The Mill on the Shore

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Of course not. There was nothing he liked better than admiring his beloved from afar. And a challenge.’

  ‘She’s afraid she might have driven him to suicide,’ Molly said. ‘She didn’t say anything at the inquest because of Meg.’

  ‘No,’ he said, quite certain. ‘That’s impossible.’ He drained the strong, brown tea and leaned back in his chair. The café proprietor got up expectantly, hovered, waited for them to leave, then returned disappointed to her paper. ‘Did you get anything else?’

  ‘Grace thought there was something in his past which was troubling him, something that she could have told me more about if she’d wanted to. He defined himself by his work, she said. She thought work mattered more to him even than the death of his daughter. I wondered if he intended to put the record straight in his autobiography.’

  George remembered his last meeting with Jimmy. Perhaps the difference and the lack of confidence had more to do with some error of judgement, some opportunity missed in the conservation field, than Hannah’s death. It made sense.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ It’s certainly a possibility.’

  ‘And if we find out if anyone else was involved in his mistake we have a motive for murder?’

  George nodded slowly.

  ‘But there’s no one at the Mill who could have had anything to do with his environmental work. That was based in London.’

  ‘There’s Aidan Moore,’ George said. ‘He worked on Green Scenes for a while.’ He got to his feet, clattering his chair on the tiled floor, bringing the woman rushing out to shut and lock the door behind them. ‘I wondered, you know, what kept him at the Mill after all his students had left.’

  ‘You’ll talk to him about it?’ Molly asked.

  He nodded again. He was already starting to lose enthusiasm for this case. It was too messy and perhaps, as Phil Cairns had said, Jimmy Morrissey would be better left in peace, remembered by his family and friends as a hero.

  In the High Street a Mardon Wools lorry was negotiating its way past a double-parked car and blocking the traffic. By the time they returned to the Mill it was almost dinner-time.

  Chapter Ten

  Dinner that night was a quiet and gloomy affair. Apparently there had been a family row in the afternoon because Timothy had run away to the shore without permission and the cloud of Meg’s disapproval hung over the place. Even Rosie and Jane communicated in whispers and arch silent gestures.

  Ruth, who had been filling in university application forms, looked forward for the first time with enthusiasm to leaving the Mill. She had always shared her mother’s love of the place and had believed it would be a dreadful wrench to leave, but now the anonymity of a crowded student residence seemed appealing. Since James’ death she had felt obliged to take on some of the responsibility of keeping the family happy – in her grief Meg could not be expected to do it alone. Now the strain was beginning to tell and she looked forward to living in a place that made no demands on her – somewhere red brick and vulgar which she could leave at the end of the degree without sorrow.

  She looked across the table secretly at George and Molly. She was trying to pick up some clue about how the investigation was moving, fascinated despite herself, but she only discovered that they had spent the afternoon in Mardon. What would they find out about James there? He hardly ever went near the place, said it was a miserable dump, that it reminded him of one of those grey towns in the Eastern bloc he had visited when he was still some use to the world.

  Meg too had been watching the couple closely and when the meal was over she said: ‘George! I’d like to see you in the flat please.’ She turned to Rosie. ‘ Perhaps you’d bring us coffee.’

  The invitation was not extended to Molly. George would have protested but Molly shook her head. This was no time to make a fuss and he was welcome to a tête-à-tête with Meg. She could think of nothing more tedious.

  ‘You may watch television for an hour if you like,’ Meg said to the children and Molly was astounded that there was no rude retort, no sarcasm. Her own teenagers’ response would have been: ‘Well thanks a bundle, Mum. How will we ever survive the excitement?’ Didn’t Caitlin and Ruth crave discos, parties, boyfriends? Or did they get all those things on the sly? Perhaps the model behaviour was a front and they were growing cannabis on the schoolroom window-sill and slipping out after dark to all-night raves. The idea made her smile but there was something about Caitlin’s demeanour as she left the room which did not make it seem quite so ridiculous.

  With the departure of the children to the schoolroom and Meg’s summons of George to the flat Molly was left alone in the dining room with Aidan Moore. Rosie and Jane had cleared the pudding dishes, brought coffee, then disappeared with relief into the kitchen. Molly heard the buzz of laughter. Aidan made to go too but Molly engaged him ruthlessly in conversation. George had intended to talk to him. Surely she could do it just as well.

  ‘You must have known the Morrisseys for a long time,’ she said. She poured him another cup of coffee so he would be obliged to stay at least long enough to drink it.

  ‘I first met Jimmy when I was sixteen,’ he said. ‘But not Meg of course. He was still married to Cathy then. Officially.’

  ‘Of course.’ She drank coffee. ‘He must have been an exciting person to work for.’

  Aidan Moore was suddenly animated. ‘Oh he was. Wonderful. I only worked in the magazine in my spare time and it paid peanuts – hardly more than expenses really – but I learned so much from him that I’d have done it for nothing.’ He blushed.

  ‘But not an easy man,’ Molly said. ‘Surely he could be unpredictable … unreasonable?’

