The Heron's Cry

by Ann Cleeves

  After a while, Ley opened it himself, and stood, framed in the entrance, blinking. He was a big man, round and soft. His size was what people remembered. Before disappearing from public view, he’d made awkward, self-deprecating jokes about being fat. About how his chefs should be less skilful so he wasn’t tempted to sample so much of the cooking, and how he would never settle with a woman if he didn’t lose a little weight. As far as Matthew could recall from the rumours locally, Ley had never found a woman.

  He was wearing an old-fashioned tartan dressing gown over striped cotton pyjama bottoms, and a pair of leather slippers, which flapped as he walked. The dressing gown hardly met across his waist and was held together by a plaited cord. His bare chest was pink and almost hairless. Something about the outfit made Matthew think of a 1950s schoolboy. Billy Bunter or Just William.

  ‘Yes?’ Ley seemed flustered, a little anxious, but not angry at being disturbed by a stranger.

  Matthew introduced himself. ‘Perhaps you’ve noticed my team in your yard.’

  ‘I’ve just woken up. I haven’t had a chance to notice anything yet.’ He was still blinking. His eyelashes were sandy and fine. The voice was slow and pure North Devon. It was hard to imagine him doing hard-headed deals in a high-pressure financial market.

  ‘One of your tenants found her father dead in her studio this morning.’

  ‘What?’ He stared at Matthew as if he was talking a foreign language. ‘I don’t understand. Eve’s the only woman with a workshop. Are you talking about Nigel?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am.’

  There was silence. Ley shook his head as if he was still struggling to make sense of the words. Again, Matthew wondered how someone so slow to respond could have become so powerful.

  ‘How did he die?’ Ley asked at last. He stepped back into the hall behind him, assuming that Matthew would follow. ‘He seemed so fit. Some sort of heart attack?’

  ‘He was murdered. We can’t discuss the details yet.’

  Ley seemed to stumble, and put a hand against one wall to steady himself. He turned back to face Venn. ‘I can’t believe anyone would want him dead. Nigel was a good man. You’ll discover that for yourself when you make your inquiries. You’d better come in. Give me a couple of minutes to make myself decent and I’ll be with you.’

  The hall was shady; impressive but not intimidating, with a scratched oak floor and faded rugs, a large chest against one wall. Ley opened a door and showed Matthew into a big sitting room. More wood, more rugs. A fireplace with a vase of flowers on the hearth; the vase so wide at the rim that it was more of a bowl. A window seat with cushions in hand-woven covers. The furniture might have been there since Ley’s childhood: a worn leather chesterfield and a couple of sagging armchairs. The art on display was quite different, though. There were huge abstracts, shocking blocks of colour. In one corner a life-sized sculpture of a curlew made from driftwood. Venn supposed these had been created by the Westacombe tenants, past and present. He looked again at the vase containing the flowers: blue swirling glass, made perhaps by the murdered man’s daughter. It seemed Ley wasn’t only the craftspeople’s landlord; he was also their patron.

  The only sign that he’d hosted a drinks party the night before was a single glass on a coffee table. The other debris must already have been cleared away. Venn wondered if there was a housekeeper, or if Ley managed the place by himself.

  The man returned more quickly than Matthew had been expecting, but still he’d found time for a shower. His hair was wet. He was dressed in large, wrinkled grey trousers, which made Matthew think of an elephant’s legs, and a baggy black T-shirt. Surely, he thought, Ley wouldn’t have dressed like that when he was a City trader. Matthew liked to hide behind the uniform of a suit; even his casual clothes were freshly laundered and well pressed.

  ‘I’m making coffee,’ Ley said from the door. ‘I’m afraid I can’t function without it. Would you like some?’ He seemed diffident, as if he was the visitor, not the host.

  Matthew could smell the coffee and was tempted. The kitchen must be close by. ‘Please.’

  Ley disappeared and came back with a mug in each hand. ‘No milk,’ he said. ‘I don’t take it. I can probably borrow some from the tenants’ kitchen…’

  ‘Black’s fine.’ Matthew stood up to take the coffee, then returned to his seat by the window.

