by Ann Cleeves
‘Before that.’ Again, it sounded as if he was about to confess to something. This whole conversation had the air of a confession. ‘I wanted to meet him, before he moved in to number twenty. I asked him to the house.’
‘Your house?’
Christopher nodded. ‘I wanted to check that he was all right. He could have been a murderer. A madman.’
‘Oh Dad, I’m grown-up. You didn’t need to do that.’
‘No, I realize that now.’ A pause and there was another moment of apparent honesty. ‘But I couldn’t bear to lose you too.’
* * *
Later, they were in a thatched pub in a village just inland from the coast. There was a small campsite in an orchard across the road and in the summer, it would be heaving. Because it was still cheap, it attracted young people marking the end of exams, graduation, freedom. Gaby had brought a group of art school friends here soon after she’d started at the Woodyard. They’d all come from London and she’d basked in their admiration. ‘But it’s so cool here. And this is really where you’re going to be working for the next three years?’ How surprised they’d be to hear that she’d been caught up in a murder inquiry. They’d thought this was a place different from the city, a place where violence would never happen.
It was Friday night and Gaby thought it should just be she and Caz in Hope Street, cooking a meal, remembering the other Friday nights with Simon. She shouldn’t be here making small talk with her boss. She felt trapped; she didn’t have her car and they were miles from home. Even if she’d felt brave enough to opt out, she didn’t have the cash for a taxi.
In the end, it was Caz who opted out. ‘Do you mind if we don’t eat here, Dad? Gaby and I would probably rather be alone this evening.’
Christopher seemed almost relieved. ‘Sure,’ he said. But they made no move to leave and continued talking. Not about Caz’s mother now, but about the Woodyard and Christopher’s plans for the place. Gaby’s attention strayed. She thought again of the sunlight on the cliff face, the colour of the lichen and the sharp, clear spikes of the buckthorn. She’d taken a photo and would have looked at the image on her phone but knew it would seem rude.
A couple of regulars, old men, sat in one corner. They’d been here when Gaby’s friends from London had camped in the village. She’d wondered then if they were actors, employed by the landlord to provide a touch of authenticity for the visitors. Now, she thought they were just staking their claim to the place. It was still early and the pub was quiet and Christopher’s voice provided a background white noise to her thoughts.
‘I just want the police investigation to be over,’ he was saying, ‘so that the team can get back to work. We can’t stand still. We’re achieving so much there and the press will find out Walden’s connection with the Woodyard soon. Reputation matters so much. It can make or break a project.’
Gaby shifted in her seat and caught her friend’s eye. Caz got the message. ‘Look, do you mind if we go, Dad? It’s been quite a week.’
If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He stood up. ‘Of course. Keep in touch, though. Anytime.’
Caz stood too. ‘Thanks. And I’m glad we had that talk.’
He nodded. ‘And I meant what I said. I’d do anything for you.’ He put cash on the table and although he’d just ordered coffee, he left it, and walked with them out to the car park.
Chapter Thirty
BY THE TIME MATTHEW LEFT THE police station, it was six o’clock. Jonathan might already be home, opening a beer, preparing a meal. Matthew had a vague memory that friends had been invited for dinner and thought perhaps he should put off seeing Dennis Salter until the following day. Jonathan was tolerant and understood the demands of his work, but this might be one step too far. Then he remembered Maurice Braddick’s description of Grace Salter, battered and humiliated, and he texted Jonathan to say he’d probably be late and they should eat without him. As he started the car and began the now familiar drive to Lovacott, Matthew was honest enough to recognize that he probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the dinner anyway. Meryl and Jo were Jonathan’s friends, people he’d known for years. Matthew was only just being introduced to his husband’s circle. These women were potters who worked in a craft collective on the edge of Exmoor. They were political activists, with a deep distrust of the police.
When he parked outside the house on the square, it was dark. In The Golden Fleece opposite, people were gathering for some sort of celebration. Young women in tight, skimpy dresses and older ones in long, sequinned frocks. Men in various forms of formal wear; one unexpectedly in a kilt. There was a lot of laughter. Someone walked in carrying a bunch of silver balloons with the number 60 printed on them. A birthday party then. The sort of party he would hate.
