The Mill on the Shore

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘All the same,’ she said, dismissing him, ‘I think we’ll accept the inquest verdict after all. I think that would be best. Stay on until the end of the week, George, as our guests. I wouldn’t want to be inhospitable. But enjoy yourselves. Pretend that you’re on holiday. No more detective work!’ And she smiled at him chidingly as if he were one of her younger children. ‘You will promise, George? I insist.’

  ‘Of course,’ George said, ‘if that is what you want.’

  It was easy for him to make the promise. They had decided already that Molly would play the role of detective that day.

  Molly walked to the Dead Dog straight after breakfast and arrived there before opening time. There were still dirty glasses from the night before on the bar and ashes in the grate. There was a smell of stale beer. A woman, presumably Cedric’s mother, was making an energetic attempt to clear up. She tuttutted at the mess and began to polish the tables with a vigorous circular movement of her cloth. She was very small and neat and despite the domestic work she was rather smart. Her hair was permed and her face was made up. She wore a flowery overall on top of a matching brown skirt and jersey. It was still very cold outside but she had opened the door to let in the fresh air.

  Molly stood in the doorway watching her, waiting to catch her attention.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said at last. ‘I wonder if it might be possible to speak to Cedric.’

  The woman stopped her work and looked up. Cedric might be approaching middle age but her first instinct was still to protect him.

  ‘Why?’ she said suspiciously. ‘What’s he done?’ She was clearsighted enough to know that her son wasn’t quite normal. She would always be anxious about him.

  ‘Nothing,’ Molly said quickly. ‘Nothing at all.’ She walked away from the door and up to the bar. ‘ We were talking in here a couple of nights ago and he gave me some interesting information. I was hoping he might help me again.’

  ‘Oh.’ The landlady wasn’t quite sure what to make of this scruffy little woman with her round John Lennon specs and her parka tied at the waist with a frayed string. ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘My name is Molly Palmer-Jones. I’m staying at Markham Mill.’

  She understood then. ‘Your husband’s that detective.’

  Molly was tempted to reply that they were partners, that she too was a detective but she simply nodded.

  The woman’s curiosity was aroused. The pub had been talking about James Morrissey’s death and the arrival of the mysterious detective all week. She hoped, through Cedric, to have some news to contribute, and she regarded Molly more kindly.

  ‘I’ll get him,’ she said. ‘He was just having his breakfast. If you don’t mind waiting here.’

  Molly took a seat.

  Cedric bustled into the bar soon after. He had dressed hurriedly and he had the tousled look of a small boy. People seldom took him seriously and Molly’s request for help had excited him. His mother followed him but this was his moment of glory and he didn’t see why she should listen in.

  ‘We’ll go into the lounge, shall we?’ he said, giving his mother a brief, spiteful look. ‘It’ll be warmer in there.’

  He took Molly into the other room and with a gentlemanly flourish lit a calor gas heater. The smell of the fumes filled the place. He settled himself heavily on a leatherette bench. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You told me that Jimmy Morrissey met a man in the pub on the weekend that Hannah died,’ Molly said. ‘It was a long time ago but I wondered if you’d manage to recognize him again.’

  ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘ Why do you want to know?’

  She hesitated. She did not want to offend or disappoint him. ‘I’d rather not say at the moment,’ she said. ‘We have a duty of confidentiality. You do understand?’

  He nodded proudly. Of course he understood. They were private detectives like on the telly. It would all have to be hush-hush. You couldn’t expect anything else. He would have liked to be in on the secret but was glad just to have the attention.

  Molly spread a number of photographs over a table. Some were of the Morrissey family at different times in their lives. Caitlin had provided them from the family album the night before without asking why Molly needed them. Others had been obtained in a more underhand way. There was even one of George as a young man which for some foolish and sentimental reason Molly kept in her handbag. It was the nearest she could come, she supposed, to an identity parade.

  Cedric considered the photos seriously. His stomach prevented him from leaning over the table to get a closer look so he stood up. He pored over the smiling family groups, the birthday parties, the days out with friends. She thought that he probably recognized the man immediately – throughout the episode he had an air of confidence – but he wanted to prolong the excitement. There was something of the showman about the way he moved the photographs over the table with his fleshy fat fingers, like a magician moving cards.

  ‘That’s him,’ he said when he could spin it out no longer.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘I told you I’ve got a photographic memory.’ He paused. ‘ I can see now why I thought I’d seen him again recently. Uncanny, isn’t it?’

  ‘You won’t say anything?’ she said quietly. ‘Not yet. Just for twenty-four hours. It won’t matter after that.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ he said, nodding violently and touching the side of his nose with his fingers. ‘You can rely on old Cedric.’

  She thought, as she walked back to the Mill through the frozen countryside, that she probably could.

  In the schoolroom Meg was supervising the children’s lessons. Tim and Emily were moving on from Vikings to the Tudors and Stuarts and Meg was showing them how a family tree worked. She set it out on the blackboard marking all the Tudor kings and queens in different coloured chalks.

