by Ann Cleeves
‘Not a suspect then?’
‘Only in the same way as all the other residents are.’
‘Oh, come off it, Inspector! How many of the other residents have a criminal record and speak like Lenny does? I bet you’re not speaking to everyone else’s partner.’
Vera was about to snap back, but then she thought of the summary she’d heard of Lenny’s background at the morning briefings. ‘Sometimes the police make assumptions,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t always mean that they’re right. So why don’t you put us straight?’
Helen didn’t reply immediately. It seemed she needed time to think about her answer. ‘Would you like tea? Coffee?’
They shook their heads.
‘Lenny is a good man,’ Helen said. ‘A romantic and a dreamer, but basically a good man.’
‘Is that why you divorced? Because you couldn’t live with his dreams?’
‘That was why I had an affair, Inspector.’ The retort was immediate. ‘I needed a man who lived in the present and not in the future. When he was made redundant from Banks, Lenny was full of wild plans and I was just concerned about paying the mortgage. My lover was stable, reliable, but very boring, and I soon got rid of him. The divorce was Lenny’s idea. He’d thought I was perfect, and he couldn’t forgive me for spoiling the image.’ She paused. ‘We’re still good friends. We have a son, Daniel, and we see each other often. Sometimes I wonder . . .’
‘. . . if you’ll get back together?’ Vera completed the sentence.
‘Yeah!’ She smiled. ‘Daft, isn’t it?’
‘How long were you married?’ Joe asked. Vera thought he was genuinely interested and wondered if he’d been having dreams of his own.
‘More than fifteen years. I’d known Lenny when we were still at school, though. He was the class clown, desperate to please. I went away to college and he got into trouble. Nothing serious. One of the Blyth hard men was pulling his strings, made him believe he could make easy money. More daft dreams. I met Lenny again when he’d just come out of prison, at a wedding of an old school friend. He made me laugh.’
‘And he adored you,’ Vera said. She thought of Jack, who adored Joanna, and wondered again if somewhere there was a lover in the background in that relationship too. Someone secret and unlikely.
‘Aye, maybe he did.’ Helen gave a little laugh.
‘It’s hard to live up to, that sort of adoration.’
‘It was very good for me.’ Helen became serious. Somewhere down the corridor a baby was crying. She listened for a moment and seemed to decide that there was nothing wrong. ‘I’d been a terribly shy child. Bright enough, but not willing to stand out or give an opinion. Lenny gave me the confidence to take more exams and try for promotion. He always believed in me, but somehow I could never quite believe in him.’
‘In his dreams?’ Vera prompted.
‘Aye, in the dreams.’
‘How long had he wanted to be a writer?’ The baby had stopped crying. Just outside the office there was a conversation between two mothers.
‘Since we got together,’ Helen said. ‘He’d got some education in prison and the teacher had encouraged him. Sometimes he’d read out his stuff and I thought it was good too, but what would I know? I did know that we had a child, and I wanted more for Daniel than Lenny or I had had growing up, and Lenny didn’t seem to mind working on the open-cast. He made friends there and the money was more than he’d ever had before. He seemed happy enough.’
‘Then he got the back trouble?’
‘Aye, folk make fun of back pain, as if it’s something you make up to fool the doctors, but Lenny was in agony.’ Again Helen was distracted for a moment by a noise outside. This time it came from a group of older children singing nursery rhymes. ‘At first I encouraged his writing. I thought it would take his mind off the pain. Then his back got better, and I thought he was ready to find another real job. It wasn’t so much the money. By then I was earning enough to keep us. I didn’t want Daniel seeing a dad who sat around the house doing nothing all day. But all Lenny could talk about were the stories, how he was going to get a publisher and what he’d buy for us when he was rich and famous.’
‘The man who died at the Writers’ House,’ Vera said. ‘He was a bit of a celebrity. On the telly all the time talking about books. Apparently he’d told Lenny that his work was good enough to get published. He’d offered to put him in touch with a publisher. Told him he had a good chance of seeing his books on the shelves.’
