The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

THE HABIT OF SILENCE by Ann Cleeves

NEWCASTLE IN NOVEMBER, Joe Ashworth thought, is probably the greyest city in the world. Then running up the steps from the Westgate Road he realized that he’d been to this place before. His seven-year-old daughter had violin lessons at school and he’d brought her here for her grade one exam. They’d both been intimidated by the grandeur of the building and the girl’s hand had shaken during the scales. Listening at the heavy door of the practice room, he’d heard the wobble.

Today there was rain and a gusty wind outside and the sign Lit and Phil Library open to the public had blown flat on to the pavement. Taped to the inside door, a small handwritten note said that the library would be closed until further notice. Mixed messages. The exams took place on the ground floor but Joe climbed the stone staircase and felt the same sense of exclusion as when he’d waited below, clutching his daughter’s small violin case, making some feeble joke in the hope that she’d relax. Places like this weren’t meant for a lad from Ashington, whose family had worked down the pit. When there were still pits.

At the turn of the stairs there was an oil painting on the wall. Some worthy Victorian with a stern face and white whiskers. Around the corner a noticeboard promoting future events: book launches, lectures, poetry readings. And on the landing, looking down at him, a tall man dressed in black, black jeans and a black denim shirt. He wore a day’s stubble but he still managed to look sophisticated.

“You must be the detective,” the man said. “They sent me to look out for you. And to turn away members and other visitors. My name’s Charles. I found the body.”

It was a southern voice, mellow and musical. Joe Ashworth took an instant dislike to the man, who lounged over the dark wood banister as if he owned the place.

“Work here, do you?”

It was a simple question but the man seemed to ponder it. “I’m not a member of staff,” he said. “But, yes, I work here. Every day, actually.”

“You’re a volunteer?” Joe was in no mood for games.

“Oh, no.” The man gave a lazy smile. “I’m a poet. Sebastian Charles.” He paused as if he expected Ashworth to recognize the name. Ashworth continued up the stairs so he stood on the landing too. But still the man was so tall that he had to crick his neck to look up at him.

“And I’m Detective Sergeant Ashworth,” he said. “Please don’t leave the building, Mr Charles. I’ll need to talk to you later.” He moved on into the library. The poet turned away from him and stared out of a long window into the street. Already the lamps had been switched on and their gleam reflected on the wet pavements.

Joe’s first impression, walking through the security barrier, was of space. There was a high ceiling and within that a glass dome. Around the room a balcony. And everywhere books, from floor to ceiling, with little step-ladders to reach the higher shelves. He stared. He hadn’t realized that such a place could exist just over the room where small children scratched out tunes for long-suffering examiners. A young library assistant with pink hair sat behind a counter. Her eyes were as pink as her hair and she snuffled into a paper handkerchief.

“Can I help you?”

The girl hadn’t moved her lips and the words came from a small office, through an open door. Inside sat a middle-aged woman half hidden by a pile of files on her desk. She looked fraught and tense. He supposed she’d become a librarian because she’d wanted a quiet life. Now she’d been landed with a body, the chaos of the crime-scene investigation, and her ordered life had been disrupted. He introduced himself again and went into the office.

“I suppose,” she said, “you want to go downstairs to look at poor Gilbert.”

“Not yet.” As his boss Vera Stanhope always said, the corpse wasn’t going anywhere. “I understand you’ve locked the door?”

“To the Silence Room? Oh, yes.” She gave a smile that made her seem younger and more attractive. “I suppose we all watch CSI these days. We know what we should do.” She gestured him to sit in a chair nearby. On her desk, behind the files, stood a photo of two young girls, presumably her daughters. There was no indication of a husband.

“Perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened this morning.” Joe took his seat.

The librarian was about to speak when there were heavy footsteps outside and a wheezing sound that could have been an out-of-breath hippo. Vera Stanhope appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light. She carried a canvas shopping bag over one shoulder.

“Starting without me, Joe Ashworth?” She seemed not to expect an answer and gave the librarian a little wave. “Are you all right, Cath?”

Joe thought Vera’s capacity to surprise him was without limit. This place made him feel ignorant. All those books by writers he didn’t know, pictures by artists whose names meant nothing to him. What could Vera Stanhope understand of culture and poetry? She lived in a mucky house in the hills, had few friends, and he couldn’t ever remember seeing her read a book. Yet here she was, greeting the librarian by her first name, wandering down to the other end of the library to pour herself coffee from a flask set there for readers’ use, then moving three books from the only other chair in the office so she could sit down.

Vera grinned at him. “I’m a member of the Lit and Phil, pet. The Literary and Philosophical Society Library. Have been for years. My father brought me here to lectures when I was kid and I liked the place. And the fact that you don’t get fined for overdue books. Don’t get here as often as I’d like though.” She wafted the coffee mug under his nose. “Sorry, I should have offered you some.” She turned back to Cath. “I saw Sebastian outside. You said on the phone that he found the body.”

