by Ann Cleeves
“No, but I wouldn’t after all this time.”
“Strange, anyway, Dan holding onto it for ten years.”
“Yes,” Caroline said. “Perhaps.” She poured herself another glass and waved the bottle towards Vera, who shook her head. She’d wait until she got back to the hotel, then have a proper drink. They sat again in silence.
“What happened to the clothes Abigail was wearing when she died?” Vera asked.
“God knows. After all this time… Why do you want to know?”
“No reason.”
Caroline looked at her suspiciously, but didn’t push it. “Dan was a bit of a loner even then. I mean friendly enough, a part of the team, no one ever minded being partnered up with him, but not really one of the lads. Do you know what I mean?”
Vera nodded. He wouldn’t get pissed with them. He wouldn’t swear about the bosses, or get sentimental and pour out his heart.
“Has he ever been married? I didn’t check that either.”
“God, no.” Caroline considered, then added. “I don’t know why that should seem so unthinkable. I suppose he didn’t seem the type. And he never mentioned anyone.”
“Gay?”
“No.” Then after more thought, “At least I don’t think so.”
“He fancied you, didn’t he?”
“Probably, but you get used to that. A woman in a team of men who feel the job’s screwed up all the other relationships in their lives. After a while it’s not flattering any more.”
I’d be flattered, Vera thought. Trust me.
“You never felt threatened by his attentions?”
“Not once.”
“Is there any way he could have got to know Abigail socially?”
“I can’t think of one.”
“Perhaps you invited him to one of Keith’s parties?”
“None of my colleagues knew about Keith. We were very discreet.”
“Dan guessed. During the investigation.”
“Did he? He never said.” Caroline seemed amused rather than surprised.
“Where was Dan living when Abigail was murdered?”
“In Crill. He had a flat in one of those big terraced houses on the se afront I picked him up from there a couple of times.”
“Did you ever go in?”
“Once or twice. Sometimes he wasn’t ready if I was early to collect him for a job. Once he asked me in for a beer at the end of a shift.”
“What was it like in there?”
“Bloody cold,” she said. “It had old sash windows that let in all the draughts.” She looked sharply at Vera. “There weren’t any photos of naked schoolgirls on the walls, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did you see inside his bedroom?”
“No. I’ve told you. We weren’t on those terms.”
Well then, Vera thought.
She said, “Abigail was at school in Crill, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, and the bus took her straight there and brought her straight back in the evening.”
“Except when she bunked off.”
“What are you saying?” Caroline demanded. “That Dan Greenwood picked her up on the street and had sex with her?”
I’m investigating possibilities.” Vera stretched out and put her empty glass on the table. There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Is he that sort? Into young girls?”
“Most of the men I’ve ever known have been that sort. They see a schoolgirl walking down the street, fifteen or sixteen years old, face plastered in make-up, uniform, short skirt, they look. It doesn’t mean they do anything.”
“Did Dan Greenwood look?”
“I don’t know!” Caroline was losing patience. “I’m just saying.”
“What sort of family does lie come from?”
“What!”
“Humour me.”
Caroline looked at her as if she should be locked up, but answered anyway. “He’s an only child. I think his parents were getting on when they had him. His father was already dead when he joined the team. He was close to his mum, but I think she’s died since. Money from the sale of her house gave him the cash to start the pottery. Is that enough for you?”
“Aye,” Vera said. “It’ll do.”
“He was a good policeman. Sometimes I thought he took it all too seriously. You could imagine him going home and thinking about work all evening and dreaming it at night. A bit intense, I suppose, and that worried me. He saw everything in black and white. But he worked on other cases involving young girls and I never had any concerns about how he handled them. There was no talk among the team, no complaints from the public’
Vera hoisted herself to her feet. She should have been pleased. Caroline had told her what she wanted to hear. But still she felt bad tempered, edgy.
At the door Caroline started talking again. It was as if she had continued thinking about Dan and like Vera felt that there were still things to say.
“I’m not very good at summing people up,” she said. “I mean it’s so hard to tell. You look at someone and they do something a bit odd, but they could be shy or weird or dangerous. How do you know? The most dangerous man I ever met looked as if he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“I’d have put Dan Greenwood down as harmless,” Vera muttered. “So what does that mean?”
“I could imagine him killing someone,” Caroline said. “If he thought it was the right thing to do. The lesser of two evils. But I’d say the same about most of the men I worked with.”
She shut the door then. Vera stood for a moment on the step, looking down the sloping front garden into the street. In the house opposite the curtains were still not drawn and two children were lying on their stomachs in front of the television. In the distance a car alarm was ringing. Standing there, considering Caroline’s words, she had another sudden goshawk moment, a brief glimpse of the whole picture. She walked on slowly to her car.
She and Joe Ashworth had dinner that night in the hotel. They’d only managed it a couple of times before. Usually the restaurant was already closed when they got in and they’d made do with takeaways in the car or bags of chips. Tonight they only just made it in time. Everyone else was already onto puddings or coffee and the room emptied as they ate. There was no one to overhear. The waitresses were in end-of-shift mood and stood by the desk chatting and giggling. The sweet trolley had been reduced to three sad profiteroles, some browning fruit salad and half a trifle.
