The Heron's Cry

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Work. Sorry.’

  Cynthia stood up. ‘Of course. It always is work, isn’t it? There’s no escape for you.’ The words sounded like an accus- ation. She was still crying. It was as if all the liquid in her body was leaking through her eyes, as if she might drown in it.

  Jen took the woman into her arms and squeezed her tight. For a moment, Cynthia relaxed enough to allow herself to be hugged.

  ‘See if you can keep Roger away from the office when he comes in tonight,’ Jen said. ‘If he’s found that website, I can see it could become a kind of obsession. An addiction. It’s probably as compulsive, as exciting, as it gets: watching someone deciding if they’re going to live or die. Then deciding yourself if it’s your turn next.’ Or if you can persuade them to take the final step.

  Cynthia nodded, but Jen could tell she wouldn’t stand up to her husband and she wouldn’t ask him about the website or his mood. The couple had got into the habit of leading separate lives and had forgotten how to talk about anything important.

  Chapter Forty-One

  TECHIE STEVE HAD A FLAT ABOVE a florist’s shop in a lane just off Boutport Street. The smell of the blooms soaking in the buckets outside hit Ross as he waited to be let in. Next door there was a rowdy pub and even this early in the day there were a few people in the beer garden. Ross couldn’t think why Steve was still living here; the noise late into the evening would have driven him crazy, especially in this weather when everyone wanted to be outside. Steve didn’t seem to be bothered by it, perhaps because the flat was long and thin and the rooms got darker and quieter the further in from the street it went. As Ross remembered, it was like moving to the back of a cave.

  At the top of the steps that led up from the nondescript door off the pavement, there was a kitchen littered with pizza boxes and foil containers from takeaway restaurants. Empty beer cans. A smell that would set alarm bells ringing with environmental health. This is where Steve was waiting after Ross had pressed the buzzer and climbed into the gloom. The cyber expert was wearing a filthy fleece dressing gown. Nothing else as far as Ross could tell. He stood, blinking.

  ‘Fuck, man, what do you want? This feels like the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s mid-morning and this is urgent. Where have you got with tracing the Suicide Club members?’

  ‘Something else came in,’ Steve muttered, still half asleep. ‘Something well paid.’

  ‘Well, this is a matter of life and death.’ Ross looked at him with something close to disgust. How could someone who was so bright – and so minted – live like this? ‘And you promised you’d stay on it.’

  ‘I was up all night on the other case.’ Steve turned away. ‘That was urgent too. I need some sleep.’

  ‘Get in the shower and put some clothes on. I’ve been told to stay with you until we have an answer. So, if you want any kind of life, you’d better get one for me.’ A pause. ‘And we’ll pay your going rate for a quick turnaround.’

  Ross wasn’t sure how he’d be able to honour that promise, but it seemed to have the required effect. Steve disappeared down the corridor and Ross heard the sound of the hot water boiler firing up for the shower. He couldn’t bear waiting in the chaos all around him – it made his skin crawl – and he found a black bin bag, began to fill it with the fast-food containers and banana peel. There was a small dishwasher and he stacked that too. By the time Steve returned, dressed in jeans and a black polo shirt, the worktops had been wiped down. He seemed not to notice any change in the kitchen and didn’t thank Ross for his efforts. He went to the fridge and took out a can of Coke, offered one to Ross, who, in the absence of tea or coffee, took it.

  ‘Okay then, let’s get working.’ Steve had always relished a challenge. His focus had shifted back to the Suicide Club and away from his other, possibly more lucrative, project. He seemed almost pleased that Ross was there, pushing him to action.

