The Heron's Cry

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘You’re thinking of the tea shop idea?’

  ‘Well yeah, but there are other things too, which get under John’s skin. It makes for a tense situation, and John’s not the best at coping with stress. Frank’s passionate about animal welfare and the whole organic thing. We are too, but there needs to be some flexibility. It’s as if he actually wants to lose money on the venture. We can’t have that sort of attitude. We’ve got the girls to think about and this new little one.’ She patted her belly.

  ‘Is Mr Ley a relative of yours?’

  ‘His mum was my gran’s sister. I called her Aunty Nancy. I visited the farm when I was a kid. Frank was already working in London then and the place was falling apart. His dad died not long after the crash and Frank came along with all that money to bring it back to life.’ She paused. ‘Nancy only died a few years ago. She was in her nineties, still sparky, still active. She had a heart attack after a day of gardening and died in her own bed. Frank was devastated, but I know that would have been how she’d want to go. That was when I took on the role of housekeeper, as well as working in the dairy.’

  ‘You must be knackered, with the kids to look after too.’

  Sarah gave a little grin. ‘Yep, that’s my world. Permanently knackered.’ She didn’t seem thrown by it, though.

  ‘What does your husband make of it all?’

  Another silence. ‘John finds it tricky,’ Sarah said at last. ‘He’d rather we were more independent, able to do our own thing. He doesn’t have an arty bone in his body, so the whole set-up here – Wes treating the place like a commune and bringing his mates to stay, impromptu gigs in the yard when we’re trying to sleep – that’s not really his bag. Like I said, he’s not good with stress.’

  ‘And you? Is it your bag?’

  ‘Honestly? It is really. I love the buzz and the company. I’m not sure how I’d cope doing the traditional wife thing, miles from anywhere in a hill farm on the edge of Exmoor. And that’s John’s dream.’

  Jen thought about that. She could see how that might cause problems for the couple. She’d be with Sarah every time.

  Before she could speak, the woman continued. ‘I’d give it a go, though. Only fair. We’ve done my thing since we moved here and now we’re saving like fury to find our own place. That’s why the tea shop is so important.’

  Jen nodded to show she understood. ‘How well did you both know Nigel?’

  ‘I lived in the same street as Eve when I was growing up. I was a few years older but she was brighter and we were best mates, in and out of each other’s houses. Both only children. So I’ve known Nigel since I was a kid. He still lives in the same house in Barnstaple. John met him a few times when we first married – he came to our wedding – but only really got to know him when we moved in here.’ For the first time, Sarah seemed to notice the food left on the table. She pulled herself to her feet and began, haphazardly, to move plates towards the sink. ‘In a way they were very similar. Both quiet men. Both competent. No need to show off. None of that macho crap. They liked each other. John might not show it, but he’s upset.’ She turned to face Jen. ‘I loved Nigel. He was like a second father. When I was growing up, I could tell him stuff that I could never tell my parents. Just find out what happened. For Eve and for us.’

  No pressure, then. Jen nodded and got to her feet.

  Chapter Eight

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON AND MATTHEW ordered Jen and Ross back to Barnstaple. ‘Get something to eat, then make notes of initial witness responses to share with the team. Ross, please could you do an internet search of all the residents at the farm. Any criminal convictions? And let’s see if we can have a first report on our victim’s phone records. Eve has given us the details of his mobile provider. Jen, any social media activity or news reports around Dr Yeo? His work could sometimes have been controversial, occasionally high profile if he’d started taking on his former employers in the health trust. We’ll clear out of the way at Westacombe now, and leave the place free for the CSIs and the search team.

  ‘Let’s meet in the office for a briefing at six. Sal Pengelly has agreed to fast-track the post-mortem and will carry that out later this evening, if it’s at all possible. I’ll be there for that.’

  He paused, and looked at them both to check they’d registered the instructions. ‘Ross, can you get a lift back with Jen and leave me the car? I’ll just call into the Sandpiper, where Janey Mackenzie works, on my way back to town and check Wesley’s alibi.’

