by Ann Cleeves
Anne had come up to the table and was leaning on it, her face very close to Rachael’s. Rachael turned away.
‘I believed him. I didn’t want to, but I did.’
The effort of keeping calm made Anne’s voice shake. ‘Look, you’re contemplating going out on a date with a murder suspect.’
‘It’s not like that. Not a date. It’s just to talk, to finish the conversation we started this morning.’
‘Have you told Edie? I expect she’ll have something to say about it. So will Vera, for that matter.’
‘What’s that about Vera?’ The voice resonant as a foghorn, made them turn. The Inspector must have been moving even more quietly than usual, or they were engrossed in their discussion, because she had appeared suddenly at the French windows like a character in a Whitehall farce. Her bulky form blocked out the last of the light. Rachael wondered how long she had been listening, then how many other conversations in this house had been overheard.
‘Well?’ Vera said jauntily. She looked tired but more cheerful. ‘Was somebody taking my name in vain?’ She opened the door wide, but remained outside, leaning on the frame. She was wearing one of her shapeless floral frocks, with a bottle-green fleece jacket over the top. The jacket was zipped tight and the dress was pulled over her knees. Anne turned to her, demanding support.
‘Neville Furness has invited Rachael out for dinner tomorrow night. She’s agreed to go. I thought you might have something to say about it.’
Vera shrugged. ‘None of my business, is it?’
‘But he’s probably mixed up in this murder.’
‘Tut, tut . . . You can’t go about saying things like that. It’s speculation. He’s been helping us with our inquiries, that’s all. No question of any charge. He can see who he likes.’ Vera nodded towards Rachael. ‘And so can she. She’s a consenting adult.’
‘You’re deliberately putting her into a position of danger.’
‘Don’t be daft. Whatever position she gets in, she’ll have put herself there. And she’ll not be in much danger when we all know who she’s with and where she’s going. Just because you don’t like the lad . . .’
Rachael listened to the argument conducted over her head. Again she felt she was part of a drama played out for the benefit of other people. Vera was clearly delighted by the development.
Rachael thought, It’s just what she wanted. Neville’s the crow and I’m the decoy. And Anne seems too passionate to be entirely objective. Perhaps Neville’s been one of her conquests. She didn’t want to linger on that thought and broke into their conversation. ‘I’ve already said I’ll go.’
‘Why not?’ Vera said jubilantly. ‘He can afford to buy you a good dinner.’
‘He’s cooking at home.’
‘Is he?’ Vera gave a huge wink. She disengaged herself from the door frame, came into the room and shut the door. ‘You and me had better have a bit of a chat.’
‘What about?’
‘Your after-dinner conversation. I talked to Mr Furness today but he didn’t give much away. Pleasant enough but very cagey. Find out if he knows anything about Edmund. He’s still probably in with the Fulwells, they might have told him something.’
‘Why should I do your dirty work?’
‘You won’t be,’ Vera spat back. ‘You’ll be doing your own. You’re the one that started playing detective.’
‘We’re leaving.’ Rachael felt like a defiant child. ‘Next weekend. At the latest. We’ll have finished our work by then.’
‘Will you? So will we, I hope.’ She left, almost noiselessly, the way she had come.
Rachael stood in the garden. Anne had gone to bed but Rachael seemed to have been infected by her febrile mood and didn’t think she would sleep.
The grass was damp. There was a lake of mist over the flat land by the burn but the sky was clear. She heard a noise behind her and turned, startled.
‘Christ, Edie, don’t sneak up on me like that.’
‘You shouldn’t be out here on your own.’
‘It’s a bit late to go all protective on me.’
‘Perhaps.’ Edie was wearing a cream wool kaftan, a garment she had used as a dressing gown for as long as Rachael could remember. With the mist in the background she looked like a character in a low-budget horror movie – a priestess perhaps at a ritual sacrifice. She stood at Rachael’s side.
