The Seagull

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘So now we have an ID for the second St Mary’s body. Though the lass had perfect teeth – I bet her parents were sticklers, no sugary drinks or unhealthy food for their beloved daughter – her dentist took an X-ray once, and Doc Keating has already confirmed that it checks out with the teeth in the skull.’ She paused for breath and glared around the room. ‘Our second victim is Rebecca Murray, aged seventeen, only child of devoted parents. A wild young woman, given to partying and staying out late and so, while she was reported missing very quickly by her anxious mam and dad, the case wasn’t taken very seriously by our colleagues at the time. It didn’t take me too much effort to find out that she met Robbie Marshall in The Seagull the weekend before she disappeared, and it seems likely that he set her up for a date with a businessman of his acquaintance.’

  Joe was thinking of his daughter, his Jess, and wondering how he’d feel if he’d reported her missing and nobody took much notice. Jess had a temper on her, a stubborn streak, and she was already fighting for her independence. Another few years and she’d want to be out partying, meeting unsuitable boys. He shut that thought down as quickly as he could and returned his attention to what Vera was saying.

  ‘Joe’s been chatting to his mates in the council. What can you tell us about Sinclair’s role in the regeneration project?’

  ‘All above board, as far as they’re concerned. He’s investing in it big-style and persuading other people to back it too.’

  ‘That’s not the impression Elaine gave,’ Vera said. ‘Anything else?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No hint of corruption, no rumour of councillors getting big handouts.’

  ‘He probably doesn’t need to bribe them. Anything that smacks of regeneration ticks all their boxes. And planning regulation is much lighter than it used to be. Because Sinclair owns so much rental property in the town, he’s got a vested interest in making the place a success.’

  Joe saw that Vera was calmer now. Some of the anger about the way Rebecca Murray’s family had been treated had gone; she loved this, standing in front of her team, passing on her wisdom.

  Vera continued, ‘Holly and Charlie have been on the trail of the mysterious Prof., and now we have an identity for him too. He’s Professor Stephen Bradford, award-winning poet and former lecturer at Durham University.’ She turned to Holly. ‘You’re not convinced he’s involved in any way, Hol?’ It sounded like a challenge.

  ‘He must be involved,’ Holly said. ‘At least with Gary Keane. Otherwise, why leave a message on the man’s phone? But I’m finding it hard to think of him as a killer. He’s got so much to lose.’

  ‘Could he have been the person who took a fancy to Rebecca Murray? The businessman who was drinking with Robbie Marshall?’ Joe thought that might be one way of pulling all these threads together. And that’s what they needed – something to give a bit of coherence to the mess.

  ‘Nah, Elaine Sinclair knew the Prof. well. She says she didn’t recognize the man who was drooling over her young waitress.’ Vera stopped pacing and sat on the desk at the front of the room, bare legs swinging. At the end of the legs flapped the sandals she always wore, with the rubber soles and Velcro straps.

  Joe saw that her feet were filthy and felt a moment of revulsion. ‘Elaine could be protecting the professor, by claiming the lass went off with a stranger.’

  Vera thought about that. ‘Aye, you could be right. I wasn’t entirely convinced she was telling the truth when she claimed that she’d never seen the man before.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘Worth checking out with your contact at the university, to see if there were any complaints from young female students.’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘As I see it, the identity of the second body changes any idea we have about motive.’ Vera’s legs were quite still now, crossed at the thick ankles, tense. ‘I’m not sure how John Brace fits into this. It was a different matter when we thought his lover, the mother of his child, was buried with Marshall; now he seems removed from the action.’

  ‘Except he admits to burying Marshall’s body,’ Joe said. ‘He must have been involved in the girl’s killing too. I can’t buy the theory that the bodies were put there at different times. That’s fantasy stuff.’

  ‘Perhaps he was covering up the death of Rebecca for his old friends Marshall and Sinclair.’ Holly’s words were tentative. ‘If Rebecca was less streetwise than she liked to believe and she was taken in by Marshall, she could have fought back when our stranger started making sexual advances. He could have killed her to stop her crying rape.’

