by Ann Cleeves
Matthew relented. ‘Both of you go.’ There might be a wife, kids or an elderly mother and Jen was brilliant with families. ‘Give me a ring when you’ve got something.’ He looked at his watch. It was gone six and the light was already fading. A buoy in the estuary was flashing. ‘Let’s meet at the station at eight thirty this evening and we’ll pull together all we know.’
* * *
He stood outside the gate to Spindrift and waited for a moment. The curtains hadn’t been closed and he could see the kitchen, fully lit, like a stage set. An orange pan was on the stove and a jug of daffodils stood on the green oilskin cloth that covered the table. Matthew had bought them the day before as buds and they were nearly open. And as if this was a piece of theatre, a single actor stood back-on in front of a chopping board. Hair so blond it was nearly white. A T-shirt with a logo that urged support for whales or dolphins or the entire planet. There was a chest of drawers full of the shirts and Matthew was too far away to make out the detail of the design. Jonathan, his husband and love of his life, the endless optimist, who had lifted him from depression and brought him to what felt like home. He still wasn’t sure what Jonathan had seen in him, how they could be so happy.
Matthew lifted the latch on the gate and walked into the garden. Perhaps Jon heard the noise, because he turned and he must have seen Matthew’s shadow, or a movement at least, because he waved. Inside there was the smell of good soup and new wood. Jon was replacing rotten window frames. The house was his project and once the day job was over, he spent his spare time working on it. Unlike Matthew, he had boundless energy, the build of labourer. There was sawdust in his hair and on his shoulders.
‘Good timing. I was just about to have a beer.’ Jon approached, the knife still in his hand, to kiss him.
‘I can’t. I have to go out later. Work.’ Matthew explained about the body on the beach and thought he hated work coming so close to home. ‘Weren’t you stopped at the toll gate on your way in?’
‘I took this afternoon off to get on with the window in the bedroom. Lieu time. I was home not long after midday. There was nobody on the gate then.’
‘Did you see anything unusual?’
‘Am I a suspect?’ A big grin. The question was intended to lighten the mood. He could sense Matthew’s stress.
‘A witness, maybe.’ He wasn’t in the mood for jokes. A pause.
‘Oh fuck, I’m sorry. I’d forgotten. It was your dad’s funeral. Did they let you in?’
‘I didn’t try.’
‘Oh, Matt. I knew I should have gone with you.’
Jon was brave. He would have faced out the relatives and the Brethren. He would have stood at the front, singing his heart out, and then charmed the old ladies afterwards. Matthew was a coward, more scared of embarrassment than breaking up a fight in a bar or facing an addict with a knife.
‘Dad would have hated a scene,’ Matthew said. ‘Staying away was the least I could do for him.’
‘They would have been the ones causing the scene. Not you.’ But he gave Matthew a hug to show this wasn’t something they’d fall out over.
They shared a meal – soup and freshly baked bread, cheese and a salad. Jon’s competence astounded him. How could one man be so good at so much? Where had his confidence come from? In contrast, he felt endlessly incompetent.
‘I should go,’ Matthew said. He’d loaded the plates into the dishwasher. At least he could do that much. ‘I’ve sent Ross and Jen to track down the relatives. We still don’t have a name for the man.’ He pulled on a jacket. Outside it was clear and still, with a slice of moon and stars sharp in the night sky. The only lights came from Instow and Appledore on the far shore. ‘Don’t wait up. It could be an all-nighter.’
And Jonathan wouldn’t wait up. He’d potter with his projects and go to bed when he was tired. Matthew, however, couldn’t settle when Jonathan was out. He’d fret, watching out for the headlights sweeping past the bedroom curtain. Sometimes Jon would go to the folk club in the pub in the village, drink too much and walk home, arriving almost as it was getting light. Then Matthew would pretend to be asleep and say nothing. His mother had nagged and his father had hated it.
Chapter Four
JEN LET ROSS DRIVE THE FEW miles to Ilfracombe. He took it for granted that he’d be behind the wheel and sometimes she couldn’t be arsed to make a fuss. Besides, it meant she was free to text the kids and check they were both in, doing homework, and that they’d foraged for something to eat. They were old enough to fend for themselves now and they’d always been resilient and self-contained; they’d had to be.
