The Mill on the Shore

by Ann Cleeves

  The reception area was spacious with a shining block wood floor and a forest of potted plants. Beyond it was the factory shop where seconds and end-of-range garments were sold at a discount. A few well-dressed women browsed through the rails. A middle-aged woman in a camel coat and suede boots lifted out a sweater and held it against her. The inevitable swan was embroidered on the chest. She looked at the price, shook her head and replaced it.

  In glass cabinets in reception more of the company’s designs were on display reflecting the fashion of the past. There were twin sets from the forties, fifties’ short-waisted cardigans, little knitted suits. In the last cabinet was a display of chunky sweaters which had been popular several years before when green consumerism had first taken off. The colours were bright and the designs were of tigers and elephants and whales and stitched underneath were simplistic exhortations to save the planet. Cathy had mentioned that her first work had an environmental theme and he supposed these were her designs. He recalled that there had been a sponsorship deal with the International Wildlife Fund which had attracted a lot of publicity. It had made George uneasy. He had always thought that increased consumption and conservation were incompatible. Now, in the depths of a recession, people were more concerned about saving jobs than the rain forests and the jerseys had gone out of fashion. They were preserved as a relic of a more optimistic time, when the Green Party were considered electable and politicians thought they could save the world by banning hair spray.

  A receptionist sat behind an impressive curved desk made, he suspected, from imported South American hardwood. She was operating a switchboard and finished dealing with a call before turning to him.

  ‘Yes?’ she said with a bright, almost natural smile. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I wonder if it might be possible to see Mr Cairns. I’m a friend. I’m afraid I haven’t an appointment but if he’s busy I’m quite prepared to wait.’

  He gave his name.

  ‘Just a minute, Mr Palmer-Jones. I’ll see if he’s free.’ She pressed some buttons on the switchboard and added confidentially: ‘ I know he’s been in a meeting for most of the day because he asked me not to put any calls through to him, but I think his visitors have just left.’

  She spoke into the telephone, then gave George another of her professional smiles. ‘ Mr Cairns says if you’d like to take a seat he’ll be with you in a minute.’

  It was extraordinarily lucky, George thought, that Phil hadn’t taken any calls. Cathy wouldn’t have been able to tell him what to say.

  George had known Phil since he was a teenager. They had met at annual ringing and migration conferences then bumped into each other at bird observatories where they both went to increase their ringing experience: at Portland in the sixties when you still slept in the lighthouse tower and the warden’s wife cooked an evening meal for three shillings and sixpence, on Lundy where they had shared a squalid, rat-infested dormitory, and on Cape Clear off the southern point of Ireland where they drank Guinness together in Paddy’s Bar. They still met up at the Swanwick Conferences and it was hard to believe that he was now middle-aged. There was some grey in his beard. He had put on weight. But the enthusiasm which had had him up at dawn every morning on Lundy even though the best migrant was a willow warbler remained with him.

  A door beyond the reception desk burst open and Phil bounded across the floor towards George, beaming.

  ‘What are you doing here then?’ he said. ‘Meg said you’d be at the Mill but I didn’t think you’d waste time by coming into town. There’s not much to bring a keen birder to this place. I thought you’d be out on the shore making the most of the light. But eh man, it’s great to see you.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘See if you can rustle up some tea, Helen, and some of those chocolate biscuits that only come out at directors’ meetings.’ He clapped George on the shoulder. ‘Come on through, and you can tell me what this is all about.’

  His office was on the second floor and there was a large plate-glass window with a view of the river.

  ‘I have to sit with my back to that,’ Phil said, ‘or I’d not work at all. Not that there’s much to see of course. It’s not like the view from the cottage.’

  ‘There are always the swans,’ George said.

  ‘Oh, there are always the bloody mute swans. But I sometimes think they’re more bother than they’re worth. We have coach trips in the summer, guided tours round the works and hope they spend a fortune in the shop. You know the sort of thing. If there are no swans about they ask what we’ve done to them and if they’re here they feed them with leftover sandwiches.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I don’t mean all that of course. The swans have really captured the public’s imagination. They’re spectacular – the biggest gathering in the North of England – and Mardon Wools wouldn’t be the same without them. Sometimes I think they’re symbolic of our success, like the apes on the Rock of Gibraltar, and if anything were to happen to them the company would go down too. But they can be a nuisance all the same.’

  He took a seat behind the desk and motioned George to sit opposite. Helen brought in a tray with tea and a selection of biscuits. He thanked her and she blushed with pleasure. He would be popular with his staff.

  ‘What’s all this about then?’ Phil asked. ‘What are you doing at the Mill? You’re not just there for the winter birding.’

  ‘No,’ George said. ‘Didn’t Meg tell you why she wanted us to come?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen much of her since the memorial service. I don’t know what to say to her and I don’t like to intrude. She’s got her family with her and Cathy feels awkward about going there.’

  ‘But you had heard that she’s not happy with the inquest verdict of suicide?’

  ‘I’d heard,’ he said. ‘ You don’t keep many secrets in a place like that.’

