The Heron's Cry

by Ann Cleeves

  Jen thought this confirmed everything she’d been told by the Mackenzie family. It was useful but it provided nothing new. She changed tack.

  ‘How do you sell your dairy produce, if you don’t have a shop?’

  ‘We supply local delis and restaurants,’ Sarah said, ‘but we’d have a much better profit without the middle man. Hence the idea for the tea shop.’

  ‘I suppose Frank Ley would have been useful providing those retail contacts, though, because he’s set up those kinds of outlets all over the county.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sarah pulled herself upright, ‘but we don’t want to depend on Frank. Like I said before, John’s got this thing about us being independent. In the meantime, we’re building up a great online profile and we’re doing more and more sales by mail order. John’s a bit of a computer whizz. He set up the site and spends most evenings in the upstairs spare room, sorting out the orders. I’m not quite sure what he’ll do when the baby arrives and we have to use the space as a nursery. He was grumpy enough when I booted him out for a few days to paint it.’

  Jen considered that, and wondered what else John Grieve might be doing online. Was he the sort of man who might enjoy power at a distance? She could see that he might, when he was so dependent on a benefactor in his everyday life. Could John Grieve be sitting each night in a cramped small bedroom, listening to desperate people planning to end their lives, pushing them occasionally to make the decision? Could that be his idea of entertainment? Of fun?

  ‘Where’s John now?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Sarah said. ‘He went out straight after breakfast. There’s always something to do on the farm. He’ll be back when he’s hungry. It’s already gone his usual lunchtime.’ She got to her feet, collected the mugs and set them on the draining board. ‘I should get back to work too. I think I’ve got hours at the beginning of the day, then in no time I have to rush off to collect the kids from school.’

  Jen nodded. ‘Of course. Thanks for the coffee.’ She was wondering if she could find an excuse to go up into John’s makeshift office, but surely there’d be nothing for an untrained eye to see. Only a room painted ready for a baby, perhaps with a mobile hanging from the ceiling, and a Moses basket in one corner.

  * * *

  Once again, she walked round the farmhouse to Ley’s front door. It was early afternoon and the heat seemed to bounce from the red brick. She thought the man must surely be awake by now, even if he’d been drinking heavily the night before. When there was still no answer, she peered through all the windows she could find. The living room was tidy, so unless Sarah had been in early to clean for him, he hadn’t been in such a bad state the night before. That was another of Jen’s markers for judging the extent of her inebriation: the ability to load the dishwasher before going to bed. She moved on and looked in another of the windows facing the garden. A large office, very high-tech, jarring with the architecture of the house. A sleek desk had been built along one wall and it was filled with devices: computer, printer, scanner. Perhaps Frank Ley, single, wealthy, entitled, was a more likely candidate for the person playing God on the suicide chatroom.

  Now she was losing patience. She went back to the door and thumped on it. Then she turned the handle and went inside.

  ‘Mr Ley!’

  The house felt shady and cool after the blasting heat. She pushed her head through the doors of the rooms she’d already seen from outside. On the office desk was a mobile phone. Surely the man couldn’t have gone too far if he’d left that behind. She moved on through the house, all the time expecting Ley to appear, angered by the intrusion. There was a kitchen, which must back onto the kitchen used by Eve and Wesley. It was dark, with a small window looking out to the side of the house, but again very streamlined and full of gadgets: a high-end coffee machine, a juicer and a sleek stainless-steel fridge.

  Upstairs there were four bedrooms. Three apparently were scarcely used, and had the feel of an upmarket boutique hotel. One had probably belonged to Ley’s mother, because here there were a few personal touches. A faded wedding photo. A cross-stitched sampler of the alphabet. Ley’s bedroom was big, with long windows looking over the garden and out to a glimmer of sea in the distance. The bed had been slept in but not made. He’d had a shower; there was a damp towel folded on the rail. Clothes had been put on an elegant blue chair, but presumably Ley had been wearing those the day before. There was still no sign of the man himself.

  Jen went outside again and walked across the lawn and past the borders as far as the boundary wall. It had occurred to her that someone who’d shared Mack’s passion for gardening wouldn’t be indoors on a day like this. She found a wheelbarrow half full of weeds, but they were dry and shrivelled, and had obviously been there for some time. Ley himself seemed to have disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  MATTHEW VENN WAS IN HIS OFFICE, chatting to Ross, trying to make sense of the information the DC had gleaned from his techie friend. The space felt like a sauna and he could feel sweat running down his back; he’d brought in a spare shirt and wondered when he might find a moment to change.

  ‘So, Mack had accessed one of these suicide sites?’

  ‘Yes, something called Peace at Last.’ Ross paused. ‘And we know those were the words Mack used in his suicide note. Luke Wallace had been a member too, so it’s a well-established forum. The chatroom seems relatively supportive but Steve came across a core group who call themselves the Suicide Club and Mack had been sucked into that too. They seem more actively determined to encourage members to kill themselves.’

  ‘Do we know who pulled him in?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘Steve says tracking down the other individuals will take time.’