  The corridor led past a living room. Ross had spent boys’ evenings of beer and footie on the telly there on previous visits. It went on past a bathroom, and a closed door, which must lead into Steve’s bedroom. This was the furthest Ross had ever been in the flat, but Steve walked on and into a room right at the end of the corridor. Inside, there was a dense darkness. No windows and no external sound. Ross thought someone could go in there and disappear forever. Steve probably did go in there and disappear for days. Steve switched on a lamp that provided a pool of light on a desk and shone on more tech than Ross had thought could possibly be contained in one room. Unlike the kitchen, it was clinically clean. There was no dust on the keyboards, no smears on the screens. There was only one chair, a grand leather affair, and Steve sat there, looking, Ross thought, like the captain of the Starship Enterprise. They shared an affection for clunky science fiction and Ross suspected that the impression was deliberate. There was nowhere for him to sit and he leaned against the wall.

  ‘An officer for Patients Together got into the Suicide Club and discovered that the moderator had a user name of the Crow,’ Ross said. ‘What we really need is his real name and contact details. The woman couldn’t get those for us.’

  ‘Well, an amateur wouldn’t know where to start.’ A pause. ‘Surprised she got that far.’ He turned to face Ross. ‘Look, I’m on it. Why don’t you piss off and come back in a couple of hours? I can’t concentrate with you looking over my shoulder.’

  Ross looked at his watch. It was already nearly lunchtime. ‘An hour.’

  Steve was focused on the screen and seemed not to hear. ‘Take a key. It’s hanging on a hook in the kitchen. This is soundproofed and I won’t hear you ringing.’

  * * *

  Ross decided to go home for lunch. On impulse, he bought roses for Mel from the flower shop before leaving the street. They were pink like the ones she’d had in her wedding bouquet. He wasn’t given to romantic impulses, but he felt the need to express his feelings for her. He thought again that he’d taken her for granted recently. Perhaps that lay at the root of this strange intermittent tension between them. He didn’t dig into the real fear: that she’d found someone else who was giving her more attention, who appreciated her more. When he got to the house, it seemed unnaturally quiet. He switched on local radio, put the flowers in a vase and made himself a sandwich.

  That was when he saw that Mel had left her work diary at home. It sat on the worktop, tempting him. He knew he shouldn’t look, but it was work, wasn’t it? Not private. This wasn’t him stalking or being controlling. He’d gone on a course about coercive control before Christmas and then a case earlier in the year had brought the reality home to him. Before that, he’d been inclined to dismiss the new law as an overreaction. He’d understood that physical abuse was evil and hated the pathetic men who beat up women, but weren’t women who allowed themselves to be told what to wear and who to see to blame too? After being involved in the case where extreme coercive control had led to violence, to murder, he’d seen how wrong he’d been. All the same … This wasn’t real controlling behaviour, was it? It was taking an interest. He stood, staring at the diary.

  He was about to reach out and pick it up when the door opened and Mel came in. She looked flushed and flustered, surprised to see him.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be here.’

  ‘I bought you flowers,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ It wasn’t the response he’d been expecting or hoping for. It was surprise, not pleasure. And there was a kind of guilt in there somewhere, as if she thought she didn’t quite deserve the gesture. She must have realized that more was expected, because she smiled and touched his shoulder. ‘That’s lovely. Really lovely.’

  ‘I’ve just made a sandwich. Can I get you one?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll grab something at work. I must have left my diary behind and I can’t function without it.’

  He wasn’t sure if she’d seen him about to reach out for it, feeling guilty that he’d even contemplated reading it. ‘It’s there on
the bench. I just noticed it.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ She gave him a little peck on the lips and grabbed the book. At the door, she turned back. ‘Thanks for the roses,’ she said. ‘They’re beautiful.’ A pause. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’ He felt suddenly terrified. All that he’d known, taken for granted, seemed to be sliding away from him.

  ‘Nothing dreadful,’ she said. ‘Honestly. I have to get back to work, but you will be in?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. Because he couldn’t shout at her, could he? He couldn’t force her to talk to him now. ‘See you tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, see you then.’ She gave a little wave and hurried away. Her scent lingered for a moment in the room and then that disappeared too.