She still got anxious, though. Guilty because she wasn’t there, cooking something nutritious, making intelligent conversation as they ate together. But they weren’t the perfect family you saw in TV sitcoms and they never would be. She’d tried doing the selfless wife and mother thing when they lived in Merseyside and it had nearly killed her. Literally. That didn’t mean that she didn’t wish she could be better at it, more organized, there more for them. It wasn’t that she liked work better than she liked Ella and Ben. Not exactly. But work gave her life structure and meaning and she needed it. Without it she’d go crazy.
They texted her back. Yes, they were both in. Yes, they’d found pizza in the freezer. No, they weren’t planning to go out again. When they’d first moved to Devon and they were younger, Jen had found a string of childminders for them, but the women she’d employed had been used to polite kids and parents with regular hours. Despite their professional smiles, they’d struggled with Jen’s rackety Scousers, their bad language and their independence. In the end, Jen had made do with Adam, a sixth-form lad, who was happy to babysit for pocket money as and when needed. It wasn’t ideal. Often, Jen had come home to chaos, Adam on the sofa, engrossed in his phone, while the kids ran riot upstairs. Or the three of them squabbling over the controls of a computer game. They’d survived. Adam had headed off to university and still came back to see them when he was home, though the kids were independent now. Occasionally she had sexy dreams about Adam, who’d turned into a very fit young man.
She was still thinking about Adam, the tight bum in the skinny jeans, when they crossed the roundabout on the high ground at Mullacott Cross. It felt like a bit of Exmoor up here, even though they were so close to the town and the descent into Ilfracombe. There were hedges, bent by the westerly wind, and lambs. Once Ilfracombe had been a grand seaside resort, with elaborate gardens and hotels and a paddle steamer that carried passengers along the Bristol Channel to Somerset and South Wales. With cheap flights to the Mediterranean available so readily, it had faded, lost its purpose. The tourists had fled to Spain and the Greek islands instead. Now, the place was trying to find a new role.
The town was surrounded by hills and the lights of the place seemed held in a deep bowl directly below them. They drove past big villas, which had been turned into guest houses called Sea View or Golden Sands. Most had ‘No Vacancies’ boards, not because they were full but because this early in the season their owners had decided it wasn’t worth opening. Ross followed his satnav into the town centre, stopped at the top of a long, steep street of three-storey terraced houses, beautifully proportioned but decaying now and turned into flats and bedsits. Some had boarded-up windows. An empty can, which had once held strong lager, rolled down the pavement.
‘Hope Street,’ Ross said. ‘Otherwise known as addicts’ avenue. I thought I recognized the address.’
Jen liked Ilfracombe, the mix and edginess of it. A few of her friends lived here and she’d considered moving herself because the houses were cheaper, the parties wilder and more her style. But the kids were settled at school now and the drive to work would be a bit of a drag. Like other former holiday towns, it pulled in transients and misfits, people lured by the prospect of seasonal work in the big hotels. When the trippers went home the workers stayed, because they’d found friends, or out of inertia, or because they had nothing left to return to. Some of the guest houses ha
d been turned into hostels or bedsits, others rented out rooms for the winter, not caring that they had no real facilities for a long-term let. Hope Street contained those sorts of premises but there were signs of gentrification too; some houses had bright new paint and coloured blinds, window boxes and shrubs in tubs in the tiny front gardens. At the bottom of the street, Jen saw the silhouettes of two men, hunched together in conversation.
They found number twenty halfway down the hill. A black door, freshly painted. No sign that it was a place of multiple occupancy, no separate doorbells or letter boxes. No doorbell at all, so Ross knocked. Jen thought she heard someone moving inside. Ross knocked again and the door was opened to reveal a generous front hall, the floorboards stripped and patchily varnished, and a young woman who wore jeans and a long sweater in kingfisher blue, a slash of red lipstick.