  Venn forgot his embarrassment, the heat and the sweat, and felt a wave of pity for the people who’d been desperate enough to consider suicide. He’d had a kind of breakdown after losing his faith. He hadn’t just lost his God, but his community, cast out by his parents and the Brethren. He’d even had a fleeting longing for the peace that death might bring, but that had been different from taking active steps to kill himself. He couldn’t quite imagine that desperation.

  He turned back to Ross. ‘It would be most helpful if Barton could give us the names of other people using the site. Especially the person moderating the Suicide Club.’

  ‘He said he’d work on it this afternoon.’

  His office door opened. No knock. And a shadow blocked out the light. Superintendent Joe Oldham, Matthew’s boss.

  ‘Ah.’ Oldham leaned against the door frame as if the effort of walking down the corridor had been too much for him to remain upright. ‘Two birds with one stone.’ The Yorkshire accent had remained unchanged and was a matter of pride. ‘How’s it going then? I’m getting pressure from above. Always piggy in the middle, that’s me.’ His voice was an unpleasant whine.

  ‘Ross has come up with some very useful information,’ Matthew said. ‘We’re about to follow it up.’ He’d learned that praising Ross and being vaguely optimistic was the best tactic where Oldham was concerned. The superintendent considered Ross a protégé. And although Oldham insisted that he liked to be on top of a major operation, he’d never been much interested in detail.

  ‘I can tell Exeter we’re near to an arrest then?’

  ‘We’re hopeful.’

  ‘Grand.’ The big man levered himself away from the door frame and walked away, once more letting in sunlight. ‘Keep me informed.’

  They watched the large back disappear into the corridor.

  Ross’s phone rang. He listened for a moment then passed it to Venn. ‘It’s Jen. She’s been trying to get hold of you.’

  Venn felt for his phone, realized he’d left it in the pocket of the jacket he’d carefully put over the back of a chair in the main office.

  ‘Sorry, Jen. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I can’t find Ley. The door to his house is open, but there’s nobody in.’

  ‘And nobody’s seen him?�
�

  ‘Not today. He had a gathering in his house last night – a kind of wake for Nigel and Wesley, and apparently for Alexander too, because he invited the rest of the Mackenzie family to Westacombe to join them. I’ve been into the house. He def- initely slept here last night, but neither Eve nor Sarah Grieve has seen him since.’

  ‘What about John Grieve?’

  ‘I haven’t tracked him down either. According to Sarah, he’s out on the farm somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll be over.’

  Venn ended the call and went to retrieve his jacket and his own phone. There was a missed call and a voicemail. From Frank Ley. It had been made more than an hour earlier.

  ‘If you’re coming to Westacombe this morning, Inspector, I wonder if you’d call in and see me. I’d welcome the chance for a chat.’

  The man sounded very tired, a little old. Venn called him back but there was no reply. He remembered his previous anxiety when he’d not been able to find Ley, the sunlit walk across the common from the Instow road, the strange panic as he imagined some tragedy at the farmhouse. He wondered if he was overreacting again by rushing off to Westacombe, but still he checked that his phone was in his pocket and he hurried to his car.

  * * *

  Matthew found Jen sitting where Ley had been on that earlier encounter. She was flushed from too long in the sun. She had a redhead’s pale complexion and her nose was peeling; the skin reminded him of flaky pastry, the remains of a croissant on a plate. ‘I had another look round the garden, away from the paths, in case he’d fallen. I haven’t been back to the workshops in case you didn’t want them knowing that Francis has buggered off.’ She paused. ‘I suppose he only has one car? He couldn’t have driven off in another vehicle.’

  ‘Only one car registered,’ Venn said.

  ‘Do you think he’s done a runner? He could have hired a car or got a taxi to the station. No vehicle’s been into the yard while I’ve been here, but it could have come earlier or driven up his private drive.’ She paused. ‘His mobile’s in his office, though. Surely he wouldn’t have left that behind.’

  ‘He phoned me earlier,’ Venn said. ‘I missed the call. Can you get on to the provider? Treat it as urgent. Find out who else called him this morning.’

  Jen nodded.

  Venn tried to think his way through the possibilities. ‘Why would he be running anyway? Why now, I mean? What’s happened in the last couple of days to spook him?’

  ‘You were sniffing round the old folks’ home in Spennicott.’

  ‘But according to Lauren, Yeo had agreed with Ley that bringing the care home up to standard would cause more disruption to the residents than moving them. It was clear to me that Reed, who made the complaint, had his own reasons for stirring up the campaign against Francis.’ Venn reran his visit to the model village in his head. Venn couldn’t see that Ley would be particularly disturbed by the news that the police had been following Nigel’s movements in the week before his death.

  ‘Ley held a wake here last night,’ Jen said. ‘A celebration of the lives of Wesley and Nigel. And Mack. He invited the remaining Mackenzie family to join them.’

  Venn thought that was more interesting. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Frank got pissed and made a sentimental speech about all three blokes, according to Eve. But no rows or accusations. At least, if there were, she wasn’t letting on.’ She looked at her boss. ‘But a bit odd, don’t you think? Throwing a party at a time like this.’

