by Cleeves, Ann
‘You must have gone to see them, though.’ Joe thought she wouldn’t have left her daughter alone and unsupported in a house with a new baby.
There was another smile. ‘Of course I did. I think Robert knew where I was going those Fridays – he’s not daft – but he didn’t ask. That pride again.’
‘When was the last time you saw them?’ Joe said.
‘A week ago.’
‘How did Lorna seem?’
Jill seemed to choose her words carefully. ‘I’ve thought about that since they came this morning to tell me that Lorna was dead. She was a bit quiet, withdrawn, but she could get like that some days. I tried not to read too much into it – no point in getting anxious. I never asked if she was still seeing Thomas’s father, but maybe that was it. The relationship a bit rocky. Often the next time I’d go, she’d be brighter, talking about the future.’ Joe noticed she was pleating the wool of her jumper with her fingers, compulsive. ‘I was supposed to be going to see her yesterday. Friday, my usual day. But it had started to snow and the forecast was dreadful, so I texted her to say I wouldn’t make it.’
‘Did you hear back from her?’ When did we all start texting? Joe thought. When did we stop actually speaking to each other?
The woman shook her head. ‘But that wasn’t unusual. She didn’t communicate much and when she did it was on her own terms. She didn’t seem to think that I wanted to know she was safe. But I’d stopped worrying about her quite so much. She’d made a friend. An older woman, who used to teach her in the village school. Constance Browne. A good woman. Lorna seemed able to talk to her.’
‘Didn’t that make you a bit jealous?’ Joe didn’t know how he’d feel if his Jess found other adults to confide in.
Jill Falstone seemed astonished. ‘Of course not! I was pleased there was someone kind to look out for her. As I said, Connie Browne is a good woman. She even let Lorna use her car if she needed to do a big shop in Kimmerston or take the baby to the health visitor.’
‘She was driving Miss Browne’s car yesterday. She was about a mile from the entrance to Brockburn, the big house on the edge of Kirkhill. Any idea why she might have been there?’
Another pause, before Jill shook her head.
‘There’s a woman who works there, Dorothy, quite a bit older than your Lorna but with a baby about the same age. Could they have been friends?’
‘I’ve explained, Sergeant, I didn’t know anything about Lorna’s life. She needed to be in control, just as she needed to be in control of what she was eating when she was younger. So, she held her secrets close. It was her way of surviving.’
‘Do you have a recent photo?’ he asked.
Jill got up and went to the dresser, pulled out a folder with half a dozen photographs. ‘I took these on my phone last summer and they were so lovely I went to a place in Kimmerston where they print them out.’
They’d been taken in a small garden, presumably outside Lorna’s house. Thomas was sitting on a rug. Lorna was staring at him, smiling. She had the same startling beauty as the younger Jill, still model skinny, high cheekbones, long, elegant neck. He took the folder. ‘We’ll take copies and make sure we get them back to you.’
Helen, the social worker, seemed fidgety. Joe saw her glance at the clock on the kitchen wall.
‘Do you need to be away?’ His voice was sharp. He could think of nothing more important than settling this baby in her new home.
‘Sorry, my life is one constant rush. This afternoon it’s a child protection plan core group session. I need to be there. And if you need a lift back to Brockburn . . .’
‘Sure,’ he said. Jill Falstone was staring at them, confused by the exchange. He thought, now, that she would look after the baby well enough.
He waited for a moment by the car while Helen made arrangements for future visits to the farm. He was hoping that Robert might reappear so he could talk to him, but there was no sign of the man.
Chapter Ten
Vera knew the village of Kirkhill. It was where she came on a Saturday morning if she wanted a sense of belonging to the real world. She’d stock up in the Co-op, visit the butcher and have a bit of chat with the women who ran the greengrocer’s. No matter that the village shops were a little more expensive than the supermarket on the retail park outside Kimmerston. She’d have a coffee in the cafe, not the posh one looking out over the river, but the one in the square which pulled in elderly farmers talking about sheep. The coffee was just as good and they cooked their own ham for the sandwiches, saw nothing wrong in putting a pile of chips on the side. It was run by Gloria, who knew Vera by name and always had her coffee ready by the time she reached the counter, even if there was a bit of a queue.
