by Cleeves, Ann
Holly took one of the leather chairs. Bolitho sat opposite. ‘This is your office?’
He grimaced. ‘Not much, is it? But yes, this is where I have all my grand dreams for the house.’
‘And the dinner last night was the first step to make the dreams come true?’
He nodded. ‘I need an indication of local support before I can go cap in hand to the major funders. A commitment to sponsorship would help the project on its way. I chose a select number of people who might be prepared to contribute.’
‘You don’t find it awkward asking your friends for money?’ Holly would have disliked the idea, found it embarrassing, and the notion of being in debt to anyone made her squirm.
‘If you work in the arts in this philistine nation, you can’t afford to be squeamish.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Harriet thinks I’m a grubby little oik, demanding cash in return for a part of all this.’ He waved a hand. ‘And of course, she’s right. That’s just what I’m doing. I’m giving my city-dweller pals the illusion that they can play at country-house living, and the chance to buy into the romance and the snobbishness of it all. But what Harriet also realizes is that if we don’t do something to bring life to the place it’ll crumple around her ears. She might pretend to have nothing to do with it, but she’s not stupid. She’s a realist. It suits her to make me out as the mercenary bad guy, but she wouldn’t want me to stop.’
‘And Juliet?’ Holly asked. ‘What does she make of it?’
‘Jules trusts me.’ His voice softened. ‘Like her mother, she despises all talk of money, but she’d hate to lose the house even more. This place is in her blood. When we first got together, I knew they came as a package. Brockburn and Juliet. I would never have her if I wasn’t prepared to take the house on too.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘At a party in Newcastle. Friends of a friend. You know how it is. I could tell she wasn’t having a good time and she didn’t really know anyone. She looked very lost, very fragile. I went to rescue her.’
‘You’re her knight in shining armour?’ Holly didn’t believe in those kinds of fairy stories.
He gave a sad little smile. ‘I do try, but I’m not sure I’m terribly good in the role.’
‘Did you know Lorna Falstone?’
He shook his head. ‘I still work part-time in the city for Live Theatre. More than part-time now my job-share is away on maternity leave. I don’t ride and I don’t particularly like dogs, so I don’t fit in too well with the social scene here.’
‘Tell me what you did yesterday.’
‘I was in here all morning. Keeping out of the way. Jules has a kind of social anxiety. You’d think she’d be used to entertaining, living in this place, but it’s not really her thing. Because of the weather, there weren’t even that many overnight guests – the vicar and her husband didn’t really count because they weren’t staying – but she was getting herself into a panic. Dorothy had it covered, of course, and I knew she’d deal with Jules better than I would.’ He frowned. ‘I do worry that my wife’s a bit dependent on Dorothy. You know, they’ve been friends for years.’
‘And later in the day?’
‘Because of the weather warnings, everyone began arriving much earlier than any of us had expected. Soon after lunch, I started getting emails from them saying they were on their way. That didn’t help Jules’s mood – she’s not good at dealing with the unplanned – so I went out to help. To meet and greet. Show them to their rooms. Make tea.’
Holly nodded. She thought Mark would be good at that. Pleasant, hospitable. He’d been an actor. He’d pretend to be pleased to see his guests even if it was inconvenient. ‘What time did people start arriving?’
‘About three-thirty. Two couples cancelled, but otherwise, everyone was here by five-thirty, an hour before we’d organized to start.’ He paused. ‘It was a bit of a pain, but actually, I thought that was a good sign. For the project, I mean. If people were prepared to change plans and battle against extreme weather to have a bit of the action, then they’d surely make the effort to see brilliant theatre out of the city.’
Holly wasn’t sure that followed. The fund-raising party had offered food, booze and an overnight stay in a special house. Theatregoers would be expected to pay for their tickets and for their interval glass of wine.
‘Did you notice anything at all unusual during the evening? The sound of a vehicle perhaps? We think Lorna would probably have been killed where she was found. It was a brutal attack. There might have been screams, cries for help.’
