Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street (17 page)

As she walked along the wall to Harbour Street, the pavement felt uneven under her feet. Even after such a short trip she could still feel the motion of the boat. The smell of frying fish in the chip shop almost tempted her inside, but she carried on past. She phoned Holly.

‘Did you get hold of a social worker to check up on Dee Robson?’

‘I spoke to social services. Her key worker’s a guy called Jim Morris.’

‘And?’
Sometimes, Holly Clarke, you really wind me up.

‘There’s absolutely no chance that anyone will get round to see her before Christmas. And there’ll just be a skeleton staff on over the holidays. Emergencies only.’

Vera switched off the phone without answering. For a fleeting moment she considered inviting Dee home with her for Christmas. Her neighbours, Joanna and Jack, wouldn’t judge the woman. They’d all sit round the table in the farmhouse, drinking too much and eating Joanna’s fabulous food, and if Dee flirted with Jack they’d just laugh. But Vera knew that it wouldn’t do to have a suspect in a murder inquiry as a temporary lodger. She grinned as she imagined Joe Ashworth’s outrage if she suggested it.

She phoned Holly again. ‘Have you got the number of that hostel, the Haven?’ Holly, as efficient as ever, found it within seconds. Vera had to keep her talking while she got into her car and found a pen. ‘Just repeat that number again, Hol, would you?’

Her call was answered by someone with a motherly voice and a Scottish accent. Vera explained who she was.

‘Inspector, how can I help?’

Vera explained that she was anxious about Dee Robson. ‘She’s an important witness. She’s spent quite a lot of time with Margaret Krukowski recently. She has a very chaotic lifestyle and, without Margaret’s supervision, I’m frightened that she’ll just disappear.’

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

‘I wondered if you might put her up at the Haven, just over the holidays. So we know where to find her, if we need to interview her again.’ Vera could tell she was wheedling and hated it. She’d never been good at asking for favours.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, we’ve just taken another emergency resident. I’m afraid that we have no vacancies.’ The phone went dead.

Out in the street, Vera looked briefly into the Coble, thinking that Dee might be there. It was still early and almost empty. In the bar a couple of elderly men played dominoes. There was no sign of the woman, and Vera knew better than to look in the lounge. That wasn’t Dee’s territory. On impulse she went into the fish shop and bought two haddock and chips to take away. Even wrapped in paper and in a carrier bag, the smell walked with her down the alley between the church and the Metro line.

She walked quickly up the concrete stairs of the flats, feeling the strain on her legs from when she’d climbed the ladder at the harbour.
Eh, Vera, pet, you’d best catch this killer quickly or there’s a danger that you’ll get fit.
She knocked at Dee’s door, but didn’t expect an immediate response. When they’d turned up there before, the woman had checked who was on the doorstep before letting them in. There could be a man from the council in the corridor wanting his rent, or some irate wife. Dee had at least some notion of self-preservation.

But the door opened when Vera hit it. She stayed where she was and shouted in. ‘Are you there, Dee? It’s Vera Stanhope. I’ve brought fish and chips.’

Still no reply. Vera set the carrier bag on the floor in the corridor outside and went in, noticing again the stain of damp on the wall by the door. The living room was empty. The empty paper bag that had held the cakes she’d brought as a previous peace offering still lay ripped on the table.

‘Dee, are you there?’

The bedroom door was shut and Vera listened before going in. Not through embarrassment, but because she wanted to know what to expect before she burst in on Dee Robson at work. Silence. Vera opened the door. In the bedroom Dee lay on the mattress staring at Vera. She was dressed for work: short skirt and white lacy top, shiny white plastic shoes. Glitter blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick slightly smudged. There was a kitchen knife in the side of her neck. It was the knife with which Vera had cut the custard slice the day before.

Blood had pooled under her head and her neck, a dark background to the very pale skin. Her skin was icy blue, except where her bare legs touched the mattress, and there it was dark, almost purple. The flesh looked like plastic. Vera was reminded of a big blow-up doll. The woman had probably died not long after she and Joe had visited the previous day.

Vera went to the hall to make the phone call. She smelled the fish and chips and was almost sick.

