by Ann Cleeves
‘What did you tell Bella?’ she asked Louise
‘That there was no money. What else could I say? I couldn’t magic it for her out of thin air.’ Louise was defensive again, sulky. ‘She couldn’t really have needed it. I mean, whoever’s heard of a poor farmer?’
Bella was poor, Vera thought. So poor that she was desperate. She couldn’t face telling Dougie that they’d have to leave the farm. And the next day she killed herself.
She kept the smile fixed on her face. ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘We’ve all heard the stories about farmers. They moan about EC subsidies but they all drive new cars. Did you ever meet Bella?’
‘No!’ Louise was horrified by the suggestion.
‘Weren’t you curious? I thought you might have suggested meeting her. Not here or at the farm. Somewhere neutral. For coffee perhaps in Kimmerston.’
‘Heavens, no.’ Louise pulled a face. ‘I found the whole thing horrid. I never wanted to hear from her again.’
‘No danger of that now,’ Vera said.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Outside the police station a small group of reporters had gathered on the pavement. Vera saw them before they saw her, debated whether they could be of any use to her and decided against it. She strode through them, ignoring their calls for comments or a photograph. The momentum carried her on up the stairs, gathered Joe Ashworth from his room in her wake and landed her at last in her office. There she set her bag heavily on the desk. The flap was unfastened and the contents spilled out, papers, keys, photos, five biros and a half-eaten doughnut wrapped in clingfilm slid onto the floor. She threw the doughnut into the bin.
Leaving the rest of the debris on the floor she pressed a button on the phone and began to listen to her voicemail. Without waiting to be asked Joe Ashworth crouched in the corner and switched on the plastic kettle which stood with mugs and jars on a stained tray. He pretended not to hear the angry voice of Vera’s boss, demanding to know what the hell she thought she was buggering about at and to report to him as soon as she got in. The voice was slightly querulous. The superintendent knew that he was no match for Vera. He wasn’t very bright and she always had an answer.
The room was as high as it was wide, painted in pale green gloss, cell-shaped. There was one window with a frosted glass pane. It reminded Vera of a women’s public lavatory yet she would have resisted moving elsewhere. It had been hers since her promotion to inspector, a refuge at least from the complaints and demands of her father. There were no pictures or plants, nothing personal, nothing to give information to the nosy bastards who were curious about where or how she lived. Ashworth was the only one of her colleagues who’d seen her home and that was when he’d dropped her off there late at night after work. She’d have liked to invite him in for a drink but hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. They were already calling him teacher’s pet or worse.
‘I’ve just got in from Holme Park,’ he said.
‘Anything?’
‘I didn’t get to speak to Lord or Lady Muck.’
‘Don’t tell me – they’re too upset for visitors.’
‘Hardly. They’re in a meeting.’
‘Who with?’
‘Slateburn Quarries at the office here in Kimmerston. Apparently it was arranged a while ago.’
‘To discuss the preliminary findings of the Environmental Impact Assessment,’ Vera said almost to herself. ‘Probably. But I bet they’ll be taking the opportunity to talk about the effect Edmund Fulwell’s death will have on public opinion. I wonder if it’ll be enough to stop Waugh going ahead. Livvy will be upset if he starts getting cold feet.’
‘You don’t like the idea of this quarry, do you?’
‘What I like is neither here nor there. So, was it a wasted trip?’
‘Not entirely. I had a mooch round, had a chat with all the staff I could get hold of. None of them had any idea that Edmund was hiding out in the house at the end of the Avenue. Robert must have been careful. It must be hard to keep secrets in a place like that.’
‘Did you manage to speak to the keeper’s wife in the house next door?’
‘Yes. It’s a madhouse. Kids, music, animals. Everyone shouting at each other. You could have a rock band practising and they’d not hear.’
‘They didn’t see anyone hanging about yesterday?’
‘They were at the Hall all day helping to prepare for the party. Even the teenagers had been roped in.’
‘So we’re not much further forward?’