‘Good God, no. If we’d heard anything like that, we’d have gone out to help. Of course we would. But it was a party. There was music. Laughter.’ He paused. ‘A house like this, you don’t have to worry about disturbing the neighbours, so there’s no need to keep the noise down.’ He paused again. ‘The most unusual thing to happen was your boss turning up with that kid.’
‘Did you recognize the child?’
The question seemed to irritate him. ‘No. I’ve told you. I don’t mix much with the locals. And really, one child looks much the same as another to me.’
Holly sent him back to the others and joined Joe, who was interviewing the party guests. They sat, grasping mugs of coffee, picking at the home-made shortbread Dorothy had supplied. Holly looked over the room.
‘Anyone still to give a statement?’
A tall, elegant woman raised her hand. Something about her, a tension, a reluctance, made Holly turn back to Mark.
‘Is it okay if we use your office?’
Perhaps the woman was shy or perhaps she had information to share, but Holly sensed this interview would be better done in privacy. Mark had switched off the gas heater and the room was even chillier than it had been previously. The woman was wearing a long thick sweater, which reached almost to her knees, over leggings. She was wearing make-up; too much make-up, Holly thought, for this early in the day.
‘Could I take your name?’
‘Sophie Blackstock. I’m here with my husband Paul. He’s already been interviewed by your colleague. I’m not sure why you need to speak to me.’
Holly smiled, an attempt to reassure, to put the woman at her ease. ‘These are just a few routine questions. You’re here at Brockburn because you’re a friend of Mark and Juliet?’
‘Of Mark,’ Sophie said. ‘I’d never met Juliet. Mark and I were very close at one time. We went to university together.’ A pause. ‘We job-share now at the theatre, though I’m on maternity leave at the moment.’ There was another hesitation. ‘It’s the first time we’ve left the baby for a night. When I saw the weather I wanted to cancel, but Paul said it would do us good to get away.’
Perhaps, Holly thought, this was the cause of the anxiety: a new mother separated from her child, even more delayed now because of the murder.
‘This won’t take long, I promise, and then we’ll let you get home.’ Holly had taken a dislike to Paul Blackstock, although she’d never met him. ‘Could you take me through your movements yesterday?’
‘We arrived at about five-thirty. Paul wanted to set off even earlier, but he couldn’t get away from work until four. We were probably some of the last to arrive.’
‘Did you see any cars on your way?’
Sophie thought. ‘We followed a tractor for the last mile or so. That was great because it cleared a path in the snow, but it turned off before we came to the house and then the drive was really treacherous.’
‘You didn’t see a smaller, white car? It had been driven by Lorna Falstone, the young woman who was killed.’
‘Lorna Falstone? That’s the name of the victim?’
‘Yes.’ Vera had given out the name when she talked to the group. Sophie must have heard it.
Holly saw that Sophie was very pale and that her hands were trembling. ‘Did you know her?’
There was a moment of silence.
‘Sophie?’ Holly pressed.
‘I’ve met someone with that name and it would
be too much of a coincidence not to be the same woman. She said she came from the wilds of Northumberland.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘In a private hospital in Cumbria. I was working there, running some drama workshops. The clinic specialized in treating people with eating disorders and Lorna was a patient. The workshops were part of the therapy.’
‘Are you saying that Lorna had anorexia?’ Holly’s spirits lifted. This was new information, and she’d been the person to discover it.
The woman nodded.
‘When was this?’
Sophie spoke immediately. ‘Five years ago. Nearly five years. I know because it was where I met Paul, my husband.’
‘Was he a patient too?’
Sophie gave a little smile and shook her head. ‘God, no! He’d hate it if anyone suggested he had a mental illness. His little brother Nat was there. Paul was a regular visitor.’
‘So, Paul might have met Lorna?’
