Hidden Depths

by Ann Cleeves

  Marriage was Peter’s idea. Her parents put no pressure on them. Indeed, they seemed unsure about the wisdom of such haste. ‘You have been together for such a short time.’ They would probably have supported her through an abortion if that had been her choice. Peter asked to speak to her parents alone. There was another trip to the vicarage and the three of them talked in the kitchen while she dozed once more over a book in the living room. She felt altogether that the matter was out of her hands. She lacked the energy to make a decision.

  On the way back to Newcastle, she asked Peter what had been said. ‘I told them I wanted to marry you the moment I set eyes on you.’ She thought it was the most romantic thing she had ever heard and the wedding went ahead.

  Felicity was so caught up in her memories that the sound of a door closing downstairs made her start with surprise. The bath water was tepid. She climbed out and wrapped a towel around her, went out onto the landing and shouted downstairs.

  ‘Peter! I’m up here.’

  There was no reply. She looked over the banister but there was no sign of him. She walked down the stairs, still wound in her towel, leaving a trail of damp footprints. The house was empty. She told herself she must have imagined the noise of the closing door, but a sense that the house had been invaded remained with her for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Nine

  Acklington Prison was up the coast and almost on Vera’s way home. It hadn’t been easy to arrange to visit Davy Sharp this late in the afternoon. Mornings were the time for official visits – solicitors, probation, police – and prison routine was rigid. It had taken called-in favours and tantrums on the phone before they’d agreed. She parked and walked to the gate. There was a heat haze over the flat fields towards the sea. Everywhere was quiet. Still the sun was shining and she felt the sweat greasy on her forehead and her nose just in the time it took to get to the building. The gate officer greeted her by name, though she didn’t recognize him. He was friendly and chatted about the weather as she handed over her mobile phone and signed herself in.

  ‘If it doesn’t break soon, there’ll be trouble,’ he said. ‘The heat gets to them. It’s a nightmare in the workshops. Someone will kick off soon and we’ll be lucky if there’s not a riot.’

  She waited in an interview room while they fetched Davy Sharp. All the heat of the day seemed trapped in the small square space and the sun still streamed through a high window. In winter, she knew, the prison was freezing, the wind blowing straight from Scandinavia. She struggled to focus. She’d talked to Davy Sharp before. He could be sullen and uncommunicative, or charming. She thought of him as an actor or a chameleon. He could play whatever part he needed. It was always hard to know how to respond to him. Important to recognize that he was cleverer than he made out. And all the time her thoughts came back to beer, straight from the fridge, the condensation running down the outside of the glass. She’d had the picture in her head since leaving Geoff Armstrong’s.

  There was the sound of boots in the corridor outside, keys on a chain, and the door was opened. Davy wore a blue-and-white-striped shirt, blue jeans, trainers. He slid across the threshold without a sound. It had been the officer who’d made the noise. He stood, weighing the keys in his hand, then nodded in her direction, not really looking at her, not speaking. Vera could tell he was resentful about the disrupted routine, at being forced to unlock the prisoner, walk him here from the block, while all the other officers, his mates, were in the office, drinking tea, having a laugh. He moved outside, sat on an upright chair, stared into space. She shut the door, was aware of the smell of hot bodies, hoped it came from Davy and not from her. She took a packet of cigarettes from her bag, offered him one. He took it, lit it quickly, inhaled.

  ‘You’ll know why I’m here,’ she said. They all had TVs in their pads now, he’d have seen the news, even if word of Luke’s death hadn’t got back to him in other ways.

  ‘That lad who was a friend of our Thomas. Is that it?’

  She didn’t say anything, tried to banish the picture of the pint glass from her mind.

