Telling Tales

by Ann Cleeves

  “No. Of course not. Sit down.”

  “It’s about Christopher,” Vera said. “Not really my job to be asking questions. There’s a local team investigating his death now. But you already know us. Better, I thought, that I come along than a couple of strangers.”

  “Thank you.” Though Emma thought strangers might be less disturbing than this woman who seemed to dominate the small dining room, who had already made herself at home there. She’d flopped onto one of the empty chairs and was pulling off her cardigan, as if the heat was unbearable to her. Emma felt she should apologize for the temperature, stopped herself just in time. This was their home.

  “Did Christopher have a mobile phone with him when you saw him?”

  “I don’t remember him using one,” Emma said.

  “He was seen in the parish council cemetery early on the day he was killed. Near Abigail’s grave. The witness thinks he might have been using a mobile, though we didn’t find one on his body.”

  “Surely you can trace if he owned a phone,” James said.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But it’s not that easy,

  apparently. Especially the pay as you go sort. People swap them, sell them. There are no bills, it’s hard to get hold of records.” Vera changed tack suddenly, stared at Emma. “Have you ever visited Abigail’s grave?”

  “No.” If Emma had thought more about it, she might have been tempted to lie. The bald denial sounded heartless.

  “You knew where she was buried though. Did you go to her funeral?”

  “No,” Emma said again, adding, “My parents thought it would be upsetting. And although Keith had wanted a quiet burial, apparently the press were all there. I’m glad I stayed away.”

  “What about Christopher?”

  “He wouldn’t have been there.”

  “No? Are you sure? Did you talk about it?”

  “There was no need. It would never have happened.”

  “He could have slipped out of school. Gone by himself.”

  “I suppose so. But someone would have seen him and mentioned it to my parents.”

  “Of course.” Vera nodded vigorously. “A place as small as Elvet, you’d think it would be impossible to get away with anything.” She paused. There was no need to say, But two murders. Someone got away with that. “Christopher would have heard where Abigail would be buried though. It’d have been public knowledge.”

  “Yes.”

  “He must have visited the cemetery before,” Vera said. “Our witness said he went straight to her grave that morning. It was still nearly dark, but he knew whereabouts in the cemetery she was buried.”

  “I don’t know.” Emma felt her head spinning. The questions were coming too fast. She had the dizzy feeling of being only half awake, slipping again into a dream. She had to concentrate hard. “Christopher was always very private. Even when he was a boy. He’d disappear for hours and no one knew where he was.”

  “Do you ever walk down the lane to the river?” Vera had suddenly changed pace. It was as if she was making polite conversation over tea. “It’d be a nice walk in the right weather. Flat for pushing the pram. Good for a family trip out.” Although the question was directed at Emma, she flashed a sly look at James.

  “I’ve walked there,” Emma said, confused by that look, wondering what it could mean. “Occasionally.”

  “I’m surprised you never looked at the grave. Just out of curiosity. She was your best friend.”

  “I’ve spent my life trying to put Abigail’s murder behind me.”

  Vera gave her a quick, appraising stare, but let it go.

  “I think Christopher might have used a mobile while he was here,” James said.

  “Might have. What does that mean?”

  “After the meal he went upstairs to the bathroom. I checked on the baby and heard him talking.”

  “Did you hear what he said?”

  “I don’t make a practice of eavesdropping.”

  “Don’t you?” Vera sounded genuinely astonished. “I do it all the time.”

  “I assumed,” James said, after a moment of disapproving silence, ‘that he was talking to someone back in Aberdeen. A girlfriend perhaps. To let her know that he’d arrived safely. Our landline’s in the kitchen. We’d have overheard him if he’d used that. I assumed he wanted some privacy.”

  “Did it sound like a call to a girlfriend?” Vera asked.

  “As I said, I didn’t listen.”

  “But his voice, was it tender? Intimate?”

  “No,” James said. “It was more businesslike than that.”

  Vera pulled a notebook from her bag and jotted down a few scribbled notes. “We don’t understand where he went for the rest of the day,” she said. “He seems to have disappeared. He was at the cemetery at about eight, then we know he took the lane to the river.”

  “How do you know that?” James asked. To Emma the question seemed too loud, too urgent. What could it matter to him?

  “We found fingerprints in the public phone box there. You know the one,” Vera said. Again Emma thought this didn’t sound right. It was as if the words had another meaning, as if the two of them were talking in a code she couldn’t understand, hadn’t been let in on. “We’ve tested them and we know they are Christopher’s, Vera continued. “So what I want to know is where he went after that. We’ve tracked people who walked their dogs along the shore that morning. No one saw him. There were people about in the village that day. You’d think he’d want something to eat, wouldn’t you? A cup of tea, at least. But he didn’t go into any of the shops or the bakery. He cut quite a striking figure, apparently. Even if the staff didn’t know him by name, you’d think he’d have been noticed. Can you think of anyone who might have put him up? Where he’d have hidden? And who he might have wanted to hide from?”

