The Lantern Men

by Elly Griffiths

  They sit looking out over the sea of grass and Nelson says, ‘Were you working here when Ivor March was teaching?’

  Ailsa takes a sip of coffee and looks at him coolly. ‘Yes. I told all this to the policewoman who interviewed us.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Judy Johnson.’ Nelson knows that Judy detests the word ‘policewoman’.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ailsa. ‘She was very efficient.’

  ‘So you knew March?’

  ‘I knew Ivor quite well,’ says Ailsa. ‘He was a very charismatic man. I’m sure you’ve heard that before.’

  ‘It has been mentioned.’ Nelson distrusts charisma, which seems to him only another word for deceitfulness. He hates the way that the papers have dwelt on March’s ‘dark good looks’ and ‘fatal charm’ rather than the fact that he strangled at least two women and buried them in his girlfriend’s garden.

  ‘He was a talented artist,’ says Ailsa. ‘His classes were very popular.’

  This, too, has been covered by the papers with March’s moody landscapes appearing on many inside pages. Apparently they are in great demand on eBay.

  ‘He taught creative writing too,’ says Ailsa.

  ‘Talented writer as well, is he?’

  ‘He hasn’t had anything published,’ says Ailsa, slightly defensively. ‘But he has an artist’s instinct for language.’

  Nice work if you can get it, thinks Nelson. Maybe he should teach plumbing because he has an artist’s instinct for running water.

  ‘Did you know Nicola Ferris or Jenny McGuire?’ he asks, wanting to bring the subject back to the victims, or probable victims.

  ‘I knew Jenny,’ says Ailsa. ‘Such a nice woman. I was in the same class as her for a while. I knew Nicola by sight.’

  ‘And what’s your theory about what happened to Nicola and Jenny?’

  For the first time, Ailsa looks troubled, a cloud passing over her pink-and-white features. ‘I don’t know. I mean, there are links to Ivor . . . But I still find it hard to believe that he killed those other poor women.’

  ‘He did,’ says Nelson. ‘And I’m convinced that he killed Nicola and Jenny too. I’m trying to find new evidence to tie him to the crime. It’s difficult, without the bodies, but it can be done.’

  ‘Are you sure that they’re dead?’

  ‘They haven’t been seen since the night they disappeared. Both of them have friends and family, Jenny had a ten-year-old daughter. They are not the sort of people who just drop off the radar. I’m convinced that they’re dead and that March killed them.’

  ‘It’s so awful,’ says Ailsa. ‘I mean, this is such a nice place, so friendly. And for this to happen . . .’

  But the classes are still continuing, thinks Nelson. Norfolk’s Elvis is still performing at the weekend. Life at the community centre goes on but it has stopped, irrevocably, for four women. Because of Ivor March.

  ‘Did you say that you were in the same class as Jenny McGuire?’ he asks. ‘Was that creative writing?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ailsa. And for some reason she blushes. ‘That’s how I first met Ivor, actually. He used to run writing retreats.’

  ‘Writing retreats?’ An alarm is going off somewhere in Nelson’s brain.

  ‘Yes. At Grey Walls. It’s a house in Cambridgeshire. In the middle of the fens. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘I might have,’ says Nelson.

  Chapter 4

  ‘This is a surprise,’ says Ruth. It sounds better than ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m attending a conference on EU funding,’ says Phil. ‘Not that there’ll be any after Brexit.’

  Ruth feels her ears shutting as if they have flaps for this purpose. In the 2016 referendum, she had voted to remain in Europe and, now, the prospect of leaving fills her with such dread that she doesn’t like to think about it. ‘We have to fight,’ Shona keeps telling her, as she prepares to go to London for yet another march. But Ruth fears that this is a losing battle.

  ‘Just thought I’d pop in and see you,’ Phil continues. ‘Quite some office you’ve got here.’

