The Long Call

by Ann Cleeves

  There was the same smile, implying that Matthew was easy to talk to, that just in those moments the two had become friends: the politician’s knack of making a person feel special. Dennis Salter, the Brethren elder who’d preached at his father’s funeral, had the same ability, the same warmth.

  Matthew understood what Preece meant about guilt, though. Perhaps because of the memory that had conjured up Salter, his childhood mentor, he found himself back in the cemetery. He was watching the service to mark the death of his father from a safe distance. The crocus at his feet and the drone of the organ in his ears. He wondered if he’d felt a moment of relief too when he’d heard his dad had died? Perhaps. Because any decision about whether or not he should visit the hospital had been taken away. It made things cleaner, easier. And now he was feeling guilty again, because he hadn’t had the courage to visit, to make things right. Because he hadn’t walked round the pool of crocus to stand with his mother in the chapel of rest.

  In the silence that followed there was the sound of birdsong, loud and clear, from the garden.

  ‘I’d grown a number of businesses in this area,’ Preece said. ‘Becca was a local girl, but I grew up in London. We met when I was here on holiday with some friends. I only moved down when we married, and perhaps, as an outsider, I could see the potential for development better than the locals.’ He was still standing, his back to the long window, the new green of the garden behind him. ‘And I’ve always been a risk-taker. I didn’t think the British love affair with cheap package holidays would continue. Not for the discerning young middle classes. I built an estate of luxury holiday flats in Westward Ho! and took on a run-down caravan park in Croyde, turned it into an upmarket chalet and glamping site. Later I diversified into bars and restaurants.’

  Matthew nodded to show he was listening. Let the man explain in his own way.

  Preece continued. ‘When Becca died, I’d already been thinking of selling the businesses on. I enjoyed the start-up phase, the planning, the negotiations, but found myself rather bored once they were up and running. I’m not really a details man and I was ready for a new challenge. So, being active in the charity sector wasn’t as altruistic as it might have seemed. I started the drop-in centre at St Cuthbert’s soon after Becca died, but we needed something more professional and Caroline has made that happen. The project has developed beyond my wildest dreams. Then I was ready for something more demanding and I got behind the Woodyard. I got a buzz out of being part of a completely new organization, finding my way round charity laws and the way NGOs operate, helping to recruit a set of trustees. We’ve got a good team there now with a mix of skills: an accountant, a lawyer, a couple of senior social workers and a former building society chief. It fended off the guilt and the grief, at least for a while. And it made Caroline proud of me. That was important.’ He paused. ‘I know it’s an old-fashioned thing to say, but my reputation is important to me, and I see the whole of the Woodyard as my baby now. My legacy. I’ll always be associated with it.’

  This, Matthew thought, was the politician talking again. ‘You say you liked Walden. Was there anything about him that made you anxious about the fact that he’d be sharing the house with your daughter and her friends?’

  ‘There was an intensity about him that I found a bit unnerving. As if he didn’t have a protective skin of any description. Perhaps he was too honest for his own good.’ A pause again. ‘Actually, after meeting him, I was more worried about how he’d fare in that house with two confident young women than whether he’d be any kind of danger to them. Gaby Henry has a sharp tongue and I’m not sure I’d be able to live with her. She’s entertaining for an evening but I know she’d exhaust me after a while.’

  ‘When did you last see Walden?’

  ‘About ten days ago. Caroline invited me to have dinner with them.’

  ‘Ah,’ Matthew said. ‘One of the famous Friday feasts?’

  ‘You know about them?’ Preece smiled. ‘Yes, Simon was a great cook. If I’d still been working in hospitality, I’d have employed him like a shot as a chef.’

  ‘So, it was a good evening?’

  Preece took a while to answer. ‘It was a strange evening. Tense. Simon cooked the meal but then he was reluctant to eat with us. Caroline persuaded him. She has a knack of getting her own way. It was clear that he didn’t want to be there, though. Perhaps I was being paranoid but I felt that his resentment was directed at me. I can’t think of anything I’d done to upset him. As I told you, I’d never seen him at the Woodyard.’