  He leaned forward. Already the cigarette was half smoked. He knocked the ash into the foil ashtray. He was a thin, nondescript man. If you met him in the street you’d walk past without a second glance. It was an advantage. He’d grown up in a family where thieving came as second nature. Infamous. In Shields mothers said to kids who misbehaved, ‘You carry on like that and you’ll end up like the Sharps.’ He specialized in credit-card fraud. It suited him that people couldn’t remember his face. Vera never had any idea what he was thinking. Yet he couldn’t be that good at what he did. He’d spent a third of his adult life in prison. Perhaps he was more comfortable inside.

  He looked up at her, eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t think we had anything to do with that?’

  ‘Luke blamed himself for your lad’s death. I wondered if maybe you blamed him too.’

  ‘It was an accident.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. She saw his hand was trembling, wondered if that was part of his act too. She slid the packet across the table towards him, waited until he’d shaken the next one out.

  ‘Did you ever meet Luke?’

  ‘Not while Thomas was alive.’ He gave a little smile. ‘I haven’t been home much recently. They let me out for my lad’s funeral. I met the Armstrong boy there. Thomas had spoken about him, though, when he came here on visits. It sounded like they were real mates. Two of a kind maybe. Not the sharpest tools in the box. That was the impression I got from wor lass. We were pleased he’d taken up with the Armstrong boy. We didn’t want Thomas following me into this game. He’d never be any good at it and he’d never survive a place like this.’

  ‘Did you speak to Luke at the funeral?’

  ‘Aye. Just a few words. They wouldn’t let me stay on for the beer and sandwiches.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he was sorry. That he’d tried his best to save Thomas. You could tell he meant it. He looked a real mess. He cried like a baby throughout the service, could hardly spit out the words when he was talking to me.’

  ‘Was his mam there?’

  ‘Big blonde lass? Aye. Thomas had talked about her too, said how good she was to him. I thanked her.’

  ‘You were inside then, when Thomas died?’

  ‘On remand.’

  ‘But you must have tried to find out what happened.’

  ‘I talked to a few people.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘For once your lot got it right. The lads had been drinking, horsing around. Thomas fell in. Like I said, an accident.’ He paused. ‘I wish there was someone to blame. But there isn’t.’

  ‘Did Thomas have any other friends?’

  ‘Not really. There were kids he played with when he was younger, an older lad in the street who looked out for him, but Luke Armstrong was his only real mate just before he died.’

  They sat for a moment in silence. Outside the officer must have shifted on the uncomfortable chair. They could hear the keys on his belt clinking.

  ‘Is that it?’ Sharp said at last.

  ‘Have you any idea who might have wanted Luke Armstrong dead?’

  He shook his head. ‘No one I know would strangle a boy.’ Vera knew that wasn’t true but let it pass.

  ‘He wasn’t working for you? I mean, you weren’t using the boys?’ She was thinking something menial; maybe he’d given them a few quid to run messages.

  ‘I told you, I’d never met Luke Armstrong until I saw him at my son’s funeral and I didn’t want Thomas caught up in my business. Besides, I wouldn’t trust either of them. Not even to fetch me a bag of chips. Too unreliable.’

  ‘Just seems a coincidence. Both of them dead. Couldn’t be someone’s trying to send you a message?’

  ‘Coincidences happen,’ he said grimly.

  She looked at him sharply, tried to tell if there was anything behind the words, but his face was impassive.

  ‘You could put the word out,’ she said. �
�Let people know you’ve got an interest.’

  At first it was as if she’d not spoken. He continued to stare ahead of him. Then he gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘And you’ll let me know if you hear anything?’

  He nodded again.

  She felt she was missing something, that there was one question still to ask. They sat for a moment looking at each other. She wondered if she should mention the flowers scattered on the bath water where Luke had been found – might that have some meaning for him? But they’d managed to keep that out of the news and she didn’t want it to become public knowledge. At last she pushed the packet of cigarettes across the table to him without a word. She waited until he’d slipped them into the pocket of his jeans, then opened the door and called to the officer.

  ‘OK. We’re finished here.’

