Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Music,’ he said. Then, as she made no comment, he added, ‘I run the county youth orchestra too. And the jazz band.’

  Vera gave a bright little smile. ‘That’ll be one of the things the two of you have in common – the music.’ She turned to Kate. ‘My sergeant said you were a star at one time. What made you give it up?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Family commitments. Kids.’ Kate shook her head as if she was embarrassed to talk about it.

  ‘But I’m persuading her to rebuild her career.’ The man’s voice was earnest and it was almost as if he wanted Vera’s approval for the new venture. He stroked Kate’s hair, and the charge of intimacy made Vera feel awkward again. She said she’d take a second drink and some tea to her room.

  The bedroom was well furnished and comfortable and looked out over the street. Vera sat at the window with her tea and her whisky, and when the glass was empty she topped it up from the bottle she kept in her bag. Also for emergencies, like the toothbrush and the clean knickers.

  She thought about Margaret Krukowski, who had lived in this house for years. What had kept her in Mardle? Poverty, or a kind of lethargy? Perhaps she’d got used to the place and couldn’t face a change. And she’d liked this family, Vera decided. Liked watching the kids grow up and feeling that she was part of Kate Dewar’s life. A part of something. She might have been a self-contained woman, essentially private, but she hadn’t wanted to be completely alone. So what had Margaret made of Stuart Booth, who was closer in age to her than to Kate? Had she thought her life would change when Kate married?

  Why had she been killed? Why now, on a snowy afternoon, when everyone was full of Christmas spirit? Why had she been stabbed? Vera was reminded of an old news story: a spy or a dissident stabbed with the end of an umbrella, the tip containing some lethal and secret poison. She’d thought at the time that the incident was ludicrous. There were easier ways to kill people, and this had smacked of little boys playing adventure games. Then she remembered George Enderby’s fantasy that Margaret Krukowski was a spy left over from the Cold War, and she thought she could see what had triggered his imagination. The exotic Eastern European name, of course, but also the sense that this was a private woman who carried secrets with her.

  Share your secrets with me, Margaret Krukowski. Help me to find your killer.

  Vera stood up to go to the bathroom. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was eleven o’clock. She’d been sitting here for more than an hour. She pulled back the curtain and looked outside. Closing time at the Coble, and a scattering of drinkers were making their way back to the town centre. There was a light on in the church. As she watched, the lights went out and the door opened. The priest emerged, still clothed in his black robes.

  What have you been praying for, Father? Margaret Krukowski’s immortal soul? Or your own?

  The police station at Kimmerston was freezing. The snow had brought down the power lines and cut off the electricity overnight. The power was back on now, but the timer was out and the heating had only just come on. They sat in their jackets, wrapped up in scarves and gloves. A good night’s sleep and a full English breakfast had Vera feeling on top form.

  She stood before the whiteboard. There was a recent photo of Margaret Krukowski, donated by Kate. It had been taken when the woman hadn’t been expecting it. She was standing at the table in the basement kitchen, a biscuit cutter in one hand, and she’d looked up at the camera at the last minute. Her expression was startled and amused. Vera had also brought Margaret’s wedding photo from the guest house. Sometimes she thought that the younger members of her team considered older people a different species. Close to death anyway, so not worth the same effort. Not like a child or a teenager. They would never say that, probably would not even think it consciously, but Vera hoped this picture of a young and beautiful woman would jerk them out of that mindset. Once she was young and just like you.

  ‘Margaret Krukowski. Stabbed on the Metro yesterday afternoon. Apparently without anyone seeing – though the Metro was so busy that’s not as impossible as it seems. People would have heard if she’d screamed loudly, but probably not a moan. Nightmare scenario, but this time we’re lucky because there was an expert witness on hand throughout. That’s right, isn’t it, Joe?’

  Joe smiled. She thought all his bairns must have slept well and he’d had a good night. He and Sal were getting on at the moment and that always improved his mood. ‘I was in the same carriage,’ he said. ‘But a few rows away from her. And the place was jammed. You know what it’s like just before Christmas and the rush hour.’