Vera told him about finding the Mantel file in Dan Greenwood’s desk. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kept it to myself.”
“Do you want to get a warrant? Have a proper look round?”
She sat for so long in silence that he was about to repeat the question. “No,” she said at last. “No need. I had a hit of a poke about myself.” She explained about her search of the house in the Crescent, felt like a guilty kid.
Ashworth looked at her as if she should know better. “How do you want to handle it?”
“We’ll keep it to ourselves for the time being. No need to tell the Yorkies. We don’t want the rumours flying if there’s nothing to it. There’s nothing to link him to the Winter case. But we’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll go and have a chat tomorrow. See if I pick up on anything.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’ve got something special for you. A bit of a fishing trip. An away day. You’ll love it.”
Chapter Forty-One
Emma drove Matthew to Springhead. Arriving at the house, she sat for a moment in the car, reluctant to take him inside. She wasn’t sure now that she wanted to let him out of her sight. Would her parents be able to cope with him?
Inside though, Mary was looking out for them. She must have heard the car and the kitchen curtain was pulled aside. Emma saw her silhouetted against the yellow light and imagined her peering into the darkness. She gathered Matthew into her arms and prepared to be cheerful. Inside, her parents were drinking tea, pretending not to be waiting.
“I’ve e
xpressed some milk so I don’t have to hurry back,” Emma said in a jolly voice she hardly recognized as her own. She handed the baby to Robert. She wanted to say, He’s only a loan. Not a replacement for Christopher. Not yours to keep. But that would have been foolish.
Back at the Captain’s House, she and James sat awkwardly at the kitchen table. She thought there was a peculiar restraint between them, a shyness. They were like a couple in a Victorian novel who had escaped the chaperone, though Matthew could hardly count as a chaperone. Now they were alone they weren’t quite sure how to proceed.
“What would you like to do?” James asked. “I could cook for you. We could go out for a quiet meal.”
“I’m not sure I want quiet,” she said. “There’s been too much of that recently. Noise would be good. Music. Talk. Would you really hate it if we just went for a drink in the Anchor?”
“People will want to ask about Christopher,” he said. “You know what they’re like. You won’t mind?”
“No. I think I’d like it. It seems healthier somehow than pretending it didn’t happen. There might be people who knew him there. Friends from school.”
“It could be a sort of wake?”
“Yes,” she said gratefully. “Exactly that.”
She went upstairs to run a bath. The oil she used had sandalwood in it and patchouli. He’d teased her when she first used it, called her a hippy, but she’d never been the sort to camp out at Glastonbury and hadn’t known what he was on about until he explained. On his way to the bedroom to change, he stopped on the landing and looked in on her. She’d propped open the door to let out the steam. The bathtub was old, made of a hard, stained enamel. It was very deep. She’d lit candles on the window sill and their scent mixed with the bath oil. She’d already washed her hair and tied it in a thin silk scarf in a knot on the top of her head. She lay back in the water, allowing her legs to float and her eyes to shut. Then she opened her eyes and saw him there, staring at her.
“Come in,” she said. He seemed poised to make an announcement. There was a long silence. She thought he was composing a sentence in his head and wondered what he could have to say. Suddenly he seemed to lose his nerve.
“I’ll leave you in peace,” he said. “Let you relax.” But the moment was spoilt for her and she climbed from the tub.
She made special preparations to go out, although they were only going across the road to the pub and she wasn’t dressing up. She’d already put jeans and the striped jersey she’d bought on her last trip to town on the chair. She came into the bedroom wrapped in a big bath towel, and sat in front of the dressing table. She used straighteners on her hair after drying it, her eyes fixed on the mirror. The towel slipped when she raised her arms above her head and she had to fasten it again. Then she took time to apply her make-up. Throughout, she was aware of James sitting on the bed and watching her.
She waited for him to come behind her and touch her, but he sat, quite still, watching. She felt breathless, light-headed. Let’s stay here, she was tempted to say. Let’s not bother to go out. I’m making all this effort for you. But the same shyness prevented her and anyway she thought she would enjoy the anticipation, being in the same room as him surrounded by people, aware of his eyes on her, knowing that soon they would come back here.
She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled.
“Well?” she asked. “Will I do?”
“You’re fishing for compliments.” Now he did stand behind her. He reached out and stroked her neck. She caught her breath, but didn’t give herself away.
“No, really. I’ve never been sure I’m doing it right and I’m out of practice.”
“You look lovely,” he said. “Really.”
“It’s warpaint, of course. I’m quite nervous about facing people. I need something to hide behind.”
“Hide behind me,” he said. She caught his eye again and they laughed together at the soppiness. She felt herself relax.
By the time they arrived at the Anchor all the regulars were there. James opened the door to let Emma in first. She paused when inside to see if there was anyone she recognized. A group of kids had gathered around the pool table. She thought she’d seen them waiting for the school bus. Certainly they didn’t seem old enough to be drinking, but in these country towns what else was there for kids to do? Of course she’d never had the option of the pub. She remembered long, boring evenings at Springhead. Until she’d gone away to college her only entertainment had been the church youth club under the watchful eye of her father.
