The Heron's Cry

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Did a piece of my glass kill him?’ Eve thought she couldn’t bear that. The strange sense that she was somehow complicit. That the victims would still be alive if it weren’t for her work.

  Jen shook her head. ‘We’re not entirely sure about the cause of death yet. We don’t think that it was murder.’ She paused. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘The night before last. At that peculiar party.’

  ‘You didn’t catch a glimpse of him yesterday? Not even in the distance?’

  Eve tried to remember. These days, events seemed to run together and felt unimportant, irrelevant, overshadowed by memories of violence. She shook her head. ‘Where was he found?’

  ‘Near a gorse thicket on the common.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have seen him then. He’d have gone straight from his side of the house, through the garden, and I didn’t go anywhere near.’

  ‘Did you see anything unusual yesterday? Any strangers around the place?’

  ‘No,’ Eve said. ‘Nothing unusual happened at all.’ Except that my father and my neighbour have both died and nothing will be the same again.

  There was a gentle knock on the kitchen door and Matthew Venn walked in. He came and sat opposite Eve. Jen Rafferty got to her feet and muttered something about making tea. She disappeared from Eve’s line of sight. Venn sat on the wooden chair across the table from her. Again, Eve braced herself for information she didn’t really want to hear.

  ‘I wanted you to know,’ Matthew said, ‘before the rumours start flying. We’re pretty sure that Frank killed himself. He took an overdose. He left a note.’

  ‘Why would he do that? He had all this. His work.’ Eve found it hard to imagine jovial Frank being so desperate.

  ‘He was depressed,’ Matthew said. ‘He told me himself he had a history of the illness. And then all the chaos and the violence here … He found it hard to deal with all that on his own.’

  ‘He had us!’

  ‘Perhaps that wasn’t quite enough.’

  In the background Eve could hear the kettle coming to the boil, the clink of mugs.

  Matthew seemed to be reaching a decision to speak again. Eve thought there’d be more information about Frank Ley’s death, but the question was quite different.

  ‘Do you know someone called Lauren Miller?’

  ‘Yeah, she worked for my dad.’

  Another silence. Again, Matthew seemed to be hesitating, uncertain whether to continue speaking.

  ‘I phoned her about Frank’s death. She knew him very well. They worked together in London. Frank introduced her to your father. She and your father were very close. She’s here and she’d like to talk to you.’

  Eve struggled to understand what the detective was trying to say, then it became clear. A flash of understanding that explained her father’s recent moments of light-heartedness, how he’d started singing to himself again, his words when he’d offered to spend that last day working with her: Something rather wonderful has happened. I want to tell you all about it.

  ‘She and Dad were lovers!’

  ‘Will you see her?’ Matthew asked. ‘No pressure at all. She’ll quite understand if not.’

  No! What does she think? That she can replace my mother? Or that she can possibly feel as deeply as I do about my father’s dying?

  But then the old politeness and a new curiosity took over. Eve nodded her head and Matthew went off to call the woman in.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  AFTER SHE’D FINISHED TALKING TO EVE, Jen made her way back to the Grieves’ cottage. The yard had already filled up with vehicles. She recognized Sally Pengelly’s car and waved to her. Sarah was standing at the cottage door, looking out.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She sounded anxious. ‘Is there a new lead? Do you know what happened to Nigel and Wesley?’

  Jen shook her head but didn’t answer. ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘At school.’ As if the answer was obvious. Jen thought she was losing all sense of time.

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He’s just come in.’

  ‘I need to talk to you both.’

  A van full of uniformed officers drove through the gate, pulling Sarah’s gaze back to the yard, but she turned and went into the house. Jen followed.

  John Grieve was standing at the sink, washing his hands. He was still in overalls and stockinged feet. The sink was under the window and he nodded outside. ‘What on earth’s happening out there?’ He turned away and took a towel from a hook behind the door. ‘It feels as if we’re under siege. How long do we have to carry on like this?’ There was an edge of aggression, even threat, under the voice, which made Jen wary. She recognized the danger signs.