  And find out a bit more about Mack, the young man who killed himself. The case Nigel was working on when he died.

  When he arrived, there was nowhere to park on the street close to the Sandpiper, and the only place he could find was outside the Glorious Oyster, the fish shack and kitchen behind the dunes. A customer was sitting at the picnic table outside, carefully poking the flesh from a crab’s leg, completely absorbed. Matthew knew Lindsay, the owner, because this was one of his and Jonathan’s favourite places to eat, and she waved agreement when he asked if he could leave the car.

  ‘I’ll be packing up soon, anyway. It’s been manic and we’ve almost sold out.’

  He walked back to the bar through hordes of families, people greasy with sun cream or pink with the heat. At the Hocking’s ice cream van there was a queue which led over the low wall and down to the beach. Suddenly, Matthew was shot back in time to his childhood. His mother had disapproved of any form of processed food:

  ‘The good Lord created my body and it’s a sin not to take care of it.’

  But his father, who’d only converted to the Brethren to be married to her, had been less rigid. If they were out walking together, they’d both enjoy a vanilla cone with a flake, whenever they came across a Hocking’s van. His father would wink: ‘Our secret, eh?’ Matthew had been a bit of a prig when he was a boy and hadn’t quite approved of the deceit. He’d never turned down the ice cream, though, and now he regretted that he hadn’t been more relaxed, that he hadn’t been able to enjoy those shared moments with his father more. The man had died a few months before and the opportunity had been missed.

  As soon as he reached the Sandpiper, he realized that he’d made a mistake. He’d thought there might be a quiet spell between the afternoon teas and the first beers of the evening, but the place was heaving. People were sitting on the wall that separated the pavement from the beach, already drinking. Inside, there was a queue at the counter that reached out into the street. The noises from the coffee machine, raised voices and raucous laughter battled against each other and made his head ache. He was bombarded by a sensory overload and felt completely out of place. Like the Glorious Oyster, this was somewhere he’d come with Jonathan, but only in the evening when it was quieter, more intimate, to listen to the music. He stood at the door, thinking he’d go away and make a proper appointment to come back, when George Mackenzie saw him. He waved at Matthew and yelled so his words were quite clear, even from the other end of the room and over the background noise of the bar.

  ‘I heard about Nigel. Come round to the yard.’

  Matthew reached the yard via an alley at the side of the building, and through a wooden gate. The bolt was on the other side and even he had to stretch to reach it. This wasn’t a place for punters. It held empty kegs and crates of wine bottles, and the concrete floor was scattered with cigarette ends. The yard must be an unofficial staff smoking area. Through an open window, Matthew saw the kitchen, heard shouts for service and the banging of pans. George was already there, leaning in the shade against the high wall.

  ‘Sorry about the surroundings.’ He hadn’t lost the Scottish accent after years working in the south. ‘This is the only place we’ll make ourselves heard.’ He looked up at Matthew. ‘I can’t believe it. Who would have done such a thing?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. None of the details are very clear.’ Matthew was deliberately vague. ‘Everybody speaks very highly of Dr Yeo. Did you know him well?’

  ‘Not personally. Not as a
friend. He was investigating the circumstances surrounding my son’s suicide.’

  ‘I heard that.’ Matthew paused. ‘Frank Ley told me.’ Another silence. ‘I wondered why Frank was so closely involved with your boy.’

  ‘Two oddballs together, maybe.’ The words came out quickly and immediately George seemed to regret them. ‘I loved my son. Of course I did. But I never understood him. He was different even as a child. Intense, given to obsession, anxious.’

  ‘And Martha? What did she make of him?’

  ‘Ah, my lovely Martha.’ George sighed. There was something theatrical about every response. ‘She’s not what anyone would call maternal and when Mack was growing up, she was hardly ever here. She was in that soap opera about the doctors’ practice. It was shot in Bristol, and she spent most of her time there. Sometimes, I felt that her life was all about filming schedules and wrap parties.’

