “If you’re sure… ” And he was gone before she could change her mind.

There was no reply when Vera rang the doorbell of the Priory. House martins flew into a nest under the eaves. Clouds of insects hung in the still air. Vera wandered round to the garden at the back of the house and found Anne, standing out against a border of shrubs and plants with deep red blooms. She was edging the lawn, pushing the half moon of steel into the ground with a heavy boot, slicing away the untidy turf. She was dressed in jeans and a sleeveless vest and Vera thought she was wearing well. She didn’t hear Vera until the inspector was halfway across the grass and then she turned, startled. In that first unguarded moment Vera thought she was expecting someone else. Or perhaps hoping for someone else, because she seemed not only surprised but momentarily disappointed.

“There was no need to come out all this way,” Anne said. “It’s not urgent. I just phoned to make an appointment. I’d have come into Kimmerston.” She seemed flustered and Vera thought she hadn’t sorted out yet exactly what she wanted to say. She hadn’t got her story straight.

“It’s no problem.” Vera looked admiringly round the garden. “There’s some work gone into this, mind. It’s like something out of a Sunday paper.”

“I love it. I’d really miss it if I had to leave.”

“Is that on the cards?”

Anne straightened up. “I don’t know. The time at Baikie’s was to give me a chance to sort out what I wanted. I don’t seem any closer to making a decision.”

“What about your husband?”

“Jeremy? I haven’t talked to him. He’s got problems of his own. His business isn’t doing brilliantly. Besides, I can never really take him seriously.”

“I always find it’s dangerous,” Vera said, ‘ underestimate anyone to that extent.”

“Do you?” Anne gave an awkward little laugh. “What a peculiar thing to say. Jeremy wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s not in this evening. Some meeting with a business contact in Newcastle. Someone who’s going to make him a fortune. Apparently. Jem’s always optimistic.”

“I’d like to have met him,” Vera said easily. “But I suppose now we can chat in peace. Over a beer perhaps. If you’ve got any beer in the fridge. After the day I’ve had I could do with a drink.”

They sat in the kitchen with the back door open so they could hear the last of the birdsong outside. At the end of the garden the hill rose steeply. Its shadow edged towards them.

“Well?” Vera demanded. “What can I do for you?” She was pouring lager carefully into a straight pint glass. “Have you remembered anything about finding Edmund?”

“No. It’s nothing like that. I’m not sure that I should say… “

“I could have had a beer in my own house. And I’ve not come all this way to look at the scenery. So spit it out.

It’s not your place to decide what’s important. You can leave that to me.”

“I wondered if you’ve talked to Barbara Waugh.”

“Who’s she when she’s at home?”

“Wife of Godfrey, the quarry boss. And a partner in the business, I think.”

“I talked to him briefly after Grace was killed to try to get a handle on that Environmental Impact report. I’ve had no cause to speak to the wife. Is she a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly. I met her first more than a year ago. Slateburn Quarries had put some money into a Northumberland Wildlife Trust reserve and the Waughs were there for the opening. She came up to me and started talking about the Black Law development. She must have heard that I opposed it. I was expecting an earful but she was very generous. She even invited me to her home for lunch.”

“What was all that about? Was she nobbling the opposition?”

“No. She wasn’t very happy about the quarry either. She felt the company was being bumped into it.” Anne paused. “She made allegations, all of them unspecific, about Neville Furness. That he was a ruthless businessman. That he had more influence on her husband than she thought was healthy. She even implied some sort of blackmail.

She said that was why Godfrey was so single-minded about the Black Law development. If it was left to her she’d favour a more flexible approach.”

“She didn’t say what grounds Neville might have had for blackmail?”

Anne turned away, stared out into the garden. “No. It was all very vague.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I wasn’t sure. Not then. But what reason would she have to lie?”

“Have you seen her since?”

“Just before the party at Holme Park. She’d phoned here several times the week before and left messages with Jeremy. I went to have tea. The daughter was there. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t talk but I think something had happened. There’d been some threat. She seemed terrified but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”

“Do you think her husband beats her up?”

“No!”

The answer, instant and vehement, surprised Vera. “It does happen,” she said mildly. “Even in the best of families.”

“I don’t think that’s what frightened her. I wondered if it had anything to do with Neville Furness. And now he seems to be taking an interest in Rachael… “

“You think I should find out what’s at the bottom of it. Did you mention any of this to Rachael?”

“I tried to warn her but she’s besotted.”

“Has she seen him again?”

“I think so. She phoned last night to see how I was and I thought I could hear his voice in the background.”

“Don’t worry.” Vera drained her glass and set it regretfully on the table. “Edie won’t let her do anything silly.”

“Edie won’t be able to stop her if she sets her mind to it.”

“I’ll have a word. Find out what’s going on.”

“Will you talk to Barbara Waugh?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Something was scaring her. She wouldn’t tell me. She might talk to you. But don’t let on I sent you.”

“So I just drop in, do I, to have a friendly chat and a cup of tea as I’m passing?” “I told you. She’s a partner in the business. Isn’t that excuse enough?”

“Maybe.”

Vera sensed that Anne wanted rid of her but she was reluctant to go.

There’s something you’re not telling me, lady, she thought. But what is it? She sat, waited.

“I thought I might go back to college,” Anne said suddenly. “Try for a degree in environmental science. Get a real job so I can pay my own way.” Is that all it was, Vera thought. You didn’t want to admit to academic pretensions. But she wasn’t convinced. “Why not?” she said out loud.

“You might find yourself a toy boy It was a flip remark because she could think of nothing better but Anne seemed embarrassed.

“Or have you already found one?”

“No,” Anne said. “Of course not.”

“I’d better go then. Thanks for the beer.”

Anne showed her out through the house to the main door. In the hall there was a picture of Jeremy at a do, flamboyant in a silk bow tie.

At the door Vera hesitated. “Do you ever go into that coffee shop in the precinct?”

This time she was sure Anne flushed. “Occasionally. Why?”

“Bella Furness used to go in every Wednesday. At lunchtime. Did you ever meet her?”

“No. I’m sure I didn’t.”

So who did you meet, Vera thought. Edmund Fulwell or someone altogether different?

At home she drank whisky because there was no beer, phoned Edie to make an appointment to see her the following day, watched an Orson Welles movie on the television and fell asleep before the Aberdeen sleeper rumbled past. As she drifted off she thought of Neville Furness.

Dreaming, she confused him with a pirate she’d read about as a girl in a favourite picture book. She must have had a last moment of lucidity before sleep because she wondered suddenly why it had been so hard to pin him down for an interview.

Chapter Sixty.

Conventional policing had drawn a blank. Even her boss who was a believer in persistence and routine, who was convention personified, who knew nothing else, had to admit that. By the time the team met the following morning they had contacted everyone on the Holme Park guest list but they were no further forward. It seemed that the heat and the drink had dulled the partygoers’ senses. They could remember snatches of gossip an amusing conversation with an ex-diplomat from Tokyo, a ravishing frock, a tired and emotional old woman eating strawberries but nothing outside this social contact. Certainly nothing as prosaic as whether a car had been parked outside the semis at the end of the Avenue.

Vera’s instinct was always to keep important information to herself until she was sure of it. As a young detective other people had taken credit for her work, mocked her when details hadn’t checked out. Now she built a case privately, discussing it, if at all, with Ashworth. He accused her of paranoia, occasionally protecting her when her refusal to cooperate got her into bother. Now she realized secrecy wouldn’t do. The team was dispirited. The troops needed something to keep them going. A story they could believe in.

“Once upon a time,” she said, grinning at their confusion because it was the last thing they expected. “Once upon a time there were two brothers. Let’s call them Robert and Edmund. Good old-fashioned English names. The elder brother was good and dutiful and did as his mother told him. As a reward he inherited the big house and the family business. He married a pretty young girl who gave him sons. The younger brother was a wastrel and a drunkard. He got a local lass pregnant and had to marry her. Then he ran away to sea. The wife committed suicide and the daughter, who if she wasn’t beautiful was certainly clever, was taken away by social workers.

“Now when the younger son returned from his adventures he wasn’t treated like the prodigal son in the Bible story. Nobody loved him.

Nobody except his daughter and the barmy old woman who’d looked after him as a boy.” She looked up at them, asked sharply. “With me so far?”

They nodded at her, compliant as kids in a kindergarten. They might think she was a barmy old woman but no one was prepared to risk a confrontation.

“I’ve come to realize that what Edmund loved, more than his clever daughter even, was the countryside where he grew up. He loved it so much that when his enemies planned to build a quarry there he forced his daughter to tell lies for him. They wanted to bring machines to dig out the rock and he couldn’t stand the thought of it. It became an obsession.”

She paused and her audience shuffled, embarrassed, because this wasn’t the way inspectors were supposed to carry on. They hoped that she’d finished. But she just took a swig of the coke from a can on the desk in front of her and continued.