Helen looked up, horrified. ‘And then he died, and all that hope was all taken away. Oh, poor Len.’
‘The man, Tony Ferdinand, has rather a reputation.’ Vera chose her words carefully. ‘It seems he could be ruthless in his dealings with his students. Is it possible that Lenny might lose his temper with the man, if he felt he was being criticized or mocked?’
‘No,’ Helen said. ‘Lenny’s never lost his temper all the time I’ve known him. Even when I told him about the affair he was sad, not angry. He’s just a big softie.’
They sat for a moment in silence. Vera hoped Helen might continue, but she sat on the desk, her feet swinging like a child’s, challenging them not to believe her.
‘Did Lenny phone you from the Writers’ House,’ Vera asked at last, ‘to tell you about the murder? If you’re still close . . .’
‘Yes, he phoned,’ Helen said. ‘He thought we might hear about the death and he wanted to let me know he was okay.’
‘So it’s not unexpected, us turning up like this. You’d have had time to prepare your story.’
‘I didn’t need to prepare a story, Inspector.’ The original hostility had returned. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’
Vera saw they’d get nothing more out of the woman and she got to her feet. Ashworth followed her lead. At the door Vera paused and turned back.
‘How did Lenny find out you were having an affair?’
‘He didn’t find out. Once it was over, I told him. I hated having a secret from him.’
‘I hope that made you feel better.’ Vera spoke so softly that the woman probably couldn’t even hear her. Joe had heard, however, and she saw that she’d shocked him again. Still she continued, ‘It certainly wouldn’t have done a lot for Lenny.’
Chapter Seventeen
At lunch Nina found herself sitting next to Lenny Thomas. She’d almost decided to stay away, to hide in her room while the meal was taking place. After the interview with Vera Stanhope, since Joe Ashworth had come into her room and stood, stony and pale, looking out of her window, she’d had the terrible thought that everyone in the Writers’ House would think she was a murderer. Certainly it had seemed to her that the young detective thought of her in that way. They’d know about her pills, the drugged victim. They’d string those facts together to make a convincing narrative. And who could blame them? She’d reach the same conclusion, presented with the same facts.
But it seemed that the police had been discreet, as of course she should have realized they would be. The residents had forgotten that she’d been summoned away from breakfast to talk to Vera Stanhope. This would be the last full day of the course. Tonight there would be a special dinner and everyone would read a short piece of work. A celebration of their time in the house. And that was the main topic of conversation over lunch. Nobody considered that this feast might be inappropriate. If Tony Ferdinand had been well liked, the consensus might have been different. He’d been a major literary figure with the potential for changing careers, and would certainly be missed on those grounds, but the students had seen through his arrogance and his superficial charm. The other tutors had considerable influence too, and the students were reluctant to lose the opportunity of bringing their work to these people’s notice. Now the conversation around the table was cheerful, almost excited. It seemed that even Joanna had been accepted back into the fold. She was chatting to Mark Winterton. Nina heard her laugh, musical and infectious, across the table.
‘I can’t believe that tomorrow everything g
oes back to normal,’ Lenny said.
‘What do you mean?’ It seemed to Nina that nothing would ever be normal again.
‘Well, this has been fantastic for me. Like, suddenly, for the first time in my life, I’m with people who think the same way I do. I mean, Helen, my wife, she was great when we were living together, but she didn’t really get the writing thing. She’s more practical.’
Nina saw that Lenny had loved every minute here. The whole deal: the fancy rooms, and being cooked for, and being taken seriously as a writer. She could see that it would be hard for him to go back to the flat in the ex-pit village. He’d feel like Alice emerging from the magic of Wonderland and having to go back to a boring schoolroom. ‘But you’ll carry on writing,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine ever stopping that. But the being published thing. That was never going to happen, was it? Tony Ferdinand was a bullshitter. Even if he hadn’t died, men like me don’t get their names on books.’
