The Seagull

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘That’s not the point, is it? You might believe that. You might even be right. But the law matters. All those little people you despise so much have to abide by it, and so do you. So do I.’ She looked over to him. ‘Besides, there’s the matter of Gary Keane. It’s impossible to make that go away.’

  There was no response. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the rag mat on the stone floor.

  ‘So I’ll continue with my story, shall I?’ she said after a while. ‘Let’s bring things up to date. You and Sinclair created a bit of a monster with Gary Keane, turned him from a bad lad who was good with electronics and computers into someone with pretensions. He even had the nerve to go out with your daughter, didn’t he? The lovely Felicity. Did you know he had the place on the corner of Anchor Lane, when you set up the bookshop?’

  ‘We’d kept in touch,’ Bradford said. ‘From the old Seagull days. There were times when he was useful. He knew I was looking for a place. Felicity had her heart set on a bookshop. Some romantic dream of bringing fiction to the masses. It never occurred to me that the two of them would become so friendly.’

  ‘That wasn’t why you killed him, though, was it, Prof.?’ Using the old name, Hector’s name for him, because here in the cottage that seemed more appropriate. ‘You killed him as a favour to your pal John Brace. Because Gary was trying a bit of blackmail. Perhaps he thought Felicity would take him more seriously with some cash behind him. Perhaps he cared for her so much that he didn’t see he was playing a dangerous game, trying to extort money from her father’s best friend.’

  Bradford looked up slowly. ‘You do know you’ll never be able to prove any of this?’

  ‘Ah, there’s that arrogance again. Thinking you’re cleverer than the rest of us. That was what let you down. It was the small things. Like leaving the voicemail on his answering machine; and hanging around afterwards, so that a reliable witness can put you at the scene of the crime.’

  She was pleased that he had no reply to that.

  ‘Let me see if I’ve got it right.’ Vera flashed him a bright smile. ‘See if I’m nearly as clever as you. Gary knew the woman’s body at St Mary’s wasn’t Mary-Frances Lascuola – he’d helped provide a new identity for her – and he thought he could prove it. Patty had a locket with some of her mother’s hair. Everyone knows about DNA these days. The magic answer to solving crime – the silver bullet. Gary broke into the house while Patty was out and took the locket, then threatened John Brace that he’d bring it to us, if the old man didn’t pay up. We’d know then that Mary-Frances was probably still alive and we’d start looking. In fact we didn’t need DNA to tell us that buried woman was someone different altogether. But when Gary started piling on the pressure, John contacted you and asked for your help. He was still in love, after all these years; as you said, he’d do anything to protect Mary-Frances. So he turned to his friend. And, ever the gentleman, you agreed. A matter of honour.’

  Vera hoped he heard the sneer in her voice. The fire was almost out now, but she didn’t throw on any more wood or coal. Her story was nearing its end. She was tired, pleased that all this would soon be over.

  She turned back to Bradford. ‘Gary had no idea, had he, when you asked to meet him? He thought you were there to make a deal; was even flattered that you were coming to his home, treating him as an equal. The father of his smart new girlfriend. He bought a good bottle of wine and made sure the place was tidy. But you stabbed him with his own kitchen knife and left him there to bleed. I assume it was you? Not Mary-Frances. I assume you left her standing outside, keeping watch.’ A pause. ‘I must admit it was a good cover. Two middle-aged people working in the community garden. Who would ever suspect them of murder? Did it amuse you to play the part of MaryFrances’s husband? Did it give you a bit of a thrill? It must have been a shock when my sergeant turned up, asking questions. You must have thought Gary’s body wouldn’t be found until the following morning. And you were always anonymous, the pair of you. Mysterious, impossible to track down. Until my sergeant printed out a photo of you at some grand book award and realized he’d seen you in Anchor Lane on the evening Gary Keane died. And that triggered a memory of another picture: a bad photo of the head of education stuck up in the waiting room at Warkworth Prison. Hope Lethbridge, aka Mary-Frances Lascuola. Trying to turn more lives around. Getting as close as she could to the man she loved.’

  ‘You’ll never be able to convince a court, you know, Vera. We’re respectable people, and a jury’s always taken in by the articulate middle classes. There’s no forensic evidence.’

  ‘Convincing a court’s not my job, pet. That’s down to the lawyers. My job’s getting you to court, and I think I’ve got enough to do that.’ Her throat felt dry because she’d done so much talking and she felt her eyes begin to close. She was wondering if they might get some sleep before she took him to the station to charge him. She thought he was right, and a jury would probably acquit them both, but somehow that mattered less now than knowing the truth.