Kate was waiting for George Enderby to arrive. She wanted to book him in quickly because Stuart would be here soon. She was already excited, listening for the sound of Stuart’s key in the door. They had plans. The Metro into Newcastle for an afternoon of culture – a new exhibition at the Baltic on the river and a stroll round the Laing Art Gallery. Then dinner. Stuart had a mate from the Ramblers’ Association who’d opened a restaurant near the cathedral. ‘Nothing pretentious,’ Stuart had said. ‘But decent enough, and he could do with the support. You know.’ Stuart didn’t have many mates, but he was loyal to them. She liked that. She thought he’d be loyal to her.

And afterwards they had tickets for a concert in the small hall of the Sage. A Danish poet and a musician from the Faroes. ‘It’ll probably be awful,’ Stuart had said, ‘but if we don’t go we might miss something important.’ He was full of surprises. She’d never have thought he would go for something so experimental. It seemed to Kate that her world had shrunk with her marriage to Robbie and it was as if she was being given a second chance to explore it. They’d get the last Metro home and Stuart would stay over. She was daydreaming about that too. Since Rob had died all she’d had were daydreams; now there was flesh and skin, touch and taste. Some days it seemed that thoughts about sex swamped her brain, leaving room for nothing else. Maybe that was why she’d become such a crap parent and why she felt so little grief at Margaret’s murder. Had her infatuation for Stuart left her heartless and cold?

In the past there would have been no problem about leaving the guest house. Kate would have asked Margaret to let George in and show him to his room. Margaret would have made his tea and left it in the lounge, just as he liked it. She’d have kept an eye out for the kids too. Today Ryan was out and probably wouldn’t get back before Kate and Stuart. She never knew where he was. Sometimes he just wandered around the neighbourhood, marking the boundaries of his world. Even as a small child, if anything had upset him he’d walk miles, backwards and forwards from Margaret’s flat at the top of the house to the basement. Chloe was at the kitchen table, her nose to the laptop and the pile of books higher than ever. But she had her phone on the table next to her and Kate saw her attention stray to it occasionally, as if she was willing it to ring. She knew what that was like.

‘It’s the start of the holidays,’ Kate had said, trying to keep her voice light. Stuart never said anything, but she could tell that he thought she nagged the kids too much: Chloe for working too hard and Ryan for not doing enough. ‘Give yourself a break!’

But there was some competition apparently, run by a national science magazine, and Chloe thought it would look good on her CV if she won. So that was her project for the holiday. When she had a project she thought of nothing else. Except, apparently, the call she was waiting for, as her eyes moved again to her phone. They looked dark and bruised and Kate thought she’d been up all night brooding. About the project or about some lad? Kate wasn’t sure which would worry her most.

The doorbell rang and George Enderby was standing there with his wheelie suitcase full of books.

‘Me again. The proverbial bad penny.’ He gave her a hug and kissed both cheeks as he always did. Then he stood back to look at her. ‘You’re looking very smart. Going anywhere nice?’ She blushed and, though there was no hint of reproof in his words, she felt guilty. Should she be going out enjoying herself when Margaret was so recently dead?

‘Just into Newcastle with Stuart.’

‘Well, good for you! Don’t worry. I can see myself up to my room.’ He seemed tired too. His overcoat was crumpled and the jollity in his voice was rather forced. She supposed that perhaps he hadn’t received many orders for the novels he loved.

‘I’ll put some tea in the lounge,’ she said. ‘Though the biscuits aren’t up to Margaret’s standard, I’m afraid.’

They smiled sadly at each other. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delicious,’ George said. He began to take off his gloves and added, as if it were an afterthought: ‘Any news about that? Have they caught the killer?’

She was already on her way to the kitchen and turned back to answer. ‘I haven’t heard anything. There seem to be police in the town whenever I go out. They’re knocking on all the doors and asking questions.’

And as if in response to his query there was the noise of sirens in the street and they looked at each other, sharing a frisson of anxiety.

