Silent Voices (Vera Stanhope 4)

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘What’s the number on the key, Billy?’

  He lifted it carefully with fat gloved fingers. ‘Thirty-five.’

  She’d expected Taylor the duty manager to have left them. Surely he would have important things to do. But he was still at the poolside, oddly incongruous in his suit and shiny black shoes. The walkie-talkie was back at his ear. She strode across to him, waited impatiently while he finished his conversation.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just trying to rearrange a few meetings to keep the lounge free for your witnesses. We’re hosting a conference of personnel managers.’

  ‘I assume you have a pass key for all the lockers.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, can you get it for me.’ Why was she so sharp with him? He’d been helpful enough. Perhaps it was his reluctance to leave them to their work. His obvious thrill to be involved in the investigation, even if only as an observer. I’m allowed to feel excited, she thought, because it’s what I do with my life. He’s just some sort of voyeur.

  Now, at last he did walk away from the pool and through the changing rooms to the desk beside the turnstile. Upstairs in the lounge they could hear excited conversation, the clatter of coffee cups. Ashworth had pulled in some uniforms to help him take statements, but it was obviously going to be a slow process. As Vera had suspected, most of the elderly members were treating this as free entertainment; they were in no hurry to leave. Taylor spoke to the woman at the desk.

  ‘Can you give me the locker pass key, pet?’

  It was as if he was speaking to a child; Vera thought that if Taylor was that patronizing to her, she’d have thumped him. The woman at the desk was older than him, could have been well past forty, but fighting it. Black hair and heavily mascaraed eyes. The name-tag said she was Karen.

  ‘Is your lad the temporary cleaner?’ Vera asked.

  Karen had turned to take a key from a hook on the wall behind her. ‘Why? What’s he got to do with this?’

  ‘Probably nothing. But I need to chat to him. Is he on duty today?’

  Karen put the key on the counter. ‘He does lates. He won’t be in until four.’

  ‘No rush,’ Vera said easily. ‘I’ll catch up with him then.’

  There was a uniformed female officer guarding the changing-room door and at that point Vera sent Taylor away. ‘No point taking up any more of your time. I can manage from here.’ She thought he was going to argue with her, but he caught himself just in time and smiled instead. She watched the light catch the polished heels of his shoes as he disappeared up the stairs.

  Vera recognized the officer guarding the door, but couldn’t remember her name. ‘Is it all clear in there?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Billy Wainwright taken a look?’

  ‘For all the good it’ll do, he says.’ The woman smiled fondly and Vera wondered what it was with the man. He wasn’t even much of a looker. He was sympathetic, she supposed. A good listener. Perhaps that was the attraction.

  ‘I’ve been in the changing room already,’ Vera said. ‘So there’s no real problem with contamination if you let me in.’

  The policewoman shrugged. Vera was the boss and, besides, it wasn’t her problem.

  Inside the changing room the television high on the wall was still on. Sky News with pictures of the US president and his First Lady visiting somewhere exotic. African children in starched white shirts and women wrapped in brightly coloured batik cloth. The dead woman’s locker was close to the one Vera had used that day. She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. The lock was stiff and for a moment she wondered if she’d get it open, then she put her shoulder to the door, pushing it until the mechanism caught. The door swung towards her.

  Vera looked inside, without touching anything at first. The clothes were neatly folded. A floral skirt, a white shirt, almost as crisp as those worn by the children in the newsreel, a navy cotton sweater. White lacy underwear, as fresh as if it had been newly bought. How did women do that? Vera’s turned grey after the first wash. And she would never have bought anything so glamorous. Under the clothes, a pair of sandals. You could tell they’d be comfortable, the leather soft, but stylish too, with a small heel, the leather plaited and fastened at the ankle. Not the sort of thing Vera would wear in a million years.

  On the television the weather forecast was being read by a young woman in a breathy voice. The next few days would be unusually mild and sunny for the time of year. ‘Beautiful spring weather.’ Vera turned briefly and saw a photograph of fat lambs and catkins. The people who ran the smallholding next to her house were still lambing. It was always later in the hills this far north.