  She nodded. ‘All the same,’ she said. ‘Give us what you remember.’ She listened as he told his story again and listed the characters he could recall. There were no omissions and no elaboration. He was a good witness. She’d trained him well.

  Vera went on. ‘We have a nightmare forensically. So much material that it’ll take them weeks to work through it. The one blessing is that it’ll keep Billy Wainwright busy throughout the holiday period. Office parties get him over-excited, and he’s too old for that kind of carry-on now.’

  There were a few sniggers. Crime-scene manager Billy enjoyed his reputation as a serial adulterer.

  ‘Most important actions for today: some folk who were on the Metro have already come forward. It was the four-thirty from Newcastle Central Station and it was stopped by the weather at Partington. Margaret was in the first carriage. We need a media release asking everyone else who travelled on the same train to get in touch. Then we’ll put together a plan showing where people were sitting or standing and what they saw.’ She looked out at her audience. ‘Holly, that’s for you. Do the press conference. A broadcast request on BBC’s Look North, if we can manage it. Contact the press office and tell them what we need. Then you take charge of the responses that come in, get a floor plan of the seating arrangements and see what you can put together.’

  Holly preened, and Vera patted herself on the back: she was getting better at handling her DC. Holly would love to do the television and would be good at collating the passenger information. If Vera had asked her just to do the paperwork she’d have sulked for a fortnight. Getting her team onside was a piece of piss. Who needed management training?

  ‘Next. What was Margaret doing in Gosforth? We think she grew up there. Did she have family still living in the area? We’ve checked the records and her maiden name was Nash. Charlie, see what you can track down. She might even have a parent still alive, given the age we all live to these days. Can we check with the Department of Work and Pensions and the care homes in the area? She never talked about her family to folk in Mardle, but the one thing we do know about Margaret is that she was intensely private. She might have been in Gosforth to visit her relatives.’

  Charlie nodded. Vera noticed that he was tidier these days. When his wife first left him he could have passed for one of the homeless guys who hung around Kimmerston bus station. She could be less than tidy herself, but she was never dirty. Well, not often. She wondered fleetingly if he’d found himself another woman or if he’d just come to terms with being left to fend for himself. She’d always thought he missed having his laundry done more than he missed his wife’s company.

  Vera paused for breath. It was getting light. A bright, icy gleam shone through the window directly into her face and made her squint.

  ‘The other thing we know is that Margaret was given to good causes,’ she continued. ‘All sorts of good causes, but especially a charity called the Haven.’

  ‘That place for fallen women in Holypool Village.’ Charlie looked up from his mug of coffee.

  ‘Fallen women?’ It was Holly, her voice a horrified shriek. ‘What century are you living in?’

  ‘I was being ironic.’ Charlie slid her a grin.

  Vera thought that something had definitely happened in his life. He’d never have talked about irony before. ‘How do you know about the Haven?’

  ‘I arrested a young druggie once. No room in the cells
, and I didn’t think she was fit to let out onto the street. Seemed to me she might be suicidal. Social services suggested I took her there.’

  ‘Joe, will you check out the Haven? You’re good at social work, when you put your mind to it. If Margaret was a regular volunteer she might have made friends with the staff, confided in them about family, relationships. And it’s possible she made an enemy of one of the women. Gruskin said they were vulnerable. Anyone with a history of mental illness, given to paranoia and violent episodes? Or an ex-offender with some sort of axe to grind.’

  Joe nodded and scribbled down the address.

  Holly lifted her hand. ‘If there are victims of domestic violence there, Margaret could have been targeted by a male partner.’

  ‘So she could, Hol.’ Vera was pleased that at least now there were lines of enquiry, but she still thought the centre of the investigation lay in Harbour Street. She leaned back against the desk and shut her eyes against the sun. ‘And the owner of the guest house, Kate Dewar – formerly known as musician Katie Guthrie – has a new man in her life. Stuart Booth. No record, not even a speeding ticket, but let’s see what we can find out about him. Track down any former partners. Any history of violence? And we’ll need to chat to the head of the school where he teaches.

