Telling Tales

by Ann Cleeves

  So language had become her thing. French and German to A level and Spanish as an extra GCSE in the sixth form, then Russian for her degree. She hadn’t been brilliant. She’d just scraped a 2.1. But it had been more than her teachers would have predicted when she was fifteen. Her parents too had been surprised by her success, though they’d tried not to show it. How could she explain it? Well, it’s much easier to speak in other people’s voices. It’s more comfortable. How would they understand that?

  That had led to her meeting James. After university she’d taken a job with a small shipping company based in Hull. Why had she come back? After being in Exeter for three years and Frankfurt for one, she’d thought herself free of the influence of Robert and Mary. She could have found work anywhere in the country, anywhere in the world. Yet, almost without making a conscious decision, she’d found herself back here. She had felt some responsibility for her mother of course. She couldn’t imagine what it could be like for Mary, with just the two of them rattling round that big house. Even now her parents’ marriage was a mystery to her. What was it about Robert which inspired such devotion? Not just from her mother but from all the women in the parish. But that hadn’t been the only reason for her return. She’d been scared all the time she’d been away. Of the strange places and the jostling cities and of people she didn’t know. Of the unexpected. Perhaps that had been the legacy of discovering Abigail’s body. She was terrified of stumbling across another horror. She knew she wouldn’t cope with it on her own. Here, her parents drove her to distraction, but they’d be there to support her, as they had the first time.

  There’d been some translation work in the Hull office, but she’d felt her grasp of the languages slipping away through lack of use. When she’d been approached to teach an adult education class she’d taken it on reluctantly, just as a way of keeping Russian at least real in her mind. And at the first class James had walked in, straight from work, still in his uniform. Her dreams about him had been just as vivid as those about Dan Greenwood. Hadn’t they?

  She moved across to the window, had to fight against the compulsion to relive her favourite day dream: Emma sees herself slipping out into the square and, keeping to the shadows, walking across to the forge. She pushes open one of the big doors which form an arch, like the door of a church, and steps inside. It would be so hard to let this go. But how could she continue now she knew there was no attraction, just an embarrassed recognition of a schoolgirl who had once been on the edge of one of his cases? She would miss those languid afternoons when she lost herself in daydreams, the nights when she looked out to see if he was there.

  A light was on in the pottery and the door was not padlocked. Dan was working late. Emma supposed Vera Stanhope had demanded his time all day and he had to catch up. Or perhaps the night shifts with the police had given him a taste for working late. The light went off. Dan emerged from the pottery and stood for a moment, looking up and down the square. He locked the door and fixed the padlock, but still he stood where he was. Emma had a sudden and irrational certainty that he was waiting for her. She stared down at him, willing him to look up. But as there was no light in the bedroom how would he notice her? The orange street lamp would be reflected in the glass forming a barrier he’d not be able to see through. She considered pushing up the sash window as she had on the night when he and James had discussed Jeanie’s suicide, wondered if she could do it without waking her husband.

  A car drove into the square. It was black and long. It pulled up smoothly besides Dan and he climbed in. Emma couldn’t see who was driving. She supposed it could be Vera Stanhope with more questions, though there had been something furtive about the way Dan looked all around him before getting in. Perhaps it was a woman, a lover he’d managed to keep secret from the rest of the village. The car revved its engine and drove off very fast. Emma climbed into bed and lay with her back to James.

  She woke to light, in a panic.

  “Where’s Matthew?”

  James was dressed. The light came from the lamp on the dressing table. He was stooped in front of the mirror, knotting his tie.

  “Asleep,” he said. “It’s still early.”

  “Are you sure? He never sleeps through.” Her heart was thudding. She felt clear headed, wide awake.

  “I checked.” He pulled a face to confess that he’d panicked too.

  As if on cue there was a grizzle from the monitor they’d bought, then a small cry.

  , “You stay there,” James said. “I’ll get him.”

