by Ann Cleeves
Edwin Short opened the door to them. He was a gentle, courteous man in his late fifties, silver-haired and smart except for a pair of leather slippers with a hole in the toe. He took them into a living room with a high ceiling, an open fire and shelves of books, and offered them sherry. Vera sensed that Joe was a little overawed by his surroundings. The British class thing getting in the way again.
‘Did you know Margaret Krukowski well?’ She took the glass, which looked tiny in her huge hand. Sherry wasn’t really her tipple, but Joe was driving and it didn’t do to be impolite.
‘Our firm acted for her family,’ Short said. ‘I met her parents, although they were already elderly when I knew them. My father was a lawyer, set up the practice, and I followed in his footsteps. He knew the couple better than I did, of course.’
‘Tell me about them.’ Vera leaned back in her chair.
‘James Nash was a businessman. His family had a chain of butcher’s shops in the North-East. He sold out just at the right time, before the supermarkets took hold, and after that he played at property development. He was cautious, though. Nothing too risky. When he died he was a wealthy man. His wife was a traditional home-maker. Margaret was the only child.’ He looked at Vera. ‘Is this relevant? Do say if I’m rambling.’
‘Not rambling at all.’
‘The family fell apart when Margaret married against their wishes. All quite ridiculous, of course.’ Short shook his head. ‘You have to let your children make their own decisions. My father thought it would all blow over, but Nash was a stubborn man and it seems that Margaret took after him. They never made up the quarrel. I don’t think they met again.’
‘What happened to all the family money?’ Joe interrupted.
‘It didn’t go to Margaret. The couple died when they were very frail and elderly, and much of the inheritance disappeared in care-home costs. They’d given us power of attorney and we administered their affairs. What remained went to a cancer charity.’
‘Did you inform Margaret of their death?’ Joe asked.
Short shook his head. ‘I assumed she was still living in Poland. That was what her parents had told my father, when he was still dealing with them: that she’d gone with her husband to start a new life there. She wasn’t a beneficiary and, after all this time, it seemed too complicated to track her down.’
‘And all the time Margaret was in a flat in Harbour Street in Mardle. I wonder if she visited them in the care home.’ Vera realized that she’d finished the sherry and she set the glass on a small table.
‘You’d have to check with the staff. Certainly she never got in touch with me to find out where they were living. As I said, until she phoned the office to make an appointment, I assumed that she was still living abroad.’
Vera was baffled by this. Margaret Krukowski had been a good woman, a church-goer, yet she’d seemingly made no attempt to find out what was happening to her elderly parents, who’d lived only half an hour away from Mardle. They’d stayed at the same address until they’d moved into residential care, so it would have been easy for her to find them. Margaret didn’t seem like a woman who would hold a grudge for fifty years. After all, her parents had been right about her husband. He’d deserted her after a couple of years of marriage. Had pride been her sin then? Had she led them to believe that she was happily settled in Poland, because she didn’t want to admit that she’d been wrong, or had they spread the story to explain her disappearance?
Short continued. ‘Margaret got in touch with me out of the blue a week ago. I must admit that I was intrigued. I’d heard a lot about her, at least about the rift with her parents. I only had time to see her the day that she died. We were flying to Barcelona that evening and I tried to put her off until my return, but she insisted. “I don’t know how long I have,” she said. So I went into the office specially to meet her.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘She was an impressive woman. Articulate and attractive. She said that she was dying and that she wanted to order her affairs. I asked if the cancer might not be treated. There’s been so much progress in medical matters. But she said she wasn’t interested in fighting the disease. She had no desire to prolong her life.’ Vera thought she could understand that. She wasn’t a woman who stood on her dignity, but she’d hate hospital, the tests and the poking about, tubes and needles. It was the only reason she was making an effort to get fit.
‘Margaret was here to make a will?’ Joe Ashworth, wanting things clear and tidy.
