Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street

by Ann Cleeves

  Vera thought that Enderby and Craggs were stupid men. She couldn’t see them as killers, so why hadn’t they told the truth? Unless this was a great conspiracy and all the suspects were in it together. She smiled at the thought. She was back to Enderby and his fantasies, his wild fictions. ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Lawrence didn’t ask anything about the investigation. She liked his gentleness and his lack of curiosity. He’d make a better priest than Peter Gruskin. ‘I’ll show you out,’ he said and padded ahead of them, his bare feet splayed and huge like a bear’s.

  Downstairs it was quiet. The cleaner had moved into the toilets. In the lounge there was a painting of a fat old woman. She was leaning forward with her elbows on the bar. It wasn’t a brilliant painting, but it gave an impression of someone strong and eccentric.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Vera nodded towards it as they passed.

  ‘Val Butt.’ Lawrence smiled. ‘She managed this place for years. I took over from her. She was quite a character. A fierce lady. People still tell stories about her.’

  Out in the street the morning was moving on. Women were already in the fisheries preparing to open for lunchtime. Vera phoned Holly. ‘Tell me you’ve found another connection between Margaret and Enderby.’ Looking up the street, she could see that his car was still there. Why was he staying two more days, instead of only his usual one? Perhaps he was one of the ghouls who found a murder investigation exciting, who travelled from crime scene to crime scene like a rock-star groupie.

  ‘Nothing of any real importance. As we already know, he went along to the winter fair at the Haven a few weeks ago. He’d donated some books for them to sell and acted as their Father Christmas. According to the woman in charge, he spent a fortune on raffle tickets and whenever he won a prize he put it back on the stall.’

  ‘Did you get a list of residents who were staying there then?’

  ‘Of course.’ Holly was still full of herself after making the discovery about Enderby. ‘The same bunch as are there now, apart from an emergency admission, a woman who’d been beaten by her husband. She’s since got an injunction and is back in the family house.’ She paused. ‘Dee Robson was there for the afternoon too. Margaret took her along for a treat.’

  Vera remembered Jane Cameron’s words. Not just for a treat, but to make a point.

  ‘Boss?’ Holly still on the line and impatient.

  ‘See if you can track down Professor Craggs,’ Vera said. ‘We need to talk to him too.’

  She switched off the phone and started up Harbour Street. Joe Ashworth followed and caught up with her, so they were walking side by side. ‘You can’t really think that Enderby and Craggs planned the murder?’ He thought she was mad.

  ‘They’ve lied to me,’ she said. ‘Both of them.’

  ‘People lie to the police for all sorts of reasons.’

  ‘But they shouldn’t.’ She stopped abruptly to catch her breath. ‘They shouldn’t lie to me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kate was drinking coffee in the kitchen with Stuart when there was a knock at the door, so loud that she jumped and felt an irrational surge of fear. They’d had a lazy morning. George Enderby had come to the dining room for breakfast as usual and then had disappeared. The kids were out. The house was still and quiet; it rarely was, and she thought that in the future their life could be like this, peaceful and easy. Then there was the knock at the door and Stuart looked up from the newspaper on his lap, frowning. ‘Shall I go?’

  But he seemed so settled there, and a little elderly in the harsh light of a working kitchen, so she got to her feet and kissed his forehead as she went past him and felt the skin very dry on her lips.

  She looked through the hall window before opening the door and saw the fat detective and her sidekick standing outside.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, pet. Do you mind if we come in?’ And by the time Vera Stanhope had finished the words she was inside the house, the younger man trailing after her. Kate wondered how that must make him feel, always in the fat woman’s shadow.

  Vera stood in the hall, rubbing her hands against the cold, as if they’d been waiting outside for hours and not just a few minutes.

  ‘I was wondering if we could get breakfast,’ she said. ‘I mean, we’d buy it of course. We’d have to. These days even a freebie fry-up might be taken the wrong way. Bribery and corruption.’

