by Ann Cleeves
As she watched him walk very quickly down the street there was a movement in the shadow. It appeared to be a jogger in tracksuit and training shoes. He ran for a moment on the spot until Neville turned the corner then jogged down the street after him.
Chapter Forty-Seven
When she turned away from Neville in the street and approached the house Rachael could see Edie in the basement kitchen, silhouetted against the Chinese paper lampshade, talking on the telephone. But by the time she had opened the front door Edie had finished the conversation. She appeared at the top of the kitchen stairs, obviously excited.
This is it, Rachael thought. The inquisition. Other people’s parents might be curious about their daughter’s dates, but their questions were usually limited to financial status, the decor of the intended’s home, marital status. Edie’s questions were usually more detailed and more difficult. She wanted to know what Rachael’s friends were really like. She probed their relationship with their parents and had been known in the past, without ever meeting the man in question, to pass judgement on his stability, his ability to empathize and even on the possibility that he was a latent homosexual.
Today, however, there were no questions. Edie scarcely even acknowledged that Rachael had been to Neville’s home. Something else had caught her attention.
‘Are you ready to go?’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll need coats. It’s still warm, isn’t it?’
‘I thought you might make me a coffee.’
‘No, no.’ Edie was firm. ‘There’s no time for that. It’s late as it is to go visiting.’
‘Oh God, Edie. Where are you off to? Surely I don’t have to come.’ It must have been one of Edie’s women friends on the phone, probably drunk, certainly weepy, demanding support, someone to drink with and these conversations always went on until the early hours.
‘You don’t have to but I thought you might be interested.’
‘Why? Who is it?’ Rachael was absent-minded, still pondering Neville Furness. She told herself it was ridiculous to be imagining herself established in the kitchen at Black Law Farm after one fleeting kiss and an evening of stilted and awkward conversation. After Peter Kemp she should know better. Her judgement was crap.
‘Charles Noble,’ Edie said, triumphantly.
‘Who?’ For a moment the name meant nothing to her. She tried to dredge up memories of men Edie had taught with at college, gentlemen callers who had all been at one time potential fathers to Rachael.
‘Charles Noble. Bella’s brother. He’s just rung. He’s been trying to phone me apparently but of course there was nobody here to take the call and he said he didn’t like to leave a message on the answer machine.’ Rachael didn’t respond with sufficient interest and Edie shouted grumpily, ‘Well, are you coming?’
Charles Noble was waiting for them in the road. He’d already unlocked the high security gates which blocked the entrance to the stable yard. The stables were lit by security lights and the shadow of the wire mesh fence was thrown across him like a cage. He was dressed in a grey tracksuit and Rachael was reminded of the jogger who had been waiting in the street outside her mother’s house.
They drove through the stables and up to the house, then got out of the car and waited for Noble to padlock the security gates once more and join them. Rachael had the unnerving feeling that she was being locked inside a prison compound and experienced a moment of panic. She hoped Edie had had the sense to tell Vera Stanhope or Joe Ashworth what she’d planned to do. Otherwise no one would know they were there. From the horseboxes came the sound of horses breathing and the rustle of crushed straw, the sweet smell of muck and leather.
‘I don’t know why this couldn’t have waited until morning,’ Noble said, before he’d even got to them. Rachael could tell he was already regretting his phone call to Edie. ‘Louise and I usually go to bed very early. We’re busy people.’
‘So are we, Mr Noble.’ Edie was brisk, efficient. Good God, Rachael thought, she could be playing a detective in a TV cop show. She’d always had a weakness for watching them.
‘You’d better come in then.’ He, at least, seemed taken in by her air of authority and opened the front door to show them into a wide hall and on into a living room, which was tastefully furnished in a bland Marks & Spencer sort of way in terracotta and cream. The long curtains were drawn and the table lights were still switched on, but the room was empty.
‘Louise must have gone to bed,’ he said unhappily. ‘I know she’s got a hectic day tomorrow. She’s organizing a charity lunch. She’s very active with the Red Cross.’
