by Ann Cleeves
In the pram the baby looked out at her. He was wearing a bright red hat and red mittens. She pulled up the hood, forcing the hinges into place. She didn’t want the wind to blow it down as soon as she stepped outside. Matthew chortled when she opened the door and bounced the pram by its back wheels down the steps to the square. She knew Dan Greenwood was in the pottery. The doors weren’t padlocked and anyway she’d seen him arrive at nine o’clock. She knew the best time to look out for him. She’d watched him arrive and leave most days since she’d stopped work. In the summer he left the big double doors open and then she’d seen inside. But this would be the first time she would fulfill her fantasy and go in.
At the far end of the building there was a corner which he seemed to use as an office. Behind an old desk was a filing cabinet and a computer table. And today Dan was there too, sitting at the desk, lit by an angle poise lamp. He was looking at some papers and frowning and she could tell the contents irritated or annoyed him. He wasn’t a man who hid his feelings easily. Once, in the summer when the big door had stood open, she’d seen him take hold of a pot he was painting and hurl it against the far wall of the building, frustrated, she supposed, because he hadn’t managed to achieve quite the effect he’d wanted. The scene had shocked and fascinated her. James would never have given way to such a spontaneous show of feeling.
Now the lamp gave the scene a contrived, staged look. Little natural light came through the dusty windows in the roof and the strip tubes fastened to the rafters had been switched off. Emma, the audience, was in shadow. She closed the door behind her and Dan looked up.
“Emma.” He half rose, then sat back in the chair which looked as if it had been rescued from a village school. His movements were always sudden. His hands were so big that she wondered they were capable of holding the small brushes, the more delicate pieces. There was the tension she’d always sensed between them. She’d thought it was the fris son of mutual attraction. Now she wasn’t so sure.
She’d met him first when he’d thrown a party to tcelebrate the opening of the pottery. He’d held it in the pub and they’d all been invited, everyone who lived on the square. She’d been newly married, realizing even then perhaps that it wouldn’t be the escape she’d hoped, but not looking for adventures. She’d had adventures enough in her life already and she had her work then to satisfy her. Dan Greenwood had been at the door to greet them all, and she still remembered the first encounter. She’d lifted her face so he could kiss her cheek and had seen the shock in his eyes, felt it in the brief press of lips and the brush of his hair like a feather on her skin. It had been as if he were meeting an old lover, although she had been sure they had never met. And all evening, as the locals grew more rowdy on the free beer, she had been aware of his gaze on her, flattered but not surprised. She had known the effect she could have on lonely men.
He must have approached everyone else in the room to introduce himself, enquire about his neighbours. His manner was reserved, but overhearing the conversation, she’d thought there was something very blunt about his questions. Direct, like a child. He wasn’t much good at flattering small talk. Certainly he had talked to James that evening. She had watched them laugh together. But he had made no effort to come up to her. It was as if he’d sensed that there would be a danger in their being physically too close. That was what she’d thought then. Now she wondered if she’d been deluding herself. He and James had become friends in that easy, casual way that men do. They often met up for a pint on Friday nights. They both played cricket for the village team. She didn’t know what they talked about their work, she supposed, sport, gossip.
Now, she felt awkward, tongue-tied. She had often dreamed about coming here, confronting him with how she felt, but this would be a different confrontation.
“Emma.” This time he did stand up, and he walked round to the front of the desk. He was frowning, anxious. “Is anything the matter?”
She ignored the question. “You never told me you used to be a policeman.”
“It was a long time ago. Something I try to forget.”
“You worked on the Mantel case. I’ve just seen you on the television.”
He seemed to be forming an explanation but she didn’t allow him a chance to speak. “You recognized me when we first met. Did you come to Springhead the day I found Abigail? I don’t remember.”
“I spoke to your father.”
“But you saw me?”
“Through the kitchen door. Briefly. And then later James confirmed who you were.”
“Does he know you’re an ex-cop?”
“It’s not something I feel I have to hide. It came up recently in conversation.”
How? she wondered. Does James use that incident in my past as an excuse for my behaviour? We’d have you round to dinner, but Em’s not very good in company. She found the body of her murdered best friend… As if one had any relevance to the other.
“Didn’t you think I’d be interested to know that you’d worked on the case?”
“I didn’t think you’d want reminding of it.” . “It’s hard to forget,” she said. “Now, with all that’s going on.”
“Have you been bothered by the press?”
“No.”
“They’ll track you down. I know you use your married name but it might be worth changing your phone number.”
“We’re ex-directory.”
“That won’t stop them.”
The exchange seemed unnaturally loud and fast. The words seemed to ricochet off the walls. They looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Look,” he said. “I can make you a coffee.” He wiped the seat of the chair with his sleeve. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I want to know what’s going on,” she cried. “No one’s been to see me. It’s not fair. I’m involved.”