  And she flashed a bright smile, so Kate wondered if this was the only reason for the visit – if they’d disturbed her perfect morning just to make them bacon and eggs. Or if this was some kind of weird joke. She remembered the rush of adrenaline when she’d heard the banging on the door and felt angry. The cheek of the woman! It was hard to believe this was happening – the strange woman invading her house and demanding breakfast. But then it was hard to believe that two women had been killed in the town.

  Vera was still talking. ‘You’re not on your own, are you? I thought you still had guests staying.’

  ‘Only George,’ Kate said. ‘George Enderby.’

  ‘Ah, I thought I saw his car outside. We wouldn’t have disturbed you if we’d thought you were planning to take the day off.’ She walked further into the house, looking round her. ‘Is Mr Enderby around?’ She made the question casual, but Kate could tell it was important.

  ‘He went out,’ Kate said.

  ‘Oh?’ Still the pretence that it didn’t really matter. ‘But his car’s still there.’

  ‘He got the Metro into town.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’ Vera’s eyes were sharp as tacks and there was no mention now of Kate cooking breakfast for her. It seemed that was just a pretext to get through the door.

  ‘Some library? Something about getting a fix, a visit to a proper place for books to be cherished, before he heads south tomorrow.’ George had mentioned it at breakfast, but Kate hadn’t taken much notice.

  ‘The Lit & Phil Library?’

  ‘Yes!’ Kate thought the inspector must be some sort of witch to have guessed that right. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s where book-lovers hang out.’ Vera flashed her another smile. ‘And the lonely and the slightly mad. I should know. I’m a member myself.’ Another pause. ‘Can you show Joe here into Mr Enderby’s room? I need to get back to work.’

  Kate hesitated. She found it hard to stand up to the fat detective. ‘But I can’t do that. It’s an invasion of his privacy.’

  ‘It’s your house, pet. Give us permission and we don’t need a warrant.’

  They stood for a moment staring at each other, and finally Kate gave in. She didn’t owe George Enderby anything and, if he was involved in these murders, then it was her duty to help the police. She wondered what Stuart would make of it. Surely he would agree too. And perhaps there’d always been something a bit odd about the man, something a bit unsettling.

  Kate went into the kitchen to fetch her keys and, when she returned, Vera Stanhope had disappeared. It was hard to imagine that such a big woman could move so quickly or so lightly. The sergeant followed her up the stairs and waited in silence while she opened the door. She thought he would send her away, but he nodded for her to go in first. Perhaps he needed her there as a witness. Kate hadn’t been in to make up the room yet, but it was tidy as always, the duvet folded back to air the bed, the cup on the tray next to the kettle.

  George’s holdall was open on the floor in the corner. It seemed that he hadn’t really bothered to unpack this time, and that was unusual. Normally he hung up his work shirts and his jacket as soon as he arrived. ‘If you’re a salesman, Kate, first impressions count.’

  Standing next to it was the wheelie suitcase in which George carried his samples. The sergeant laid it flat on the floor and unzipped it. Inside she saw some jeans and a heavy jersey, a pair of walking boots and a waterproof jacket.

  ‘But where are the books?’ Kate couldn’t help herself.

  ‘What books?’ The sergeant looked up. He was still kneeling
on the floor. He frowned a little.

  ‘He carries books in the suitcase. Samples to show the shopkeepers.’

  The detective said nothing. He began opening the drawers, but all George’s clothes were still in the holdall. Joe Ashworth emptied that carefully, laying each item on the bed, but it seemed there was nothing of interest to him. He looked in the bathroom, before turning back to Kate. ‘That’s been very helpful. Thank you.’ His face gave nothing away. She wanted to ask if they thought George was a murderer.

  ‘I have children,’ she said. ‘A daughter. Is it safe to let Mr Enderby stay here tonight?’ She could hear the hysteria in her own voice.

  There was only a moment of hesitation before he replied. ‘We have no evidence against Mr Enderby. We think he can help us with our enquiries.’

  She didn’t find that reassuring.

  At the bottom of the stairs the detective held out his hand and thanked her again. He could have been one of her paying guests.