  ‘Certainly. But teenagers don’t like their heroes clean cut, do they? At the time it was all part of the charm.’

  ‘And later?’ she asked. ‘When you were more mature did you still find him charming?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘ He was always that.’

  ‘What exactly did you do at Green Scenes?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Everything from making tea to working on some of the really big stories. There was only one full-time reporter. I was useful because I was an unlikely journalist – spotty and adolescent.’

  ‘Why was that useful?’

  ‘Once the magazine got well known we’d get tip-offs from members of the public about environmental issues – toxic waste being transported in unlicensed trucks, an animal feed wholesaler who was flogging poisons to farmers to control pests, a dodgy building firm dumping asbestos on a patch of wasteland used as a playground by local kids. You know the sort of thing. Before the magazine committed the time and resources to a proper investigation I was sent out to look into it, chat to local people, make a few discreet enquiries with the authorities. Quite often the complaint was unjustified – the result of a personal vendetta or a misunderstanding. Sometimes it was worth following up. Then the big boys would move in.’

  Molly considered him with astonishment. It was hard to imagine this shy and indecisive man as the great boy detective. He seemed to guess what she was thinking and grinned.

  ‘I couldn’t do it now,’ he said. ‘ I wouldn’t have the bottle. But then we thought we could change the world. James’ inspiration, I suppose.’

  There was some irony in his voice and she thought: He became disillusioned with James. Not enough to stop him admiring the man but enough to make him stand back and be more critical. What caused that?

  ‘Did you have many successes?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure. We tracked down the owner of a fleet of small tankers which were regularly rinsing out their tanks at sea. It didn’t cause a major oiling incident, but a series of small ones, serious enough to wash up hundreds of oiled auks on to North Sea beaches.’ He paused. ‘We got an award for that,’ he said proudly. ‘Campaigning magazine of the year.’

  ‘But there must have been occasions when the issues weren’t quite so clear cut, when it was impossible to prove who was behind the pollution, or t
hat a company had been negligent,’ Molly said. ‘Wasn’t there a danger of libel action? You must have been the Private Eye of the conservation world.’

  ‘There was one case when we alleged corruption in a planning enquiry,’ Aidan said. ‘I’m not sure of all the details. I think it was for an open-cast mine and several councillors were suddenly able to buy big cars and fly off to the sun. The jury found in the council’s favour but must have been convinced that there was some truth in the story because they awarded only nominal damages. Green Scenes had to pay the costs though and the magazine almost went under. If there hadn’t been a large donation from a well-wisher to keep it afloat the whole thing would have collapsed. After that the board made James clear all the copy with a solicitor.’

  ‘Who was the well-wisher?’ Molly asked.

  ‘I never knew,’ Aidan said. ‘It happened not long before James sold up. Ironic, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you think there were other scandals which went unexposed because of a fear of litigation?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘Without really strong evidence that danger was always hanging over us.’

  ‘Was there anything specific?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He was the nervous, prematurely middle-aged man again. The enthusiastic teenager who had fought beside James Morrissey had disappeared.

  ‘Was there one case which you felt should be tackled in the magazine but which James or the board felt was too risky to be published?’

  He hesitated and for a moment she thought he would confide in her, that he would find the nerve to disagree openly with a decision taken by Jimmy Morrissey. But in the end he shook his head and mumbled, ‘I don’t know. I was never party to those sorts of decisions.’

  ‘Because,’ Molly continued, ‘Grace Sharland, the community nurse, thought that his lack of faith in himself was caused by some trauma in his professional life. If he’d allowed himself to be persuaded to play safe, not to tackle, for example, a really big pollution incident; if he’d been paid off or frightened off a story … That would matter to him, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aidan said. ‘At one time it would have mattered more than anything else.’

  ‘At one time?’

  ‘Look,’ Aidan said, persuading himself as much as her, ‘ perhaps he just grew up. Learnt to compromise.’

  ‘So there was a story which was that important?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ Aidan said. ‘I wasn’t there all the time. Painting kind of took over. I lost touch.’

  ‘But you heard that Jimmy wasn’t going in as hard as he had in the past?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Or perhaps you were sent off to do a preliminary investigation only to find out later that the case had been dropped?’

  She was convinced that she had struck home and waited for a reply. But he only shook his head. He could not betray his hero so lightly. Like everyone else who had admired Jimmy Morrissey he had a vested interest in maintaining the myth of Jimmy as honourable schoolboy, incorruptible fighter for the planet. It gave him something to believe in.

  ‘Well there must have been something,’ she said lightly. ‘Something he wasn’t particularly proud of. He was going to expose it in his autobiography. Confession, as they say, being good for the soul. You’re sure you have no idea what he had to confess?’

  He shook his head again, unhappily.

  ‘I wonder why the autobiography disappeared,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘Perhaps someone else had something to confess too.’

  Meg Morrissey sat, regally upright, in her chair by the fire.

  ‘I want to know, George,’ she said, ‘what you’ve achieved. Have you spoken to the Sharland girl?’