He knew he was allowing himself to be distracted because he didn’t want to face the Salters, but he got out and rang the doorbell. A hall light was switched on; Matthew saw it through the long sash window next to the door, which was half opened by Grace. Her back-lit face was gaunt, all angles and planes. The grey eyes stared out at him.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Matthew Venn. I was hoping to speak to you.’
‘Is it about Christine? We were so pleased she’d been found.’ She didn’t move to allow him inside, and there wasn’t much expression in her voice, no real sense of pleasure. Matthew thought there was something of the robot about her.
‘Is Dennis there?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s away at a meeting. He’s on the board of governors of the primary school here.’
‘Perhaps I could come in and speak to you.’
‘I’m not sure. He might be a while.’ She stood her ground, pale, thin and angular, in the doorway.
‘What is it, Grace? Does Dennis not like you to speak to people when he’s not here? What is it he’s frightened of?’
At that, she did let him in. They sat again in the large, formal room at the front of the house. There was no heating and he felt a chill as he walked inside. From the kitchen there came the sound of canned laughter; she’d been listening to a comedy on the radio.
‘Should I make you some tea?’ She couldn’t settle and was on her feet again.
‘That would be lovely.’ He felt cruel, because he seemed to be causing her such distress.
She stayed in the kitchen for such a long time that he thought she must be hiding from him. The radio was switched off and the house was suddenly silent. Then he heard muffled words and wondered if she was calling her husband on his mobile, leaving a message for him perhaps, asking him to come home. Covering her back in case Dennis was angry that she’d let Matthew in.
At last she came back with a tray. She poured tea and offered milk. He thought how different she was from Susan. They made unlikely sisters. All they had in common was their membership of the Brethren. He wasn’t sure how he’d persuade Grace to talk. It had seemed easy in advance, driving down the narrow lanes from Barnstaple.
‘Are you very close to your sister? As I remember, you were great friends when you were young.’
‘We were. Great friends.’ Grace shut her eyes for a moment.
‘And now?’
‘Things change,’ she said, but she didn’t look at him and she didn’t explain.
‘Do you often have Christine to stay with you?’
Now her eyes were open and she watched him, wary. ‘Not as often as we used to.’
‘Why is that?’
‘We’re older now. It’s not so easy. Perhaps we like our own routines and rituals.’
‘Whose idea was it that she should come to stay with you while my father’s funeral was taking place?’ Matthew paused. ‘I would have thought you would both have wanted to be there. Dennis was a good friend to him.’
‘Dennis was there,’ Grace said. ‘I was happy to stay with Christine. It wasn’t one of her Woodyard days. I knew Susan would want to be with Dorothy.’
‘So, it was your idea to invite her here?’
She did
n’t answer immediately. ‘Really? I can’t remember.’ She looked across the table at him. ‘I’m not sure that it does any good, asking all these questions. Christine is safe and nothing else matters.’
They stared at each other. Matthew wondered if her statement was a coded plea for him not to interfere. Perhaps she worried that Dennis would take out his fury at Matthew’s intrusion on her. From across the square in The Golden Fleece came the bass thump of a disco beat.
‘I need to ask about Dennis.’ Matthew thought he should talk about this now, before the man returned from his meeting. ‘I’ve heard rumours that he can’t manage his anger, that, in the past, he hit you.’
‘You know Dennis.’ Her voice was flat and completely without emotion. ‘He wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s a good man.’
‘A good man, who allowed his learning-disabled niece to be kidnapped and held against her will for two nights.’
‘He was distracted. Listening to the cricket. Then he got a call from one of the Brethren who needed him.’
‘Are you sure?’ Outside in the square, there was a highpitched squeal of laughter. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t behind the kidnap? That he didn’t know about it, at least?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
Matthew remembered that Grace had taught before her marriage. His mother, very impressed, had told him that she’d ended up as a head teacher of an infants’ school. She had spoken those words as if he was a silly four-year-old, with a mixture of sharp exasperation and amusement.