  ‘Then why did Marshall have to die too?’ Vera’s words came out as a howl of frustration. There was a silence in the room. She continued, her voice more measured, ‘There’s no way Marshall would have threatened to go to the police. He’d have been as keen to cover the incident up as the guy who committed the assault. Joe, first thing in the morning I want you up at Warkworth to talk to Brace. I’m too close to him. I let him get under my skin. I can’t find any record that he took part in the Rebecca Murray missing-person case, but then I wouldn’t, even if he was involved. He was too skilled an operator to leave any trace. See if he’ll talk to you. He might underestimate you and let something useful slip.’

  Joe thought Vera must be desperate if she wanted to send him to talk to John Brace. So far in this inquiry she’d saved Brace for herself. Her enmity with him was personal and she’d thrived on it.

  * * *

  When he arrived at the prison the next morning there’d been an incident, one of the regular disturbances that disrupted routine and kept the men locked up: a suicide attempt or someone kicking off in his cell. Joe was told to wait in the little room just past reception. They’d bring Brace out for him as soon as they could. Joe sat, bored, on a hard plastic chair. Nothing to entertain him. No phone. No newspaper. A quarter of an hour passed, but nobody came to tell him what was going on and he wondered if he’d been forgotten. He paced the small room and thought this must be what it would be like to be in a cell, but here at least he had room to pace. There was a noticeboard on the wall with photos of important people within the prison. Everyone grinning, teeth bared, so that they looked unnatural, monstrous. The governor, the chaplain and the head of education. Even the head of catering. Joe stared at them for a moment, distracted, then went back to pacing and running over the tangle of crime and motive in his mind, trying to tease the threads.

  When the door was opened ten minutes later it came as a shock. He’d been so preoccupied that he’d almost forgotten why he was here, and the burst of natural light as he was led through to the interview block surprised him. The officer was apologizing for keeping him waiting, but gave no explanation. Joe was shown into a tiny interview room and was surprised to see John Brace already there in his wheelchair. For a moment Joe was thrown and stuttered an introduction. He was still lost in his thoughts on the possibilities and wild speculations surrounding the three murders.

  ‘The organ-grinder not coming today, then,’ Brace said. ‘She’s sent the monkey instead.’

  ‘Inspector Stanhope’s busy.’ Not letting the comment get to him. Partly pleased by it. Vera had told him to let Brace underestimate him. ‘But we thought we should tell you we have identified the woman who was buried at St Mary’s with Robbie Marshall.’

  Brace’s expression was the same, arrogant and amused, but he tensed a little in his chair. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Because for some time there was a possibility that it belonged to your former partner, Mary-Frances Lascuola.’

  ‘She was never my partner.’ A spark of anger. ‘She was someone I had sex with.’

  ‘And had a child with.’

  ‘It was her choice to have the child. Nothing to do with me.’

  Joe thought this was a different story from the one Brace had given to Vera and Patty. He’d told them that Mary-Frances was the love of his life. ‘But you care about Patty? You asked Vera to look out for her?’

  ‘Aye well, I might be in here, but I sti
ll have a sense of responsibility.’

  ‘The woman in the culvert was younger than Mary-Frances,’ Joe said. ‘A seventeen-year-old schoolgirl who went missing just before your friend Marshall disappeared. They were never connected until now, but she’d worked at The Seagull while Marshall was there having lunch with a friend. A friend who seemed to take a fancy to her.’

  There was a silence, broken by swearing and laughter from the yard on the other side of the wall. A group of younger men released from the cells at last, on their way to work or the gym.

  Joe continued, ‘Her name was Rebecca Murray. Does that mean anything to you?’

  Another silence.

  ‘The thing about Robbie Marshall…’ Brace hesitated. Perhaps he was already regretting what he was starting to say. But Joe was only Vera’s monkey, and Brace enjoyed showing off. He wanted to prove that he understood men, all his men, inside the force and outside it, and what made them tick. ‘The thing about Robbie Marshall was that he liked his reputation as a fixer. It was what gave him standing. His job within the shipyard was as procurement officer and that was his boast: “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you.”’