  Perhaps the argument with Timothy had annoyed her because she seemed less inclined to make the effort to be pleasant.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘ I really can’t discuss the case until it’s completed.’ He was not sure what they had achieved and until it was straight in his own mind he wanted to keep the information he had obtained to himself.

  ‘But, George,’ she said, ‘I’m paying you to do this for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but if the people I’m talking to can’t be assured of the confidentiality of the interviews they won’t tell me anything significant. Then the investigation won’t get anywhere. I might as well give up now.’

  ‘I see.’ He thought she must have been practising at mimicking the queen. The resemblance in tone and inflection was remarkable. ‘But you are getting somewhere?’ Again the emphasis was on the last word. ‘I don’t have to feel that I’m wasting my time and my money. You don’t, for instance, think that I’m completely mistaken and that James did take his own life?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘ I don’t think that.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘ that at least is something. And the autobiography? Are you any closer to finding that?’

  ‘I’m not sure that it’s available to be found,’ he said. ‘If it was stolen because the murderer was frightened of what James intended to reveal in it, I should think it’s probably already been destroyed.’

  ‘I suppose it has.’ Her voice gave away nothing of what she felt about that possibility.

  ‘Was James going to talk about his depression in the book?’ George asked.

  ‘I’m sure not!’ she said definitely, as if George had made an improper suggestion. ‘ It was to be positive. That was the idea behind it.’

  ‘I’d like to know more about how and why the illness started.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the background,’ he said, realizing the explanation sounded limp.

  She gave him the look of a mother indulging an exasperating child.

  ‘It started after Hannah died in the car accident,’ she said. ‘ Not immediately afterwards. At first he seemed to take the whole thing very well. He was upset of course and angry with himself but determined to get on with his life. I understand that’s quite a common reaction and it’s only some time after a crisis that depression sets in. He became listless. He couldn’t be bothered to go in to work. His sleep pattern was disturbed and he’d prowl around the house all night. That was when I sent for the doctor.’

  ‘And he diagnosed clinical depression?’

  ‘I don’t know what he diagnosed,’ Meg said crossly. ‘They never will tell you, will they, doctors, not straight out. But he prescribed anti-depressants. They didn’t seem to do much good. James went into the office for a couple of weeks but usually came home early. He said it was too “stressful” there. That’s when I saw that something would have to be done.’

  ‘Was there anything particular causing the stress?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was dismissive. ‘At around that time the magazine was under financial pressure because of a libel settlement against it but the accountants were handling that and it wasn’t the first time that had happened.’

  ‘So he didn’t confide in you?’

  ‘Of course he confided in me. He was very dependent at that time. It was rather touching. But there was nothing specific to confide. Then I remembered the Mill, how we’d said what potential it had. I made some enquiries and we decided to go ahead.’

  ‘It can’t have been quite that easy,’ George said. ‘You must have been very determined to see it all through.’

  ‘I could see what was best for him,’ she said finally. ‘I knew I would have to get him away from that office.’

  There was a silence. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. It was clear she considered the interview to be over. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘ I suppose I shall have to trust you and wait until you get a result.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. There was an almost irresistible urge to add ‘ma’am’. ‘I’m afraid you will.’

  He began to walk out of the room then turned back to her. ‘There is one thing …’ he said. ‘In James’ study I noticed a collection of bound copies of Green Scenes. You wouldn’t have any objection to my looking at the
m?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’ But the tone of her voice implied that she thought he would have better things to do with his time.

  Molly and George went through the copies of Green Scenes together. They sat in James’ study with the door closed. The only light came from an Anglepoise lamp on the desk. The place still smelled of cigarettes.

  Molly told George about her conversation with Aidan. ‘Perhaps you would have got more out of him,’ she said. ‘ I think he has something to tell. He seems rather confused, uncertain … But I thought it was worth a go. It seemed a good opportunity with the two of us left at the table. That he might give more away if he thought I was just a nosy old woman wanting to know what it was like to work for the great Jimmy Morrissey.’

  ‘Is that what he did think?’

  ‘At first,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he was more suspicious in the end.’

  George shrugged. ‘I can’t see that there’s any harm done,’ he said. ‘If you think he’ll be more forthcoming I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’

  He began to pull the copies of Green Scenes from the shelves. Each black binder contained a year’s copies of the magazine and they were arranged on the shelf in chronological order. George thought that they must have been a gift from the board when he resigned. Jimmy would never have had the patience to collect them and arrange to have them bound.

  ‘I think we must be looking for something that happened at around the time Hannah died,’ George said. ‘Meg said he seemed stressed and indecisive a couple of months after. She put it down to the accident, but there might have been something else … This is the volume for that year: 1991. Let’s start with these.’

  Molly would have rushed through them, looking for something dramatic and obvious to connect a story from the magazine with someone at the Mill, but George was meticulous. He started at the January issue and read everything on each page. The inside cover of each magazine was devoted to advertisements. There were holiday companies specializing in natural history tours, binocular and telescope retailers, wild bird feed suppliers. He worked steadily through February and March, becoming engrossed for five minutes in a paper on wheatear identification. Halfway through April he stopped at a page devoted to readers’ letters.