Silent Voices (Vera Stanhope 4)

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘You do realize,’ Vera said, ‘that some folk will see her disappearance as evidence of her guilt. Go to the media, and she’ll be the awful witch that caused Elias Jones’s death and a multiple murderer. Her photos all over the paper and the television. Just what she’d want before the lass starts school. Not.’

  ‘Do you think she’s a killer?’

  ‘Nah.’ Vera had just poked the last bit of cake into her mouth and the crumbs went everywhere when she spoke. ‘I think she’s scared. And not just of the press. Someone’s told her to make herself scarce.’

  ‘It could be more sinister than that.’

  ‘You think someone’s killed her to keep her quiet?’ Vera licked her fingers to pick up the crumbs from her plate and the surrounding table. ‘It’s possible. But if she’s dead, we can’t help her and going to the press will be bugger-all use.’ She paused. ‘What does she know that makes it so important that she shouldn’t talk to us?’

  ‘She could recognize the bloke that turned up at her house the afternoon of Jenny Lister’s death. We were going to show her photos of all the male suspects this morning.’

  ‘Aye,’ Vera said. ‘Maybe. But if he wanted to be discreet about visiting the Eliots, he’d hardly have asked directions from a stranger. And if he was the person who dumped Jenny’s bag, the same applies.’ She thought the guy was probably some door-to-door salesman. Surely Connie would have recognized Morgan if he’d turned up at her cottage. No way would she have invited him in for tea. But then with his new haircut Vera herself hadn’t recognized him.

  ‘Something about the Elias Jones case frightened her off then?’ It was clear Joe wasn’t going to let this go.

  ‘That takes us back to Michael Morgan again, doesn’t it? If we discount Connie, he’s the only person implicated in Elias Jones’s death who could be the killer. Mattie Jones was in hospital. So for now let’s concentrate on him. After that we’ll go back to Barnard Bridge. It’ll be the little girl’s bedtime. If they’re not back by then, it’s time to worry.’

  She looked up at Ashworth, realizing that she might have sounded callous. He could be sentimental, especially when women and children were involved. But he nodded to show he agreed.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Morgan. I wondered if we should bring him in to the station.’

  ‘Have we got enough on him to do that?’

  ‘I’m not talking about an arrest,’ she grinned. ‘An invitation, that’s all. He’s an upstanding member of the community. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to help. He’d be less comfortable on our territory. What do you think?’ Usually that sort of question was rhetorical, but this time Vera really wanted Ashworth’s opinion.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Come on, Joey. Spit it out! You’re allowed to disagree with me. Every now and again.’

  ‘He’s good at playing the game, isn’t he? They had him in for questioning after the boy died. An interview at the station won’t be anything new to him. Probably not even very scary. He’ll make sure his solicitor’s there.’

  ‘What do you suggest then?’ She could hear the annoyance in her own voice. It’s all very well pulling holes in my ideas. More difficult to come up with a suggestion of your own.

  ‘What about taking him to his office at the Willows? That’ll inconvenience him, pull him out of his home just as he’s about to have his tea. While we’re picking him up, we can have a quick scout round the flat for evidence of Connie or the girl. It’ll be a neutral space, his office, but unsettling. I know he doesn’t keep any of his records there, but we can imply we have a specific reason for wanting to see it. Send him home in a taxi, and we’ll be . . .’

  ‘. . . almost in Barnard Bridge, to call in to Connie’s cottage before close of play.’ Vera grinned. ‘Eh, lad, I’ve taught you a couple of things at least while you’ve been working for me.’

  She decided to phone Morgan in advance to tell him they’d be collecting him. That would be more formal than just turning up on the doorstep. And phoning from her mobile from the end of his street, she’d see if he or Freya appeared suddenly with Connie and her daughter. Though that was never going to happen. Morgan might be a bastard, but he was too bright to keep them there.