  ‘So if this guy fancied the girl, Robbie would have seen it as a challenge to get him what he wanted?’ Joe was feeling his way.

  ‘A challenge, aye. But he’d got in deep with some people who had expectations. Who felt that Robbie owed them, because they’d done him a few favours. He might feel some obligation to give them what they wanted. So more than a challenge. More like a payback.’

  ‘A way of paying a debt?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Brace leaned back in his chair. ‘They were people you wouldn’t want to cross.’ He paused. ‘People I refused to have any dealings with.’

  Joe didn’t reply, didn’t say that he thought Brace had no scruples at all, that he’d deal with anyone who served his purpose. ‘And would you have any idea who Marshall was having lunch with, that day in The Seagull?’

  Brace didn’t answer directly. ‘I’ve had a date for the parole board.’

  ‘And you’re thinking Vera might pull a few strings?’

  Brace shrugged. ‘It would do no harm if she said I’d been helpful.’

  ‘So this guy in The Seagull? Marshall’s contact?’

  Again Brace ignored the question. ‘That Sunday we spent with Robbie, before I found his body at St Mary’s, he was jittery. I told Vera that. He was as close to scared as I’d ever known him, and that wasn’t Robbie. He didn’t have the imagination to be scared.’

  ‘So, are you scared, John?’ Using the man’s first name deliberately, pulling him in, but knowing that it would annoy him. John Brace had been accustomed to respect. And he wouldn’t want his courage questioned. ‘Even in here? Is that why you’re not willing to give me a name?’

  The man looked up. ‘I don’t have a name for you. Nothing definite.’

  ‘But you might be prepared to speculate?’

  Another pause. ‘Like I said, I talked to Robbie, offered to help if I could, but he knew there were some things that even I couldn’t fix. Sinclair might know the man. Robbie had made a few trips to Glasgow that spring. The spring of 1995.’

  ‘Robbie Marshall had been working with Sinclair’s father?’ Joe wondered what Vera would make of that. ‘Playing with the big boys?’

  ‘Those were the rumours, and even I couldn’t pull strings that far from home.’ Another pause. ‘Apparently there was some deal that hadn’t worked out, and Alec Sinclair felt that Robbie owed him.’

  ‘Could you describe Alec Sinclair?’ Joe was starting to feel his way towards a solution. If Alec Sinclair was the man in the restaurant, that might explain Gus Sinclair’s reluctance to help the police when Rebecca Murray disappeared.

  ‘Obese. Unfit. A heart attack waiting to happen.’

  Joe thought that fitted the description of the man Elaine had given to Vera. Another image flitted into his mind: his boss. He thought it was also a description of Vera herself.

  Brace looked up. ‘He’s dead now, you know. So even if he killed Robbie, that line of enquiry won’t get you anywhere.’

  Joe stood up so that he towered above the elderly man in the wheelchair, wondered if this was the power that bullies felt. ‘What I don’t understand is why you didn’t see the girl’s body when you buried Robbie Marshall. There’s a scenario that makes sense: old man Sinclair killing the girl because she won’t go along with what he’s been promised. Rage, frustration. He’d be a man on the edge maybe. Then I can see him killing Robbie, so he couldn’t talk. Or as a message, because he hadn’t delivered what Sinclair had been expecting. But why were they all at St Mary’s? And if they were killed elsewhere, why was Robbie’s car there?’ And why was Gary Keane murdered after all this time, if Alec Sinclair was already dead?

  ‘You’re the detective, lad. I’m not, any more.’

  ‘Are you still sticking to your story that you didn’t see the girl’s body?’

  ‘I’m not telling you anything else, Monkey. Send the organ-grinder.’ Brace raised his voice. ‘Officer, take me back to the wing. We’re all finished here.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Vera shut herself in her box of an office and wedged the door closed, then opened the narrow window to let in some air. There was a damp, gusty wind blowing from the west, a storm forecast. It was heavy, with the threat of thunder. Again she thought this was the end of a very long summer. Now they had a definite identity for the woman’s body, she hoped she was approaching the end of the case too, but she was still grappling with the facts. Everyone involved, from smart Judith Brace in her grand house in Ponteland to the still-mysterious Professor Stephen Bradford, was slippery and unreliable. Everyone, apart perhaps from Patty Keane, was lying.

