by Ann Cleeves
So that’s where the interview took place, in the impressive lounge with its gleaming dark furniture and smell of beeswax polish. Enderby lit some of the red candles and switched off the main light, so Joe almost expected him to take their hands and call up the dead, as if this was a séance.
Kate Dewar had returned to her own flat. The three of them drank tea and ate biscuits and sat for a minute watching the gas flames. While they’d been waiting for Enderby to bring in the tray, Joe had pulled back the curtains to look out of the window and seen that the snow had stopped. The sky was clear now and there were stars, a huge white moon. Still he replayed the interview with Kate Dewar and her family, wondering what he’d missed, what had been so familiar.
Vera was asking the questions and already there seemed to be an understanding between her and Enderby. She wasn’t exactly flirting, but there was a sense that they could get on. He was charming, Joe could see that. People didn’t usually make an effort to charm Vera, and Joe thought she was flattered by it.
She smiled now, over her cup, dunking her third home-made biscuit into the tea. ‘So what brings you to Northumberland, Mr Enderby?’
‘George, please.’ A wide, easy smile. ‘Work, I’m afraid. I keep promising myself time in the county to explore properly, but my wife thinks anywhere north of the Wash is wild and uncharted territory, and I spend so much time away from home that I wouldn’t want to come up on holiday without her.’
‘And what is your work?’
‘I’m a rep for a publishing company. Almost an endangered species, but I’m one of the few survivors and I hope I can hang on until I retire. And I do love it.’ He stared wistfully into the fire. ‘I read, you see. It’s an addiction. Not a requirement for the job, though. In fact, almost a hindrance in some ways. Hard to press a title onto a reluctant bookseller when you think it’s crap yourself. But I’ve built my contacts now. Sympathetic buyers. Managers in some of the big retail chains, owners of a smattering of lovely indies. I understand what will work best for them.’
‘An odd time of year to be selling books, I’d have thought.’ Vera spoke with that same light, almost flirtatious tone. ‘The stores will have their Christmas stock by now, surely. This time of year wouldn’t you all want to be back in London? Office parties. Sloping home early to fill the kiddies’ stockings.’
Enderby leaned forward, his voice earnest. ‘Actually, Inspector, I don’t really do Christmas. It sends me into a panic. I was glad to escape. And of course I have the new season’s titles to present.’
‘Of course.’ A silence.
‘Why do you stay in Harbour Street when you come north?’ She set down her cup on the low table beside her. A sign that she was taking the conversation more seriously now. ‘It’s hardly convenient for the motorway.’
‘But it is very restful, and I like it here. I found it through the Northumberland Tourism website five years ago and have been using it ever since. I have an aversion to bland and anonymous hotels, and Kate is an efficient and welcoming landlady. She looks after me very well.’
Joe thought that he was talking too much. Any one of those reasons would have been sufficient.
‘You knew Margaret Krukowski?’
‘Of course,’ Enderby said. ‘She was a lovely woman.’ He paused. ‘They made a great team, she and Kate. I do hope Kate has the strength to carry on alone. But perhaps she will have other plans now.’
‘Did you ever chat to Margaret?’ Vera looked directly at the man. ‘It seems to me that you’re someone who takes an interest in people, that you might have engaged her in conversation over the breakfast table.’
‘Oh, you know, the usual pleasantries.’ Enderby reached out for the teapot.
‘And what did you find out about her?’
‘Surprisingly little! She was always friendly, but somehow guarded. As if it had become a habit to keep her life secret.’ He gave a sudden charming smile. ‘I make up stories about people. Fantasies. Perhaps because I read so much. Sometimes I think I might write a novel of my own.’
Joe felt as though he had lost the thread of the conversation now, with no real idea what Enderby was on about, or how it could be relevant to the investigation, but Vera seemed to be keeping up. ‘And what was your story for Margaret Krukowski?’
