The Seagull

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Yes, John Brace. I thought he’d given up on her, but they must still have been in touch.’ The words impassive. This too was something that Mary-Frances had kept from her friend and he could tell it still rankled. Perhaps that was why she was speaking to him so freely now.

  ‘So you were here in the centre?’ he prompted.

  ‘It was a bit different then. More formal. There was a workshop, first thing. It might even have been in this room. I suppose a sort of group therapy. People coming together to talk about their experiences of addiction. There was a lot of that. Mary was there but she was quiet. There was a psychiatric nurse in charge and he noticed the difference. Usually Mary was happy to contribute. Mary said she was fine; she just had lots to think about. We had a break for coffee. I couldn’t see her. I went to look for her in the loo, but she wasn’t there, either. She’d disappeared.’

  ‘They’d just let her walk out?’

  ‘It wasn’t a prison, Sergeant.’

  ‘And that was the last you saw of her?’ Joe wondered what Laura had made of that – had she seen Mary’s disappearance as a betrayal of their friendship?

  ‘I assumed that Robbie Marshall had tempted her back onto the streets or had some special client for her.’

  ‘He was her pimp?’ Joe knew the team had considered this previously, but he was still shocked. Vera always said it didn’t take much to shock him. Robbie Marshall had come from a loving family, though; he’d got himself a good job. Why would Marshall degrade himself by hiring out vulnerable women to the highest bidder? He pictured Eleanor, with her tidy house and her memories of a kind and considerate son.

  ‘He wouldn’t have thought of himself like that,’ Laura said. ‘He would have called himself a trader.’

  She said she had to go then. She had an evening class in Whitley. But when Ian, the centre worker and former addict, showed Joe out through the big front door, Laura stayed behind and, as the door shut behind him, Joe had a glimpse of the two of them talking together.

  * * *

  Back at the station, Joe found Charlie at his desk. He’d just put a call through to his contact at Durham University, hassling again for details of Bradford’s students, hoping that she might have tracked down someone who could be Mary-Frances. Joe sat on the desk, trying to listen to Charlie’s conversation when Vera phoned, the signal breaking up occasionally so that he had to ask her to repeat herself. He walked into the corridor so that he could hear her without the background noise of the shared office.

  ‘I think I saw the Prof. in Whitley.’ Then there came a long and garbled story about leaving a message on Bradford’s landline and a child’s accident, and Bradford scarpering when a cop-car arrived.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us you had arranged to meet him? You shouldn’t have been there on your own.’

  ‘Aye well, it was such a long shot that I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. I’m heading back home now. It pissed down when I was walking back to the town to pick up my car and I’m soaking.’

  Joe thought that served her right.

  When he’d finished talking to Vera, Charlie was still on the phone: ‘Thank you, Christine. Yes, if you could get back to me as soon as possible that would be very helpful. While you’re there, could I just ask one last thing … Were there any complaints of sexual harassment against Professor Bradford? Any rumours that he might have behaved inappropriately with any of the female students?’ Charlie listened to an answer that Joe couldn’t hear, thanked the woman again and replaced the receiver.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘In that department at least, the professor was as pure as the driven snow.’

  Joe wasn’t surprised. He was already convinced that the man whose attention had been caught by schoolgirl Rebecca Murray was Gus Sinclair’s father, Alec.

  Charlie was fidgeting with a notebook on his desk. ‘Techs called, just before you got here. Bradford’s mobile was activated today and they have a location for him. A street in Bebington. Anchor Lane.’

  Joe wondered what that meant. ‘That’s Keane’s address. Vera said she’d got through on his mobile but a woman answered. Do you think Bradford is at Gary Keane’s place? Do we still have a man outside?’

  ‘I doubt it. Scene-of-Crimes have finished there, so no point. Worth taking a look, do you think?’

  ‘Nah, Vera saw him in Whitley not very long ago. Even if he was in Bebington earlier, he’ll be long gone. He’s probably back in his big house by the sea. We haven’t got anyone watching there.’