‘Olivia’s secretary gave me a list of the guests who were at the party. I didn’t recognize anyone connected with the quarry. It was mostly friends of the family and people from the village.’ He pulled a face. ‘The secretary said that Olivia wanted it to be a real community event.’
‘Very civic-minded. Though it doesn’t make much difference to the investigation. Once the jamboree had started there’d be no witnesses in the Avenue and while the guests were arriving no one would have taken any notice of strangers. Very convenient. I wonder if that’s why he was killed yesterday? In that case the murderer must have known about the party, even if he didn’t attend it.’ She looked down at Ashworth. ‘I suppose it was common knowledge.’
‘Oh aye. Apparently everyone in Langholme was fighting for an invite.’
The kettle had eventually boiled. He poured water over a tea bag in a grimy mug, poked it with a spoon until the liquid was thick and brown and stirred in whitener from the tin.
‘Aren’t you having one?’ Vera asked.
He shook his head. ‘I asked Mary Sawyer to visit Nancy Deakin. I thought . . .’
‘Good choice!’ Mary was unflappable, classy but not bossy. ‘Any joy?’
‘Nancy was heartbroken. Robert Fulwell hadn’t bothered telling her Edmund was dead.’
‘Did she get anything useful?’
‘Lots of childhood reminiscences. Apparently Nancy’s quite sane when she talks about the past. Less reliable about the present.’
Aren’t we all, Vera thought. Especially if it’s the past that’s spooked us.
According to Nancy, Edmund was never wanted. His mother had a hard time giving birth to Robert and didn’t want to go through it again. She’d had a boy. That was enough. When Edmund was born she hardly acknowledged him. Hardly surprising he grew up a bit weird.’
‘Does she know who Edmund was scared of?’
‘If she does she isn’t telling.’ He sat across the desk from Vera. ‘Go on then, what have you been up to?’
‘Me? I’ve spent the morning doing Rachael Lambert’s dirty work. I’ve been trying to find out why Bella Furness killed herself.’ She grinned. ‘It’s all right, lad, I’ve not lost my marbles. It is relevant. Every Wednesday Edmund Fulwell caught the bus from the coast and met Bella in Kimmerston. They must have kept in touch since they were in hospital together. Only friends, I think. But close friends, confidants. Occasionally they were joined by another woman. I’d give my back teeth to know who that was. Age and description could match Anne Preece and she lived in Langholme, could have known them both. But if it was her, why didn’t she tell us?’
She stopped, dreamy-eyed, lost in thought, considering wild possibilities.
‘Did you find out?’ Ashworth asked.
‘Mmm?’
‘Why Mrs Furness killed herself?’
‘I think so. Though even that doesn’t quite make sense. She and Dougie are broke. In danger of losing the farm. She tries to get in touch with her brother, to ask for the money he put by for her after the sale of the family home. Her money. Instead she gets through to the wife, who does a very sweet little girl lost act but who’s as ruthless as they come. She tells Bella the money’s been spent.’
‘That makes sense. She was depending on money from her brother to bail her out. When she had to face losing the farm she hanged herself. Rachael was wrong. There was no conspiracy.’
‘No. It won’t work. It wasn’t in character. Bella was tough. She’d survived years in the loo
ny bin. Not complaining. Seeing it out. Then she ran that business on her own after Dougie’s illness. She must have seen there were other options. Why didn’t she talk to Neville? According to Rachel they’d been getting on better. He was sympathetic.’
‘If he was telling the truth.’
Vera glared at him. ‘Of course. I realized the possibility that he’s been lying. I’m not daft, lad. But why didn’t she stick it out for a few more months? If the quarry was approved she’d be able to flog the access to the mine for a fortune. It might not have appealed to have Godfrey Waugh’s lorries going through the yard but it must have been better than moving into town or jumping off a bale with a rope round your neck.’
Joe Ashworth said nothing. Better to keep quiet. Vera didn’t want intelligent comment at this point only an admiring audience.