Short nodded. ‘I asked about the value of her estate. She said that there was no property. “I didn’t take after my father, Mr Short. I never felt the need to accumulate houses.” But there was a little cash on deposit and, as she had no family, she wanted to make sure that it found a good home.’
‘You drew up the will for her then?’ Vera had a sudden realization of her own mortality, followed by a moment of panic. What would happen when she died, to the house that she still thought of as Hector’s, to the little cash she had on deposit? Perhaps she should make an appointment with this quiet and courteous man and make arrangements of her own. But how would she divide up her belongings? It seemed even more of a challenge than buying a Secret Santa Christmas present for a member of her team.
Short was talking. ‘No. Apart from one complication, it was all quite straightforward and she was eager to complete the business with one visit, but because of that complication I persuaded her to wait until I returned from my holiday.’
‘Can you tell us the proposed terms of the will?’
‘In the circumstances, of course. We agreed on the wording, apart from one bequest. Margaret Krukowski had fifty thousand pounds in fixed-rate bonds and ISAs with the North of England Building Society. She intended to leave ten thousand to her friend Kate Dewar,’ he looked at handwritten notes on his lap, ‘“an investment in a musical talent”. Ten thousand was to go to a charity for homeless women called the Haven, and ten thousand to “my old friend Malcolm Kerr, in gratitude for his help and support over the years”. And the remaining cash, twenty thousand pounds, to . . .’ he paused ‘. . . Deirdre Robson. I understand that she was your second murder victim. I got in touch with you as soon as I heard.’
For a moment Vera didn’t speak. Ideas and questions were spinning around her head. Fifty thousand might seem a modest sum to the lawyer, but it was considerable for a woman who’d spent the last twenty years as a glorified chambermaid and kitchen assistant. And ten thousand might be enough to save the Haven from closure. She wondered if Margaret had talked to Jane Cameron about the bequest. If she’d had second thoughts when Dee had been asked to leave the hostel.
Short went on. ‘The complication was the bequest to Miss Robson. The money wasn’t to go to her directly, but to a third party to administer the money on her behalf, to befriend and assist her, and to provide additional funds to supplement her benefits. It wasn’t a usual clause in a will, and I explained that I’d need to check the wording.’
‘Had she chosen this friend to look after Dee Robson?’ Vera wished Margaret was still alive so that she could discuss all this; Vera would have applauded the woman’s generosity and common sense.
‘It was another of the beneficiaries, Malcolm Kerr.’
Vera wondered what all that was about. Malcolm was hardly the most reliable of Margaret’s acquaintances. Perhaps she’d hoped that responsibility for Dee Robson would stop him falling apart through grief and self-pity.
Short was continuing to speak. ‘I wondered if she’d asked Mr Kerr if he was willing to take on the role. It seemed to me rather an onerous task. She said that she’d discussed it with him in general terms. I said that she should get his specific and formal agreement to the arrangement before we drew up her will.’
‘How did you leave matters?’
‘That she would talk to Mr Kerr and ask if he’d be willing to meet me. We’d even made an appointment.’ Short turned away and Vera thought that even after such a brief contact, he was mourning the death of a wom
an whom he’d admired.
‘What happens to the money now?’ She saw that Joe was keen to get home. He knew this was unofficial overtime and wouldn’t go on his expenses sheet.
Short gave a sad smile. ‘We try to find her next of kin. No children and no immediate family, so it won’t be easy. Certainly none of the friends she’d hoped to help will benefit .’
They sat in Vera’s Land Rover to discuss the conversation. The street was quiet. ‘Well, that doesn’t help much.’ Vera fished in her pocket for the evidence bag and offered a biscuit to Joe, who shook his head. ‘Some of the people we might have considered suspects had every reason to keep Margaret alive. If they knew what she was planning, of course.’ A young couple, their arms around each other, walked down the pavement towards them. They stopped under a street light and kissed.
‘Where did she get all that money?’
