Hidden Depths

by Ann Cleeves

  Vera wondered if Joe would describe her as a nutter. She didn’t have many friends either.

  ‘What’s his motive?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he came on to Lily and she rejected him?’

  ‘We’d need some proof that they met. And that doesn’t explain Luke.’

  ‘Envy, then? They were attractive and young. Perhaps that was enough for him.’

  ‘There’s no evidence,’ she said. ‘Nothing. And he doesn’t have transport.’

  ‘He has a driving licence. Nothing to stop him borrowing a car.’

  ‘Who from?’ Vera demanded. ‘You said yourself he has no friends.’

  ‘He could steal one, hire one.’

  ‘Aye,’ she conceded. ‘He could. Check the car-hire places. They’d remember him.’

  ‘We should talk to his mother too.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, only just keeping her temper. ‘But we’ll keep an open mind.’

  Joe shut up then and she had the sense that he was sulking. He thought she’d worked with him long enough to realize he’d not need telling that. Quite often he was the one who had to keep her on track.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What else have we got?’ Implying, give me something useful. Not speculation or prejudice. She kept her voice calm. This wasn’t a time for panic, though they should have a suspect by now. As they sat she was aware again of time passing, the possibility that these were random killings with no understandable motive, that they’d find another beautiful young person drowned and dressed in flowers.

  Charlie shifted in his chair, cleared his throat in a way that reminded Vera of winos in doorways about to spit. It made her want to gag.

  ‘I’ve found out where Lily’s rent came from.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A building society account in her own name. The North of England. There was a passbook in the stuff the search team found in her room. She got a cheque made out from that once a month.’

  ‘What went into it? Her wages from the dress shop?’

  ‘Nah, I told you. They were paid direct into her current account.’ He leaned back in his chair. Vera wanted to scream at him to get on with it. ‘She paid in five hundred pounds every six weeks or so.’ He paused again. ‘Cash.’

  ‘Where would she get that sort of money?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe she did a bit of high-class soliciting on the side. Some students do. So I understand.’

  Another occasion there might have been sniggers. How would you know about that, Charlie? But they must have realized Vera wouldn’t appreciate the humour.

  Vera thought of the clothes in Lily’s wardrobe, the expensive lingerie, the clothes that had the air of fancy dress. ‘I suppose it’s possible. Take a photo to some of the likely hotels in town. See if anyone recognizes her.’

  Holly raised her forearm from the table. A polite student with a point to make.

  ‘Yes?’ Vera hoped her impatience didn’t show.

  ‘Or she could have a rich lover…’

  ‘Any evidence of that?’

  ‘I spoke to her flatmates.’

  ‘They told me there was no one.’ Vera could tell she sounded defensive, couldn’t stop herself. ‘At least, if there was, they knew nothing about him.’

  ‘They were embarrassed to admit they listened in to one of Lily’s phone calls. There’s an extension in the kitchen. It only happened once. They were just desperate to know what was going on. I knew they would be; I mean, it’s only natural, isn’t it? I pushed them on it a bit. Lily was ringing out. They picked up the kitchen phone and listened in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No details,’ Holly said. ‘Nothing useful, like a name. Not even proof that she was having an affair with him. They think she must have suspected they were listening because she ended the call very quickly.’

  ‘What did they get?’

  ‘An older man. Educated, well spoken. An arrangement to meet for dinner.’

  ‘That could have been anything. A relative. Colleague. Boss from the shop.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a relative,’ Joe said. ‘If there’d been anyone like that in the family you’d have thought Phyllis would have mentioned him. Bragged, like.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they did anything useful,’ Vera said. ‘Like follow her and see what he looked like.’

  Holly grinned. ‘Nah. They were tempted to book a table in the same restaurant, but they’re well-brought-up lasses. Thought it wouldn’t be right to spy on her.’

  ‘I hate well-brought-up lasses,’ Vera said.

  ‘Luckily the women she worked with in the dress shop weren’t so picky.’