Vera knew where Lorna Falstone had lived. There was a terrace of council houses on the slope that led out towards Brockburn. The road ran on to some old folks’ bungalows further up the bank. Vera thought the houses would mostly be privately owned now, but the local authority must have held on to one or two: the small ones in the middle of the terrace, with a strip of garden so narrow that it felt like you could stretch your arms and touch the fence at each side. Vera didn’t go in. The crime-scene investigators were already there: Crime-Scene Manager Billy Cartwright’s bright young things. He seemed to attract the bonny young women, despite his flirtatious reputation. These days perhaps he knew better than to try it on, and he’d always been a charmer rather than a lecher or a groper. The house was cordoned off, blue-and-white tape flapping in the westerly wind. The air was a little warmer and felt as if it might carry rain, not snow. Vera thought all the bairns who’d been hoping for a white Christmas would be disappointed, though there was still time. Just a week to go. They were only a few days away from the winter solstice. There was still an edge to the breeze that penetrated clothes and chilled the bones.
Constance Browne lived on the other side of the road, down the bank, closer to the village centre, in a small private development of detached bungalows. So, Lorna hadn’t been a next-door neighbour. Not close enough to chat over the garden fence. But of course they’d already known each other because Constance had taught the girl in primary school. It would be interesting to find out what Constance had made of her then.
Joe had been on the phone to Vera as soon as he’d got back from Broom Farm, filling in more details of Lorna’s early life, but she wanted to understand more. There had been times, growing up, when she had wanted to shrink away from the world, to become invisible, but that had never stopped her eating. If anything, food had always been her comfort, her means of escape. Her own private addiction.
The teacher’s garden had been tidied for the winter, shrubs pruned, dead leaves swept. Vera rang the bell. The woman who opened the door was fit, spry and looked younger than her sixty-seven years. She wore jeans and a sweater, long earrings. Arty in a restrained kind of way. She made Vera, who was still wearing the clothes she’d slept in, feel lumpish and unkempt.
‘You must be Inspector Stanhope. Do come in. I’ve just made a pot of tea.’
There was a hall with hardwood floors, a sideboard completely clear of clutter, on the wall a photo of a young woman in cap and gown at her graduation.
Vera nodded towards it. ‘Your daughter?’
‘Oh, no, my niece. We’re very close all the same.’ A pause. ‘I never married.’ Another beat. ‘Too picky, my mother said, but I think it was more that I valued my independence. I never met a man who was worth giving that up for.’
‘No,’ Vera said. ‘Nor me.’ Though it might have been nice to be asked, she thought. Just once.
They sat in a living room with two windows. One had a view to the side of the house and across the valley to the forest beyond, the other looked up to the road. There was no Christmas tree to drop needles, but a holly wreath had been fixed to the wall, and holly and ivy spread along the mantelpiece. Cards with snow scenes and penguins had been stuck underneath. Everything was tasteful, ordered and in its place. Bookshelves had been built on
each side of the chimney breast, the books neatly aligned: the sort of novels which won literary awards and slim volumes of poetry. Vera looked at the spines while Constance was in the kitchen organizing the tea. Competent watercolours, painted presumably by Constance, hung on the walls. The house was pleasant enough, but there was nothing startling to give away the owner’s secret preoccupations. Nothing that leapt out. Vera wondered if she’d manage her life in this way if she was retired. Would she clear out her house in the hills? Dust and declutter? Start home-baking and take up a hobby? She knew the answer before the thought was fully formed and restrained a laugh. She’d hate retirement. She needed her work and she needed her team. And she’d never take to housework.
Constance came in, carrying a tray, interrupting Vera’s thoughts.
‘Tell me about Lorna,’ Vera said, once the ritual of tea-pouring was over. ‘You must have known her very well.’
