Cold Earth

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Oh yes, he’d have been working here then. He came home when Kathryn was still very young, still a baby.’

  Willow looked as if she was going to say something, but turned back to the filing cabinet. ‘Nothing on Alison Teal.’

  She moved over to join Perez at the desk and started opening the drawers. None of them were locked and they seemed to contain material relating to Rogerson’s council work rather than his legal practice: booklets about health and welfare matters, tourist brochures.

  Perez was thinking they were wasting their time here. Under the desk he found a bin that still contained scraps of paper. He pulled out a handwritten note that must have been left for Rogerson’s assistant. Please make sure the client signs this as soon as possible. He flattened it and stepped aside so that Willow could see it properly. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’d need to see the original again, but this writing looks very similar to the letter Sandy found in Tain.’

  ‘Another connection then,’ Perez said. ‘And a possible suspect.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jane Hay was cooking Sunday lunch for the family. She didn’t feel like bothering, but she’d made a big deal about it earlier in the week:

  ‘You’re not at Mareel on Sunday, are you, Andy? Let’s get everyone together. We haven’t done a proper Sunday lunch for ages. Bring Gemma along too, Michael.’

  So now she was in the kitchen peeling potatoes and parsnips, and the smell of the shoulder of lamb she was slow-roasting in the bottom of the Aga made her feel slightly sick. She told herself she was tired, that was all. It was her own fault, for being so ridiculous about Andy arriving home late last night. She couldn’t blame him. He was an adult and was used to having his own life away at university. He could have been up to anything in Glasgow and she’d never have known about it, so why did she expect him to keep her posted about his every move here?

  She set down the knife, slipped her feet into the pair of rubber clogs that stood by the door and went out into the nearest polytunnel. She could do with more rosemary for the lamb and some mint for the sauce, but really she just needed a few minutes away from the house. Since the landslide, it had seemed like a different place. It wasn’t just that the view was disfigured and that now, looking down towards the coast, she could see the dark scar left by the mud. It was as if the shifting land had loosened the foundations of the family. There was nothing firm left. She couldn’t believe anything that either Kevin or the boys told her.

  She pulled a couple of twigs of rosemary from the bush, gathered a handful of mint and returned to the kitchen. Andy was standing there. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a sleeveless vest that she didn’t recognize and he was staring into space.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you up yet.’ Her voice sounded tinny and too bright and seemed to echo from the tiles and the shiny worktops. ‘You must have been late back. I was up chatting to Rachel on the phone until the early hours.’

  He didn’t say anything. It seemed to her then that he was utterly miserable. She wanted to go up to him and hug him to her, rest his head on her shoulder and stroke the soft, dark hair away from his eyes. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she said.

  It took an effort for him to respond. ‘Yeah, that would be good.’

  She turned her back on him to fill the filter machine with water and pour coffee into the paper, and when she turned back he was more his normal self. ‘I hope you weren’t worried. I only saw your texts this morning. No battery last night.’

  ‘Ah, I thought it would be something like that.’ She couldn’t quite lie to him, but she couldn’t tell him the truth. Of course I was worried. I was frantic. Don’t ever do that to me again. Because, in the cold light of morning, she could see that she’d been overreacting, that her panic had been ridiculous. Andy was clearly going through some sort of crisis. Some relationship had broken down. He was home now. Safe. He would tell her why he was so unhappy, when he was ready. She put out of her mind the vision of her son the night before, standing in the darkness, looking down over the ruined croft at Tain. What connection could there be between him and the middle-aged woman who’d died? The idea that he might have some knowledge of her death – played some part in it even – was ludicrous.

  She poured out the coffee and Andy sat with her at the table. When he picked up the mug his hand was shaking. She struggled to find a question that wasn’t too intrusive or judgemental. What were you up to last night? That would surely alienate him. And she didn’t want to put him in a position where he would be forced to lie. In the end they sat for a moment in silence and then she began to whisk egg whites in a bowl to make a pavlova. She’d already taken raspberries from the freezer. There would be two puddings, one cold and one hot, because both boys had a sweet tooth. The lunch seemed to be taking on a great significance; it almost made her think of a last supper. She whisked the eggs by hand, because she didn’t want the noise of the machine. If the room was quiet, perhaps Andy would talk to her. But neither of them spoke and her arm became sore and strained with the beating, until she slipped the meringue into the bottom oven underneath the lamb.

  Kevin was still out working on the road. Jane had been in bed when he left, but she’d been awake and had seen that he was jubilant because Sunday working meant extra money. He’d always valued his own worth according to the money he made for the farm. He’d brought her a cup of tea with two biscuits in the saucer and kissed her forehead before going out. Recently he’d been more thoughtful. It was like the old days when they’d first started dating.

  Now she heard the tractor in the yard and he was there with them, in his stockinged feet after leaving his work boots in the porch. He pulled off his waterproofs and overalls. She was making a crumble now and looked up. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s going splendidly.’ He seemed to be bursting with health, his cheeks red, droplets of rain in his hair and his beard. ‘I suspect there’ll be no more work after tomorrow, and it’ll be left then to the council.’