  Ruth’s room is fairly small by St Jude’s standards but is at least twice as big as the cubbyhole she had at UNN. It also has mullioned windows, a beamed ceiling and a small stone fireplace. Ruth’s poster of Indiana Jones looks incongruous between two oil paintings of old Judeans, one of them wearing an Elizabethan ruff. Phil himself, in his studiedly trendy jeans and Converse trainers, looks as if he’s wandered in from another century. Despite herself, Ruth thinks of the first time she met Nelson. He had come to the university to ask her advice about some buried bones. She remembers him standing in the corridor, looking too big, too serious, too grown-up for his surroundings. Well, Nelson is far away now and Phil is none of these things.

  ‘How’s Shona?’ asks Ruth. She had been uncomfortable when Shona started seeing Phil, who was married at the time. Ruth was sure that the relationship would end badly and that she would be caught in the crossfire. But, ten years on, Shona and Phil still seem happy together, despite ­Shona’s brief dalliance with a handsome Italian two years ago. They have an eight-year-old son, Louis.

  ‘She’s fine,’ says Phil. ‘As gorgeous as ever.’ He can say things like this without blushing. ‘She’s part time now. She wants to be there for Louis. He’s having a few difficulties at school. It’s not easy being a gifted child.’ Again, no blush. Ruth has never seen much sign of Louis being gifted, and has never really forgiven him for being rather rough with Kate when they were both toddlers, but she supposes it’s nice that Phil is proud of his partner and son.

  Ruth offers coffee which Phil declines, patting his waistline. Goodness knows why, it’s as flat as a pancake and how many calories are there in coffee, anyway? Ruth wonders why he has really come to see her and it’s not long before he says, ‘You know I was involved in the Ivor March case.’

  ‘I read about it,’ says Ruth. She feels ashamed of how jealous she had felt when Phil was referred to as ‘the forensic archaeologist advising on the remains’.

  ‘Rather an upsetting case,’ says Phil, looking important. ‘But quite straightforward technically. The bodies had clearly been buried using a handheld spade. The burials were obviously recent but the bodies must have been kept elsewhere for a period of time. One body was in fairly good condition but the other skeleton was completely defleshed.’

  Spare me the details, thinks Ruth. She would use this phrase herself but it sounds particularly callous coming from Phil with his red-rimmed spectacles and teenager’s shoes.

  ‘I had to give evidence in court,’ says Phil. ‘Rather an ordeal. Have you ever done it?’

  ‘A few times,’ says Ruth. Nelson says that juries distrust expert witnesses but she always felt that they received her evidence with respect, even if they did look completely baffled.

  ‘The thing is . . .’ says Phil. Now we’re coming to it, thinks Ruth. ‘Nelson thinks that March killed two other women but their bodies have never been found. Well, on Saturday, I received this.’ He holds out a postcard.

  Ruth turns it over to look at the words. ‘Call yourself an archaeologist,’ reads the message. ‘Ruth Galloway is worth ten of you. She will find Nicola and Jenny.’ There’s no signature. Ruth turns the card over to examine the image on the front, a black and white print that seems to show a ship’s mast, or maybe a windmill.

  Cley Marshes by Ivor March

  *

  Judy is also gazing at a sea view. Marion Prendergast, Jill’s mother, lives in a bungalow in Cromer, high on the cliff, with a spectacular view of the pier and of the sea. It glitters behind Marion’s head as she weeps, not for the first or the last time, for her daughter. Judy can only wait, knowing that her presence is probably a slight comfort. She has come to know Marion well over the past year. The Ferris and McGuire families too. Stacy Newman’s parents are both dead and, whi
lst Judy has visited her sister in Newcastle, it’s not the same. There is nothing so terrible as watching a parent grieve for a child. Yet it’s a privilege too, in a way. Like a doctor or an undertaker, she is there at the worst times in people’s lives, and that creates a bond, however hard she tries to preserve her professional detachment.

  ‘At least that terrible man will go to prison for life,’ says Marion at last.

  ‘Yes,’ says Judy. ‘He will.’ Sentencing has been delayed while the court waits for psychiatrists’ reports on Ivor March. But he will surely be locked up for a long time, whether in a prison or secure mental institution. Judy thinks that he is as sane as she is although, as Cathbad often says, sanity is its own kind of madness.

  ‘Do you think he stopped and offered her a lift?’ says Marion, also for what feels like the hundredth time. ‘Do you think that’s what happened?’