She went on, ‘So, there were other pressures. Something that closed down those options. Something that stopped her seeing straight.’
Still Ashworth kept his mouth shut. A mistake.
‘Well?’ she demanded crossly. A teacher prising an answer out of a reluctant child. ‘What do you think that might have been?’
‘Caring for Dougie?’
‘Nonsense. She’d been doing that for years. She thrived on it.’
She paused. ‘Let me give you a clue. I told you she’d been seeing Edmund Fulwell. They were friends. Close friends. They’d seen each other through some bad times.’
‘And he would have hated the idea of her selling off land to Slateburn Quarry or even coming to an access agreement with Godfrey Waugh.’
‘Exactly.’
‘That would explain why she was under so much stress. She was desperate to stay at Black Law but Fulwell saw it as some sort of test of loyalty.’
‘It’s possible, don’t you think?’
He didn’t give a direct answer. ‘Inspector, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘How does this relate to the murder of Grace Fulwell? Or even to that of her father?’
‘Piss off, Ashworth. Don’t be such a smart alec. If I knew that I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be out making an arrest.’
But the question had amused her. She chuckled into her tea.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The psychiatrist who had been consultant at St Nicholas’ Hospital when Bella Noble and Edmund Fulwell were patients had moved on to become professor of a southern university. Vera spoke to him on the telephone without much hope. He was unexpectedly human and laughed out loud at her questions.
‘Good heavens, you can’t expect me to remember individuals after all this time.’ Not unfriendly though and not in so much of a hurry that he wouldn’t let her go on.
‘They weren’t ordinary patients. Bella Noble came to you from a secure hospital on Merseyside to prepare for discharge. She’d killed her father. Edmund was one of the Fulwells from Holme Park.’
‘I remember him. At least I remember wondering why he was slumming it on the NHS instead of being treated in a private clinic. I have some recollection of the transfer of the woman but only because it was a bureaucratic nightmare. As I recall she didn’t stay long. She wasn’t ill and even in those days we needed the beds. Why do you want to know?’
‘They’re both dead.’
‘Ah’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t say I’m surprised. Community care only works if there’s adequate supervision. It’s tough on the street. People get depressed, angry. There’s always a danger of suicide or violence.’
‘Bella married a farmer and seems to have lived happily, caring for him after he had a stroke. Edmund had the same job since he left the hospital.’
‘Ah,’ he said again. This time sheepishly. ‘And I’m always telling my students not to resort to stereotypes. You’ve given me a text for my next lecture. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Any notes will be at St Nick’s.’
‘I’ve seen them. I was wondering if there was anyone else who would remember Bella and Edmund. Someone who would have had more day to day contact than you. A nurse perhaps or a junior doctor.’
‘Some of the nursing staff might still be there. Talk to the auxiliaries. In the Health Service the higher up the hierarchy you go the more time you spend in an office. The junior doctors came and went with such frequency that sometimes I couldn’t even remember their names.’ There was a silence while he considered. ‘Better still talk to Christina. Christina Flood. She’s a psychologist. St Nick’s was her first permanent appointment and she was like a breath of fresh air in the place. She was interested in group work, art therapy, drama. Not all of it was useful but it was about engaging with the patients rather than hiding away from them and letting them sit around until the drugs started to work. If anyone can remember those individuals it’ll be Christina.’
‘Do you know where she’s working now?’
Vera held her breath. The woman was idealistic, enthusiastic. It would be just her luck if she’d decided to become a missionary in Africa.
‘Still in Northumberland. Still on the coast. She’s moved on since then though. She’s in charge of the Community Service based at an outpatient clinic. When you talk to her pass on my best wishes. And my admiration for sticking in there. I escaped from the patients too in the end.’
Eventually Vera tracked down Christina Flood to her home. She was on maternity leave and had given birth the evening before to a daughter. She’d just returned from hospital. The partner to whom Vera spoke on the phone had just returned from hospital. He was so full of goodwill, so proud of the new infant and his part in creating it that he would have invited the whole CID into the house but Ashworth was horrified.
