Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘They’ve stopped the search for the night. Seems to me it’ll take days to go through all that stuff. And even if there’s anything important among all the crap, I’m not sure we’d recognize it.’ He could tell that she was exhausted and frustrated. She was losing faith in her ability to see the case to an end. He was tempted to offer to meet her. He wouldn’t have minded sitting in her untidy house talking through the strands of the investigation. But as soon as the thought came into his head, he knew it was impossible. Sal would have a fit. The fantasies of Margaret set up in her small oasis of civilization in Harbour Street and receiving her gentleman callers had excited him. Instead he would share a bottle of wine with his wife and they would have an early night. Vera Stanhope could do without him for once.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Kate Dewar tried to drive to the end of Harbour Street to turn around. She always liked her car to be facing the right way outside the house when she parked. But she had to back all the way up the street again, because a uniformed officer waved to show that there was no way through. Outside Malcolm’s yard there was a minibus and a van, dozens of police officers in dark-blue anoraks. They were putting up screens so that you couldn’t see anything from the road. Blue-and-white tape, like on television detective shows, but twisted upside down and back to front so that she couldn’t read what it said. She guessed: Police. Do Not Enter. Did that mean Malcolm had been arrested? She shivered at the thought that her son had been working so closely with a killer. Perhaps the investigation was nearly over and life would go back to normal. She and Stuart could continue making plans to move and start their new life.

  In the house Chloe was in – she helped Kate carry the shopping down the stairs to the kitchen – but there was no sign of Ryan. She wondered briefly what he was up to, imagined him prowling. He needs a girlfriend, she thought. Someone stable, without too much imagination. She was sorry Ryan was out; he would have known what was going on in Harbour Street.

  George Enderby was in the lounge. He’d helped himself to whisky.

  ‘I put some money on the dresser,’ he said. ‘I hope that’s all right. I spoke to the inspector. She said that I can leave tomorrow, so you’ll be rid of me then, Kate.’ He gave a lopsided grin and she thought that really he would have liked to stay. Or he wanted her to say that she would miss him.

  ‘We’ll miss you,’ she said, wondering if there was really any difference sometimes between kindness and desperation to please. ‘But Diana will be glad to have you home.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Diana’s moved on. She has a new man. Just like you.’ Kate wondered if he’d been sitting here all afternoon drinking her whisky, or if he’d been brooding in the lounge bar at the pub, buying drinks in return for company. He didn’t seem drunk, but still he was hardly himself.

  ‘Do you know what’s going on at Malcolm’s yard?’ If he’d been in the pub he might have heard the gossip.

  ‘No.’ He seemed hardly to care.

  Back in the kitchen she put away all the food she’d bought for Christmas.

  Chloe was on the sofa in the living room and there was a book face-down beside her. She’d changed into different clothes, though, a pretty top that she usually only wore for going out, and she’d put on eye-liner and mascara. Kate wondered if one of her friends had been round. Chloe called through to her mother, ‘Oh, Stuart phoned.’ Implying that any call for her mother could have no importance and that she’d only just remembered. ‘He said that you weren’t answering your mobile.’

  Kate stood in the doorway between the two rooms. She was clasping a huge bag of washing powder to her stomach as if it were a baby. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Nothing.’ That breezy voice. ‘He just said to tell you that he’d called.’

  Kate phoned Stuart, but there was no response. She left him a message, saying that she was in. ‘Come round, if you’re not busy. It’d be lovely to see you.’ She thought that the balance of power had shifted between them. In the beginning Stuart had been the eager one, turning up on her doorstep, excited. Now she felt more needy, less certain of his affection.

  She couldn’t settle and climbed the stairs to the landing close to Margaret’s room. From the round window there was a view over Malcolm’s yard. It seemed to her that the police officers were searching for something specific. They had their own method, she could tell: meticulous, shifting all Malcolm’s gear to one end of the yard. It was almost dark and suddenly the street lights came on and quite clearly she saw Ryan, peering through the railings, trying to see past the screens, along with other rubber-neckers. No doubt there’d already be a photo on his smartphone and he’d have sent it to all his friends. Then he’d move on, pacing the pavement, restless as ever.