  She found a sheet of printer paper and a pencil and started to write down the facts. The things they knew, not the things they’d been told. Three people dead. All linked in some way to The Seagull. And perhaps to St Mary’s Island. Whitley Bay was at the heart of this case. She got to her feet and stood by the window, but the air was warm and humid and did nothing to clear her head. She pulled open the office door and shouted to Charlie, who was sitting at a desk beyond.

  ‘Have we got a phone number for the Prof.?’

  ‘A landline and a mobile. A different mobile from the one he used to phone Gary Keane. I haven’t tried either, because I didn’t want to warn him that we were onto him. I asked the techies to try to track him through the mobile, but it wasn’t switched on.’

  Vera thought they were too late to worry about giving Bradford warning. His sudden departure from the house by the coast meant that someone had tipped him off already. She phoned the landline, expecting nothing, imagined it ringing in the empty house looking out at the sea. When it clicked to the answer machine she had her message prepared. ‘Stephen, this is Vera – Vera Stanhope. I’m not sure if you remember me, but you’ll remember my father. We need to talk. I’ll be at St Mary’s Island from two p.m. for an hour. I hope to see you there.’

  Then she tried the mobile, thinking it would still be switched off and that she would leave the same response, but it was answered after a couple of rings. A woman’s voice, cheerful, businesslike. ‘Hello. Stephen’s phone.’

  ‘Could I talk to Stephen, please?’ It had taken Vera a couple of seconds to realize there was a real person on the end of the line, but she managed to keep the surprise from her voice.

  ‘Just a minute.’ A shout: ‘Dad!’ Then there was a muffled sound and the line went dead.

  Vera tried the number again, but this time there was nothing at all. No woman’s voice. No automated voice telling her to leave a message. Silence. Back at the door, she shouted to Charlie that she’d had a response from Bradford’s mobile phone and that the techies should try to find a location for him, then she gathered up an old raincoat and hat from the stand in the corner and stomped out, without telling anyone where she was going.

  She drove Hector
’s Land Rover towards Whitley Bay. She hoped the vehicle might be a kind of talisman or lucky charm, because it was a link to the Prof. Then she decided again that she wasn’t superstitious. She parked on the newly cleared space next to the Dome but avoided Sinclair’s office, with its shiny images of how the sea front might look one day. The smell of frying fish drew her to the chip shop, and she bought a bag of chips with batter scraps to eat as she walked. She’d just flung the polystyrene container in the bin when Joe phoned. She found a seat on the front, close to the sweep of beach and the water but out of the wind, and spoke to him there, watching the ball-chasing dogs and the fit mothers who jogged with their baby-buggies ahead of them.

  ‘So,’ she said, having to shout to make herself heard over the waves, ‘you think Gus Sinclair’s dad was the man who met up with Rebecca Murray the evening she disappeared?’

  Thoughts and ideas chased through her brain: Gus Sinclair was away from the area when the first encounter with Rebecca took place, but wouldn’t Elaine have recognized the man? Maybe not. She only worked for Gus then; they weren’t an item. Then: Anyway, if Elaine was the power behind the throne, like Janice Gleeson suggested, perhaps she knew Alec Sinclair very well, had her own links to the Glasgow outfit and her own reasons for protecting him. Then: Did Gus know that Robbie was doing deals with his father?

  ‘I think it’s a possibility,’ Joe said.

  ‘Did Brace explain how he came to miss a dead seventeen-year-old in the culvert when he buried his mate Robbie Marshall?’ Herring gulls were screeching above her head, landing to swoop on pieces of chip she’d dropped onto the concrete.

  ‘He stopped answering my questions at that point. He said he wanted to speak to the organ-grinder and not the monkey.’