  She propped herself against all the pillows on the bed and wondered why she couldn’t be happy with this: a good husband and a baby to feed.

  She kept Matthew with her and read until the light came through the window and the traffic started moving. James had long gone. She changed the baby and put him back in his cot, then went downstairs to make tea. She half expected to find Chris where she’d left him, slumped over the table amidst the remains of the meal, but there was only the debris. He must have roused himself sufficiently to drag himself to the spare room. It would have been late though. She hadn’t heard him. She filled the kettle then stacked the dishwasher and switched it on.

  When the tea was made she decided to share it with Chris. She pictured herself sitting at the end of his bed, the duvet tucked around her feet, continuing the conversation of the night before. It wasn’t too late for them to become close. She had to set the tray on the table on the landing so she could knock at the door. There was no reply. She wasn’t surprised. He must be practically unconscious after all that booze and so many nights without sleep. Still she persisted. She knocked louder, then opened the door.

  The bed was empty and still made, though it was slightly crumpled, as if Chris had lain on top of it. The rumpled cover was the only sign that he had ever been there. His bag was gone and he hadn’t left a note.

  Downstairs, Emma sat in the warm kitchen. She drank the tea while it was still hot. After two cups she telephoned her parents’ house. There was no reply.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Michael was coming back to life, thawing out. And it was painful. Like when a numb foot gives way to pins and needles or cramp. It had started in the church: the stab of fury, which had caused him to spit the wine at Robert Winter, had cut through the dead iciness. Then Vera Stanhope, big and warm and generous, had continued the process. Now he was restless, fidgety. He couldn’t sit in the bungalow waiting for things to happen.

  “What can I do?” he’d said when he stood up to let the inspector out of the house. “I want to help.”

  She’d hesitated and he’d held his breath, dreading a patronizing response. Leave it to us. I’ll let you know if I think of anything. The silence had gone on for so long that he’d thought she never would answer. She’d walk out into the street, leaving him still waiting.

  “Mantel,” she’d said at last. “Is he still involved in village life?”

  “As far as I know. I haven’t mixed much since Peg…” He’d been ashamed to admit how isolated he’d become. He never went out. Before the escapade in the church and Jeanie’s funeral, his only trip out was once a month to the barber, and then he’d go early on a week day when he knew the shop would be empty.

  ‘It’d be useful to find out what he’s up to. Not just work. Has he got a woman, for example, in that fancy house of his? People will talk to you when they won’t to me.”

  “Haven’t you spoken to him?”

  “Not yet. I will do, of course, but I want to know what I’m dealing with first.”

  “You don’t think he killed his daughter?” Michael had felt dizzy at the thought. Was that where Vera’s enquiries might be leading?

  She hadn’t answered. She had stood for a moment, just inside the door, then she’d said very formally, “Goodbye, Mr. Long,” given him a big wink and walked out into the street.

  At lunchtime he got ready to go out. He didn’t dress up in the suit he’d worn to church, but he chose his clothes carefully, an actor
intent on giving the right impression through his costume. Comfortable was what he was after. Comfortable and relaxed, as he’d been in the old days before Abigail Mantel had died and Jeanie had been locked up. He chose a pair of corduroy trousers which still had a splash of varnish on one knee and a fawn ribbed jumper, then a waterproof, because there were still flecks of rain against the window. Outside, he fumbled a bit with his keys when he locked up but there was none of the usual panic. He walked past the knot of reporters on the square with his back straight and his head high.

  At the door of the Anchor he stopped and marvelled at the change that had come over him. Then he opened the door and the smell was the same as it had always been. Hops and cigar smoke Veronica’s husband, Barry, smoked fat stubby cigars wood polish and a hint of fried food from the kitchen at the back, even though no one was eating today. Veronica was behind the bar and Barry, a slight, sandy man with fishy eyes, was sitting on the punters’ side, on one of the tall stools. He was the laziest man Michael had ever known. Rumour had it that he was dying of some rare illness, but Michael had heard that rumour fifteen years ago and Barry was still alive. Still propping up the bar and listening to gossip like a woman. His name was over the bar but everyone knew it was Veronica who ran the place.