  At first Ruth took no notice. She was writing an essay on Northanger Abbey and Meg’s voice was only a distraction. Then Meg asked Emily to come and draw their family tree on the board. The child held the chalk in her fist and carefully printed JAMES X MEG. Then a line and four rods leading to each of their names.

  ‘Very good!’ Meg said. ‘That’s quite right.’

  But it’s not right, Ruth thought. James wasn’t my father. Mother is so keen to make us appear one big happy family that she seems to forget that Caitlin and I have deserted him.

  They considered it a chore now to keep in touch with him. They had to be reminded of his birthday and when he phoned to talk to them they pulled faces at each other as if to say: What a drag. What have we got to say to him? He still taught at the same school as when Meg had walked out on him, with his two young daughters, to set up home with James Morrissey. He had never come to the Mill. Whenever he phoned to suggest it Meg put him off and the girls were grateful to be spared the awkwardness. Despite his profession he wasn’t very good with teenagers.

  But now, looking at the family tree from which he was excluded, Ruth considered they had treated him unfairly. She thought of Rosie who seemed so close to her mother despite the hardships of her childhood, who still mourned her father after all these years. If my father were to die, Ruth wondered, would I care at all?

  Molly spent the rest of the morning in James’ office, making phone calls, building up a pattern of what must have happened. When the bell went for lunch it was almost finished, though there was no proof. If that was needed it would have to come later.

  ‘Family values,’ she muttered to herself as she went in to the meal. ‘Bloody family values.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  George found lunch an awkward meal. There was an air of forced jollity. Meg seemed to feel there was need for a celebration. It had been a dreadful time for them all, she said, but they had to put it behind them. She looked around her fondly.

  ‘You children have been so brave,’ she said. ‘I want you all to know how much I’ve valued your support since James died. And I
’m sorry if George’s questions have made things more difficult. I can see now that there’s no purpose in taking it any further.’ She leaned forward across the table. ‘If you feel up to it I thought we’d open the Mill for business again next week. I’ve phoned Laura Sutherland about the Wildlife and Photography course and I’ll try to get in touch with all the prospective students this afternoon. What do you say?’

  The children nodded dutifully, surprised by her mood. Then she asked Rosie to bring wine, unheard of at lunchtime, and she even allowed Caitlin to take two glasses.

  ‘Molly and George will be leaving tomorrow,’ she announced. ‘We’re very grateful for their efforts but I can see now that it was a mistake to ask them to come. We’ve spent too long agonizing over the past. Perhaps we should drink a toast to the future.’

  George thought it was all in dreadful taste. Even if Meg had come to terms with her husband’s death she should be mourning Aidan Moore, a brilliant young man with so much to look forward to, who was supposed to be a family friend. Besides, George knew that it was not all over and that by the end of the day there would be a tragedy of a different sort.

  When lunch was finished Molly went back to the study. There was one phone call to wait for. George spent the afternoon in the common room looking out at the shore. Tim was beachcombing, walking along the high tide line, pulling out treasures then throwing them back into the sea. Time passed but George felt none of his usual restlessness or impatience. He was not tempted to seek Molly out, to find out why it was taking so long. He watched the boy walk up the shore until he was a speck against the sky, then turn and make his way slowly back towards the Mill.

  Molly came into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There was a case conference. They were late phoning back.’

  ‘Well?’ he said sadly. ‘ Is it how we thought?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Molly said. ‘I haven’t seen her since lunchtime.’

  They sat for a moment in silence. George still seemed overtaken by lethargy. He thought there was no hurry. Not now. They watched Tim walk back up the beach towards the Mill. He was dragging a piece of old fishing net behind him. He stopped and seemed to be greeting someone else not yet in their line of vision. He disappeared over the bank and his place was taken by a small figure, shapeless in her padded jacket, bareheaded, her long hair tied back in a plait.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ Molly asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it.’ He felt that he owed it to Jimmy to finish the thing properly. He raised himself slowly and stretched.

  ‘There’s still no proof,’ she said. ‘ But I don’t think you’ll need it. She’ll be glad to talk.’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ he said lightly. ‘A social worker?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ she said automatically. They smiled for a moment before the tension returned.

  When he got outside the light was beginning to fade and the Salter’s Spit light was already flashing. She was still there, sitting on one of the large, round boulders. It was almost as if she was waiting for him. She must have heard him coming, his boots crunching on the shingle but she did not turn around. He sat down beside her.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ she said, without looking at him.

  He nodded. ‘How did you guess that I’d found out?’

  ‘I noticed that the photograph was missing from my room this morning. I always thought your wife was brighter than Meg made out.’

  ‘Why did you do it, Rosie?’ he asked.

  ‘Because James Morrissey ruined my life,’ she said simply. She turned then to face him, and he saw that her control was very fragile.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk and you can tell me about it,’ he said. He wanted to talk to her before Reg Porter was let loose on her, and that had nothing to do with social workers.

  She hesitated and he thought she would refuse, might even attempt to run away. But she stood up and they walked, almost like father and daughter, following the high water mark as Tim had done earlier.

  ‘My father thought James Morrissey was wonderful,’ she said abruptly. ‘He’d seen him on the television, read his books.’ She paused. ‘Famous people should realize,’ she blurted out. ‘Take some responsibility.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about your dad?’