  He was rattled by her insistence that they go to the Willows. ‘Is that really necessary, Inspector? There’s nothing at all to see.’

  ‘Of course we could always get a search warrant, if you’d prefer, Mr Morgan. That might take a few hours, though, and I wouldn’t really want to drag you out in the middle of the night.’

  He was alone in the flat. No Freya. When Ashworth asked, Morgan said she’d gone to a film with some friends. He tried to make out that he was pleased for her, but it sounded to Vera as if he was sulking about it. She asked to use the bathroom and had a sneaky look at the rest of the flat. One bedroom with a futon instead of a bed. Like sleeping, Vera thought, on a sheet of hardboard. Everything very clean and ordered. No room to hide a mouse. In the bathroom the towels were folded, the mirror shone. She couldn’t imagine Morgan taking his turn with the Hoover and wondered if that was down to Freya or a cleaner. If it were Freya, she’d be defecting soon enough without any intervention from outside.

  They drove to the Willows in complete silence. That was Vera’s idea. Morgan liked talking. It made him feel in control. Once, just as they came to the A69, he tried to start a conversation. ‘Has there been any development, Inspector?’

  But Vera responded immediately, breaking in before he’d finished the sentence. ‘We’ll leave that until we can talk properly, shall we?’

  During the drive she felt the tension rise in the man sitting behind her. At the Willows they made sure he was walking between them, not because they thought he’d try to escape, but to make him feel like a suspect. He used his electronic fob to get to the area closed to the public, and then again into the small room where he saw his patients.

  ‘Is that what you call them?’ Vera asked. They were sitting across a coffee table. There was a high bed against one wall, but these easy chairs must be where Morgan took the histories. She’d chosen the chair that she assumed he used. ‘Patients? Do you have any medical training?’

  ‘The training to become an acupuncturist is long and rigorous.’ He was determined not to be provoked, but he was finding it hard to keep the relaxed, amused tone he’d used with her before. There was a touch of petulance that made her want to cheer.

  ‘You’re not a doctor, though?’

  ‘Western medicine doesn’t have all the answers, Inspector.’

  ‘You’ll have heard about Danny Shaw.’ Changing the subject so abruptly that she saw Morgan blink. There wasn’t a seat for Ashworth and he stood, leaning against the door, blocking any escape. ‘Of course you will. No telly, I know, but it would have been in that fancy newspaper you read. No doubt about that. A second murder connected to the Willows. The press is loving it.’

  ‘It’s very sad,’ Morgan said, ‘but I can’t see what you think it might have to do with me.’

  ‘You were very close to Danny.’ Vera fired the words back at him. ‘Or so his mother says.’

  ‘That’s somewhat of an exaggeration.’

  ‘He admired you,’ Vera went on as if there’d been no interruption. ‘Admired your drive and the way you went for what you wanted. It must have been flattering to have a bright lad like that hanging off your every word.’

  And Morgan couldn’t help giving a little smile. Even here, with the two cops watching on, he couldn’t help being pleased with himself. ‘We had a couple of interesting discussions. As you say, he was a bright lad. Working in a place like this, you can miss intelligent conversation.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vera said. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking if that was why he’d taken up with Mattie and Freya. For the quality of the conversation. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘The afternoon before he died,’ Morgan said. ‘It must have been then.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ T
his chair was comfortable, more comfortable than any of the furniture in Morgan’s flat. Vera had to force herself to concentrate. Suddenly she thought it would have been very easy to drift off to sleep.

  ‘We met for a coffee in the lounge. Something we did most of the days when our shifts coincided.’

  ‘How did Danny seem?’ She shuffled her bum forward so that she was in a more upright position.

  Morgan took time to answer and that made Vera suddenly feel wide awake. Was he putting together a story in his head? That would mean he had something to hide.

  ‘I thought he was a bit jumpy,’ Morgan said at last.

  ‘In what way, jumpy?’ She leaned forwards, elbows on her knees, right in his face.