  It was Veronica who saw Michael first. She looked up from the glass she was polishing and gave him a quick, polite smile as if he were a stranger, a tourist who’d wandered in for a bar meal. Then she registered who he was. There was a moment of wonder as if she could hardly believe her eyes.

  “Hello, love,” she said. “The usual?”

  All those years and she remembered. That was a landlady for you. She was wearing a white blouse of some silky material and he could see the more dense white of her bra through it. He remembered suddenly that he’d fancied her, even when Peg was still alive. Just as in a very different way he’d fancied Abigail Mantel. But all men would be the same, wouldn’t they? There was no need for the sinking sense of shame in the pit of his stomach.

  Veronica was staring at him. “It is Theakston’s, isn’t it, love?”

  “Please,” he said.

  Barry swivelled on the plastic seat of the bar stool as if the effort was too much for him. He was always curious and usually sat half-turned to face the door, so he could see who was coming in. He almost fell off when he saw Michael.

  Michael walked slowly towards them. What did this remind him of? One of those Westerns he’d liked as a kid. He was the old deputy returning to his home town for the last time to see off the villain. Swaggering into the saloon. Letting the townsfolk know he was back, still alive.

  Veronica set the pint on the bar for him. “On the house,” she said. “Welcome back, love.”

  “When’s the funeral?” Barry asked, the wide pebble eyes unblinking. “Your Jeanie’s, I mean.”

  He’d never be a great gossip, Michael thought. No tact. No subtlety.

  “It’s come and gone. I didn’t want a fuss.” He was looking at Veronica. If Barry carried on like that, he’d be tempted to give him a slap. Better ignore him, try to shut him out. The funeral had been arranged by the prison chaplain, a young woman so short it had been hard not to think of her as a child. They’d decided on the crematorium. He couldn’t stand the thought of being buried and at the last minute had decided it wouldn’t be right for Jeanie either. She must have hated cramped, suffocating places too. The chaplain had sat beside him. The governor who’d come to the house had read from the Bible. There’d been a couple of women he hadn’t recognized. He supposed they were prison staff, teachers, maybe. Smart anyway, in suits. At the end of the service the chaplain had put her hand on his and he’d had a jolt of surprise. It hadn’t just been the physical contact though that had been a shock in itself after all this time. But her hand had looked just like Jeanie’s, the fingers tapering and strong, although she was such a short woman. She had even worn a silver ring very similar to one that Jeanie had possessed. At that moment, for the first time, he’d come close to tears.

  “I wish you’d let me know,” Veronica said. “I’d have liked to be there. You know I thought the world of Jeanie.”

  “Aye, well,” Michael felt close to tears again now. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “They said she never committed that murder…” Barry fed on information. Perhaps that was what had kept him alive for so long. A determination not to miss out on anything. The joy of sicking it up to the gang of cronies who gathered round the bar every night. Now his mouth was slightly open and he was breathing hard. Michael wondered what Veronica had ever seen in him.

  She spoke before Michael had a chance to think up an answer. “Of course Jeanie never killed that lass,” she said firmly. “None of us ever thought for a moment that she had.”

  Michael met her eyes. He hoped she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “I thought I’d better make an effort to get out more. I couldn’t sit wallowing in the bungalow for ever.” Again he was speaking just to her.

  i “Quite right, love. Another pint?”

  He saw with surprise that his glass was already empty. He nodded and slid a ten-pound note across the bar.

  “Get something for yourself,” he said. “Barry too.”

  The pub was quiet. Outside the rain was stopping and the sky was lighter. There was a cobweb, which had been invisible in the gloom, stretched across a corner on the ceiling above the bar. Barry lit a cigar. He puffed out his cheeks to blow away the smoke.

