Hidden Depths (26 page)

‘He’s at work. You’d best talk to him there.’

Again Vera thought the woman was about to hang up.

‘Look, I’m going to be around your way in about half an hour. I’ll call in then. We can have a chat.’

‘Really, I’d rather you waited till Clive was here.’ Vera thought she could hear panic in the voice. That meant nothing sinister. Plenty of old people were worried about strangers knocking at the door. They’d watched all the crime prevention ads.

‘It’s nothing to be anxious about.’ Vera heard herself speak with Ben Craven’s
You’re mad and I know what’s best for you
voice; she winced. ‘I’ll show my identification. You can phone the police station to make sure.’ Then she pressed the button on her phone to end the conversation before Mrs Stringer started to protest again.

The Stringers lived in a low pre-war bungalow in North Shields. Once the street had been a main road, tree-lined, busy, with a shop at each end, but the surrounding area had been redeveloped and a new road system had left it stranded. Now Gunner’s Lane ended abruptly in a breeze-block wall. Beyond that a glass and concrete sports centre threw a long shadow down the middle of the street. Vera knew the area. She’d been there a few times to visit Davy Sharp, had been surprised that he lived somewhere so unassuming and respectable. It was all part of his cover, his ability to fit in.

Mary Stringer must have been watching out for her. As soon as Vera knocked, the door opened immediately, just a crack. She was tiny, her features small, her neck so thin it seemed impossible it could support her head.

‘I phoned Clive. He said he didn’t know anything about you coming to the house.’ Even through the crack in the door, Vera could tell she was shaking.

Vera made no attempt to get in. She fished in her bag for her identity card. ‘You must admit it’s me,’ she said. ‘Look at that picture. There can’t be more than one person in the north east with a face like that.’

‘Clive said I didn’t have to talk to you.’

‘And he’s quite right, but you don’t want the whole street listening to your business, do you?’

There was no reply. Vera could tell she was weakening. ‘H’away, hinny, and let me in. I called at the baker’s on the corner and got a couple of custard slices. Let’s get the kettle on and have a civilized chat.’

The custard slices seemed to swing it. The clawlike grip on the door loosened. Vera pushed it gently and went inside.

The interior of the house couldn’t have changed much since Mary Stringer had moved in. It was clean enough and tidy, but the furniture was old, a little shabby. Vera stood just inside the front door, waiting for the old woman to take the lead. Having taken the decision to allow Vera in, now she seemed almost pleased to have company. She led Vera into a small, over-filled living room and bustled away to make tea. Above the mantelpiece there was her wedding photo. Mary in traditional white and a man, as skinny as she was, looking sharp and pleased with himself in an ill-fitting suit.

Mary came back with a tray and saw Vera looking. ‘He died when our Clive was a month old. An accident at the shipyard. They were good, mind. I had a pension.’

‘Hard for you, though,’ Vera said. ‘Bringing up the lad on your own. Did you have family to help out?’

‘No one close by. The neighbours were smashing. I’m not sure how I’d have managed without them. It was a friendly street in those days. Still is, really.’

‘Clive said you helped out with Thomas Sharp when he was a bairn.’

‘Only as a favour,’ Mary said quickly. ‘I mean, they gave me a few pounds to mind him when they were stretched. You know what it was like – Davy in and out of prison. I wouldn’t want the pension people to know. Or the social – I mean, I was never properly registered as a minder.’

‘You were helping out a friend.’ Vera wondered if that was all the anxiety was about. Mary had broken a few rules ten years before and still got into a panic about it. ‘Nobody’s going to worry about that now.’

And Mary did seem to relax then and to play the hostess. The tea was in proper cups with saucers. There were matching tea plates and Vera prised the sticky cakes from a paper bag, handed one to Mary then licked her finger.

‘Did you ever meet Thomas’s friend, Luke Armstrong?’ An outside chance, but worth asking all the same.

‘I hadn’t seen much of Tom at all recently. Not to talk to. He’d wave when he went past to get the bus into town, but that was it. You can’t blame him. What would he want with an old lady?’

