The Healers

by Cleeves, Ann

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  www.bellobooks.co.uk

  Contents

  Ann Cleeves

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  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

  Ann Cleeves

  The Healers

  Ann Cleeves is the author behind ITV’s VERA and BBC One’s SHETLAND. She has written over twenty-five novels, and is the creator of detectives Vera Stanhope and Jimmy Perez – characters loved both on screen and in print. Her books have now sold over one million copies worldwide.

  Ann worked as a probation officer, bird observatory cook and auxiliary coastguard before she started writing. She is a member of ‘Murder Squad’, working with other British northern writers to promote crime fiction. In 2006 Ann was awarded the Duncan Lawrie Dagger (CWA Gold Dagger) for Best Crime Novel, for Raven Black, the first book in her Shetland series. In 2012 she was inducted into the CWA Crime Thriller Awards Hall of Fame. Ann lives in North Tyneside.

  Chapter One

  On Saturday they went for a ride into the country. Like an old married couple, although marriage had never been discussed, never even been thought of as far as anyone knew. They stopped for lunch at a pub in Morpeth. There were four sorts of real ale and in the back room drinkers were playing traditional folk music on fiddles and pipes. The musicians had between them a large number of children all brightly clothed in what seemed to be fancy dress – long velvet skirts and silk waistcoats. The children danced between the tables and ate crisps by the handful but caused no real bother. Ramsay was driving and only took two halves of Gladiator but Prue tried all the varieties of beer and after the meal felt quite tipsy. Since being a student she’d always liked beer but it went straight to her head.

  ‘Where now?’ Ramsay asked as they stepped out into the street. It was a warm blustery day in early May. A group of old men walked jauntily down the drive from St George’s, the big psychiatric hospital, now on the verge of closure. A sudden gust of wind blew a shower of blossom from one of the trees along the drive and covered them in small pink flakes. The men stood still for a moment and then began to laugh, turning slowly round and round so the blossom fell to the ground.

  ‘Where now?’ Ramsay said again, not impatiently. He regarded Prue’s drunkenness indulgently. Diana, his ex-wife, had always become aggressive after drinking but Prue got giggly. And amorous.

  ‘Home?’ he suggested hopefully. ‘Yours or mine?’

  ‘Neither,’ she said firmly. They seldom got out together and she was going to make the most of it. ‘A walk up Billy’s Crag and then back to Mittingford for tea and cakes. And I can stock up from the health food shop while I’m there.’

  Mittingford was in the middle of nowhere, close to the Scottish border, strangely out of place. It was a pretty little town maintaining a prim Victorian gentility despite the bleakness of the moors which surrounded it. An oasis, almost of civilization. The houses were turned in to a cobbled square and a wide main street with a culverted stream running along one side of it. Even from the middle of the town you could hear the sheep crying on the hills. Despite the flowers which had been planted in gardens, tubs and window boxes – Mittingford regularly won best small town in the Northumberland in Bloom competition – the grey stone houses and the surrounding high crags gave the impression that it was always in shadow.

  The health food shop was in what had once been a large chapel facing grandly on to the square with steps and pillars. Ten years previously the Methodists had built a modern church, easier to heat, and a collection of small business people had taken over the chapel and run it as a co-operative. Hippies, the locals called them, but they weren’t all sixties drop-outs with long hair and sandals. Some were very canny businessmen and the local shopkeepers saw the Old Chapel as dangerous competition.

  Ramsay had never been there before but Prue was an old hand. Inside the space had been separated into small shops and craft workshops, which ran along the walls. The centre was a café with a stone floor and stripped pine tables and chairs. There they ate tea and cakes surrounded by a group of old ladies who were on a coach tour and had been allowed a twenty-minute refreshment stop. The morning, he learned as he automatically eavesdropped, had been spent in Edinburgh and there would be just time to visit the Roman fort on Hadrian’s Wall before dinner in Hexham. Tomorrow would be York. The women were indefatigable, fit and lithe almost to the point of scrawniness. One of them looked at her watch, there was a sound of chairs scraping against the stone floor and they all marched back to their bus.

  The health food shop was at the end of the chapel where the altar must have stood. If there had been an altar. Did Methodists have them? Ramsay wondered now and found that he could not remember. As a child he had been sent to Sunday school by his devout mother but that had been in a cold and draughty hall. He had a crush on his teacher, Miss Pearson, and there had been pictures to colour. Presumably at some point they must have been taken into the chapel to participate in the service. He tried to picture a likely occasion – Christmas perhaps or Harvest Festival – but the memory eluded him and he realized, suddenly, that Prue was speaking.

  ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘ I was miles away. What did you say?’

  ‘They’ve converted the first floor, beyond the gallery, into an Alternative Therapy Centre. You know – acupuncture, homoeopathy, rebirthing.’

  What on earth, he wondered, was rebirthing? But he did not ask. Prue would have told him in far too much detail.