  * * *

  He let himself back into Steve’s flat, glad to focus on work again. The kitchen was as he’d left it. He took a can of Coke from the fridge and carried it through to Steve’s office. The man didn’t seem to hear him come in. He was leaning forwards, his nose almost touching the screen, muttering to himself:

  ‘Steven Barton, you can bloody do this.’

  Ross put the Coke on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s clever. I’ve got details of the Suicide Club’s membership, but not of the Crow himself. That’ll take a bit longer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ross was disappointed. He’d imagined himself standing in front of the room at the evening briefing, the killer already in custody, taking the glory.

  Steve looked briefly away from the screen. ‘Look. I’ll get there. I’m on it.’

  And Ross saw that Steve was totally involved in getting a result now. This was a challenge and there was nothing the man liked better. He wouldn’t eat or sleep until he’d identified the leader of the group.

  ‘You’ll give me a ring as soon as you’ve got it?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ His eyes still fixed on the screen, he slid a sheet of paper across the desk to Ross. ‘I printed out the members’ details for you.’

  Ross looked at the list. There were twelve names there. He recognized one of them.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Steve was lost in his digital world again. ‘Pull the door to on your way out.’

  * * *

  Ross was the last of the group to arrive in the ops room. Even Vicki Robb was there before him, with a ballpoint in her hand ready to take notes.

  They all stared at him. They could tell that he had something important to share.

  ‘Steve hasn’t got the identity of the Crow yet.’ It was best to limit expectations. ‘He should have it by the end of the day. But he did find a membership list for the Suicide Club and one of the people involved in the case is there.’

  ‘Who?’

  Ross paused for effect then saw that Venn was irritated by the delay.

  ‘Frank Ley.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘So, the words of his suicide letter weren’t coincidental,’ Venn said. ‘He must have been considering the act for some time if he was a member of the inner circle.’ A pause. ‘Perhaps Mack passed on his contact details to the moderator. We know they were close.’

  ‘Could Frank have been provoked by the Crow?’ Jen asked. ‘As we suspect Mack was provoked?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Venn seemed lost in thought. It was as if he’d known the dead man well. Ross thought he should be more detached. Joe Oldham always said it was wrong to get too emotionally involved with a case, and Ross agreed.

  Jen stuck up her hand. ‘I know it’s a bit left field, but do you think John Grieve could be the Crow? He spends a lot of time on his computer and he seems very stressed, very low. He knew both suicide victims and could have lured them into the site.’ A beat. ‘He could be our killer.’

  Again, it took Venn a while to answer. These periods of

  silence made Ross uneasy. He felt himself get tense and fidgety, the bad boy at the back of the classroom again.

  ‘I don’t know Grieve well enough to tell. Go and talk to him, Jen. It could make sense if Mack killed himself because Grieve goaded him into it, and Nigel Yeo found out and threatened to tell Frank. The man would have a lot to lose: his home, his livelihood. It might be a factor in Ley’s suicide too, if the family are set to inherit. Grieve certainly has motive.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jen pushed her red hair away from her face. ‘I’ll go now.’

  Ross was left with a faint sense of anticlimax. It was unfair that, yet again, he was being excluded from all the action.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  JEN DROVE TO WESTACOMBE ON HER own. Matthew didn’t want anyone to go with her, in case they freaked out John Grieve or upset the man’s family. He’d sent Ross in his own car to wait in the lane, though, just in case she needed support later. Jen thought that was Venn’s style all over. Understated. No dramatics, not overreacting. But assessing the risk, all the same.

  All the way there, she was planning scenarios. Would it be better to speak to Grieve on his own, without Sarah present? She thought it probably would. If he was the Crow, he’d be reluctant to admit it to his wife. He’d felt impotent at Westacombe, the subject of her relative’s benevolence, unable to take his own decisions about the farm or the dairy. If he was the leading member of the Suicide Club, he might have believed he had the power over life and death, and that would have been heady, intoxicating.