  ‘He was a bit before his time,’ she said. ‘A conservationist before it became fashionable. He used to take Green Scenes every month, read it like the Bible.’

  ‘You must have admired him very much.’

  ‘Very much.’ She kicked out suddenly at a stone, which clattered over the shingle.

  They walked on for several minutes without speaking, in step with each other.

  ‘He worked for Mardon Wools, didn’t he?’ George prompted at last.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’d worked there since he was a lad. He didn’t know anything else. All his mates were there.’

  ‘And he found out about the TCE leak?’

  ‘You know about that?’ She wasn’t surprised. ‘Yes. He knew what had happened. It was a matter of cutting corners, he said. That made him angry. He’d warned the boss that it might happen, and there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t happen again. And there was a cover-up.’ She stopped sharply and turned to face George, wanting him to understand. ‘He wasn’t telling tales,’ she said. ‘ There was nothing like that. But he wasn’t the sort to compromise with his principles. Perhaps it would have been better all round if he had been. He knew he’d get no joy from the management so he wrote to Mr Morrissey.’

  ‘He wrote an anonymous letter making allegations of pollution and corruption,’ George said. ‘Jimmy arranged for Aidan Moore to come up and meet him. Eventually he was so excited by the stuff Aidan turned up that he decided to come himself.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Your father met Jimmy in the Dead Dog,’ George said gently. ‘Cedric remembers seeing them together. And you look so like him that when you first went in there he thought your face was familiar. When Molly took your father’s photograph to him this morning he picked it out at once.’

  ‘Did he?’ she said, pleased. ‘Did he really think I looked like Dad?’ Then, in mild surprise: ‘ I never realized they met in the Dead Dog.’

  They walked on again in silence.

  ‘My father trusted him!’ she cried suddenly. He saw she had been brooding, reliving the imagined crimes and insults. ‘Dad thought he would do what was right. And he promised to be discreet. He said Mardon Wools would never find out where he had got his information. The very next month my father got the sack. That was the first the rest of us knew about what he’d been up to.’

  ‘I’m sure Jimmy did try to be discreet,’ George said, though discretion had never been one of Jimmy’s qualities. ‘But he had to discuss the pollution incident with the management to check his facts. It wouldn’t have been difficult then for them to find out who had access to the information he’d received.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said angrily, ‘Mr Morrissey discussed it with the management. He discussed it with his old friend Phil Cairns. My father must have been daft to expect any justice from them. They shared a wife after all. So they got together and decided to hush the whole thing up. My dad would be in the way so he was made redundant. It was all very convenient!’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t like that,’ George said. He felt in a strange position defending Jimmy Morrissey to his murderer. Shouldn’t Rosie herself be on the defensive? ‘Jimmy did intend to publish the story although it would damage his relationship with Phil and Cathy Cairns. Even Meg tried to persuade him to leave the thing alone but he insisted on following it through. It was only after the car accident that he felt he had to drop it.’

  ‘Why would the car accident make any difference?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘ James hurt his leg, didn’t he? Shook himself up. That was all. It wouldn’t stop him working.’

  ‘Didn�
�t you know?’ He saw then that there was no reason why she should be aware of Hannah’s death. She’d known nothing of the Morrissey family at the time of the accident, and though it had been reported in the newspapers it would hold no interest for her. Her father had passed on only his bitterness. Later, working at the Mill, she’d been considered a domestic. There would be no intimate conversations with Meg about the family’s past.

  ‘James had a daughter called Hannah,’ George said. ‘ She was about the same age as Ruth. When he and Cathy separated she lived with her mother, though she spent some of her holidays with the Morrisseys. That weekend, the weekend your father met Jimmy in the Dead Dog, he was going to take Hannah back to London with him. He was impatient to get back to start his story and he’d had an argument with the Cairns. He was driving recklessly, much too fast, and Hannah died. You can understand why he didn’t want to cause Phil and Cathy any more grief. He felt responsible.’

  She began to bite her fingernails furiously and he saw that she did not want to understand. She did not want to lose her justification for killing Jimmy Morrissey. She preferred to see him as a heartless fiend.

  ‘I don’t care!’ she cried. ‘It wasn’t my dad’s fault that the girl died. Why should he have to suffer?’

  George said nothing and they walked on. When he thought she was calmer he said: ‘What happened when your dad was made redundant?’

  ‘We moved to the bloody Midlands,’ she said. ‘We all hated it.’

  ‘And soon after that your father died?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she said earnestly. ‘Jimmy Morrissey killed him. It was just as if he’d shot or strangled him. It was Jimmy Morrissey’s fault.’

  ‘Then your mother had a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘She’d been dependent on Dad all their married life,’ Rosie said. ‘She’d never been strong. She became severely depressed.’ She gave a strange little laugh. ‘Just like Jimmy Morrissey, you might say. Ironic, isn’t it, that they had so much in common? But she wasn’t really like Mr Morrissey. He was pissed off because Meg had made him give up his television appearances and move up to the Mill. I suppose he had a crisis of confidence. But he wasn’t really ill. Not like my mother. Not screaming, barking mad.’