  ‘Maddy’s been there,’ she said. ‘For her hay fever. She swears by it She even went away with them on a sort of weekend retreat.’ Maddy was her friend, a solicitor, given, Ramsay thought, to weird fads and enthusiasms which seldom lasted. Still he said nothing. He had learned, during his life with Diana, the value of strategic silence.

  Prue pushed open the door into the health food shop. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through a stained glass window on to sacks of grains and pulses. There was a display of organic vegetables – misshapen carrots and potatoes still covered in soil – and shelves of spices. Prue shopped enthusiastically, asking occasionally for things he had never heard of, topping off her order with wholemeal flour, free range duck eggs and yoghurt made from goat’s milk.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t there anything you need?’ He shook his head. He did his shopping at Sainsbury’s and thou
gh he ate well enough, convenience mattered more than the way the food had been grown. He looked around the shop wondering why he found this temple to culinary correctness so depressing. Perhaps it was because the two members of staff seemed so unhealthy. There was an obese woman whose weight seemed pulled by gravity to the lower half of her body: her head was a normal size but her buttocks and legs were enormous. She presided over the bread and carrot cake. And there was a weedily malnourished young man with staring eyes and a shaved head.

  Then another assistant appeared. She must have been reaching to fetch something from behind her counter. She walked out into the central space and stood, caught for a moment in the multicoloured light, almost posing. As if to prove to Ramsay the benefits of healthy eating. She had dark hair, pulled back into a smooth plait, and olive skin. She was tall and strong and though he knew he was staring, he could not take his eyes off her. As bad as Hunter, he thought. Hunter, his assistant, insensitive, prejudiced and lucky not to have a disciplinary charge for sexual harassment on his record.

  ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ Prue whispered and he gave a little cough, as if he had hardly noticed.

  Then he watched as she stretched up to reach a jar of coriander seeds from a high shelf. She was wearing a loose T-shirt with wide sleeves and as she stretched the sleeve fell back to show a bare, brown shoulder. Still he could not turn away. She walked back to her counter and he saw that she was wearing sandals with leather thongs across her toes and her feet were very long. She weighed a small amount of the spice on old-fashioned scales, tipped it into a brown paper bag and handed it to a customer without a smile or a word.

  Ramsay turned his back on her, deliberately. He opened his arms to take the bags and sacks piled on the counter beside Prue. That night he went home with Prue. He allowed her to cook a vegetarian meal for him, and even admitted that he had enjoyed it.

  When she finished work at the Old Chapel Lily pushed her bike out of the storeroom at the back of the building and began the ride home. She was angry. Sometimes she thought she was born angry. The lingering memory of her childhood was of an impotent rage, released occasionally in temper tantrums. A five-mile bike ride was the last thing she needed after a day on her feet, and her fury was directed temporarily against Sean. He should get off his backside and earn some money. Then perhaps they could afford a car. Then perhaps they could move away from Laverock Farm and find a place of their own.

  The road was steep and narrow with overgrown verges and for several minutes she thought of nothing but keeping the bike upright and getting to the top of the hill. She had to get off there to let a tractor pass in the opposite direction. She feared that Ernie Bowles might be the driver, then saw that the tractor was spanking new and the man in the cab was young with a Walkman plugged into his ears. Peter Richardson from Long Edge Farm. Thinking about Ernie Bowles made her angry again. Her face was flushed from all the exercise and she realized that hot tears were scalding her cheeks.

  Bloody Ernie Bowles, she thought. What a bastard that man is!

  The farm was up a track, so pot-holed that she had to walk it. She wondered sometimes how he made a living. Did he have any regular income apart from the rent they paid for the caravan? When they’d first arrived they had thought the place was magical, old-fashioned, like something out of a child’s story book. No factory farming here. There were hens scratching around the yard, pigs in a sty, cows waiting patiently to be milked. They had thought Ernie had taken a moral stand against intensive farming. But it was laziness not morality which had motivated him.

  Why couldn’t we see what he was like then, that first time? she thought. Were we so blind?

  Daniel had always said that it was Ernie’s mother who had done all the work round the place. When she died the place began to collapse around him. And so it had seemed to Lily, observing from the caravan. Animals sent to market were not replaced, machines which broke down were left to rot where they stood.

  He’ll go bust, she thought, now pushing the bike defiantly through the mucky farmyard. Then what’ll become of us?

  The caravan stood in the corner of a small meadow. It was painted green but even from here she could see the rust around the door. The mild spring and the rain had made the grass come on suddenly and in places the cow-parsley was almost waist high. She left her bike by the gate and pushed a path through the grass. They had seen the caravan first in full summer with the meadow dry and the hay mixed with poppies. They had thought how lovely it was and had not considered practicalities like lugging Calor Gas cylinders from the track, or wet feet.