  ‘She’s retired from acting now, though?’ The last time Matthew had been at the Sandpiper for an evening of music, Martha Mackenzie had been front of house, still glamorous, propping up the bar, inviting attention. More attention, it seemed, than the singer on the low stage.

  ‘Well, let’s say that acting has retired her. If an offer came through, I know she’d jump at the chance.’ A pause and a wry smile. ‘I know where I come in her list of priorities. But she’s too proud to go begging for work.’

  ‘Was she here when Mack died?’

  ‘Yes, and she was devastated, of course. We all were.’

  ‘I did wonder…’ – Matthew chose his words carefully – ‘… if there might be more than friendship between Frank and Mack.’

  ‘You thought they might be lovers?’ George said. ‘Or that Frank might have groomed him? Mack was only nineteen when he died after all. No, I never suspected anything of that sort. Frank’s a kind man and they were kindred spirits. Both loners struggling to make sense of the world. We would have been happy if Mack had found a partner. There were girls he fell for, but the relationships never survived. I think he scared them off by being too intense, too demanding. Too unstable.’

  ‘Is your daughter around?’

  ‘Yeah, Janey’s behind the bar. Working. Can you talk to her when it’s not so busy? You can see what it’s like in there.’

  ‘Was she working yesterday night?’

  George shook his head. ‘Nah, she asked for the night off, and I thought she deserved a break. This weather’s great for business but it’s been relentless. She was at a party in Barnstaple. Wesley up at Westacombe took her along.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘When she got home, she said that she’d have had a better time staying here. The party-goers were all closer in age to her mother and me. She likes a real bash, our Janey. Something a bit livelier.’

  ‘She gave Wesley a lift home?’

  ‘Well, as far as the turn-off to the farm. She made him walk up the lane. To serve him right, she said, for the boring evening.’

  Matthew nodded. So far Wesley’s story was confirmed. ‘What time did she get back?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I was still in the bar when she got here, so twelve thirty maybe? I’d just finished the last of the clearing up. Janey hadn’t been drinking because she was driving, so we shared a nightcap.’ He nodded towards the house on the other side of the wall. ‘You know we live next door.’

  Matthew nodded again. ‘One of my officers will be back tomorrow to take a statement from her. When’s the best time to come?’

  ‘Early afternoon maybe. We do brunch on a Sunday instead of lunch, and things should be quieter by then.’

  Mention of Sunday lunch gave Matthew a jolt. The following day was his mother’s birthday. She would be coming to the house and Jonathan would be cooking. He experienced the sense of dread, of social anxiety, that had been part of his life since he’d left the Brethren. He’d lost his faith suddenly and publicly, and had been cast out by the people he’d thought had cared for him most: his parents and his friends. The group talked of ‘un-fellowshipping’ and despite knowing, rationally, that he’d only been honest, there had been times when he’d felt unworthy of human contact.

  The sense of loss had haunted him when he was a student, and at the beginning of his working career. Only Jonathan had given him the confidence to face the world. It occurred to Matthew fleetingly that the investigation would give him an excuse to cancel, but he imagined what Jonathan would say if he called the meal off. He’d face accusations of cowardice. Murder or not, he’d have to be there. He turned his attention back to Mackenzie.

  ‘How do you and Frank Ley know each other? You didn’t grow up here. How did he get so fond of Mack?’

  The question seemed to surprise Mackenzie. He’d thought the conversation over.

  ‘Frank helped us out.’ George, usually so urbane and relaxed, was almost embarrassed. ‘Three years ago, we were going through a difficult time financially. We were more of a trad- itional cafe then: breakfasts, lunches and afternoon teas. Martha had just been dropped from the telly show, so no regular income, and no savings. She spent everything she earned as it came into her account. It was desperate, actually. There was a chance we’d lose the business. Ley had bought up a restaur- ant two doors away and they were taking all our lunchtime business. I was furious and got in touch with him. He asked me up to Westacombe, came down specially from London for the meeting.’ George paused. ‘It wasn’t what I was expecting. I had my pitch all ready, had managed to stoke up the righteous indignation, but in the end he just listened.’

  ‘And he invested?’

