by Ann Cleeves
It had been a weird day at the Woodyard. Jonathan had come to find her in her studio with a tale of one of the day centre clients having gone missing. Although he was the boss, he called in sometimes, not to talk about work, but to drink coffee and look at her art.
‘Christine Shapland. Gentle soul. Down’s. Very quiet. A bit shy. She just seemed to disappear.’
‘Sorry. I haven’t seen her since last week.’ Gaby thought Jonathan had come to the studio to escape the panic in the rest of the building, to have a few moments of calm. He wouldn’t really expect her to have seen the woman recently. Gaby had nothing to do with the day centre, except for running an art class there once a week.
‘There seems to have been some kind of breakdown in communication. Her uncle thought her mother had picked her up and Susan, her mother, thought the uncle was doing it. Nobody’s seen her since yesterday.’ Jonathan had been standing by the window, the light catching one side of his face, turning the blond hair to silver thread. ‘It’s a bloody nightmare. Her uncle is Dennis Salter. He’s on the board of trustees and should have known better. He should have gone in for her, or at least looked out properly. It’ll be the Woodyard that gets the blame, though. The press will have a field day.’
He’d turned towards Gaby then and she’d thought she’d never seen him so tense, so fraught.
‘Why don’t you talk to Christopher Preece? He must be good at handling the media.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ But Jonathan hadn’t seemed too sure. ‘I just want her found safe and well. This, on top of the murder of one of our volunteers, seems like a nightmare. I always thought of the Woodyard as a kind of sanctuary. Not a place where terrible things happen to the people who belong here.’
* * *
Now, in Hope Street, she could understand Jonathan’s unease. The disappearance of the woman from the day centre was unsettling. In Gaby’s mind, it had become twisted together with Simon’s murder, two strands of the same piece of rope, though she couldn’t see how there could be a connection. The only link was the Woodyard. What else might Simon Walden and a woman with a learning disability have in common?
Gaby went upstairs and collected a pile of dirty laundry from her room, picking up stray items from the floor. She considered changing the sheets on the bed but couldn’t be bothered. In the utility room in the basement, the machine was already full of someone else’s washing. Damp, not wet, so it had probably been done a while ago and forgotten. Gaby pulled it out into a plastic basket, not too irritated because usually she was the person who left her stuff there.
That was when she realized the clothes had belonged to Simon Walden. He must have put them in the machine the morning of his death or the evening before. Underpants and socks, a couple of shirts and pairs of jeans. She began to fold the damp clothes. It seemed the right thing to do, almost a mark of respect. She wondered what she should do with them next. Would the police want to see them?
She shook a shirt and something fell from the breast pocket. A Yale key on a key ring with a plastic tag shaped like a bird. Like the albatross he had tattooed on his neck. It wasn’t to this house; they’d had back and front door keys cut for Simon when he moved in and they were quite a different shape. She set it on the washing machine and was staring at it when she heard footsteps on the stairs to the basement and Caroline was there, standing right behind her. She took in the damp washing, saw immediately what it was, and then noticed the key.
‘What’s that?’
‘It must be Simon’s.’ What else could she say?
‘You’ll have to show the police,’ Caroline said. She used that bossy, big-sister voice that usually Gaby didn’t mind. Today it grated on her nerves and made her want to swear. ‘It could be important.’
‘I suppose it could.’ Gaby felt helpless standing there with the washing half folded in the basket. She’d railed against Simon and now she felt like weeping.
‘I’ll take it.’ And Caroline tucked the key into her little black handbag before Gaby could reply.
Chapter Nineteen
AFTER THE EVENING’S BRIEFING in Barnstaple, Matthew was discouraged. He felt the old insecurity biting at his heels, telling him he was useless, an impostor in the role of Senior Investigating Officer in this case. Perhaps Oldham would have made a better fist at it. They had so much information now that he should have formed some idea about who might have killed Walden, some notion at least of a strong motive, but there was nothing substantial, nothing to act on. Too many stray leads that needed to be followed up. And Christine Shapland was still missing. There’d be another night of anguish for her mother. Another night of Matthew knowing he’d let his mother down.
On the way out of the police station, Jen Rafferty stopped him. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a drink?’ A pause. ‘A chat. I could do with running some ideas about Walden past you. Today in Bristol, it was as if they were talking about a different man from the homeless guy who turned up pissed at the church. But I didn’t want to discuss it in there.’ She nodded back at the building. ‘It’s all too complicated and I find it impossible to think straight with an audience.’
‘Okay.’
‘Would you mind coming back to my house? I’ve hardly seen the kids since all this started. I probably won’t see them tonight. By this time, they’ll be holed up in their rooms. But at least I’ll know I’m there. I’ve got wine.’ Noticing his hesitation, she grinned. ‘Decaf coffee, herbal tea…’
He looked at his watch. It was already nearly ten and he’d been looking forward to being home, to being with Jonathan. But he trusted Jen’s instincts and was still weighed down by the sense of duty, drummed into him in childhood. ‘Sure. Just half an hour, though. I need my beauty sleep.’