‘He might have done. Visitors were encouraged to mix with the patients. There were social evenings. Some even joined in the drama sessions, which is how we got together. Not Paul’s thing at all, but he’d have done anything to get Nat eating again.’
‘Did it work?’
Sophie shook her head again. ‘No. Nat did enough to get home, but then he became ill again.’ She paused for a beat. ‘He had a massive heart attack and he died.’
Chapter Eight
At midday, just when Juliet was wondering if they’d be expected to provide lunch, Vera was back in the dining room to say that the party guests could all leave. Once they’d cleared snow from windscreens, they drove off with waves and shouted words of thanks. The house seemed suddenly very quiet and Juliet had a moment of intense relief. Harriet had retired with some dignity to her room. The forensic experts were in the tent by the body. Thomas was pottering around in the kitchen, occasionally pulling himself up on a chair and walking a few steps before looking around, expecting applause. The house felt as if it belonged to the family again. With the child in the kitchen, like a real family.
Dorothy had made soup and they sat round the big table to eat. Not Harriet. When Juliet went to tell her that lunch was ready, she said she’d rather eat in her room. ‘Could you bring me something up, darling? I really can’t face Vera just now. Whenever I see her, I’m reminded of the odious Hector.’ So Juliet had trotted up the stairs with a tray, and for one moment thought she was being treated more like a maid (in the time when they did have real staff in the place) than the woman running the house. Then she told herself not to be such a snob and to get over herself.
The experts came in from the cold, rubbing their hands to bring them back to life. There was a tall stern serious one, the doctor, and a little jolly one. Neither of them talked about their work, though earlier, when they were leaving their boots in the scullery, Juliet had seen them whispering to Vera. They’d just finished eating and there was more tea, more coffee, then the front doorbell went. It was cracked and discordant and always reminded Juliet of a bell ringing for a funeral. She went to answer and saw a woman standing there: she was cheerful, dressed for the weather in boots, down jacket and a hand-knitted bobble hat. Late thirties maybe, but still with the look of a student. Red-faced, no make-up.
‘Hiya. I’m Helen Clough. Social worker. I think you’re expecting me. I’m here for Thomas.’
Juliet should have been expecting her, but she’d put the inevitable arrival of the social worker to the back of her mind. ‘Of course. Come in. We’re all in the kitchen where it’s a bit warmer.’
Then it happened very quickly. Dorothy found more nappies to go on the journey, Thomas was laid on a mat on the floor and zipped into his snow suit. The boots were put on his feet.
‘Where are you taking him?’ Juliet tried to bring a tone of polite curiosity to her voice.
‘To his grandparents. They know about Lorna’s death. I was there with a police officer this morning.’
‘And they’re happy to take him in?’
The social worker hesitated for a moment. ‘Mrs Falstone wants to give it a go. We’ll be keeping a close eye.’
‘And one of my colleagues is going too,’ Vera said. ‘To chat to them, see if we can find out a bit more about what Lorna was doing here. They’ll make sure Thomas settles well.’
Juliet had expected the young female officer, Holly, to accompany Helen Clough, but in the end, it was Joe Ashworth who went.
‘He’s got a family of his own,’ Vera said. ‘He’s soft as clarts when it comes to kids.’
The door closed behind them and it felt to Juliet more like a tragedy than when she’d heard about Lorna Falstone’s murder.
Chapter Nine
Joe sat beside the social worker, with the baby in the car seat behind them. Helen Clough drove carefully up the Brockburn drive, following the tyre tracks of vehicles that had left earlier in the day. Out between the grand pillars, the road was almost clear and Joe felt that he’d been allowed some kind of escape. He hadn’t realized how oppressive the atmosphere in the house had been until he left it behind. It was something to do with the discomfort he felt in the company of the upper classes. A sense that he didn’t quite know how to behave. He always admired Vera for not seeming to care.
Everywhere was white and the sunlight reflecting on the snow hurt his eyes. There was nobody else about.
