The Seagull

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘When Edward told me that Judith was involved with Sinclair, I started to disentangle myself from John Brace, first by transferring to a different team and then, when Edward was free of them, we both moved south.’

  Vera was still thinking about Judith. ‘I wonder if she’s an investor in Sinclair’s new business.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ Gleeson got to her feet and started collecting coffee mugs. ‘But I bet Elaine is still the power behind the throne.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Gus Sinclair’s name was over the door of The Seagull, but Elaine was the person who made it what it was. He’d done the university degree, but she was the one with the brains and the business acumen. A born entrepreneur, according to Edward.’

  Vera got up too. She could tell that Janice Gleeson was getting twitchy. She obviously hadn’t told her husband about her conversation with Charlie or Vera’s visit. They stood for a moment together at the door, then shook hands; they weren’t of the generation for whom a hug and kiss were necessary. When Vera reached her car, Janice was back on the lawn, raking dead leaves into piles.

  * * *

  Vera’s phone rang when she was driving back to Kimmerston and she pulled into a lay-by to take the call. It was her neighbour, Joanna.

  ‘I’ve tracked down your mysterious Prof. My Prof., at least. The one those readers in the Lit and Phil were talking about.’ The woman’s voice was as clear as if she were sitting next to Vera, honed on a good girls’ school hockey-field.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Professor Stephen Bradford. He’s a poet. Rather a famous poet. Obsessed with landscape. Not in a romantic Wordsworth kind of way. But nature red in tooth and claw. You know.’

  Vera wasn’t sure she did know, but when the call ended she sat for a moment and thought that might make sense.

  * * *

  Back at the station, Charlie was waiting for her, hovering outside her office. She thought he was wanting an action replay of the conversation with Janice Gleeson, but it seemed he had information too.

  ‘I did what you said and chased up the universities. I’d sent all the local ones the voicemail that was left on Gary’s phone. Neither of the Newcastle unis recognized the voice, but I got a hit from Durham.’

  ‘And?’ She pushed open her door and let him in first. Her thoughts were chasing and she tried to stay calm, not to build up her hopes.

  ‘A Professor Stephen Bradford.’

  ‘Yes!’ She punched the air like a contestant in a second-rate game show. And it was a kind of jackpot, a ludicrous coincidence: Charlie and Joanna coming to her with the same name at almost the same moment.

  ‘You’ve heard of him.’ Charlie seemed impressed but wary, as if she’d worked some kind of magic. ‘You think he’s the guy we’re looking for? Only I thought it was a long shot. He’s not working in Durham now and it seemed weird that someone would remember the snippet of a recording made by a man they hadn’t seen for three years.’

  ‘I’ve only just been given that name, and it’s nice to have the confirmation. Our professor is a poet. Famous. Into nature, but not in a romantic way.’

  ‘Eh, I didn’t get all that.’ Now Charlie was even more impressed. ‘Just that he retired a little while back.’

  ‘Do we know what he’s up to these days?’ Vera felt lighter, as if she’d shed a couple of stone and could run up a flight of stairs without pausing for breath. The failure to put a name to the Prof. had been gnawing at her almost since the start of the investigation. With a name, they could trace him. She’d started to mistrust her memories, to wonder even if the man existed.

  ‘The university woman didn’t know. She said he’d always had fingers in a number of pies.’ Charlie paused. ‘Are you saying this famous poet, this ex-professor of English literature at Durham University, killed two people back in the nineties and then stabbed Gary Keane in his own home? Because I just don’t see it. Why would he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She ran through the facts in her head and couldn’t make them add up to provide Bradford with a motive. ‘But we’ve got enough to bring him in. We know he contacted Gary Keane the day before the man was killed, and wanted to meet him. We know he was a friend of Robbie Marshall’s and one of the Gang of Four. Elaine definitely knew who I was talking about when I mentioned him to her, so I’m guessing he was a regular at The Seagull. He’s implicated in all this, in one way or another, and I want to speak to him. Go to Durham, and take Holly with you. She went to a posh uni, so she’ll know what they’re talking about.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m thick?’ A wide grin to show he hadn’t really taken offence.