  ‘The rest of you: we’ve set up interviews with the folk who were on the train and who’ve already been in touch. Treat them nicely, but be aware that any one of them could be the killer. So no dismissing the smart guy in the suit because he doesn’t seem the type. We need to know where they were sitting or standing, and if they saw anything unusual. Margaret’s hard to pin down socially and she could have mixed with all sorts. We’re especially interested in the people who got on at Gosforth. Did any of them see Margaret on the platform, or notice which direction she walked from to get there?’

  Charlie coughed. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes?’ She lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t the Metros have CCTV these days?’

  ‘Usually, but the one in our train wasn’t working.’ She gave them a wide smile. ‘We’re chasing up the reason. So we’re dependent on old-fashioned policing. And before anyone asks, there was CCTV outside the station, but the snow was so heavy that it was impossible to see anything.’

  She waved them back to their desks. ‘If anyone wants me, I’ll be with Prof. Keating at the post-mortem.

  Chapter Ten

  Kate Dewar had hardly slept. Stuart had gone home soon after Vera Stanhope had left for her room. ‘I’ve got all the end-of-term reports to finish,’ he’d said. ‘And the kids will want you to themselves.’ She’d almost asked him to stay, but didn’t want to force the issue. He could see that she was upset, and he wasn’t sure how to help her. Her sadness would discomfort him. He was never very good at talking about feelings. He’d been on his own for so long that it was as if he’d had to learn a new language. And he was a kind man. She saw that the nature of Margaret’s death had touched him, even though he hadn’t known her for long.

  It wasn’t fear that had kept her awake in the night. She wasn’t expecting Margaret’s killer to break into the house and murder them in their beds. She might have been haunted by fancies like that – she had a vivid imagination – but somehow the presence of Vera Stanhope, solid and implacable, had made the idea seem quite ridiculous. Instead, more subtle anxieties kept her awake: the business, the family, how she would arrange a suitable funeral for Margaret. She lay on her side, rigid with tension, checking her bedside clock every hour. It seemed as if she’d only just fallen asleep when the alarm went off.

  Usually she served breakfast from seven, but when she’d checked in Vera had asked if she might take it early: ‘Cereal and toast will be fine. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ There had been a wistful edge to her voice, though, and Kate hadn’t had Vera down as a healthy eater, so she’d had bacon and sausage under the grill just in case, eager to please. She’d always been eager to please – part of her problem. If she’d gone into her marriage deciding what she’d wanted from the relationship, instead of trying to guess what would make Robbie happy, perhaps things would have worked out better.

  She’d certainly made Vera Stanhope happy. The woman had cleared her plate in minutes and beamed. ‘I’m supposed to be watching what I eat these days, but no harm in a treat once in a while, eh?’ There’d been no more questions about Margaret. No mention at all of the murder. The inspector had paid her bill in cash and, when Kate had offered her a receipt, she’d waved it away. ‘Not the police service’s fault that I live out in the wilds. Can’t really get this one on expenses.’ Then she was out of the door with a little wave, and Kate had felt inexplicably bereft. A repeat of the sensation that had overcome her when she’d realized that Margaret was dead.

  George Enderby arrived in the dining room at eight on the dot. He might like to come across as a free spirit, but Kate had noticed that he was a great one for routine. A pot of coffee and poached eggs on brown toast. The order was always the same. She was clearing his dishes when the kids left the house for school. Through the window she watched Ryan idling up the street, his heavy bag weighing down one shoulder. No hurry to get to his lessons. He seemed more eager to help Malcolm Kerr out in the yard these days than to get to class. Chloe left a few minutes later. Further up the street she was joined by a lad Kate didn’t recognize.

  ‘Where are you off to today, George?’ She turned her attention back to the room. His wheelie suitcase of books was already sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Into Newcastle.’ He smiled a little sadly. ‘A challenge. It’s hard to get booksellers interested in our titles for spring when everyone’s mind is on Christmas.’