  There was no sign of Sean but that did not surprise her. When they had first moved to the caravan he had spent most of the day there, in front of the portable typewriter which was the only material possession he would allow himself to get attached to. He had impressed her when they had first met by calling himself a writer and showing her a few things he’d had published in alternative magazines. That had been two years ago. There’d been a gang of them then, all travelling together, moving from festival to festival. She’d joined up with them somewhere in Mid Wales. Montgomery was it? Newtown? Kerry? They’d been moved on so often that she couldn’t quite remember.

  The group had let her tag along. Sean had a pink Ford van with flowers painted on the bonnet and a sleeping bag and the typewriter in the back. Very hip. Very sixties. But she’d loved it all the same. The group were her family and it was her home. There’d been a London taxi and a purple hearse in the convoy too, but when the weather turned cold its owners had drifted off to a squat in Cardiff and Sean and Lily had been left on the road, still in the pink van in those days, sleeping in the back even when it snowed. When the Mittingford pigs had considered it as unroadworthy and they’d sold it as scrap she’d been heartbroken.

  When they first came to the caravan Sean had talked about writing a novel, the New Age novel, and had bashed away at it day and night. But recently he’d taken to disappearing during the day, evading her questions when she asked what he got up to. He seemed to have shrunk since she had first met him, to be thinner, quieter, altogether different. She worried about him occasionally but she thought he’d always been better than her at coping and when he said he was all right she supposed she would have to believe him.

  Just moody, she thought. Then she said out loud, her anger returning, ‘Bloody men!’

  Why should I stay? she thought suddenly, and was immediately surprised that she had not asked the question before. What’s keeping me here after all? Sean? What bloody good’s he ever done me? I could leave now, cycle back to town. Someone in Mittingford would put me up. Win and Daniel. Or Magda. She’d understand.

  But she stood, looking out of the open door of the caravan and she did not move. Sean had rescued her. She felt a kind of loyalty. Instead she turned her back on the meadow and the open door. She filled a kettle from the water container under the sink and lit the Calor to make some tea.

  Chapter Two

  From behind grey net curtains Ernie Bowles watched Lily Jackman cross the yard. He always seemed to know what time she would arrive back from work. It had become his habit to be in the house to watch her. Sometimes she wore shorts so he could see her long brown legs and a sleeveless T-shirt which left nothing to the imagination. Today it was a skirt and a loose, shapeless top, which was disappointing. Still the glimpse of her, bent over the bicycle, excited him. He watched her through the gate and into the meadow.

  It was his dream, a fantasy so delicious that he could hardly acknowledge it himself, that she would give Sean the push and move in with him. The possibility lurked on the edge of his consciousness and made him restless. It wasn’t that he would take advantage of her. Marriage was at the heart of his vague, barely formed plans. Marriage had been on his mind a lot lately.

  He hadn’t thought much about it while his mother was alive. No one could match up to her and he couldn’t imagine two women in the house. Even toward the end, when she was crippled with arthritis and nothing seemed
to ease the pain, his mother had kept him straight and organized. He wasn’t lazy, whatever people thought. He didn’t mind work. He’d done all that needed seeing to on the farm. But his mother had told him what to do. Every morning at breakfast she’d set it out for him:

  ‘Those lambs’ll need dipping,’ she’d say. On ‘You won’t forget that the tanker will be early today.’

  And she’d come out and look at what he was doing, pulling herself along on that Zimmer frame she’d got from the hospital. She would check that it was all in order. It had never really occurred to him that she might die. Not so soon. Whoever heard of arthritis killing someone?

  He’d thought at first that it would be all right on his own. No one to boss him. No one waiting up when he got in late from the town to tell him that drink belonged to the devil and if he spent any more time in the Sheep’s Head, he’d go to hell. No one to drag him to chapel on a Sunday to repent. But he couldn’t see to everything on his own, that soon became clear. Not the house and the farm. And he deserved some comfort, a meal in his belly after a day in the fields, clean sheets on his bed once in a while.

  So he watched Lily and dreamed. Then the restlessness she provoked made him take a more practical step to find a wife. If he couldn’t have Lily he supposed someone else would do. He’d seen the lonely hearts columns in the farming magazines, had read them surreptitiously when his mother wasn’t looking. He’d considered at first placing an advert there himself but had decided that that wasn’t the way to go on. He wanted a local girl. Someone he didn’t have to travel too far to see. So he contacted an agency in Otterbridge, sent a photograph, filled in a form. And tonight he was going to meet a woman.

  Lily had long since disappeared from sight and he turned back to the room. It was tidy enough. He liked to keep things tidy. If he’d known the word he’d have called it an obsession. During his National Service he’d been an officer’s batman. He knew about standards. But he didn’t seem to be able to keep it clean. A film of fine ash dust from the boiler covered the surfaces, and the lino beneath his feet was tacky with spilled food. He needed a wife to look after him, he thought, like every other man he knew. It was what he deserved.