‘What are they like then, these Falstones? You said you visited them before coming here.’
Again, she paused before speaking. He’d noticed the same hesitation when Juliet had asked if the family was happy to take on the baby.
‘Not the easiest,’ she said at last. ‘But that could be grief.’
‘But they will take the bairn? Surely, if they’re his grandparents.’
‘I’m not sure they know him,’ Helen said. ‘It’s all a bit confusing. There seems to have been some falling-out with Lorna. They say they haven’t seen Thomas since he was born, though I have a sense that the mother might be hiding something. I’d like to speak to her when her husband’s not there. I’m still not convinced it’s the best placement, but like I said to your boss, we’ll keep an eye. Better than a temporary foster placement and having to move him around.’
‘But one of my colleagues has discovered that Lorna had been poorly. Anorexia. Surely the parents would have wanted to look out for her, to stay in close touch.’
‘Ah,’ Helen said. ‘Sometimes the parents are the problem.’
Joe didn’t know how to reply to that. He’d been expecting a longer drive, but they came to the farmhouse very quickly. It was no more than four miles away from Brockburn, solid, grey, stone. Once it might have stood against the Reivers, the raiders from the north. Because these had always been borderlands, debatable lands, places of clans and shifting allegiances. There was a walled garden to one side and a field of hardy sheep leading to a slow-running river fringed with ice. Joe had been expecting something a bit scruffy and run-down – weren’t hill farmers supposed to be going through hard times – but this was tidy, the barn new and well maintained. To one side, there was a stable, a horse with a rug looking out over the door. The yard had been cleared of snow, and it was lower here, a little warmer. The field by the river was already showing patches of green. In the distance, hills and to the west, the sweep of the forest.
They were greeted by barking dogs and a middle-aged man in overalls. Joe stayed where he was and turned to the back of the car to play peek-a-boo with Thomas. They’d already decided that Helen would take the lead. She was out of the car, hand outstretched.
‘Hello again, Mr Falstone.’
‘The wife’s in the kitchen. You’d best go on in.’ He gave a quick glance at the baby, then turned away, the dogs at his heels. When Joe looked after him, he’d disappeared round the side of the barn.
Helen turned to Joe and shrugged. He could tell she was disappointed by the man’s reaction. Joe got out of the car and lifted Thomas from his seat. He was thinking
of his own parents and how they loved his bairns to bits. If anything happened to him and Sal, they’d be there for the children. It was so obvious to them all that the family had never discussed it. Now, he wondered if they should, so there’d be no awkwardness with the authorities, no questions. He was still thrown by the notion that parents could be the problem.
Helen tapped at the back door of the farmhouse and let herself in. After the reflected light on the snow and ice, it seemed suddenly dark, gloomy. There was brown lino on the floor, a proggy mat in front of the range, grey with coal dust and dog hairs. A pine table and a couple of ancient armchairs. No photos of Lorna, even as a baby. No pictures at all, except one of a ram, taken at an agricultural show, a young man and young woman standing either side of it. The man’s hairstyle suggested the photo had been taken in the eighties, but the woman’s image drew him in and took him by surprise. She was dressed like her husband in jeans and a sweater, but she was pale and willowy, lovely. Not at all Joe’s image of a farmer’s wife. The photo looked quirky, posed. He thought it could have been the design for an album cover, the old folk rock that Sal claimed to like. The woman had the look of a hippy music star of a different era, the sixties or seventies.
While the yard had been pristine, the house looked uncared for. Joe wouldn’t want a child of his crawling around on this floor, but perhaps Thomas would come to no harm. Vera always said he was obsessive about cleanliness.
The woman had changed since the photo had been taken, thickened round the waist. The blonde hair had been cut. Now she looked grey, and brown too, and had merged into the background, but it was clearly the same woman. The same cheekbones, the same eyes. She was sitting at the table peeling vegetables. She stood up.