  ‘Yeah, he invested. But more than that, he came up with ideas. Or he got me to come up with ideas. “You don’t seem that enthusiastic about the place. Not passionate. Ideally, what sort of business would you like to run?” I’d expected a half-hour confrontation, but I was there all evening, drinking his very good wine on the terrace, watching the sun go down over the estuary. I started talking about music, Martha’s experience of the theatre, all her contacts, and he came up with the plan: “Seems to me you should turn the Sandpiper into a perform- ance space. I’d put money into that.” And he did.’

  ‘He was right,’ Matthew said. ‘It’s what makes this place unique. How does it work? Are you partners?’

  George shook his head. ‘He gave us a loan. Interest-free. We paid it back after the first year, but we became friends. And he’s still there if I feel I need advice or to share ideas.’

  ‘And that’s how he got to know Mack? Through you?’

  ‘That first night, we didn’t just talk about the business. As I said, he was a great listener. He could have been a shrink or a priest. I talked about the family, about Mack and his problems. Mack was sixteen, and struggling at school, in danger of permanent exclusion. Frank said he needed someone to look after the garden. Maybe Mack would be interested in the work? Only weekends and it wouldn’t need anyone skilled. Someone to mow the lawn and keep the beds weeded. His mother, Nancy, had designed it all and Frank wanted to keep it going in her memory. Their friendship started like that.’ George paused. ‘When Mack died it was as if Frank had lost part of his family. He was as upset as we were.’ A pause. ‘He asked to speak at the funeral and had us all in tears.’

  ‘So, he got Nigel to look into the circumstances surrounding the suicide?’

  George nodded. ‘Frank has a way of making things happen. Perhaps money can do that. It helped that someone was taking our concerns seriously. We knew we couldn’t bring Mack back, but there were all those unanswered questions about his care.’ His voice tailed off.

  Matthew understood how stretched the community mental health teams had become. His police officers seemed to be the first point of call for troubled people these days. Time which in the past had been used to investigate burglary was now spent tracking down a response from the community mental health team or driving to A&E. He wondered if Mack’s care had been any worse than that of other young people similarly struggling with depression or addiction. He looked at his watch. It was getting
late and soon his team would be gathering for the briefing. And still, he hadn’t eaten.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you get back to the fray.’ He was about to ask if George could get him a sandwich to take away, but that would have meant jumping the queue at the counter, and his principles, as strange and as rigid as those of his mother, couldn’t quite allow him do it.

  * * *

  They were gathered in the ops room in Barnstaple police station. The building was brutalist concrete and scheduled for redevelopment. The civic centre had already moved on to other premises and sometimes Matthew felt as though they were stranded, forgotten by superiors nearer to the centre of things. North Devon still felt isolated and miles from the mainstream. He’d picked up a sandwich and bad coffee from a service station on his way back into town, consumed them too fast in his office, and was almost the last to get to the room.

  Matthew stood at the front and waited for the team to settle. It didn’t take long. They’d learned by now that he wasn’t a man for shouting to get attention. He was patient, and most police officers weren’t. They nudged the colleagues still talking until everyone was quiet.

  He didn’t shout when he was addressing the team either. They had to sit close to him and they had to listen carefully.

  ‘Our victim is Dr Nigel Yeo, a former doctor at the North Devon Hospital, who worked with a small organization which represents patients’ views and experiences to the health trust, the governing body of the hospital. He seemed to have broadened the brief and had started following up complaints about care. North Devon Patients Together is based in Ilfracombe and he headed up a small team of four people.’ Matthew had gained the last piece of information from the organization’s website. ‘His body was found by his daughter, Eve, in her studio at Westacombe Farm. Eve’s a glass blower and she’d expected her father to come early on Saturday morning to help her work. But by early she meant seven thirty. It seems likely that death actually occurred at about one in the morning, because a witness says he saw a car driving at speed down the lane towards the coast. The lane only leads to Westacombe. As yet, we have no idea what might have taken Nigel to the farm late yesterday evening or in the early hours of this morning.’