Crow Trap

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Could you see the burn from the house?’

  ‘Not at this time of the year when the trees are in leaf.’

  ‘From the garden?’

  ‘Possibly. But the garden is Anne’s domain. I never stray out there. Except perhaps on a hot sunny evening with a glass of Chardonnay before dinner.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Edie wasn’t so easily fobbed off as Jeremy. Rachael ran through the rain to Black Law to phone her, prompted by Jeremy’s talk of inaccurate gossip. She didn’t want Edie to hear in the local news that a female conservationist had been strangled on Black Law Moor.

  When Rachael told her what had happened Edie didn’t immediately suggest that her daughter should move home. Her style was more subtle than that.

  ‘Of course you’ll take your own decision,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ The sarcasm had become a habit.

  ‘But I was going to suggest that you come home for a few days anyway.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘I’ve tracked down Alicia Davison. The headteacher Bella worked for in Corbin. If you were staying here for a while we could go to see her.’ She paused. Rachael would not respond and Edie went on, ‘If you wanted me to come too that is. You might prefer to see her on your own.’

  ‘I can’t come home. Not yet. Anne’s determined to stay and I can hardly leave her on her own. Besides, there’s the report. It’s not finished.’

  ‘You could finish it here.’

  ‘No. I’ll have to stay.’

  The police must have been in touch with Neville Furness, because they had taken over the ground floor of the farmhouse. Rachael was using the phone in Bella’s bedroom. Suddenly from downstairs came the sound of smashing crockery, then explosive laughter and good-natured jeers. Vera Stanhope shouted for silence. Rachael had never known so much noise in Bella’s house, but thought Bella might have liked it. She would have made sandwiches for them all, dried out their clothes.

  ‘Edie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you come out here? Anne and I have decided to work as a pair on the last of the surveys. It would be useful to have someone to check us back in. To be an extra back-up. And we could still go out to see Miss Davison.’

  ‘I could cook,’ Edie said. ‘Clean. That sort of thing.’

  ‘No need to go overboard.’ As far as Rachael could remember there had always been a cleaning lady to muck out at Riverside Terrace despite Edie’s socialist principles. It was hard to picture her in rubber gloves.

  ‘It’s late night shopping at Tesco’s. I’ll stop on my way over.’

  ‘I’ll come out to the road to meet you. You’ll never find it on your own at night.’

  ‘Mm.’ She hardly listened to the directions, too preoccupied with her shopping list. Preoccupied too, Rachael thought, with planning a therapeutic strategy to get her daughter through the trauma of another bereavement.

  On the way back to Baikie’s Rachael saw that Peter Kemp was there. Even in the gloom she recognized the flash new Land Rover parked by the tractor shed.

  Him too, she thought. Someone else to persuade us to pack our bags and run away. I suppose it wouldn’t do his reputation as an employer much good if he lost any more staff.

  He had made himself quite at home. He perched on the arm of the chair where Anne was sitting, his long legs stretched towards the fire. He could have owned the place. A bottle of whisky, which he must have brought with him, stood on the mantelpiece and he had a glass in his hand. When he saw Rachael, he stood up and made to take her into his arms, but she moved awkwardly out of the way.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was summoned.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘An inspector called . . .’ He paused, expecting recognition of the reference. When Rachael frowned impatiently, he continued. ‘Inspector Stanhope. A strange woman. Do you think she’s quite sane?’

  ‘She asked you to come here at this time of night?’

  ‘Not exactly. Look, you might have told me what had happened to Grace . . .’ And that was the nearest to any expression of sympathy they got from him. ‘ . . . The inspector wants to see all her employment records. I explained we were a small informal organization and Grace was employed on contract but she insisted. I’ve dug out everything I’ve got.’ He took an envelope file from his briefcase and fanned out three or four photocopied sheets. Rachael recognized the application form for post of temporary survey worker, a reference from the Otter Trust in Scotland, simple salary details – a bank account number and home address.