  “No!” she said. “I feel that I knew as little about him as I did about Abigail Mantel. And I won’t have the chance now to know him better.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vera stood up suddenly, pulled on the cardigan as she walked towards the door. “This isn’t fair. You’ve enough to cope with. If you think of anything which would help, you can give us a ring.”

  The sergeant, Ashworth, followed. He hadn’t said a word since he’d come in, but at the door he stopped, gave Emma a look of such sympathy and pity that she was brought close to tears. “Take care,” he said. It was as if James was no longer in the room.

  Suddenly she was a child again. She was in the house in York, sitting on the stairs. She’d been in bed but something had woken her and she’d stumbled down, half asleep. It had been summer and was still light, the garden behind the open door full of sunshine and birdsong. And her parents’ words. They’d been discussing her. She’d heard her name and that had woken her properly and she’d run down to join them. They were sitting on a wooden bench. She’d run out to them. There was a patio made of old flagstones, which were rough against her bare feet but still warm. Her mother had gathered her into her arms. Emma had expected to be included in the conversation, an explanation, for she,” after all, had been at the centre of the discussion.

  “What were you talking about?” she’d demanded.

  “Nothing, darling. Nothing important.”

  And Emma had realized that it wasn’t worth asking again. She’d been irrevocably shut out. Now, in the Captain’s House, she felt just the same.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The next day Emma visited Abigail’s grave. She left the baby with James and went alone, only saying that she seemed to have been stuck in the house for days and she needed some exercise. Usually, on his days off, James went everywhere with her. He liked the three of them to be together as much as possible. Liked the idea of it, at least. Tbday he let her go without comment, without seeming even to listen to her explanation, and she wondered again what was preoccupying him.

  Christopher wouldn’t be buried next to Abigail. Although they didn’t know yet when the body would be releas
ed, Mary and Robert had already decided that he would be cremated. Mary had said she couldn’t bear the idea of strangers coming to stare at his grave; these days even civilized people seemed to turn into voyeurs whenever a violent crime was reported in the media. Emma hadn’t been consulted over the matter, and she thought that was only right. Of course she was sad that Christopher was dead, but she wasn’t devastated. She wasn’t overwhelmed with grief as you should be when a brother has been killed. She wondered what was wrong with her.

  Emma felt guilty too because she’d had so little contact with her parents since Christopher’s death. She could do something about that and she promised herself she’d go soon to Springhead to see how they were getting on. She realized she had viewed their retreat into isolation with something like relief. It meant her father wasn’t turning up on the doorstep every five minutes to offer moral support and guidance. She didn’t have to play at dutiful daughter.

  When she reached the cemetery she wasn’t sure why she’d bothered coming. After so long, her presence was probably a meaningless gesture. At the last minute she wished she’d brought flowers. It would have given the visit some point. She tried to fix a picture of Abigail in her mind, but whenever she remembered an occasion they’d spent together, the image of the girl slipped away from her and she was left with the background to the scene. So, there was that time when Abigail had told her triumphantly that she’d finally persuaded Keith to ask Jeanie Long to leave. Friday night. Youth club in the church hall, which Abigail usually turned her nose up at, but which Emma was forced to attend. A couple of pool tables and a ghetto blaster in the corner playing music she’d never heard before. The smell of steamed fish left over from the old people’s lunch club. A stall selling crisps and Cash and Carry cola and cheap sweets: chews, lollipops and twisted bits of brightly coloured candy she’d never seen in proper shops. Emma knew Abigail had looked stunning in a sparkly green top she could remember the pang of envy which had shot through her when Abigail had sauntered into the hall but she couldn’t see her. She could picture the faces of all the lads in the room looking wistful because they’d known she was way out of their league. Including Christopher’s,

  because he’d been there too. He’d been playing pool and had straightened up from the table and stared intently for a moment. But not Abigail’s. Emma couldn’t remember at all what Abigail’s response had been to all that attention.

  Standing at the grave, her focus shifted. Instead of being part of the background, Christopher took centre stage. This was where he’d last been seen. And if the inspector was right, it was a place he’d visited many times before. She could picture him quite clearly the long flapping anorak, his lank, untidy hair. The face drawn through lack of sleep and a hangover. But she had no idea what had been going on inside his head. She felt the desperation of missed opportunity. If only she’d been more sympathetic or more assertive. If only she had persuaded him to tell her what he knew.

  Her attention was caught then by a flurry of activity around the farm buildings across the field. A minibus had arrived in the yard and a gaggle of police officers got out. There were a couple of dogs; she heard shouted instructions. The officers waited, then a car pulled up and two figures, sexless in white paper overalls and white caps, emerged. Someone must have had a key to the house because they went inside. The rest of them stood by the bus, looking at the junk, the piles of rusting machinery, as if they didn’t know where to start. Emma thought Vera Stanhope might turn up and didn’t want to be caught by her at Abigail’s grave. The detective might think it was her comments of the night before which had prompted Emma to come. Emma didn’t want her to have that satisfaction.