  ‘Was Walden drinking that evening?’ Gaby had spoken of Walden getting maudlin drunk on occasions.

  ‘No, and perhaps that was all it was. He was trying to clean up his act and maybe he found it hard to be social without alcohol, especially when everyone else was drinking.’ Preece paused and gave a little wry smile. ‘Caroline’s friend, Edward Craven, was there too, and he makes rather awkward company. I know she’s very fond of him, but I find it hard to be entirely natural with a cleric in the room.’

  Matthew could understand the awkwardness – he’d spent his life surrounded by people of religion – but he wasn’t going to confide in Christopher Preece. He stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  After leaving the house, he sat in the car for a moment, wondering if he’d gained a clearer sense of the man who’d died. But all that remained from the conversation was the notion of guilt hanging over Walden, clouding his judgement, taking over his life.

  * * *

  The sun was still shining. Matthew thought Lucy Braddick would be finishing at the Woodyard. Her father had decided to spend the afternoon in Barnstaple and would give her a lift home. There would be no need for her to take the bus that had carried Simon Walden to Lovacott every day in the week before he’d died.

  Perhaps it was the sunshine or the uneasiness the interview with Preece had provoked, but Matthew couldn’t face the grey box of the police station yet, or Ross’s repressed energy. He’d have to be there for the evening briefing, but that would be soon enough. So instead, he drove into the town centre and left his car there, then he walked towards the bus station. If he was quick, he’d get to it just in time for the Lovacott bus.

  In the end, he was there with five minutes to spare and he waited until a line of elderly women laden with shopping bags and a couple of mothers and babies had boarded. He showed the driver his warrant card and a photo of Walden. ‘Do you recognize him? He took this bus every afternoon last week.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I’ve been off on maternity leave. This is my first day back. You’ll need to talk to the depot.’

  Matthew hesitated, but instead of jumping back down to talk to a supervisor, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and bought a ticket to Lovacott. He’d follow the route Simon Walden had taken and see what happened. The front seat was vacant and he sat there. He’d never bunked off school, but he thought it would have felt like this. He sent a message to Jen and Ross saying he probably wouldn’t be back at the police station until the evening briefing.

  The bus went back across the bridge to the stop where Lucy would usually get on. A middle-aged woman boarded. They were just across the road from the Woodyard and Matthew had a good view of the tall, red-brick building. Life there would be continuing, Jonathan would be holding things together with good humour and efficiency. Nobody was waiting at the stop where Walden always joined the bus. Why had he walked the little way up the bank to catch it? So he couldn’t be seen from the Woodyard? Matthew wondered why he’d felt the need to keep his visits to Lovacott and his encounters with Lucy Braddick secret.

  Looking back on Barnstaple, Matthew saw the curve of the river widening towards the estuary, the town sprawling away from it. The bus circled the suburb of Sticklepath, called at the Further Education College at the top of the hill and picked up a handful of students, before heading inland on roads that scarcely seemed wide enough for a vehicle of this size.

  Matthew thought he should be canv
assing the passengers, showing Walden’s photo, but what would they say? ‘Yes, a guy looking like that got on. He sat next to a woman with Down’s syndrome and he offered her some sweets. They chatted.’

  Because Lucy had said that nothing else happened and her father had believed her. But the man who had made Lucy happy, had made her giggle and stand by the bus stop in her village the day before, waiting in case he should turn up, sounded nothing like the dour and angry Simon Walden described by the women in the house in Ilfracombe. So, what had been going on here? What motive might Walden have had for this trip into the countryside, for gaining Lucy Braddick’s confidence? Why had he wanted her to trust him?

  The bus stopped less frequently now and only to drop off passengers. It was overheated and Matthew found himself struggling to stay awake, in almost a dream-like state. He hadn’t travelled by bus since his father had taught him to drive while he was still at school and he’d forgotten how much better the view was. He was high enough to see into the upstairs window of a cottage standing next to the road. A bed with a yellow candlewick cover and a heavy mahogany wardrobe. A woman with her back to them. They moved on before Matthew could make out what she was doing. Over the hedge, there was a glimpse of water, a pool or a lake; two grand pillars formed the entrance to an overgrown track that disappeared into nothing but woodland and a buttery patch of celandines. The bus stopped, apparently in the middle of nowhere, to let off an elderly couple.