‘That’s not true, you know.’ But Nina could tell that her words were unconvincing. ‘What will you read at the party tonight?’
‘I thought the first page of the novel. I’m pleased with that. It’s part of what I put in to get the grant. What about you?’
‘Oh!’ She was surprised. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that I would.’
‘This isn’t just a student gig, you know,’ he said. ‘I asked Miranda. Tonight everyone reads a bit. Even her. You’ll have to give us something.’
‘I’ve been working on a short story,’ Nina said. ‘I’ll read a piece from that, perhaps.’
Later Nina went onto the beach. Rickard was giving a masterclass and, though she’d considered going in and sitting at the back, in the end she thought she needed exercise and a break from the house. If everyone was planning to read at the farewell party, it would be a long night. She walked round the side of the house to get to the terrace and the path to the coast. Passing the drawing room where Rickard had already begun to talk, she saw Joanna sitting right at the front of the room, her face rapt, giving her full attention.
The sun was low and it was cold. Tonight there would be a frost; the sky was still clear. Nina walked along the tide line, stooping occasionally to pick up a piece of sculpted driftwood or a pretty shell. There was no wind, and the water slid onto the shingle beach, the waves hardly breaking. A small party of gulls floated just out to sea. Tomorrow she’d be back in her flat in Newcastle. She thought she’d invite friends to dinner later in the week. Usually she despised university politics, but she thought she needed to hear gossip, to drink a little too much. She’d tell them about the murder. They’d have read about it. She’d have fun describing Vera Stanhope to them. The fact that her sleeping pills had been used to drug the famous victim would just make a better story.
She looked at her watch. Rickard’s session would last for another half-hour, but she was starting to feel chilled and she decided to go to her room and choose which piece of her work she’d read. She began to climb the path into the garden and was shocked by a figure blocking her way. The garden was in shadow and at first all she could see was a silhouette, squat and bulky, partly hidden by overgrown shrubs.
‘Ah, Nina, I’ve been waiting for you. I saw you on the beach from my room in the cottage. I wanted your advice.’ It was Miranda. At the same time as Nina recognized the voice, the figure became clearer. Miranda was wearing a cord skirt that reached almost to her ankles, a thick jacket and a scarf. Boots.
‘How can I help you?’ Nina assumed this would be something about course content, about how to attract more students. She was a professional after all, with useful contacts in the university. She found her dislike of the woman was almost like a taste or a smell, so unpleasant that she felt compelled to keep her distance. She stood on the sandy path a couple of yards away from Miranda and tried to analyse the antipathy.
‘It’s about the murder,’ Miranda said. Then she broke off. ‘Why don’t you come into the cottage? I’ll make us tea. We can talk there, where it’ll be warm.’ Miranda lived with her son in a cottage in what must once have been part of the farm’s outbuildings. Students and tutors were never invited inside. Miranda made a big issue of her privacy: Living on the job, I can only survive if I have my own space. Nina supposed she should feel honoured to be asked in, but still something about the woman made her reluctant to agree.
‘I was hoping to do some work on my story before supper.’
‘Please come.’ Miranda was almost pleading, and Nina remembered her howling when Ferdinand’s body was found. She shouldn’t be so hard on the woman; her dislike was irrational and unkind.
‘All right,’ Nina said. ‘Why not?’
The door from the old farmyard led straight into the kitchen and the heat seemed suffocating after the late-afternoon chill. There was a cream Aga, with a pile of underclothes airing on the covered plate. Nina found the sight of Alex’s pants and his mother’s bras faintly embarrassing and turned away, but Miranda just lifted the clothes onto the wide windowsill, raised the cover and put the kettle on the hotplate. The edge of the beach closest to the water was visible from the window. The thin white strip of shingle showed as a shallow crescent in the last of the light. From upstairs the view would be clearer. The idea that she’d been watched from Miranda’s lair made Nina uncomfortable and she hoped the conversation would soon be over. But now that she’d secured Nina’s presence, Miranda seemed in no hurry to explain why she’d asked to speak to her.