“Someone else was as passionate about that countryside as Edmund the woman who farmed the land adjoining the estate. Her name was Bella Furness and her stepson was one of the wicked businessmen who wanted to dig a pit in the hillside. And surprise, surprise! Bella and Edmund knew each other. They met more than ten years ago when they were both patients in St. Nick’s. Both crazy people. Perhaps. They’d stayed friends ever since. Not lovers because Bella married Doug and they’d lived happily ever after. At least until Dougie had a stroke and the banks and the bailiffs gathered like birds of prey around the carcass of the farm. But very close friends.

“Perhaps Edmund confided in Bella, told her what his plans were. Who was scaring him. Perhaps if we asked she could answer all our questions and tell us who killed Edmund.” Vera stopped abruptly. The tone of her voice changed from storyteller to someone who meant business. “But she can’t, because in the spring, very inconveniently, she committed suicide.”

A hand was tentatively raised. She frowned as if annoyed to be interrupted. “Yes?”

“Are you certain it was suicide?”

“If it wasn’t, Fraser, I’d have told you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So we need to find someone else to answer our questions. In the hospital a group of people met for therapy and support. Bella and Edmund were part of that group. We know that after leaving St. Nick’s they kept in touch and regularly had lunch together. Occasionally they were joined by another woman. We need to trace her. Without even realizing, she might know who killed Edmund and Grace. It won’t be easy. She might not want to be found. Perhaps her friends and family don’t even know that she spent a period in a mental hospital. But we have to talk to her.”

“Can’t the hospital help?” A brave question, shouted from the back of the room.

“Their records show which patients were on each ward but not who attended the group. The psychologist who ran it is compiling a list at the moment but she’s not sure where her notes are and she’s got other things on her mind. In the meantime we need to work on finding the woman. Let’s be subtle at first. No publicity to scare her off. No “Were you a loony in the 1980s?” posters. Talk to the people at the Harbour Lights restaurant again, to the other staff and the regulars.

Perhaps our woman goes there to eat. And what about local GPs? The woman might have a recurring psychiatric problem.”

She watched them scribbling notes and thought she’d succeeded. They’d come to life. She banged on the table again and moved in front of the white flip chart. “The other angle I want to pursue is the quarry.

Somehow these deaths are linked to the bloody great hole Slateburn want to dig on the moor. These are the main movers in that business.” She began to write in unsteady capitals with a thick felt pen.

“Godfrey Waugh. He owns the company. I want to know whether the development was his idea or whether he was approached by the Fulwells.

Talk to both lots of staff and see what you can find out.

“Neville Furness. Stepson of Bella. At one time he was land agent for the Fulwells. Then head hunted by

Godfrey. He did all the preliminary negotiations for the quarry but now he’s gone all green and soppy. He’s talking about moving back to his father’s farm, even though it’s in debt. Has he really converted?

If not, what’s he up to? For the moment you can leave him to me. I’ve got an appointment to see him when I leave here. But talk to the people who know him and work for him. We need everything we can get.

He used to live in the house where Edmund died and word is he still has a key.

“Peter Kemp. Environmental consultant. He’s changed sides too but he’s gone the other way. Started off working for the Wildlife Trust and now sells his skills to big businesses. How much did he stand to gain from the quarry? How much would he lose if Waugh decided not to go ahead?”

There was a knock at the door. Vera glared at the probationer who came in. She stood nervously just inside the room.

“Yes?”

“A fax… ” She thrust the paper at Vera, blushed and escaped.

Vera glanced at the contents. She was about to dismiss the team so she could consider its implication then thought they could do with cheering up even if it was only with a cheap laugh at someone on the edge of the inquiry. She waved the paper at them. “This is about Jeremy Preece.

Husband of Anne. He lives in Langholme in the house nearest to where Grace’s body was found. We’ve been running checks as routine. You know how the boss likes routine. Mr. Preece has a conviction for indecency. Scarborough Magistrates

Court 1990. Found lurking in the bogs on Filey se afront dressed in a sequinned top… “

There was laughter, a general release of tension. She shouted above the noise, “I don’t know why you’re sitting there. Haven’t you got work to do? Now you can add Jeremy Preece to your list too.”

Gratefully they gathered their belongings and scuttled out of the room.

Only Joe Ashworth was left. He sat at the back and began slowly to clap his hands. “Brilliant; he said. A brilliant performance from start to finish. Now why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

She was flattered that he thought she knew.

Chapter Sixty-One.

Vera took Ashworth with her to interview Neville Furness. Furness had been messing her around. She’d been trying to fix an interview with him since Edmund had died. She wanted to show him she meant business and the two of them turning up at his office gave that impression.

Besides, on these occasions Ashworth was a useful observer. Sometimes she got carried away and he picked up signals she missed.

Slateburn Quarries took up the top floor of the office block by the river. She tried to remember what the site had looked like when old man Noble’s slaughterhouse had been there, but couldn’t. She was too used to the new roads. Even looking down at the river from the large window in reception she couldn’t tie up her memories with the geography.

The receptionist was middle-aged, severe. She told them that Mr. Furness would be with them shortly. He was tied up in a meeting. She brought them coffee.

“Does he know we’re here?” Vera demanded.

The receptionist bridled. “They said no interruptions. The meeting’s scheduled to finish at eleven.”

“So you’ve not even told him?” Her voice must have been audible in the building society on the ground floor. It increased in volume: “I want to see him now.”

The secretary hesitated, flushed with indignation, then went to the phone behind her desk. Almost immediately afterwards Neville Furness appeared from a corridor to their left. Vera had only seen him before at Black Law in jeans and a scuffed Barbour. In his suit and tie he seemed more formidable, not because the clothes gave him authority but because he wore them with such ease. Vera had expected him to seem out of place here. He was a farmer’s son. But even summoned dramatically from his meeting he was un flustered

“You must be a very busy man, Mr. Furness,” she said ominously, not sure yet whether she wanted to provoke a fight but keeping her options open.

He led them into an office which had his name on the door. It looked over the town. “And I know you’re busy too, Inspector. I’m sorry to have kept you.”

There was a desk near the window but he pulled three easy chairs round a low coffee table and they sat there. Again she was taken by how self-assured he was. She wanted to shake him.

“You’re difficult to pin down. You haven’t been avoiding us?”

“Of course not. It’s been a very difficult time here. Edmund’s death has thrown the whole business of the quarry into question.”

“Why? It had nothing to do with him.”

“It’s a matter of publicity. You know that Slateburn is working with the Fulwells on the project. Lily is very keen to go ahead but we have the impression that Robert would rather let the matter go. At least for the moment. He sees it as a question of taste.”

“What would you think about that?” He paused. “I’m an employee of Slateburn Quarries. I’ll implement whatever strategy is decided.”

“But you must have a personal view.”

“Not when I’m in this office, no.” “I was told you were the great enthusiast. The power behind the whole scheme.”

“I don’t know who told you that.” He paused again, frowning. When Vera said nothing he went on, “It’s my job to be enthusiastic.”

Vera stretched her legs. The chairs were low. They’d be comfortable enough for snoozing in but not for sitting up straight and taking notice.

“But Mr. Waugh must be keen for the scheme to go ahead. He’ll have invested a fortune just to get this far.”

“I think he’s open-minded, he could be persuaded either way. The inquiry will cost in legal fees if we decide to go ahead. Godfrey was certainly more positive when we received a favourable Environmental Impact Assessment report. The company’s sponsorship of the Wildlife Trust was a gamble. Once we’d become involved in that we couldn’t afford to be seen damaging an area of conservation importance in any way.”

“Who called the meeting earlier in the week to discuss the future of the quarry?”

“The Fulwells. We wouldn’t have intruded the day after Edmund’s death.”

“Which particular Fulwell?” As if we don’t already know, Vera thought.

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him.

“Probably Olivia. Hoping that we’d exert some influence on Robert.

During the meeting she accused him of having gone weedy on her.”

For the first time Neville had lost his professional cool. Vera was gleeful.

“You don’t like Mrs. Fulwell,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.

“Not much. When I worked for Robert she interfered. That was one of the reasons I was glad to leave Holme Park.”

“Who else was at the meeting?”

“Pete Kemp, our conservation consultant.”

Vera stretched again, stifled a yawn. The room was very warm. “I don’t suppose it matters to him one way or the other what’s decided about the quarry. He’ll be paid for his report whether the development goes ahead or not.” “Oh, he’s already been paid,” Furness said dryly. “But it’s not precisely true that he’s nothing to gain from the development. If it does go ahead Godfrey has promised a new nature reserve close to the site. It was part of the plan. Kemp Associates would draw up the management agreement for that and provide the staff. It would be a lucrative contract.”

You don’t like Peter Kemp either, Vera thought. Why’s that, I wonder.

It annoyed her that she couldn’t make up her mind about Neville Furness. She couldn’t pin him down, work out what made him tick. It was a matter of pride to her that her first impressions of people were sound. She boasted about it to Ashworth all the time. But her impressions of Furness were confused and unreliable.

“What did you do with the key to your house on the estate when you left?” she asked, hoping to shock him.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“You did have a key?” “I’m sorry,” he said. “Obviously it’s important. I’m trying to remember. I had two keys. One to the front door and one to the back.

On a single ring.”

“Did you give them back to Mrs. Fulwell?” It was Ashworth’s first contribution.

