The Seagull

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Go on.’ A couple of latecomers pushed past her into the room. The people who’d got there early and had been waiting were getting restive. She knew she should make a start.

  ‘There was a message on his answering machine from the Prof. At least someone calling himself that. Our missing member of the Gang of Four. I made a recording on my phone. That’s something else that ties the cases together.’

  ‘Doesn’t it just?’ She thought she had her priority now. They absolutely had to trace the mysterious man who’d been part of Hector’s life and had arrived back on the scene at exactly the same time as Gary Keane was stabbed.

  * * *

  Joe played the recording at the end of the meeting. Vera had been hoping for immediate recognition. It was possible, after all, that she had met this man, had at least taken messages from him on the telephone when Hector was out.

  ‘I thought it sounded kind of familiar,’ Joe said, ‘but out of context, I can’t remember where I might have heard it.’

  It meant nothing to Vera; there wasn’t even a vague sense of familiarity. It was an old-fashioned English voice of the sort used by elderly Tory politicians and television newsreaders of times gone by. She wasn’t sure that anybody talked like that any more. Perhaps the speaker had been exaggerating the round vowels to intimidate Keane. Perhaps there was even a touch of self-parody in the way he’d spoken. But they could dismiss the idea of Sinclair as the Prof. His voice was lighter and, even if he’d managed to mimic the accent, it was nothing like this.

  ‘Get the techies to fast-track any information from the phone,’ she said. ‘We should be able to find a number and that’ll give us a name.’ It occurred to her that, to date, much of this case was about identity. They still had no ID for the female victim buried in the culvert. There was no proof she was Mary-Frances Lascuola. Now they were trying to track a potential suspect who had no more than a nickname. She sent the wider group away with words of encouragement that sounded false, even to her ears, and only the core members of her own team remained. They sat in one corner of the room. Charlie disappeared and returned almost immediately with coffee in cardboard cups, in his jacket pocket a bar of chocolate for each of them.

  ‘Man, that was quick.’ Vera was impressed. ‘Are you moonlighting as a conjuror these days?’

  He looked sheepish and said he’d been seeing a supervisor in the canteen.

  ‘She’s a brave woman!’ But Vera was pleased. When Charlie’s wife had left him, he’d sunk into a decline; now he seemed perkier than she’d known him for ages.

  As Vera had suspected, Holly hadn’t had much response to the house-to-house of the night before.

  ‘The cafe next to Keane’s business will be open now,’ Joe said. ‘The lasses in there might have seen someone go to the flat or the business. It was open when I got to Bebington last night.’

  ‘You go back to the street, Hol. Get a bit of fresh air, after all those hours in front of a computer. Concentrate on the shops and the cafe. The business people would all have known each other and they might have recognized a stranger, especially later, as they were closing up.’ Vera paused. ‘Charlie, I need a positive ID on our two mysteries – the female victim and this guy who calls himself the Prof. It’s getting ridiculous now. If our friends in the press find out that we still don’t have a name for the dead woman at St Mary’s, they’ll make mincemeat of us. And someone must have a name for the Prof. Is he a real professor? Phone the local unis, talk to the admin staff rather than the academics, see if any of them recognize that voice.’ Another pause. ‘I did wonder if the Prof. might be Sinclair, but he just looked bewildered when I asked him if he was into bird-watching, and the voice on the phone is nothing like.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Joe seemed resentful to be last on the list. Vera almost suggested that he come along with her – nothing she liked better than the two of them working together – but there were better ways for him to spend his time.

  ‘Keep on top of everything technical. There’ll be stuff on Keane’s computer: business contacts, personal emails. I’ll leave you to follow up anything that might be relevant. Set your own priorities but, like I said in the briefing, I’d guess top of the list is to track down the number the Prof. was calling from when he left that message on Keane’s office phone.’ Vera smiled, directing her gaze to each of the team in turn, like the circling beam of a lighthouse. ‘First one to find me that name gets a very special bottle of Scotch.’ She began to pack away her notes. ‘Anyone wants me, I’m off to the seaside, but first I’ve got a phone call to make.’