  Ley stood for a moment, looking out of the window, before landing on an armchair close by. ‘You’re saying that Nigel Yeo’s been murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’ Matthew paused. ‘I’m afraid that I am.’

  ‘Shit!’ The reply was explosive, more personal than might have been expected if Yeo were simply an acquaintance, the father of a tenant. The word and the emphasis were unexpected. Ley gave a quick, shy smile. ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Dr Yeo was a friend?’

  ‘No.’ A pause. ‘Well. I suppose he was in a way; becoming one at least. Eve came here a couple of years ago after finishing her Master’s degree.’

  Matthew said nothing. Silence, he’d found, was an ally and a weapon.

  At last, Ley continued: ‘Nigel worked for North Devon Patients Together, NDPT. It represents patients’ views to the trusts. It’s a small organization but very efficient, I thought. Important and well respected. Since Nigel took over as boss, he’s widened the brief to look into anomalies, and to explore patients’ complaints.’

  Venn nodded. That chimed with what Jen Rafferty had said.

  Ley looked up at him, weighing his words. ‘A young friend of mine suffered from depression. Nothing major – at least, that was what I thought. Not life-threatening. I’ve had bouts myself. It didn’t suit me being in the public eye, and then I was low again when my mother died – but I took the drugs and came through it. We talked about it, the two of us, and shared experiences. I thought Mack’s illness could be as easily treated.’ Ley was staring at the flowers in the fireplace. ‘I blame myself for not realizing it was more serious, perhaps a different illness altogether, and then I was away in London when the real crisis happened.’ He paused and pulled a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.

  Matthew said nothing. He knew there was more to the story. In the garden, blackbirds were singing. Joyous. Inappropriate.

  ‘Mack killed himself. He was talented, bright and he had a family who loved him. But he went out late one night, walked along the cliff path above Seal Bay and he jumped. He left a note by the path. In a little plastic bag, in case it rained, weighed down by a stone. Everything planned. A couple of ramblers found it the following day. His body wasn’t discovered until three days later, what was left of it, washed up on the north end of Lundy Island.’

  ‘When was this?’ Matthew asked. He couldn’t remember the case, but he wouldn’t have been involved officially in a suicide.

  ‘The autumn. The end of October.’

  ‘And his full name?’

  ‘Alexander Mackenzie. Known to us all as Mack.’ A pause. ‘His parents, George and Martha, run the bar on the beach at Instow. The Sandpiper.’

  Matthew nodded his head slowly. Details of the case were coming back to him. Jonathan knew the family and had been horrified by the boy’s death.

  ‘It should never have happened.’ Ley’s voice was raw with emotion now. ‘His parents knew how ill he was. They called the hospital, but nobody would do anything. He was just nineteen and, caught between children’s and adult services, he seemed to fall into the gap. They ended up calling the police because Mack was paranoid, imagining all sorts. The police took him to A&E, and he was sectioned, taken to the psychiatric hospital in the grounds of the General, but after a night, there wasn’t a bed or for some reason the clinic let him out. There was supposed to be community support, but that didn’t happen either. Mack was desperate, still paranoid apparently, dreaming of conspiracies and strange men following him. He even believed that his family were against him. In the end, I suppose, he couldn’t stand it so he just walked off the cliff and into t
he sea. A way out. Some kind of peace.’

  ‘You were very close to him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘I know the family. Mack was almost like a nephew, or maybe a surrogate son. I understood him because he didn’t fit in. As I said, we confided in each other. There’s a daughter. Lively, pretty. Very bright. Not long out of university. Mack was more challenging. More troubled.’ Ley looked up. ‘More like me.’

  ‘And Dr Yeo was involved in the case professionally?’ Matthew was trying to see how this all hung together.

  ‘Yes. George and Martha made a formal complaint against the health trust. Nothing was happening. All they got was a standard response. It could have been written by a computer. It probably was written by a computer. I talked to Nigel, and he got involved.’ Ley paused. ‘The family are not going to sue. Nothing will bring their boy back. But they need to know what happened. To know that it won’t happen again.’ Another pause. ‘We trusted Nigel. He was conscientious. No stone was left unturned. I’m not sure any of the medics or officials within the trust will be so diligent.’