  Back in the kitchen she tried to phone Stuart again, but still he didn’t answer.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Vera would have continued searching Malcolm’s yard all night, would have been there on her own with only a torch and the street lights to illuminate the scene, if she hadn’t realized that it would look ridiculous. They’d already gathered an audience. Teenage kids and workers on their way from the Metro to the Coble for a drink before heading home. Staff from the fisheries on their fag breaks. Malcolm wasn’t there. He was at home, sitting in the bleak living room in the house on Percy Street, with Charlie to keep an eye on him. She felt a moment of guilt about Malcolm, a moment of self-doubt. She didn’t have enough evidence to charge him, but the locals would all have him down as the murderer now, even if the search team didn’t find anything in the yard. The press had turned out big-style, before the team gave up the operation for the night, and there would be lurid pictures in the papers the next day. His ex-wife had already done an exclusive with a tabloid, telling them that Malcolm had once battered her.

  When the search team pulled out they left a PC to secure the yard and another outside Malcolm Kerr’s place. She gave Charlie a lift home and they sat for a moment outside his house. There was a light on inside and the curtains were shut. So Charlie had found another woman then. Vera thought that maybe she wasn’t such a bad detective after all.

  ‘Who is she?’ She nodded towards the house. Then, when he didn’t reply immediately: ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, keeping quiet about a new woman in your life.’

  ‘It’s not a new woman. At least, not how you mean.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s my daughter. She finished uni in the summer and couldn’t get a job. Couldn’t get on with her mother, either. So she’s back with me.’ He grinned despite himself.

  ‘It’s working out okay?’ Vera supposed she must have known that Charlie had a daughter, but couldn’t remember anything about her.

  ‘Champion!’ He grinned again. ‘She’s doing work experience with an engineering company in Blyth, thinks she might get a real job at the end of it.’ He couldn’t keep the pride from his voice.

  ‘Good for your lass.’ Meaning it really. But Charlie had been a loner like her since his wife had left, and now it seemed that Vera was the only oddball in the team. She couldn’t help feeling she’d been deserted, that he’d let her down.

  When Charlie disappeared into the house without a second glance back at her, she phoned Joe. She’d have liked to spend a bit of time with him, but she could tell there was no way he’d come out. His lass would want him for herself: mulled wine and carols and crap TV. So Vera drove home and sat alone in the cold house. Drinking like she had in the old days, before she got the doctor’s warning. Worrying at the case, not allowing herself to think that they’d find nothing of any importance in Malcolm Kerr’s yard; that all that manpower and expense would be wasted and she’d be a laughing stock.

  The next day she was first in the briefing room. A hangover, dull like a bruise or an aching shoulder. The team turned up on time. Eager and expecting results, because she’d been so positive the day before.

  She stood in front of them and tried to keep her energy level high. ‘Hol. Charlie. A
ny news on our elusive friend Pawel?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Holly pulled a face. ‘I took it over yesterday afternoon when Charlie went out to Mardle, but civil servants seem to stop working at least a week before a bank holiday. I’ve got a couple more contacts to try today.’

  ‘That’s our priority. The searchers will be back at first light, and if they find anything we need to know what we’re working with. We need a date for the last time we can prove that the man was alive.’ Vera swept her eyes around the room. ‘Charlie, how was Malcolm yesterday? Did you get any sense from him that he’s bothered by us digging around in the yard?’

  ‘Nah. He seemed kind of frozen. As if he didn’t care one way or another.’