‘Does he hit you, Grace? We can help you, find you somewhere else to live.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said again. ‘You might have broken your mother’s heart by leaving the Brethren, by setting up home with a man, but you must still know how things work. Some things aren’t possible. I’m lucky to be married to Dennis. He needs me.’ She looked directly at him and her voice was firm and strong. ‘I want to stay married to Dennis.’
Matthew saw that she was telling the truth. She wanted to stay married. In her small world, being Dennis’s wife gave her status, security, a sense of purpose that she’d relinquished when she’d stopped working. She’d probably convinced herself that she would reform him, or that his outbursts of temper were her fault. Or Dennis had convinced her, brainwashed her into submission. Matthew found it hard to believe that the night she’d turned up at the Braddicks’ house, beaten and desperate, had been an isolated incident.
There was the sound of a key being turned in the lock and Dennis was there, already the centre of attention in the room, with his big lion’s head and his mane of white hair. His arms once more wide open in welcome. A ritual that seemed meaningless now, a form of affectation. Matthew could tell that his own presence was no surprise. He’d been right; Grace had been on the phone to her husband to warn him.
‘Matthew! How good to see you! What wonderful news that our niece is safely returned to her mother! A blessing and a joy.’
‘She was locked up for two nights,’ Matthew said. ‘Imprisoned, we think, in a flat in Braunton. That’s a very serious offence. Of course, we’re still investigating.’
There was no immediate response to the mention of Braunton, but by now Matthew was thinking that the man wouldn’t respond spontaneously to anything. His life was a performance and his face nothing but a mask. Now, he threw his arms wide again. ‘Of course, you must!’
‘She was released not very far from here, close to Lovacott pond,’ Matthew went on. ‘According to my mother, you used to have the Brethren summer picnics up there. You’ll know the place.’
‘Of course we do. Very well. What happy days they were! Perhaps we should consider running those picnics again, Grace. Though I worry that so many of our community are elderly now that we might struggle to get everyone there.’ Dennis gave a little laugh. ‘And I’m not sure many of us could manage the three-legged race.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s so far,’ Matthew said, ‘as the crow flies. If you have a map, I could show you.’
Dennis just smiled, as if he knew it wasn’t a genuine offer.
Grace stood up and put the tea things on the tray. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen to talk. If there’s nothing else I can help you with, Matthew?’ Now that her husband had returned she seemed more relaxed, almost girlish.
Matthew wondered if he’d got the relationship wrong, if Braddick had exaggerated the incident when she’d arrived at his house to speak to Maggie or misinterpreted it in some way. But at the door Grace stopped, because she couldn’t turn the handle while she was carrying the tray, and he got up to open it for her. He saw that the hands clutching the tray were white and trembling. Perhaps she’d learned the art of disguise too.
Dennis Salter started talking as soon as Matthew returned to the table. ‘Can I help you with anything, Matthew? Of course, we want the matter cleared up as soon as possible. The press sniffing round the Woodyard will affect the running of the place and our funding.’
‘Simon Walden had a savings account with the Devonshire Building Society.’ Matthew knew he was feeling his way now. He wasn’t sure where these questions might lead.
‘Did he? That’s not unusual, you know. Not round here. It’s a local institution and our customers are very loyal.’
‘Walden wasn’t local. Besides, he didn’t seem to think his cash was safe there. He sent a cheque to his solicitor before he died.’
‘Oh, it’s as safe as houses, the Devonshire. No worries on that score. I keep my own savings there.’
‘The Woodyard uses it too, I believe.’ There was no answer and Matthew looked up. ‘How long is it since you retired?’
‘A couple of years. It’s the best decision I made, leaving a bit early. Grace and I can spend some time together now.’
‘And you’re on the Woodyard board.’ Matthew felt as if he was groping through a thick fog, without any destination in mind. ‘You said you knew Christopher Preece.’