‘I heard you give Vera an ultimatum.’
Christ, Rachael thought, is everyone in this house earwigging?
‘I thought she should know what was happening. Our work will be finished by the end of the week. There’ll be no point in our staying.’
‘I wonder if it’ll all be over by then. The investigation, I mean.’
‘She seems to think so.’
‘That’s what she’d like us to think.’
‘But you don’t?’ Rachael asked. ‘I couldn’t stand it if he were never caught.’
‘Why? Is revenge so important?’ Edie’s voice was detached. She could have been undertaking academic research.
‘No. Not revenge. But not to know . . . Don’t you feel the same?’
‘I never met Grace. That makes a difference.’ They stood for a moment in silence then Edie said, ‘In some ways I’ll be sorry to leave.’
‘Before we leave-’ Rachael came to an abrupt stop.
‘Yes?’
‘I need to find out about my father.’
‘Another ultimatum?’
‘If you like. No. A request, that’s all. Tell me about him.’
She expected the usual refusal, the party line. What do a few genes matter? Do you really need a father figure to give you an identity? Why get taken in by the patriarchal conspiracy?
‘Is it really important?’ Edie asked gently. Another question in her survey of moral attitudes.
‘Not knowing’s important. That’s what I meant about Grace. And it gets between you and me.’
‘I didn’t realize,’ Edie said. ‘I’ve been stupid. Obviously.’
‘You did what you thought was best.’
No. I did what I thought was easiest.’ She paused. ‘It’ll come as an anticlimax, you know. No great drama. Recently that’s what prevented me from telling you.’
‘All the same.’
‘I have been working up to it. It was finding out about Bella, I suppose. Wondering if you imagined your father as a murderer.’
‘Is he?’
‘Not so far as I know.’ She smiled, put her arm around Rachael’s shoulder. Rachael didn’t pull away as she usually would have done. It would have been churlish when Edie was prepared to make concessions.
‘If we’re going to talk, shouldn’t we go inside?’ Edie asked. ‘It’s getting cold.’
Perhaps it was the word ‘talk’ invested with all Edie’s special meaning? Perhaps it was the arm round the shoulder? But Rachael suddenly got cold feet. ‘You don’t have to tell me now. As I said, before we leave . . .’
Edie pulled away from her daughter, looked at her. ‘I was thinking it might be easier if I wrote it down,’ she said. ‘That way I’d have my facts straight and you’d have something to keep.’
‘Yes.’ Rachael was grateful. She couldn’t face an emotional scene tonight. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
They went into the cottage together. Edie closed the French windows behind them and pushed in the bolt. Halfway up the stairs she stopped.
‘Tomorrow you’ll have to tell me all about Neville Furness,’ she said. ‘I want to know what he’s like.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Neville Furness collected Rachael from the Riverside Terrace house in Kimmerston and Edie was there to see her off. This arrangement was agreed by Rachael but had been decided by Vera and Edie who were closeted together in the farmhouse for most of the morning.
Neville arrived exactly on time. Edie opened the door to him. Rachael had been flustered in her preparations, even more confused than she had been the day before. Did she want to attract this
man or repel him? In the end she chose thin cotton trousers and a loose silk shirt. She brushed out her hair and stole mascara and eyeliner from her mother’s room. Edie invited Neville in and they stood together in the hall making polite conversation until Rachael hurried down the stairs. There was something very old-fashioned in the scene below her. Edie was wearing one of her long, drop-waisted skirts and Neville, dressed in black jeans and a white collarless shirt, with his bushy beard, could have been a character from Thomas Hardy. He should have been clasping a hat under his arm. And he greeted Rachael with suitable formality, standing at a distance from her, holding out his hand. The words he directed to Edie:
‘I’ll make sure she gets home safely, Mrs Lambert. This must be a worrying time for you.’