  He washed his hands under the tap by the sink. ‘Something smells good.’ He hadn’t picked up any tension in the room, had hardly acknowledged Andy sitting there.

  ‘I’ll make some fresh coffee.’ She rubbed her hands together to dust the flour from her fingers and waited for him to move away from the sink. ‘Are you ready for some more, Andy?’

  The younger man shook his head, slid off his chair and wandered away.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Kevin turned to look at the disappearing back. ‘A hangover maybe.’

  ‘Aye, maybe.’ But Jane knew that a hangover wasn’t always as uncomplicated as Kevin made out and she worried about her son all over again.

  Michael and Gemma had got the bus from Lerwick and walked down the track from the main road. Michael had been staying with Gemma at her parents’ home in Lerwick. He gave his mother nothing to worry about, except that he might turn out to be a bit boring and she might end up with little to say to him. Jane could see his life unspooling ahead of him. He would marry Gemma and they’d build their own little house in Ravenswick. They’d have dull, well-behaved children and in ten years’ time she’d still be cooking Sunday lunch for them, pretending to be interested in Gemma’s work for the council and in Michael’s limited ambitions for the farm.

  She was surprised that she could be so spiteful. Why did she think her own life was so interesting? Wouldn’t she be glad if Andy had his future mapped out and he gave her nothing to worry about?

  A shaft of sunlight pierced the cloud and lit up the table. She’d decided that they would eat in the kitchen and was finishing the last-minute preparations for the meal, stirring a little flour into the meat juices to make the gravy. Kevin and Michael were in the living room, watching football on the television with cans of beer. Gemma was with her. She’d offered to help, but when Jane could think of nothing useful for her to do, she’d sat in the chair by the range to chat. Not quite in the way, so Jane couldn’t ask her to move, but too close for
Jane to be able to cook without the feeling that she was being scrutinized. Gemma was a gossip. Her father worked in the finance department of the council office and sometimes the talk was of island politics, at other times she just rambled about school friends, teachers or relatives. Usually Jane found the one-sided conversations relaxing, even vaguely entertaining, but today she was in the mood to be irritated, and she refused to respond. Gemma continued talking; either she didn’t notice Jane’s lack of interest or she didn’t care. At least she wasn’t someone who would take offence.

  Jane was draining cabbage into the sink when a phrase from Gemma filtered through the muddle and inconsequence of her conversation.

  ‘Your Andy’s a dark horse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jane looked up. Green water dribbled between the lid and the pan. She tipped the greens into a serving dish.

  ‘Well . . .’ But before Gemma could say any more, the men came in. The footie was over and they were starving. Kevin gave Gemma a little hug of welcome. Jane wondered if he might have been happier with someone like Gemma. Someone with no imagination, from a safe, respectable family and carrying no baggage.

  ‘I’ll just call Andy.’ Jane stood in the hall between the kitchen and the stairs. Looking back into the room, where Kevin was cutting the meat and Michael was opening a bottle of wine, she thought anyone suddenly peering through the window would think they were a respectable family, with no hidden secrets or anxieties.

  Andy appeared at the top of the stairs before she called him. He must have heard the rattle of plates and the voices in the kitchen. He didn’t notice her. He looked into the mirror that was hanging in the upstairs corridor and she saw him prepare himself to meet them. She was reminded of his school play days, when he’d been very serious about getting into character. It seemed that had been good practice for what he needed now.

  The meal passed without incident. Michael and Gemma always ate with concentration, their eyes on their plates as if they were scared the food would be taken away from them. Jane thought Gemma would grow fat in middle age, but she would be contented, easy-going. She had expected Andy to be quiet and withdrawn, but he became very bright and witty, telling stories about his colleagues at Mareel, holding court and enjoying the audience. Kevin seemed to be filling all their glasses very often and soon fetched another bottle of wine. Jane told herself again that this was all normal behaviour, but she was almost breathless with tension. In other company she might have been tempted to hold out her glass and ask for it to be filled. She looked down at her plate and saw that she’d eaten very little.

  Still the meal dragged on. The pavlova was admired. She cut into the meringue and saw that it was perfect, crisp on the outside but just a little chewy in the middle, and felt a brief lift in her spirits. The crumble was eaten. Gemma and Michael took second helpings.

  Kevin was on his feet. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. He liked to think of himself as a great family man and would certainly, Jane thought, make a perfect grandfather. Again she saw Sunday lunch after Sunday lunch rolling away into the future, the calendar punctuated by bigger but similar events: Christmas, family birthdays, anniversaries.

  ‘You lasses go and sit down in front of the fire.’ Kevin was playing with the fancy coffee machine that the boys had given him for his last birthday. ‘We’ll clear this up, won’t we, boys?’

  Gemma agreed immediately, although she hadn’t played any part in the preparation of the meal, and Jane found herself sitting on the leather sofa in the living room, suddenly very quiet. Even Gemma had stopped talking. It was almost dark outside and the breeze had dropped. Jane got up to draw the curtains. She hoped Gemma had forgotten that she was going to pass on a morsel of gossip about Andy. It would be pleasant to sit here in the quiet. She felt very tired and she didn’t want any revelations about her son.