  ‘Nah, but it’s a different world, isn’t it?’ Like The Seagull, she thought, with its shimmering lights, the music floating into the air above the North Sea. That had been a different world too, and now she knew it was so insubstantial that it could have been built from the sand on Whitley Bay’s beach.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  While Holly and Charlie set off for Durham in search of the Prof., Vera sat at her desk and let her thoughts wander backwards and forwards in time. She hadn’t thought Hector capable of murder, but now doubt and suspicion crept into her head. They were like roots of ivy pushing into a wall. Insidious at first, but then everywhere and impossible to ignore or to tear away.

  She picked up the phone and dialled the mobile number she’d got for Judith Brace. The woman answered immediately. There was background noise, the sounds of a busy street.

  ‘I wonder if you’d be free to call into the Kimmerston Police Station, Mrs Brace. I have a few more questions. This morning, if you’re free.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘That really wouldn’t be convenient. Couldn’t you come to the house? This evening perhaps.’

  Vera felt an exhilarating surge of anger; she wasn’t some servant to be ordered about. ‘If you don’t want your name linked to three murders, Mrs Brace, I suggest you come into the station, to explain your business connections to at least one of the victims.’

  Another silence before the woman spoke again. ‘I’m actually in Kimmerston now for a meeting. I suppose I could cancel, if you really think it’s so important to see me.’ Her voice was frosty as she added, ‘I’ve always believed in supporting the police.’

  They talked in one of the meeting rooms. It was bare and functional, but not as unpleasant as an interview room close to the cells. Vera didn’t want to alienate Judith Brace any more than she had done already. The woman sat, straight-backed and defensive.

  ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you in, Judith.’ Vera had already offered coffee and, with the apology, the woman started to soften. ‘It’s just that we’ve been given an important piece of information, and of course I want to check its accuracy before acting on it.’

  ‘Information concerning me?’ A frown.

  ‘I understand that, along with Elaine Sinclair, you were one of the major shareholders in The Seagull. You didn’t give me that impression when we first discussed the club. In fact you suggested that you hardly knew Elaine, when I asked about Robbie Marshall’s women friends.’ Vera gave a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure there’s a good explanation, but you can see why we need to talk.’

  ‘I was a shareholder only in name,’ Judith said. ‘John set it all up. To distance himself from Sinclair and the business.’

  ‘Ah, so my informants were wrong then.’ Another smile.

  ‘Quite wrong, Inspector.’

  ‘Have you had any contact with Mr and Mrs Sinclair since they came back to Tyneside? I assume you move in the same circles these days.’

  Vera could see that Judith was tempted to lie, but then thought better of it. ‘Of course I support Mr Sinclair’s attempts to regenerate the north-east coast. We meet occasionally at meetings. But no, we don’t meet socially.’

  Vera wondered what Sinclair, with his efforts to buy into the county set, would make of that. ‘Do you have financial interests in any of his regeneration sche
mes?’

  Again, Judith thought carefully before answering. ‘I have a modest investment in one of his ventures. I believe in the concept of coastal renewal.’ She seemed to be gaining in confidence. Perhaps she realized that, after all, Vera had very little to implicate her in the killings. ‘Now, Inspector, if you have no more questions, I really should go.’

  * * *

  Back in her office, Vera thought she’d been too hasty. She should have waited until she had concrete details about Judith Brace’s connection to the events surrounding The Seagull. Her phone rang and she was so tied up with her speculation about the case that the sound shocked her. She felt her muscles tense as she answered it, a sudden rush of adrenaline. ‘Yes.’

  It was Paul Keating, the pathologist. ‘The second set of bones we found in the culvert. The woman.’

  ‘You’ve got an ID?’ That would be one less loose end.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Stop playing games, man. I’m not in the mood.’ Though of course Keating would never play games. He was a solid and very religious Ulsterman and the least playful man she knew.