“No. Definitely not that. I’d given my letter of resignation to Robert. I had some holiday to take so effectively I left Holme Park without notice. That was how I wanted it. I didn’t want any scenes.”

“Would Mrs. Fulwell have made a scene?” Ashworth asked.

“She’s spoilt. Given occasionally to tantrums.”

“Was your relationship with Mrs. Fulwell entirely professional?”

“On my part, certainly.”

“And on hers?” As I explained, she interfered.”

“She fancied you,” Vera interrupted with a chortle. “Don’t tell me she wanted a bit of rough.”

He blushed violently and for a moment she wondered if she had a handle on him. He was shy, a prude. There was no more to it than that. But then he recovered his composure so quickly that she thought she must be wrong.

“So far as I am aware,” he said stiffly, “Robert and Lily have a very happy marriage.” “Let’s get back to the keys then,” Vera said unabashed. “You didn’t give them to Lily. Did you give them to Robert?”

“I don’t think so. He wouldn’t normally be involved in that sort of detail.”

“So you kept them then?”

“I suppose it’s possible. I mean I suppose it’s possible that I just forgot to give them back.”

“Where would they be? At home?”

“No, I’m starting to remember. The keys to the house at Holme Park were on the same ring as the spares for Black Law. Bella asked me to have them in case of an emergency. In case something happened to my father when she wasn’t around. And I’ve always kept those here. I spend more time in the office than I do at home. They were certainly here when you asked for a key to get into the farmhouse after the girl was killed on the hill.”

He stood up and went to his desk. From where he was sitting Vera couldn’t see him open the drawer but it didn’t seem to be locked. He returned with a Wildlife Trust key ring, with three keys attached.

“These two belong to Black Law. The mortise is the front door and the Yale the back. This is for the front door of the Holme Park house.”

“What about the Holme Park kitchen door?”

“I don’t know. It’s not here. I could have sworn it was on the same ring.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“God knows. The last time I took them out was to give you the Black Law key. I suppose I see them every time I go into the desk drawer, but I don’t look at them. Not in any detail.”

“Who else would have had access to your desk?”

He looked at her in surprise. “We’re very security conscious. Nobody gets into this suite of offices without a pass.”

“But your desk wasn’t locked.”

“No. Nor my office. It doesn’t need to be. As I’ve explained it’s impossible for a stranger to wander in.”

“But anybody working for Slateburn or here on official business could have had access to the key.”

“I suppose so. If they’d wanted to. If they’d realized it was there.”

“Was it labelled?”

He hesitated. “Yes. Just like this one.”

He handed her the Holme Park front door key. Attached to it was a small card tag, faded but just legible with 1 The Avenue written in cramped capitals. “That’s the official address of the house.”

“Would your secretary go into that drawer?”

“I don’t think so. It’s mostly personal stuff. But you can ask her.” “Yes,” Vera said. “We will.”

Neville Furness had remained standing. Perhaps he expected them to go but they sat where they were, silent, watching him.

“I didn’t use that key,” he said quietly. “And I hate the thought that anyone else might have used it, that through my carelessness I was responsible for Edmund’s death.” Still Vera said nothing. The silence seemed to get to him because he went on, “It’s been a hellish week. The Fulwells have made things very difficult here. We don’t know where we are. If only they’d decide one way or another… We’re all rather wound up.” He stopped abruptly.

“But that’s not your problem. Of course you’ve got more serious concerns… Actually I’ve decided I need to get away from it for a while. I’m going to escape at the weekend, spend some time at Black Law. It’ll be all right, will it? You said your team had finished.”

Vera nodded. “Have you seen Rachael Lambert this week?” “Yes,” he said. “She needs a break too. She’s coming up to Black Law with me.” He paused. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I was on the day Edmund Fulwell was killed?”

“We’d have got round to it,” Vera said comfortably.

“I was here for most of the day going through the preliminary draft of the Environment Impact Assessment.”

“On your own?”.

“Yes, though I wouldn’t have been able to leave the building without going through reception and there’s always someone there. I left the office at about four and went home to change. Godfrey had been working at home all day. He’d had Peter Kemp to see him to go over the plans for the new nature reserve at Black Law and he wanted to discuss them with me. I’d been invited to dinner but he wanted me there early so we could finish the business before we ate.”

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” Vera heaved herself out of her chair.

“Yes, thank you. Very pleasant.”

He shepherded them through reception and waited with them until the lift had arrived.

Outside she stood for a moment, imagining Neville and Rachael on their own in Black Law. If he meant Rachael harm, surely he wouldn’t have told her about the trip? Or perhaps she’d just been involved in setting a very clever trap.

Chapter Sixty-Two.

Vera walked from the police station to Edie’s house in Riverside Terrace. It wasn’t far and she needed a break from the incident room, the team frenetic, desperate for her approval, waiting for her to work miracles. She hoped that Edie would remind her of Baikie’s where things had seemed clearer, that she could recapture something of the old certainties.

Edie had invited her for lunch and thinking she should make a token contribution she stopped at the small florist’s in the High Street for flowers. Flowers had been left at the mine to mark the spot of Grace’s death. Flowers for mourning. For remembrance. Or for celebration.

At the end of the terrace she stopped to get her breath. She didn’t want to turn up at the house puffing and sweaty. A car passed her, stopped outside Edie’s and Peter Kemp jumped out. He wasn’t driving the white Land Rover but something sleek and sporty with a loud engine.

He was in casual mode grey cotton trousers and a green polo shirt with the company logo embroidered on the pocket. Very corporate. He leapt up the steps and hit the doorbell with his palm.

By the time Vera reached the front door Peter was inside, in the basement kitchen. She leant over the rails but though she could see the couple she couldn’t tell what they were saying. Obviously, it wasn’t a friendly exchange. She paused for a moment but then curiosity got the better of her and she rang the bell. When Edie opened the door she was flushed.

“Thank God,” she muttered. “If you hadn’t come I might have murdered him.”

In the kitchen beside the scrubbed pine table and chairs, there was a small sofa with an Indian cotton bedspread thrown over it. Peter Kemp had sat there when Edie left the room to answer the door. He lounged, his long legs stretched length ways along the floor beside it so there was no room for anyone else to sit down. When he saw Vera he got slowly up to his feet.

“Inspector,” he said. “What a surprise. And I always thought Ms. Lambert was such an upright person. I hope you haven’t come to make an arrest.” He looked pointedly at the flowers, drooping now. “Ah no. I see it’s a social visit.” The words came out as an accusation.

His freckles seemed very prominent against his fair skin.

“Look,” Edie interrupted. “You’d better go. There’s nothing more to say.” He seemed about to argue but thought better of it, became instead concerned. “You know,” he said, “I’m very fond of Rachael. I’ve her best interests at heart. I wouldn’t want her disappointed.”

Edie let him go first up the stairs, turned to Vera and mimed being sick behind his back. As she came back into the room they heard his car roar into life and drive away. She banged around furiously, setting the table with cutlery and whatever she could find in the fridge. Vera waited until half a loaf, a pleated ball of silver foil with a smear of boursin inside, a lump of dried-up cheddar and a couple of slices of ham had appeared before speaking. Edie was by the sink, shaking a ready prepared salad from its plastic bag into a bowl.

“What was all that about?”

“He always was an arrogant little shit,” Edie said.

“What did he want?”

“He must have heard that Rachael was thinking of applying for another job. He asked me to persuade her to stay. If he gets the contract for the new nature reserve at Black Law he’s relying on her to manage it.

He’s scared he won’t be able to run the firm without her. He’s right.

He wouldn’t.”

“I suppose that’s quite flattering.”

“But it was the way that he did it. Do you know what he said? “She ought to realize that now’s probably not a good time. Prospective employers would be wary of taking on anyone who’s been linked to a murder inquiry” implying that Rachael might have had something to do with Grace’s death.”

Vera realized that Edie was close to tears. In the fridge she’d seen a bottle of wine, three-quarters full with the cork jammed back in. She took it out, poured each of them a glass, drank, winced and wondered how long it had been there.

“Why do you want to talk to me anyway?” Edie said, still angry. “You said you wanted to ask about Neville. If you come back this evening you can see Rachael. She’ll be able to tell you everything you want to hear.”

“I understand she’s besotted. That doesn’t do a lot for a person’s judgement.” “Who told you that?”

“Anne Preece. I went to Langholme to see her last night.”

“She’s still there then. I’m surprised. I thought she’d decided to leave.”

“Oh, she’s still there,” Vera said. “But she seems in a sort of limbo.

Waiting for something to happen. You haven’t any idea what she might be waiting for?”

“Some man perhaps. She’s very discreet but I gather it’s not a successful marriage. Still, how many are?”

Vera hacked a slice of bread from the loaf. “Well?” she demanded. “Is she?”

Edie, still preoccupied, looked up from her glass. “Is she what?”

“Is Rachael besotted?”

“Definitely. I haven’t seen her like this since she first started going out with that toad Peter Kemp.”

“I didn’t realize she’d been involved with him.” Vera’s voice was bland, vaguely curious, but her mind was whirring furiously. Another connection. Another complication.