  Outside the light was going. The torrential rain had stopped, but the clouds were still low and dark and the days were drawing in. There was a text from Sal asking what time he expected to be home. She was hoping to get out to Pilates. He texted back to say he was just leaving, then remembered that Vera had asked for an up-to-date photo of Bradford and fired up his machine. Google found him a picture of the man receiving a literary prize at some do in London. He was standing in front of a microphone and he wore a bow tie and dinner jacket. The photo was only two years old. Joe hardly looked at it, his focus now on getting home to Sal before she had another of her meltdowns. He printed out half a dozen copies to leave on Vera’s desk. It was only then that he stared at the photograph more carefully. He was sure he’d seen this person recently, but in a different context. A totally different context.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Vera was at home. She’d shed her soaking clothes as soon as she came in through the door and now she was in the bath, water to her neck, topping it up every so often when it became tepid. She thought best in the bath. Now she was thinking about the phone conversation she’d had with Joe on her way home. She’d pulled the Land Rover into the verge as she’d been winding up the narrow roads to the house, but the signal had still been bad.

  ‘We know Professor Bradford has been back in Bebington.’ Joe’s voice strangely distorted because of the poor reception.

  ‘What’s he been up to there?’

  Then she’d sat in silence while he explained his theory. When he’d finished she’d ended the call, saying only that she’d see him first thing in the morning. But in her head, she’d congratulated herself on training such a fine officer. Someone who could make links and see beyond the obvious. Joe was still in the station with Charlie and Holly, and they were pulling in as much information as they could, ready for action the next day. If she hadn’t been dripping wet, she’d have been tempted to go back and join them. She didn’t like to think they could manage without her.

  Lying in the bath and staring at the cracks in the ceiling, she wasn’t at all sure what Joe’s ideas might mean, except that they needed to talk to the Prof. as soon as possible. She decided it was time to get out of the water. If she stayed any longer, she’d go wrinkled and prune-like. Even worse, she might fall asleep and wake up only when it was cold. She hauled herself out of the tub, grabbed a large grey towel that had once been white, wrapped herself up in it and stuck her feet in a pair of cotton slippers that she’d nicked from a posh hotel where she’d stayed for a management course.

  In the bedroom she got dressed, pulled on the pair of jogging bottoms she’d bought when her doctor had suggested she needed to get fit, and a big sweater. All the time her thoughts chasing, and her mind making connections. After the steaming bath, she felt a bit chilly and wondered about lighting a fire, but got distracted by new ideas before she’d lifted kindling and newspaper from the basket by the grate. She’d taken the photo of Mary-Frances from Patty’s house and looked at it again. She was reminded of the image of her mother, also pregnant, in an earlier picture. In her head, Vera was a child, running to her neighbour’s house for comfort. She felt again the direct connection with Patty. They were both women who’d been abandoned, in one way or another, by their mothers; both had fathers who bullied and blustered. She phoned Joe but got directed to the voicemail. She couldn’t find the right words for a message, so she hung up. It would wait until morning.

  It was already getting d
ark. She could see the lights of the village in the valley, hear the faint noise of the heavy rock that her neighbour was playing as he worked in his barn. She was overcome by a sudden hunger and rifled in the freezer for something to eat, found a mutton stew she’d made years ago, right at the bottom. Another small moment of triumph. In Hector’s day, the freezer had only held dead birds and mammals. While the meal was whizzing around in the microwave to defrost, she collected the armful of sodden clothes from just inside the kitchen door and pushed them into the washing machine. Eh, pet, you’re a domestic goddess. She even managed to wash up after she’d eaten and to get the fire alight. The wind had moved to the north-west and the air was fresher.