‘That she’d been a spy left behind when the Cold War ended. Given a new identity.’ He smiled again and his face lit up. ‘Quite ridiculous, of course, just because she had a Polish name! I’ve always allowed my imagination to run away from me.’
Vera smiled too, but it was the tight, rather disapproving smile of a teacher who is starting to lose patience with a favourite pupil.
‘We’ll stick to reality then, shall we? After five years you must know something about the woman.’
‘I fear the reality was rather more mundane. Margaret Krukowski was articulate, intelligent and well read. Attractive still, for her age. Mardle seemed an odd place for her to have landed up. I could have imagined her in a rather nice flat in Tynemouth or Jesmond. But I assume she had no money. She was a good cook – these biscuits will have been hers, and she baked rolls and pastries for breakfast. She was a regular church-goer. Given to good causes. She cost me a fortune in raffle tickets for every charity from the lifeboat association to the Red Cross.’ He paused. ‘I did wonder if she’d once been a victim of domestic abuse. One of her charities was a women’s refuge, and she seemed more devoted to that than to any of the others. I came up specially a couple of weeks ago to act as Father Christmas for its winter fair. She was a very persuasive woman and very committed to that particular cause.’ He stopped short. ‘Sorry, Inspector, take no notice – I’m telling myself stories again. Rambling.’
Joe thought that was the way Vera Stanhope worked too. She was always making up stories throughout an investigation. Only she called them theories.
‘Did she ever mention her family?’ Vera was back to specifics.
Enderby paused for a moment and stared into the fire. Joe couldn’t tell whether he was trying to remember or playing for time.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the subject of family ever came up. Women of that age usually have somebody, don’t they? Grandchildren or great-nephews or -nieces. They bring out the photos at the least excuse. But not Margaret. She mentioned her ex-husband from time to time. Rather a rogue, by the sound of it. A rogue and a chancer.’
Joe was wondering what Vera had made of the comments about lonely old women, but if she was hurt by them she gave no sign.
‘Had she seen him at all since they separated all those years ago?’
Enderby laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. Much easier to convince oneself of a passion for a memory than for the reality. Really I think the man disappeared from her life entirely. According to Margaret, it was as if he vanished from the face of the Earth.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Vera was facing the man again.
‘At the beginning of the month. The last time I was staying here. I can check the date in my diary, if you need to know exactly.’ He sat back in his chair and everything about him seemed relaxed and helpful.
‘You didn’t see her today at all?’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t help at all about today. I only arrived just as it was getting dark. Kate will tell you. She let me in.’ He stretched and yawned.
Vera seemed almost to be asleep. The room was very warm now. Joe looked discreetly at his watch. At home the youngest children would be in bed. He wished Vera would move things on. It was obvious this man had nothing else useful to tell them. Even though the snow had stopped, it would be a nightmare getting back. And it seemed that even Enderby was losing patience, because he coughed gently.
‘If there’s nothing else I can help with, Inspector . . .’
‘Of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘I was just weaving stories of my own.’
Enderby stood up. ‘I’m starving, actually. Rather tasteless to be thinking of one’s own creature comforts at a tim
e like this, but I had an early start and I didn’t stop for lunch because I was hoping to get here before the weather set in. I was going to pop out to the Coble for a bite.’ He looked at them. Vera too was struggling to her feet. ‘Will news of the murder have got out, do you think?’
‘Oh, I expect so.’ She straightened her skirt, which was tweed and frayed slightly at the hem. ‘Nothing the local media like better than a good murder.’
Enderby bent to turn off the gas fire. He switched on the light and blew out the candles. ‘I’ll be here for another night, and then again on my way south from Scotland.’ He took a wallet from his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. ‘Here’s my mobile number. Do get in touch if you think I can help at all.’ He picked up the tea tray, hesitated and then set it down again. ‘Perhaps I’ll leave it here. I expect Kate wants to be on her own with the children. If Stuart hasn’t come along to look after her.’
‘Stuart?’
‘Ah, Kate’s new man. We were all delighted that she’d found someone at last. About time, we thought.’
