Silent Voices (Vera Stanhope 4) (27 page)

Vera smiled at this. They had no real description of the guy who’d called at Connie’s cottage to ask his way. But it was fine with her if Ashworth chose to stretch the point.

‘I don’t know who gave you that information, Sergeant, but nobody came here.’ Veronica, mouth clamped, was determined not to give in. Danny could have danced naked on the lawn that day, but Veronica wouldn’t tell them now. She was a woman who never admitted to making a mistake.

‘Perhaps you know Danny’s father?’ Vera thought it was time to change tack. ‘Derek Shaw. He’s a builder and developer.’

‘I know of him.’ Veronica’s response was immediate and hostile. ‘Horrible man. He built that disgusting estate on the edge of Effingham. I have a friend with a property there. She said it halved the value of her home.’

‘Ever thought of developing that land where your grandfather’s house once stood?’ Vera asked. ‘That’s close to Effingham. Greenhough, isn’t that what you said the place was called? The land would be worth a fortune, wouldn’t it, even these days?’ The question had been niggling at the back of her mind since she’d wandered through the cormorant-headed gateposts.

‘We wouldn’t get planning permission,’ Veronica snapped back. ‘And we like it the way it is. Even if it were possible to build, I wouldn’t get Shaw involved.’

‘He’s lost his son.’ Simon spoke softly, but they all looked at him. ‘Whatever you think about him, he’s lost a child.’ Did he really care about the young man’s loss? Or was he simply warning his mother to be more tactful?

‘Of course!’ And now Veronica did seem stricken. ‘I’m so sorry, Inspector, that was unforgivably heartless.’

Ashworth and Vera walked slowly away from the house. Vera insisted on going to the cafe for breakfast before they called at the cottage. The smell of food in the Eliot kitchen had driven her wild. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate without a bacon stottie inside her. The cafe wasn’t open, but the Yorkshire woman was already there, took pity on them and let them in.

‘That was Holly on the phone,’ Ashworth said. He’d tried to explain before, but Vera’s focus had all been about finding food. ‘There’s some interesting information on Veronica. Might explain why she gave Connie Masters such a hard time when she first moved into the village.’

‘Go on.’

‘She lost a child. A toddler. A little boy called Patrick. He drowned in the river. He was playing down on the beach near Connie’s house and he wandered under the bridge and slipped into the river. Veronica was there, but Simon, who was a bit older, was with her too. He’d run off towards the road and she’d chased after him, worried that he might get in the path of a car. When she got back, the little one was face-down in the water. She tried to resuscitate him, but it didn’t work.’

‘Poor woman.’ That stopped Vera in her tracks. ‘Poor, poor woman.’ Vera tried to think what that sort of guilt would do to you. How could the family still live in that house, looking down every day at the point where their son had drowned? The memory of it must have eaten into Veronica’s brain and her bones, scarring her forever. Her upbringing would have prevented her from seeking help. No counselling for her. No getting pissed with her friends either. Stiff upper lip and life must go on. Or had that been impossible in the end?

Then Connie Masters had moved into the village: another woman who had allowed a child to drown.

And what had the accident done to Simon? The son who had distracted his mother and indirectly caused the death of his brother. Had he ever been told about his part in the tragedy?

Vera found herself near to tears. But she was exhilarated too. Perhaps this was the breakthrough in the case they’d been waiting for. If Veronica blamed Connie for Elias Jones’s death, had she held Jenny Lister ultimately responsible for it? In killing the social worker, had she found a sort of redemption for her own child’s drowning?

Nah
, Vera thought.
Real life doesn’t work like that.
She’d never been one for psycho-babble, and the death of a strange child wouldn’t move a woman to murder. Veronica would only have cared about her own son’s drowning.

But all the same, Vera felt she was inching towards a solution. The Eliots were hiding something. If Connie Masters could identify Danny Shaw as the man who’d called at the cottage, then they had a link between them and Shaw, and that should be enough to move the investigation forward. She finished the last mouthful of sandwich, took a slurp from her mug and almost ran from the cafe, leaving a ten-pound note on the table. At the door she paused only to make sure Ashworth was following her.