  Stuart was still in the kitchen. He’d heard Kate come down the stairs and already had the coffee machine on again. ‘What was all that about?’ He didn’t look at her as he asked the question and she couldn’t tell how curious he really was.

  ‘The police. They wanted to look inside George’s room.’

  ‘Did you let them?’ Now he did turn to look at her.

  ‘Yes.’ She wondered now if she’d been a coward not to stand up to them. ‘If it helps find the killer . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘You think George could be the murderer?’ Stuart waited for her to answer and she saw that this wasn’t an idle question. She recognized the teacher in him. He’d use the same tone standing in front of his class. Is that really how you think that piece should be played? He seemed unusually serious.

  She took his question seriously too. ‘No,’ she said at last, because despite her earlier misgivings and the hesitation in the detective’s voice, it was impossible to think of quiet and gentle George Enderby hurting anyone. She’d seen him open a window to allow a wasp to escape. ‘What reason would George have for killing Margaret? And he’d have hardly known Dee Robson. Unless she’d tried to pick him up in the Coble.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Stuart frowned.

  ‘Dee was always trying to pick up men in the Coble. The locals knew her and just made fun of her.’ Kate couldn’t help an awkward smile, as she thought how embarrassed George Enderby would be by such an encounter. Polite and awkward, but terrified too.

  ‘Are you saying that Dee Robson was a prostitute?’ The coffee had stopped dripping and he poured a mug for Kate. She saw that he was shocked. She had never thought of him as a prude.

  ‘I suppose I am. Not a very good one, though.’ She gave a nervous smile. ‘An amateur, not a professional.’ Then she thought the attempt at humour was in poor taste. The woman had just been killed. She slid a look at Stuart, but if he disapproved of her flippancy he didn’t show it. He seemed lost in thought.

  ‘What shall we do for the rest of the day?’ She imagined a walk in the hills. The kids had said they’d be out until the evening, so there was no danger they’d be in the house alone with George. She and Stuart had talked about doing a part of Hadrian’s Wall. Then perhaps lunch in a pub. A real fire and homemade broth. Suddenly she was desperate to escape from Mardle and Harbour Street.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be a bit tied up after all.’ She was expecting an explanation, but he still seemed preoccupied. He jumped to his feet as if he had a sudden impulse to escape from her. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped abruptly. ‘Can I come round again later?’

  ‘Of course!’ It came to her now that the strange behaviour had a logical explanation: he was going into town to buy her Christmas present. That was why he was being so secretive. ‘You know you can come here at any time.’ And she turned her head to kiss him.

  Left to herself in the big house, Kate felt that things were slipping out of her control. She wished now that the children were still at home, that Ryan was back from Malcolm’s boatyard and that Chloe hadn’t disappeared into town with a mysterious friend. She wanted everyone here, where she could keep an eye on them. Where they’d be safe.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Joe crossed the road so that he couldn’t be seen from the Harbour Guest House basement and wondered what he should do next. He assumed Vera had gone into town on the trail of George Enderby. She’d probably dragged Holly or Charlie along with her, a corroborative witness if the case came to court. He tried phoning her, but the call went straight to voice-mail. Joe was still standing there dithering, phone in his hand, when the door of the guest house opened and Stuart Booth emerged. He hesitated and then looked back at the house. Joe expected Kate Dewar to follow, but the man closed the door behind him and remained there for a moment. Dithering too. They formed mirror images of each other on both sides of the road. Booth seemed to come to a decision, before making a dash across the street to join Joe outside the church.

  ‘I wonder if I might talk to you, Sergeant. I have some information; it might be relevant to the murder of Margaret Krukowski.’

  Joe was in a pool car and he drove Booth to the police station in Kimmerston. Vera might have done it differently, had some informal chat over tea or beer or chips. But Joe wanted this done properly – the man’s words recorded. Driving to Kimmerston, he felt a tingle of excitement. It occurred to him that the man intended to confess to murder: Booth was so still and so serious.