  There was a moment of silence while Matthew processed the information. Outside the window, the morning light made the colours in the garden shimmer, turned the view into an Impressionist painting.

  ‘Had Nigel reached any conclusion about what might have happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was very careful about what he told me. Very professional. I saw him recently about another matter entirely. I asked him how his inquiry was going, but he didn’t say anything. Of course, I could understand that, the need for confidentiality.’

  ‘Do you know why he was here last night? It must have been late when he arrived. We know he was at a social event in Barnstaple until ten thirty.’

  Ley shook his head. ‘I assume he was here to see Eve.’ A pause. ‘I didn’t see him; we hadn’t arranged to meet.’

  ‘You had a party yourself, yesterday evening?’

  ‘Not really a party. I’d been away for a few days and I invited the tenants in for drinks. I like to keep in touch with them. But that was earlier. We kicked off at seven o’clock and everyone had left well before nine.’

  Ley sounded rather sad. Matthew wondered if he was lonely here, without his mother. Did he resent the young people, who’d come for the free drink and then disappeared?

  ‘Did everyone come?’ he asked. ‘All the people who live here?’

  ‘Yes, they all showed up. I think they see it almost as a duty. Wesley didn’t stay for long. He said he had another engagement in Barnstaple.’

  ‘That would be Wesley Curnow?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ley got to his feet and pushed open the window, letting in a burst of birdsong.

  ‘Can you give me details of the other residents?’

  ‘Sarah and John Grieve have the biggest space, the cottage, which you’ll have seen at the other side of the yard. They’ve got twins. No one else has kids. John manages the farm for me. Not that there’s much land these days, we rent most of it out, but we have a small herd of dairy cows.’

  ‘Sarah’s your niece?’

  ‘Not really a niece. I don’t have brothers or sisters.’ The thought seemed to sadden him. ‘I suppose she’s a kind of second cousin, but she’s my only relative. We’ve grown very close. She’s turned one of the outhouses into a dairy and makes traditional clotted cream and ice cream.’ Ley gave a slow smile and patted his stomach. ‘Delicious, but not so good for the figure. She looks after my house while I’m away too. There are two smaller flats in the attic. Wesley has one and Eve the other.’

  ‘And they also have studio space?’

  Ley nodded. His attention seemed drawn to the scene outside, the lush garden and the sea beyond.

  ‘What made you decide to open your house to these young people?’ The question came unbidden, without Matthew’s usual consideration. It had been at the front of his mind since walking through the door. If he had a property as beautiful as this, he wouldn’t want to share it with so many people. And if Ley was as rich as everyone said, he didn’t need their rent.

  At first, Ley didn’t answer the question directly. ‘They’re not so young,’ he said. ‘Wes must be forty, even though he behaves like a teenager.’

  ‘All the same. You know what I mean. Do you enjoy the company?’

  Ley turned back into the room and gave Matthew his full attention. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t need the company. I’ve always been happy enough on my own.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘It’s guilt. All that money just dropped into my lap. I didn’t have to work for it. Not really. I’ve always enjoyed figures. Logic. I didn’t mix with the flash young traders and didn’t get swept up in the hype. I could see which way the market was going and sold at the right time. It was luck as much as anything. But I know what it’s like to struggle. The house looks very grand now but it was falling to bits when I was a kid. We only lived in the kitchen and a couple of the bedrooms. It makes me feel a bit better about myself to share my good fortune.’ He smiled. ‘I expect you think I’m bonkers.’

  Matthew shook his head. He knew the power of guilt. He’d lived with it throughout his childhood and was still haunted by it.

  Ley continued speaking. Now he’d started, it seemed he felt the need to continue. Matthew had the sense that this was a sort of confession and the man had nobody else to confide in.

  ‘When I first came home,’ Ley said, ‘I thought the answer was to build more thriving communities, to rescue post offices and shops, take over pubs and restaurants. But it hasn’t really worked. Not everywhere. In some of the villages, it pushed up house prices, brought in the tourists and the second homers. And it made me money. More money. More guilt.’ He smiled again and again Matthew was reminded of an honourable schoolboy, naive and struggling, attempting to do the right thing and somehow always failing.

  ‘So now you support individuals?’