‘I taught her of course. She was one of those quiet, shy little things. Not particularly academic, but certainly not a child who struggled. A reader. I hoped she might blossom later. Some children do. She was stunning to look at, but had no confidence at all. She was passionate about animals and I assumed she’d join the family farm when she grew up. Many of my pupils had their lives mapped out for them in advance. Even the rather grand ones from the big house. They might have a spell of freedom – university, travel, work – but then they’d be pulled back to take over the reins on the estate.’
‘Did you teach Juliet from Brockburn?’
‘Yes, but only for a couple of years. Later she went to an independent day school in Newcastle. I think she stayed with a friend of her mother’s or a distant relative during the week so she didn’t have to travel every day. But she was at the village school in Brockburn before that.’ Constance paused. ‘She’s older than Lorna though. They wouldn’t have been there at the same time.’
Vera nodded.
‘You might be related to Juliet and her mother.’ Constance spoke as if this was a joke because surely it couldn’t possibly be true. How could there be a connection between the smart people in the big house and this scruffy middle-aged cop? ‘The same name. I just wondered.’
‘We are actually,’ Vera said. ‘Distantly. Round here, if you go back far enough, we all have the same ancestors.’
‘Not me,’ Connie said. ‘I came to Newcastle as a student from Sussex and I never went home.’
‘You caught up with Lorna again when she came to live over the road from you?’
‘Yes.’ The light had gone now and Constance got out of her seat to switch on a standard lamp and close the curtains. Vera saw this was a ritual too, which would be performed at the same point every evening. ‘I’d heard she’d been ill, of course. Anorexia. A place like this there’s always gossip. Then I saw her across the road and invited her in for tea. I thought she’d refuse at first – I’d seen her a few times in the village and she’d always hurried away as if she was ashamed – but she came. Perhaps I was a familiar face and I reminded her of a time when things were easier.’
‘You must have put her at her ease.’
‘I hope so. I like the company of young people. I enjoy talking to them. She was an interesting woman.’
In the dim light, sitting in a comfortable chair, Vera felt relaxed, almost sleepy. ‘In what way was she interesting?’
There was a moment of silence. A tabby cat pushed through the half-closed door and settled on the arm of Connie’s chair. The woman reached out to stroke it.
‘I thought she was brave,’ Connie said, ‘to fight the illness and come back from it stronger. She wanted to learn. She was interested in life away from the village. We talked about art, travel. I gave her books. She’d been an only child of two doting but not terribly emotionally intelligent parents. They were practical – if she asked for something, they gave it to her. But she couldn’t ask for what she really needed. She didn’t know how.’
‘And what did she really need?’ Vera wasn’t sure about the turn this conversation was taking. It seemed to her a lot of waffle and guesswork, amateur psychology of the worst kind. Had Connie seen Lorna as a surrogate daughter? The child she’d never had? But maybe that was psychobabble too. She reached out for another home-made biscuit and looked at the woman for an answer.
‘Confidence,’ Connie said. ‘Reassurance. A close friend of her own age. Permission to talk about the things that were worrying her when she got to the high school. I don’t think anyone talked very much at all in that house. Unless it was about sheep prices and horses. Robert would have hated a discussion about anything more intimate.’
‘When I phoned to ask about the car, you said that Jill Falstone did just what her husband told her. Did you ever suspect domestic abuse?’
Another silence. ‘Not physical violence,’ the woman said at last. ‘I think he was just one of those men who assume that within the house their word is law. He’d grown up in that sort of home and had never changed.’
‘Did Lorna ever talk to you about Thomas’s father?’
‘No.’ The answer came quickly. Too quickly? But it was an obvious question and perhaps Constance had been expecting it. ‘I didn’t ask. She’d have been subject to enough prying in the village. I didn’t want to be just another nosy old woman.’
‘When did you last see Lorna?’ As comfortable as she was, Vera knew it was time to move the conversation on. She needed a bath and sleep before an early briefing the next day.
‘The day before she died. Thursday. She phoned first thing to ask if I’d look after Thomas for a couple of hours. Something urgent had come up.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes. I’m a busy woman, busier than I ever was before I retired, but I was free that morning and the child’s a delight. Very sunny and even-tempered. A credit to his mother.’ Constance broke off. ‘Where is Thomas now?’