  As she turned to leave, Emma saw Dan Greenwood leaning against the railings. He must have been watching her. He smiled and raised one hand in greeting. She felt her face flush, a sick excitement in the pit of her stomach. There was still a thrill of connection. That was what made James different, she thought. She never really felt connected to him. He was just a character in one of her stories.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” She nodded towards the figures in navy, who had started to organize themselves into groups. One of the parties filed through a gap in the hedge into the field nearest the river.

  “They want to find out where Christopher spent the day he was killed. The cemetery was the last place he was seen and the farm’s empty. He could have been in there. They’ll be checking if he left any trace of himself behind.” He didn’t speak as if he was guessing. She supposed he must still have friends in the service who kept him informed.

  She walked out through the gate to join him. He smelled of the tobacco he rolled into cigarettes; she stepped away until it was lost in the background scent of dead leaves. Safest not to get too close.

  “You haven’t got the baby with you today, then?” he said.

  “No:

  “You must feel you need some time to yourself occasionally.” “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  “Let me walk back to the village with you. I don’t like the idea of you being out on your own.”

  She thought again that James hadn’t bothered about that. “I can’t see there’d be any danger. Not with all these police around.”

  He didn’t answer, but moved over, so he was closest to the road, and fell in step with her. Despite the misty drizzle, he wasn’t wearing a coat, just a jersey of coarse navy wool, and the damp smell of that overlaid the tobacco. She felt awkward, clumsy.

  “What made you decide on the pottery when you left the police?” she asked, for something to say.

  He didn’t speak for a moment. “It took me a while to decide on anything. I’d had a sort of breakdown. Stress. I knew I wanted to do something creative. When I first left the service I went to art school for a couple of years, but I couldn’t get my head round most of it. Conceptual art. What was that all about? Some of it I liked though. The craft side. Ceramics, producing something concrete for people, something useful.” He paused. “Not making much sense, am I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I had a bit of a pension from the police. Enough to get me started. Then my mother died and left me the money I needed to buy the forge.”

  “Is that why you left the police? Because the stress was getting to you?”

  “I suppose.” He smiled to make a joke out of it. “Ibo sensitive for my own good, I daresay. I couldn’t forget the victims were real people.”

  They walked on in silence until they reached the village. At the door to the forge they paused. Emma knew she should carry on walking, cross the road, let herself into the Captain’s House. James might be looking out for her.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a coffee,” she said. She could feel the colour rising in her face. “As you said, I don’t have the chance to get out much without the baby. I’m not sure I can face the house again just yet.”

  “Of course.”

  She couldn’t tell at all what he made of her request. Did he think she was going mad? Put it down to grief? “But perhaps you’re too busy,” she added. “Perhaps I should go.”

  “No.” The door had warped and caught at the bottom against a flagstone. He put his shoulder against it to push it open. “I’ll be glad of the distraction.” On a bench just inside the door there was a row of jugs he’d hand painted, swirling patterns in intense blues and greens.

  “They’re lovely,” she said. “They make you think of water, don’t they? You feel you’re drowning in the colour.”

  “Really?” He looked genuinely pleased. “When they’re glazed you must have one.”

  The sick excitement came back.

  They sat in the small room she’d seen on her first visit. He made the coffee, apologized for the chipped mug, the lack of fresh milk.

  “What were you doing at the cemetery?” she asked suddenly. It was hot. She felt ill at ease. Now she was here, she couldn’t carry off the situation with polite conversation. She wished she could do the joking
banter which had come naturally to her colleagues at the college. “Were you there to visit Abigail’s grave?” She remembered what he’d said as they’d walked back to the village. “Was it because even though you’d never met her, Abigail Mantel was a real person to you?”

  He seemed startled by the question. “No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

  “I’m sorry. None of my business.”

  “I’d heard the lads were starting a search on Wood-house Farm and even after all this time it’s hard not to be curious. I suppose I miss the police in a way. The friendship, certainly. I keep in touch with some of the lads but it’s not the same.”

  It seemed sad to her, the thought of him watching his former colleagues working two fields away.

  “Did you ever meet Abigail while she was alive?” She didn’t know where the question had come from, regretted it as soon as it was spoken.

  He looked up sharply from the coffee he was cupping in his hands. “No. Of course not. How could I?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s brought it all back. Christopher dying.”

  “I did meet him! Dan said. “That afternoon you found the girl’s body, I was talking to him in the other room, while my boss was in the kitchen with you and your mother.”

  “If he’d seen the murderer he’d have said, wouldn’t he?”

  “He answered all my questions. I didn’t have the impression he was keeping anything back. Did he ever say anything to you?”

  “No.” She set down her mug. It was still almost full. “I should go. Taking up your time like this.”

  “There’s no hurry,” he said. “It’s a lonely business this. Tell you the truth I’m glad of the company.”

  “You should find yourself a woman.” She spoke lightly and was quite proud of the jokey tone. It would make him realize she had no designs on him.

  “Maybe I’ve already found one. But things aren’t working out quite how I’d hoped.” He stared at her and a ridiculous thought came into her head. He wants me to ask what he means. Is he talking about me?

  “Look,” she said. “I must go now. James will be wondering where I am. I don’t want him worried.”