Vera thought about that. ‘If she’d been frugal, she might have saved a bit when she was working for Malcolm’s father. Left on deposit for all those years, it could have grown into something substantial.’
‘Why wouldn’t she spend it, though?’ Joe couldn’t get his head round that one. ‘Why live in that tiny flat when she had the deposit for a bigger place of her own?’
Vera shook her head. ‘Maybe she just liked it where she was, being part of Kate Dewar’s family.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You’d best get on home. Sal will be making wax models of me and sticking pins in.’
He had his car door open when her phone rang. It was Holly, her voice triumphant. Vera listened. ‘Well done, Hol. Brilliant work!’ And she could sense Holly beaming on the other end of the line.
‘What was all that about?’ Joe pretended lack of interest, but she could tell that he was desperate to know.
‘Holly, showing a bit of initiative. George Enderby, one of the regulars at the Harbour Guest House, the publisher’s rep . . .’
Joe nodded.
‘He told us he was on his way to Newcastle for work, then to Scotland to visit a couple of independent bookshops there,’ Vera said. ‘And that tonight he was staying in Mardle again on his way home.’
‘And?’ Curiosity was getting the better of Joe and making him shirty.
‘He’s a publisher’s rep all right. One of their longest-serving employees, apparently. Very highly thought of. But he’s not at work this week. He finished last Friday for his Christmas holidays.’
‘So what’s he doing in Mardle?’
Chapter Twenty-Three
They were at the early-morning briefing and the focus was on George Enderby.
‘Why would Enderby come north to stay in Harbour Street if he’s not here for work?’ Vera was pacing up and down in front of the whiteboard. Since Holly had come up with the information, Vera had been worrying at the notion. She couldn’t see the man as a killer, but couldn’t imagine why he would lie. She looked around the room. Most of the team were bleary-eyed and untidy. No energy. She’d dragged them in early. ‘What do we know about him? Holly?’
‘Nothing,’ Holly said. She was still sharp and smart. ‘No record.’
‘Have we got him on CCTV?’
‘A possible sighting of him walking down Harbour Street towards the Coble with another guy on the day that Margaret died, but it’s just a back view from the Metro, so it’s hard to tell.’
Vera wondered if Holly had been to bed or if she’d been in the station all night. ‘Do we know where he is now?’
‘He checked into the Harbour Guest House yesterday. I phoned in the evening and got Chloe, Kate Dewar’s daughter. Apparently he asked if he could stay an extra night, so he’s not scheduled to leave until tomorrow. I’ve asked the team canvassing in the area to keep a lookout for his car, in case he changes his mind.’
Vera thought about that. ‘Okay. So why would Enderby want to hang around in Mardle if he’s the killer? Why not get away from the place as soon as he had the chance?’
Charlie raised a hand. ‘Some killers do haunt the crime scene. They get a thrill out of watching the investigation.’
Vera could imagine that. Enderby with his spy stories, watching the action playing out in front of him, thinking that he could outwit the police. She paused and came to a decision. ‘Hol, you carry on the good work here. Any connection between Enderby and Margaret or Dee, we want to know about it. He told me that he supported Margaret’s good causes with cash. Did he help out more directly, go to the Haven or meet up with Dee Robson at any time? Let’s make some connections. Joe, you’re with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Coble. If Enderby was heading in that direction the day Margaret died, that’s probably where he ended up. Let’s go and see.’
The pub was closed. Outside a scattering of cigarette ends on the pavement and, even from where they stood, the smell of stale beer. Inside a tiny woman was pushing a Hoover across the floor. It was as big as she was. Vera banged on the window, but the woman didn’t hear until she turned off the machine. She shook her head and pointed to her watch. Vera held up her warrant card to the dirty window and eventually the door was unbolted.
‘Do you run this place?’
‘Nah, I’m just the cleaner.’ She was nervous. Vera suspected she was paid cash in hand and still claimed benefit.