‘We’ll have to speak to her,’ Edie said. ‘She did take the call from Bella after all.’ Then, maliciously, ‘We’ll only have to come back tomorrow and we wouldn’t want to interrupt her if she’s having guests. It might be embarrassing.’
‘You couldn’t do that.’
‘Oh, we could. Inspector Stanhope’s very interested in Bella’s suicide. You do remember Inspector Stanhope? She was one of the team investigating your father’s death.’
‘Wait here. I’ll go and find her.’
Louise Noble was wearing silk pyjamas and a dressing gown, but hadn’t yet taken off her make-up. She was an attractive woman with high cheekbones and long curly hair, copper-coloured and tied away from her face. Rachael had been expecting someone worn out and stuffy like Charles, but Louise was in her early forties and rather nervy. As she followed him into the room, she lit a cigarette.
‘I was on my way to bed,’ she said, not aggressively but in explanation for the dressing gown. Throughout the encounter Rachael had the impression of a little girl playing at mums and dads. The lunches, the dinners, all these seemed to be endured because they were what you did when you were grown up. It was difficult to imagine her with a child of her own, or as the power behind Charles’s expansion plans.
‘You’ll forgive the intrusion.’ Edie sat down without waiting to be asked. ‘We’ll try not to keep you.’
‘I really don’t see how I can help . . .’ Louise took a drag on her cigarette, set it carefully to rest in a glass ashtray. ‘I explained to Charlie . . .’
‘And I understand.’ Charles patted his wife’s hand.
‘It wasn’t that I tried to keep secrets from him. I mean his sister didn’t really say anything very important. It was just that we’re so settled and so happy, the three of us. And I thought, well, she’d done that terrible thing to his father, it was probably just as well to forget all about it. If she intruded into his life again he’d only get hurt.’
She patted at her eyes with a tissue. The mascara didn’t smudge. Charles took her hand. He was clearly besotted.
Louise turned towards him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know how I’d cope if you’d brought her here. What would I say to her? And then when you told me she’d killed herself, I didn’t know how to tell you she’d phoned . . .’ She looked up at Edie, wide-eyed, desperate for understanding. ‘I can’t see how it would have made any difference. Even if Charles had phoned her back. Even if he’d gone to see her. I mean she’d already decided to kill herself, hadn’t she? Charles said she wasn’t the kind of person to do anything on impulse. So it would have happened anyway. It wasn’t my fault.’
Charles, stroking her hand, murmured again that of course it wasn’t her fault.
‘When exactly did she phone?’ Edie was firm but not unkind. It was the tone she used with spoilt pupils having to come to terms with the reality of the exam system.
‘I’ve been trying to think, haven’t I, Charlie? You were at work. I was on my own here.’
‘Where was your daughter?’
‘Not here. Definitely not. Because if she’s in I always let her answer the phone. At that age their friends phone all the time and they talk for hours, don’t they, even if they only saw each other an hour ago. And then after I spoke to Bella I thought – thank God Lucy’s not in because she’d probably have taken the call and then we’d have had to explain. She doesn’t k
now, you see, about Bella and Charlie’s dad.’
‘Can you remember where Lucy was? That might help us to pin down a date.’
Louise sat for a moment, frowning, then her face cleared, a pantomime of enlightenment. ‘It was the school trip to Newcastle to see Macbeth in the Theatre Royal. I’d just come in. I’d taken down a car load and another parent was going to bring them all home. The school had arranged a coach but it had been double-booked and we’d all had to turn out at the last minute. I remember because I was so flustered.’
She beamed round at them, proud of the detail of her memory. It was almost, Rachael thought bitterly, as if she expected applause. Could she really be that childish?
‘Good.’ Edie nodded approvingly. ‘What date was that?’
‘Oh God knows. It was months ago.’
‘Would you have written it down? Lucy’s play, I mean?’