  ‘It seems likely,’ says Judy. The trouble was that there were no traces of Jill in Ivor’s car, or in Chantal’s – Judy wouldn’t have put it past him to use Chantal’s. There was no CCTV at the lonely bus-stop but they were able to talk to a passing cyclist who remembered Jill standing there in her bright pink jacket (‘She loved that jacket,’ said Marion). He only saw a few vehicles on the road, two cars and a van. Without number plates they weren’t able to go much further.

  ‘She knew him,’ says Marion. ‘So she would have said yes. She liked him! That’s what I can’t forget. She liked him and his girlfriend. That Chantal. I blame her too.’

  People do often blame the wives, mothers and girlfriends, thinks Judy. Usually it’s deeply unfair. It’s perfectly possible not to know that your son or husband is a serial killer. Psychopaths usually compartmentalise their lives very carefully. But, in this case, Judy finds it hard to believe that Chantal Simmonds didn’t know about the murders. The bodies were buried in her back garden, for God’s sake.

  ‘Try to stop thinking about what might have happened,’ says Judy. ‘I know it’s hard. Just try and remember Jill when you last saw her. When you had fish and chips. Hold on to that memory.’

  Marion has told her about this evening several times. Jill came over once a week to have supper with her mother. On this occasion, neither of them felt like cooking so they bought fish and chips and went to the beach. They even shared a can of lager. ‘Like teenagers,’ said Marion.

  ‘We did have a laugh,’ she says. Her eyes flicker upwards, remembering.

  ‘Hold on to that,’ says Judy.

  Driving back to the station, she thinks that she should encourage Marion to continue to see the grief counsellor. This is a difficult time, when the excitement of the trial is over and the reality hits again. Ivor March is behind bars but Jill is still dead.

  It’s a strange time for Judy too. When she passed her inspector’s exam two years ago, it had really felt as if her career was going places. Immediately afterwards she had been put in charge of the Ivor March investigation, one of the biggest the Serious Crimes Unit had ever tackled. It was a complicated and gruelling case but Judy felt that she had done well and, in last Friday’s verdict, she had had her reward. But now, here she is, back at her desk – she hasn’t even got an office of her own – doing the same old work, with Tanya breathing down her neck and new recruit Tony Zhang looking at her as if she’s a relic from the days of the Bow Street Runners. She misses Clough. At least with Dave she had someone on her level, or rather someone with whom she was always vying for precedence. But they had some laughs together over the years and they both knew that, in a crisis, they would be there for each other. Now Judy is on her own.

  Perhaps she should move? But Judy has lived in Norfolk all her life, her children were born and brought up here. She can’t really imagine being anywhere else. Cathbad wouldn’t mind moving, she knows that. He loves his adopted county – ‘There’s so much weirdness in Norfolk,’ he often says happily, ‘it’s the perfect place for a druid to live’ – but he also likes change and new horizons. He would seek out new weirdness wherever they went. ‘It’s all part of the great web,’ he says, meaning that everything happens for a reason, but what if Judy is trapped in the web of some malevolent spider and needs to break free?

  When she gets to the station, she is rather annoyed to see the boss sitting at her computer. He looks cross and baffled, as he often does when faced with technology.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she says.

  ‘I was looking for the case notes,’ says Nelson.

  ‘Why?’ says Judy. Though she thinks she can guess. Nelson is not going to rest until he has charged someone with the murders of Nicola and Jenny.

  ‘I went to the community centre this morning,’ says Nelson.

  ‘Why?’ says Judy again.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The boss is obviously slightly embarrassed. He doesn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘It’s the place that links Nicola and Jenny. I suppose I had some idea that there might be something more that we could get from talking to people there.’

  ‘And who did you talk to?’ Judy keeps her voice light but she’s annoyed. She led the investigation, she interviewed everyone at the centre: teachers, students, cleaners, volunteers, even the headcase who calls himself the Norfolk Elvis.

  ‘Ailsa Britain.’

  ‘I remember her,’ says Judy. ‘She knew Jenny. And Nicola slightly. She has an alibi for the nights that they disappeared though.’

  ‘Ailsa knew Ivor March too.’

