The Darkest Evening

by Cleeves, Ann

  Holly rang the bell of the first house and heard it sound, very loud, inside. A light seemed to have been triggered on the other side of the door and when it opened, she saw that the elderly man wore hearing aids.

  ‘Who are you?’ The tone was pleasant enough, but he was making it clear he would take no nonsense.

  She showed her warrant card.

  ‘Ah, you’ll be here about the poor lass down the street. I’m not sure I can help you, but come away in. You’ll not have to mumble, mind. I canna bear mumblers.’

  In the end, if she spoke clearly and faced him, he heard her well enough. They sat in a small living room. No sign of Christmas here, except for four cards on the mantelpiece. He was Matty Fuller, a retired shepherd, and he’d moved to Kirkhill when his wife had died. ‘I thought it might be lonely out there in the old place, with no company but the dog. I’ve been here three years though, and I’m still not sure I like it. I’m a countryman at heart.’

  To Holly, this village was as country as she thought it could get, and she didn’t know how to reply. ‘Did you know Lorna?’

  ‘She was a canny little thing. Bonny. She called in every now and again with the bairn. Company for me and I think she was glad of the change of scene. Other times we’d meet up in the village, usually in the Co-op. It can take half an hour to get through the checkout with everyone chatting. She was a skinny little lass. A good gust of wind and she’d blow away.’ He paused. ‘I knew her parents. I worked that way for a while.’

  ‘On the Brockburn estate?’

  ‘A long time ago. In Sebastian’s day. Before he gambled away all his cash and when he could still keep his staff.’

  ‘Sebastian?’

  ‘Crispin’s father. Crispin’s gone too now. His widow rules the roost. The Lady Harriet we used to call her, though there was never any real title. She had that air about her. Snooty.’

  Holly couldn’t help herself. ‘Did you ever know Hector Stanhope?’

  Matty chuckled. ‘Aye. He was Sebastian’s younger brother. Not a great one for rules and responsibility. Married a schoolteacher out Wark way when we thought he’d never find a woman to take him on. He seemed to be settling down – he loved her to bits, they said, worshipped the ground she walked on – and then she died and he went back to his wild old ways.’

  So, the Stanhopes of Brockburn weren’t such distant relatives of the boss after all. Holly thought Vera wasn’t a great one for rules either.

  ‘What are Lorna Falstone’s parents like?’

  ‘Solid. Hard-working. A bit proud maybe.’ He paused. ‘Some folk round here think they’re unfriendly because they don’t mix. They run a good farm, though. Anyone will tell you that.’ Another pause. ‘I did a bit of work for them when Jill was pregnant with the lassie and she couldn’t help with the lambing. Robert didn’t chat much – there was no joking to pass the time – but he was fair. Paid the going wage.’

  ‘There must have been a bit of gossip when Lorna got pregnant. She was living in Kirkhill by then.’

  ‘Aye.’ He smiled. ‘There was a bit of talk in the Co-op queue when she started showing.’ He looked up at her. ‘You know she’d been ill? Anorexia, do they call it? Starving herself.’

  Holly nodded.

  ‘There’d already been people giving their opinion about Robert and Jill letting her live by herself here. They thought she should be at home where they could look after her, make sure she was eating properly.’ He paused. ‘I thought it was something she had to do for herself. The last thing you’d want would be your parents running your life. You’d want a bit of control.’ A pause. ‘And then they didn’t stop her being ill when she was living at Broom Farm.’

  ‘Yes,’ Holly said. ‘I think you’re right.’ She looked up at him. ‘There must have been some speculation about who the father might be.’

  ‘Ha! Speculation is right. Too many people with too much time on their hands making up stories. Nobody knew.’

  ‘What were the stories?’ Holly thought Lorna must have had some courage, living here, walking down the village street, knowing people were watching, walking into a shop and facing a sudden silence.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Matty said. ‘I never listened. There are times when it’s a good thing to be deaf.’

  ‘We need to know, though.’ Holly leaned forward. ‘Because we have to find out who killed her. And besides, there’s a child without a mother. Maybe it would help Thomas to know his father.’

  Matty looked at her. Through the wall to the adjoining bungalow came a woman’s voice, someone shouting that dinner was ready.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘The talk was that there was some fancy man in the city. She was seen taking the bus to Newcastle a few times. That was all it needed to start the rumour.’