  While she was waiting at the gate to be signed out, she tried to picture Sharp’s face, some expression she should have picked up, some message he might be trying to convey. But she couldn’t do it. In her memory the features were a blur. She wasn’t even sure if she’d select him out of an identity parade.

  She’d switched off her mobile before handing it over to the gate officer. Walking back to the car, she turned it on. No messages. No missed calls. They were no further forward than the night Luke had died. She’d parked the car in the shade and the sun was lower now. She switched off the air conditioning and opened the windows. Away from the coast the roads were quiet and as she climbed into the hills she felt her spirits lift. At home there was a fridge full of beer and tomorrow she’d come to the investigation fresh and rested.

  Her phone rang just as she’d parked outside the old station master’s house. She didn’t hear it at first, because the Edinburgh train was roaring north. Virgin not GNER. A flash of red. It rang again when the train had passed.

  Chapter Ten

  James loved chess. Clive, one of Peter’s friends, had taught him, and perhaps because he considered it an adult pastime he’d been passionate about it ever since. It made him feel grown-up. Peter didn’t often have the patience to play with him, but James always beat Felicity now. She waited outside the school, looking occasionally at her watch. She’d told him to make sure he came out on time, because she had the special meal to prepare, but still he was the last one to cross the playground. I should be pleased, she thought, that he’s so laid back.

  All the way home he talked about the game he’d been playing and she had to interrupt him to ask about the student who’d come to look at the cottage.

  ‘Did Miss Marsh say if she wanted to live there?’ she asked just as they turned into the lane which led to their house.

  ‘No,’ he said, so vaguely that she could tell he was still thinking of other things. ‘I didn’t see her today.’

  She thought that was probably the end of the matter. It was a shame. It might have been fun to have the young woman as a neighbour just for a few weeks, until the end of term. Then she had to pull right into the hedge, because a Land Rover was turning out of the lane, and she forgot all about it.

  Felicity had expected that Peter would arrive home early that night, but in fact he was later than usual. She had started to feel a niggle of concern; the road from town was a notorious accident black spot. But he arrived before that could develop into serious anxiety and relief made her affectionate. She took him into her arms and kissed his neck and his eyelids and followed him upstairs, sitting on the bed while he changed. Then they heard cars on the drive and she had to run down to greet their guests and the hall was suddenly full of male voices and laughter. She was pleased Peter had friends. There was nobody at the university he met socially. And she had always liked the boys, the courteous Samuel, the shy Clive, the lecherous Gary. She liked the taut bodies, fit from walking over the hills, and the way they admired her. She knew they thought Peter was lucky to have her. Clive especially adored her. She was flattered when he followed her around the room with his eyes. She liked to see him flush when she paid him attention. Yet when the four of them were together she couldn’t help feeling excluded. The men had nothing in common except an interest in natural history, but that passion was all-consuming and she couldn’t share it.

  They were very polite to her. Samuel had brought her the script of his latest short story. ‘I thought you’d be interested. You know I value your opinion.’ She kissed them all in turn, enjoying the momentary touch of her hand on a muscular shoulder, a strong back. When Samuel’s dry lips touched her cheek she had a shiver of excitement.

  ‘Go through to the garden,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you tea.’

  But Peter, who was in an excitable mood, said they didn’t want tea. They wanted beer, and they all followed her into the kitchen to fetch it, getting in her way when she wanted to prepare the meal. Peter was loving every minute of it. Felicity wasn’t sure about Samuel – it was hard sometimes to tell what he was thinking – but the rest of them were true believers as far as Peter was concerned. They thought he was the cleverest man they knew, that he’d been overlooked at work because of politics. His records were only rejected by the Rarities Committee because of petty jealousies. This was their chance to show him how much he was appreciated by them. How devoted they were. And he blossomed under their attention, became charming and generous. He poured drinks for them and held court.