‘Clive would have known him quite well, then?’

‘He was lovely with Thomas when he was a baby. Even changed his nappy sometimes. You don’t expect it of young men, do you? He took him out in his pushchair when he was a toddler.’

Vera thought it sounded as if Mary had done more than a bit of occasional child-minding for the Sharps, but said nothing. She bit into the custard slice; the icing was so sweet she could imagine her teeth crumbling at the roots. The vanilla custard spilled out, squashed between the hard, indigestible pastry. She scooped it up with her little finger and put it in her mouth.

Mary watched her fondly. ‘My Clive likes his food,’ she said, ‘but he never puts on an ounce. He must burn it up.’

‘A bit of a nervy lad, was he?’ Vera asked.

‘Maybe that was my fault. There was only him and me and I always hated being on my own. Perhaps I smothered him a bit. I couldn’t have borne it if anything had happened to him.’ She paused, gave a little complacent smile. ‘He’s a good lad. I had a stroke a while back. Not major, but some sons would take their opportunity to put their mam into a home. Not him. He took time off work, brought me home and looked after me here.’

‘You’re close, then?’

‘Aye, very close.’

‘You’d know if anything was bothering him.’

‘Well, that’s a different thing, isn’t it? He’s not one for wearing his heart on his sleeve, our Clive. I’m not sure I can ever tell what’s going on in his head.’

‘Has he been seeing a lass lately?’

‘No!’ She seemed to think the idea inconceivable. ‘We’re quite happy here, just the two of us.’ Then she added, for form’s sake, ‘Not that it would worry me, mind. I mean, it would be lovely if he could find a good woman to settle down with. I’d love a grandchild.’

‘Has Clive ever had any treatment for his nerves?’

‘What do you mean?’ She was suddenly suspicious. She’d been eating the pastry with small delicate bites, nibbling away at the edges, mouse-like. Now she frowned over the cake at Vera.

‘I’m just asking, pet. Lots of people do.’

‘He’s not depressed, if that’s what you’re saying. We’re very content here, him and me. We don’t need anyone else prying into our business.’

Vera let it go, wondered if the woman was protesting too much.

‘You don’t mind when he stays away?’ she asked.

‘It doesn’t happen much these days. One time, it was every weekend. Up the coast with those grand friends of his. I didn’t complain, mind. He has his own life to live. But since I had the stroke he’s been a bit more thoughtful. I said to him, “How would you feel if I had a turn and I was here by myself?”’

Vera was starting to think Mary was a poisonous old witch. She could have understood if Clive had wanted to do away with
her.
‘You knew he was going to be away last Friday?’

‘Of course. He wouldn’t have arranged it without asking me first.’

‘He prepared you a meal?’

‘Like I said, he’s a good lad. He usually cooks if he’s here. He didn’t eat, mind.’ She sniffed. ‘He was going to get something fancy at the party.’

‘What about the Wednesday?’

‘He was a bit late home from work because he went shopping on his way home. I was waiting for him. When you’re on your own all day, you look forward to the company.’

‘He doesn’t drive much now, he was telling me.’

‘No.’ She paused. ‘I used to quite enjoy our jaunts out in the car, but he never much liked driving. When it failed its MOT a few years ago, he didn’t bother having the car fixed and sold it for scrap. He says it’s better for the planet to use public transport. It would be handy for me now, though. He’d be able to give me a lift to the outpatient clinic at the hospital.’ She gave a quick look to the clock on the wall. ‘Is there anything else? Only the quiz I like on television comes on soon and it makes my day.’

Vera decided she’d go before she said something she regretted. She’d checked out Clive’s story. She couldn’t see him as Joe Ashworth’s madman, who killed young people just because he was jealous of the way they looked. He might be depressed, but who wouldn’t be, saddled with the self-obsessed mother?

Mary had switched on the big TV. Vera had begun by being sorry for her. Now she thought the woman had her life organized very much the way she wanted it. Vera got up. ‘I’ll see my way out, shall I?’