She had the argument clear in her head. The grievance had been growing all night. She hadn’t thought it would be directed towards Dan Greenwood. That Inspector Fletcher, Caroline, made the effort then. She kept us sweet while the police were preparing the case for court, while I could still be of use. She came every day to see what I could remember. Now I have to hear about developments on the news.
Though that wasn’t true. Dan had warned her, through James, of Jeanie’s suicide and that the case might be reopened.
While she hesitated, wondering what tone to take, her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her.
“That seems fair enough to me, pet.” The voice was very close. It seemed to rasp in Emma’s ear. She turned. The woman from the church was leaning on the wall behind her. “But that’s the police all over for you. They keep you in the dark and they feed you shit. That’s why Danny got out. Or so he says.”
She had emerged through a door. Emma could see a small room cluttered with boxes. There was a rickety armchair, a kettle, a tray of grubby mugs on the floor in one corner. The woman had been sitting there and had overheard everything they’d said.
“Who are you?” Emma demanded. Then, before the woman could answer, remembering Dan’s earlier warning, “Are you a reporter?”
The woman gave a wheezy laugh. Her enormous bosoms shook.
“Not me, pet. I’m on the side of the angels.” She held out a hand the size of a shovel. “Vera Stanhope. Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. I’ve been brought in to clear up this particular pile of crap.”
Chapter Twelve
Emma thought Vera Stanhope was the most thick-skinned person she’d ever met. It was not only in that she was impervious to embarrassment or offence. She was literally thick-skinned. Her face was scaly and uneven, covered in places by crusted blotches, her hands were hard and worn. Some sort of allergy or disease, Emma thought, but couldn’t bring herself to pity. She wasn’t the sort of woman you could feel sorry for. Vera stood, looking at them both, narrowing her eyes.
“Did you say something about coffee, Danny? But not here, eh, pet. Let’s go somewhere a bit more comfy.”
She directed her gaze towards Emma. “Don’t you live just over the square?”
Emma knew what was expected. She was supposed to invite them in, sit them in the best room, brew coffee, set out fancy biscuits. Then answer this extraordinary woman’s questions. Go over the old ground. And all the time Vera’s reptile eyes would be taking in the surroundings, probing, as curious as the old ladies from the church who’d invited themselves in to see the baby when she’d first come home from hospital. She couldn’t bear it.
“We can’t go to my house,” she said quickly. “My husband’s asleep. He’s been working all night.”
Dan Greenwood rescued her. Perhaps he sensed her panic, though she could no longer persuade herself that they had a special understanding.
“Why don’t you come back to my place. I’d be breaking for lunch about now anyway.”
Vera turned a wide smile on him, as if that was what she’d been hoping for all the time.
Outside the rain had stopped and there were jagged splashes of sunlight reflected in the puddles and the wet pavements. Emma waited for Dan to lock up. Even now, she found herself watching him. He had dark hair on the back of his hands. His sleeve fell back from his wrist as he clamped together the padlock and she imagined what it would feel like to touch his arm.
“I’ll drive round,” she said. “Matthew always falls asleep in the car. It’ll mean we can talk in peace.”
It wasn’t far to Dan’s house but she didn’t want to be seen traipsing after them along the narrow pavements, part of a strange procession, a circus freak show. He lived in a crescent of 1930s semis on the edge of the village. Once they’d been council houses and there were still one or two belonging to the local authority, identifiable by the uniform green paint. The rest had been bought by their owners or sold on to in comers like Dan. They had long, thin gardens at the back, fanning out towards farmland.
Emma took her time. She let herself into her own home and watched them set off before carrying Matthew to the car and strapping him in. She didn’t want to arrive ahead of them, and thought if she passed them on the way she might feel obliged to offer them a lift. The thought of Vera Stanhope in her car gave her the same threat of violation, as if she’d been forced to ask her into her home.
When she arrived at the Crescent Dan’s door was open, and she went in without knocking, lifting the car seat with Matthew into the narrow hall. She had never been inside the house, though she knew James had. It was one of his excuses for lateness during the cricket season. I just called into Dan’s for a beer after the match. Hovering outside the kitchen it occurred to her that James had probably known all along about Dan Greenwood’s role in the Abigail Mantel murder. The subject of Dan’s previous career must have come up during those boozy Friday night discussions. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of, as he’d said.
There was a tiny living room and a kitchen of a similar size with a door leading into the garden. The kitchen wall had been painted a deep green and there was one of Dan’s jugs with some chrysanths on the window sill, but everything else could have belonged to the previous owners. You wouldn’t have guessed an artist lived here. There was none of the mess or clutter she’d have expected. They all sat at the kitchen table and Vera seemed to take up most of the room. Emma was reminded of train journeys, strangers cramped around a table, trying to make sure their knees and feet don’t touch. Dan had changed from his work boots and was wearing the sandals climbers wear. His feet were brown. He’d made filter coffee and set out chocolate biscuits on a plate. Emma couldn’t tell what he made of this invasion. Had Vera Stanhope been foisted onto him or were they allies, old friends? His attitude towards her was affectionate but cautious. It was as if she were a large dog, generally well behaved but given to lashing out at strangers. He seemed to be trying very hard to sit still.