“Before he was married. I never liked him. Perhaps that’s why she stuck with him so long. To spite me. I shouldn’t have made my feelings about him so plain. I could never manage tact with Rachael.”

“But she carried on working with him.”

“That was pride, I think. She didn’t want to be seen to be running away.”

“According to Rachael they’ve more work than they can handle. And he’s just given her a pay rise. To bribe her to stay, I suppose.”

“So he’s not short of money?”

Apparently not though I hear his wife has very expensive tastes.” Edie pulled a face. “Sorry, that was bitchy. I can’t help listening to gossip.”

“Nothing wrong with gossip, pet. It’s what my job’s all about. What else does the gossip say?”

“That he married her for her money then discovered she wasn’t as loaded as he thought. Daddy’s wealthy but not very generous.” Edie drank the last of her wine. “Rachael’s not been happy at Kemp Associates for a while. I suppose Grace’s death pushed her into looking actively for something else. There’s a research post for the RSPB which interests her. It would be based in Wales. I know she’s ready for a move but I’d miss her. Especially now. We’ve been getting on better lately.” Edie paused. “And she’d miss Neville. Perhaps that’s why she’s taking so long to decide whether or not to go for it. Secretly she’s waiting for him to sweep her away to Black Law so she can live with him happily ever after.”

“Is that likely?”

“God knows.”

“Perhaps that was what the scene with Peter was all about.”

“What do you mean?” Edie bristled again at the mention of Peter.

“That he’s still fond of Rachael and he doesn’t want to lose her to Neville. I suppose it’s even possible that they’ve been having an affair. If Peter’s not happy with his wife.”

“No!” Edie was horrified. “Rachael wouldn’t be so dumb. Not even as a way of getting back at me. And jealousy’s such a very human emotion.

I don’t think Peter Kemp’s capable of it.”

Neville might be though, Vera thought. But where does that take us?

“Did you know that Neville was planning to take Rachael to Black Law this weekend?”

“She has mentioned it. Once or twice. She’s like a kid who’s never been on holiday before.”

“And you’ve agreed?”

“It’s not my place to agree or disagree, is it? She’s an adult. Too old for a lecture on safe sex.” Edie looked at Vera thoughtfully across the table. “Unless there’s something you think I should know.

Even then I can hardly invite myself up there as a watchdog or chaperone this time.”

“No.” Vera refilled both glasses. “I suppose not. What do you make of Neville Furness?”

“I can see why Rachael’s attracted.” “Yes,” Vera said. “So can I.”

“I hope he’s not mucking her about.”

“Do you think he might be?”

“I don’t think so. I think perhaps he’s just very shy, very private.

He doesn’t give anything of himself away. I should be used to that in Rachael. I think I should trust her judgement.”

“Have you seen much of him?”

“He’s very much the gentleman. Whenever he calls to take her out he makes a point of letting me know where they’re going and what time he’ll be back. You know they’ve seen each other every day since we moved back to Kimmerston.”

“I had been keeping an eye on him. Discreetly. But after Edmund’s death we didn’t have the men to spare.”

“Do you know where he was on the afternoon Edmund Fulwell was killed?” “I know where he says he was. Of course we’ll check. Why?”

“He used to live in that house.”

“I know.”

“Should I persuade Rachael not to go with him at the weekend? She might listen to me. As I say, we’ve been getting on better lately.” “No,” Vera said quietly. “Don’t do that.”

“I’d not have her put in any danger.” “No,” Vera said. “Nor would I.”

Chapter Sixty-Three.

Vera decided to call on the Waughs unannounced. Neville Furness had given her an excuse. She needed to check his alibi for the afternoon and evening of Edmund’s death and the Waughs’ house was on the way home. Almost. Even without the excuse she would have made the visit.

Anne Preece had roused her curiosity. She wanted to see the family together.

She had grown up with a rosy picture of conventional life and blamed the lack of it for the fact that she’d turned out such an awkward cow.

In her work though she’d hardly come across a great deal of domestic bliss and the. colleagues who played most at happy families were the ones she suspected of jumping into bed with anything that moved. Living a sham. Not Ashworth though. He was the exception. He restored her faith in her childhood dream.

She timed her visit carefully for seven o’clock. Godfrey Waugh should be home from work by now. Surely this would be a time they would spend together. But when she pulled up onto the gravel drive the house was lifeless and she thought they must be out. After the thunderstorms of the week before the weather had changed again. It was warm and still and the hills seemed distant, hazy in the heat, yet none of the windows were open. She listened for the sound of a television or children shouting but everything was quiet.

After ringing the bell she turned back to look out at the garden because she expected no answer and was surprised to hear the catch being lifted, the door opening. Inside stood a woman, holding a tea towel. She wore pink rubber gloves which reached almost to her elbows.

Underneath them, Vera knew, would be manicured nails. The woman smiled pleasantly enough but Vera had taken against her. Even washing pans she wore make-up. Vera had an image of her sitting at her dressing table preparing herself carefully for her husband’s return from work. Through desire? Duty? Either way it was letting the side down.

“Are you Mrs. Waugh?” The question came out more abruptly than Vera had intended. She found it hard to reconcile the picture of this self-confident creature with Anne Preece’s description of an anxious woman, a victim, the subject of bullying.

“Yes.”

“Inspector Stanhope. I’m investigating the murder of Edmund Fulwell.

Would it be possible to speak to your husband?”

“Of course.” Barbara Waugh took off a glove and held out her hand.

Vera, stretching out hers, was aware of her own nails bitten, split, slightly grubby. The woman shouted back into the house, “Darling, it’s Inspector Stanhope. She’d like to speak to you.”

It was impossible to tell what she thought of the intrusion.

Vera followed her into the hall. Through an open door she saw into a small room, brightly painted, with a shelf of toys beyond a pine desk.

A girl sat in front of a computer screen. She was playing a game intently, clasping the joystick with both hands. The sound had been turned off and the aliens on the screen were being zapped, silently. A flashing green light indicated the final score and the girl’s concentration was momentarily relaxed. She turned and Vera had a glimpse of a pale, rather puffy face before she had to greet Godfrey who was walking down the hall towards her.

He had changed from his office clothes and had the look of a politician who has been told to dress casually. He wore thin cord trousers and a checked open-neck shirt. If it had been colder he would have gone for a patterned sweater.

“Inspector.” He frowned. If anything, Vera thought, he seemed the more anxious of the couple though he covered it well. “Is anything wrong?”

“No,” she said. Thinking, except that two people have been killed. A father and a daughter. Just like you and the child playing on the computer. “It’s a routine visit. I had a few questions and as I have to pass here anyway on my way home… “

He led her into a sitting room which smelled of beeswax polish. An oil painting of their daughter hung prominently over the fireplace. It was too accurate to be flattering but Vera muttered something polite about how pretty she was. Her dealings with Ashworth had taught her how to talk to parents. She had obviously pressed the right button because Waugh responded warmly. His voice was local but the words, carefully chosen, a little long-winded, also had something of the politician about them.

“We’d almost reconciled ourselves to being childless, then Felicity arrived. Perhaps because it was so unexpected it was a real joy.”

Barbara, standing in the doorway, smiled too but a tension about her eyes made Vera think that the strain of caring for the child meant that for her the joy wasn’t entirely undiluted. She felt a sudden sympathy for the woman and wondered if perhaps Anne Preece had been right. It was up to her, after all, if she wanted to tart herself up.

“Would you like tea, Inspector? Or coffee? Then I expect you’d like to speak to my husband alone.”

What I’d really like, Vera thought, is a beer. But she said that tea would be very nice. “And I hope you’ll be able to join us, Mrs. Waugh.

I’d appreciate your opinion.”

Barbara seemed pleased by this but once she’d left the room Godfrey said, “I don’t know how my wife can help you, Inspector. She stays at home and cares full time for our daughter. Since the young woman was killed on the hill she’s been reluctant to leave the house on her own.” “I thought she was a partner in your business.”

That surprised him. It was as if he had forgotten the fact.

“Officially yes, though she takes no active part.”

“How does she feel about the development of the quarry?” Godfrey paused, gave a thin little smile. “She has a rather sentimental view of the company, I’m afraid. Her father was a craftsman and she doesn’t always understand that we’ve had to move on from that scale of business. It’s not a cottage industry any more. We have to survive.”

“If it came to a vote would she support you?”

There was a brief frown of irritation then the smile returned.

“It would never come to a vote. What would be the point? We’re the only two partners. We’ll come to a decision together. Though of course there are other people involved. The present landowners the Fulwells. Without their agreeing to lease the land the proposal would come to nothing.”

“And Neville Furness?”

“Neville’s an employee. I value his judgement but he won’t be involved in the final decision.”

“It’s not been made then?”

He hesitated. “No. We all felt we needed a few days to consider the matter. We’re meeting again on Friday.”

He stopped abruptly as Barbara Waugh came in. She was carrying a tray and the child followed with a plate of homemade biscuits. She handed them to Vera and her father, then put the plate on a coffee table and made to leave the room without a word. Vera saw that she had three of the biscuits clasped in one hand and winked at her as she was shutting the door. The girl glared back, stonily.