‘You can’t intrude today,’ he said. ‘They’ll want some time on their own. She’ll not feel up to it. She only came out of the labour ward this morning.’
‘That’ll surely not have taken away her ability to talk.’
‘Anyway, I can’t think why it’s so important.’
‘Because something went on in that hospital that brought those two together and kept them together for years. I need to know what it was.’ She looked up at him. ‘You like babies. Do you want to come along?’
‘No,’ he said, brave for once. ‘I think it’s harassment and I want no part of it.’ Then, as she hesitated at the door, he added, ‘You’re not frightened of going on your own, are you? It’s only a baby. It’ll not bite.’
Christina Flood lived in a narrow, three-storeyed house close to the seafront in Tynemouth. A skinny man in a scarlet, handknitted sweater opened the door to Vera. Against his shoulder he held a white, wrapped bundle. He leant forward slightly, tilting from the waist so that Vera could see the baby’s face.
‘Isn’t she lovely?’
He seemed to find it impossible to keep still, skipping from one leg to another like an excited child but the baby slept, puckering its face occasionally as if it were dreaming. ‘We haven’t decided on a name yet. Chrissie wants something solid and respectable.’ He seemed to take Vera’s interest for granted. ‘I think she’s going to be outrageous. She should have something to suit.’
The ground floor of the house was one large room set up as a workshop. On a grimy central heating boiler a ginger cat slept on a blanket. There was a serious anglepoise lamp on one of the benches but that wasn’t switched on and the only light came from a small dusty window, the corners in shadow. There were rows of shelves made of dull metal, racks of tools, a vice. Vera sensed a secret passion. In a room like this Hector would have met the brotherhood to inject eggs and blow them.
‘What goes on here?’ she asked. She was glad for a moment to escape baby talk.
‘I make flutes. And repair them and other woodwind instruments.’ From then on Vera saw him as a pied piper, dressed in scarlet, piping to his baby.
‘Chrissie’s upstairs. I’ve told her she should be in bed, but she’ll not listen to me.’ He danced on, up a flight of bare wooden stairs into a wide thin room with a view over water and d
own the Tyne as far as the docks at North Shields. Christina Flood sat on a green linen sofa with her legs up. She was wearing trousers and a loose white tunic. She had strong features, a square jaw, black eyebrows. Her hair was cut in a straight fringe. The room was filled with flowers and a hand-painted banner saying WELCOME HOME was strung above the window. Christina saw Vera looking at it.
‘I know. What is he like? I was gone for less than twenty-four hours.’ She turned to the man. ‘For Christ’s sake, Patrick, put her in the carrycot. Why don’t you make yourself useful and get some tea?’
With one lithe movement he knelt and put the baby on its back in the basket, which stood on the floor.
‘Spoilsport,’ he said and left the room.
‘Patrick said you wanted to talk to me about Edmund Fulwell but I’m not sure I can help. He wasn’t a client of mine. Not really. He’d been stable for some time. If he did need medication he’d probably get it from his GP.’
‘I’ve seen his recent records. I’m more interested in the time he spent in St Nick’s. Do you remember working with him there?’
‘Very well. It was an exciting time for me. My first chance to put my ideas and my training into practice.’
‘Do you remember a patient called Bella Noble?’
‘Yes. She was there at the same time. A member of the group. I’ve not even seen her since she was discharged.’
‘But you had seen Edmund?’
‘Not professionally, but Patrick and I go quite regularly to the Harbour Lights. At least we did.’ She smiled at the baby. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be able to do that sort of thing so often now.’
‘Did you know that his daughter had been murdered?’
‘Yes. I’d heard that a woman had been killed near Langholme but I hadn’t connected her with Edmund until Rod told us. We were in the restaurant the night after she was found. I went upstairs to see Edmund. Just to tell him how sorry I was. To offer my support.’