‘Yes, though I’d come across him before of course. It’s a small business community here in North Devon.’ He looked up, gave one of his smiles. ‘Jonathan Church knew all about Christopher’s decision to invite me to join the board and he introduced me to the other members. He’s the power behind the throne in that place. But of course, you’ll know that. You know him well.’
The words had an edge that sounded almost like a threat. Perhaps it was just a snide dig about a relationship he considered abhorrent, but to Matthew it sounded more aggressive than that. An accusation.
‘Where were you yesterday morning?’ Matthew knew this was a ridiculous question, Salter couldn’t have been the man driving Christine out to Lovacott pond – the woman would have recognized her own uncle – but it occurred to him that Dennis could have been the person who’d searched Walden’s flat in Braunton.
For the first time, Salter seemed a little bothered. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘We’re following a number of enquiries. Just routine. I’m sure you understand. We have to ask everyone involved with Mr Walden the same questions.’
‘But I wasn’t involved with Mr Walden. As far as I know, I’d never even met him.’ Salter had lost the easy, jovial tone and seemed almost rattled. ‘And besides, wasn’t he killed on Monday? You know I was at your father’s funeral that day.’
‘You are, however, linked to Christine Shapland and we believe the two crimes are connected.’
A silence followed, again broken by the sounds of the party across the square, the same relentless beat.
‘I was here,’ Salter said. ‘Grace can confirm that. Shall I fetch her so you can ask her?’
‘No need for that.’ Because of course Grace would confirm it. She’d confirm anything that her husband said.
* * *
When Matthew arrived back at the coast, Jonathan’s guests were still there. They were in the living room, one woman lounging on the sofa, the other on the floor, her elbow on a cushion. Jonathan was stretched in an armchair. They’d already eaten
and the plates were still on the big table in the kitchen, the pans left to soak. The unwashed dishes irritated Matthew more than they should have done. The three had started on the whisky.
‘I’ve asked Meryl and Jo to stay the night,’ Jonathan said from the chair. ‘It’s such a trek home for them and it’s the weekend.’
But not for me. I’ll still be working. Matthew felt churlish. He’d hoped to have Jonathan to himself. He still wasn’t used to sharing him, to being sociable. Matthew had few friends in the town and Jonathan’s could have filled the Queen’s Theatre in Barnstaple.
‘We saved you some food,’ Jonathan said. He slid from the chair and made his way, a little unsteadily, into the kitchen. Matthew followed him and watched as he lifted a casserole from the bottom of the oven and spooned food onto a plate. ‘You must be starving.’
Matthew wanted to ask him about Salter and Preece, because Jonathan was an inside source. He’d know them better than anyone else attached to the investigation. But the doors had been left open and the women were still having a shouted conversation with Jonathan about some film that they were planning to see.
‘Bring that in on a tray,’ Jonathan said. ‘Come and join us. I’ll pour you some wine.’
Matthew had planned to stay where he was, to eat in peace in the kitchen with the door firmly shut, but he followed Jonathan back into the living room and sat in a chair by the fire. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
Chapter Thirty-One
ON SATURDAY MORNING MATTHEW WOKE EARLY. He’d gone to bed before the others and, wandering into the kitchen, he saw that they must have stayed up to load the dishwasher, clean the surfaces. Everything was tidy. He felt a ridiculous fizz of resentment, because there was no longer any excuse for his lingering anger. He made coffee and was just about to take a cup through to Jonathan when his husband came in, bare foot, wearing a short dressing gown.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Jonathan said. ‘I should have realized the last thing you needed in the middle of an investigation was surprise sleepover guests, but you know how I get carried away when I’ve had a few glasses. And it was Friday. I hate spending Friday night on my own. It seems blasphemous somehow. Fridays should be shared and celebrated and I wasn’t sure how long you’d be.’ He nodded towards the bedroom where the women were sleeping. ‘They won’t be here for long. They need to be back home this morning. I promised to make them breakfast. Why don’t you try to get back for lunch? They’ll be gone by then.’ He reached into the fridge for eggs and a bag of mushrooms.