“Will you be at the meeting on Friday, Mrs. Waugh?” Vera asked conversationally.

“What meeting?”

“The meeting to decide whether or not the quarry should go ahead.” Godfrey quickly. “Barbara doesn’t need to involve herself in the day to day running of the business. She leaves all that to me.”

“But I thought a decision had been made.” Barbara sat across the room from them, knees firmly together, hands clasped on her lap. Convent educated, Vera thought. I can always tell. “Godfrey, didn’t you say the plans would be dropped for the present?”

He shrugged. “Lily must have been putting pressure on Robert. He called this afternoon just before I left work, and said he thought it would be worth our getting together again!

“You didn’t tell me.” Suddenly she was close to losing control. “I’m not sure I can stand all this again. The publicity. People talking.”

He leant back in his seat. In the gesture Vera sensed distaste, even a mild revulsion, but he spoke kindly. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew you were relieved that the project had been put on ice. And really that’s still the most likely outcome. Robert isn’t at all keen and he can be very stubborn.”

“Nonsense. Once Lily Fulwell and Neville Furness get together neither of you will be able to stand up to them.”

“That’s ridiculous. Neville won’t even be at the meeting. He’s taken Friday off. And you have to trust me to do what’s best for all of us.

One day this business will be Felicity’s.”

He was making an effort to keep his voice even but had begun to sound irritated. Vera thought, So, that’s what makes him tick. That’s where the ambition comes from. He doesn’t want the girl to have to struggle.

And she thought of her own father whose only ambition was to collect successive clutches of eggs from every bird breeding in the county.

Who’d never thought of her once.

Now Waugh seemed embarrassed. “Look; he said quietly. “We’ll discuss this later. The inspector doesn’t want to hear all this.”

Vera reached out to dunk a biscuit in her tea. “Don’t mind me, it’s fascinating. I’m just glad to get the weight off my feet.”

“How can we help you?” “As I said. Details to check. Very boring but necessary. Neville Furness used to work in Holme Park. He lived in the house where Edmund Fulwell was killed. It seems that he still had a key to the house.”

“Neville wouldn’t have killed anyone.”

“It’s not a character reference I’m after, Mr. Waugh. He says he was here on the evening Edmund Fulwell was killed.”

“He was. Peter Kemp had drawn up some interesting proposals for the new upland nature reserve on the Black Law site. I needed to discuss that with him. We thought it would provide positive publicity to coincide with the publication of the Kemp Associates report.”

“What time did he arrive?”

“I’m not sure. About four thirty.” “No,” Barbara said loudly. “Later than that. Quarter past five at the earliest. I’d just collected Felicity. She’d been at her friend’s for tea. We pulled up at the same time.”

Godfrey looked at her calmly.

“Is your wife right, Mr. Waugh?”

“Yes, Inspector. I believe she is.”

Barbara stood up suddenly. “I promised I’d help Felicity with her homework. I’m sure Godfrey can help you with anything else you need, Inspector. He’ll see you out.”

And she left the room before Vera could say anything. After her previous hospitality the abrupt departure was awkward, almost rude.

Later Vera thought she could have called Barbara back, made some attempt to see her alone. Then she could have offered help, given her the office phone number, pushed for more information about Neville Furness. As it was she just followed Godfrey to the door and said goodbye to the girl who’d returned to the computer. Despite the talk about homework Barbara was nowhere to be seen.

Outside she paused by her car. Swifts swooped above the house weaving a cat’s cradle pattern in the sky. She lingered, thinking that Barbara might find some excuse to talk to her. But, turning back, she saw the woman in an upstairs window, not looking at her at all but staring at the hill beyond.

Chapter Sixty-Four.

In her house by the railway line Vera opened a bottle of red wine and drank most of it sitting by the open kitchen window until the colour had drained from the hills. As the wine began to take effect she was troubled not by doubts about the investigation but by memories of Constance Baikie. She had a picture of the woman as she had last seen her, lying wide and soft on her sofa, looking out at Vera with sly black eyes. Since her father’s death she had thought of him often.

With anger, guilt, occasional flashes of reluctant affection. He had been company. Another person to talk to. Connie she had largely forgotten until she had walked into Baikie’s Cottage, dripping with rain, to investigate a young woman’s murder and then all the memories had returned.

As she drained her second glass it occurred to Vera for the first time that Hector and Connie might have been lovers. After all she had never seen him with another woman. Almost immediately she dismissed the idea. Their joint passion had been for their illicit collections, for the secret obsession which took them out onto the hills before dawn to deprive birds of their young, leaving the nests empty and cold. They had shared the secret excitement. They were drawn closer by the danger which exposed them to blackmail and threatened their reputations and careers. It had nothing to do with love or even friendship.

Then, at almost the same time as she remembered that she had not eaten since Edie’s bread and cheese at lunchtime, she was struck by the thought that the murderer she was seeking could be similarly obsessive.

The daughter and then the father had been killed. Like Hector taking clutches from the same nest. There was no apparent motive but evidence of meticulous planning especially before Edmund’s death. Behind the killings she saw a passion as intense and irrational as that which had driven her father, clouded his judgement, ruined both their lives. Yet Hector had been quite different before his wife died. She had seen photographs of him, talking to friends, laughing. Even afterwards he had held down a respectable job until his retirement, had been considered a little eccentric, a bit of a loner, but not any sort of threat. She should be looking for someone with a secret obsession and when she understood what that was perhaps she would know why Grace and Edmund had been killed.

Her mobile phone rang. She came to her senses, thought, What a load of crap, get a grip, lady. Imagine explaining that to Ashworth and the crew.

On the phone was Christina Flood the psychologist. In the background was the sound of a flute playing something Celtic and mournful.

“I’ve dug out that information you wanted. You can come and get it if you like. I know it’s late but we’ve taken to sleeping at the same time as the baby and she’s definitely a night owl. We’ll be up for hours.”

Vera was tempted then she saw the empty bottle on the window sill and thought better of it. Some rules she was not prepared to break.

“I can’t tonight; she said. “I’ve had a few glasses of wine.

Definitely over the limit.”

Christina was surprisingly insistent. “Why don’t we bring it to you?

If you don’t have the stuff now, it’ll have to wait until Monday. We’re away for the weekend, showing off the sprog to doting grandparents.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. We’re all wide awake. Patrick and the baby want to play.”

Vera had almost given them up and it was midnight before she saw the headlights moving down the lane towards the house. She went out to wait for them, thinking perhaps they had been lost and would need reassuring that they’d got the right place. They were in a sea blue van with the words THE MUSIC MAN stencilled in orange along the side.

Christina was apologetic.

“My car wouldn’t start. Flat battery. So we had to come in Patrick’s.”

“I was glad you could make it.”

“Not at all. We’ve enjoyed the jaunt. Especially the baby.”

“We’re going for a walk,” Patrick said. “Leave you two in peace.”

“No need.”

“We want to,” he said. “We’ve never done moonlight before.”

And he walked down the lane with the baby in a sling on his back and disappeared into the black shadow of the old station house.

“Did you decide on a name for her?” Vera asked.

“Miranda. Theatrical enough for Patrick but not too outrageous.”

They sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. Christina’s papers were in a large box file. There were shorthand notebooks containing a jotted record of each meeting of the group, and some photocopies of patients’ record sheets.

“I need these because in the notebooks I often just use first names or initials and after all this time I can’t remember the backgrounds of every individual patient. But I’m still concerned about confidentiality. I promised each group that anything said would be secret.” She hesitated. “Look, I’d like you to read the notebooks first. That way the people involved can remain anonymous. If anything strikes you as especially significant we can discuss revealing the identity of the people concerned.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to give me a list of the patients who attended the same group as Bella and Edmund? I can see if there’s a name I recognize.”

Christina paused again, chose her words carefully. “It might be simpler but I don’t think you’d find it useful.”

“You’re saying there’s something relevant in these notebooks?”

“I think you should read them.”

So Vera read. Bella and Edmund were founder members of the first group. Christina had taken detailed notes of each session. Bella was referred to by first name and Edmund by initials. In the beginning it was clear that Christina was frustrated by the way the group was operating. She even considered packing the whole thing in. A male patient was dominating every discussion. He talked constantly about his destructive relationship with his mother. She’d overprotected him and became ill every time he wanted to leave her. The other patients were too polite or too apathetic to shut him up. Vera was surprised no one had thumped him.

Only in the third meeting was some progress made and then it was Edmund who had interrupted. Christina had written down his exact words.

“For Christ’s sake, do you think you’re the only person to have had a shitty childhood? Haven’t you ever read Larkin?”

And he had gone on to talk angrily about his life at Holme Park, about the mother who was always too wrapped up in her social life and her elder son to give time to him, the succession of incompetent nannies, the restrictions and the boredom. “There was only one person who cared for me and the rest of them treated her like shite. Just because she couldn’t read or write very well.”

Nancy Deakin, Vera thought. And she cared for him until the end.

That had stimulated a more general discussion. Others had come in with halting stories of their own. There were hints of abuse and bullying.

One woman had been brought up believing her mother was her sister.

