by Ann Cleeves
‘Honestly, Jen, I can’t talk about Nigel’s role in the Mackenzie case. I think there’s an ongoing investigation within the hospital and you’ll have to ask Roger about that.’ Now the woman sounded uncomfortable.
‘I just did. He ran away into his office without answering.’
Another silence. In the distance a neighbour was mowing a lawn. There was the scent of roses and cut grass. It was all very perfect. At this moment, Jen didn’t quite believe in perfection.
She hoped she hadn’t offended Cynthia, but she had warned her friend in advance that this conversation would be official. Jen thought her work would always come before personal considerations. Her husband had never quite realized that; it had been one of the many matters of contention. It was his view, often stated, that she should be a wife first. For a woman, work should come way down the list.
‘Actually,’ Cynthia said at last, ‘Nigel was becoming a bit of a thorn in the authority’s side. A bit overreaching. The brief of Patients Together was traditionally quite narrow, but he extended it.’
‘In what way?’
‘In the past it represented patients in a more general sense. They advised on policy, provided feedback on services. Nigel seemed willing to become involved in more personal disputes between patients and the health authority. Roger thought it was a little unprofessional. He felt it almost as a betrayal. He said that Nigel was acting like a sort of private detective, not a former employee of the NHS.’
‘And it was the Alexander Mackenzie suicide that was causing the particular problem?’
Cynthia, usually so composed and confident, seemed to squirm a little in her seat. ‘Nigel had taken an interest in other cases previously, but he appeared to have got a bee in his bonnet about the way George Mackenzie’s son had been treated before he committed suicide.’ She looked directly at Jen. ‘You can see how awkward that was. For me, as well as for Roger. George is a friend. I’ve been going to the Sandpiper since he started doing music there. I sympathized. But Roger’s my husband and he needed my support through it all too. The last thing he wanted was a press witch hunt about the trust’s mental health provision. Nigel wasn’t a psychiatrist and he should never have involved himself in something so close to home. There was a definite conflict of interest.’
‘Is that why Nigel wanted to see me on Friday night? To discuss Alexander Mackenzie’s death?’
‘I don’t know.’ Cynthia gave a quick glance back at the house. To make sure her husband isn’t listening in? ‘To be honest, I didn’t want to know.’
‘I didn’t speak to Nigel for very long.’ Jen had never seen Cynthia quite so jumpy, not even when a guy out of his head on spice had threatened her with a knife when she was coming out of court. ‘Did you talk to him before he left?’
‘He came to say goodbye,’ Cynthia said. ‘Of course he did. He was a gent. He wouldn’t have just wandered off.’ She was speaking very quickly, like a kid rattling off an excuse to a teacher. Too much coffee? She’d already topped up her mug and she liked it black and very strong. Or was she hurrying to move the conversation on in a different direction?
‘Did Nigel say where he was going when he left here? We found his car at Westacombe, so we presume that he drove himself there, either that night or early the next morning.’ Jen tried to keep her voice even, but she was losing patience. And she was hurt because she’d thought they were friends. Proper friends. And here was Cynth treating her like some sort of moron who could be lied to.
There was no answer.
‘Cynthia. Someone stuck a shard of glass, half a metre long, into his neck. We’re not fucking about here. This isn’t a couple of lasses shoplifting from Markses.’
‘He said he was meeting someone. Polite as always. “Brilliant party, Cynthia, but I’ve got to go, I’m afraid.” It seemed a bit weird. I mean, why would you arrange a meeting so late?’
Perhaps, Jen thought, he’d realized I was in no fit state for an intelligent conversation, and he just made an excuse to leave. ‘So,’ she said, ‘he was expecting someone at his house?’
‘That’s what I thought he meant. He might have had guests coming to stay; he’s close to Helen’s parents. I suppose he could have been waiting for a phone call.’ Cynthia looked up, part defiant, part pleading for Jen to believe her. ‘You know what it was like here on Friday night. Music, background noise. I can’t really be sure what he meant.’
‘He didn’t mention going to see his daughter? A trip out to Westacombe?’