  ‘For as long as it takes for us to catch a murderer.’ She wanted to add something sarky. Sorry for the inconvenience. But after all, these people’s lives had been turned upside down and two of their friends had died. Now she had to tell them that there’d been another death. But not yet. First, she needed some information.

  ‘Where were you all day yesterday, Mr Grieve?’ Jen kept her voice pleasant, polite.

  ‘Out working. The place doesn’t run itself.’

  Jen sensed Sarah tense beside her. The woman was worried about the impression John was giving. Jen knew all the excuses. He’s tired. Stressed about the business. It’s a bad time. Jen had had to explain her husband’s moods to her friends for years. Before things had become really bad and he seldom let her out.

  ‘Where exactly? Honestly, I’m not being deliberately intrusive. I do have a good reason for asking.’

  Grieve looked at his wife and then back at Jen. ‘I went for a drive,’ he said. ‘After milking. I needed to get away for a bit.’

  ‘You didn’t say.’ This was Sarah, trying not to overreact. She wouldn’t want to make a fuss in front of a stranger. Jen knew how that felt too.

  ‘I wanted to look at that farm we had our eye on. The one on the edge of the moor, beyond Spennicott.’ He paused. ‘I thought if Frank wants to create his grand model village there, he might support us, invest. We’d still be part of his empire, but at least we wouldn’t be right in his backyard.’

  ‘It would have been nice to know what you were doing.’ No apology now. No anxiety about embarrassing themselves in front of Jen. The words were sharp and fierce.

  So, she could fight back when she needed to. She wasn’t as oppressed as Jen had been. Go, girl!

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I can’t explain how tough I’m finding this. All living on top of each other. No kind of space or privacy. And having the police marching all over the place, the press lurking in the lane, just makes things worse.’

  Jen was tempted to ask if he was depressed, if he’d contemplated using a suicide chatroom, but she’d save that question for when she had Grieve on his own. ‘Did anyone see you this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘I mean, did an agent show you round the farm? Or the landowner?’

  ‘No.’ A pause. ‘I just wanted to get a sense of the place. Its potential.’

  ‘Do you know a writer called Paul Reed, who lives in Spennicott? He’s been running a publicity campaign against Mr Ley.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him!’ Grieve was losing his cool now. ‘Why do you want to know? What’s going on? Why are all these people turning up in the yard?’

  ‘There’s been another death.’ Jen watched their faces, tried to gauge if the information was new to them, but they both stood staring at her, blank and impassive. Shock, she thought. Perhaps.

  Sarah spoke first. ‘Who?’

  ‘Frank Ley. It seems he went missing yesterday and we found his body on the common beyond his house this morning.’

  John spoke first. ‘I wonder what will happen to this place? To us?’

  Jen had been wondering about that too. She’d considered it while she was talking to Eve, though she’d thought the glass blower would be okay. She’d inherit her father’s house in Barnstaple and wouldn’t be left home
less and without funds. And that might happen to this family. ‘I suppose it depends if Frank had a will and who he left all his land and his money to.’

  But Sarah was in tears. ‘We shouldn’t be thinking of that now! We’re talking about Frank. I’ve known him since I was a baby. I loved him.’ She turned on her husband. ‘How can you be so selfish?’

  ‘Because we have two daughters and soon there’ll be another child to feed and clothe. And because we have no savings and no pension plan. I’m just worried that we won’t be able to hold all this together.’ He made a sweeping gesture to take in the clutter, the piles of children’s clothes, the toys in a plastic box in the corner. For the first time since they’d started talking, Jen felt sorry for him.

  ‘Did Frank have any other close relatives?’ she asked. ‘If not, I suppose at least the house and the farm will come to you.’