‘Ordinary tea or herbal?’
‘Neither thanks, I really do want to look at my story before this evening.’ Nina felt trapped. Why didn’t the woman just come out with what she wanted? Had she heard that Ferdinand had been drugged? Was it just a prurient curiosity that had got her outside on a cold October afternoon?
‘What’s the significance of Joanna’s reappearance?’ Miranda had turned from the Aga to ask the question. The cold had made her eyes water and her mascara had smudged. Or perhaps, Nina thought, she’d been crying again. Still, she found it hard to feel sympathy for the woman. Miranda was frowning. It seemed that Joanna’s return to the house had bothered her.
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘Well, the fact that’s she’s free to come and go at will, does that mean the police don’t believe she killed Ferdinand after all?’
‘I have no idea!’ Nina tried to give a little laugh. ‘Inspector Stanhope doesn’t confide in me any more than she does in you.’
‘She’s a strange woman, Vera Stanhope. Don’t you think so?’ Again the question was asked with an odd intensity. The kettle whistled and Miranda moved it off the plate, but didn’t bother to make herself tea.
‘I think she’s more intelligent than she’d like us to think,’ Nina said carefully. ‘If she believes Joanna’s innocent, then she’s probably right.’
There was a moment of silence. A large tabby cat appeared through an open door at the far side of the kitchen and wound itself round Miranda’s legs. ‘This is Ophelia,’ the woman said. ‘With my name, I have an affection for Shakespearean heroines.’ She looked at Nina as if expecting a response, but Nina didn’t know what to say. Miranda scooped up the animal and held it under one arm. With the other she opened the fridge door, took out an already-open can of cat food and spooned it into a bowl on the floor. The smell made Nina feel like retching.
Miranda set down the cat and straightened up. ‘So the killer might still be here!’ she said. ‘Do you see?’
So this, Nina thought, was what had unsettled Miranda. This was why she had lurked in the garden waiting for Nina to approach. Had it really just occurred to her? Had she been so certain Joanna had committed the murder?
But we were all certain.
‘I suppose that was always a possibility,’ Nina said. She was sitting in a rocking chair, which had been covered in a patchwork shawl. The cushions were soft and she felt overcome now by lethargy. She’d lost her initial impetus to
get out of the cottage as soon as possible. She looked up and saw that Miranda seemed lost in thought. ‘Do you think you know who the killer might be?’
‘I thought it was Joanna.’ The woman’s voice was almost petulant. It was as if Joanna had let her down.
‘But if it’s not?’ This time Nina’s words were sharper. She still felt tired and thought if she were to go to her room now, there was a chance that she might sleep for an hour before dinner.
‘I’m not sure.’ Miranda was leaning with her back to the Aga. The cat had stopped eating. It had climbed onto the windowsill, settled on the pile of clothes, and was snoring. She looked sharply at Nina. ‘You have no idea? I wondered if it might relate back to his old St Ursula days.’
‘How could it?’
Miranda shrugged. ‘I thought the police might have told you something. I’ve noticed the way that young sergeant looks at you. He’s obviously smitten.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘I had to walk round the house this morning and I saw the three of you in the chapel. Believe me, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
Nina again had the feeling that Miranda had been spying on them all. She knew the building so well that she could move around it almost unnoticed. If the group at the Writers’ House had the atmosphere of a country-house party, the director’s social status was ambiguous. She might be a partner in the company, but on these occasions she was not quite gentry and not quite below-stairs staff. Like a Victorian lady’s companion, Nina thought. Or a governess. And that made her strangely invisible.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Nina said. ‘Sergeant Ashworth is a professional and I’m a suspect. As I suppose we all are.’ She summoned the energy to lift herself out of her chair. ‘And in any event the police have given me no more information about the identity of the killer than they’ve given the rest of you.’
The women stood for a moment, looking at each other. ‘This is a difficult time,’ Miranda said. ‘It’s the police’s role to pry, and we all have secrets. We’ve all done things of which we’re ashamed.’