Another’s father had thrown himself under a train.

Very jolly, Vera thought. She hoped Christina was happy in her work.

There was no mention of any contribution from Bella until the fifth session. Then, prompted by Edmund who had already befriended her, she had told the story of her father’s death. It was much as Vera had expected. Charles had always made her feel guilty she at least had escaped for a while, made friends, found a job she enjoyed. And Arthur Noble had never hit her. All his frustration had been taken out on the boy. When she returned to the family home Bella’s little brother had increased the pressure relentlessly.

In her notebook Christina described the scene as Bella told her story.

It was remarkable. Until Edmund persuaded her to speak Bella had always been a passive member of the group, sometimes supporting other people but never seeking attention for herself. Now it seemed she couldn’t stop talking and she moved physically into the centre of the circle. She began to act out the attack. which killed her father, starting with receiving the phone call from her brother and ending with raising her arm to smack the heavy bronze onto his skull. She was in tears, saying that she should have been charged with murder and not with manslaughter. She had planned to kill him. The group gathered round to offer support.

Vera looked up briefly from the notebook. “She could have left them to it. Gone back to teaching. She was still responsible.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she should have got away with it?”

“Do you think she did?” Christina stood up, stretched. “I’ll make some more tea, shall I?”

When she returned with the mugs Vera was engrossed, hunched over the table frowning. Eventually she looked up furiously, pushed the notebook towards the psychologist.

“Why didn’t you do something about this at the time?”

“Because I didn’t believe it.”

“Didn’t you recognize the story?”

“Of course. But it wasn’t unusual. The patient had experienced a number of psychotic fantasies, had imagined, for example, being famous.

Those were triggered by news events, movies, even TV soaps. Later we managed to control the episodes but at the time I couldn’t be expected to take the story seriously.”

“How did the rest of the group respond?”

“They didn’t believe it. They were sympathetic but sceptical.”

“What do you think now? Do you believe it could have been true?”

“I think it’s far-fetched but you have a right to know what was claimed. That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Vera stood up, walked to the window. There was a full moon which lit up the meadow. Patrick and the baby were silhouetted against the light.

“Could that sort of illness reoccur after a period of normality?”

“You’d need to check with a psychiatrist, but no, it wouldn’t be unusual. Do you think that’s what’s happened here?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” Christina said. “As a way of surviving, these murders make perfect sense. I don’t think that’s madness.”

“Well, it’ll not be for me to decide. Thank God.” Vera turned back into the room. “You’ll have to let me see the patient’s notes. You do realize that. I have to know who this lunatic is. If it is a lunatic.”

For a moment Christina hesitated. Through the open window they heard footsteps on the lane as Patrick approached. He was singing to the baby. Some sort of lullaby.

“For Christ’s sake,” Vera hissed. “You of all people can’t let this go.”

“No.” Christina took a single sheet of paper from her file and left it on the table. She went out of the house to meet Patrick. When they returned the paper was back in its file and Vera was on the telephone.

The baby was fast asleep, her mouth slightly open, her head tilted back. Vera replaced the receiver.

“Will you make an arrest?” Christina asked.

“Not yet. As you said the story’s too far-fetched to accept without proof. But there’ll be no more killings either, I hope.”

She walked with them to the van. It was just starting to turn from moonlight to dawn. There was a pale grey flush on the horizon. In the distance a single blackbird began to sing.

“It was an obsession, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yes.” Christina was cradling Miranda in one arm, sliding her into the baby seat without waking her. “If we’re right, that’s exactly what it was.”

Chapter Sixty-Five.

Vera’s instinct was to wait. The Black Law Fells seemed empty but they were exposed. There was no way she could drive to the site without the chance of being seen by a gamekeeper, a shepherd or a walker and the last thing she wanted was a rumour in Langholme, spreading like a moorland fire, that the police were snooping around again. It was a small place. Soon everyone would know.

She spread her Ordnance Survey map on her desk. In this way Hector and Connie had planned their raids, looking for cover, the best route to the nests of ospreys or black-necked grebes, avoiding local volunteers and wardens. Again she felt she was reliving her past.

The only way she could see of getting to Baikie’s and the mine without risk of being seen from a distance was to park up the track in the Forestry Commission plantation. Then she could walk out onto the hill by the crow trap. But that would be impossible. That was the way she expected the murderer to go.

It was Friday morning. After Christina and Patrick had left she’d slept, very deeply, for three hours then woken to the sound of the neighbouring cockerel and the first train. She’d phoned Edie, obviously wakened her.

“Can I speak to Rachael?”

“She’s not here. She was out with Neville yesterday evening and stayed the night.” There was a pause. “Look, she’s all right. She phoned to say what was happening, gave me Neville’s number. If you want I can get it for you.”

“That’s all right. I’ve got it.”

“Has anything happened?” Now Edie was sufficiently awake to start to panic.

“No.” Vera sounded reassuring, even to her own ears. “Will she be at work today?”

“No, she’s taken a day’s leave. They’re going up to Black Law.”

“Of course.” As if she’d forgotten about that. “Do you know what time they intend to set off?”

“After lunch I think. Look, do you want me to phone them? I can find out what their plans are.”

Vera considered the idea but only briefly. Better not to interfere. No one must know she was interested in Black Law today.

“No. Don’t do that. Let them have a couple of days away without thinking about the investigation. I don’t want to spoil things for them.”

So she sat in the green, cell-like office with the map spread across her desk, planning her campaign. Aware that time was passing, that if she wanted to get in before Rachael and Neville, she’d have to move quickly, that she might already be too late.

She hit some buttons on her phone and spoke to Ashworth, who had been sitting parked in his wife’s car by the side of the road since Vera had phoned him after reading Christina Flood’s file.

“Any movement?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m going to walk in, down the public footpath from Langholme like all the other ramblers. If I dress the part no one will know any difference.”

“You’ll need back up.”

“You can organize that later when we know what’s happening. I don’t want half the force on standby without cause. I’d look a right bloody prat. There’s not enough to go on.”

“Would you rather I went in?”

“Don’t be daft. You don’t know the way. I practically grew up in these hills.” She paused. “I’m going now. I’ll call at home on the way to change. I’ll park the car near the church at Langholme. That’s what all the walkers do.”

“Bit risky, isn’t it?”

“I’ll be careful. I’ll not be seen.”

Famous last words, she thought. She picked up her bag and sailed out of the station, ignoring the officers who wanted to pass on information, and the demands to know where she was going.

“You can get hold of me through Ashworth,” she said imperiously, sweeping through the door, not even looking back to check that anyone was listening.

At home she found some walking breeches of Hector’s. Usually she never wore trousers. Anything on her legs made her eczema worse and she knew she’d suffer the next day. But in them she looked different, a completely new shape and profile. A thin waterproof anorak, boots and thick socks completed the picture. She went out of the house to check that the map was in the car and the ageing hippie, trying to round up a goat in the next field, stared at her, not recognizing her at all. Vera had intended to make a flask and sandwiches but she looked at her watch and found there wasn’t time. She took a packet of chocolate biscuits from the kitchen cupboard, filled a bottle of water and drove off. Only then did the woman in the field realize it must be Vera and gave a belated, rather startled wave.

Langholme was quiet. The church door was open and there was the buzz of a Hoover, then when that stopped women’s voices talking about flowers. She locked her car and put the keys into the zipped jacket pocket. She walked carefully past the Priory, not looking into the garden or at any of the other cars parked outside. The road ended with a five-barred gate and a fence with a stile. She crossed it and followed the well-worn path towards Black Law, walking steadily, only turning her head from time to time to check that no one was following her.

The path crossed the hill. On the lower slopes there were dry stone walls. The grass was cropped low by sheep. When she’d walked here in her childhood she’d been fit. From Langholme to the tarn had seemed a stroll. Since then she’d eaten too many curries and Chinese carry-outs. She’d drunk too much, spent too long in her car. It was another clear, hot day and soon she was sweating and dizzy with exertion. She took off the jacket and tied it round her waist by the sleeves. Already her legs were itching like crazy.

She walked through a gap in the last crumbling wall and the path climbed steeply. The ground was more uneven. Bright green bog and tufts of junco us curlew and skylark. But all she could see was the next place to put her boot and all she could hear was her laboured breathing. At the tarn she allowed herself to rest. She drank some water and ate a biscuit. As she licked the melted chocolate from her fingers she felt her pulse return to something like normal. A slight breeze rippled the water and dried the sweat on her face. From where she sat she could look down into the valley, to Baikie’s and Black Law farmhouse and the old mine. She stood up and walked on, finding the going easier because it was downhill.

She walked straight past the mine without looking inside the engine house, without showing any interest, followed the path along the burn, then took the short detour over the stile into Baikie’s garden. It was as if, suddenly, she’d stepped into a tropical wilderness. In the few days since the women had left the grass had grown and needed cutting.

The sun and the rain had brought more shrubs into flower. She walked round the house, found the key and let herself in through the back door. The house smelled hot and damp like a greenhouse. In the kitchen she peeled off the walking breeches and stood, pink-fleshed, bare-legged, desperate to scratch, waiting for the kettle to boil, hoping that there would be enough instant coffee in one of the jars to see her through.

