Chapter Eleven

Holly sat in the big open-plan office and let the buzz of phone conversations and chat fade into the background. The sunshine lay on her desk in stripes, filtered by the blinds at the big windows. She needed to concentrate. To her left she was vaguely aware of Charlie talking to a taxi company about any bookings they’d taken to Gilswick the day before, but in her head she was back in the mortuary with Paul Keating and Billy Cartwright. They were working on the second body, stripping the clothes away, a strange kind of ritual. Vera had already lost patience and disappeared. The care that was taken in the removal of the garments was almost loving and the voice describing the process into a recorder was rhythmic and gentle. Like a prayer. Keating was a religious man, and not even Billy Cartwright managed to be too flippant in his company.

Holly had held the bag while they slipped the victim’s shoes inside. Keating was still speaking. ‘A bit of mud and what might be gravel in the tread. It would be worth letting Lorna Dawson from the Hutton work her magic.’ Professor Lorna Dawson, Keating’s favourite forensic soil scientist, should be able to provide information about where their victim had been just before he was killed. Then the suit had been removed. Marks & Spencer. It looked timeless, but it might be possible to track down when it was bought from its style, small differences in stitching. It gave no sense of the personality of the man, except that he was someone who wouldn’t have wanted to stand out. Holly could see why Vera called him the ‘grey man’. There was nothing in the pockets, not even a tissue or loose change.

It was when they cut away the underwear that the thought had flashed into her mind. Subversive, an epiphany. I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to live in a northern city with people who despise me, helping strange middle-aged men undress the dead. I’m smart and young enough to make a change. I can do anything I want. And following on from the first flash of revelation: I don’t want to end up old and single and married to the job, like Vera Stanhope. So now Holly was sitting at her desk trying to recapture that moment of excitement and decision, that instant of courage. Her phone rang. Joe Ashworth.

‘I’ve got a name for the grey man. Can you find out everything you can about Martin Benton?’ Then Joe gave her a list of facts. The man’s age and address. His last known employment at a charity in a small town in south-eastern Northumberland. ‘I’m just going to check out his home. See if I can track down any relatives.’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I can do that.’


Holly went to the office where Benton had last worked, without calling in advance. That wasn’t her usual style. Generally she was happier talking on the phone. She hated to think how much time Vera wasted, drinking tea and listening to idle chat that had no relevance to the inquiry. But today she wanted to be away from the station. She’d always been ambitious about work. Now the police station, with its banter and apparently meaningless routines, made her think those goals might be worthless. She was better away from the place for a couple of hours.

Martin Benton’s most recent workplace was in Bebington, a former mining town a few miles southeast of Kimmerston. Terraced streets scattered with ‘To let’ or ‘For sale’ signs. The main road a selection of charity shops, pawnbrokers and bookmakers. A convenience store with a handwritten notice in the window advertising cheap booze. Cheap spelled ‘cheep’. A million miles away from the valley at Gilswick, with its big house and primroses. Though hardly any distance at all, as the crow flew.

The charity where Benton had worked as an admin assistant was called Hope North-East and its base was a little house in a rundown street just off the main drag. The front door was open and she walked into a narrow lobby. To her right she looked through a glass door into a social space with a kitchen area beyond. There it seemed that a discussion group was taking place. Half a dozen people, mostly men, were sitting in a circle on beaten-up chairs. In the middle of them was a low table holding mugs. Nobody was smiling and the conversation seemed very intense.

Just inside the front door a laminated sheet of paper had been fixed to the wall with a drawing pin. It said ‘Office’ and an arrow pointed up the stairs. Holly followed it and came to an empty reception desk. She hesitated for a moment when somebody shouted from a room to the right. ‘Can I help you?’

Holly followed the voice into an untidy space. Two desks piled with files, a couple of computers that looked as if they’d been there for a decade. And two women, one large and confident, one skinny and nervous. A window looked out towards the main street and there was a background rumble of traffic.

Holly identified herself. The skinny woman looked even more nervous. Holly heard Vera’s voice in her head: You shouldn’t read anything into that, Hol. In some communities bairns are brought up to see the cops as the enemy. It doesn’t mean they’ve got anything to hide.

Still, Holly couldn’t help feeling suspicious. ‘Hope North-East. What’s that?’

‘We’re a registered charity,’ the skinny one said, too quickly. ‘We’re all above board here.’

Holly didn’t answer and turned to the larger woman. She had an official-looking name badge that read ‘Shirley’, and wore smart black trousers and a blue silk top. Holly thought she’d get more sense out of her.

‘We provide support and assistance for offenders newly released from prison or young-offender institute.’ The words came easily. Shirley had given the same explanation many times before. ‘We also give help to the offenders’ families.’

‘What kind of service do you provide?’ Holly felt more confident now. Shirley was a professional and she could relate to her. ‘Specifically.’

‘Sometimes all people need is information. If the wage earner suddenly disappears from the scene, partners flounder when it comes to applying for benefits. Just the business of organizing visiting orders and transport to the prison can be a nightmare. And you can find that your friends suddenly disappear, once a family member is sentenced. When offenders are first released, we try to provide friendship and company. Practical help with housing and money. In prison it’s easy, in lots of ways. The inmates get fed, clothed, and if they’re lucky they’re given work. When they first come out some people flounder.’

‘What’s going on downstairs?’ Holly thought the victims could do with a bit more support, and these do-gooders should direct their efforts in that direction.

‘A support group for people who have a problem with alcohol. The traditional AA approach doesn’t work for everyone. Our approach is a little less formal.’

‘Did a man called Martin Benton work for you?’ Holly took the photograph of the dead man and placed it on the desk in front of Shirley. The skinny woman stood up to look too, more curious now than worried.