  ‘Couldn’t you have dropped them at the police station at Kimmerston?’

  ‘I suppose I could . . .’ he smiled at her like an adult humouring a truculent child, and poured her a whisky ‘ . . . but she said she was here and it was urgent. Besides, I wanted to see how you two were getting on.’

  ‘They’ve not let us onto the hill to get on with any work so there’s nothing new to report.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Then he realized she was joking. ‘Of course not. I mean, how are you?’

  ‘Shocked,’ she said. ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘To complete the report.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  Anne had interrupted before he could complete the question. ‘We’re not being scared off, if that’s what you think. We’re not running away to give the developer an open field.’

  ‘Is that what you think is going on here?’ It was Vera Stanhope, standing in the doorway in the shadow. She must have let herself in through the kitchen. For a large woman she moved very quietly. Rachael supposed she’d had practice stalking animals when she’d been taken into the countryside by her naturalist father. It sounded as if she’d been bullied into standing very still and listening.

  ‘Well,’ Vera demanded. ‘Do you think Grace Fulwell was killed as a corporate act of intimidation to frighten you away before you find anything of significance? Something which might persuade the Department of Environment inspector to stop the development?’

  ‘No,’ Rachael said. ‘If there’d been anything special here we’d have found it already.’ She looked at Anne for confirmation. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But there is a chance that you’ve missed something.’ Vera walked further into the room and stood with her legs apart, looking round at them. For a moment Peter stared at her. Rachael saw a second of horror and, watching, thought: he’s only used to women who take some trouble with their appearance. Even I did that for him. Then the professional charm took over and he stretched out his hand and introduced himself, offered her whisky, which she accepted with a huge Cheshire cat grin. When she repeated her question it was to him, as if she had acknowledged him as the expert.

  ‘Well, Mr Kemp, do you think these girls have missed something?’

  ‘I suppose there’s always that chance but I doubt it. You won’t find better fieldworkers anywhere than Anne and Rachael.’

  ‘And Grace? She was good too?’

  ‘She came highly recommended as you’ll see from the reference in the file.’

  ‘The file, yes. It was very good of you to bring it.’ She looked up from her glass. Were you out this way any time yesterday, Mr Kemp? Checking your survey perhaps? Making sure your workers weren’t slacking?’

  The sudden question surprised him. ‘No, I spent all day in the office. Meetings, as my secretary will tell you.’

  ‘Then we won’t need to take up any more of your time, Mr Kemp. Thank you for coming over.’

  He seemed uncertain how to handle this summary dismissal.

  ‘You might as well leave the whisky,’ Vera went on. ‘No doubt the lasses will be able to use it.’

  As she walked him towards the outside door he muttered something which Rachael couldn’t make out. They heard the roar of the diesel engine as he drove up the track.

  Ver
a refilled their glasses and made herself comfortable. Rachael expected some comment about Peter but none came.

  ‘Of course you must make up your own minds what you do next,’ Vera said, repeating almost exactly Edie’s words and meaning, as Edie had done – but I’d much prefer it if you do what I want you to.

  ‘We’re not leaving,’ Rachael said. She wondered how many more times it would have to be said.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that you should.’ Vera bared her teeth in a grin. ‘I’m not in any position to limit your access to the hill, except where my men are working, or to restrict your movements in any way.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But my superiors are concerned about your safety. What would the bosses know? They spend their time in centrally heated offices, the sort of man who wouldn’t venture onto the Town Moor without a compass and a stick of mint cake. They can’t understand what you’re doing here anyway. All they think is – two girlies on their own in the wilderness with a lunatic on the loose. You appreciate my difficulty.’ She grinned and continued. ‘I’ve been told to get you to clear off. You’re in the way, an unnecessary distraction. And if anything . . .’ she paused ‘ . . . untoward was to happen to either of you the press would have a field day.’