* * *
He sat in Jen’s cottage. She’d lit the wood burner before running upstairs to check on her children and putting on the kettle, and the small room was already warm. She’d lit candles and switched off the big light. The edges of the space drifted into shadow. He felt himself grow drowsy and was almost asleep when she came in with a tray, mugs, a packet of biscuits. Her Scouse voice shook him awake.
‘Only digestives. The bloody kids ate the chocolate ones.’
He stretched, tried to focus. ‘What’s been troubling you?’
‘It’s Walden. When we first ID’d him, I had him pegged as a rough sleeper, a drunk, who’d been scooped up by a well-meaning do-gooder and helped to put his life back together. But I don’t think he was ever like that. I mean, I think he was a drinker and there must have been a moment of crisis when he turned up at the church and met Caroline, but he must still have had money somewhere. He can’t have drunk away two hundred thousand pounds. That’s a fortune! Besides, while he was working at the Kingsley he still had an income.’
‘He could have been a gambler. Reckless.’
She shook her head. ‘Nobody’s mentioned that. His business started falling apart because it expanded too quickly, but everyone put that down to Kate’s ambition, not because Walden was spending wildly. His wife or his mate would have told me if he’d had a gambling problem.’
‘What are you saying, exactly?’
‘That I’m not convinced he was homeless when he landed up at the church. He might have been lonely and depressed, but at the end of the season in North Devon, it’s not that hard to find a landlord prepared to let you stay in a holiday rental. Besides, that tiny room in Hope Street was almost empty when he was staying in it. He must have accumulated more stuff than that. I left home with two suitcases and a bin bag when I ran away from Robbie at an hour’s notice. I know I had two kids, but everyone has more possessions than a couple of pairs of jeans.’ She paused. ‘Gaby Henry had the impression that Walden was still fond of his wife, but we didn’t find a photo of her, or of his army mates in his room. I just don’t see it. And there’s a gap in the timeline between him leaving work at the Kingsley and moving into Hope Street. According to the women, he’d been rough sleeping during that time, but I
spoke to the homeless guy who hangs out at the end of the street and he only came across Walden once he’d moved into number twenty. There’s a community of rough sleepers in Ilfracombe. They look out for each other. He would have come across Walden if the man had been living on the streets.’
‘You think Walden had a house or a flat somewhere and that his stuff might still be there?’
‘I think it’s possible.’
‘Nobody has come forward to say he’d rented from them.’ Matthew set his mug back on the tray and took another biscuit.
‘But would they recognize him? After all this time? Especially if he went through a letting agency.’
Silence. Jen opened the door of the wood burner and threw on another log. Matthew was thinking. Walden was a man who’d been described by Gaby Henry as being born to cook. If he had the money, he’d want a kitchen of his own. He’d have had his own knives, and they weren’t in the Hope Street house. The women had said that he often disappeared, that he spent time on his own.
‘Why would Walden pretend to be homeless? And why would he accept that depressing room in Hope Street if he had somewhere better to live?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jen said. ‘I’ve been thinking about that all the way back from Bristol. Do you think he needed the company? Female company? I mean in an inappropriate way – like looking through bathroom keyhole weird. Gaby described him as a bit of a creep.’
‘And if we’re talking inappropriate, what was he doing chatting up Lucy Braddick? Where was he going on those trips to Lovacott? Do you think he had a place there?’ Matthew was still obsessing about Christine Shapland and made a strange illogical leap. If Walden had his own accommodation away from Hope Street, perhaps the missing woman was being kept there. But that wouldn’t work, would it? Because Walden had been killed before she disappeared, so he couldn’t be responsible for her abduction. He was clutching at straws.
‘Get Ross on all the letting agencies tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And the estate agents, in case he bought a place. Let’s see if we can trace what happened to that money.’
* * *
It was raining again when he drove home. Braunton was empty, but there was a light in the toll keeper’s cottage. Matthew wondered what the Marstons could be doing in there and thought he’d be glad when they found somewhere more to their liking and moved away. They were his nearest neighbours and, driving past, he realized he disliked them with an intensity that surprised him. Jonathan hadn’t closed the curtains and must have seen the headlights of his car as he drove towards the house, because he came outside to greet him. He stood just outside the door, turning his face to the light rain.
‘Is there any news?’ He was talking about Christine Shapland of course. Jonathan had never been this involved in any previous case. He’d listened in the past while Matthew had run through his anxieties about an investigation, offered the occasional piece of advice, but this was different. This was personal. He knew the woman and besides, the reputation of the Woodyard, his life’s work, was at stake. Before Matthew could answer, he continued talking. ‘I’m sorry. Come inside. I shouldn’t have ambushed you like this.’ Jonathan put his arm around Matthew’s shoulder and drew him in, then clung onto him. It was as if Jonathan were drowning and needed support.
Chapter Twenty
EARLY NEXT MORNING, THEY WERE IN the police station, fuelling up on caffeine, buzzing because there were so many things to do. Too many leads and possibilities, but this was better than the torture of waiting for something new to turn up.