The librarian nodded. “He’s taken to working in the Silence Room every afternoon. We’re delighted, of course. It’s good publicity for us. I’m sure we’ve attracted members since he won the T. S. Eliot.”

Vera nudged Joe in the ribs. “The Eliot’s a prize for poetry, Sergeant. In case you’ve never heard of it.”

Joe didn’t reply. It wasn’t just the smell of old books that was getting up his nose.

Cath frowned. “You know how Sebastian hates the press,” she said. “I do hope he won’t make a scene.”

“Who else was around?” Joe was determined to move the investigation on. He wanted to be out of this place and into the grey Newcastle afternoon as soon as possible.

“Zoë Wells, the library assistant. You’ll have seen her as you came in. And Alec Cole, one of the trustees. Other people were in and out of the building, but just five of us were around all morning.” The librarian paused. “And now, I suppose, there are only four.”

The Silence Room was reached by more stone steps at the back of the library. This time they were narrow and dark. The servants’ exit, Joe thought. It felt like descending into a basement. There was no natural light in the corridor below. The three of them paused and waited for Cath to unlock the heavy door. Inside, the walls were lined with more books. These were old and big, reference texts. Still no windows. Small tables for working had been set between the shelves. The victim sat with his back to them, slumped forward over one of the tables. There was a wound on his head, blood and matted hair.

“Murder weapon?” Vera directed her question to both of them. Then: “I’ve been in this room dozens of times, but this is the first time I’ve ever spoken here. It seems almost sacrilegious. Weird, isn’t it, the habit of silence?” She turned to Joe. “That’s the rule. We never speak in here.”

“I wondered if he could have been hit with the book.” Cath nodded towards a huge tome lying on the floor. “Could that kill someone?”

Vera gave a barking laugh. “Don’t see why not, with enough force behind it. Appropriate, eh? Gilbert Wood killed with words.”

“You knew him?” Why am I not surprised? Joe thought.

“Oh, our Gilbert was quite famous in his own field. Academic, historian, broadcaster, writer. He’s been knocking around this place since I was a bairn and he’s turned out a few words in his time.” She turned to Cath. “What was he working on now?”

“He was researching the library’s archives. The Lit and Phil began its life as a museum as well as a library and there’s fascinating material on the artefacts that were kept here. Some very weird and wonderful stuff. We thought it might make a book. Another boost to our funds.”

Outside there were quick footsteps and a man in his sixties appeared in the doorway. He was small and neat with highly polished black shoes, a grey suit and a dark tie. Joe thought he looked like an undertaker.

“I was working upstairs,” he said. “The accounts for the AGM next week. Zoë had to tell me that the police had arrived.” There was a touch of reproach in the voice. He was accustomed to being consulted.

“Please meet Alec Cole.” Cath’s words were polite enough but Joe thought she didn’t like him. “He’s our honorary treasurer. It’s Alec who makes sure we live within our means.”

“A difficult task,” Cole said, “for any charitable organization during these benighted times.”

“You knew the deceased?” Joe had expected Vera to take charge of the conversation, but she was still staring at Wood’s body, apparently lost in thought.

“Of course I knew him. He was a fellow trustee. We were working together on the restructuring plan.”

Now Vera seemed to wake up. “What did you make of Gilbert? Got on all right, did you?”

“Of course we got on. He was a charming man. He had plans to make the library more attractive to the public. His research into the archives had thrown up a variety of ideas to bring in new members.”

“What sort of ideas?”

“He wanted to develop a history group for young people. History was his passion and he was eager to share it, especially since he retired from the university. He thought we could run field trips to archaeological sites, invite guest lecturers.”

“Aye,” Vera said. “He tried something like that once before. I remember an outing to Hadrian’s Wall. My father thought it would be good for me. It was bloody freezing.”

“It’s not so easy to set up field trips these days,” Cath said. “There are implications. Health and Safety. Risk assessment. I wasn’t sure it was worth it. Or that we could justify the cost.”

Joe sensed that this was an argument that had played out many times before. He was surprised at Vera allowing the conversation to continue. Today, it seemed, she had no sense of urgency.

“Perhaps we should go upstairs,” he said, “and talk to the other witnesses.”

“Aye,” the inspector said. “I suppose we should.” But still her attention was fixed on the dead man. It was as if she were fascinated by what she saw. She bent forward so she could see Wood’s face without approaching any closer. Then Ashworth led them away, a small solemn procession, back to the body of the library.

They sat around a large table with the vacuum jug of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits in the middle. There were six of them now. Sebastian Charles had been called in from the landing and Zoë had emerged from the counter. Joe Ashworth thought she looked hardly more than a child, her face bare of make-up. He saw now that she was tiny, her bones frail as a bird’s. The pink hair made her look as if she were in fancy dress.