  No handbag. That seemed odd to Vera. Wouldn’t every woman have a handbag with her? Even Vera carried her stuff in a canvas shopping bag. There was a purse, though, tucked inside one of the sleeves of the navy jersey. Had the woman left her bag in her car because it was too bulky for the locker? A bunch of keys was attached to one corner of the purse by a metal clip. Opening it, she found the woman’s health-club membership card. The photo was small and grainy, but was clearly of the victim. There was a name.

  Jenny Lister. Aged forty-one. Vera would have guessed her as a couple of years younger than that. The address was a village in the Tyne valley, Barnard Bridge, which was about five miles away. Very nice, Vera thought, and pretty much what she would have expected. But why would anyone want to murder a middle-aged woman from an affluent community in rural Northumberland?

  She flicked through the contents of the purse. A couple of credit and debit cards in the same name and twenty pounds in cash. One of the credit cards was labelled Mrs Jenny Lister. So there was a husband, or at least had been once. If the couple were still living together, he was probably at work. Vera looked at her watch. It had already gone three. Perhaps the couple had sat down for breakfast together, discussed their day. Now he would have no idea what had happened to his wife, no concerns for her safety. Unless, of course, he’d followed her and strangled her.

  Upstairs in the lounge, Ashworth and his colleagues had almost worked their way through the members of the aqua-aerobics class. He was using a small office, calling people in one at a time to take their contact details, and to ask if they’d been into the steam room or noticed anything unusual. The plate on the office door read Ryan Taylor, deputy manager.

  ‘Who’s the manager?’ Vera asked, distracted for a moment. ‘The big cheese?’

  ‘Woman called Franklin. She’s away on leave. Morocco.’

  ‘Very nice.’ She said it automatically, but Vera knew really she’d hate foreign travel. She came out all blotchy in the heat.

  Ashworth was on his own, catching up on the notes from his most recent interview.

  ‘We’ve got a name,’ Vera said. ‘Jenny Lister. Lives out at Barnard Bridge.’

  ‘Worth a bob or two then.’ Ashworth looked up from the sheet of paper.

  ‘I thought I’d head out there now. She might still have school-age kids. I’d rather tell them what’s happened immediately than have them phoning round her friends to find out where she is, causing lots of noise and fuss.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ashworth said. ‘Do you want anyone to go with you?’

  ‘I think I can find the way by myself.’ Vera knew it wasn’t her place to be ferreting round the dead woman’s home and family. She’d been told at appraisal after appraisal that her role was strategic. You should learn to delegate, Inspector. But she could do this better than anyone else in her team, so what point was there in delegating to an inferior investigator?

  ‘What do you want me to do when I’ve finished here?’

  ‘Talk to the staff,’ Vera said. ‘I was going to do it, but I’d rather get out to the family home. There’s that lass Lisa. She seems a little jumpy to me, could be there’s something on her mind. The woman on the desk is called Karen. She’s got a son, a student who’s working here as a temporary cleaner over his Easter holiday. Have a word with him. We need to check that he cleaned the steam room
last night. There’s still a chance the body was here all night. Not likely, because you’d have thought someone would have reported the dead woman missing, but he needs talking to anyway. See if anyone remembers the victim. Taylor should be able to reproduce the photo from the membership card. They take them here when you join, so they’ll have them saved somewhere on the computer.’

  ‘You a member?’ Ashworth stifled a grin.

  Vera ignored the question. ‘Show the photo to the staff, see if they know her. And get Holly to find out from her computer geek what time Jenny checked into the club this morning.’ She slid the car keys from the keyring that had been attached to Jenny’s purse. ‘And when you’ve chatted to the staff, see if her car’s still here. Best take a CSI with you. They’ll treat it as a crime scene. I think the victim’s bag might still be inside. If so, let me know.’

  ‘I’ll let the wife know I’ll be late then.’ The words were meant to be sarcastic, but Vera took no notice.

  ‘Aye. I’ll meet you back here if I finish in time. Otherwise I’ll give you a ring. Meeting first thing in the morning at the station. They’ve set up an incident room?’

  ‘Holly’s looking after that. Charlie’s been helping me take statements here.’