  ‘She didn’t mention anyone when she came to visit?’

  He gave a little laugh. ‘Nah, we weren’t on those sorts of terms.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Holly stood up. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  Now Matty seemed reluctant to let her go. ‘Why, I’ve never offered you a drink. Would you like some coffee?’ She saw that even here, on the edge of the village, he was lonely.

  ‘What happened to your dog?’ she asked. ‘The one that kept you company before you moved in here.’

  ‘Oh, I had to have her put down. She was a working dog and she needed space and exercise and I can’t walk so far these days. It would have been a prison for her, to bring her here.’ He looked up. ‘I miss her, though. I miss them both.’

  It was only as she was leaving the bungalow that Holly realized he was talking about his dog and his wife.

  The other people who lived in the street were eager to help, excited that a detective should want to ask them questions, but they could tell Holly little more about Lorna than Matty Fuller. A large, blowsy woman, who’d struggled to the door with the aid of a walking frame, mentioned the fancy man from Newcastle too. ‘They say he runs his own string of businesses and he’s minted.’ But when Holly asked for details and to know who’d actually started the rumour, the woman couldn’t tell her. She’d kept Holly chatting on the doorstep and when Holly had asked for some form of corroboration to the story, she took offence. ‘Are you saying I’m a liar? I’m only trying to help, to tell you what some neighbours are saying.’ The door was firmly shut.

  Holly walked back to the Stanhope Arms, hoping that Charlie had had more success. It was quieter now, the football match over; the families in the lounge eating lunch were concentrating on their food. Charlie was at a table in the bar with a pint and an open packet of crisps; he was chatting to a couple Holly would have described as the actively retired. The woman was slight, gym-fit, with tinted hair and competent make-up. The man had a paunch, but carried it with a confidence that showed he still believed he was attractive to women. Charlie jumped up when he saw Holly. ‘I’ve been chatting to Geoff and Veronica here. What can I get you?’

  ‘I don’t suppose they do a decaff coffee?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure they do,’ the woman said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much things have changed since we first moved here. I’m a veggie and when we first arrived the only thing on offer anywhere was an omelette.’ An educated voice but a little slurred. A large glass of red stood on the table. The wine glass in front of the man was empty; he’d moved on to whisky.

  Holly thought they’d moved here on retirement with dreams of an idyllic lifestyle, of becoming leading lights in the community, running it perhaps as they had their business or office, but now they were bored. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Five years,’ Veronica said. ‘Geoff took early retirement and we thought, why not? We could practically buy a mansion with what we got for our house in Newcastle. And really we’ve never looked back.’ But her voice was wistful and Holly thought she was still hankering for smart coffee shops and the friends who shared her interests.

  ‘I’m sure my colleague has alrea
dy asked, but did you know Lorna Falstone?’ Charlie was taking a suspiciously long time at the bar. Perhaps he’d thought Holly would be more on this couple’s wavelength. What does that make me? A snobby cow?

  ‘We met her a couple of times, didn’t we, Geoff? Through Connie Browne. Connie set up a watercolour class, persuaded a very talented local artist to come along as tutor. We get together in the village hall on Monday mornings.’

  ‘And Lorna came to the class?’

  ‘Not regularly. I suppose it was hard with the baby. But Connie thought she had talent and persuaded her along.’

  ‘What did you make of her?’

  There was a pause. ‘She was a shy little thing. Pretty enough, but she didn’t make much effort with her appearance. I think she loved the class. She seemed to lose herself in the painting.’

  Holly saw Charlie heading her way with her coffee, a biscuit covered in a plastic wrapper in the saucer.

  ‘Did she have any special friends in the class? Perhaps there’s someone we might talk to who knew her better.’

  Veronica seemed to take a long time to think about this. She drank wine. Her lips were stained with it. She made Holly think of a vampire. ‘Well, the tutor took an interest in her. She was the only person under fifty in the group, so I suppose they had more in common. I must say, I wasn’t desperately impressed by her art. Rather gloomy I thought. All black forests and glowering skies.’ She must have realized how churlish she was sounding, because she gave a little smile. ‘But what would I know? I’m only an amateur. I’m sure it’s very good.’