‘Fetch the wall planner from the kitchen, darling.’ Louise still appeared flushed with success. ‘It’ll be there!’
Charles returned with a large calendar. Each page was decorated with a photograph of a horse and there was a space for notes each day. He flipped the pages. ‘March the eleventh,’ he said. ‘Lucy wrote it in.’
‘There you are then,’ Louise cried. ‘If she’d wanted to talk to Charles she had a week to phone back. It was the nineteenth, wasn’t it, when she killed herself? But she never did.’
‘No,’ Charles said. ‘She never did.’
‘Now,’ Edie interrupted calmly. ‘Now, we need you to remember everything Bella said, the exact words.’
Louise frowned again. She seemed incapable of thinking without screwing up her face. ‘She said, “I want to speak to Charlie Noble.” Like that. Quite brusque. I was surprised because not many people call him Charlie. I thought it was someone wanting to book a ride. The stable office has a separate line but people still sometimes come through on this one. But she said it wasn’t about riding. It was personal.’
Louise paused. ‘Those were the words she used. “It’s personal”. So I told her Charlie wasn’t here and asked if I could take a message. And then Bella said, “Who are you?” It sounded not rude exactly but as if she wasn’t used to making polite conversation, as if she wasn’t bothered what people thought.’
‘And you told her,’ Edie prompted.
‘Yes, well, I couldn’t very well not. Not without being rude myself.’
The horror of being considered rude seemed suddenly to hit her again because she looked wildly round the room and said, ‘Hasn’t Charles offered you a drink or something. Really, darling . . .’
‘What did she say then?’ Edie broke in.
‘She asked me if I could pass on a message to Charles. “Tell him it’s Bella and ask him to get in touch.” Something like that.’
‘Did she say how Charles could get in touch with her? Did she give an address, a phone number?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Louise seemed uncertain. ‘If she had, I’d have written it down. You do, don’t you, automatically? Actually, it was a bit of a shock. Charles had told me about Bella but I’d never had any contact with her. I mean, speaking to a murderer. It’s bound to give you the creeps, isn’t it? So I might have missed something.’
‘What did she say then?’
‘She told me to tell Charles not to worry. “He’s quite safe.” I remember that because it seemed so bizarre. I knew he was safe, here with Lucy and me. I look after him. But she repeated it twice. As if I was some sort of idiot. Her attitude annoyed me actually. That’s probably why I didn’t tell Charles that she’d called. I mean, I don’t have to put up with that, do I?’
She looked round at them.
For a moment Charles seemed stunned. He sat with his mouth slightly open. Then he began to stroke Louise’s hand again.
‘No,’ he murmured. ‘No, of course you don’t, pet.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
It was like the end of term. They were starting to pack up. In Baikie’s there were cardboard boxes half filled with books and papers. Black plastic bin bags were filled with blankets which Rachael would take into Kimmerston to wash. At first Edie said she’d help tidy up and floated round ineffectually with a duster. Then she said significantly that there was something she had to write and disappeared upstairs. At least, Rachael thought, my father’s come in useful for something, even if only in providing an excuse.
Vera Stanhope seemed to resent the preparations for moving out. She had spent the night at home and turned up in the middle of the morning. She prowled around Baikie’s, muttering to herself and poking the bags and the boxes, then summoned Rachael into Black Law to ask her about Neville. She was even ready to pass over titbits of information in an attempt to persuade Rachael to talk.
‘I’ve been following up Edie’s idea that Edmund Fulwell and Bella might have been in hospital at the same time.’
‘And?’
‘They were, briefly. They overlapped in the early eighties, just before Bella was released. They were on the same ward. I’m trying to track down any members of staff who might remember them both. It’s probably just a coincidence. It was years ago.’
‘They might have kept in touch afterwards.’
‘I suppose it’s possible.’ Vera was out of sorts. She had made Rachael coffee, but grudgingly, as if paying her back for her reluctance to stay on at Baikie’s indefinitely. Now she made it clear that Rachael’s suggestions were hardly worth considering.