‘Hiya.’ She looked them up and down with interest. ‘Sorry, if you’re selling something, I’m skint. And if you’re selling religion, I’m an atheist. The resident God-botherer is out. So, there’s nothing for you here.’
Jen thought she’d remember that next time she got cold callers at the door. ‘We’re not selling anything. We’re police officers.’
‘Is it about my bike?’ Her face lit up. Expressions flew across her features like the shadows of clouds on a windy day. The face was never still. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found it after all this time. We’ve got a new lock on the door into the back alley so we haven’t had anything nicked since.’
‘Not the bike,’ Ross said. ‘Perhaps we could come in.’
The woman led them into a large room at the back of the house. Jen, who was an expert on these things, thought all the furniture had been upcycled or freecycled. Seating was a huge squashy sofa in purple velvet, cushions on the floor, a couple of armchairs that looked as if they’d been newly upholstered, but not quite finished. It seemed the craftsperson had become bored with the project. A long, low table had been formed from a plank door. On the walls posters and original paintings. A small black wood burner, dirty and unlit, and a wicker basket full of logs. A single patio door led out into a tiny yard, where huge ceramic pots provided a garden. Daffodils were already coming into bloom. There was a high wall with a rickety doorway, through which, Jen assumed, the stolen bicycle had been taken.
‘Could we have your name?’ Jen had chosen one of the armchairs. Ross was still standing.
‘Gaby. Gaby Henry.’
‘Do you own the house?’
‘No, that’s Caroline. Caz. Well, theoretically she owns it. It’s mortgaged to the hilt. And of course, she was helped out with a deposit from the bank of mum and dad. Or just dad actually, because her mum died years ago. Helped too by the rent from her lodger. That’s me.’ A flash of a smile and a pause, as if she was a stand-up comedian waiting for applause after the punchline of a joke. Her voice was southern but not local. London maybe.
Jen leaned forward. ‘A man was found dead on the beach at Crow Point this afternoon. There was something on his person to connect him to this address.’ She paused. There was no response from the woman. For a moment Gaby stood very still. Jen looked at her, then continued. ‘Do you have a husband? A partner?’
Now Gaby did speak. ‘I’m fancy free. Caz has Edward. A curate. But he’s not here at the moment. He doesn’t live in. They don’t believe in that sort of thing. No sex before marriage. They’re Christians of the happy-clappy arm-waving variety.’
‘Any male lodgers?’
There was a pause before she answered. ‘Simon Walden. He’s been here since October. Caz brought him in. He’s one of her lost sheep.’
Jen thought that might be important; she’d come back to it. ‘Could you describe Mr Walden?’
‘He’s a bit older than us. Pushing forty. We’re planning a party for him in a few weeks’ time. If he decides to behave himself.’
Jen was intrigued, but again refused to allow herself to be distracted. ‘Weight? Height? Any distinguishing marks?’
‘A bit taller than him.’ Gaby nodded towards Ross. ‘But about the same build. He has the tattoo of a bird on his neck. An albatross. He says he carried guilt round with him like the Ancient Mariner, so he had the tat done to remind him.’
Now Jen allowed herself to be distracted. ‘Do you know what he meant by that?’
Gaby shook her head. ‘After a few drinks he can get like that. Maudlin. Or angry.’
‘But you let him stay?’ This was Ross. He lived with his perfect wife in a tidy little house on an estate on the edge of Barnstaple. He must be hating this place, the muck and the clutter. He certainly wouldn’t share his home with strangers.
Gaby shrugged. ‘He doesn’t often lose it. Caz can manage him. Besides, he cooks like a dream.’ She stopped speaking and stared at them. ‘Are you telling me Simon’s dead?’
‘We don’t know yet. It’s possible.’
Gaby turned away from them. Jen thought she might be crying but when she looked back, she was quite composed and when she spoke her tone was still light, brittle. ‘Shit, if he’s dead, there’ll be no more amazing Friday night feasts.’
‘Have you got a photo?’