  Vera smiled slowly. She thought perhaps she could take to Holly after all. ‘What did you get from them?’

  ‘Nothing exciting,’ Holly admitted. ‘I mean, nothing really useful. But confirmation that the meetings with the older man weren’t about a family connection or to do with work. She did talk a bit more freely with the girls in the shop. I think she felt more easy with them. She liked the idea of sharing the posh Jesmond flat with the classy southerners, but they didn’t have much in common.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Holly pulled out a small notebook, covered with her open schoolgirl writing. A swat wanting to impress.

  ‘About six months ago she came into work wearing a new ring. Opal and silver. Antique. She said it was a present. He’d bought it when they were out for the day in York. It was the first time they’d spent the night together-’

  Vera interrupted. ‘Did they get the name of the hotel?’

  ‘No. But one of them could remember what Lily had said about it. “That’s the great thing about going out with someone a bit older. They know how to do things properly.” They asked her how old he was, but she wouldn’t say. “You wouldn’t understand.” One of them asked if he was old enough to be her father. She hadn’t answered but she’d laughed so they guessed he probably was.’

  ‘They never saw him?’

  ‘No. Like I said, nothing really useful.’

  ‘Oh believe me, pet. There’s plenty useful here. Dig out the ring. Charlie, is it in the stuff the search team brought in?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Check again. I don’t remember seeing anything like that in the flat, but it must have been there. Then someone can have a fun day out in York, visiting the antique shops and the jewellers. Unless her mysterious lover paid for it by cash, we’ve a reasonable chance of tracking him down. And let’s have someone on the phone to all the decent hotels.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Joe said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Vera turned on him.

  ‘We heard from Peter Calvert’s students that he was having it off with a younger woman.’

  ‘We heard there was a rumour going round,’ she said. ‘Nothing definite and no proof. And even if the rumour was true there are a fair few bonny young students in Newcastle for him to choose from. Doesn’t mean it was Lily Marsh.’

  Besides, she thought, Peter Calvert isn’t the only older man floating around the edge of this case. There’s Samuel Parr. Lily had a Northumberland Libraries ticket, could have bumped into him too. And if I had to choose between Peter Calvert and Samuel Parr, I know which one I’d go for every time. And the elaborate crime scenes were much more Parr’s style. But she didn’t say anything to the team. She kept her suspicion to herself. A private pleasure. A possibility to surprise them at the end of the case. If she turned out to be right.

  She realized they were looking at her, waiting for her to continue. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Anything else?’

  Joe leaned across the table towards her. ‘I’ve tracked down Ben Craven.’

  She knew the name should mean something to her, but it didn’t. He watched her. She could tell he was pleased with himself. You’re getting a bit smug for my liking.

  ‘The lad she was passionately in love with when she was in the sixth form. The one she got so obsessed about
she messed up her A levels.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said as if she’d known all along. Fooling no one. ‘What’s he up to now?’

  ‘He went away to university. Liverpool. Did a social work course. Moved back to the north east last summer. Guess what he’s doing now?’ He looked at them, savouring the moment, before answering his own question. ‘He’s a psychiatric social worker at St George’s. The hospital where Luke Armstrong was treated.’

  ‘Did he work with Luke?’ Vera wasn’t in the mood for games.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.’

  ‘Don’t. Not until I’ve had a chat to Julie. We don’t want to frighten him away.’

  Why hadn’t Joe told her this as soon as he’d found out? She felt like demanding an explanation. But this wasn’t the place. Not in front of the others. He’s getting complacent, she thought. Cocky. He thinks he can take me for granted.

  Perhaps he sensed her anger, because he became apologetic. ‘I spoke to his mum only just now. Just before the meeting.’

  I take him for granted too, she thought. Think of him as family, expect more of him than I should.

  ‘Samuel Parr’s wife committed suicide,’ she said. ‘I want the background, how she died. Charlie, can you look into that?’

  He nodded and scribbled a note on a scrap of paper.