Stuart was late, so she was starting to panic, to wonder if she should call him. He was usually obsessively punctual and she was the one who made
him
wait. And now, with Margaret’s killing, she thought that he would make an effort to be on time because he’d know that she would worry. Then he was there. He had let himself in, and she heard his footsteps coming down the stairs to the basement. He was so tall that it seemed minutes after seeing his feet before his head appeared. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, very old and beaten-up, and jeans. It was what he always wore when they went out to town. A scarf was his only concession to the weather. Nearly sixty, but he looked good. Cool.

‘Sorry!’ His hands turned up in a gesture of contrition. ‘I don’t know what’s going on in Mardle this afternoon. The traffic’s a nightmare.’

Then he put his arm around her, very easy and natural, and she wanted to reach out and touch his face because she thought he was so beautiful, felt the pull of wanting him in her guts. If they’d had the house to themselves she’d have suggested staying here instead of going into town.

‘Hi, Chlo? Everything okay?’ He’d already pulled away from Kate and had his hand lightly on Chloe’s shoulder, looking down at her work.

‘Yeah, well, you know.’ Chloe stretched. ‘I don’t know how much detail they want. What do you think?’

He sat down beside her and leaned in to give his full attention to the laptop, and Kate felt jealousy, bright and sharp like the prick of a needle.
She never talks to me like that. Does she think that I’m too stupid to understand?
And, immediately afterwards:
Does he find my daughter more attractive than me?

She left them chatting and went to see George, who was lingering over his tea. ‘Are you okay?’ She thought he looked ill, still wrapped up in his overcoat. She bent and turned up the fire.

He turned on his performer’s smile, the one he must use to charm publishers and booksellers. ‘You’re so kind to me, Kate. This is like a second home. You do know that?’ He smiled wistfully and she thought he was regretting the old days before Stuart had come into her life, when she would sit and drink with him all evening and listen to him talking about his magnificent wife.

Newcastle was full of people and friendly. They walked arm-in-arm between the art galleries, crossing the Tyne by the Blinking Eye Bridge. Then on to the restaurant. Kate could smell the leather of Stuart’s jacket and the city, sweet and enticing, all around her. Mardle only smelled of salt and fish and seaweed, and there was no adventure in that. The restaurant was tiny and cramped and they sat in the window, looking out onto a steep cobbled street. Stuart joked with his friend, the owner, about the background music and ordered a bottle of wine. Then he took her hand across the table. The candle threw odd shadows across his face and for a moment she felt that she was sitting with a stranger. There was a heady excitement in that too.

‘I’m so sorry about Margaret,’ he said. ‘I know you were close.’

She was disappointed. She’d hoped for something more romantic. At least a declaration that he was as obsessed with her as she was with him. She was sick of talking about Margaret, sick of the drop in her stomach every time the realization hit her again. She just wanted to forget about it. Move on.

‘It was dreadful,’ she said. Kate didn’t quite know how to explain out loud how she felt. ‘I don’t want to sound callous, but in a sense I have more options now. I can think of selling the house, for example. I know we’ve talked about it before, but really it would have been impossible when Margaret was still alive.’

‘A new start,’ he said. It was almost as if he was talking to himself, playing with the words, turning them into a riff.

‘Yeah.’ She found that she was grinning.

‘I could take early retirement,’ he said. ‘I’ve been teaching for long enough.’ He poured more wine. His face was flushed.

‘What would you do?’ She couldn’t imagine him as a pensioner, weekly walks in the hills, watching television in the afternoons, though the thought of him being free during the day when the kids were out of the house excited her again.

‘I’d manage your career – properly, not just the odd gig, like at the moment,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘We’d get you writing again. Performing. If you sold the Harbour Street house we could get somewhere smaller in town – a new start for the kids too, a better school. See if we can persuade Ryan to stay on for A levels.’

She thought that he’d been thinking of this for a while. ‘Are you saying that we should move in together straight away?’

‘If we can find the right place, why not? We’d get something decent if I sold my flat too. A new start.’ Repeating the words again. He’d never talked about moving into Harbour Street with her, though she’d dropped plenty of hints. It was as if the building itself – so public when it was filled with guests – put him off.

‘I’d love that,’ she said. ‘Really.’