  But Gemma, it seemed, had not forgotten, and as soon as Kevin had brought in their coffee and left them alone, the girl continued where she’d left off. Her face was lit by a standard lamp and the rest of the room was in shadow. ‘Well . . .’ A pause to make sure she had Jane’s attention. ‘My Auntie Jennifer saw Andy a couple of weeks ago.’

  Jane didn’t say anything. Gemma needed no encouragement, though Jane did wonder briefly how the girl’s aunt would have recognized her son.

  ‘She was a teacher at the Anderson High before she retired, so she knew Andy at once.’ The explanation. ‘And she said he was a fine boy, and so she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.’

  ‘And what was she seeing?’ Jane curled her legs underneath her on the sofa, in an attempt to appear relaxed.

  ‘An argument in the street, just outside the Grand Hotel. Andy swearing and shouting at a man old enough to be his father. Everyone staring.’

  There was an overwhelming sense of relief. Jane had thought the story might involve the dead woman. She was aware of Gemma staring at her, expecting her to be horrified that Andy had caused a scene. ‘Do you have any idea what it was about?’ Because Andy was a gentle soul. Even as a child, he’d avoided confrontation.

  The girl shook her head. ‘I do know the guy Andy was attacking was threatening to call the police.’

  ‘It just sounds like he got into a row with some drunk oilie.’ The oilies were convenient scapegoats whenever there was trouble in town.

  ‘It wasn’t an oilie! Gemma was enjoying herself now. ‘My Auntie Jennifer recognized him.’ She’d been holding on to this piece of the story. She might not read much fiction, but she understood the need for dramatic tension. ‘It was Tom Rogerson, the councillor.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sandy sat at his desk in the police station all morning, burrowing into the life of Alison Teal. He thought Jimmy Perez might be happier now that they had a name for her. Sandy had been hoping to meet Louisa for lunch at some point, but she’d decided to head back to Yell straight from the Scalloway Hotel.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to spend a bit more time with you, but my mother will be missing me and, besides, you might be held up at work.’

  At one time Sandy might have been offended by that and seen it as a personal rejection. But he understood that Louisa took her responsibility for her mother seriously. And, after the night they’d had in Scalloway, he wasn’t in the mood to complain about anything. For the first half-hour at work he’d found it hard to concentrate on Alison Teal. He found himself grinning for no reason at all and wondering when he might ask Louisa to marry him. There was a slight awkwardness about that, because Jimmy Perez had not been engaged long when his woman was murdered. Sandy wouldn’t want to do anything to stir up those bad memories for Jimmy, who seemed to have emerged from the worst of the depression; and besides, he felt a strange superstition about it, as if by asking Louisa to marry him, he might put her in danger too.

  Alison Teal had a website all to herself. It must have been set up when she was playing Dolly, the housemaid in the TV drama, because the photo was the same as the one Jimmy had found in Magnus Tait’s house. Nothing had been added to it for years; there was no information about recent roles. The website had the phone number of the actor’s agent, but when Sandy phoned it, the call went straight through to an answer machine. It was clearly an office number and the agent wasn’t working on a Sunday. Sandy left a message asking the woman to contact him urgently.

  They still hadn’t found any of Alison’s relatives, and Jimmy Perez had told Sandy that was a priority: ‘It’s not just that they might have important information, but we need to inform them of Alison’s death. She might well have parents who are still alive.’ Sandy knew Perez had been thinking of the elderly people in the photo that Sandy had found in the box in Tain. It was obviously one of her treasured possessions. Sandy was distracted again now, thinking that he’d like a photograph of Louisa. A proper photograph, not just one taken on his phone to save on the computer. He turned back to the screen and continued his search.

  Through Google he found an in-depth interview
with Alison Teal in the Independent on Sunday. He printed it off, because he could tell it would be useful and Jimmy Perez preferred to have paper copies of anything he thought important. The interview had taken place a few months after Alison had disappeared and then been discovered in the Ravenswick Hotel. They’d fixed a date for the disappearance now: it had happened fifteen years ago. The journalist sounded almost like a psychiatrist, in the piece. Sandy wasn’t sure that he’d want such personal information made public and put into a newspaper for folk to read while they were eating breakfast.

  There was a lot about the actress’s early life. Her parents had been junkies and she’d been brought up by her father’s parents, who lived in Cromer, a small town on the Norfolk coast.

  ‘Did you ever see your parents?’ the reporter had asked.

  The reply had been almost matter-of-fact. ‘Not much. They’d turn up occasionally to bum money from Gran and Grandpa. But addicts don’t care about much, except getting the next fix, do they? I dreamed about them getting straight and having me back home, but deep down I knew it was never going to happen. And we were happy with Gran and Grandpa. It made us different from the other kids at school, but even then there were lots of single parents around. At least there were two adults in our family. I can’t really blame my screw-ups on an unhappy childhood.’

  ‘Did you have any siblings?’

  ‘A younger brother, Jono. Jonathan. He went into the army and we lost touch for a bit. I’ve seen more of him recently.’