  She walked from the room and made her way to her office, shut the door and experienced another moment of panic. A lack of confidence that felt as if there was a pit about to open up under her feet and there’d be nothing solid beneath her; no sensation but the rush of air as she plummeted to certain disaster. She hated the confusion of this investigation and the lack of certainty. There was no straightforward narrative, nothing to cling to. She sat at her desk and clung to that instead, told herself that all she could do was work on until the story became clearer.

  Her phone call to the Whitley Bay Regeneration Project office was answered immediately and she recognized Sinclair’s soft Scottish voice. That meant that, with any luck, Elaine would be alone in her smart flat on Tynemouth’s sea front. Vera replaced the receiver without speaking and made her way outside.

  * * *

  The Sinclairs lived in the top flat of a Victorian crescent that curved around a private garden and faced out to the sea. Parking was limited to residents, and Vera left her Land Rover at the Spanish Battery and walked down past the boat club and the priory, enjoying the exercise and the sunshine, trying to clear her mind. Tynemouth had always been the smart town on the coast and she wandered past stay-at-home mums with toddlers in tow, the idle elderly taking the air. When she pressed the buzzer at the main entrance, a crackly voice answered very quickly.

  ‘Who is it?’ The woman sounded cheery, not at all suspicious.

  ‘It’s Vera Stanhope.’ A pause. ‘Hector’s daughter. I’m here about the bodies they found out at St Mary’s.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘You’d better come up. Top floor. Hope you don’t mind the stairs.’ Then the click of the door as it opened automatically.

  Elaine was waiting for her at the entrance to the flat. Vera could have done without that. Now their first meeting put Vera at a disadvantage: panting and gasping for air, sweating after the walk through the village and the climb up the stairs. In contrast, Elaine looked expensive. That was Vera’s first thought. And that she’d aged well. Her hair was carefully tinted and curled and she wore a flowery dress that flattered her curves, a short pink cardigan that dragged attention away from the bulging waist and big hips. There was a lot of gold: chunky chains around her neck and bangles at her wrists. Rings on most of her fingers. Gold sandals that revealed painted toenails the same colour as the cardigan. All this made Vera think of Elaine as a different species. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to reach her toenails to paint them and, besides, it had never occurred to her to try.

  Elaine stood aside to let her into the apartment. There was a small, rather dark lobby and then the living room. Sunshine flooded in through big windows onto a polished wood floor. Elaine might still like to wear bling, but if once she’d been brash and common, it seemed she’d now developed a little taste.

  ‘Lovely place you’ve got here.’ Vera collapsed onto a sofa made of a green-and-blue print fabric, without waiting to be asked to sit down. ‘When did you move in?’

  ‘As soon as we got back from Glasgow. Gus’s father died and left us a bit of money. I’ve always wanted to come back to the North-East.’ Elaine was bright enough to know that Vera would have checked the background, so there was no need for a detailed explanation. She took a seat opposite Vera. No offer of tea or coffee. She’d been with Sinclair long enough to recognize the police as th
e enemy. ‘You’re still a cop, then? Hector never thought you’d stick at it.’

  Vera ignored that. ‘We’re pretty certain that one of the bodies in the culvert is Robbie Marshall.’

  For a moment Elaine seemed about to pretend not to recognize the name, then she looked at Vera and thought better of it. ‘Ah, I did wonder.’

  ‘You went out with him for a while.’

  Elaine threw back her head and laughed. ‘No, we were mates, that’s all. If he needed a woman on his arm, sometimes I’d oblige.’ A pause. ‘And really I’m not even sure we were mates. It felt like more of a business relationship. One favour in return for another.’

  ‘Was Robbie Marshall gay?’

  ‘Perhaps he was. I don’t think it’s something he’d have admitted to, then. They were different times. I’m not sure he was into any kind of sex; the only person he really loved was his mother. He was besotted with her. Otherwise, he was a bit of a cold fish. Birds of the feathered variety came a close second.’ She shot a look at Vera. ‘Not like Hector. Birds were always first with him. I did wonder how that made you feel.’

  ‘Was Robbie working for Swan Hunter when you got to know him?’ Talk of Hector freaked Vera out; she could feel something of the panic returning. But no way would she let this woman get the better of her.