  Sarah was in the front garden of the cottage, picking mint that had been planted in an old enamel sink, when Jen drove in. A domestic scene, which made her plans for the encounter with Grieve seem an overreaction, slightly ridiculous. Sarah called across to her as soon as Jen got out of the car. ‘Hiya. I was just about to put the kettle on if you fancy some tea?’

  ‘I was hoping to chat to John if he’s around.’

  ‘He’s upstairs in the office doing the accounts.’ By this time Jen had joined her, and Sarah lowered her voice. ‘At least, that’s what he says he’s doing.’

  ‘How does he seem today?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Still pretty low. I haven’t wanted to leave him alone. He was on his own when I took the kids to school, but apart from that I’ve been around. I even went with him to bring the cows up for milking. I said I fancied the fresh air and the exercise.’ She was speaking very quietly though there was nobody around to hear. ‘Come on in. I’ll call John down.’

  ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘It’s one of their friends’ birthdays. They’ve all gone to the leisure centre in Barnstaple for swimming and tea.’

  One piece of luck.

  Sarah switched on the kettle, then stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted up to her husband. There was no reply.

  ‘I’ll go up to him,’ Jen said. ‘You should be putting your feet up, this stage of the pregnancy. Make the most of having the girls out of the way and enjoy some tea in peace.’ She was halfway up the stairs already and pretended not to hear Sarah shouting after her that this really wasn’t a good idea.

  John was in the little room that they’d already started dec- orating as a nursery. He was sitting at an Ikea desk with headphones on. As Jen had imagined, there was a mobile hanging from the ceiling close to his left ear. Penguins with bright red beaks. A polar bear. He didn’t hear when Jen tapped at the door and only noticed her when she was right inside the room and standing beside him. There was nowhere else for her to sit so she perched on the edge of the desk. He reached out to shut down the computer, but she took hold of his arm before he could touch the keyboard and gestured for him to take off the headphones.

  ‘Who are you encouraging to kill themselves today?’ The words were fierce, but her tone was calm, curious, even friendly.

  He stared at her.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The surprise seemed entirely genuine.

  She sat on an easy chair and for a second imagined Sarah sitting here, nursing her new baby in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘Have you ever
felt like killing yourself, John? There are people who could help, if you have.’

  He stared at her as if she were crazy. ‘No! I couldn’t. I have responsibilities.’ Something in his voice made her uncertain, though, and she waited for him to continue: ‘Besides, haven’t we all felt like that at one time or another?’

  ‘What are you doing up here on the computer all the time?’

  He put his head in his hands and she saw he was shaking. He looked up, straight at her. ‘I play,’ he said.

  ‘What? Computer games?’ Trying to keep the judgement out of her voice. Maybe he was one of those grown men who play computer games.

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘What then?’

  Still no answer.

  ‘Perhaps we should continue this conversation at the police station.’

  ‘I gamble!’ The words came out as a scream. ‘When I’m up here, I’m betting online. I know it’s a problem. I keep meaning to stop, but then I’m sucked back. Bigger prizes, free bets. And I’ve lost so much. How can I tell Sarah when she works so hard?’

  ‘She hasn’t guessed?’

  He shook his head. ‘She’s always left the financial side of the business to me. She always said I was good with money.’

  There was a silence. He looked out at the garden, at the swing hanging from the tree where his daughters loved playing. For a brief moment, Jen imagined Grieve hanging there too, his body limp. She wondered if, despite his earlier denial, he’d ever contemplated it.

  ‘It crept up on me.’ Grieve’s voice was whining, grating. ‘It started as a bit of fun. An adrenaline rush after a boring day. It’s an addiction. An illness. You don’t understand.’

  ‘No,’ Jen said, ‘I don’t.’ His self-pity was making her angry now. She knew she should contain it, but she wanted to shake him. ‘You’ve got a lovely wife and two kids. Another on the way.’