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘I’m going to see the woman who ran the Coble for years. Prof. Craggs has some photos which suggest that they were all friends – the Kerrs, Margaret and the landlady and her son. Maybe Pawel too. Susan Coulson from the Haven says she knew the others, though she has no memory of Margaret’s husband. The landlady’s name is Valerie Butt and Charlie’s tracked her down to an address in Mardle.’ He turned apologetically to Vera, as if he knew he wasn’t helping much. He realized that what she needed now was proof that Krukowski was dead. Bones. Teeth. Or a witness who had seen him killed. ‘I thought she might remember gossip about Pawel disappearing suddenly. I’m still a bit confused about timings, about when exactly he left the town. Talking to other people might help.’

  Vera thought it was a long shot, but she didn’t want to put him down again in front of the others. Whatever his shortcomings, he’d always be her favourite. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Why not? Worth a punt.’

  It was light now and the team would have started in Harbour Street. She was drawn back there. A terrible fascination, because she knew that if nothing was found, her theory would be baseless. If Pawel hadn’t been killed by Kerr, or with his help, there’d have been nothing more for Margaret to confess to and no reason for Kerr to have killed her. Vera was certain that Margaret had been keeping a more profound secret than just her profession. Without a body, Vera would have to rethink the investigation entirely. Immediately after the briefing she headed back to Mardle, only telling Joe where she was going.

  When she arrived they’d searched most of the yard. There was one rusting hull to get into and Malcolm’s shed still to clear. She stood by the fence, feeling the tension coming up from her feet like the cold. She couldn’t keep still, but she knew better than to interfere. Bad enough that she was here, keeping them in her sight, instead of letting them get on with it. She’d hate a superior officer watching over her. She knew what they were thinking: Doesn’t the woman have any work of her own to get on with? In the end she could stand it no longer and walked away, telling herself that she wanted coffee, but really just needing to move, the nerves in her body jingling, the muscles in her face tense.

  On the other side of the road Peter Gruskin hesitated on the pavement, looking in at the activity outside the yard. She caught his eye and he hurried away. She thought that he was like a crow, hovering over a piece of carrion. A predator on other people’s miseries. But then she’d inherited Hector’s antipathy to the clergy.

  In the smart cafe opposite the health centre she drank black coffee and ate a croissant. It had almond paste in the middle, very sweet, and she felt a rush of energy from the caffeine and the sugar. She knew she should get back to the police station in Kimmerston. That was her proper place. In an office. She should leave the detail to other people. But she told herself it would do no harm to call back into the search site first. They might have found something in the last half-hour. It would be crazy to drive away without checking.

  When she arrived at Malcolm’s yard there was no sense of urgency. Most of the officers were standing by the fence drinking tea from flasks. Just a couple of men were emptying the junk from the shed. First she felt angry and then sick with disappointment. They’d given up. She bobbed under the tape to join them. Now the shed was empty and there was nothing left but the small stove standing on the bare concrete floor. She went inside and found the team leader there.

  He looked at her. Part pity and part derision. ‘Nothing.’ He was a Scouser and it sounded as though he was spitting the word. ‘No clothing dating back to the time in question. Nothing that could have belonged to your man. No sign that anything’s been buried, or that the concrete’s been disturbed anywhere in the yard.’

  ‘Except in here.’ Coffee, sugar and a flash of the new idea made her almost light-headed. No hangover now. ‘There was a wooden temporary office here before the shed. Smart; linked to mains services. It was burned down. There was a suspicion that it was an insurance scam. But maybe Kerr wanted to hide a body, hide the evidence of a murder. A fire would give him an excuse to replace the floor. The shed appeared on the same site soon after. Nobody would have noticed, would they? Customers coming into the yard would have thought any work was connected to the fire damage.’

  ‘You want us to dig up the floor in here?’ He looked at her as if she was crazy.

  ‘Aye, I do.’ She smiled, knowing that she seemed manic, unhinged. ‘Humour a mad old woman, eh? All those fit men out there, it won’t take more than a few minutes.’