She sat upstairs in the front bedroom because from there she had a view of the valley and the burn as far as the edge of the forestry plantation and the crow trap in one direction and the old mine buildings in the other. Connie had slept here before she had become too frail and fat to climb the stairs, in a large double bed with a brocade cover. Vera had a shadowy memory of one of the parties she’d attended as a child. She’d been sent upstairs to put the visitors’ coats on the bed and had been fascinated by the jars and bottles on the enormous Victorian dressing table, the alien female smell of perfume and face powder. Now the room looked like a dormitory in a youth hostel, the blankets folded at the end of the beds, the pillows in their striped cases.

At three o’clock Neville Furness and Rachael arrived. From the bedroom window Vera couldn’t see the farmyard, only one side of the farmhouse and the kitchen window, but she heard the car and their voices, saw them go into the kitchen carrying boxes of supplies. She ate another biscuit and hoped that Rachael wouldn’t decide to give Neville a tour of Baikie’s for old times’ sake. It wasn’t so much the collapse of the investigation which bothered her. It was the thought of being caught, sitting here, wearing nothing below the waist but a pair of knickers and some woollen socks. But there was no sign of Rachael or Neville all afternoon. As she’d suspected it seemed they had better things to do. The only people she saw were two athletic elderly walkers who seemed to cross her field of view in minutes.

Her phone rang. It was Ashworth.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “But you must be right. There’ve been preparations. The car’s been packed.”

“What with?”

“A shovel. Black bin bags.” “Ah,” she said, blew him an invisible kiss. “Thank you, God!”

“So, can I organize the back-up now?”

“No, not yet. Wait until we know exactly what’s going on.”

In the late afternoon the sun shone directly into the bedroom window and she felt herself dozing and forced herself to keep awake. At six o’clock Neville and Rachael left the farmhouse. They walked up the hill towards the tarn and returned through Baikie’s garden. They stopped for a moment under the window and Vera began to panic. She could hear them clearly but was so anxious that they’d come inside that she only took in snatches of their conversation, though it wasn’t like her to pass over gossip.

“So what will you do now?” Neville asked. “Will you try to trace your father?”

“I don’t think so. He sounds a bit of a nerd. He was running a weekend drama course for teachers and that was the only time Edie met him. He already had a wife and family. He never knew about me. It’s not as if I ever really felt the need of a father. I just didn’t like being kept in the dark. But I’ve not told Edie that. I want to keep my options open. She owes me that much.”

They walked on hand in hand like a couple of kids, and the moment when Rachael might have suggested taking him inside Baikie’s had passed.

Vera presumed that they returned to the farmhouse although they couldn’t have gone in through the kitchen, and from where she sat there was no sign that the place was occupied. The evening sun was too strong for the need for lights in the rooms and it was too warm for a fire.

Her phone rang. Ashworth’s voice was insistent and excited.

“We’re on.”

“How many people?”

“Just one.”

“No need to call the cavalry then,” Vera said, stretching her legs, thinking she’d best get dressed. “This one’s ours.”

Chapter Sixty-Six.

There was no movement until dusk and then it was cautious, wary, giving the impression of an animal coming out after dark to drink. Suddenly a bank of cloud had appeared and Vera could make out no detail. She saw only the shadow, slightly darker against the grey hill and then she almost dismissed it as a roe deer. She had been expecting something less subtle, more purposeful and confident.

The shape followed the line of the burn from the crow trap to the mine, stopping occasionally. Vera thought this was not through tiredness, though there would be the shovel to carry, besides a rucksack, but to watch and listen. By now it was so dark that Vera had to concentrate very hard not to miss the movement. With unusual self-doubt she wondered briefly if she should after all have asked for help, enlisted the specialists with their night sights and tracking devices. With the technology she would have felt more in control, would have known for certain what she was seeing. Then she thought that the person moving carefully across the hill would have smelled them, knew this landscape so well that an influx of strangers, however well hidden, would have been noticed.

She had an almost superstitious sense that her prey would pick up any movement she made, so Vera stayed where she was, quite still. She knew the destination, knew what would happen there. She had to wait because there was still no proof. It wasn’t against the law to take a walk on a dark night along the burn. At one point she lost the figure completely. She held her breath, peered through the smeared glass into the gloom. Then there was a brief flash of light as a match was struck and the soft glow of candlelight marking the rectangular gap where the door of the mine building had once been.

She spoke to Ashworth, whispering at first, although there was no one to hear her.

“Where are you?”

“At the edge of the forest.”

“Move on now. I’ll see you there. But quietly.”

Deliberately, slowly, Vera pulled on her trousers and laced her boots.

Outside it was still warm, the air smelling of honeysuckle and crushed grass, the scents of summer afternoons. There was no wind to hide the sound of her movement. She didn’t want to risk using a torch but her eyes soon got used to the grey light, the hazy shapes.

She realized as she approached the burn that she was loving every minute of it. She thought this must be how Hector and Connie felt when they raided the Lake District golden eagles, sneaking up to the site, knowing the warden was dos sing nearby in his tent and that the police had promised regular patrols. They did it for this buzz.

Christ, she thought. I must be light-headed. Thinking I can understand that pair. That’s what exer else does to you. And having nothing to eat all day except a packet of biscuits.

Now she could hear water the burn where it was channelled through the culvert to power the engine which had worked the mine. There was the crunch of pebble. She thought it must be Ashworth but when she turned to look there was no movement and it was too dark to see. Tonight the moon was covered by the low, dense cloud which had rolled in like fog.

From the shell of the engine room came another sound, the scrape of metal against stone and soil. Vera moved closer. She was breathing heavily after the walk from the cottage but the noise from the building reassured her that she wouldn’t be heard. At last she was close enough to see.

The woman was standing with her back to the gap in the wall. She wore a long skirt over black boots. She had loosened a flagstone from the corner of the room and shifted it enough so she could dig out the soil underneath. The grave must have been shallow because already Vera saw a fragment of bone, cream as ivory, waxy in the candlelight. The woman squatted and began to scrabble at the soil with her fingers.

Vera was flattened against the outside wall of the building, looking in at an angle through the gap. All she had to do now was to wait for Ashworth. She began to relax.

Suddenly, behind her, so close that it sounded like a scream, she heard a woman’s voice in exclamation. Then loud footsteps and Neville Furness shouting, “Who is it? What’s going on?” Shit, Vera thought. That’s all I need. She’d thought they’d be inside all evening shagging like rabbits.

The woman in the building stood and turned in one movement, giving a throaty growl of astonishment. She picked up the shovel which she’d leant against the wall. She couldn’t see Vera, still hidden outside, but Rachael, silhouetted in the doorway, must have been visible from the light of the candle. The woman moved forward. Before Vera could stop her she lashed out with the shovel. There was the crunch of metal against flesh and bone. Then she ran and seemed to disappear immediately into the darkness.

A second later the scene was hit like a stage by the spot of Ashworth’s flashlight. Neville Furness sat on the grass cradling Rachael in his arms. She was conscious. There was blood, probably a broken nose.

Vera heard her gasping with pain but thought she’d rather have Neville fussing over her than a middle-aged detective. She turned towards Ashworth, blinking in the light.

“Did anyone pass you?”

“No.”

“She’s not headed back for the car then.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Radio for assistance. We’ll need medics for Rachael. Then stay here.

She’s mad enough to come back.”

“And you?”

“I think I know where she’s heading. Friendly territory.”

As she walked off she could hear him shouting at her not to be so bloody stupid, that this was no time to play cops and robbers, they’d get her no bother before morning. But the words seemed very distant, as far away as Neville’s murmurs of comfort and Rachael’s stifled moans. She turned back once to say to him, “Look, I know what I’m doing. This is familiar territory for me too.”

But he was still shouting, his mouth opening and shutting in the torchlight, and she didn’t know whether or not he’d heard.

As she headed up the hill towards the tarn she felt that she did know this place. Better in the dark than she did in daylight. As a child it had always been after dusk or before dawn when she’d come here with her father. The scale seemed different then the tarn had looked like an enormous lake but the geography was the same. They had come here to steal the eggs of black-necked grebe. Her father had paddled into the water in thigh-length angler’s waders. Connie had stood on the bank, clapping her hands in delight.

The cloud thinned slightly to let through a diffuse and milky moonlight. There were no sharp lines or edges. It was like viewing the scene darkly through a photographer’s filter. At one point she thought she saw the shadow of her quarry disappearing ahead of her, but imagined it was probably her imagination, the mist playing tricks.

Either the woman had run too quickly, had too big a start or Vera was quite wrong about where she was heading. Now it hardly mattered. She took the same path as she had walked that morning but without the exhaustion or irritation. She had the energy of a ten-year-old and could have gone on all night. From the top of the bank she could see the faint lights of Langholme. The pub would still be open. People would be in their homes watching television, enjoying a late, relaxed Friday night meal, drinking beer.

Then, before she could believe it she had reached the five-barred gate and the stile. There were no street lights in the lane behind the church, but there were in the village’s main street, and headlights and the noise of traffic.