‘What’s happened to him?’

Holly didn’t reply immediately. ‘You do recognize him?’

‘Yes,’ Shirley said. ‘That’s Martin.’

‘He died yesterday in suspicious circumstances.’ She thought the information would be all over the news by that evening, and besides you could tell from the photo that the man was no longer hale and hearty. ‘We’re trying to piece together as much information as we can about him. I understand that he worked here with you.’

There was a moment of shocked silence, before Shirley started speaking. ‘He came as a volunteer first. Then we put in a funding bid, so we could update our IT. When I first started, it was a nightmare. Everything on card indexes, no attempt at data protection. Martin applied for the admin post and got the job.’

‘Were there any problems?’

‘None at all. He was a dream employee.’

‘What do you mean?’ For the second time that day Holly found her attention wandering. I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to be in a scuzzy office in a scuzzy town asking questions about a man I don’t care about at all.

‘He was punctual, reliable and very effective. A whizz at anything to do with the computers. In the end he was helping the clients. He ran a series of workshops for us in the local library, showing people how to register online for work and for benefits. Lots of them don’t have computers at home.’

Automatically Holly took out her iPad and began to write notes.

‘How long did he work for you?’

‘He was here on a six-month contract,’ Shirley said. The skinny woman had moved back to her desk, but made no pretence of working and was listening to every word. ‘After that, our funding dried up and we couldn’t afford to keep him on. He still came in once a week to help out as a volunteer. I’m the only paid worker in the place, and I’m on the minimum wage.’

‘What’s your background?’

‘I did a social-work diploma and worked as a probation officer for twenty years,’ Shirley said. ‘But I didn’t fancy working for a company more interested in profit than in befriending clients, when the service was reorganized and put out to private tender. Here I’m doing what I’m good at.’

Downstairs the group seemed to be breaking up. There were shouts as people wandered out into the street. The buzz of more animated conversation in the room below.

‘Did you know that Martin collected moths?’ Holly wasn’t sure how that could be relevant to the man’s death, but Joe had made a big deal about it.

‘Sure. He was very quiet. Shy. But when he talked about moths he seemed to come alive. Moths and computers. The loves of his life.’ Shirley smiled.

‘There was nobody special then?’

‘He never mentioned anyone. But then he probably wouldn’t. As I said, he was very shy. Anyway, he found dealing with people tricky. Martin ran the taster computer sessions with clients because he knew they were useful, but he was happier tucked away here in the office.’

There were footsteps, heavy on the bare stairs, and a man stood just inside the office door. Middle-aged and enormous. Shaved head. Tattoos. Hands the size of shovels, with dirt ingrained under the fingernails. ‘This is Frank,’ Shirley said. ‘He’s just been running the group. Another of our regular helpers.’


They sat in the window of a cafe. Frank drank a double-espresso and asked for a Coke to go with it. Holly had tea, too strong for her taste. Frank did most of the talking, a continuous monologue fuelled by caffeine and sugar. ‘I’ve got an addictive personality. Better coffee than booze. That’s why I got into bother when I was a kid. I wasn’t into thieving because I needed stuff. It was the buzz, the excitement. Knowing that I might get caught.’

‘And you did get caught.’

‘Of course I did. I was stupid. Detention centre, young offenders, prison. I worked my way through them. Didn’t stop me stealing, though, and by then I’d found other stuff to give me a buzz. Heroin. I got into that inside. By that time I was needing to thieve to pay for it.’

‘But you’re straight now?’

‘Yeah. Clean and straight. I’ve got my own little business. Gardening. I was never going to be any good working indoors. And I help out at Hope when I can.’

Holly wasn’t sure how to react. She’d never been convinced that people changed so dramatically. ‘You got friendly with Martin Benton?’

‘He was a gentle soul, Martin. He needed someone to look out for him.’

‘You supported him when he came out of hospital after his mother died?’ Holly was still struggling to think of this man as a guardian angel.

‘Then, but also when the Job Centre got him assessed as fit for work. The stress of teaching had made him ill and he was still getting over the last breakdown. No way could he go back to that. So I suggested that he’d be better registering as self-employed. That gets the bastards off your back, you know. He was a clever guy. He had some savings in the bank to see him through until he got set up. And he had skills.’

‘Moths and computers.’

‘And photography! Have you seen inside his office? All those beautiful pictures. He just needed the confidence to go it alone.’ Frank drained the Coke and fidgeted in his seat.

‘What business did he decide on in the end?’

For the first time Frank seemed hesitant. ‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. Not in detail. He’d met some guy who wanted him to do some work. He wouldn’t tell me any more than that.’ There was a pause. ‘I wondered if he was getting ill again. When he was really ill he heard voices, you know. Got paranoid. Dreamed up weird conspiracy theories. He said he’d been sworn to secrecy.’

‘And you thought he was psychotic?’ Holly decided that this was a nightmare. Vera would want facts, not news of a madman who heard voices.

‘I don’t know. I’m not qualified to tell. I’m not a doctor, am I? Martin seemed sane enough, but his stories didn’t hang together. Why would he turn setting up a new business into such a mystery?’ Frank was drumming his fingers on the table.

Holly saw that she wouldn’t keep him here for very much longer. ‘Can I get you another coffee?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve got work.’

‘Can you tell me again what Martin said about his business? Where did he meet the man who offered him the work?’

Frank got to his feet, leaned over the table towards Holly. ‘He wouldn’t tell me. Nothing. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Frank, but I’m sworn to secrecy.” And his eyes were kind of glittery, so I wondered if he was on something.’ He looked directly at Holly. ‘Then he said that I’d be proud of him. “You, of all people, would understand.” I asked him what he meant, but he just smiled.’

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