  ‘Really, I don’t think it will.’ Sarah blew her nose and wiped her eyes, with what looked to Jen like a tea towel. ‘Frank always said he didn’t believe in inherited wealth. It’ll probably have gone to one of his charities.’

  ‘Do you know if he made a will?’

  ‘No!’ Sarah said. ‘Of course not. It’s not the sort of conversation you have with a relative, especially a relative who’s your landlord.’

  ‘Did he have a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes.’ This was John Grieve. ‘He drew up a contract when we took over the management of the farm for Frank. It’s a chap called Mason based in Barnstaple.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jen made a quick note. She couldn’t see how the disposal of Westacombe Farm could be relevant to Ley’s death. It would have been hugely significant if Francis Ley had been murdered and the first victim, but surely not now. She turned back to the couple. ‘Did either of you see Frank yesterday?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Sarah said. ‘I haven’t seen him since his party the night before.’

  ‘John?’

  ‘He was up and about first thing yesterday morning, when I went out for milking. I walked the cows up the lane, but took the shortcut through Frank’s garden to get to the field. He was drinking coffee on his terrace. Still in his dressing gown. He looked a bit rough.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’ Jen was thinking this was probably the last time Ley had been seen alive.

  ‘He waved. I don’t think he said anything. Nothing important anyway. “Lovely morning.” Something like that.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And later?’ Jen thought this was like getting blood from a stone. She wondered if Grieve was being deliberately obstruct- ive or awkward. ‘You must have walked back past the farmhouse. Didn’t you see Frank then?’

  ‘He wasn’t sitting on the terrace,’ John said. ‘He might have been in the house, but I didn’t see him.’ He paused. ‘And that was when I decided to take off, to head over to Spennicott and get a look at the farm there. I was planning what I’d say to Frank, thinking of the business plan I could put together. It would have made sense for him to invest. Real sense. We could have fed our meat into his shop, the pub and the hotel he was planning. Sarah would have had more space for her dairy. But we’d have had some independence. A proper place of our own, away from the coast and all the trippers. And now it’ll never happen.’ The anger and depression that had seemed to haunt him when Jen had first come into the house appeared to have returned.

  ‘You don’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘He might have left us something. Enough to buy the place on our own. You know how much he loved the girls. I can’t imagine he’d not have remembered them.’

  ‘We need more than an old painting or a bit of costume jewellery from his mother!’ Grieve turned and left the room.

  The women were left staring at each other. ‘He’ll be upstairs on his computer for hours now,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s all that calms him down when he’s in one of his moods. I’d best get the girls down, so they don’t disturb him.’

  ‘Is he always as tense as this?’

  There was a slight hesitation before she answered. ‘No. It’s such a stressful time, isn’t it? Three deaths connected to the place where we’re supposed to feel safe. He just wants to protect us.’

  Jen wasn’t sure. She thought again that Sarah was so used to defending him, to herself and outsiders, that it had become a habit. The woman went on:

  ‘I feel it too. It’s as if we’re in some sort of siege, that there’s an enemy just outside, waiting to get us. You know that childhood nightmare, when you wake up, convinced that there’s a monster hiding in a cupboard or under the bed? The dream’s so scary because it’s like something evil has invaded your personal haven, the place you retreat to when you’re anxious or upset. Westacombe has always been my safe place, but in the past few days I’ve gone to bed scared. I get up in the night to check the kids are okay. And whenever I get up, I see that John’s awake too, lying there, watchful, listening for strange noises in the dark. I don’t think he’s had more than a couple of hours’ sleep since Nigel died. In the morning, we act as if everything’s normal. We get the kids off to school and we talk about work. But it’s not normal, is it? And it’ll never be normal again.’ She paused and looked dry-eyed at Jen. ‘John’s right. Whatever happens, we’ll have to move, even if it means shifting into town and doing something boring just to earn a living. At the moment boring seems bloody brilliant.’ She stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I need some air.’