  She must have slept, because she came to with a start and realized that it was quite dark now and the fire had died almost to nothing. She shook on a few lumps of coal from the bag. No need for smokeless, out here. The wind was stronger. She could hear it rattling around the chimney and the fire flared immediately. She was deciding between making a brew and pouring a whisky before bed when she heard the noise of a vehicle on the track. It was probably Joanna coming home from one of her library gigs. She was promoting her new book, and these days she was out a lot in the evenings. But the car didn’t move on to the farmyard next door. It stopped outside Vera’s cottage.

  She hadn’t pulled the curtains – she didn’t usually bother unless it was blowing a hoolie from the east and she needed to shut out the draughts – so she could see outside from her chair. It was a smart car, not Joanna’s old banger. Even when the car had stopped, she’d thought for a moment it might be Joanna, that she’d seen Vera’s light on and decided to call in for a gossip and a drink. Joanna sometimes did that; she’d turn up with a bottle of red and regale Vera with stories of publishers and readers, acting out the drunk agent she’d come across at a party, the little public-school girl who saw working in publishing as a temporary inconvenience between university and marriage to a wealthy banker. Joanna could always make her laugh. She could always make Vera believe that her team were mistaken and she did have real friends after all.

  Vera wasn’t laughing now. She remained in her seat, looking out of the window, glad that she’d locked her door when she’d come in. She didn’t always bother, but sometimes the neighbours wandered in with a present of veg from their garden and she hadn’t wanted them seeing her bollock-naked as she discarded her wet clothes. The car door opened and for a moment the interior light was still on and it backlit the man climbing out. Because it was a man. Vera wondered if she’d been expecting his arrival since she’d seen him looking down at her near St Mary’s Island wetland. The Prof. wasn’t patient and he wasn’t a person to give up. He’d be wondering what she had on him. Wondering how he’d be able to stop her passing it on.

  He was dressed just as she remembered him. Tweed cap and waxed jacket. Looking more like a gamekeeper or country gent than a poet or academic. Vera thought she should read his poetry some day, though she’d never much seen the point of poetry unless it told a story. She imagined the Prof.’s would be very clever. He’d be a show-off. She slid her chair back, so it couldn’t be seen through the small window. She hated the idea of him peering in at her. He banged on the door. She didn’t move. For a moment she was frozen and indecisive, a teenager wrapped in a blanket, looking out on the world ruled by loud older men. He knocked again. ‘Come on, Vera, let me in. It’s fucking freezing out here.’

  Almost the same words, only this time they made her angry and she didn’t feel intimidated. Sod it, she wasn’t going to cower here in a corner, waiting for him to go away. She pulled herself to her feet, pleased that she’d fallen asleep before pouring herself a whisky. Now she needed a clear head more than ever. She turned the heavy key in the lock and opened the door.

  She made him wait outside for a while before letting him in, wanting to make it clear that this was her home and she was in charge. Not succeeding. He walked inside, slowly took off his cap and jacket and hung them on the stand in the hall, then made his way through to her living room, not needing to be shown the way.

  ‘Nothing’s changed much.’ He sounded amused. ‘I thought you’d have done it up a bit, Vera. Introduced a few feminine touches. It’s still a bit basic.’ He shook more coal onto the fire and sat in the chair that stood opposite hers. The one where she’d sat when Hector was still alive.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Catching up with the daughter of an old friend. No harm in that. I’m a great believer in friendship, Vera. Loyalty.’ He turned towards her. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. Hector and loyalty.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  In the station Holly watched Joe directing operations, and she realized how much more confident he’d become since she’d first known him. He seemed to trust his own judgement now and didn’t need to keep running to Vera for reassurance. Holly wondered how long it would be before he looked for promotion, a team of his own, and whether Vera would see that as progress – a validation of her skill as a mentor – or as betrayal.

  Now Joe was taking Holly back to her trip to Bebington, talking her through the interviews with Gary Keane’s neighbours. The centre of their attention had moved away from Whitley Bay for now and back to the former pit-village where Keane had lived and died. Joe had begun by saying how easy it was to overlook a detail that might turn out to be vital: ‘That’s how it was on my visit to Brace in Warkworth nick this morning. I knew I’d missed something important. You know how it is, like when you see someone you know but you can’t remember their name. Then I saw the photo of Bradford and it suddenly clicked.’ He was trying to make Holly relax and feel better about herself: not beat herself up about how she’d messed up with the interviews on the ground. She thought again that he’d make a good boss.