  Perhaps she did doze for a moment, because she wasn’t aware of him getting to his feet until the Tilley lamp was thrown across the room towards her. She must have moved instinctively, because it just missed her head and instead smashed on the floor at her feet. The mat must have caught at once because the fire licked across it. The curtains were long there; they’d needed hemming since she was a child, and in seconds they were aflame. Then she saw that the bottoms of Bradford’s trousers were alight. Vera ran to the kitchen and filled a washing-up bowl with water and brought it back into the living room to throw over the man. He’d made no move to stamp on the flames or to move away from the centre of the fire. He still stood, apparently transfixed, his arms a little way from his body as the flames consumed him. He made no sound. Only his contorted face showed the pain he was in, and Vera knew that image would remain with her forever. She threw the water at him, but she realized it would do no good. She couldn’t get close enough and it hardly touched him. This was a sacrifice, his last grand gesture of friendship.

  There was a banging on the front door and she ran towards it.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Holly said, ‘is why Brace told you about Robbie Marshall in the first place. Why take the risk? Even if he was concerned about Patty, there were other people he could ask to keep an eye on her.’

  They were in Whitley Bay, walking along the sea front. Vera had promised them a team day out, had bought them fish and chips, and now they were eating ice cream and looking down at the sea. She was feeling an unusual calm. The investigation was out of her hands now. One wrist was still bandaged because she’d burned herself getting out of the house, but it didn’t stop her holding the sugar cone, cold and crisp with the ice cream inside. She bit into the chocolate flake. ‘Because he knew the bodies were likely to turn up anyway and he wanted to manage the way the news came out. He was always a control freak. He hated being inside, helpless, waiting for events to unfold. Me turning up to give that talk at Warkworth must have seemed like a sign to him. He thought he’d manage to persuade us that Mary-Frances was the second body.’

  Vera nodded towards the headland and St Mary’s Island. ‘Once they start work on the spanking new restaurant, they’ll start digging drainage ditches and foundations. Brace didn’t think the bodies would stay buried. This way he could make us think Mary-Frances was one of the corpses. He thought there’d be so much disintegration to the bones that we wouldn’t be able to make a definitive identification. Things have moved on while he’s been inside. His story about only seeing one body in the grave was a pretence; he knew we’d find the other. He hoped he could make Mary-Frances stay dead forever.’

  ‘I’m not sure the new restaurant will be built.’ Charlie had eaten his ice cream quickly, biting into it before it had a chance to melt and dribble down his chin. ‘The council might have been happy cosying up to Sinclair, but they weren’t all aware of his background. My pal at the BBC thinks he’
s got enough evidence about Sinclair’s history with the Glasgow gangs to make the council a bit squeamish. If the development does go ahead, it won’t be any time soon.’

  ‘What will happen to Mary-Frances?’ Joe asked.

  Vera shrugged. ‘She’s not talking. I don’t think she cares so much for herself. She understands prison. She’s worked in one since she got her degree from Durham. But she wants to stay close to Brace. She wants to support him through his illness. The CPS doesn’t believe they’ve got enough to charge her. I’m sure she was the one who killed Marshall. Judith might be involved in Sinclair’s schemes up to her neck, but she was right about Brace. He wouldn’t have had it in him to murder a friend. Without a confession, that’ll be impossible to prove after all this time. And while Mary-Frances was implicated in Keane’s death, I don’t think she was the one who stabbed him. That was Prof. Bradford, and now he’s dead too.’ She paused. ‘Do you know she’s been teaching basic literacy at Shaftoe House? Making sure she was never there at the same time as Laura Webb.’

  ‘A good woman,’ Joe said.

  Vera thought about that. Could a murderer be a good woman? Maybe she could. But as she’d told Bradford, that wasn’t for her to judge. All she had to do was enforce the law. They began to amble back towards their cars.

  ‘What will you do about your house?’ Today it seemed Holly was asking all the difficult questions. She was the person prodding Vera back to action.

  For the time being, Vera was camping out with Jack and Joanna, living in their spare room, being spoilt with tea in bed in the morning and proper food each night.

  ‘With the insurance money, you could knock it down and build something more comfortable.’ That was Holly, persistent as ever. She’d refused an ice cream. She was walking beside them, their slow pace making her impatient, her hands in her jacket pockets. ‘Or move somewhere a bit more civilized.’

  Vera shook her head. Her mouth was full of chocolate and vanilla. Bradford had been right. She would never leave the hills.