  She drained her glass and stared pensively into the fire for a moment then went on briskly. ‘So let’s take it as read, shall we? I’ve told you to piss off and you’ve refused, so now it’s your responsibility if you get into bother. You can’t sue the Chief Constable.’

  ‘Why are you so keen for us to stay?’ Rachael asked. She could read forceful middle-aged women and knew that was exactly what Vera wanted.

  ‘I can’t see there’s any danger,’ Vera said briskly. ‘There’ll be men crawling around the hill for weeks. You’ll be safer here than in the middle of town. Why jeopardize weeks of research when it’s not necessary?’

  ‘No,’ Rachael said. ‘There must be another reason.’

  Vera shot her a look. ‘You forget I’ve come to these hills since I was a kid. I don’t want a quarry here any more than you do.’

  For a moment Rachael was convinced, then it came to her that Vera Stanhope was ambitious, in the same way that Peter Kemp was ambitious. She was desperate for the investigation to succeed.

  ‘There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Let’s just say that I don’t feel it would be beneficial to my investigation if your project was abandoned.’

  At first Rachael thought Vera was implying that she and Anne were suspects, that she was worried they would escape if they left the hill. Then she saw there was another explanation. ‘You think the murderer might come back when he sees we’ve not abandoned the project. You want to use us as decoys.’

  Like the crow, she thought, in the trap.

  Vera appeared profoundly hurt and shocked by the suggestion.

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘The Chief Constable would never countenance it.’

  But she bared her large brown teeth in another grin.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The next day they saw little of Vera Stanhope and still the cloud was so low that there was no point trying to go out to count. By the evening Rachael thought that another day trapped in Baikie’s would drive her mad and she agreed to Edie’s suggestion that the following morning they should visit Alicia Davison, retired headmistress of the school where once, according to the papers left at Black Law, Bella had been a teacher. Edie disappeared into Black Law to make phone calls.

  ‘I don’t like leaving you,’ Rachael said to Anne, ‘even with the police still around.’

  ‘That’s all right. I want to go into Kimmerston anyway to see a friend.’

  A man, Rachael supposed, though the next morning when they set off at almost the same time there was no sign of it. No make-up or perfume. No smart clothes stashed into a rucksack to be changed into later.

  Overnight the weather had changed. There was still a haze over the moor but it was warm and still. Edie had managed to contact Alicia by phone and was pleased with herself. ‘I said we were researching local history. Alicia assumed it was about Corbin School. Apparently it was closed in the mid seventies. She got a bigger headship and went on to make quite a name for herself.’

  She was driving and paused while she concentrated on passing a tractor. ‘She sat on an advisory panel on primary education and was considered quite an expert on rural schools. She published a book on it. She never left the classroom though. I suppose she’s one of those sad old spinsters who can only make relationships with small kids.’

  Rachael was tempted to ask what had happened to sisterly solidarity. Edie too was a spinster who’d taught for most of her life. But she kept quiet. It was a relief to be away from Baikie’s and she couldn’t face a row.

  When Miss Davison let them into her house it was clear she was far from sad. She was tiny, very quick and bright. Neither did she give an impression of age. She wore a grey velour tracksuit and new white training shoes and had just returned, she said, from her weekly yoga session in the village hall. Her new enthusiasm was t’ai chi but she liked to keep up her yoga too. As one got older it was good to keep supple.

  She lived in a small development of smart new bungalows on the edge of a tidy village close to the A1.

  She led them through the house rather apologetically. ‘When I retired I dreamed of a stone cottage and a large garden but I saw that it wouldn’t be practical. I’ve too many other interests. This suits me very well. We’re all of a certain age here in Swinhoe Close. Mostly couples of course, but they seem not to mind including me. And there’s one widower who’s very chivalrous.’ She spoke quickly with sharp, staccato phrases which came out like the repeated rhythm of bird song. ‘Do sit down. We’ll have the coffee presently, shall we? You don’t want to talk about me. You’re here to find out about the school. It’ll be an interesting project. I suppose you live in Corbin. You didn’t say.’