  The road climbed steeply and then they were looking down at the village of Lovacott: a group of houses clustered around a small square, which was hardly more than the main street widened. A shop that seemed to sell everything, a pub. There was nothing picturesque here. No thatch. It would never have featured in an episode of Midsomer Murders. The houses were sturdy and pleasant enough, but unremarkable, unlikely to pull in tourists. Beyond the square the road wound on to the row of 1950s council houses where the Braddicks lived. The bus stopped and the passengers climbed out. The driver stayed in her seat and pulled out a paperback book. This was the end of the route. There was sprayed graffiti on the shelter. A group of the students who’d got on in Sticklepath lingered on the pavement, smoking and chatting. Matthew pulled out the photo of Walden.

  ‘Have you seen this guy on the bus?’

  ‘Yeah.’ This was a slender girl with dyed yellow hair and dark roots, wearing a white print dress and canvas tennis shoes. A pretty face, huge dark eyes. She looked like a character in a Japanese cartoon. ‘He sat next to Lucy Braddick. It seemed a bit odd. She’s a sweetie and we’ve all grown up knowing her, but most strangers avoid her.’

  ‘Was the man a stranger? He never stayed in Lovacott?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ The boy had lurid acne and wore a hoodie. A wannabe baddie. Suspicion in his voice and the way he held his body.

  ‘He’s dead. Murdered. I’m a police officer investigating.’

  There was a shocked silence. A thrill of excitement. Matthew thought the police presence in Lovacott would be all over social media as soon as his back was turned. If they’d had the nerve, they’d have taken a photo of him on their phones.

  ‘I’ve never seen him,’ the girl said. ‘Except on the bus.’ She turned to her friends. They all nodded in agreement.

  Matthew left them and walked into The Golden Fleece. It stood proud and imposing at the head of the square. An attempt was being made to bring it back to its former grandeur, to attract tourists passing through on their way to the coast. There were pictures on a board in the entrance hall: refurbished bedrooms, a dining room gleaming with polished wood and glasses, wedding guests gathered on the lawn at the back of the hotel. The bar smelled of fresh paint and varnish. Most of the tables were laid for meals with cutlery wrapped in paper napkins, small vases of flowers and there were menus on the counter. This was a pub with aspiration.

  A leather sofa and a couple of easy chairs had been placed near to the fireplace. A woman sat there with a latte looking at her laptop. This didn’t seem Simon Walden’s natural habitat. Behind the bar stood a middle-aged woman, in a simple black dress, the sort of make-up that made her look as if she wasn’t wearing any, neat silver earrings. She smiled. ‘What can I get you?’ She liked the fact that he was wearing a suit.

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  ‘Americano?’

  Of course, there would be a choice of coffees. ‘Yes please.’

  There was a fancy machine behind the bar, a little home-made biscuit on the saucer when it arrived. Matthew showed her the photo of Walden.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Now she seemed less impressed.

  ‘He’s dead. I’m a police officer.’

  ‘I think I heard about it on the radio this morning. He was stabbed at Crow Point?’

  ‘Yes. Has he been in here?’

  ‘Yes. Most days last week. He never stayed long, though. It seemed to me that he was waiting for someone. When it’s quiet here, I make up stories in my head about the customers. It passes the time. I thought he might be waiting for a woman, but she never turned up. Each night he’d come in, just off the bus like you. He’d sit by the window and he’d wait. But whoever he was hoping to meet never appeared.’

  Matthew thought about that. ‘Do you work in the bar every day?’

  ‘My husband and I own the hotel. I’m usually here in the afternoons when it’s quiet.’

  ‘And he never talked to anyone?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not while I was here. The last time I saw him he just seemed to disappear. I’d gone to the kitchen to order sandwiches for a customer and when I got back he’d gone. It was earlier than usual. I hoped that his woman had finally turned up.’