The little woman nodded. ‘If you don’t mind. I’m not so good on my feet, since I was ill.’

Vera closed the living-room door behind her and stood in the hall. The signature tune from the television faded. The host made a joke. Mary chuckled. Vera pushed open one of the doors leading from the corridor. It had a thick white carpet on the floor. A double bed with a pink candlewick quilt. That old ladies’ smell of worn nightclothes and talcum powder. The next door she tried was the bathroom. It was very small, a shower over the bath, the blue shower curtain with a pattern of beaming fish. The smell in here slightly more masculine. Shower gel? Aftershave? She looked at the bottles on the shelf. Had Clive always made an effort with his appearance, hopeful perhaps that one day he’d find a woman, an excuse to move away from his mother?

Then she was standing at the door of Clive’s room. It was firmly shut but not locked and opened with a gentle click. The curtains were drawn and she had to switch on the light. She had been expecting something dusty, full of specimens like the workroom in the museum, but it was uncluttered, anonymous. A single bed and matching pine wardrobe and chest of drawers. A bookcase with standard field guides. In one corner a mist net packed into a canvas bag. So Clive must be into ringing birds too. A few fantasy novels, an upturned book on the bedside table. A computer desk with the ubiquitous PC. A chess set. No pictures on the wall. It was as if he knew his mother had access to his room and he wanted to give nothing away. There was just one photograph, propped on the bedside cabinet, where you might expect the picture of a girlfriend or lover. This was of the group of four friends – Clive looking shy and awkward, Gary laughing, and each side of them Peter Calvert and Samuel Parr. It had been taken at the lighthouse and they were all gazing out to sea.

Vera walked back into the corridor. There was a burst of laughter from the television studio audience. She took advantage of the noise to shut the front door behind her and walk out into the street.

She stood for a moment then walked three doors down to where the Sharps lived. Now she was here, she might as well talk to Davy’s wife.

Vera could tell that Diane Sharp knew who she was as soon as the door was opened – not her name or where she came from but that she was a police officer. She must have developed some sort of sixth sense after years of practice. She was a plump woman in her forties, with very pretty features, hair which looked as if she had it done every week. She wore a pink blouse and a white linen skirt.

‘You’re wasting your time here,’ she said. ‘Davy’s inside. Acklington.’

‘I know. I spoke to him last week.’ Vera was trying to remember if she’d met Davy’s wife before, thought she probably hadn’t.

‘And our Brian doesn’t live here any more. He’s got his own place in town.’

‘It’s you I want to talk to,’ Vera said.

The woman seemed surprised by that, so surprised that she stood aside and let Vera in.

‘I don’t get mixed up in their business.’ As she spoke she led Vera through to the back of the bungalow. Everything was very neat, very respectable. She opened a door and suddenly light flooded into the space. There was a conservatory the width of the building, looking out onto a tiny patch of lawn. ‘Davy had this done last time he was home,’ she said. She settled herself into a wicker chair, nodded for Vera to join her.

‘This isn’t about what your men get up to,’ Vera said. She paused. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Thomas.’

The woman sat very still before replying. ‘That was an accident,’ she said at last. ‘Nothing for you to trouble yourself about.’

‘Are you sure about that, Mrs Sharp?’

‘Aye, it’d have been easier if there was someone to blame, but it was just lads larking around.’

‘You’ll have seen in the paper that Luke Armstrong was killed?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was a smashing lad. Tom spent a lot of time at his place.’

‘Did he come here?’

‘Not so often. Brian was still at home then. There were things going on. I didn’t want Tom involved.’

‘What sort of things?’

She hesitated, chose her words carefully. ‘Brian mixes with a rough set,’ she said. She could have been talking about a five-year-old mixing with bad company at school.

Vera knew one of the rough set had been convicted of attempted murder, a stabbing in a city-centre pub, but she let that go. ‘Tell me about the memorial they did for Tom. The flowers on the river. Whose idea was it?’