But when they arrived at Connie’s place, the cottage was empty and her car was gone. They knocked on the door, knowing there would be no answer. Vera felt under the plant pot near the front door. No spare key. She walked round to the back of the house and moved the wheelie bin that stood just outside the kitchen. A key lay on the bare soil and they let themselves in.

‘Is this strictly legal?’ Ashworth knew Vera wouldn’t care, but he wanted to make a point.

‘We’re worried that Connie’s had an accident,’ Vera said, all mock concern. ‘It’s our duty to check.’

The house looked as if it had been left very quickly. There were dirty bowls in the sink and the kettle was still warm. Upstairs neither of the beds had been made.

‘Maybe she’s just taken the lass to playgroup?’

Ashworth shook his head. ‘It’s not on today.’

‘Gone shopping then?’

‘She knew we were coming to see her with the photos of Shaw and Morgan. And she’d have seen our cars parked out in the road.’

‘So she’s run away,’ Vera said. ‘Why would she do that?’

She lifted the phone in the living room and dialled 1471 to trace the last call made to the number. A distant female voice told her that the caller had withheld their number.

‘Or maybe,’ Vera said, staring out at the river where Patrick Eliot had died, ‘maybe she’s been frightened away.’

Vera and Holly met Freya from Newcastle College at lunchtime. ‘Important to keep our options open,’ Vera had said, though she couldn’t stop thinking about Connie and her daughter. Another child to worry about. Patrick, Elias and now Alice. Somehow that must be relevant. She wished she were cleverer and could make sense of it. She blamed herself too, of course, for missing Connie that morning, for putting her belly before the investigation. She knew that Ashworth blamed her too.

So they’d driven into the city and parked illegally in one of the little streets near to the Rye Hill campus, outside a wholesale warehouse stocking Chinese food. The scent of spice in the air. They were on their way into the drama department when they saw Freya coming towards them, alone among the other students, who were giggling on their way to find lunch. Vera recognized the girlish way of walking that was close to dancing and the printed frock, this time worn over jeans with a jacket on the top. Freya didn’t see them until the last minute. She had her mobile phone to her ear, chatting to a friend as she walked about some play they’d been to see. Her face was bright and Vera could have wept for her.

‘Hello, pet.’

They swept her with them into a coffee shop, a greasy spoon with pretensions. Now the smell was of frying and of coffee from the big silver espresso machine.

‘You’ll be peckish,’ Vera said. ‘Now you’re eating for two.’

And it seemed that Freya was hungry. Morgan might be vegetarian, but the girl managed a full English breakfast and a mug of tea. The sausage and bacon disappeared in seconds.

‘You never told us you were in the Willows the morning the social worker died.’ Vera struggled to get the words out. She’d gone for a piece of flapjack, so sticky that it worked like superglue around her teeth.

Freya looked up. Big eyes, suddenly scared, over the mug. ‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Howay, we shouldn’t have needed to ask now, should we? A clever girl like you, you’d have guessed we’d be interested.’

‘Michael said you might draw the wrong conclusion.’

‘He was there that morning too, was he?’ Holly chipped in, out to prove she wasn’t just here for the ride. Vera couldn’t blame her for that. Nothing wrong with a bit of ambition in a woman. ‘Was the session for partners too? Great that he wants to be so involved with the baby.’

‘It was an exercise class.’ Freya seemed to have relaxed. Perhaps after all she was just as stupid as Mattie Jones had been, but she hid it better. ‘Not for the fathers. Michael will come along to the antenatal group, of course. We’ve planned a completely natural childbirth. One of his friends is an independent midwife and we’re having the baby at home. Hiring a birthing pool and everything. But he just gave me a lift that day.’

‘I suppose he used the time to catch up on some work.’ Holly gave an encouraging little smile. Vera thought she was as bored by the details of motherhood as Vera herself and was glad to move the conversation on.