  ‘You know, tense, wired up. Perhaps he’d just had too much coffee. There could have been no more to it than that.’

  ‘Mr Morgan, you’re used to interpreting people’s physical responses. It’s how you make a living, how you persuade unhappy people to trust you. People like Lisa, who works here. People who can’t really afford your charges. And then you get your patients to confide in you. I want to know exactly what you made of Danny’s state that afternoon. And exactly what he said.’

  The room was very small and there was no natural light. It had a background smell that was faintly aromatic, a result of incense perhaps or scented candles. But now Vera could smell fear on the man who sat so close to her.

  ‘Like I said, he was wired up,’ Morgan said. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Hyper. At first I thought it might be drugs, but I think it was just adrenalin.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing specific. Really. Nothing that would help you find his killer.’

  ‘I really don’t think you’re qualified to make a decision about that.’ Vera’s voice rose in volume so that it filled the room.

  ‘He was asking questions,’ Morgan said. ‘About Jenny Lister and her part in the Elias Jones case. “You knew her, man. What was she like? Was she as prim and self-righteous as the papers made out?” It was rather distasteful actually. I’d have thought Danny would be above that sort of gossip.’

  ‘Did Danny tell you that he’d met Jenny? That Jenny’s daughter had once been the love of his life. That he blamed Jenny for splitting them up?’ Vera hadn’t put this thought into words before, but she was sure it was true. And it gave Danny a motive for murder.

  ‘No,’ Morgan said. ‘He didn’t tell me any of that.’ His voice was quiet and measured.

  ‘It doesn’t surprise you, though!’

  ‘No, it doesn’t surprise me. The interest he was taking in the Jenny Lister murder sounded like more than voyeuristic prurience. It seemed to me that it was personal.’

  ‘Do you think he killed her?’

  There was a pause. Morgan looked at her, said nothing.

  ‘It must have crossed your mind. All those questions.’ Vera waited again for an answer. At last it came.

  ‘He could have done,’ Morgan said. ‘Yeah, he was so wound up that he could have done.’

  But you would say that, Vera thought. If you were the murderer, what else would you say?

  Morgan looked around the room, like some performer, Vera thought, waiting for applause after a particularly dramatic moment. Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She continued the interview in the same tone as before. ‘Do you remember anything else about your conversation with Danny the day before he died?’

  Morgan frowned. ‘He went on about friendship. About how important our friendship was to him. He’d met lots of people in Bristol, but no one he could really be himself with. There was so much posing at university. I suppose I should have felt flattered, but by then I was just keen to get home and didn’t even take in everything he said. I’m afraid I cut him off and told him I had to rush. I feel very bad about that now. If I’d listened more carefully, been a true friend, perhaps his death could have been avoided.’

  Vera allowed him a moment of self-satisfied and mournful reflection before continuing. ‘You didn’t tell us you and Freya were in the hotel the morning Jenny Lister was strangled.’

  It was the last thing he was expecting and the look on his face made her feel like singing.

  She went on, ‘I know you have a very low opinion of the police, Mr Morgan, but you must have realized that we’d find out.’

  ‘Freya attended one of the exercise classes for pregnant women.’

  ‘Very nice.’ She looked at him, waiting for him to continue, eventually running out of patience. ‘And you, Mr Morgan? What were you up to?’

  ‘I was here,’ he said. ‘In this room. Catching up on some paperwork.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that before?’

  ‘Because, Inspector, you didn’t ask me.’

  Walking back to the car, Vera wanted to talk to Joe about the interview. She felt she’d handled it almost perfectly and with remarkable restraint, would have liked that recognized. But he’d switched his mobile back on and had it stuck to his ear, listening to the missed calls.

  ‘Well?’ When at last he put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘One from forensics. They found some scraps of paper unburned on the bonfire in the Shaws’ garden. Thought we might be interested. They reckon it’s Jenny Lister’s writing.’