He gave them a last, self-effacing smile and walked out of the room.
Joe expected Vera to follow, but instead she walked across the carpet and leaned against the piano, bending to touch the tapestry covering on the stool.
‘What did you make of him?’ The words came out as a sharp bark that surprised him.
‘I don’t know. He seemed pleasant enough.’ Joe looked at his watch again, less discreetly now.
‘Telling the truth, do you think?’
‘Aye, I can’t think of any reason why he should lie.’
‘We need details of Kate Dewar’s new boyfriend,’ Vera said. ‘Someone new in the house.’
He nodded. And suddenly he knew what was familiar about the scene in the kitchen. ‘That woman,’ he said. ‘Kate Dewar. She’s Katie Guthrie, the singer.’
Vera looked blank.
‘You must remember. She was big when I was young. A young singer-songwriter. Had a hit with “White Moon Summer”.’ He paused and was dragged back in time. He and Sal had done their courting to that song. He thought of one long summer, intense and charged. Parties on the beach, and conversations lasting into the early hours. It seemed that they were hardly the same people today. Despite himself, he hummed a few lines.
‘You’re wasted in the police service, Joe Ashworth, with a voice like that.’
He was never quite sure when Vera was taking the piss. ‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘Our Jessie takes after me.’
‘So our Kate Dewar was famous?’
‘For a couple of years she was a real star,’ he said. ‘And then she fell out of favour. Or fell out of sight. Seemed like almost overnight.’
‘What must that be like?’ Vera was speaking almost to herself. ‘To have all that fame and influence, and suddenly you’re nobody.’
Joe wondered if she was thinking about her own retirement and how she’d cope with that. He didn’t answer and there was a moment of silence.
‘What next then?’ She looked up at him, a challenge, as if she’d set him a test.
‘Talk to the priest,’ he said. ‘She might have confided in him about her family – what really went on in the marriage.’
‘Confession, you mean?’ She gave a little chuckle.
‘I don’t know.’ Joe was confused. He’d grown up in a Methodist family, and Methodists didn’t go in for that sort of thing. ‘More just a chat, I was thinking.’
‘And he might know about the women’s refuge.’ Vera was almost talking to herself now. ‘That might be a motive, do you think? An abusive bloke, too much to drink, blaming our Margaret for the fact that his lass finally found the guts to leave him.’
The gas fire hissed as it cooled.
Vera turned towards him. ‘I suppose you want a lift home?’
‘Aye, if that’s okay.’ That was a relief. He’d thought she’d keep him out all hours and suggest a drink on the way back to talk things through.
There was a pause. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Do you mind getting a taxi? It’s stopped snowing now and they’ll have the gritters out, so you should get back okay. Put it on expenses. Pop down to the flat and get the details of Kate’s new man on the way out. I’d like to stick around in the town for a while.’
‘You want me to stay too?’ Usually she did want him to.
‘Nah.’ A wicked grin. ‘You get back to Sal and the bairns. I don’t want to be in her bad books again. Besides, Holly’s on her way.’
Chapter Seven
Vera watched Joe Ashworth drive away in his taxi. She could tell he was torn and that he’d almost have preferred to be standing out in the cold with her. It was so easy to wind him up that really there was no sport in it. She shouldn’t torment him. There was a light in St Bartholomew’s Church and for a moment she was tempted to go inside and ask for the Father Gruskin mentioned by Kate Dewar. But she was starving and could never work properly when she was hungry.
It was so cold that she was gasping for breath and, talking to Holly on her mobile, she could see spurts of vapour coming from her nose and mouth; caught in the street light, it almost looked as if the steam had been turned to ice.
‘Where are you, Hol?’
‘Liaising with CSI, Ma’am, just as you told me.’ Classic Holly, tart and chippy at the same time.
‘Can you make it over to Mardle? Joe’s gone back to the bosom of his family and I could do with a hand. I’ll be in the fish shop close to the harbour. Shall I order anything for you?’