  ‘What’s the name of the tutor?’

  ‘Josh Heslop.’ His parents farm in the valley near Brockburn. ‘He’s not long out of art school and he’s struggling to make his way. Good, though. He’s already got a little gallery in Kimmerston to stage an exhibition. He’s back at home, helping the family out.’

  Holly drank her instant coffee and thought about this. Josh must be brother to the teenage girls who acted as waitresses in Brockburn the night of the murder. His father had found the body. The boss was always interested in coincidence and Holly looked forward to passing on the information.

  Charlie had his phone out and was checking messages. Still he seemed happy to leave the interview to Holly. ‘Josh must be about the same age as Lorna,’ she said. ‘They would have gone to school together?’

  Veronica seemed bored by the conversation now. Perhaps she only enjoyed talking about herself. She shrugged. ‘I suppose so. All the secondary kids go to the high school in Kimmerston.’

  Charlie got suddenly to his feet. ‘Sorry, folks. We need to get on. Thanks for your help.’

  Holly followed him out of the pub. It was only mid-afternoon but the light had already drained away. She thought of Veronica’s words about a glowering sky.

  ‘There was a message from the boss,’ Charlie said. ‘The CSIs have finished in Lorna’s house. She wants us to take a look, see if we can find anything that might give us a name for the baby’s father or some kind of link with Mark Bolitho.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ON THE WALK TO LORNA’S HOUSE, Holly phoned Vera with the information about Josh Heslop running the art class to which Lorna belonged. Charlie was listening in. He grinned and stuck up his thumbs when he heard the tutor’s name, mouthed, Well done, lass.

  ‘Well now, that is very interesting.’ Reception was poor and Vera’s voice seemed a long way off. ‘It’s definitely worth a visit to that family.’

  ‘Do you want us to go when we’ve finished up here?’

  ‘Nah,’ Vera said. ‘I bumped into one of the Heslop lasses this morning, so I’ve got a bit of a relationship. And it’s almost on my way home. I’ll go.’ A pause. ‘Good work, Hol.’

  Holly wished that didn’t mean so much to her, that she didn’t feel as she had when she’d just been given a gold star at school as a five-year-old.

  A crime-scene investigator was waiting for them outside Lorna’s house with a key. ‘We’ve done what we can. There are a few fingerprints, but nothing on the database. We’ve taken DNA where we can but we won’t get a result back on that for weeks. You know about the backlog and until you’ve got a suspect, I’m guessing there’s no rush. You won’t want to blow your budget by fast-tracking.’

  Holly thought Vera had never been over-concerned about budget, but she just nodded. Charlie was already at the front door, with the key in his hand. He turned back. ‘Where did you get the key? Was it on the body?’

  ‘There was a key in the victim’s jeans pocket but that’s still with her. We got this spare from a woman who lived over the road.’ The CSI nodded towards Connie Browne’s bungalow, then pulled up the collar of his jacket. ‘Bloody freezing out here in the hills, isn’t it? I’m off back to civilization.’

  It was cold in the house too. The front door led straight into the compact living room, where a small sofa, covered with a fleece blanket, faced an armchair that must have come from a charity shop. A plastic box of toys sat under the stairs, which led to the first floor. Through an open door in the far wall, Holly saw a kitchen large enough to contain a table, a couple of stools and a plastic high chair. The living space was similar in size to Dorothy and Karan’s cottage, but she thought the place felt very different. Less warm in terms of decor and furnishing as well as temperature. Tidy and clean enough but utilitarian. Perhaps Lorna had inherited her taste in interior design from her parents. An electric storage heater stood against one wall. Holly reached out to touch it: switched on but tepid. She imagined Lorna curled up on the sofa, wrapped in the fleece.

  ‘No telly or radio,’ Charlie said. ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’

  ‘She probably accessed media through her laptop.’ Holly paused. ‘Did the CSIs take that?’

  ‘I guess so.’ Charlie shivered. ‘Do you want to look upstairs? I’ll do down here.’