Jen had slept deeply and felt well. If she’d been on her own the night before, she’d have opened a bottle of wine, called up to Ella to see if she fancied a glass, so she wasn’t drinking alone, then finished most of it herself anyway. But Matthew had been there, asking for camomile tea, so the wine had been left unopened. He’d listened to her, trusted her instinct about Walden, and that was where they started this morning.
‘We know now that Walden had access to a substantial sum of money. I need you to track it down. Now. I can’t understand why that hasn’t already happened. So, let’s have one person dedicated to that. Go through our fraud experts; they have contacts in the banks. It’s hard these days to open an account in a bogus name so it shouldn’t be difficult to trace. I think it’s highly possible that Walden was living in a flat or house of his own before moving into Hope Street. If we find his bank account, that’ll give us an address for him.’ Matthew was standing at the front of the room, softly spoken but demanding their attention. Jen knew a little of his background and thought there was still something of the zealot about him. She’d known nuns with the same passion, the same presence. She’d have followed them to the end of the world, believed every word they said. Until she’d grown up.
‘This is even more important.’ Matthew was handing out copies of Christine Shapland’s photograph. ‘We talked about her yesterday. She’s now been missing for two nights. A woman with Down’s syndrome who left her day centre, part of the Woodyard complex, on Tuesday afternoon. I spoke to her uncle yesterday.’ Another photograph was handed out – Jen knew Matthew had been in early to source that, taken it from a piece in the North Devon Journal covering the man’s retirement. ‘Dennis Salter. He also happens to be on the board of trustees at the Woodyard, chosen because of his background in finance. He was supposed to have collected Christine from the Woodyard but claims to have missed her. Let’s dig around a bit and see what we can find. Was his car picked up on CCTV anywhere on Tuesday late afternoon or evening?’
Matthew paused for breath. There was silence in the room. ‘I think it’s possible that Christine might have evaded him deliberately and tried to make her own way home. I’ve checked with the transport company used by the centre and they didn’t deliver her back that afternoon. Home is a cottage on the edge of Braunton Marsh. Can we check the public service buses going out that way? Let’s get this out to the media now, see if anyone gave her a lift. There are always people walking the footpath along the creek on their way to the shore. Ross, you head out there and talk to the people in the area. If we get an inkling that she might have got that far, we’ll organize a search along the river. I’d even be prepared to get the public involved.’
Jen smiled at that. Matthew hated anything flash or showy. He didn’t like media attention and photos of well-meaning people in rows walking across the saltmarsh would certainly attract the press. Now, he turned to her.
‘Jen, you take the Woodyard. Catch the staff as they come in. It’s a strange warren of a place. The day centre is in its own building to the back of the yard attached by a glass corridor to the rest of the complex, but the users go through the main entrance hall to come in and out. That’s used by everyone: the cafe customers, school parties, people coming in for adult education classes. Someone might have seen a stranger approaching her, chatting to her. She’d be trusting. If they said her mother had asked them to give her a lift home, she’d probably go with them.’
Jen nodded, but felt a stab of resentment. She’d come up with the new theory about Simon Walden having his own place somewhere, but it felt as if she’d been side-lined, taken off the murder inquiry. Matthew was still talking and it was as if he’d read her mind. His words were directed at her.
‘I’m convinced that Christine’s disappearance and Walden’s murder are linked somehow. I have no idea how they can be. But the Woodyard is there at the heart of the inquiry.’
She nodded again, wondering for a moment if she was being soft-soaped, taken for a mug, before deciding that wasn’t Matthew’s style.
* * *
Waiting in the reception area of the Woodyard, Jen felt right at home. Most of the staff were women of about her age, they dressed like her and looked like her: arty, dramatic. She thought that Matthew had known what he was doing sending her here. It didn’t do to underestimate him. She stood at the door, showing Christine’s photo, catching members of the public as they came in. There was a sympathetic response, interest, bu
t no useful information. It was as if Christine had disappeared into thin air that afternoon. But as they drifted off to their classes, they were still discussing the missing woman. Word would get out.
In the distance Jen saw Gaby Henry approaching the building, and she was so focussed on the woman that she almost missed the man who was walking past her. He was familiar but for a moment she couldn’t place him. He was small, balding, in late middle-age, dressed more for a country walk than for a visit to an arts’ centre, in corduroy trousers and boots. He carried a clipboard. In the end it was the binoculars strung around his neck that gave him away. This was Colin Marston, who lived with his wife in the toll keeper’s cottage on the way to Crow Point. Jen turned her head away, hoping he’d not see her, that he’d put her down as just another woman with untidy hair and eccentric clothes. She wanted to find out more about his connection to the Woodyard before talking to him. He walked past her and into the body of the building.
Jen brought her attention back to Gaby. Today the woman was dressed in black – a long black dress, black tights and black bikers’ boots. Slung across her body like a holster, a red leather bag. The signature red lipstick. Jen waved to her as soon as she came into the building.
Gaby waved back and looked as if she was about to approach her, but seemed to think better of it and disappeared into the crowd. Before Jen could follow her, her phone rang. A number she didn’t recognize. ‘Jen Rafferty.’
‘Sergeant Rafferty, it’s Caroline Preece. You gave us your card, said to call you if we had anything useful to tell you.’