  ‘What was he drinking?’

  She paused for a moment as if the question had surprised her but she seemed sure enough of the answer. ‘Diet Coke. Two pints, each time.’

  Outside on the square, he stopped to get the feel for the place. It was dusk now and there was a chill in the air. In the houses grouped around the square, lights were being switched on. Matthew saw children doing homework at kitchen tables, meals being prepared. The teenagers had gone. There was more traffic, commuters on their way home from Barnstaple, Bideford and Torrington, but there were no longer pedestrians on the pavement. Matthew made his way through the square and down the road towards the cul-de-sac of houses where Lucy and Maurice Braddick lived. He wasn’t planning to call on them, but he was interested. Beyond the necklace of house lights, there was nothing, a black expanse of open countryside. This was only six miles inland from Barnstaple, but it could have been the edge of the world.

  If a woman had arrived here, as the landlady had imagined, surely someone would have noticed. She hadn’t come with Walden on the bus. The mysterious lover was all speculation, of course, but if Walden hadn’t been here to meet a woman, what had brought him to Lovacott? Why had he wanted to stay completely sober and in control?

  Matthew took out his phone to call Ross for a lift. Without the stops and detours, it would only take fifteen minutes to drive into Barnstaple. Suddenly the bus’s headlights went on and it revved into life. Of course, it must go back to the depot, it wouldn’t stay here all night. Matthew waved at the driver and climbed aboard.

  Chapter Twelve

  JEN HAD A CHANCE TO GET home to check on the kids before the evening briefing. They lived in the district of Newport, on the edge of Barnstaple and close to the school where Matthew Venn had been a pupil. Her place was squashed into a terrace of mismatched cottages, three storeys so it was bigger than most of the houses in the street, but very narrow and too small for a woman with a hoarding problem and two growing teenagers. She parked in the alley at the back and walked down the strip of garden. It thrived despite months of neglect. The daffodils were just coming out and soon there would be tulips. The first nice weekend she had off she’d tidy it, get rid of the dead leaves. She didn’t care if her house was a mess, but she loved being out in the garden.


  The door led straight into a tiny kitchen. Ella must have loaded the dishwasher and she felt a glow of gratitude because she wasn’t walking in to the usual chaos. The living room was dark and cold. The room looked out onto the street and the window was so small that it scarcely got any sunlight. She’d tried to brighten it with throws and pictures, and it was cosy enough in winter with the fire lit, but now it just seemed dusty and cluttered. The stairs led up from a corner of the kitchen. She shouted up.

  ‘Kids. I’m home!’ Her voice was very loud because their rooms were in the attic. It seemed to echo. There were footsteps on the stairs. Ella appeared, still in her school uniform sweat-shirt, a ballpoint pen tucked behind one ear.

  ‘What’s for tea?’

  Jen couldn’t answer that. ‘Where’s Ben?’

  ‘At Max’s. His mum said he can eat there.’ Ella walked on down and sat on the bottom step. ‘I can’t find any food in this house.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I meant to do a shop yesterday on my way home from work and then there was that murder. Do you fancy a takeaway?’ Jen looked at her watch. ‘If I go now, I should have time to eat it with you before I need to go out again.’

  ‘You’re out again?’

  ‘Yeah. Final briefing of the day. Shouldn’t be late back, though.’ Jen thought that these days her life was all about compromise and never doing anything well. She was guilty that she couldn’t put all her energy into work because she was distracted by what might be going on at home, and guilty that her kids might be turning into tearaways because she gave them so little attention. Ben was feral, seldom at home, and Ella seemed perpetually stressed and anxious. Sometimes she worried that Ella, after being a monstrous pre-teen, was becoming too conscientious, too straight and boring. She’d been hanging around with the same lad for months and their idea of a good night was watching the telly in the front room. The last thing Jen wanted was for her daughter to marry early without experiencing any kind of life. She’d made that mistake, fallen for the dream of the perfect man and the perfect life, and look what had happened.