“This is where the old ones sit,” Vera said. “The retired men and the batty old ladies, chewing the fat and putting the world to rights. Well, I suppose that’s what we’re doing too. Putting the world to rights. There’s something unnatural about having a murderer on the loose.” She looked at them all. “Who was the last person to see him alive?”

“I saw him at lunchtime,” Zoë said. “He went out to buy a sandwich, and for a walk, to clear his head, he said. Just for half an hour.”

“What time was that?”

“Between midday and twelve-thirty.” Zoë wiped her eyes again. She made no noise, but the tears continued to run down her face. Like a tap with a dodgy washer, Joe thought, only leaking silently. No irritating drips. “He brought me a piece of cheesecake from the bakery. A gift. He knew it was my favourite.”

“Any advance on twelve-thirty?’’

Joe found it hard to understand his boss’s attitude. She’d known the victim yet there was this strange flippancy, as if the investigation were a sort of game, or a ritual that had to be followed. Perhaps it was this place, all these books. It was easy to think of the murder as just another story.

“We had a brief discussion on the back stairs,” Alec Cole said. “Just after Gilbert had gone out for lunch, I suppose. He was on his way down to the Silence Room to continue his work on the archives. I’d just gone to the gents. I asked how things were going. He said he’d made a fascinating discovery that would prove the link between one of the early curators of the Lit and Phil Museum and the archaeology of Hadrian’s Wall. Esoteric to the rest of us, I suppose, but fascinating to him.”

“Did you notice if anyone else was working in the room?” Vera asked.

“I couldn’t see. The door was shut and I was on my way upstairs when Gilbert went in.”

“And if there were anyone inside he wouldn’t greet Gilbert,” Vera said. “Because of the rule of silence. So you wouldn’t hear anything either way.” She paused. “What about you, Cath? Did you see him?”

“Just first thing when he arrived. He must have passed the office when he went out to lunch and I always have my door open but I didn’t notice him. I’m snowed under at the moment and I only left my desk to go to the ladies or to pour myself a coffee.”

“And then you found him, Sebastian.”

The poet gave a slow, cat-like smile. “I went down to start work and there he was, just as you saw him. It was a shock, of course, and rather horrible even though I’ve felt like killing him myself a few times.”

“You don’t seem very shocked!” At last Zoë’s tears stopped and now she was angry. “I don’t know how you can sit there and make a joke of it.”

“Not a very good joke, sweetie. And you all know I couldn’t stand the man. It would be stupid to pretend otherwise just for the inspector.”

“Why didn’t you like him?” For the first time Vera seemed mildly interested.

“He was creepy,” Sebastian said. “And self-serving. All this work with the archives was about making a name for himself, not raising funds for the library.”

They sat for a moment in silence. They heard the insect buzzing of the central heating system in the background. Joe waited for Vera to comment but again she seemed preoccupied. “Is the only access to the Silence Room through here?” he asked. Again he felt the need to move things on. The library was very warm and he found the dark wood and the high shelves oppressive. It was as if they were imprisoned by all the words.

“Yes,” Cath said. “The doors downstairs are locked from our side when the music exams are taking place.”

“So the murderer must be one of you,” Vera said.

She looked slowly round the table. Joe thought again that it was as if she were playing a parlour game, though there was nothing playful in her expression. Usually at the beginning of an investigation she was full of energy and imagination. Now she only seemed sad. It occurred to Joe that the victim would have been just ten years older than her. Perhaps she’d had a teenage crush on him when he’d led her on the field trip to the Roman wall. Perhaps the earlier flippancy had been her way of hiding her grief. Vera continued to speak.

“You’d better tell me now what happened. As I said before, it’s unnatural having a murderer on the loose. Let’s set the world to rights, eh?”

Nobody spoke.

“Then I’ll tell you a story of my own,” she said. “I’ll make my own confession.” She leaned forward so her elbows were on the table. “I was about twelve,” she said. “An awkward age and I was an awkward child. Not as big as I am now, but lumpy and clumsy with large feet and a talent for speaking out of turn. My mother died when I was very small and I was brought up by my father, Hector. His passion was collecting: birds’ eggs, raptors. Illegal, of course, but he always thought he was above the law. Had a fit when I applied to the police…” Her voice trailed away and she flashed a smile at them. “But that was much later and perhaps Gilbert had something to do with that too.

“Gilbert was kind to me. The first adult to take me seriously. He was a PhD student at the university. A geek, I suppose we’d call him now. Passionate about his history. Alec was quite right about that. He listened to me and asked my opinion, more comfortable with a bright kid than with other grown-ups maybe. He bought me little presents.” She looked at Zoë. “Some things don’t change it seems.”