‘Who does?’
‘Lawrence. He lives in the flat upstairs.’
‘Well, give him a shout, pet. Then you can get on.’
‘I’ll unlock the door and you can go up yourself.’ She was as skinny and shapeless as a ten-year-old girl. Nicotine on her fingers, and Vera could tell she was desperate for a tab. She’d be outside on the pavement smoking as soon as she’d got rid of them.
She led them through the lounge bar to a back corridor and took a string of keys on a chain from her apron pocket. Vera was reminded of a prison officer at locking-up time.
Lawrence was up, but only just. He was wearing jogging bottoms and a vest and his feet were bare. Vera had knocked on the door at the top of the narrow stairs, Joe standing behind her. The landlord was probably expecting the cleaner, a demand for payment or for new dusters.
‘Who are you?’ A giant of a man, but somehow gentle with it. Vera would have sworn like a trooper, if strangers had turned up in her home at this hour of the morning. He stood back to let them in. The room looked out over Harbour Street and onto the water.
‘Were you in the bar on the night Margaret Krukowski was murdered in the Metro?’
‘I was working early on,’ he said, ‘but not when the news first came through. The other bar staff had come in by then and I was up here, taking my break.’
‘Quiet, was it, early on?’
‘Yeah, dead. Snow had been forecast and everyone was keen to get home.’ He leaned against the windowsill and turned to look out into the street.
‘So you’d remember anyone in the bar that evening?’
‘Early on, like I said. Not later. The Metro closed down and folk couldn’t get into town, so they all piled in here.’
‘George Enderby,’ Vera said. He didn’t respond straight away, so she continued, ‘He’s one of the regular guests at Kate Dewar’s guest house.’
Lawrence nodded to show that he knew who they were talking about. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘He was in that afternoon with a mate. Older. Kind of scruffy.’
‘Malcolm Kerr?’
‘Nah!’ Lawrence said. ‘He was in later, and he had a skinful. I didn’t know the other man.’
‘Was Dee Robson in then too? We know she was in sometime that afternoon. She picked up a guy called Jason. Then she was back later in the evening.’ Vera remembered seeing the woman coming out of the pub, tottering on her heels, bowled along by the jeers.
Lawrence thought for a minute. ‘I don’t think she was in at the same time as the men. They were on their own in the lounge.’
‘What were they talking about?’
Lawrence shook his head. ‘No idea! There was music and they were in the far corner. Wh
en I went to collect their glasses they shut up.’
‘But you’d have got some impression of their mood,’ Vera said. ‘It’d be instinctive, wouldn’t it, picking up the atmosphere in the pub. Keeping an eye out for trouble.’
Lawrence gave a little chuckle. ‘Those two would be no trouble. A couple of old gadgies, sitting over a pint. But one of them was upset. At one point he was crying.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one you were asking about. George Enderby.’
Then Vera’s brain was buzzing. Because George couldn’t have been crying for Margaret Krukowski. At that point she was still alive, making her way to the solicitor’s office in Gosforth, to talk about her will. Perhaps she’d talked to George and told him that she was dying, but then there’d be no need for the man to have lied to the police. And he’d still have had time to drive to Gosforth, to follow Margaret onto the Metro and to have killed her. Then plenty of time to collect his car and drive back to Harbour Street, arriving in the guest house just before Vera and Joe had turned up. But he’d been so charming then, so confident and pleasant. Not the demeanour of a man who’d just committed murder. Or that of a man who’d sat in a pub earlier in the day crying.
‘You really don’t know who the other bloke was?’ This was Joe, getting impatient, while she was staring out of the window lost in thought.
‘I’ve seen him about in Harbour Street,’ Lawrence said. ‘He goes out with Malcolm Kerr in the boat to the island. Some sort of research.’
Mike Craggs, who’d also lied. He’d said he drove home to the Tyne Valley as soon as he got back from Coquet Island.