  ‘What’s your feeling about it?’ George asked.

  ‘My feeling is that it should be over and forgotten. It does no good going through it all again. The inquest should be the end of it.’ He paused. ‘Cathy’s been a nervous wreck since it happened,’ he said. ‘I hate to see her like that. It brought back all that business with Hannah, the talk of inquests. I wish Meg would leave well alone.’

  ‘You don’t think it matters how Jimmy died?’ George asked mildly.

  ‘Not much. Accident, suicide, what does it matter? It’ll not bring him back.’

  ‘But murder? What if it were murder?’

  There was a brief silence. ‘So that’s what Meg’s saying, is it?’ His voice was compassionate but disapproving. ‘You can understand her cracking up under the strain. I always thought she’d taken on too much. She’s run the Mill almost single-handed, you know, since it opened and she teaches all those kids at home. She’s a wonderful woman.’

  ‘You don’t think there can be any truth in her allegations?’

  Phil gave a sharp laugh. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Who would want to kill old Jimmy? Everybody liked him.’

  ‘Meg’s hired us,’ George said. ‘Professionally. To find out if James was murdered.’

  There was an awkward silence while Phil Cairns poured tea.

  ‘I would have thought better of you than that, George,’ he said at last. ‘ You and Molly can’t be so hard up that you need to take advantage of a bereaved woman.’

  George was shocked. Was that really what he was doing? Not for the money of course. That had no relevance. But out of curiosity and a fear of boredom? There must be more to it than that.

  ‘I wouldn’t have come to the Mill,’ he said, stung into a reply, trying to convince himself, ‘if I could have believed that Jimmy committed suicide. You knew him, Phil. You can’t think he took that way out.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Phil demanded. ‘That he was really murdered? You spent too long working next to the police, George. You can’t believe anyone at the Mill capable of violence.’

  ‘It’s almost easier,’ George retorted, ‘than thinking Jimmy capable o
f suicide.’

  They stared at each other across the desk. George had not expected this reaction from Phil. He had thought of him as an ally, someone who would look at the facts with an open mind. This hostility surprised him.

  ‘Did you know that Jimmy was writing an autobiography?’ George asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Phil said carefully. ‘He’d been full of nothing else for months.’

  And yet, George thought, Cathy claimed to know nothing about it.

  ‘It seems that it’s disappeared.’

  ‘What do you mean, disappeared?’ Phil’s voice was impassive.

  ‘We think it’s probably been stolen.’

  ‘Look,’ Phil said, ‘are you sure Meg hasn’t hidden it away? She was never keen on it being published. She wanted Jimmy remembered as an established figure in the conservation world and he was hardly that. There were bound to be a few skeletons hidden somewhere.’ He grinned boyishly as if he were trying to re-establish good terms with George. ‘ More than a few. Some of the tales he had to tell about his life!’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible Meg took it,’ George said, ‘but I don’t know why she should. She’d inherit it naturally with the rest of Jimmy’s estate. She could do what she liked with it then. Was there anything specific she might have objected to?’

  ‘Any number of things I should imagine,’ Phil said. ‘Jimmy was no saint, was he? There were certainly other women. Meg used to give the impression to the press that they were a perfect family. It wouldn’t do her credibility much good if he gave a list of his lovers since they were married.’

  ‘No,’ George said. ‘Was there anyone recently? Since he moved to the Mill?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘When did the autobiography disappear, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Presumably on the night of his death. He was working on it earlier that day.’

  ‘He’d nearly finished it,’ Phil said. ‘He was hoping to get it done by the end of the weekend.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he told me. He came to see me on that Saturday and he told me then.’ He paused and added reluctantly: ‘He’d made an appointment to give it to his agent. He was going down to London on the following Wednesday. “He can arrange to have the bloody thing typed,” he said. “ Let him earn his ten per cent for once. I want it out of the Mill. I’ve seen enough of it.”’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t have made an appointment like that if he intended to kill himself!’

  ‘You wouldn’t know with Jimmy, would you? Logic never played much of a part in his make-up.’

  ‘Do the police know that Jimmy came to visit you that day?’

  ‘Yes. They sent a fat slob called Porter to talk to me. I knew him when he was a kid and I never liked him then.’

  ‘But you answered his questions?’

  ‘Of course I answered his questions. He asked about Jimmy’s state of mind and if I’d noticed anything unusual. I said no. Then he went away.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him that Jimmy had an appointment to see his agent about his book?’

  ‘No,’ Phil said. ‘Porter never asked.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened when Jimmy came to see you that day? Perhaps you’ll convince me that he killed himself, then I can go away and leave Meg alone.’

  ‘I don’t blame you really, George,’ Phil said uncomfortably. ‘I suppose you’re only doing your job.’

  ‘But you will tell me?’

  Phil nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Cathy was out. She’d gone into Mardon to do some shopping. She knew I’d not want to go. Especially in the winter I like to spend all the daylight on the shore. It was one of my wildfowl and wader count days.’