  “So,” Michael said, ‘what’s been going on, then?” He hardly recognized his own voice. It sounded jolly. Not the voice of someone who’d buried his only daughter the week before. “What have I missed? I heard the lifeboat was out last month in that gale.”

  “A trawler from Grimsby,” Barry said. “Engine failure.”

  “Casualties?”

  “None. They got everyone off safe.”

  “Nice work in that weather.”

  Michael tried not to think too closely about the rescue. If he imagined himself there, if he could hear the straining engine and the wind and the creaking wood, taste the salt and the diesel, he’d only realize how much he missed his work on the launches.

  Barry returned the cigar to his mouth, sucked so his cheeks were hollow and his eyes more prominent than ever. Michael waited in silence. “Keith Mantel’s trying to raise money for an inflatable,” Barry said at last. “For inshore work. Anglers stranded on the mud banks. Kids who get out of their depth swimming.” The mention of Mantel was mischievous. On top of everything else the landlord was a stirrer. He wanted to see what sort of reaction he could provoke.

  Michael sipped his pint, seemed to consider before replying. “Makes sense. It’d be quicker to launch. Cheaper to run. More use in the shallows. Keith’s still a leading light on the committee then?” Keith. As if they were mates. Bosom pals.

  “They’d never survive without his fundraising.”

  They managed before he turned up here, Michael thought, but he only nodded in agreement. “You need someone to look after the money side.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” Barry said sharply, stung by the lack of response. “I thought you couldn’t stand the man.”

  “Aye, well. Maybe I’ve learned a bit of sense in my old age.”

  “He’s having a fundraiser at his house.” Barry was getting desperate. “I can sell you a ticket if you like.”

  “I tell you what, Barry, let me have two. I think I’ll bring a friend.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Not at all. It’s a good cause.”

  Barry didn’t know what to say to that and plugged his mouth again with his cigar.

  “Is Keith still living in the Old Chapel?” Michael asked.

  “Yes,” Veronica said cautiously. “He’s still there.”

  “Everyone thought he’d move out after that tragedy with his daughter.” Barry tried another tack. Michael thought he was like one of those snidey kids there’d been in every cl
ass, the sort who’d pick away with jibes and insults until they got thumped. Then they’d burst into tears until the teacher came. “But he stayed on in the end. He said he needed the memories.”

  “Aye, well,” Michael said. “I can understand that.” But his memories of Jeanie in their old house on the shore were unpleasant fights, sulky silences, shut doors with music like sobbing seeping out from under them. He envied Mantel his memories. “Does he live there on his own, or is there a woman?”

  “Of course there’s a woman.” Barry chortled unpleasantly. Veronica gave him a warning look, which he ignored. “You’d not expect Keith to do without for long. This one’s called Deborah. Debs. An actress. Or so he says. Blonde. Nice tits. Young enough to be his daughter.”

  Michael couldn’t help himself this time. “He always did like them young.”

  Barry weighed this up seriously. “Not always,” he said. “He likes them tall, skinny. And he likes the lookers. But there have been a couple of older ones over the years.”

  “You sound as if you’re talking about beasts at a market.” Veronica was unusually tetchy. She wasn’t given to feminism. The conversation had made her uncomfortable for other reasons. Michael thought she wasn’t as easily taken in by his conversion to the Keith Mantel fan club as Barry.

  “How long has he been knocking around with this Debs?” Michael asked.

  Barry looked at his wife for confirmation. “Six months? Something like that. She’s been hanging round the village all summer anyway. She must have been bored when Keith was at work. She spent a lot of time in here.”

  “Is he in the same line of business?”

  “I never knew what line of business that was. It’s not something you can pin him down on. Property. Leisure. That’s what he tells you. Could mean anything. We own the Anchor. So we’re in property and leisure too, when you come to think about it.” It seemed to be a point he’d made before. He thought it was clever, expected that to be acknowledged.