  ‘That’s right.’ Elaine gave a little laugh. ‘He was procurement manager. That suited him down to the ground. Robbie could procure anything for anyone. That gave him as much of a buzz as a new bird.’

  Vera stored away that bit of information. ‘You worked at The Seagull. Is that how you met Gus?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elaine looked at her fingernails. They were a slightly lighter shade than her toes. ‘We hit it off from the start. He took me on to do the admin at first, then I became a sort of assistant manager. I took over the day-to-day running of the club. Gus had other business interests.’

  I bet he did. In Tyneside and in Glasgow. ‘You did all the HR stuff?’

  ‘That makes it sound very grand.’ Elaine laughed again.

  It seemed to Vera that she laughed a lot. Perhaps you would, if you had nothing to worry about except painting your nails and shopping for clothes, if you lived in a lovely apartment with a view of the sea. ‘But you did all the hiring and firing of staff?’

  ‘Yes. Once I’d been there for a while, Gus trusted my judgement.’

  ‘Mary-Frances Lascuola…’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She worked at The Seagull.’

  Elaine looked out to sea. ‘I remember her. That was before Robbie went missing, though. At least a few years before that. We took her on as a favour to John Brace. He said she’d straightened up her act and needed a chance.’ She turned her gaze back to Vera. ‘You’ll know John Brace. One of your lot.’

  Vera gave a brief nod. ‘And had Mary-Frances cleaned up her act?’

  ‘She was fine for a while. I gave her a job working in the restaurant as a waitress. She was a grafter and the punters liked her. A bonny little thing, if you like them skinny and soulful. Then she started to slip. I couldn’t rely on her. Gus was keen to keep in with Brace, so I moved her to the kitchen, got her washing up. Obviously she thought that was beneath her and she left.’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  Elaine shrugged. ‘Back on the streets, I assume. That was where most of them ended up. Too proud for washing dishes but not too proud to sell herself.’

  ‘What did Brace make of that?’ Because, according to Patty, Mary-Frances was the love of his life.

  ‘What could he make of it? It wasn’t Gus’s fault that John Brace fell for a junkie with a weird name.’

  In the silence that followed, Vera believed she could hear the waves breaking on the beach below. ‘Wasn’t the Prof. part of that crowd too?’

  ‘Was he? I can’t say I remember anyone called that.’ But there’d been a moment’s hesitation, a wariness about the eyes, which told Vera that Elaine had definitely heard of the Prof.

  ‘What about a young lad with the name of Gary Keane? Mean anything to you?’ So far they’d managed to keep Keane’s name out of the news. In the morning’s local media headlines, the crime had been reported in very general terms; the press release hadn’t even said that the victim had died. A stabbing in Bebington wasn’t quite an everyday event, but neither was it so newsworthy the journos wouldn’t wait for a statement from the police to get the victim’s name.

  ‘Yes!’ It seemed that Elaine was much more relaxed talking about Keane. ‘Gary was a geek before that was what we called them.’ She smiled. ‘But if you got him out of his comfort zone, he had a helluva temper.’

  ‘Did Mr Sinclair employ him too? Like Mary-Frances?’

  ‘He wasn’t on the staff – self-employed, I suppose – but Gus brought him in to do a bit of work for us occasionally. It was mostly security stuff. The Seagull had a lot of classy gear inside and it needed a decent alarm.’

  ‘Gary went on to set up his own computer consultancy and repair business.’

  ‘Did he?’ As if she didn’t really care what had happened to the man. ‘All that seems so long ago.’

  ‘Has Mr Sinclair been in touch with Keane since you moved back to Tyneside?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Elaine managed to bring a note of surprise into her voice. ‘Why would he? Gus is a gentleman of leisure these days.’

  ‘The Whitley Bay Regeneration Project seems to take up a lot of his time.’

  ‘That’s a labour of love,’ Elaine said. ‘Gus longs to see Whitley prosperous again. He doesn’t really have a financial interest in the project.’

  ‘What about the development of The Seagull site?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a consortium in charge of that. Gus is a very small investor and he’s leaving the details up to them. He was so fond of the place that part of him can’t bear to think of anything other than the club there. He can’t work up any enthusiasm for the new project.’