  ‘I still give to charity,’ Ley said. ‘Of course I do. But somehow this is more meaningful. Less demeaning. Investment, not handout.’

  ‘And more of a sacrifice?’ Matthew said. ‘To be sharing your beautiful home with people who need the space, even though I’m sure you’d rather have it to yourself.’

  ‘A sacrifice?’ It seemed he hadn’t considered the idea before. ‘Yes! Of course, you’re right. After all, I’m not really being altruistic. Providing homes for other people just makes me feel better about myself.’

  Matthew would have liked to ask Ley if he had a faith, but that was none of his business. How could it possibly be relevant to finding out who had killed Nigel Yeo? Instead he pulled himself back to the investigation. ‘What did you do after your guests left the house at nine?’

  ‘I sat in the garden for a while, watching the sun setting over the water.’ He paused. ‘And I drank too much. It’s become rather a habit, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did you hear a car in the lane?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t stay outside for long. Once it was properly dark, I moved inside.’ He paused. ‘And carried on drinking. Hence, the lateness of getting out of bed.’ He turned back to face Matthew. ‘I told you that I don’t need company, Inspector, and in general that’s true, but last night, when the others had gone, I felt overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness. It was almost unbearable.’

  Again, Matthew felt that he was listening to a confession, almost in the religious sense. Few people would share their pain with a complete stranger. He didn’t know how to reply. But it seemed that no response was needed. Ley became suddenly more formal, distant.

  ‘If that’s all, Inspector, I’m expecting a call from London. But of course, if I can help in any way at all, do come back to me.’

  They walked together to the front door. From somewhere inside the house there was the sound of a phone ringing. Ley nodded sadly and turned away.

  Chapter Four

  EVE LOOKED ACROSS THE TABLE AT the red-haired detective with the nasal, grating northern voice and wished she’d just fuck off
and leave her alone. At this particular point in time she didn’t care who’d killed her father. All that mattered was that he was dead, that she’d be alone, with nobody to hold her when she was miserable, or make her laugh when she needed cheering up. Her anger was undirected, or perhaps more directed towards him, for leaving her, than at the person or persons who’d made it happen. But Eve was polite. She’d been well brought up by her parents. So, she sat at the big table in the shadowy, cool kitchen and she drank tea, and she answered the intruder’s questions.

  ‘Tell me about the other residents,’ the detective, Jen Rafferty, said. ‘I’ve met Wesley, but I don’t know the others.’

  ‘John and Sarah Grieve. They’ve got twins. Daisy and Lily. They’re very cute. The girls, I mean, not the parents.’

  ‘How old are the kids?’

  ‘Just seven. They had their birthday a couple of weeks ago. We had a party.’ My dad came with balloons, different presents for each of the girls. I made a cake.

  ‘What role do the parents play here at Westacombe? How do they fit in?’

  ‘John’s a farmer and Sarah runs the dairy. She also looks after Frank’s house now his mother’s dead, does his laundry, stuff like that. Things are tight for them financially and he pays her well to do it. She never stops working, even though she’s pregnant again.’ Eve paused for a moment. Sometimes Sarah’s energy made her feel incompetent, idle. ‘Even now, she’s making plans. She’d like to open a tea shop alongside the dairy. That would bring more people in and give Wes and me a chance to sell more of our stuff.’ Eve wondered why she was even mentioning that. She’d been excited when Sarah had first thrown out the idea, but now, what importance could it possibly have?

  ‘Were Sarah and John at the drinks party with Mr Ley yesterday evening?’

  ‘Yeah, and the kids for a while. Halfway through, Sarah took them away and put them to bed. She came back later and John went to babysit. He’s not exactly sociable, and I think he was glad to escape.’ Eve paused for a moment but decided to continue. Better to give the woman all the information she needed and then she might be left in peace to cry and howl without an audience. Sometimes, she felt like glass, which was pliable and easy to mould when it was hot. She could be amiable and pleasant, until the stress built up, then, like glass, she became cold and hard and she’d crack under the slightest pressure. She didn’t want to crack in front of the detective. ‘Wes was there too, but just for a while. He’d obviously had a better offer but felt the need to show his face. To keep Frank sweet.’