‘I don’t think so. Honestly, Jen, you spoke to him as long as I did that night. There were lots of other guests and I wanted to make sure everyone had a good time.’
The lawnmower in the neighbour’s equally perfect garden chugged on. A blackbird sang. But Jen thought Cynthia wasn’t being straight. She was keeping a secret – or secrets – and things would never be the same between them again. Jen pushed herself out of the chair and stood up. Cynthia stayed where she was, eyes closed.
‘Where was Roger on Friday night?’ The question came out more loudly than Jen had expected.
The eyes opened. ‘He stayed out for the evening, keeping out of the way. You know he has to be in the mood for a party.’
‘But where was he?’
Cynthia stood up too, slowly and carefully, making a point, and they stood, staring at each other. ‘What’s this about, Jen? Do you think he needs an alibi? Should I be phoning for our lawyer?’ Her accent was even more upper class than usual. Don’t mess with me, pleb!
‘I only asked, Cynth.’ Now Jen just felt tired. She wished she could have had her usual lie-in and a proper breakfast. ‘I just need to know where everyone who had any dealings with Nigel Yeo was that night. It’s my work. Like it’s Roger’s work to protect the health authority.’
‘He stayed in the office at the hospital,’ Cynthia said, each word spoken a bit too clearly, a bit too slowly. ‘He was working late. It’s a stressful job, keeping the show on the road with too little money, too few nurses, too few doctors. He often works late.’
‘What time did he get home?’
Cynthia shrugged. ‘I haven’t got a clue. I was out in the garden with half a dozen guests who stayed on until about twelve. Wes was playing music. Janey joined in singing, until she got bored. It was all very chilled, all very ordinary. When I went to bed, Roger was already there. Fast asleep.’ She turned to face Jen, and her words became hard, sarcastic. ‘I suppose he would just have had time to drive to Westacombe and stick that piece of glass in Nigel’s neck, if Nigel headed for the farm as soon as he left here. But I’d have thought there would have been blood. Roger’s work suit was hanging in the wardrobe and his shirt was in the linen basket. I put it in the washing machine this morning. There were no stains. I can promise you that.’ She gave a harsh little laugh. ‘You do see how ridicu- lous this is?’
Jen didn’t answer. She thought there was nothing faintly funny about the violent death of a good man.
Normally they would have hugged before they left each other and made some arrangement to meet up soon. Today Cynthia marched ahead of Jen, around the side of the house to the front gate, assuming that the detective would follow. It seemed Jen wasn’t even to be allowed to take the shortcut through the house, through the kitchen with the shiny granite worktops and the hall with the pale-wood panels, past the firmly closed door where Roger was working. Or hiding. She was being treated like a tradesman, the gardener or the window cleaner. At the fancy wrought-iron gate, they paused for a moment. Awkward, both of them prickly. Two strong women facing off.
Ridiculous, Jen thought. She opened her arms. ‘It’s just my work,’ she said. ‘It gets in the way of friendship.’
Cynthia hesitated, and Jen thought she would come in for that hug, but in the end, she didn’t move any closer. ‘Let’s hope this gets quickly sorted. Then maybe we can be friends again.’ The magistrate turned and walked away, the long silk tunic floating behind her, leaving Jen standing, her arms still outstretched
, waiting for the embrace.
Chapter Thirteen
ON SUNDAY MORNING MATTHEW VENN WOKE early, as he always did. There remained the sense of unease that had nothing to do with the investigation. He’d always found work easier, certainly less complicated, than the personal baggage which weighed him down. This was his mother’s birthday and she would soon be sitting at their long kitchen table eating Sunday lunch. He still couldn’t quite believe her change of heart and wasn’t sure if he’d be hurt or relieved if she called the meeting off at the last minute, making some excuse about a sick sister or brother. Not talking about a relative, but a member of the Brethren, the community into which he’d been born.