  Sarah opened the door and a beam of morning sunshine flooded the room with light. Jen wasn’t sure what to say now. She thought her own experience of an abusive marriage might be colouring her picture of this relationship. Earlier, she’d been planning words of reassurance and encouragement: You don’t have to stay with him if he’s being a shit. Get out while you can. Here’s my personal number. Give me a call and I can help.

  Now, she thought things were more complicated than that, or very much simpler. As Sarah had said, the couple were living in the eye of a storm and all around them was tragedy and chaos. No wonder their nerves were frayed and John had wanted to leave for a while, to plan a future away from Westacombe. Which didn’t mean, of course, that Jen wouldn’t be searching out CCTV records for the roads leading towards Spennicott, to check that his story was true.

  The women stood together for a moment just outside the cottage door.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ROSS FOUND THE WHOLE MACKENZIE FAMILY together in the Sandpiper. Venn had asked him to notify them of Frank Ley’s death:

  ‘They were friends and another suicide will hit them badly. It’ll bring back the details of their son’s death.’

  By the time Ross got there, it was late afternoon and the cafe had been closed to the public. Inside, they were preparing for the evening’s event. Posters on the wall advertised a play, a performance of Waiting for Godot by a small Cornish touring company. Ross had heard of Beckett but knew nothing about him, except that he was obscure. He was put off by anything that reminded him of school. When he pushed open the door, he walked into darkness. There were heavy blinds on all the windows. A loud woman’s voice shouted at him from the gloom.

  ‘Sorry. We’re not open, not even for the bar.’

  It wasn’t Janey. Someone older. A loud, confident, superior woman’s voice that rankled. Her mother, perhaps.

  ‘It’s DC Ross May. I need to talk to the Mackenzies.’

  Just as his eyes got used to the shadow inside, a spotlight was turned on and blinded him. He wondered if that was deliberate and, again, he felt awkward.

  ‘Sorry.’ This time the apology did come from Janey. ‘We’re just getting ready for this evening’s play.’

  The house lights came on and he saw that the cafe was being transformed. They’d built a low stage at one end of the room and rows of chairs faced it. The counter which had served sandwiches and cream teas during the day was now set up to provide wine and cocktails. Ross thought Mel might like it here. He should bring her here one evening, though not to see a piec
e of theatre they would probably both struggle to understand.

  Janey was wearing a black T-shirt, with a Sandpiper logo, and frayed jeans. Her parents were at the back of the room, working on the lighting. Ross recognized Martha Mackenzie because his mother was a fan of her TV soap. She shouted out to him again, the voice slightly too loud, slightly patronizing.

  ‘This is really not a good time, Constable. And we’ve told your colleague all that we know.’

  ‘I have some news.’ Then he repeated with more authority. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  The older couple moved from the back of the room. Janey pulled three of the chairs into a semicircle and they sat, looking at him. Again, he felt a little daunted. Martha was wearing a silver tunic over wide black trousers. Her make-up was dark and dramatic – heavy black eyeliner and mascara, with dark red lipstick – but still she seemed to glow, to pull his eyes towards her. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What do we need to know? Have you found the killer? Is that it?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been another death.’ It wasn’t how he’d planned to tell them. He’d put together some words driving from the farm. I know Mr Ley was a close friend and this will come as a shock.

  ‘Who?’ This was Janey. She seemed horrified by the news. In the strange theatrical lights, her face seemed very pale, her eyes wide and large. Like something from a cartoon. Not real at all. None of this seemed quite real.

  ‘Francis Ley.’

  ‘Not Frank!’ George Mackenzie’s response seemed the most genuine. ‘No.’

  ‘He was found on the common near to his garden this morning.’

  ‘How did he die?’ George demanded. ‘Was he stabbed like Nigel and Wesley?’

  ‘We won’t confirm cause of death until after the post-mortem, but it seems that he committed suicide.’

  There was complete silence.