‘Just a minute. We took a joint selfie a couple of weeks ago. I put it on Facebook, but I’ll still have it on my phone.’ Gaby flicked through her phone and then passed it across to Jen. There were three faces crammed into the image. Two women – Gaby and a short, round woman with big specs – then in the centre of the picture a man. Simon Walden. The body on the beach. In the photo his head was turned slightly and Jen could see the tattoo.
‘I’m afraid that’s him,’ Jen said. She passed the phone to Ross, so he could see for himself that they had an ID for their victim.
‘Did he kill himself?’ Still the tough, flip shell didn’t crack.
‘Why? Would that surprise you? Had he talked about suicide?’
‘He had really dark moods sometimes. That’s how Caz met him. She works for a mental health charity. And she’s too bloody soft for her own good.’
‘Is this Caroline?’ Jen took the phone back from Ross and pointed to the short woman with the glasses.
‘Yeah, that’s her. My landlady. My mate now too. We’re as different from each other as chalk and cheese, but I love her to bits. I’m not sure she can quite cope with the chaos I’ve brought into her house…’ She waved her arm at the recycled furniture and art. ‘She knows she’d be bored without me, though. And it’s a bit cheerier than the place where she works: an ancient church hall filled with suicidal addicts and depressives.’
‘What about you?’ Jen asked. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m the artist in residence at the Woodyard. I help horrible adolescents with behavioural problems to find themselves through art. And teach bored middle-aged women who want to dabble in watercolour. They got funding for me for three years.’ She looked at Jen to check that she didn’t have to explain the Woodyard Centre. Jen nodded to show she recognized the name. ‘That’s the day job. But mostly I paint. Painting’s my true love. I went to art college when I left school and the Woodyard gives me my own studio space.’
‘You must be very talented.’ Jen sensed a slight sneer in her own voice. Jealousy perhaps. She’d have loved to be able to paint. ‘How do you and Caroline know each other?’
‘Through her father, Christopher. He’s on the board of the Woodyard and he was one of the people who interviewed me for the residency. I’m not local and when they appointed me, I needed somewhere to live. He put me in touch with Caz, who’d just bought this place and was looking for someone to share. Then Simon came along.’ There was a sudden edge to her voice.
‘You didn’t get on with him?’ Jen said.
‘We were getting on fine without him. I suppose it changed the dynamics. I’m sad he’s dead of course. But honestly? I won’t be sorry to go back to the way it was before he turned up.’
Jen stared at the photograph again. For the remainder of the investigation this would be how she would
remember the residents of Hope Street: Gaby, the arty one with the dark eyes and red lipstick, Caroline, the religious one with the big specs.
‘Does Simon have any family? We need to inform them.’
‘There’s a wife,’ Gaby said. ‘She threw him out. I think she lives in Bristol but I don’t have a name or address.’
‘Work?’
‘He spent last summer as a chef at the Kingsley House Hotel, here in Ilfracombe. When the season ended he lost his accommodation too of course. That’s the gig economy for you.’
Jen nodded.
‘Since then he’s done a bit of volunteering at the Woodyard – he works in the cafe there, Caz or her dad got him in – but he’s had no paid work.’
‘How does he pay his rent?’ Ross was less sympathetic to the troubles of seasonal workers. He thought they should get a proper job.
‘I don’t know,’ Gaby said, ‘but according to Caz, it landed up in her bank account every month. I hope she doesn’t struggle without it.’ A pause. ‘Her father’s loaded, though. I expect she’ll survive.’
‘Could we have a look at Mr Walden’s room? It’ll need to be sealed for a proper search, but we’d like a quick look now.’
Gaby nodded and got to her feet. They followed her to the first-floor landing, where she stopped. ‘Simon’s room is on the top floor at the back. I’ll leave you to it, if that’s okay.’
Jen thought Simon Walden had been given the smallest and darkest room, the one that nobody else had chosen. He was a lodger, a charity case and not a real friend. It was in the roof and faced up the hill looking over the yard and other houses, not to the sea. It was bare and impersonal. There was a single bed under the small dormer window. A white-painted wardrobe held a sparse number of clothes. No TV and no computer. A radio on the bedside table. No photos.