By the time he’d showered and dressed, Jonathan was up too. There was music playing and Jonathan was singing along, loud and tunefully, and starting to pull out the ingredients he needed for the grand birthday cake. A rib of beef had already been taken from the fridge and would cook slowly, Matthew was told, until it melted in the mouth. Jonathan loved entertaining, everything about it, the preparation and the cooking, and the sitting down with friends. Matthew still couldn’t quite enjoy it, but he was starting to get there. Not with his mother, though; not with the crabby, anxious woman whose life was fixed with certainty, and who despised everything that her son had become.
They had coffee and toast together, with the music still playing. Outside, the sun was shining, but they took that for granted. They’d all come to expect it now, the clear skies and the heatwave.
‘We could have lunch in the garden,’ Jonathan said. ‘I can set the table out there.’
‘Oh God, no! She’d hate it.’ As she’d hate anything adventurous and different.
‘Okay, in here then, but I’ll bring in flowers. Loads of flowers.’ Jonathan set down his coffee cup. ‘And give me a ring just as you’re about to pick her up. I’ll have everything ready.’ A pause. ‘You will be on time, won’t you? This is more important than work, for today at least.’
Matthew nodded. Now all this was started, he had to see it through to the end.
* * *
It was a relief to be on the road and heading to Barnstaple. The traffic wasn’t too heavy yet, and without needing the satnav he found the house where Helen Yeo had died and where Nigel Yeo had mourned her. It was a pleasantly proportioned house, substantial not grand. It backed onto the road out of the town, but was close to the shops and pubs of Newport, not far from Jen’s little terrace, a part of the community, not separate from it. There was a high wall to keep the traffic noise from the garden and Matthew struggled at first to find a way in. The entrance was from a side street and led into a shadowy garden, an oasis away from the town, with the muffled rumble of cars and lorries in the distance. Eve had given him a key. The crime scene team had been through the house, but hadn’t yet done a detailed search. They’d found no indication of violence there. It was clear that Yeo had been murdered where he was found.
Inside, it was cool. Matthew moved through the house to get a sense of the place before looking at it in any detail. This was a family home, but no longer lived in by a family. It was tidier than it would have been when Eve was a child; they already knew that Nigel had employed a cleaner, a woman who’d worked there for years, coming in on Thursday mornings for three hours, to clean the bathrooms and the kitchen, but there was none of the clutter that had probably been there when Nigel’s wife was alive and when Eve was still at home. One mug, rinsed and ready to go in the dishwasher, on the draining board in the kitchen. A pair of slippers carefully placed together close to the entrance to the hall. A copy of Friday’s Guardian, neatly folded on a coffee table in the living room, which looked out over the garden. There was a small television, the controls tidily arranged on the shelf beside it.
It seemed that when the illness had taken over Helen’s mind and her body, Yeo had moved her downstairs, to a pleasant little living room with a view of trees. The bed was still there, with its mattress cover and three pillows piled at one end. The nightstand had a cassette recorder on a shelf and a pile of audio books and music. Perhaps he couldn’t quite bring himself to clear the place.
Matthew wondered how he’d cope if Jonathan were suddenly ill, if he’d have Nigel Yeo’s dedication and patience to look after his husband this well. He hoped that he would. Then he thought ill health would probably hit his mother first. When he asked himself the same question about caring for her, he had no reply.
He moved upstairs and into Yeo’s study, which had been converted from the smallest bedroom. It faced the road and a row of smaller houses opposite. Matthew saw a gaggle of people going into the Baptist church on the other side of the road. He started opening drawers in the desk, not quite sure what he was looking for, and came across a large diary, with a page for every day. The diary contained both work and personal appointments. The writing was tidy, a little cramped. It seemed to Matthew that this was a man in control of his life.
He checked the entries for the week before Yeo’s death. There were a number of appointments marked. One said Team meeting. Beside it, he’d drawn a face with a down-turned mouth. It seemed he hadn’t been looking forward to that one. Others all seemed to be work-related: sessions with community groups and one with a social worker, a visit to a care home in a rural village.
On the Friday of Cynthia’s party, it seemed he’d had two meetings in the hospital. The first seemed more significant. Three names were listed, but one jumped out. Roger Prior. Matthew knew Cynthia Prior through court and this must be the husband who worked for the health trust. Another connection.