Above the porch door of the Priory there was a bulb energy efficient elements encased in a wrought iron mounting. Parked on the drive was Anne Preece’s Fiat, but not Jeremy’s Volvo. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there, tucked away for the night in the garage.

She moved closer, walking on the lawn not the drive, so her footsteps wouldn’t be heard. There was a light in the room which faced the lane.

It was uncurtained and the sash window was wide open. From inside came a voice, Anne Preece’s, anxious but slightly tetchy, as if she had been landed with a problem which she didn’t want to handle.

“You look dreadful. Whatever’s the matter?”

There was a mumbled response which Vera couldn’t make out, but which seemed to make sense to Anne, which seemed to knock the heart from her.

“He did that to you?” she said. “Look, you must go to the police.”

Vera moved to the front door, turned the handle. It opened without a sound. The occupied room was to her right and that door was already open. She planted herself in the doorway, put on her jolly maiden aunt’s voice.

“Who said you could never find a policeman when you needed one? At least a policewoman. I hope I’ll do.”

Anne looked up. She was shocked and pale. It was a pleasant room which Vera hadn’t seen on her previous visit. A comfortable sofa with lemon and white striped covers. Two chairs in the same print. Lots of plants and cut flowers. The other woman sat in one of the chairs with her head in her hands. Barbara Waugh, smartly dressed in her black skirt and jacket and her leather boots, but bedraggled, tearful, shaking.

Anne said, “She’s run away from her husband. He must have terrified her. Look at the state she’s in.” “Oh no,” Vera said. “It’s not her husband who’s terrified her.” She shot an amused, rather self-satisfied look at Anne. “If it’s anyone, it’s me.” And standing where she was, legs apart, hands on her hips to block the door, she cautioned Barbara Waugh, told her in a flat, indifferent voice that she was under arrest. Then she waited for Ashworth to send in the troops.

Chapter Sixty-Seven.

They met at Baikie’s for old times’ sake, though Edie would have had them to Riverside Terrace, and Rachael, who seemed to spend most of her time in the farmhouse and was already acting as if she owned the place, had invited them there.

Edie had her doubts about the Black Law connection. She’d thought lately that Rachael cared more for the place than the man. But as she’d said to Vera she’d hardly made a success of her own personal life so it wasn’t really for her to say. Rachael was even talking about having Dougie back to live with them, which Edie didn’t think was healthy at all. Talk about trying to live another person’s life.

Rachael wasn’t Bella Furness reincarnated and never would be. Thank God.

Ashworth was the only man present. Rachael had wanted to invite Neville along but Edie had put her foot down at that. “He was never a part of it. Not really. And I’m sure you’ll pass on all the details anyway.”

So they sat in the room with the stuffed fox and Connie Baikie’s mountainous armchairs and they waited for Vera to tell another of her stories. Edie had lit a fire not because it was cold but because outside it was damp and drizzling and they wanted the comfort. Because it had been raining when Grace was killed.

Perhaps they drank for comfort too. Certainly by the time Vera got going there were two empty wine bottles on the table. Joe Ashworth, who would have to drive Vera home, had stuck to tea. He said he knew he was only there to be chauffeur.

Vera started with a tribute, generous for her. “Rachael was right all along. It all started years ago when Bella and Edmund met in hospital.

There was another woman on the same ward and attending the same therapy group who was being treated for depression. She’d been desperate for a child. After a number of miscarriages she’d finally given birth, but the baby died after a few hours. He was buried in St. Cuthbert’s churchyard. The grave is still there. She had a severe breakdown. They tried to treat her at home but on a number of occasions she went missing for days. Her husband found her out on the hill, starving and exhausted. That was when she was sectioned and forced to go into hospital.

At the same time as one of Barbara’s disappearances, a toddler disappeared. His mother and her boyfriend had brought him for an outing to the hills. It was spring and they wanted to show the boy the new lambs. While the pair were otherwise engaged the boy vanished. If you believed the local newspapers he’d been swept away by a large hawk into its eyrie. If you believed me at the time he was drowned in the Skirl which was in flood.

“In fact we were both wrong. The boy was taken by Barbara Waugh on one of her crazy moorland wanderings. We don’t know what she did with him while we were searching the hill, but later she took him to the old mine and kept him as a pet, a toy, a replacement son.” Vera’s voice showed no emotion. Weren’t fairy tales always gruesome? But she was thinking, I was there, I could have made more effort to find him. “We don’t know yet how he died. Perhaps she killed him. Perhaps he starved to death when she was taken into hospital. At some time, either then or later, she buried him under one of the flagstones in the engine house. She tried to forget him but couldn’t quite, although she had a child of her own and a husband who stuck by her.” Again, Vera kept her flat storyteller’s voice but she threw a knowing look towards Anne, because investigations always dug up more than people realized. A husband who had been so frightened by her manic outings on the hill, never knowing where she might be, that he tried to persuade her to stay at home as much as possible. He didn’t like her going out.”

“Did he know about the little boy?” Anne asked.

“He never even guessed.” Vera poured more wine. “So Barbara put the boy’s death at the back of her mind. Buried it like she’d buried the body. Sometimes she visited the mine, brought flowers, but I think she’d convinced herself by then that she wasn’t responsible for his dying. Perhaps she confused him with her own son. She took flowers to his grave too. And so things would have continued if her husband hadn’t decided to develop the site as a quarry. Because then there would be a risk that the grave would be discovered. The unpleasantness which she’d tidily hidden away under the engine-house floor could be brought to light. She wouldn’t be able to pretend any more that it wasn’t her fault. So what could she do?

At first she encouraged the opposition. She spread rumours that her husband had come under the evil influence of Neville Furness and Olivia Fulwell. She thought that if the public inquiry came out against the quarry everything could continue as before. She wound up her old friend Edmund Fulwell about the project. He was an easy target. She played on his love of his ancestral estate and he played on Grace’s affection for him to rig her otter counts.

“She put pressure on Bella too. The three of them kept in touch. Bella was in a difficult position. The farm was verging on bankruptcy. She’d hoped to get money from her brother to save it but that never materialized. Her only hope was to do a deal with the development company over access to the site. She wouldn’t have liked the idea but it would have been better than losing the farm. She arranged for Peter Kemp to come to Black Law to discuss possible ways forward.”

“Someone else was there that afternoon,” Rachael said. “Dougie heard someone.” “Barbara. Godfrey had told her what was going on and she came to turn the screw. Blackmail. She knew what had happened when Bella’s father had died, knew it had all been planned. That had come out at one of the group therapy sessions. She threatened to make the whole thing public. Bella was under so much pressure that she couldn’t see straight. She told Peter she couldn’t make a deal and she committed suicide.

“For a while it looked as if Barbara was safe. She thought the report would come out in her favour. After all, she’d become chummy with Anne and had indirectly nobbled Grace. Then she heard from Edmund that Grace was having cold feet. She was talking about seeing a shrink or a social worker. She couldn’t face lying any more. She knew it was making her ill. I’m not sure yet if Barbara planned to kill Grace to stop her telling the truth about the otters. She says not. She says she went to the engine room as she did on Friday night to try to move the remains of the little boy’s body and Grace surprised her.

“When he first heard about his daughter’s death Edmund was too shocked to work out what might have happened. He stayed at his flat, carried on helping in the restaurant. Then I think he probably remembered a story Barbara had told to the group, a story nobody believed because she was mad at the time and full of fantasies. This one was about a boy she had found on the hill. A boy she’d taken for her own. Her baby.

“He panicked. It had always been his style to run away. He went into hiding. First with Nancy Deakin and then in the house on the estate.

How did Barbara know he was there? A guess perhaps. He’d probably told her that he’d lived in one of those houses before he got married.

“The phone number and the back door key she got from Neville. Not directly… ” as Rachael was about to object. “She had access to the Slateburn offices through her husband and I think she regularly went through both their desks looking for anything which would help in her fight against the quarry. She phoned Edmund to check that he was there. And to frighten him. She knew him well enough to realize that if he was scared he’d probably start drinking. On the afternoon of the birthday party when the estate was overrun with strangers she let herself into the house. Edmund had already drunk himself into oblivion. It was easy enough.”

Rachael stretched her hands towards the fire. “Did Barbara ram my car on the track that night?”

“Oh, yes. She was desperate. She was trying to frighten you away.” Vera paused, pulled a face. “And one of our people stopped her. Can you believe it? She told him she was visiting her sick mother and he was taken in. The fight to stop the quarry was an obsession. Perhaps she was just trying to save herself but I think it was more than that.

She saw it as a desecration of the little boy’s grave.” Vera sighed, leant back, took a deep draught of wine. Ashworth shuffled restlessly. He’d heard all this before and he had his lass to get back to and a warm bed, and at last the baby had started to sleep through the night.

Anne asked suddenly, “What’ll happen to the quarry now?” Vera shook her head. “I wouldn’t have thought Godfrey would have much stomach for it. But you’ll have to talk to him about that.”

She left the three women talking about it, so engrossed that they hardly noticed her leaving.

Ashworth drove carefully up the track and through the ford towards the forest.