‘Miss Lambert,’ she said automatically, but she smiled at him like a fond Victorian mamma, and stood at the top of the steps to wave them off. Rachael couldn’t tell whether or not the friendliness was an act. Edie hadn’t confided the subject of her conference with Vera and Rachael had refused to be a part of it. Alerted by Edie’s threat that she wanted to know all about Neville, Rachael had avoided serious discussion even when they had driven together into Kimmerston. The conversation about her father hadn’t been mentioned again.
She was surprised by Neville’s home, which was modest, a terraced house close to the almshouses where Nancy Deakin lived. The houses fronted onto gardens, then a paved narrow path which separated the row from another similar terrace. Children were playing there and women sat in doorways watching them and shouting to each other.
There were deserted doll’s prams and roller skates. At the back of the row was an alley with dustbins, where he parked. There was a gate in a high brick wall into a yard, then a door into the kitchen. The walls of the yard had been whitewashed. It contained tubs of flowers and a wrought iron table and chairs.
The house was very tidy and she sensed it was always like that. It hadn’t been prepared specially for her visit. It was furnished with the simplicity of a ship’s cabin with fitted wooden storage boxes and drawers.
‘A drink?’ he asked. He seemed nervous too.
‘White wine.’
In the living room a table had been set for two. There were candles and red linen napkins.
‘Perhaps you would have preferred to go to a restaurant,’ he said.
‘No, of course not.’
‘I thought it might be easier to talk here.’ She was reminded of Edie, stifled a desire to giggle, felt gauche and graceless.
He left the room for a moment and returned with a jeweller’s cardboard box packed with cotton wool.
‘I was looking for something of Bella’s. I thought you might like this.’ He pulled out a silver locket on a chain. The locket was unusual, shaped like an old threepenny piece, engraved with tiny flowers and leaves. ‘It’s not very valuable. Victorian probably. She said it belonged to her grandmother.’ He opened it to reveal the sepia photograph of a woman with the face of a donkey and dark, swept-back hair.
‘I suppose someone must have loved her,’ he said.
‘I remember Bella wearing it.’
‘You will take it?’ He fixed it for her and as he fastened the clasp she felt the down on his hand on the back of her neck.
‘What did Vera want of you?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Vera?’
‘Inspector Stanhope.’
‘Questions. She implied that the murder had something to do with the development of the quarry.’
‘Did it?’
‘Of course not.’ At first the idea seemed to amuse him, then realizing she thought the response inappropriate, he was more serious. Like her, he seemed awkward, scared of striking a wrong note. ‘If anything, it makes things more difficult for the company. We need public opinion on our side. Any rumour that associates us with the death of a young survey worker will alienate it.’
‘It’s still “our side” then?’
‘I’m still employed by the company.’
‘And so am I, indirectly. At least for a few more months. The fieldwork’s nearly finished. It’ll take me a while to finish the report but I don’t need to be at Black Law to do that.’
‘What’s it like working for Peter Kemp?’
‘Interesting,’ It was her standard response to the question.
‘And do you see your long-term future there?’
She smiled. ‘Are you offering me a job?’ It was an off the cuff remark but she wondered immediately if there was some truth in it. Perhaps Neville had been set up by Godfrey Waugh to buy her off with a meaningless post within Slateburn Quarries – environmental officer perhaps with thirty-five grand and a car. Though even if she accepted, what would it achieve? Anyway, the report would state that the quarry would cause little significant damage.
Neville shook his head. ‘If my plans go ahead I’ll be in no position to offer anyone work. I’ll be lucky if I can scratch together a living for myself.’
‘I’ve been thinking recently that I might like a change,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’ll try to move into the voluntary sector, one of the wildlife charities. The pay wouldn’t be so good . . .’
‘ . . . but at least you wouldn’t have to consort with grubby businessmen.’
‘Something like that.’
There was a break in the conversation. He lit the candles, invited her to sit at the table. She realized suddenly, with horror, that she hadn’t warned him she was vegetarian. Better to plough through a meal of dead animal than make a fuss at this stage. Or would she be sick? That would be worse.