  ‘Your woman isn’t Mary-Frances Lascuola.’

  Vera was going to ask if he was sure, but then she stopped herself. Keating wouldn’t have phoned her until he was sure. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We finally tracked down Lascuola’s medical records. She was admitted to A&E not long before she disappeared, with a number of broken bones. The result, the doctor thought, of a violent attack, though she told them some story about falling downstairs.’

  ‘She was a sex worker. One of the perks of the job, getting the occasional beating.’ Though wasn’t John Brace protecting her then? Or had he lost his temper with her, because she’d found it impossible to stay clean? Had he been the attacker?

  Keating was quiet for a moment. ‘There was no sign of any breaks in the dead woman’s bones. And there would have been, if she was Lascuola.’

  ‘So we have no idea who she is?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Vera. I’m a pathologist and not a miracle-worker. I’m not sure what else we can do to help you trace her.’ He waited for a moment for Vera to respond, but she didn’t know what to say and the line went dead.

  She sat at her desk. Joe claimed she liked things complicated. He said the more difficult the case, the more she enjoyed it. So why this return of panic, the sense that she was drowning in a pool of information? She knew she wouldn’t feel any better by sitting here brooding: this was no time for self-indulgence. She pushed herself to her feet and opened the door of the ops room.

  ‘New information from the pathologist.’ She yelled to be heard above the tapping on keyboards and the muttered conversations. There was a dribble of silence as officers stopped what they were doing and directed their attention away from their screens to her. ‘The female in the culvert is definitely not Mary-Frances. So, we have a new priority: an ID of the second victim. Let’s start with 25th June ’95. That was when Robbie Marshall disappeared. Go backwards through the records from that date, please. We’re looking for anyone reported missing at the same time. A young woman. Let’s start at the coast and move our search geographically inland from there.’ She paused. ‘I want a list of possible victims on my desk by lunchtime.’

  There was more she wanted to say. That the young woman might have relatives who were still tormented by the possibility that she was alive. To give an apology, because she’d been so convinced that Mary-Frances was the dead woman that she’d closed down other lines of enquiry. But that would have taken time, and Vera wanted them all to focus. She needed an immediate result. She went back to her office to collect her bag and left the building.

  * * *

  On the Hastings Gardens estate, Patty Keane seemed pleased to see her, proud that the house was tidier than on her previous visits. ‘I didn’t forget their packed lunches this morning!’ A quick grin. ‘And I’ve already got a load of washing on the line.’ She nodded to the back garden and the rotary dryer that stood on the scruffy lawn.

  ‘Eh, pet, I’m not some sort of social worker here to judge you.’ Then, realizing that the woman needed some positive feedback, ‘Great that you’re doing so well, though, and that you’re feeling better. Are you going to stick the kettle on?’

  They drank tea in the living room, with the enormous television blank on one wall. Vera was reminded of the one-way glass they had in a couple of the interview rooms. ‘It’s about your mam.’

  ‘You’re here to tell me that she’s dead,’ Patty said. ‘Like Gary.’

  ‘I don’t know if she’s dead or alive, pet. But we know she’s not the body that we found at St Mary’s.’

  There was a brief moment of shocked silence. ‘But if she’s alive, why hasn’t she ever got in touch with me?’ The words came out as a wail.

  Vera struggled to come up with an answer. What did she know about families, and decent parenting? ‘Perhaps she decided you were better off without her, that the kindest thing to do was to let you get on with your life on your own.’

  Now there were tears running down Patty’s cheeks. ‘I’m a really crap mother, but I’d never abandon my kids. Not even Archie, and sometimes I want to strangle him.’

  ‘We still don’t know for certain that she’s alive. Just that she’s not the woman we found in the culvert.’

  They sat side by side, perched on the leatherette sofa, clutching their mugs. In the next-door garden an elderly man was tidying his already immaculate flowerbeds, clearing dying plants from the herbaceous border.

  ‘Can you remember her at all?’ Vera asked at last.