  She walked away from him across the yard, her coat flapping behind her. As she emerged from the screen onto the pavement there was the click of a camera. The press were there already then. More predators. She walked up the street to her vehicle and drove back to Kimmerston. Partly because she couldn’t stand the stress of watching them: the men with their picks and shovels and wheelbarrows of debris, calling her all sorts under their breath. The waiting would send her blood pressure sky-high. But there was another reason too. She didn’t need to hang around because she knew she was right. She was sure of it. Because she felt it in her bones, just as she felt Margaret’s guilt – and because nothing else made sense. It would be better for her to be in the office when the news came through, ready to brief the rest of the team.

  The call came sooner than she’d expected it. She’d made tea, wandered over to Holly’s desk to see how she was getting on and back into her office. She left the door open. Some days it felt like a cell and she needed to let in some air. So the team saw her raise her fist, a sign of triumph and vindication. They saw her beam. And when she strode out to greet them, they had all turned to face her.

  ‘The search team has just found a body under the shed in Malcolm Kerr’s yard.’ She was fizzing, but tried to keep her voice calm and factual. ‘The concrete there is as thin as eggshell apparently. Replaced after the fire in the original building. No details yet. Paul Keating and Billy Wainwright are on their way. But the team leader reckons the skeleton of a male.’ Now she allowed herself to look out at them, to bask in their glory. ‘A young male.’

  There was a round of applause, a few cheers.

  ‘Time to bring in Malcolm Kerr, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘See to it, Charlie.’ A moment’s pause. She knew that in a performance timing was everything. ‘Didn’t I tell you this would all be over by Christmas?’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  It turned out that Val Butt wasn’t as old or as frail as Joe had expected. Prof. Craggs’s photograph of the group outside the Coble had been taken in 1975; the date was written faintly on the back in pencil. Margaret would have been thirty-two. Val Butt, large and ungainly, would have been just in her forties, already looking tired and middle-aged, and her son Rick in his mid-twenties. Val would have been hardly more than a child herself when she’d had him, and it would have been hard to be a teenage mother then. Joe tried to take the imaginative leap back to Harbour Street in the year before he was born, but the effort was too much for him. Better to find Val and talk to her.

  The woman lived on her own in a single-storeyed miners’ welfare cottage in a small estate on the outskirts of Mardle. It astonished him how many of the players in the case still lived in the town, or had connections with the place. It was as if they’d had no ambitio
n, or lacked the confidence to uproot themselves and try life elsewhere. He wondered if Kate Dewar would move away now, whether she and Stuart and the kids would set up home in a new town, make a fresh start. He hoped they would. He wasn’t given to strange thoughts, but it occurred to him suddenly that Mardle was toxic. There was something unhealthy in the air.

  He hadn’t made an appointment and it took the woman so long to get to the door that he was about to turn away. Then he heard a painful wheezing and the door opened slowly. Val Butt was huge. She was still in her nightclothes, and the pink candlewick dressing gown hardly met around her waist. She walked with the aid of a Zimmer frame and, before speaking, she let go of it with one hand and flicked ash from her cigarette onto the path beyond him. ‘Who are you?’ Eyes narrowed. The same look, he thought, she would have given the underage drinkers in the Coble, before serving them anyway.

  He introduced himself and showed his warrant card.

  ‘You’re here about Maggie Krukowski.’ There was a rattle in her voice and she gasped for breath again.

  ‘And Dee Robson.’

  ‘Aye, well. I never knew her.’ She backed herself carefully into the corridor. ‘You’d better come in. Dee was after my time. I’d have left the Coble before she was a regular there.’

  He made a pot of tea on her instruction. ‘I’m never my best in the mornings.’ She installed herself on the sofa that took up most of the tiny front room, hauling her legs onto a padded stool in front of her. ‘The carers are supposed to get here at eight to dress me, but they’re always bloody late. Most of them don’t speak English anyway.’

  ‘You knew Margaret in the Seventies and Eighties?’

  She ignored the tea and biscuits he put beside her and lit another cigarette. The room stank of smoke and the ceiling was brown with nicotine stain.