‘With his grandparents.’
Constance stroked the cat once more. ‘I suppose that’s for the best. To be with relatives.’
‘You don’t sound too sure. You don’t think they’ll make the same mistakes twice?’
‘No,’ the woman said. ‘I’m sure that they won’t.’
‘Did Lorna tell you where she was going? Why she needed you to babysit?’
‘No, and I didn’t ask. As I said, I tried not to intrude into her private life. I was her friend, not her mother. And certainly not her teacher any more.’
Vera lay back in her chair, was tempted to close her eyes, just for a moment. ‘Did she borrow your car when she dropped Thomas off?’
‘No.’
So, wherever Lorna had gone that day it had been on foot or public transport. They would need to track her movements.
Before Vera could ask another question, Connie continued.
‘She texted me at about eleven-thirty to say she’d been a bit delayed. Would I be okay to give Thomas some lunch and she’d be back at one-thirty at the latest? It was a little inconvenient because I had plans for the afternoon, but I said it would be fine. Usually she was always on time. She never took advantage of me. I knew it must be something important.’
‘How was she when she came to pick up Thomas?’
‘I don’t really know. She was back at exactly one-thirty, but I was all ready to go straight out. I even had my coat on and the baby’s things all packed. Not to make a point, but because I was worried that I’d be late. I’d planned to meet a friend in Corbridge. An author we both enjoy was talking in the bookshop there. So, it was just a question of doing the handover.’ Connie sat very still. ‘I should have taken more time to ask if everything was well with her. To give her the chance to talk. I have this ridiculous compulsion to be punctual. What would a couple of minutes have mattered?’
‘The next day . . .’ Vera had never bothered about punctuality unless she was the person doing the waiting. ‘The day that Lorna died. Did you see her then?’
Connie shook her head. ‘Friday’s one of my busy days. I
help at the over-sixties lunch club. We take it in turns to cook, and I was on the rota. It was our last meeting before Christmas, so a little bit special. We gave them afternoon tea.’
‘Did you notice that the car wasn’t there when you came back?’ That would at least give them a timeline, an idea when Lorna had set out.
‘No, but I wouldn’t. I came up the lane at the back of my house and the car was parked on the road in front of the bungalow. I wouldn’t see.’
‘But when you drew the curtains, you would have realized it was missing?’ Because Vera had seen the cars parked in the street through one of the windows when she’d first come into the room.
‘I’m not sure that I would have done. It was snowing by then and the visibility was poor. The street lamp is further down the road. I was thinking about the weather.’ Connie paused. ‘I’m afraid I just can’t be sure whether it was there or not.’
‘Did Lorna have her own set of car keys?’
‘Yes, it made sense. I never thought she’d abuse it. She never had. And it was reassuring to know that somebody had a spare.’ Again, Connie paused. ‘It must have been urgent for Lorna to take the car without asking. Very, very urgent. You have to understand, Inspector, that wasn’t like her at all.’
When Vera arrived back at her house, it was freezing, much colder than the milder wind that had been blowing in the valley. Her hippy neighbours, who lived in the smallholding next door, had cleared the track, but there was still snow here, and ice on the cottage windows. Hector had never seen the point of central heating when the house was so small. He’d been brought up in the big house at Brockburn with its draughts and temperamental boilers and had been sent to a boarding school where it had been a point of honour never to complain about the cold. Until he was expelled.
Vera had considered installing central heating when her house had been damaged by fire, earlier in the year, but in the end, she’d decided against. She’d had to move out for a few weeks when the builders were bringing the place back to life. She’d stayed next door with Joanna and Jack, camping out in one of their spare rooms, eating supper with them at the cluttered table in the farmhouse kitchen, drinking too much of Jack’s homebrew. She’d been grateful. The alternative would have been a B&B and that would have been worse. But still, she’d longed for the chaos to be over and to move back into her own space, so she’d told the plumber not to bother with the central heating and just to replace the hot-water boiler. Moments like this, she wondered if that had been a mistake.