  Charlie was at another desk, on the phone prising information from contacts and strangers. They were still trying to track down Bradford’s present whereabouts. There was a trace on the registration of his car, and CCTV and traffic-police vehicles would alert Charlie if it was seen. A community police officer had been sent to his home in Seahouses. If Bradford turned up there, he’d be arrested.

  Holly couldn’t help it, but she was feeling defensive. She knew she wasn’t any good at the face-to-face stuff. She’d tried her best with Patty Keane, for example, but had felt the woman’s awkwardness in her presence, her lack of trust. Talking to Joe Ashworth now, Holly realized she hadn’t been as thorough as she should have been when she was talking to Gary Keane’s neighbours. She’d gone through the motions, but hadn’t taken enough time to get it right. She hadn’t asked the right questions.

  She tried to explain to Joe how she felt. ‘I’m just no good at it. Vera goes in and people start talking to her. They tell her their secrets. How does she do it?’

  ‘She’s interested,’ he said. ‘Whether it has any relevance to the case or not, she’s interested in what they have to tell her.’ A pause. ‘Because she’s a nosy old bat, with not much else going on in her life.’

  Holly thought about that. How much did she have going on with her life? Maybe it was time to get out more, meet people, make friends away from the job.

  ‘Besides,’ Joe gave her a sudden grin, before looking serious again, ‘you’re not the only person who cocked up in Anchor Lane, are you? I got it wrong, big-style.’

  It was late and the rest of the building was quiet. They could hear traffic on the road outside, a gang of young people, rowdy after an evening in the pub. Now Charlie was on the phone to the prison, but it seemed that nobody was willing to take responsibility for passing on the information they needed, because there was only a skeleton out-of-hours service at night when the men were locked up.

  ‘There must be an on-call governor,’ Charlie said. He too seemed to have blossomed in the past year, to have become more assertive. Holly thought she was probably the only one of them who’d shown no development at all. ‘Well, why don’t you do that, and get him to give me a call
back as soon as you get hold of him?’ Charlie replaced the receiver and muttered something under his breath about jobsworth pricks.

  Joe was still asking his questions about Bebington, getting Holly to tell him all she could remember about the people who ran the businesses in Keane’s street, to re-create the conversations.

  Charlie’s phone rang and he answered it immediately. Perhaps he thought they’d managed to get the prison governor out of his bed, or wherever he was. But it was clear this was somebody quite different. The call didn’t last for long and Charlie only asked one question. ‘Where?’ He replaced the receiver and they all looked at him.

  ‘A patrol car in Morpeth picked up Bradford’s vehicle half an hour ago. For some reason, it took the daft twats this long to pass on the information.’

  ‘Did the officer follow him?’ This was Joe, taking control again. Holly didn’t mind. This time she didn’t want the responsibility.

  ‘No, he didn’t want to spook him. Bradford was heading out of town on the road towards Mitford and Cambo. This time of night there wouldn’t be much traffic out there, so Bradford would realize he was being followed.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘What was he doing there?’ Charlie said. ‘He’d be on the road up the coast or the A1, if he was making his way home to Seahouses. That road would take him inland.’

  ‘That’s the way to Vera’s house.’ Joe already had his hand on the receiver and was banging out the numbers to her landline. No answer.

  ‘Maybe she’s already in bed,’ Charlie said.

  ‘She has the phone by her bed, and I’ve known her drunk as a skunk, but she’s still answered it.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, she wouldn’t get that pissed in the middle of a case.’ Joe was dialling again. ‘I’ll try her mobile.’ He held out the receiver so they could hear the dialling tone and then the automated message telling them that Inspector Stanhope couldn’t get to the phone now and to leave a message.