Further down the page there was another entry: Party (Jen Raff). This was another indication that he’d engineered an invitation to Cynthia’s gathering just to meet the detective. What a shame, Matthew thought, that Jen hadn’t spent more time with the man and listened to his concerns. But he knew Jen would already be thinking the same, would be haunted by guilt, and he didn’t intend to make her feel worse.
On the same page, hardly legible and scribbled at the last minute, it seemed, in different ink, Yeo had written a number: 8531. Or 8537. Matthew wasn’t quite sure. Some sort of reference or PIN? He put the diary in his briefcase and moved into the bedroom overlooking the garden, which Yeo must have once shared with his wife.
The room wasn’t at all what Matthew had been expecting. It had none of the bachelor austerity of the downstairs rooms, and was quite different in tone. There was a faint smell of fresh paint, and one wall was vivid red. A huge black and white photograph of a lighthouse with cliffs beyond hung there. The style seemed more Eve’s than Nigel’s and Matthew wondered if this had been the daughter’s attempt to cheer him up, to move him on from the period of grieving.
He then went into the attached bathroom. There were candles on a shelf near the bath. And on hooks on the door, two dressing gowns. Two electric toothbrushes over the sink. Perhaps Nigel Yeo hadn’t been the grieving widower everyone had thought him to be.
Matthew looked at his watch. It was still only ten thirty. He checked the number Ross May had provided for Lauren Miller and punched it into his phone. A woman answered and when he introduced himself, she said:
‘Of course. You want to talk about Nigel. I saw the news yesterday evening.’ The voice was ageless, pleasant, educated. ‘I live in Appledore.’ She gave him the address and the postcode. ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
* * *
When Venn was a boy, Appledore had been known as a rough place, a centre for drug-dealing and teenage violence. It had the shipyard, as close to an industrial enterprise as anything in this part of the county. His mother had discouraged any social contact with the boys who lived in the town. Now the shipyard had closed and Appledore, at the mouth of the Torridge, North Devon’s second river, had transformed itself into an arty place of immaculately painted cottages along the narrow streets, artisan coffee shops and expensive restaurants. Former council houses on the edge of the town were now mostly in private ownership. There was an annual book festiva
l and galleries exhibited local artists. Few locals could afford to buy properties here, and in the winter many of the houses – second homes and holiday lets – were empty. Matthew supposed it was an improvement, but on a sunny Sunday morning he knew it would be a nightmare to find somewhere to leave his car, and he felt some nostalgia for the past.
In the end, parking was no problem because Lauren lived a little out of the town, in a settlement of smart new houses. If she could afford to live here, with the landscaped gardens and the view over the Torridge to the estuary beyond, she hadn’t started working at NDPT for the money.
The house was minimalist, almost bare. Matthew couldn’t imagine children here. There was one enormous seascape on a white wall. Matthew found his gaze pulled into it; the wild sky and the space made him feel dizzy, vertiginous.
‘Brilliant, isn’t it?’ Lauren was standing behind him. She was almost as tall as he was, elegant, silver-haired. Not elderly, but not feeling the need to dye her hair to prove that she was still stylish. Perhaps because of the name, he’d been expecting somebody younger, and there’d been a moment of awkwardness when she’d opened the door to him. He hadn’t been quite sure that he’d found the right place. ‘I got it from a student’s degree show, when I was living in London, but the artist is Cornish. I think you can tell.’
‘When did you move here?’
‘Just over a year ago. I grew up in Bideford and was here until I went to university.’ She turned, gestured for him to take a seat on one of the sofas. ‘I came back because of my mother. She’s almost blind now. We live together. It’s not that she can’t manage on her own, but after my father died she became more isolated. She’d always been such a lively, companionable soul, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her being lonely. We sold her cottage in the town and moved in together.’ There was a pause. ‘But of course, I had selfish reasons for running home too. A messy divorce. We’d never had children and my share of the flat in Highgate easily bought me this place and gave me enough to live on until retirement.’