  Rachael prepared to explain but Miss Davison didn’t seem to expect an answer. ‘I arrived at Corbin in the early sixties but the building hadn’t changed, not really, since the turn of the century. My first headship. I didn’t quite know what to expect. There was one large room with a curtain down the middle. The infants sat on one side of it and the juniors on the other. There were fifteen of each when I arrived and I’ve never taught a bigger bunch of monsters. They’d been without a head for a term and allowed to run wild. The place was heated, if that’s the appropriate word, by a coke boiler in one corner, which bellowed out smoke and sulphur fumes. And on my first morning a family of bats fell out of the roof and onto my desk. The boys threw them at the girls. The girls screamed. I thought I’d come to a madhouse.’ She smiled and Rachael thought she’d enjoyed every minute.

  ‘Was Miss Noble teaching with you then?’ Edie asked.

  ‘No,’ Miss Davison said sharply. ‘That was later. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘We are actually very interested in Miss Noble.’

  Quite suddenly her friendliness turned to hostility.

  ‘So that’s what this is about. You’re not here about the school at all. What are you? Reporters? Why can’t you leave the poor woman alone after all this time. Out you go. My friend lives next door. If you don’t leave quickly I’ll get him to throw you out.’

  Rachael was horrified at the prospect of being forcibly ejected by an elderly widower. She didn’t understand the change of mood, wondered for a moment if the woman was mad.

  ‘Bella’s dead. Miss Davison,’ she said. ‘I was a friend of hers. I’m still a friend of her husband’s. I found your name in some of her papers. We thought you’d want to know.’

  Since they had arrived there’d been conversation. Now suddenly the place seemed very quiet. It was an unusual room for an older woman, uncluttered, decorated in strong warm colours. No television but an expensive CD player and on a desk a personal computer. Glass doors led to a small garden bordered by a honey-coloured stone wall. One of the g
lass doors was slightly open and they heard the hum of traffic, children shouting.

  ‘Playtime,’ Miss Davison said. ‘Here, at least, we’ve saved the village school.’ Then, ‘I didn’t know Bella was dead. But how would I? We lost touch years ago.’

  ‘I put a notice in the Gazette about the funeral.’

  ‘I don’t suppose many came,’ Miss Davison said. ‘I’d have been there if I’d known. But I don’t read the Gazette. It’s drivel, isn’t it? And I find myself looking out for news of the children I’ve taught which somehow seems pathetic. As if I’ve never moved on.’ She looked at Rachael. ‘Was Bella ill for long? I wish I’d visited. I should have made more effort to find out what happened to her.’

  ‘Bella wasn’t ill,’ Edie said. ‘She committed suicide.’

  ‘No!’ They could see now how she must have been as a teacher. Firm, decisive, unwilling to put up with nonsense despite the gentle manner and the trilling voice. ‘I don’t believe it. Not now. It was all forgotten. Then I could have believed it. Understood. But now she’d have no reason.’

  ‘I can assure you that it was suicide,’ Edie insisted triumphantly. This was her trump card. ‘My daughter found the body.’

  Rachael squirmed. ‘That’s why we’re here,’ she said. ‘We need to know why. I was close to Bella but she never spoke about the past. I hoped you might be able to help me come to terms with it.’

  God, she thought. I sound just like my mother.

  Alicia remained suspicious. ‘You didn’t know anything about the court case?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It was in all the papers. You live in Kimmerston, don’t you?’

  ‘Like you,’ Edie announced, ‘we’ve never bothered much with the local press.’

  Alicia looked at them with continued suspicion. ‘Bella was convicted of manslaughter. She killed her father.’ Still watching Rachael’s face, she added more gently, ‘So you really didn’t know?’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  Bella, why didn’t you tell me? Rachael cried to herself. I feel such a fool.