  In the car Booth didn’t speak. Joe turned occasionally to sneak a look at him and saw that he was staring out of the window, very tense. The muscles in his face were set hard. Joe had come across men like him in rural Northumberland. Hill farmers and shepherds, with few words. Tough, sinewy men. It was hard to imagine Booth as a musician. Joe had looked him up, and Google said that jazz was his thing. Perhaps that was when he did relax, and he could picture the man then in a basement bar playing saxophone, head tilted back, eyes half-closed, wrapped up in his music.

  ‘What instrument do you play?’ The question came without thought.

  Booth didn’t turn away from the window to answer. ‘At school, whatever they need me to. Piano for assembly, recorder to start the little buggers off. But for pleasure, the alto sax.’

  Joe was pleased that he’d guessed right.

  In the station Joe got Booth coffee from the staffroom, in a mug, not the cardboard cups they usually gave to witnesses. One of Vera’s tricks. Holly had gone into town with Vera in search of Enderby, so Charlie sat in, the silent man, the observer, while for once Joe took charge of the discussion. They sat in an interview room and their words bounced off the gloss-painted walls and seemed to rattle like hail from the ceiling. He asked if he might record their discussion and Booth nodded.

  ‘So, Mr Booth, you said that you have some information about Margaret Krukowski.’

  It took Booth a while to speak. Perhaps he was expecting the officers to ask him direct questions.

  As he waited, Joe looked at him, taking in the details. His clothes. Denim jeans and a checked shirt and knitted sweater. Those sturdy trainers that could act as walking boots. Booth was wearing a green fleece too, though it was warm in here. He wouldn’t be a man to feel the cold, but it would have taken movement to get it off, and still he wasn’t moving much. A face moulded by the weather, and eyes like slate.

  ‘Margaret Krukowski was a prostitute,’ Booth said. ‘Not recently, as far as I know, but years ago. I only just discovered – when Kate said it – that Dee Robson was a sex worker. And suddenly it seemed important.’

  Sparks were firing now in Joe’s head. So we’re not looking for a man who hates women, but a man who hates prostitutes. He wondered what Vera would make of the news, then thought she might not be surprised that church-going Margaret had once worked in the sex trade. The boss had said from the beginning that they needed to uncover Margaret’s secret.

  ‘How do you know that, Mr Booth?’

  He to
ok a deep breath. ‘Because I used her services. Regularly, over a number of years.’ Joe thought the man would stop there, but he continued to speak. Joe thought that a priest taking confession might feel like he did now – curiosity flecked with embarrassment and distaste. Booth continued: ‘I was a newly qualified teacher, awkward, shy. Needing a relationship, but not sure about how to get one. A kind of joke with the other musicians. One of them gave me her number.’ Even now he seemed to be blushing at the memory. ‘I got drunk one night and phoned her.’ He paused. ‘She didn’t call herself Margaret, of course, and never mentioned a second name.’

  ‘What did she call herself?’ The room was on the ground floor, and outside there was the background rumble of traffic.

  ‘Anna,’ he said. ‘She told me she was Polish, but I didn’t believe that. Her accent was English. Perhaps she thought the story would make her seem more exotic.’

  ‘She married a Polish man.’ Joe felt an urge to stand up for the woman, despite her chosen profession. ‘So it was almost the truth.’

  ‘Well, of course she never told me that she’d been married.’

  ‘The marriage didn’t last long,’ Joe said. ‘Only a couple of years.’

  ‘I was probably with her longer than her husband.’ Booth leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. The notion seemed to give him some satisfaction.

  ‘Where did she live?’

  ‘Where she was living when she died.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘That flat in Harbour Street. The house was very different then, but her rooms were always clean, pleasant. You’d walk up the stairs past the sound of kids grizzling and the smells of cooking, and then you’d go into her place. Everything calm and warm. Like going into a different world. I went for that, as much as for the sex. The escape from reality.’

  ‘She worked from her home?’ Joe was surprised by that. All the working girls he knew were fiercely protective of their privacy.