Vera shifted in her seat. Joe saw that they were all engrossed in her story and that they were all waiting for her to continue.

“These days we’d call it grooming,” she said. “Then we were more innocent. Hector saw nothing wrong with entrusting me to the care of a virtual stranger for days at a time while we scrambled around bits of Roman wall. He couldn’t believe, I suppose, that anyone could find me sexually attractive. And, to be fair, he assumed that other kids would be there too. At first I revelled in it. The attention. Gilbert had a car and, sitting beside him, I felt like a princess. He brought a picnic. Cider. My first taste of alcohol. And the arm around my shoulder, the hand on my knee, what harm could there be in that?”

She came to a stop again.

“He sexually assaulted me.” Her voice was suddenly bright and brittle. “One afternoon in May. Full sunshine and birds singing fit to bust. Skylarks and curlew. We’d climbed on to the moors beyond the wall, to get a proper view of the scale of it, he said. There was nobody about for miles. He spread out a blanket and pulled me down with him. There was a smell of warm grass and sheep shit. I fought back, but he was stronger than me. In the end there was nothing I could do but let him get on with it. Afterwards he cried.” She looked up at them. “I didn’t cry. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.”

For a moment Joe was tempted to reach out and touch her hand, but that of course would have been impossible.

“I never told anyone,” Vera said. “Who would I tell? Hector? A teacher? How could I? I refused to go out with Gilbert again and Hector called me moody and ungrateful. But I should have told. I should have gone to the police. Because the man had committed a crime and the law is all we have to hold things together.”

Vera stood up.

“I don’t believe he’s changed,” she said. “He wasn’t stopped, you see. He got away with it. My responsibility. We’ll find images of children on his computer, no doubt about that.” She turned to Sebastian Charles. “You were right. He was a creepy man.”

She paused for a moment. “So who killed him?” Her voice became gentle; at least, as gentle as a hippo’s could be. “You look like a twelve-year-old, Zoë. Did he try it on with you?”

“No!” The woman was horrified.

“Of course not. It wasn’t a child’s body he wanted as much as a child’s mind. The need to control and to teach.”

Vera turned again, this time to the middle-aged librarian, who was sitting next to her. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Cath was very upright in her chair. She stared ahead of her. For a moment Ashworth thought she would refuse to speak. But the words came at last, carefully chosen and telling.

“He befriended Evie, my elder daughter. When my husband left last year she was the person most affected by our separation. She’s always been a shy child and she became uncommunicative and withdrawn. Gilbert had been part of our lives since I first took over here. I invited him to family parties and to Sunday lunch. I suppose I felt sorry for him. And I thought it would be good for Evie to have some male influence once Nicholas left. He made history come alive for her with his stories of Roman soldiers and the wild border reivers. On the last day of the October half-term he took her out. Like your father, I assumed other children would be present. That was certainly the impression he gave. Like your father, it never occurred to me that she could come to harm with him.”

“He assaulted her,” Vera said.

“She won’t tell me exactly what happened. He threatened her, I think. Made her promise to keep secrets. But something happened that afternoon. It’s as if she’s frozen, a shell of the child she once was. The innocence sucked out of her. I should be grateful, I suppose, that she’s alive and that he brought her home to me.” Cath looked at Vera. “The only thing she did say was that he cried.”

“So you killed him?”

“I went to the Silence Room to talk to him. I knew he was alone there. Zoë was busy on the phone and didn’t notice that I left the office. I asked him what he’d done to Evie. He put his finger to his lips. ‘I think you of all people should respect the tradition of the Silence Room,’ he said in a pompous whisper, barely loud enough for me to hear. I shouted then: ‘What did you to my child?’” Telling the story, Cath raised her voice so she was shouting again.

She caught her breath for a moment and then she continued: “Gilbert set down his pen. ‘Nothing that she didn’t want me to do,’ he said. ‘And nothing that you’ll be able to prove.’ He was still whispering. Then he started work again. That was when I picked up the book he was reading. That was when I killed him. I left the Silence Room, collected a mug of coffee at the top of the stairs and returned to my office.”

Nobody spoke.

“Oh, pet,” Vera said. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“What would you have done, Vera? Dragged Evie through the courts, forced her to give evidence, to be examined? Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”

“And now?” Vera cried. “What will happen to her now?”

Joe sat as still as the rest of them but thoughts were spinning round his mind. What would he have done? I wouldn’t have let my daughter out with a pervert in the first place. I’ll never leave my wife. But he knew that however hard he tried, he could never protect his children from all the dangers of the world. And that he’d probably have killed the bastard too. He stood up.

“Catherine Richardson, I’m arresting you for the murder of Gilbert Wood.” It was Vera, pre-empting him. Taking responsibility. Putting the world to rights.