  ‘I think she did, a little. She’d been to one of his classes or something like that. It’s in the files.’ She leans over to find the relevant document.

  ‘Ailsa mentioned that March used to run a writer’s retreat. Did you know about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Judy. ‘But neither Nicola or Jenny had been there, even though Jenny wanted to be a writer.’ She taps on an icon called Grey Walls. Judy remembers visiting the house with Tanya. It was an autumn day and the porch had been full of leaves. A rather sullen-looking gardener was sweeping them away, looking as if this was a thankless and endless task. But, even in the middle of a murder inquiry, there had been a sense of real tranquillity about the place. Cathbad would have loved it.

  ‘Grey Walls,’ says Nelson. ‘That’s where Ruth was last week.’

  ‘Really?’ Judy turns to look at him. ‘Cathbad said something about a retreat. I wouldn’t have thought it was Ruth’s thing.’

  ‘Ruth’s a Cambridge person now. It’s what they do, going on retreats and . . .’ Judy can see Nelson trying think of something appropriately decadent. ‘Spa days and such. She loved it apparently. Who runs the place now?’

  ‘Crissy Martin,’ says Judy, selecting another file. A woman’s face appears on the screen. Long pale hair, flowing dress, serene expression.

  ‘Who’s she again?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? She’s Ivor March’s ex-wife.’

  Chapter 5

  Christina Martin. Back in his office, Nelson gets the files up on screen and reads through Tanya’s interview with the woman who runs Grey Walls Artists’ Retreat. Crissy was married to March from 2001 to 2010 and, during that time, they bought Grey Walls and renovated it, mostly using the money Crissy had received as a legacy from her dead parents.

  ‘Why did you divorce?’ Tanya asked. Nelson imagines her trying for an empathetic tone.

  ‘Ivor met Chantal. We had an open marriage. We both recognised that it’s unrealistic to expect monogamy. We’re civilised creatures. But when Ivor met Chantal he realised that he wanted to be with her. It was all very amicable. And she’s been a loyal partner to Ivor.’

  Chantal Simmonds certainly has been loyal. When the bodies were found in her garden, the police had initially charged her with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice but there was no DNA link and they hadn’t been able to make the charge stick. The bodies had been refrigerated before being buried in the garden but there was no large freezer i
n Chantal’s cottage or March’s flat. If Nelson could find the freezer, maybe he could prove that Chantal was involved. Maybe he should go and see her again? He will have to tread carefully. Chantal knows her rights and has a formidable lawyer. She would be quick to cry ‘police harassment’ and would greatly enjoy any subsequent publicity.

  Judy has helpfully added a biography of Ivor March to the files. Born 1966 in Cambridge, only son of Sebastian and Susan March. He’s a year older than Nelson. Nelson was fifty in November last year. His father had died at fifty and he had been dreading the milestone but in the end it wasn’t too bad. His colleagues arranged a surprise party in the Lord Nelson pub (ha ha) and Jo and Cloughie had hogged the karaoke machine all night. Then, on the day itself, there had been a family meal with Michelle, George and his grown-up daughters, Laura and Rebecca. The one sadness had been not seeing Katie on his birthday. She’d sent a present and Ruth had added a rather ambivalent card with a picture of Pendle Hill and the words ‘You’re not over the hill yet, Nelson.’ This seemed both comforting and almost threatening. Did it also suggest, though, that their personal journey was not yet over?

  Ivor March had attended school in Cambridge where he had been a good student, excelling at art and English. He had studied art at St Martin’s in London where he had met his first wife, Elizabeth Chandler. They married in 1987, when they were both twenty-one. Elizabeth had been pregnant but lost the baby. They divorced two years later. March moved back to Cambridge where he taught art at a private school. At the turn of the millennium March met Christina Martin, who seemed to have some private means. March and Martin married, bought Grey Walls and ran it as a writers’ and artists’ retreat until their divorce. March then moved to King’s Lynn and continued his relationship with Chantal Simmonds. The couple didn’t live together but, according to Chantal, they ‘shared a spiritual bond’. This bond was apparently not broken by March’s conviction for two murders.