  Vera looked north out of the long, elegant window. She could see St Mary’s Island, but the Esplanade where once Sinclair’s famous club had been was hidden by the curve of the bay. ‘Perhaps your husband could rebuild The Seagull,’ she said. ‘He could call it “The Phoenix”, as it would be growing out of the ashes.’

  ‘The time for that sort of club is long past.’ Elaine spoke briskly. No sentiment with her. ‘Besides, as I said, he’s only a small investor. Other people make the decisions about that site now.’

  Vera turned back into the room. ‘You must have known what happened, that night it burned down. You’d have had a good guess, at least.’

  Elaine smiled easily and shook her head. ‘The fire officers weren’t prepared to commit themselves. It could have been an electrical fault, but they said they couldn’t rule out arson. Gus managed to make a few enemies in the town.’

  ‘Gary Keane looked after your electrics, didn’t he?’

  ‘What is it with Gary, after all these years? What’s the interest?’

  Vera didn’t answer that. ‘Did you know he went on to marry John Brace’s daughter?’

  Elaine seemed to consider her words for a moment. ‘I think I might have heard that.’

  ‘It seems the girl was Mary-Frances’s daughter.’

  ‘That was the rumour I heard too.’

  They sat for a moment in silence. Vera was suddenly impatient. All this playing with words was wasting time. ‘Gary Keane’s dead. He was stabbed in his flat in Bebington early yesterday evening.’

  ‘No!’ It seemed like an honest response, shocked and immediate.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Elaine shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him since we moved away.’

  ‘Since The Seagull burned down?’

  ‘That’s right.’ A pause. ‘I never quite knew what to make of Gary. He was a bit odd. Happier with his electrics than with people, I thought, though he could be a charmer if he wanted. He was like one of those lizards that change colour, dependin
g on their background. All things to all people.’

  ‘What about Angus? Has he seen Keane recently?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Elaine said. ‘If he has, he hasn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘It seems an odd coincidence.’ Vera hoisted herself out of the sofa and stood by the window. The light was behind her and threw her shadow onto the polished floor. ‘The bones are found at St Mary’s, and days later Gary Keane is murdered. And what connects all the individuals involved? The Seagull. That white, shiny palace that you and your husband used to run. And yet you claim to know nothing about any of it.’ She made her way to the door. ‘Tell Gus to get in touch if he has any information for us. Better that he comes of his own accord, rather than we come looking for him.’

  Elaine stood up. There was a clinking of the bangles on her wrists and the chains at her neck. In her heightened state, they made Vera think of handcuffs and a noose.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Following Vera’s instructions, Holly went back to Bebington. She’d been there to work on a previous case, but that had been to the town centre, where most of the shops were boarded up and she’d been left with a sense of desperation about the place. Then there’d been the visit to Shaftoe House, Victorian Gothic stranded in the modern estate of tiny boxes. This little corner on the edge of town was different from both those places. Anchor Lane felt like a community apart, almost a village in its own right. On the far side of the square the terraced houses looked cared for – the gardens were at the front, facing into the community space. It seemed that young families had moved in: there was a wooden climbing frame in one, and a woman was pegging children’s clothes to a washing line in another. Holly assumed that people had moved here from the city because the homes were cheap, and that the shops had followed. The area had a slightly bohemian feel.

  The pavement outside Keane’s shop was still cordoned off and a bored uniformed officer stood beside the crime-scene tape. Holly showed him her warrant card. ‘I’m supervising the house-to-house.’ The cafe close to Keane’s computer business was busy. Inside, it was small and much of the space was taken up by two buggies with sleeping toddlers. Their mothers were talking earnestly about the best nurseries in the district and the exorbitant cost of childcare. Holly, who hadn’t yet felt the urge to become a mother – hadn’t even met anyone with whom she’d consider sharing parenthood – felt like an outsider in an exclusive club. She ordered a flat white and wondered, too late, if she should get something for the PC on crime-scene duty. She should have asked him what he wanted. The woman behind the counter was young, efficient. English wasn’t her first language but she spoke it perfectly.