Vera leant back in her chair, her eyes covered with thick, inflexible lids.
“Well, pet, what is it you’d like to know? Just fire away. Dan and me’ll do our best to help.”
“Are you sure Jeanie was innocent?”
“Positive.”
“What makes you so certain?”
Vera slowly sat forward, reached out for a biscuit. “She always claimed she went to London that day. An impulse, she said. She wanted to get away from the area, hide in a big city, be anonymous. Keith had asked her to leave the Old Chapel and she was devastated. She’d thought she was in love.” Vera munched the biscuit, wiped the crumbs from her chin, continued to speak though she’d not finished chewing. “She got the train from Hull. So she said. Wandered round the South Bank and listened to the free lunchtime music, went to the late Gallery, then got the train home. But no one saw her. She told Danny’s colleagues she’d left her car in the long-stay car park, but they couldn’t find the sticker she’d have had to put on her windscreen. The guy who sold her the rail ticket was shown her photograph but didn’t recognize her. No one travelling on the train came forward to identify her. And it was the same in London. You can’t believe anyone can be that invisible. It was a Sunday, not such a busy day for travelling, but nobody had noticed her. Even more strange, she never mentioned her trip to her parents. Not before she went or when she got back. Her car was gone from outside her parents’ house on the Point from eight in the morning until seven in the evening. That was all they could be sure of.”
She eyed the remaining biscuit but left it where it was. “Perhaps they could have done more. Gone national. Appealed for witnesses. But they thought she’d killed the girl. It wasn’t their responsibility to make the case for the defence.” She gave a wide, dolphin’s smile. “That’s right, isn’t it, Danny? You all thought you’d got your murderer. What is it they call it? Noble cause corruption. And who could blame you for being corrupted? The motive was clear from the beginning. Jeanie hated Abigail Mantel because she could persuade her father to do anything, and she’d persuaded him that the two of them were happier on their own.”
Dan didn’t reply, seemed not even to hear. He was looking out of the window so Emma couldn’t tell what he made of Vera’s words, what he’d thought at the time.
“So, it’s precisely ten years on and there’s a small piece in the Guardian about Jeanie Long. Not claiming she’s innocent. Not exactly that. But claiming she was turned down for parole because she refused to admit her guilt. And that she would have been moved to an open prison years before if she hadn’t stuck to her story. The article gave a bit of background to the case and mentioned that she’d never found an alibi to support her story. The next thing that happens is that a witness comes forward. You wouldn’t believe it could happen, would you? Not after ten years. But this is for real…” She paused. “What’s his name, Danny?”
Emma knew that Vera remembered the man’s name quite well. The pause was for dramatic effect.
“Stringer,” Dan said. “Clive Stringer.”
“Clive was at university with Jeanie. It seems he had a bit of a crush on her, even went out with her once or twice during their first year. He saw her at King’s Cross on the day of the murder.”
“How can he remember after all this time?” Emma heard the desperation in her voice. The story which had been constructed ten years earlier, the story which had made some sort of sense, was starting to crumble.
“The date meant a lot to him. He was on his way to Heathrow. He’d been offered a postgraduate research post at a university in the States, and that was the day he flew. Even if there had been an appeal for witnesses, he wouldn’t have been around to hear it. He didn’t even know that Jeanie had been charged with murder until he read the Guardian piece.”
“Couldn’t he have made a mistake? You see someone in a crowd, it’s easy to convince yourself…”
“I’ve spoken to him,” Vera said. “He’s down-to-earth. Not given to flights of the imagination.”
They looked at each other across the table. Emma didn’t know what to say.
“I did think at first he might be an attention seker,�
�� Vera went on gently. “We come across plenty of those in our line of work. But he keeps a diary. Has done since he was a bairn. It’s a bit sad, I think, summing up your life in a few lines scribbled at night. There must be more to it than that. In this case, though, it’s a blessing. I’ve seen the entry for November fifteenth 1994. Do you know what it says? “Saw Jeanie at King’s Cross Station, looking lovely in a bright red sweater. Red always suited her.” We checked. Jeanie was wearing a red jersey when she returned to her parents’ house that night. Forensic took it. Of course they didn’t find any thing to link her with the murder. But it didn’t really matter. She was charged anyway.” For the first time Emma realized that Vera was angry, volcanically, terrifyingly angry.
Vera must have seen that Emma sensed her fury. She shifted in her chair and smiled again to prove she wasn’t dangerous, became confiding and folksy.
“I’m from up country,” she said. “Nothing to do with Yorkshire and Humberside Police. I’m impartial, that’s the theory. It’s my job to look at the Mantel case again, see what went wrong. And the sooner I can get it done and go home the better, as far as I’m concerned. I’m used to the hills. There’s nowhere to hide here, is there? You can see some bugger’s washing on a line in the next county. It gives me the creeps.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Your memories,” Vera said immediately.
“I’m not sure how reliable they are after all this time.”