‘I’m sorry.’
He was carrying a Le Creuset casserole with thick oven gloves.
‘This is really stupid. I should have said. I don’t eat meat.’
‘Nor do I much. Mushroom risotto. OK?’
Shit, she thought. I needn’t have opened my big mouth. He poured her another glass of wine.
‘So what’s it like to work for Godfrey Waugh?’ she asked, slightly desperate.
‘Interesting.’
She smiled politely. ‘No, I’d like to know. Power is always intriguing, isn’t it?’
There was a moment of silence. He paused with his fork halfway between his plate and his mouth. ‘Perhaps you’d better ask your colleague.’
‘Which colleague?’
‘Mrs Preece.’
She looked at him, astounded. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and continued to eat. She couldn’t make out whether the indiscretion had been a mistake, a slip of the tongue, or deliberate, some kind of warning. Later she wondered even if it was the real reason for the invitation to dinner. She didn’t know what to say. At last she asked, pathetically, ‘Have you lived here long?’
Perhaps he sensed some criticism about the house or the neighbourhood because he sounded defensive. ‘Since I left the estate. That all happened in a rush. I had to find somewhere quickly. It suits me well enough though and I’m not here much.’
‘Where did you live when you worked for the Fulwells?’
‘They gave me a house, one of those semis at the end of the Avenue. That was why I had to move so quickly when I resigned.’
‘Why did you leave?’
He paused, tried to find the right words. ‘It was never a very comfortable working environment. I don’t think I’ve the right temperament for the feudal life.’
‘What do you mean?’
But he shook his head.
‘Did you ever meet Edmund, Grace’s dad?’
‘Not when I was working on the estate. The family had dropped all contact with him at that point. I think they wanted to pretend he didn’t exist. But earlier, when I was growing up at Black Law, I saw him around. For us kids he was a bit of a bogeyman. Grown ups would say: “If you don’t behave you’ll end up like Edmund Fulwell.” Without really telling us what was wrong with him.’
‘So you’ve no idea where he is now then?’ She paused. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Vera Stanhope told me to ask.’ The wine must have already
gone to her head because the nervous giggle she had been stifling all evening came out. ‘Not much of a detective, am I?’
‘Does she think Edmund killed his daughter?’
‘I don’t know what she thinks.’
He piled plates and took them into the kitchen. They moved from the table. She sat on his IKEA sofa. He opened another bottle of wine. Both started talking together. She gestured for him to continue.
‘I’m sorry about this evening,’ he said. ‘I’m not very used to this sort of thing. Too busy. Out of practice.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ve enjoyed it.’ And realized she meant it.
He walked her home. He’d had too much to drink to drive. It wasn’t late. As he led her through the front door into the small garden two boys were chasing down the path between the houses, kicking a ball around in the last of the light. Through uncurtained windows she saw flickering televisions, kids sprawling on the floor with homework. Neville seemed too solitary for this sort of communal living.
‘When will you make up your mind about moving to Black Law?’
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘There are a few things to sort out.’
‘Does Godfrey Waugh know what you’re planning?’
‘No, I’ve only talked to you.’
At Riverside Terrace their pace slowed. She wondered if Edie was looking out for her from one of the upstairs windows. If so, it would be a novel experience for her. Edie, who had suggested a trip to the family planning clinic as soon as Rachael reached sixteen, would have welcomed boyfriends for breakfast, would have seen it as a healthy sign. Certainly, there would have been no need for stolen goodnight kisses on the doorstep.
‘Will you come in for a coffee?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
And then, unexpectedly, he did kiss her. She felt his beard on her lips. A real kiss, but so quick and light that it could have been a friendly gesture of farewell. She wanted to pull him closer to make it last, but he was already walking down the street away from her.
‘When will I see you?’ She shouted this without worrying that her mother might be watching.
He stopped, turned, smiled. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