  ‘Perhaps none of them wanted to be alone.’ Venn considered for a moment. It was too early to panic, to call for a full search. Ley was an adult. He could easily have changed his mind after making the phone call to Venn’s mobile when there was no reply. If he was troubled, there were surely other people in whom he might confide. He took out his phone and dialled Lauren Miller’s number. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message.

  ‘This is Matthew Venn. If you pick this up, please could you call me back.’

  He imagined the two of them, Lauren and Frank, friends from London days, sitting in a smart Appledore restaurant, eating a late lunch. Frank would be leaning forward, earnest, sharing his sadness at the loss of two people close to him. There were, after all, very few people close to him.

  ‘Can you check local taxi firms?’ he said to Jen. ‘See if anyone picked him up?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He was walking away from Jen when his phone rang. It was Lauren Miller.

  ‘Inspector. I’m sorry I missed your call. How can I help you?’

  ‘I just wondered if you’d heard from Frank today?’

  There was a silence at the end of the line. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I have.’

  He was about to ask for more details when she continued talking. ‘If it’s not too inconvenient, perhaps you’d have time to come and see me. This isn’t an easy conversation to have on the phone.’

  ‘Of course. I could come now?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was as calm and measured as when they’d met previously, but he heard relief in her voice. ‘That would be very kind.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  LAUREN WAS WAITING FOR HIM. She was wearing a cotton dress that reached to her ankles, and looked as cool as she’d sounded on the phone. Her feet were bare, long and brown. She made him fragrant tea in a china pot, poured it through a strainer and offered little sugary biscuits.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘Mother’s out with a friend. We won’t be disturbed.’

  ‘You said you’d heard from Frank today? Did he come here to see you? He seems to have disappeared and I thought you might have an idea where he might be.’

  ‘No, he didn’t come here, though perhaps I should have suggested that we meet.’ There was a pause. She looked more uncomfortable than he’d seen her. ‘There were two phone calls. The first was in the early hours of this morning. I sleep very lightly and though my mobile was on silent, the vibration woke me. Frank was drunk. It was all very awkward.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She looked up, her cup still in her hand, and gave a little smile. ‘I suppose it was a declaration of love.’ She shook her head as if the notion was ridiculous. ‘I told him this wasn’t a conversation that I needed in the middle of the night and I asked him, very politely, to call me back later in the morning when he’d had a few hours’ sleep and a couple of mugs of strong, black coffee.’

  ‘Did he take your advice?’

  ‘He did.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The call came at nine o’clock this morning. He was very apologetic for waking me the night before. Very sweet. He told me that he’d always admired me and that Nigel’s death had made him re-evaluate things. Perhaps it was time for him to be braver emotionally, to express himself more openly.’ She paused again. ‘He asked if we might become closer. If perhaps one day, I might consider being his wife.’

  She looked up. ‘At least I didn’t laugh! It took a lot of control, but I managed to keep serious. But really! It sounded ridiculous, like something from a Regency romance.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I thought the kindest thing was to be clear. I told him I’d always value him as a friend, but that I could never consider him as a partner.’ She sipped her tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. ‘I told him about Nigel and me. I said that Nigel would always be the love of my life, and I couldn’t contemplate the possibility of anyone replacing him.’

  ‘How did he respond?’

  ‘He was very quiet,’ Lauren said. ‘Rather cold and formal. He apologized for disturbing me and he replaced the phone.’

  Venn thought that explained Ley’s disappearance. He’d gone away somewhere to lick his wounds. He’d been fantasizing for so long about this woman that she’d become a part of his life. This would feel a little like another bereavement. Would it explain Ley’s phone call to him, though?

  ‘Would you mind if I ask some more questions, while I’m here?’

  ‘Of course. I’m happy to h
elp in any way I can.’

  ‘Did Nigel discuss Alexander Mackenzie’s suicide with you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘We think he was interested in Mack’s membership of a chatroom that brought together people contemplating suicide. Do you know anything about that?’

  Lauren didn’t respond immediately. ‘I overheard a conversation between him and the mother of another victim of suicide. His side of the conversation at least. Later, I asked him what it was about. He was reluctant to tell me – he was always very careful about confidentiality even where Patients Together was concerned – but I’d picked up most of it anyway.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘That he’d discovered this group. They called themselves the Suicide Club. He said it wasn’t a group where people with severe depression could share their experiences and support each other. It was a place where people were actively encouraged to kill themselves.’

  ‘He was angry?’

  ‘Angry and sad.’ She looked at the huge seascape hanging on the wall and Venn thought she was losing herself in it again, remembering Nigel Yeo, the love she’d found in middle age. ‘Angry that the major providers refused to close the chatroom down, and sad that people were so desperate that they felt the need to use it.’ She looked up. ‘I’ve researched them since and found my way into one or two.’

  ‘What about the one used by Mack?’

  ‘Yes, I found that one. Its official name is Peace at Last, but there’s a tight group of a few individuals and a moderator within it. They call themselves the Suicide Club.’

  Venn nodded. He already knew that much. ‘Did you get the name of the moderator.’

  ‘Only the name he or she uses online. They call themselves the Crow.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t have the expertise to track down the Crow’s real identity. You’d need a security expert for that, and even then, I’m not sure it would be possible.’