‘No thanks, Ma’am, I’ve eaten.’ And she would have done. A Tupperware box full of salad leaves and an apple. No saturated fat for health-conscious Holly. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Vera walked on down the street, drawn by the smell of frying fish. A woman, big and blowsy in laddered tights and a short skirt, stumbled out of the pub. Vera thought she’d catch her death. From inside someone shouted at the woman, the words indecipherable, but the tone abusive and faintly amused. Vera felt a stab of sympathy for her. Underfoot the freezing snow squeaked.
In the Mardle Fisheries Vera took a seat at a table – more than half the space was set out as a restaurant. It felt good to walk past the queue at the takeaway counter, to have a waitress approach her immediately for her order. Vera wondered if class was so ingrained in England that even here in a Mardle fish shop she was tainted by it, if feeling slightly superior was a natural – if guilty – pleasure. Inside it was warm, condensation running down the windows, a television with some daft chat show on in the background. The waitress came with a tray. Tea in a pot, bread and butter on a china plate, the batter crisply thin and the haddock soft. Oh yes, Vera thought, this is class!
Holly arrived just as Vera had finished the meal. She was skinny and stylish, even now, dressed for the weather. Was it possible to get a designer parka? If so, Holly was wearing one. She sat opposite her boss, wiped the table in front of her with a paper napkin.
‘Have they finished at the crime scene?’
‘They’ve taken the body to the mortuary.’ Holly had a southern, educated voice. Not her fault. ‘And the train back to a shed in Heaton. Billy Wainwright says it’s a nightmare. So many traces and footwear prints. They’ll be in there for a few days yet. Maybe longer. But at least the Metro line’s clear. They’ll reopen it later this evening if there’s no more snow.’
‘She’s an interesting woman, our victim.’ Vera leaned back in her seat. ‘Married a Polish guy straight out of school. Divorced a couple of years later and since then seems to have lived alone. Given to religion and good works, apparently. Stayed rent-free in a guest house just up the road here, in return for helping out in the place, but it seems to me she’s more like one of the family. The landlady is Kate Dewar, a widow with two teenage kids and a new bloke who doesn’t live in.’
‘Not a natural victim then.’ Holly had some sort of electronic gadget on the table and was typing into it.
Vera resisted the urge to ask what was wron
g with an ordinary notebook. ‘No.’ The early-evening rush was over and the chip shop was quieter now, the queue had dissipated. Vera got to her feet. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where are we off to?’ Holly turned off the device and slid it into her handbag.
‘We’re going to see a priest.’
There was still a light in the church and when they pushed the heavy door it opened, though the building seemed empty inside. It smelled of damp and mould and incense, and the same furniture polish as had been used in Kate Dewar’s house. Vera wondered if Margaret Krukowski had cleaned in here too. If so, they’d need to look for another member of the congregation to take on the domestic chores. Here there was no Christmas decoration, and the only colour came from a stained-glass window over the altar.
‘Hello! Anybody home?’ Churches always made her feel irreverent.
There was a scuffling noise ahead of them and a dark figure emerged from a door to their left. Vera thought this was probably the ugliest man she’d ever met. He was younger than she’d been expecting, perhaps in his early thirties. Black hair, black caterpillar eyebrows, thick lips that moved, even when he wasn’t speaking, and narrow eyes. A large and shambling Mr Bean. He should be a stand-up comedian. He’d just have to walk onstage and there would be horrified, rather nervous laughter.
‘Yes?’ He was wearing a black cassock with a black cloak over the top. A man who liked his uniform. There was nothing welcoming about the way he approached them.
‘Father Gruskin?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer, but flashed her warrant card in front of him. He squinted at it as if he was short-sighted. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about one of your parishioners.’
He took them into the vestry, where it was warmer. A Calor gas heater hissed and the fumes from it caught in the back of her throat.
‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps you’ll have heard already,’ Vera said. ‘There was a murder on the Metro early this evening. The victim was Margaret Krukowski. I believe she was one of your regulars.’