  Holly nodded. There were two bedrooms but Thomas had obviously shared the bigger room with his mother. There was a cot under the window, a pretty duvet with an elephant print, a mobile hanging from the ceiling. Lorna had slept next to it. She’d had a double bed but there was only one pillow. If she’d still had a secret boyfriend, it seemed unlikely that he stayed here very often. Methodically, Holly went through the drawers in the pine chest. The top two contained the toddler’s clothes. Brightly coloured dungarees and jackets, woolly jumpers.

  Again, Lorna’s clothes seemed purely functional; there was little pretty or indulgent. Holly wondered about that. Had Lorna been so confident that she hadn’t felt the need to dress up to impress? Or had she believed she didn’t deserve anything beautiful or glamorous? Holly thought this wasn’t a theory she should share with Vera, who had very definite views about psychological guesswork. Holly looked at the labels of the underwear, T-shirts and jerseys and all came from bargain chains or supermarkets. Perhaps the explanation was simple: this was a household where money was tight and any spare cash was spent on the son. Lorna had given up her job in the pub once the baby was born, so presumably she’d been living on benefits and handouts from her mother.

  On top of the chest of drawers there was a wooden box with a mother-of-pearl pattern on the lid. Holly opened it to a scent of sandalwood and laid out the contents in order on the bed. Lorna’s birth certificate and GCSE certificates. A passport, medical card and details of the baby’s inoculations. And Thomas’s birth certificate. Holly flattened it out. No father’s name. She’d bag them all up, but she couldn’t see that they’d help find the man who’d made Lorna pregnant, unless the GP could give them any information.

  Holly moved on to the bathroom. An avocado suite that must have been installed in the eighties. Along the edge of the tub, a row of plastic toys, a bottle of bubble bath, a supermarket brand of shampoo and a cake of soap. Nothing to help Lorna relax at the end of a busy, child-centred day. Holly looked in the cabinet over the sink, hoping to find scented bath oil or body lotion, but all she saw was spare toothpaste and a packet of ibuprofen.

&nbs
p; The smaller bedroom was at the back of the house and Holly was expecting a storeroom containing the hoarded detritus of family life: sleeping bags, suitcases, Christmas decorations waiting to be hung out. Because surely Lorna would have planned to celebrate Christmas for the sake of the toddler. Holly thought there’d be nothing useful to the investigation. The door opened towards her, she reached in and felt for the light switch. It was scarcely bigger than a box room, but there was a desk under the window, stretching across the whole width of the space. On it, a jam jar containing various thicknesses of paintbrush, and a pile of good-quality watercolour paper. This was Lorna’s treat to herself. This was where she escaped. There was a single bookshelf fixed to a wall. A few paperbacks offering self-help and instruction in mindfulness and a couple of novels, which Holly had read and enjoyed. One volume had been left on the desk: the collected works of the poet Robert Frost. It seemed an odd choice for a farmer’s daughter, who’d left school before taking A levels. Holly looked inside. There was a note in beautiful handwriting: To Lorna. Happy Christmas 2017. Love from Connie. This wasn’t new so it must be a favourite. Holly had studied Frost for GCSE and had the same book at home.

  Lorna’s art was displayed on the walls here. Downstairs the only painting on show had been created by Thomas, obviously with help from his mother: a collage made up mostly of glitter and glue. These were quite different. As Veronica had said, they were dark, almost abstract landscapes. Holly felt pulled into the bleakness. Occasionally there was a mark which might represent a figure, but in most the scenes were empty. Holly felt close to tears. She thought nobody but the art class had ever seen these and most of the work had been done in secret, here in the tiny room. They had a sense of despair. Holly stood back and thought that was ridiculous. How could she judge Lorna’s mood from the tone of her art?

  More paintings were leaning against the wall. Holly pulled them out one by one. They looked as if they’d been painted in acrylic on some kind of board. The subject was always the same. A stone cottage almost derelict, surrounded by pine trees, with ivy covering most of the wall and growing through one of the window frames. It was like something from a fairy tale and Holly wondered if Lorna was trying her hand at illustration, or perhaps there’d been a specific commission. The roof was rusting corrugated iron and that was almost lovingly painted. Lorna seemed to have enjoyed the texture, the variety of colour. Each was neatly signed in the corner but only one had a title. It was of the cottage in winter, the grass frosty, the one at the top of the pile, so probably the most recent. It was labelled ‘The Darkest Evening’.