  Vera nodded. She thought she’d better let Holly out to see some action the next day. She wasn’t a hard boss. Not really. She knew it was important to keep her troops happy. Walking across the car park, she realized she was starving. She’d picked up a cheese pasty from Gregg’s before going swimming and it was still in the bag on the passenger seat of the car. A bit greasy and tepid after sitting in the sun all day, but no meat in it, so nothing to go off. She ate it with relish and set off south and west towards the Tyne.

  Barnard Bridge was west of the hotel, on the way to Cumbria. It was in an area unfamiliar to Vera. She’d grown up in the hills, and most of the crime in her patch occurred in the city or in the post-industrial villages on the south-east coast of the county. This was rich farming country. The cottages in the villages and small market towns had been bought up by professionals looking for the good life, environmentalists who seemed to square their green credentials with the commute along the A69 into Newcastle, Hexham or Carlisle. It was a place of farmers’ markets, independent booksellers and writers. A little bit of southern England planted in the north. Or so Vera thought. But she had a chip on her shoulder the size of Kielder Forest. What would she know? She’d never felt comfortable with the intellectual classes.

  Chapter Five

  The house was more modest than Vera had been expecting, part of a terrace on the main street running through the village. She parked right against the pavement. It was five o’clock and the place was quiet. The Co-op on the corner was still open, but there was nobody about. This was teatime for kids, and the commuters from the city would still be at work or on their way home. She knocked on the door, not really expecting an answer, but almost immediately there were footsteps inside, the click of the Yale being turned.

  ‘Forgotten your key again?’ The words were spoken before the door was properly opened. There was laughter behind them. ‘Really, Mum, you are the limit.’ Then the girl saw Vera, paused and smiled.

  ‘Sorry I was expecting someone . . . Can I help you?’

  ‘Is your mum Jenny Lister?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid she’s not here.’

  ‘I’m with Northumbria Police, pet. I think I’d best come in.’ She saw the panic that was the inevitable result of a police officer turning up unexpectedly on the doorstep. The girl stepped back to allow her in, and then her questions followed Vera down the narrow hall.

  ‘What’s this about? Has there been an accident? Have you come to take me to the hospital? Shouldn’t we leave now?’

  Vera took a seat at a table in the kitchen at the back of the house. The walls were yellow and the low sun lit them up. Again this wasn’t what Vera had been expecting. She’d imagined Jenny as a stay-at-home wife, kept in idleness and luxury by a hard-working businessman, but this looked more like a student house. The kitchen looked out over a small garden, the Sunday papers were still on the table, and a bottle of red wine stood on the counter, half drunk, a cork stuck back into the neck.

  ‘Is it just you and your mam?’ Vera asked. There were photos pinned on a big cork noticeboard on one wall. The victim with this girl, both of them smiling into the camera. No doubt then as to the identity of the dead woman, and Vera felt suddenly very sad about that. She looked like a nice woman. No reason why decent women shouldn’t join health clubs too.

  ‘Yeah, my dad left when I was a kid.’ The girl had red hair, that opaque cream skin that often goes with it. She was wearing jeans and a long cotton top with flowers on it. Bare feet. She was so skinny it was hard to put an age on her. School sixth form maybe. But pleasant and polite. None of that adolescent rage you read about. She was still standing, leaning against the windowsill, looking outside.

  ‘Sit down,’ Vera said. ‘What’s your name, pet?’

  ‘Hannah.’ The girl chose a seat opposite to Vera’s. ‘Will you please tell me what all this is about.’

  ‘There’s no easy way of telling you this, I’m afraid, hinny. Your mother is dead.’ Vera leaned across the table and took Hannah’s hands in hers. No point in saying how sorry she was. What good would that do? She’d been younger than this lass when her own mother had died. But at least she’d had Hector. Hector had been a self-centred bastard, but he’d been better than no one.

  ‘No!’ The girl looked at her almost as if she pitied Vera for having made such a ridiculous mistake. ‘My mother’s not ill. She’s fit for her age. She swims, does Pilates, dances. She’s just taken a flamenco class.’ She paused. ‘A road accident then? But she’s a dead careful driver. Neurotic. You’ve probably got the wrong person.’