  ‘That police inspector stayed last night. She couldn’t get home because of the weather.’

  ‘Oh?’ He was suddenly interested. She thought, now that the shock had worn off, they were all interested in Margaret’s death. It was like a television drama. Even the kids, who had been pleasant and careful with each other the evening before, seemed back to normal, sniping and bickering.

  ‘She left an hour ago. She didn’t say anything about the investigation, of course. I suppose they have to be discreet.’ Kate wiped crumbs from a neighbouring table with a napkin into her cupped hand.

  ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I suppose they do.’

  Later, when the house was quiet and tidy, she sat on the sofa in the kitchen and dozed a little; a new folk band recommended by Stuart was playing in the background and the voices sounded somehow like waves on shingle, blurred and soporific. She was shocked by the ringing on the doorbell. The detective had said that some officers would be in during the morning to search Margaret’s room. This was a piece of information she hadn’t passed on to George Enderby. His eagerness to discuss Margaret’s death had seemed a little tasteless to her, and unlike his usual courtesy. Now she supposed that the search team must be here and she rushed to let them in. She didn’t want Father Gruskin and his coven of elderly admirers to see a group of uniformed officers on the doorstep. Rumours spread like wildfire in Mardle.

  But there were no policemen in the street. Instead it was Malcolm Kerr, the boatman. Sometimes Ryan helped him out in the yard for pocket money, and from her son she’d picked up snippets of gossip about his divorce, and the move from the big house in Warkworth to the ex-council place on Percy Street. His skin was very grey. He’d shaved badly and his eyes seemed yellow and bloodshot all at once. Because he’d stepped back onto the pavement their faces were on the same level and she noticed the whiff of stale alcohol on his breath.

  ‘Malcolm.’ She didn’t invite him into the house. Although she didn’t know him well herself, he had a reputation for being an awkward customer – taciturn, always moaning. Her first thought was that Ryan had done something to annoy him. She’d always thought Malcolm liked having him hanging around the yard, but Ryan had become a mystery to her.

  ‘It’s about Margaret,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’ And he quickl
y moved up the steps towards her so that her immediate reaction was to move out of his way before he knocked into her. Then he was in the house. She took him into the guest lounge, because it was nearer the front door; somehow she felt better speaking to Malcolm if she knew she could escape. Something about this man, intense and frowning, scared her. His yard had been on Harbour Street since before she’d moved in, for many years, she believed. He was a fixture like the church and the pub. He’d taken over from his father as boatman to Coquet Island and he’d been coxswain of the lifeboat until recent years. Stalwart of the town. Grumpy, but reliable. She’d never really taken any notice of him. Now she wondered if he was suffering from some sort of mental illness.

  ‘What do you want, Malcolm?’ He was a good distance from her in a corner by the fire. She kept her voice calm. It was important not to make him angry.

  ‘It’s about Margaret.’

  ‘If you know anything about Margaret you should tell the police.’ She added, a sudden inspiration: ‘They’ll be here soon. They want to search her room.’

  ‘Can I see it?’ The words fired from his mouth like a shot. It was as if they’d formed themselves without his thinking about them.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Can I see her room? Where she lived?’

  ‘Of course not!’ She was less scared now than exasperated. He seemed rather old and confused, sitting in the high-backed chair, his hands on his knees like a resident in a care home. ‘I don’t have the key and, besides, it’s private.’

  Then she saw that he was crying. Large round tears rolled down his cheeks. It occurred to her that he was so unused to weeping that he didn’t know what to do with them. She pulled a paper handkerchief from her pocked and walked across the carpet to give it to him.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were such friends,’ she said, more gently.

  He took the tissue and dabbed at his face. ‘Margaret Krukowski worked for me. A good while ago. My father was still alive and we had an office on the yard then. She kept our books, sent out the invoices, answered the phone in the office, took the bookings.’