  ‘Anything from the lighthouse? Anyone remember seeing a murderer with the body of a young woman under their arm?’ She knew it wasn’t funny, but it was getting to her. The nerve of the killer. The cheek of him.

  ‘Nothing useful yet. Someone said Northumbria Water were working there for an hour. I’ll check if their guys saw anything.’

  ‘Well,’ she said brightly. ‘We’ve all got a lot to get on with…’

  Charlie cleared his throat again. The ball of phlegm seemed constantly stuck in his gullet. ‘There is something else. Probably nothing.’

  ‘Spit it out, Charlie!’ Thinking, as soon as the words came out: But not literally, pet. No, not that.

  ‘I found this in the middle of all the papers we got from the search team,’ he said. ‘And I thought, with the flowers, like, it might be important.’

  He held it in a clear plastic bag. A piece of cream card, A6 size, and, stuck to it, a pressed flower. Yellow, delicate. Some sort of vetch? Vera thought. There’d been a craze for pressing flowers when she was a kid. One of the teachers had started them off. You stuck the flower between blotting paper and weighed it down with heavy books – there’d been plenty of those in Vera’s house – but she’d never much seen the point. Clearing out the house after Hector had died she’d come across one of her attempts among the pages of one of his field guides. A primrose, picked, pressed, then forgotten for more than thirty years. It had gone onto the bonfire with the rest of the crap.

  ‘Anything written on the back?’

  Charlie turned over the plastic bag. XXX in black ink. A row of kisses. It could have been a card made by a child for a mother. But this was something different, Vera thought. A love token?

  ‘Was it in an envelope?’

  ‘No, just like this.’

  ‘No chance of DNA, then.’

  ‘It suggests Peter Calvert, doesn’t it?’ Joe Ash-worth said tentatively.

  ‘Maybe.’ She found it hard to imagine the arrogant lecturer taking the time and effort to make the card. Wouldn’t it be just the sort of thing he’d sneer at? ‘Perhaps Lily did it herself, but never got the time to send it. Or it could have been preparation for something she was planning to do with the kids in her class. Get it to forensics. They might give us something on the glue.’

  She was still sitting at the table after the rest of them had gone. She poured the last of the coffee from the Thermos jug, took her time over drinking it. She couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone was playing with her. She was a piece in an elaborate board game. Real murders weren’t like this. They were brutal and mucky. Unplanned usually, always ugly. She tried to remember Julie Armstrong, staring at the telly in the front room at Seaton, Dennis Marsh hiding in his greenhouse; tried to persuade herself that she wasn’t enjoying every minute.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The doctor had given Julie tablets to help her sleep. Every night she thought they weren’t going to work, then sleep came in an instant. It was like being smashed over the head, a sudden unconsciousness. For the first time, that morning she remembered dreaming. She woke abruptly as she always did with the pills. It was early morning. She could tell by the noise of the birds and because there was no traffic in the street. The curtains were thin and the light came through them; it was sunny again.

  Her first waking thought was of Luke, as it had been every morning since he’d died. The picture of him lying in the bath, the heavy scent, the condensation running down the mirror over the sink. But she was immediately aware too that he hadn’t been the subject of her dream. It had been a sexy dream, the sort of daydream she’d conjured up after Geoff had left, when she’d thought she’d never have sex with a man again. In this dream, she and Gary were walking along a beach at night. There was a heavy moon just above the horizon, the sound of waves. The sort of thing you’d read in a cheesy magazine, one of those mags for old ladies which her mam took on coach trips. But then the dream shifted and they were in the dunes, making love. She remembered the weight of him on top of her, the sand rubbing against her back and her shoulders, his tongue in her mouth. Now it was like the memory of a real event, not a dream at all. Lying in bed she put her right hand on her left breast and believed it still felt tender, as if it had been pressed and squeezed. She started to move her hand down over her stomach and between her legs, then stopped herself. There was a shock of guilt. What was she doing? How could she even consider sex at a time like this? What sort of mother had she been? She should have sent Gary away the day before. What had possessed her to let him into the house?