  ‘Does she belong to the health club at the Willows?’

  ‘Yes, I bought her membership. She was forty the birthday before last. I wanted something special, did a guilt trip on Dad and squeezed the money out of him.’ The girl seemed finally to believe what she had been told, stared at Vera in horror.

  ‘She didn’t die of natural causes.’ Vera looked at her to check she understood what she was saying, watched the silent tears roll down the perfect cheeks. The girl seemed unable to speak and Vera continued: ‘She was murdered, Hannah. Someone killed her. This is hard. Too hard for anyone to bear, but I have to ask you questions. It’s my job to find out who killed her. And the sooner I know all about her, the sooner I can do that.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll take you to the hospital myself if you like. But that won’t be possible until later this evening or maybe tomorrow.’

  Hannah sat opposite Vera with her back to the window. The sun lit up her hair, like a halo.

  ‘Would you like me to ask your father to come round?’ Best do this by the book.

  ‘No. He’s in London. That’s where he lives now.’

  ‘How old are you, Hannah?’

  ‘Eighteen.’ She answered automatically, too stunned to question Vera’s right to ask.

  A responsible adult then. No need for a minder. Not legally. But all the same, she just looked like a bairn. ‘Is there anyone else you’d like with you? A relative?’

  She looked up. ‘Simon. Please get me Simon.’

  ‘Who’s he, then?’

  ‘Simon Eliot. My boyfriend.’ She paused. Then, despite her sadness and confusion, she corrected herself, taking a small comfort from the idea. ‘My fiancé.’

  Vera felt like smiling. It seemed like they were playing mothers and fathers. Who got married that young any more? But she kept her voice serious. ‘Live local, does he?’

  ‘His parents have the big white house at the other end of the village. You’ll have passed it on the way in. He’s a student in Durham. Home for the Easter holidays.’

  ‘Why don’t you give him a ring? Ask him to come round. Or do you want me to speak to him?’ Vera was th
inking the lad’s parents would look after Hannah if there was nobody else. At least until they could contact the father and bring him back from London. Hannah already had her mobile out and was punching out the numbers. At the last minute, as it started ringing, she passed it back to Vera. ‘Do you mind? I can’t talk about it. What would I say?’

  ‘Hello, you.’ A deeper voice than Vera was expecting, warm and sexy. It came to her suddenly that nobody had ever spoken to her like that.

  ‘This is Inspector Vera Stanhope from Northumbria Police. There’s been a sudden death. Hannah’s mother. Hannah asked me to contact you. I wondered if you’d come round. She needs someone with her.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ The phone went dead. No messing. Vera was glad Hannah hadn’t taken up with a fool.

  ‘He’s on his way,’ she said.

  While they waited for him, Vera made tea. She was desperate for a cup, and the pasty hadn’t done much to stop her hunger. This was a house where there’d be biscuits. Possibly even home-made cake.

  ‘What did your mam do for a living?’ She’d plugged in the kettle and turned back towards Hannah, who was still staring into space. There was no indication in the house, no clues for Vera to pick up, but she thought something arty. The things in the house – the furniture, crockery, pictures – wouldn’t have cost much, but they were put together with flair.

  Hannah looked up very slowly. It was as if the question had taken hours to get through to her brain and she had only just remembered what had been asked. ‘She was a social worker. Fostering and adoption.’

  Vera had to readjust her ideas. She’d never thought much of social workers. Either interfering busybodies who wouldn’t let folk get on with their own lives or ineffective wimps. A social worker had come to visit when her own mother had died, though she’d called herself something different then. Child Welfare Officer, that was it. Hector had charmed her, said of course he’d be fine to look after his daughter, and that had been the last they’d seen of the woman. And even though Hector had been hardly what anyone would call a model father, Vera wasn’t convinced having a social worker involved would have improved things. She was saved the need to answer because there was a brief knock on the front door, then Simon let himself in. He must have his own key. The thought flashed into her mind as she watched the young man take Hannah into his arms. Though it was hardly relevant because Jenny hadn’t been killed at home, it made him seem somehow part of the family and the idea of the couple being engaged seemed less ridiculous.