  ‘Were you out when Jimmy came to the cottage?’

  ‘I’d just come back for a spot of lunch. He’d probably waited until he saw me walk in from the saltmarsh. You can see the whole shore from the common room in the Mill. I made him a sandwich and we drank a couple of bottles of beer.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Nothing probably. An excuse to get away from the Mill. He couldn’t stand the visitors, you know. He could be quite rude.’ There was a brief silence. ‘ He talked about Timothy first. He was really proud of the lad. Said he was a chip off the old block. If he didn’t turn into a scientist he’d eat his hat. “He’s got quite a sophisticated lab set up in the schoolroom. I help him of course, but he knows what he’s doing.” Then he told me the autobiography was nearly finished. I asked him what he’d find to do with his time then. I was a bit worried. He’d been so wrapped up in it that I was anxious he might find it a bit of an anticlimax when he didn’t have it to work on any more. Do you know what I mean?’

  George nodded. ‘You thought the depression might return if he didn’t have the project to take his mind off things.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And was he depressed?’ It was an explanation perhaps for the suicide.

  ‘He said not. He just winked. “Don’t worry about me, Phil old boy,” he said. “If things work out as I hope I’ll have plenty to keep me busy.”’

  ‘And you thought that had something to do with the book?’

  ‘I didn’t think anything,’ Phil said with a trace of irritation. ‘If you must know I just wished he’d go, so I could get back to my count.’

  ‘But he seemed excited?’

  Phil shrugged non-committally.

  ‘Weren’t you surprised then when you heard he’d committed suicide late that night?’

  ‘I suppose so, but Jimmy was never predictable, you know. I could imagine him finishing his book, drinking most of a bottle of whisky, then thinking his life’s work was completed and there was nothing left to live for.’

  ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘ Perhaps that would be possible … Did he come back out on to the shore with you in the afternoon?’

  ‘No, he said he had an appointment at the Mill. He winked again. “Wish me luck, old boy,” he said. “ I’m hoping for a bit of comfort in my old age.”’

  ‘Did you know what he meant?’

  ‘Didn’t have a clue,’ Phil said frankly. ‘But I didn’t understand most of what he said. It was all jokes and riddles.’

  ‘He had an appointment with the community psychiatric nurse that afternoon. Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘I suppose it was just a joke then. She’s a pretty little thing. She was at the memorial service and I thought so then.’

  There was a silence. Somewhere in the factory a hooter sounded.

  ‘Jimmy made some jokes about the book too,’ George said. ‘He talked about exposing secrets, causing embarrassment. He might not have meant it just in a personal sense. He’d have access to all sorts of information through his work at Green Scenes. He didn’t mention anything like that to you?’

  ‘No,’ Phil said. ‘Why should he? It would have nothing to do with me.’ He must have realized that he had sounded abrupt because he added: ‘Besides, if he’d come across anything like that, wouldn’t he have made it public at the time?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he would.’ George spoke almost to himself. ‘Perhaps I should ask Aidan Moore.’

  ‘Aidan?’ Phil said sharply. ‘What would he know about it?’

  ‘Oh,’ George said, ‘he worked for Jimmy on the magazine before he made enough to support himself as an illustrator.’

  ‘Did he? I didn’t realize …’

  ‘You didn’t see Jimmy again that night,’ George asked, ‘the night he died?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Phil said.

  ‘Did you or Cathy go out that evening?’

  ‘I think Cathy went to see a friend in the village for half an hour.’ He stopped suddenly, seeming to realize the implication of George’s questions. ‘ What are you saying, George? That one of us went to the Mill and forced a handful of tranquillizers down his throat?’

  ‘No,’ George said uncomfortably. ‘ Of course not.’

  Phil Cairns sat for a moment, apparently lo
st in thought.

  ‘You really think that Jimmy was murdered,’ he said suddenly. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ George said. ‘Not yet.’

  But Phil shook his head as if he did not believe him.

  Molly was the only customer left in the café. She was sitting in a corner hunched over a mug of tea as if she belonged there and had been at the same table all day. The proprietor was making a big show of cleaning up, but when George asked for tea she could not quite find the courage to refuse him. She handed it over the counter ungraciously and retreated to a stool by the microwave to read the Sun.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What was your nurse like?’

  ‘Very exotic,’ Molly said. ‘And rather clever.’

  ‘Are we any further forward?’

  ‘Jimmy Morrissey thought he was in love with her,’ Molly said. ‘On the afternoon of his death he told her he wanted to leave the Mill and move in with her.’ She looked up. ‘You don’t seem very surprised.’

  George shrugged. It was hard to explain that Jimmy Morrissey had usually been in love. There had been nothing particularly tawdry about his affairs and quite often the object of his infatuation was hardly aware of his passion. He was a romantic and women were delightful creatures to be worshipped. He had experienced the strange sheltered upbringing of an English gentleman and even after two marriages he had still lived in hope that one day the magic would last.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘If anything it’s another indication that he was returning to normal.’

  ‘So you don’t think he would have killed himself because Grace turned him down?’