  At that point she sent them on to the lighthouse ahead of her. She felt trapped by them, that she couldn’t breathe. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll just lay the table and I’ll catch you up.’ Usually she could cope with them en masse like this, enjoyed having them in the house, but today it was too much for her.

  Samuel offered to help, but she refused him too and stood at the kitchen door to wave them off, a straggling, laughing line, her son bouncing around them like an untrained puppy. She watched until they’d climbed the stile and were out of sight and she was sure she had got rid of them.

  She laid the table on the terrace, taking her time, polishing the glasses with a tea towel when she took them from the tray, though they were straight from the dishwasher and there was no need. The sun was still warm, but the light was softer now. She poured a large glass of white wine from the bottle left in the cooler, chose one of the chairs at the long table and looked out over the garden.

  At last she felt she should join them. She had promised. But she wouldn’t follow them over the stile and along the edge of the cornfield. After collecting James from school, she’d changed into a simple linen dress. It was sleeveless and full length. Slit down one side, it allowed her to walk but not to climb with dignity over fences. She would take the path through the meadow, along the bank of the stream. It would take a little longer, but she knew they wouldn’t return immediately from the lighthouse. James would want to poke around in the rock pools for crabs. The adults would humour him and then they would sit in the soft evening light and talk. By the time she reached them they would only just be ready to leave.

  She set off towards the meadow then returned and checked that she had locked the house. Beyond the cottage the field dipped towards the burn. In winter, the land here was marshy and occasionally it flooded. A public footpath ran along the opposite bank and there was a simple plank bridge to join it. As she passed the cottage she checked the door. She still couldn’t quite convince herself that she’d imagined the intruder in the house. It was locked. It occurred to her that this might have been another argument in her campaign to persuade Peter to let Lily live there; it would be a deterrent to thieves to have the place occupied. Close to the burn the grass was shorter in irregular patches. It looked as if someone had taken a scythe to it, but she couldn’t imagine why anyone would. She stood for a moment in the middle of the bridge, looking down at the water. She’d heard that otters were back in the area and, though she had no idea what signs she should watch out for, she always stopped here, hoping to catch a glimpse.

  Here, the burn was freshwater still, and very placid. There were cows in the fi
eld, released from evening milking. They’d softened the bank and she left the footpath briefly to avoid the mud. There was a small wrought-iron gate with a drop latch, and beyond that the character of the landscape changed. The grass was cropped by rabbits. There were scratchy bushes of buckthorn and bramble. The bed of the burn was sandy and it was shallow and wide and smelled of salt. The lighthouse was straight ahead of her. Although she couldn’t see the others she fancied she heard them, a burst of laughter which could have been Gary, James shouting for attention. She looked at her watch. Already it was eight-thirty. Peter usually hated eating late, but he wouldn’t mind so much tonight. She knew he would be enjoying himself.

  She found them in the watch tower, which stood on the seaward side of the lighthouse. Once it had been a coastguard lookout. Now birdwatchers used it to watch for seabirds. They were sitting on the bench in a row, looking out over the bay. Although it was the wrong time of the year for seabirds, the watch tower pulled them in. Other men relaxed in the pub, but this was where they felt most at home. As she climbed the wooden steps she heard desultory conversation. She waited, silent, listening.

  ‘What is it with sea watching?’ Gary said. ‘I mean can anything be more chilled? It’s like Zen, or something.’

  Felicity smiled to herself. What would Gary know about Zen? He knew about sound systems and rock music and acoustics. But Zen?

  For a moment nobody answered. Clive leaned forward, his attention caught by something on the horizon. He had an old pair of binoculars which his mother had bought for him when he was about twelve, but his vision was legendary.

  Then Peter spoke. Pedantic, as if he was in front of a class of students. Weighing every word.

  ‘It’s about possibility, isn’t it? Possibility and chance. The random nature of the universe. We can sit here for four hours and see nothing but a few Manx shearwaters. Then the wind changes. A weather front shifts. And suddenly there are more birds than we can count.’