‘I guess so.’ But Freya was suspicious again. Had Morgan warned her on the subjects to avoid, if she were questioned alone?

‘Where did you meet up?’ Vera asked. ‘After the class, I mean.’

Silence. It seemed Morgan hadn’t given her the answer to that one.

‘Was he waiting in the car for you?’

‘I can’t remember.’

Vera paused until a waitress in torn jeans had swung past carrying a plate of bacon and eggs for a couple of labourers at the next table.

‘Of course you can, hinny. And we’ll find out anyway. A place like that, there’ll be CCTV in the car park and a load of witnesses.’ Although the CCTV tape had run out the night before the murder and nobody had bothered to replace it. ‘Much better if you give us the information yourself.’

Freya looked cornered. She made Vera think of the traps gamekeepers used in the hills. A wire mesh cage with a crow inside to lure in other raptors. Was it right to be using Freya as their decoy?

‘We’d arranged to meet in the car,’ Freya said. ‘But when I got out of the class he wasn’t there.’

‘What time was that?’

‘The class finished at ten.’

‘So what did you do?’ Holly asked. ‘Did you go to look for him? It’d be a good chance to bump into your old friends from work. Maybe grab a coffee, catch up on some gossip?’

‘I don’t have much in common with those people any more.’ That was Morgan, Vera thought, speaking through Freya’s lips.

‘So where
did
you go? To Michael’s office? Perhaps he’d got caught up in his paperwork and lost track of the time?’ This time it was Holly who was putting words into the girl’s mouth.

Poor child,
Vera thought.
She’s nothing but a ventriloquist’s dummy.

‘I phoned his mobile,’ Freya said. ‘I knew he wouldn’t want me wandering round the hotel. He says some of the girls there are a bad influence. So I phoned him.’

‘And?’ Holly was close to shaking the girl now. Vera thought she’d have to learn some patience. Vera was more concerned by the substance of Freya’s answer. What right did this man have to choose her friends?

‘And nothing. He didn’t reply. I waited. He turned up not long after and drove me home. I didn’t have college that day. It was still the Easter break.’ She sounded sulky, like a spoilt child. Vera thought there’d probably been a row in the car on their way back to the coast.

‘Did he explain why he was so late?’ Holly asked.

‘He said it was none of my business. Something to do with work. I thought perhaps Mattie Jones was hassling him again. She’d started phoning from the prison and it drove him crazy.’

No,
Vera thought.
Not Mattie. She was in hospital having her appendicitis pulled out. Jenny perhaps? Had she seen him, maybe while he was drinking posh coffee in the lounge, waiting for Freya’s class to finish? Had she asked for an interview for her book about the Elias Jones case, told Morgan she would write it anyway? Did he watch her go into the steam room from the viewing gallery, quickly change into his swimming trunks and kill her?

She was so caught up in speculation that she didn’t realize the others were staring at her. She saw herself through their eyes: ageing, ugly, slow. Felt their pity. And then experienced an energizing surge of confidence. I might not be young and bonny, but I’ve got brains, she thought. More brains than the pair of you put together. Another couple of days and we’ll have this sorted.

Early afternoon she was back at the Willows, powered by pride and caffeine and sugar. First she sat in the lounge, drinking more coffee, watching the punters. There were deep armchairs of leather and chintz. Easy to hide away from fellow guests, to carry on a conversation that wouldn’t be overheard. The waiters came to take the orders. No need to stand up or to queue at the bar. This was as anonymous a place as it was possible to imagine.

Her waitress was elderly, a caricature from a bygone age, stooped and almost deaf. Vera bellowed at her.

‘You’ll have seen photos of Jenny Lister, the woman killed here last week. Did she ever come into the lounge to have coffee?’

The waitress shook her head and walked off, but Vera wasn’t even sure she’d heard. Later, though, a lad turned up. Black trousers, white shirt, black waistcoat. An explosion of acne, made worse because he was blushing and nervous.