  ‘I never got round to paying the insurance,’ she said. ‘Jack’s said he can patch up the building for me.’ She thought Hector’s house had always been comfortable enough for her.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  John Brace sat in the chapel of Warkworth Prison. He’d been moving his wheelchair backwards and forwards, only half a turn of the wheel, a kind of fidget. He forced himself to sit still. The officer had brought him in because he’d said he needed some time to himself. His best friend was dead, killed in a house fire. He couldn’t bear being on the wing with the other men. Not just now. The officer had a kid with behavioural problems, and Brace had paid for him to see a private psychologist who’d worked wonders. The officer brought him to the chapel most nights. There was always a different excuse and nobody questioned it.

  He heard the keys first, could picture them being taken out of the pouch in the belt, then opening the chapel door. He thought it might be the chaplain and prepared himself for the sympathy and the bad breath. It was always best to limit your expectations. But it was her. She was still slight and upright, and he could still see the beauty that had first attracted him. She wore black trousers and a black shirt, little silver earrings shaped like birds. He looked at them and thought they were new. Shaped like terns or gulls. Her hair was almost as short as his, and streaked with grey. She had no vanity now and never bothered dyeing it.

  She knelt beside him and put her arms round his shoulders. ‘Oh, my poor love,’ she said. ‘Did you think they’d keep me in the station? Remand me in custody? No, it’s all over. The police have dropped the charges. There’s not enough proof. They might charge you, of course, but what would be the point?’

  She’d never pretended that he wasn’t ill and that he’d soon be better. He realized he was shaking. He was so relieved to see her. He’d live out his days here, but she’d be with him.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Patty Keane stood outside Warkworth Prison. It was almost dark and the wind was still gusty. Her mind flitted back to the kids. Social services had found someone to sit with them for a few hours and she hoped they weren’t playing up. Vera stood beside her. Solid and comfortable. A narrow door in the big wooden gate opened and a small figure walked out. She looked about a thousand miles away, but she must have seen them standing under one of the street lamps that marked the end of the car park, because she headed straight for them. As the woman got closer, Patty she saw she was wearing earrings, silver, gleaming in the light.

  When there was a short distance between them, Mary-Frances Lascuola stopped, uncertain.

  ‘She’s scared,’ Vera said. ‘She thinks you might not want to see her. That you hate her.’ Her voice was so low it was carried away by the wind and Patty thought she might have imagined the words.

  Still the woman didn’t move, and it was Patty who had to walk towards her. They stood, just a yard apart. Vera had drifted away into the shadow. Then Mary-Frances raised her hand and stroked Patty’s cheek. ‘Patricia,’ she said. ‘My beautiful girl.’

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction and though readers in the north east of England will recognize St Mary’s Island and might remember Whitley Bay in the time of Spanish City and Idols Night Club, they will know that The Seagull never existed. I’m proud to live in the town and if occasionally I describe it as a little shabby, that doesn’t mean I love it any the less. Plans to regenerate the coast are to be applauded; the villainous developer Gus Sinclair is a figment of my imagination and bears no relationship to any of the people – volunteers, councillors or businessmen and women – fighting to give my town a more prosperous future. I’m fighting with you in my own way and hope that as a result of the book more people will visit us and get to know Whitley for themselves.

  Also by Ann Cleeves

  The Vera Stanhope Series

  The Crow Trap

  Telling Tales

  Hidden Depths

  Silent Voices

  The Glass Room

  Harbour Street

  The Moth Catcher

  The Shetland Series

  Raven Black

  White Nights

  Red Bones

  Blue Lightning

  Dead Water

  Thin Air

  Cold Earth

  About the Author

  Ann Cleeves was working as a cook in the Bird Observatory on Fair Isle when she met her husband Tim, a visiting ornithologist. Soon after they married, Tim was appointed as warden of Hilbre, a tiny tidal island nature reserve in the Dee Estuary. She began writing her first series of crime novels here featuring the elderly naturalist, George Palmer-Jones. She went on to set up reading groups in prisons as part of the Inside Books project, became Cheltenham Literature Festival’s first reader-in-residence and works as associate trainer with the reader development organization, Opening the Book. She is reader-in-residence for Harrogate Crime Writing Festival, and her reading passion is crime in translation. Her short film for Border TV, Catching Birds, won a Royal Television Society Award. Ann has twice before been short listed for a CWA Dagger Award - once for her short story "The Plater," and again for the Dagger in the Library award. In 2016, she won the CWA Diamond Dagger Award, the highest honor in British crime writing. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter F
ive

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Also by Ann Cleeves

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.