‘Well, we think Edmund put pressure on Grace to fight against the quarry proposal. That’s what the exaggerated otter counts were about. Perhaps he still had influence over Bella and used it to persuade her to refuse access over Black Law land.’ Rachael paused, considered. ‘Though of course she would have done that anyway.’
‘Would she?’ Vera demanded. ‘How do you know?’
‘Well, she’d have hardly wanted a road just outside her kitchen window.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t have any choice.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ve asked an accountant to look over her books,’ Vera said. ‘And talked to her accountant. Black Law’s in deep trouble.’
‘Like every other hill farm in the north of England.’
‘No. I mean deep trouble. She was within months of the bank taking over and making her and Dougie insolvent. She’d sold everything she could. The last Constance Baikie painting went last year. Her only hope of staying here was of doing some deal with the quarry company. And quickly. She couldn’t have afforded to wait for the planning process to go through. Didn’t Neville mention that when you had your cosy chat last night?’
‘He couldn’t have known.’
‘Of course he knew. He’s been in charge of things, hasn’t he, since Bella died? You’re not telling me that he hasn’t had a quick neb through the accounts. He’s a businessman.’
Like Peter Kemp, Rachael thought. That’s what he’d said the last time they’d met. That’s what I’m into now. Business. Not conservation. Was that why Peter had come to Black Law the afternoon Bella killed herself? To do Godfrey Waugh’s dirty work? Offering her the final deal to keep her and Dougie on the farm? But she couldn’t face giving into him and killed herself instead.
‘But she had access to money,’ Rachael said suddenly. ‘When Charles Noble sold his father’s house after the murder he put the profit into an account for Bella. She knew about it. After all these years it would be worth a fortune.’
‘Are you sure she knew about it?’
‘Certain. He wrote to tell her when she was first sent to the secure hospital. He was trying to persuade her to let him in to see her.’
‘Charlie told you that, did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘I didn’t have any reason not to.’
‘How sweet.’ Vera got up, rinsed her mug under the tap, clattered it violently on the draining board and returned to the table. She leant ov
er it towards Rachael.
‘How did the evening go with lover boy?’
‘It was very pleasant. Thank you.’
‘Did you ask about Edmund Fulwell?’
‘He hasn’t seen anything of him since he was a kid. The Fulwells never mention him.’
‘Bugger,’ Vera said thoughtfully. ‘What else did you talk about over the After Eights?’
‘His plans for the future.’ Rachael paused. ‘He’s talking about resigning from the quarry, coming here and taking over the farm. Why would he do that if he knows the place is in hock to the bank?’
‘Perhaps he’s done his own deal with Godfrey Waugh?’ Vera said. She laughed unpleasantly. ‘Or perhaps he’s developed his very own chat-up line?’ When Rachael still looked blank she added, ‘It’s obvious – he’s trying to impress you.’
After lunch, in an attempt to escape Vera and her mother, Rachael went with Anne to gather in the wooden quadrat frames from her survey areas. It turned out not to be much of an escape.
‘How did it go last night then?’
She should have realized that Anne wouldn’t let it go. ‘Fine. We went to see Charles Noble. Bella tried to contact him the week before she died. His stupid cow of a wife didn’t pass the message on.’
‘Not that. I know about that. How did it go with Neville?’
The sun was still shining. After spending a spring in the hills Rachael was fit. She moved easily, felt she could go on for miles at the same pace without discomfort. She loved the rhythm of movement and didn’t want to break it. They came to a thicket of gorse in full flower with its sweet scent of roasted coconut. After what Neville had implied the night before, Rachael had niggling questions about Anne’s relationship with Godfrey Waugh, but she wasn’t going to bring that up now. She might be thinking about Neville but she didn’t want Anne asking about him. She didn’t want words at all. All she wanted was to walk on against the breeze with the smell of gorse, damp peat and crushed heather, the sound of skylark, curlew and distant sheep.
‘Well?’ Anne asked.