  Patty shook her head. ‘I remember being with the foster parents a bit. Really vague stuff. Then meeting my adoptive family. My own room in a house that seemed enormous. I was old enough then to know what was happening.’

  ‘My mother died when I was a bairn,’ Vera said. ‘I’m not sure if my memories of her are real or if I made up a kind of story about her in my head.’

  ‘I saw a photograph of mine.’ Patty was still crying. She took a scruffy bit of tissue from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. ‘It was in my social-services file. I still dream about her sometimes, but I know that’s made up. I was too young when I went into care to remember her.’

  ‘Do you still have the photo?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s in a box upstairs.’

  ‘Would you let me see it? It might help us track her down.’ Vera didn’t like to say that the only images they had of Mary-Frances were the ones taken in the nick after she’d been arrested, and those photos made everyone look like bit-characters in a horror film.

  ‘Sure.’

  She returned with a small cardboard box that had once held fancy chocolates, a present perhaps from Gary. Patty sat it on the sofa between them and opened it up. Inside were a few trinkets. Cheap jewellery: ‘My engagement ring. Lovely, isn’t it?’ The scans of babies still in her belly. The photograph of her mother. She held it carefully by the rim and passed it to Vera.

  A woman was leaning against a five-barred gate somewhere in the country. Her bare arms seemed horribly thin; she was clasping her hands in front of her. She wore a blue dress, low-cut, but still somehow modest. Not a dress she would wear for working the streets. Her face was all skin and bone, but hauntingly beautiful. A model’s face of high cheekbones and huge eyes. Long, dark hair. Vera could see how John Brace had been drawn to her. ‘Wow!’

  ‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? A pity I don’t take after her.’

  ‘But you do!’ A genuine response, because Vera could see the likeness. There was no doubt in her mind that the two women were related. She continued to stare at the photograph, shifting her attention from the woman in the foreground to the countryside beyond, the wide summer sky.

  Patty was still talking. ‘The social worker contacted my mother to ask for something to pass on to me, just before the adoption was made official. This photo must have been taken a few years before, I think, but perhaps she liked it. I would have love
d a letter. Something personal. But all that came to me was this photo and the locket.’

  ‘What locket?’

  Patty fished back in the box. ‘I used to wear it all the time, but then I worried that I might lose it, so I kept it in here.’ She scrabbled through the costume jewellery, the dangly earrings and bangles. ‘It’s not here.’ Disbelief in her voice.

  ‘Why don’t you let me have a look?’ Vera took the box onto her lap and carefully put every object onto the glass coffee table in front of her. There were several strands of glass beads and a gold chain, but no locket. ‘Are you sure it was here, pet? One of the kids wouldn’t have taken it out to play with?’

  Patty shook her head. ‘They know they’re not allowed in my room. Besides, I keep the box on a high shelf. Even I can’t reach it without standing on a stool.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You know how I’ve been lately, not sure of anything. It could be years since I last had it out.’ The tissue had dissolved into shreds now, but still she dabbed her eyes with it.

  ‘Have you seen it since the break-in?’

  Vera couldn’t see how the locket could be important to anyone but Patty, but she was struggling to find another explanation for its disappearance.

  Patty looked at her as if she was mad. ‘Why would a thief go for that, and not for the telly or the computer? It was silver, but not old or valuable.’

  ‘Were there photos inside?’

  ‘No. Just a lock of my mother’s hair.’

  Vera put her arm around Patty and gave her a quick hug, found a cleanish tissue in her bag and handed it to her. ‘I need you to think quite carefully, pet. Can you remember the last time you saw it?’

  ‘It was ages ago! I can’t remember exactly.’

  She sounded like a sulky child now and Vera kept her voice reassuring. ‘No, of course you can’t, with all that’s been going on in your life. Did Gary still have keys to this house?’

  Patty shook her head. ‘He threw them on the bench when he came to pick up the last of his stuff.’ She looked up sharply. ‘You think he broke in here just to get the locket? Why would he? It only had any meaning for me. It was part of my past. Part of my mother.’