Their entrance had been noticed. Some of the life boatmen were playing darts and they stopped for a moment to nod towards James. Veronica behind the bar smiled at Emma, trying to hide her surprise. Veronica was familiar to them both. She came to church, not as a regular worshipper but on special occasions, Easter Sunday, midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. She always donated a couple of bottles for the summer fay re Her son had been to school with Christopher. They’d been in the same class. Emma struggled now to remember his name.
“How’s Ray?” It had come to her suddenly.
“He’s fine.”
“What’s he doing these days?” Emma wondered how she was performing. She wasn’t used to this sort of conversation any more.
“He’s joined the fire brigade. Leeds. Of course he was never as clever as your Christopher, but we’re very proud of him.” She paused. “I’m so sorry about what happened, love. We all are.”
“I know,” Emma said. “I know.”
“Have the police got anyone for it yet?” Barry had appeared suddenly from the back. He stood with his hands flat on the bar and he stared at Emma. The question shot out, without politeness or preamble.
“They haven’t said.”
“It’s a disgrace,” Barry said and Emma couldn’t tell whether he considered the murder a disgrace, or the police’s inability to find a suspect, or the lack of communication.
One of the darts players who’d come to the bar for another round muttered his agreement.
“Have these on me,” James said. “In memory, you know, of Chris.”
Half an hour later and there was as much noise as Emma could have wished. The kids had put something on the jukebox and in the other bar they were watching football on the wide screen and occasionally the cheers and groans were loud enough to swamp the music.
She sat by the window chatting to one of the life boatmen girlfriends. Someone else who’d been to school with her. She heard the woman talking about a new bloke, a whirlwind romance, a proposal, but all the time she was aware of James, standing at the bar, looking at her. What does he want from me? she thought. What does he want to say?
Then the door opened and Michael Long walked in. He let the door swing to behind him, but there was so much noise that no one took much notice. He walked with a swagger to the bar. Emma couldn’t hear the conversation, but guessed James was offering to buy the man a drink. She thought he had already been drinking. He looked dishevelled and unsteady.
“You’ve got a nerve.”
She could just make out the words and sensed the hostility; it was palpable, like a smell. She watched, horrified. The chatter beside her continued. James obviously hadn’t heard and must have asked Michael to repeat himself.
Michael opened his mouth wide and roared, so everyone could hear him, even above the racket. “I said, you’ve got a bloody nerve.”
The conversation faded. On the jukebox the record came to an end and no one replaced it. From the other bar there was a round of sarcastic applause as a penalty was missed. Michael seemed pleased to be the centre of attention. He turned to them all with a theatrical gesture. “You wouldn’t be drinking with him if you knew what I know.”
Veronica leaned across the bar. “You’re not well, love. Maybe you should get yourself home.”
Michael appeared not to hear her. “Do you know who you’re drinking with? Do you? You all think you know him, don’t you? Family man, pilot, churchgoer Well his whole life’
s a lie. Even the name’s made up.” Michael began to speak more quietly, almost as if he and James were alone together in a small room, but Emma could hear him. The bar was silent. Everyone was watching and listening. He didn’t need to shout. “It shouldn’t have happened like this. I was going to get more evidence then go to that inspector. But I couldn’t stand it, seeing you in here, laughing and talking. Everyone feeling sorry for you.”
“The inspector already knows,” James said. “I told her.”
For a moment Michael couldn’t take that in. He stared, open-mouthed, a fleck of saliva on his lower lip, trying to convince himself that James was lying.
“Why hasn’t she arrested you, then?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not illegal to change your name.”
“But you were a friend of Mantel’s. I’ve seen photos. The two of you smiling together.”
“My father was Mantel’s friend,” James said. “He was nothing to do with me.”
Michael shook his head as if it would take violence to clear his thoughts. “You killed the girl and got my Jeanie locked up.” His voice was desperate. “You must be involved. Why would you live a lie like this if you didn’t have anything to hide?”
“I’ve reason enough to hate Keith Mantel,” James said, ‘but I didn’t kill his daughter.”
Veronica had come out from the bar and now she came up to Michael and put her arm around his shoulder. “You’re not yourself, love. Not surprising all the things you’ve been through. Come into the back with me. I’ll make you a hot drink and we’ll get the doctor to have a look at you.”
Michael allowed himself to be led away. Behind the bar, Barry’s eyes were darting from one person to another, glittering with pleasure.
Emma was frozen. Her reactions had slowed, shut down. She watched James approach her but she couldn’t move.
“Come home,” he said quietly. “We can’t talk here.”
This is what happens, she thought, when you let down your guard. How can I make a happy ending out of this?
“Come home,” he said again. She felt the staring faces and prying eyes. She stood up and followed him out. But once they’d crossed the road she stopped on the pavement and faced up to him. Branches from the tree beside their house blew across the street light and threw moving shadows onto her upturned face.