  She looked at the alarm clock by her bed. Nearly six o’clock. She zapped the remote and the portable TV on the chest of drawers came to life. She dozed, watching the moving pictures, not listening to the words, until her mother came in with a cup of tea and a pile of post. She could tell there were more cards. All her friends sending messages of support, telling her how sorry they were. She knew what they’d be like. Pictures of crosses and churches and lilies. She hadn’t been in a church since they’d had Laura baptized, wondered what it was about dying that brought out the religion in everyone. She hadn’t been able to face opening the mail and added the new envelopes to the mound of unopened post by the bed.

  All morning she struggled to banish thoughts of Gary. Her mother seemed to sense she was more unsettled today and tried to distract her. Or perhaps she thought Julie had had enough moping around and it was time she pulled herself together. She wasn’t given to sentiment and was easily irritated. She got Julie up for breakfast, then set her to making a packed lunch for Laura to take to school. When the girl was out of the house and Julie was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space, she brought the bundle of letters and cards down from the bedroom.

  ‘These need answering, Julie. You can’t just ignore them. That’d be rude.’

  Julie had been wondering where Gary was today. She had his number, hadn’t she? She could phone him. She had this fantasy that he would come and collect her, take her to work with him. There’d be a dark room, flashing lights and a rock band. Really loud music which would blow away all the other thoughts from her head. The thumping of a bass which she’d feel vibrating through her body. Then the guilt hit her again and, as a sort of penance, she sat as her mother told her, a mug of milky coffee at her elbow, and began opening the cards.

  When the doorbell rang, she felt her pulse racing. Gary had come back. Her mother was upstairs making the beds but she shouted down, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it.’ And Julie stayed where she was and made herself breathe slowly, telling herself over and over again that it was wrong to be thinking about a man at a time like
this. Then she heard Vera Stanhope’s voice, loud enough that you’d believe the whole street could hear, and she felt like bursting into tears.

  Vera came into the kitchen and sat beside her. ‘Sorry to interrupt again, pet. Just a few more questions.’

  Then she noticed what Julie was doing, saw the one opened card on the table. ‘That’s bonny. Did it come today?’

  And for the first time Julie looked at the image on the card. No church this time. It was one of those classy handmade things which cost a fortune. A pressed flower on thick cream card. She was going to pick it up to look at the message on the back, but Vera stopped her, physically stopped her by putting her great paw over Julie’s hand.

  ‘Humour me, pet. This might be important. Was it delivered today?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Julie said. ‘I haven’t been able to face opening them. They’ve been arriving since Friday.’

  ‘Still got the envelope?’

  ‘Aye, it’s there on the table.’

  She watched, dazed, while Vera took a pen from her pocket and flipped the envelope over so she could see the postmark and the address. She couldn’t think what could be so important, didn’t really care, stared out of the window at a tractor driving round and round a field in the distance.

  ‘This isn’t addressed to you,’ she heard Vera say. ‘It’s addressed to Luke.’

  Then she did look at the envelope, which was white, not cream, and didn’t seem to belong to the card.

  The writing was in black ink, in capitals. LUKE ARMSTRONG, 16 LAUREL WAY, SEATON, NORTHUMBERLAND. No postcode.

  She looked up at Vera. ‘That’s wrong,’ she said. ‘This isn’t Laurel Way, it’s Laurel Avenue. Laurel Way is round by the school.’ Still she couldn’t understand what the fuss was about.

  ‘It was sent on Tuesday,’ Vera said. ‘First-class stamp. If they’d got the address right it’d have got here on Wednesday.’

  ‘If it’d arrived on Wednesday, Luke would have opened it. No way would I have opened a letter addressed to him. I might not have done it today, if I’d realized. I just assumed it was for me.’ She watched Vera sitting there, frowning. ‘It came with the others on Friday. Must have done. Is it important?’