  ‘Her notebook,’ Vera said, her thoughts firing away in all directions. ‘Maybe the outline of the stuff she was writing about Mattie.’

  ‘They’ve transcribed it and sent it as an email.’

  ‘And the other?’ Because Ashworth was tense and troubled, not as excited as he should have been by the forensic news.

  ‘From Connie Masters. Saying she’s OK, just taking a couple of days away.’

  ‘Well,’ Vera said. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? A bummer because we can’t show her the photos, but at least we know she’s safe.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He’d reached the car and stopped, looking back to the hotel. It was dusk and all the lights were on. ‘She sounded odd. I’d like you to listen to it.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  That night it rained, a sudden torrential downpour like a tropical storm. It began as Vera was running towards her house from the car and she was drenched by the time she’d got the door open. She stood just inside and shook herself like a dog, in her head blaming Ashworth, who’d kept her standing in the Willows car park, listening over and over again to the voicemail left by Connie. Maybe the woman did sound a bit strained, but Vera always felt flustered when she found herself talking to an automated voice too. She thought her sergeant was over-reacting, making a fuss about nothing. He’d insisted they go to the cottage in Barnard Bridge and they’d even looked inside again, but of course there was nobody there. Connie had explained in her message that she’d be staying away for a while. Without all that fannying about, Vera would have been home in the dry.

  Driving north, she’d thought she might call in to see her hippy neighbours for an hour to wind down. They were always welcoming. There’d likely be a pan of soup on the range and some of the home-brew that was a more effective relaxant than anything a doctor would prescribe. Now she couldn’t face the idea of wrapping herself up in waterproofs and paddling through the mud. Instead she lay in the bath listening to a gloomy play on the radio, then changed into the faded tracksuit she wore instead of pyjamas in the winter.

  Because she had the idea of soup firmly in her mind, she went in search of some and found a tin at the back of the larder that must have been there since Hector was still alive. Oxtail. His favourite. Heating it in a small pan, the smell brought him vividly to life. Hector, big and bullying, picking away at her confidence. Blaming her, she thought now, for being alive when her mother was dead. But what sort of parent would Vera have made if she’d had the chance to have children? Crap, she thought. She’d have been crap too. Much worse than Connie, or Jenny Lister, or even Veronica Eliot.

  There was a small room at the back of the house that she used as an office. Piles of p
aper that she had to climb over to get in, a computer that would soon be fit for a museum. She fired it up and went to make a cup of tea while it chugged into life. It still hadn’t quite made it by the time she returned with her mug and a packet of chocolate digestives. She had a quick memory of the child doctor who’d sent her to the health club to get fit, imagined her disapproval, then dismissed it. Digestives were wholewheat, weren’t they? Healthy enough.

  There was time for her to eat three biscuits before her email account was displayed on the screen. She opened the message from the scientist who’d been looking at the scraps of paper found in the bonfire burning in the garden at the Shaw house. Vera had asked Karen about the bonfire during the first interview in the neighbours’ house. ‘Did you or Derek light it before you went to work?’ It had seemed odd to Vera even then. Bonfires were for weekends, when you had the time to keep an eye on them. And Karen had looked at her as if she were mad, obviously had no idea what she was talking about. The bonfire had been nothing to do with her or Derek.

  Vera had persisted. ‘Danny then? Did he help you out in the garden sometimes?’

  At that, Karen had shaken her head sadly. ‘Danny didn’t really do helping. In the garden or anywhere else.’

  So the bonfire had been started by the murderer. That was the way Vera saw it. A mistake. Better to take any incriminating paper away with him and dispose of it carefully. So why the hurried fire in the garden? What was that about? Why the rush?

  There were really only scraps of text. Handwritten. By Jenny Lister. The forensic handwriting woman had been certain of that. It said so in the email: I’d be quite happy to appear in court. I’d stake my reputation . . . Blah, blah. Very dramatic. But good enough for Vera.

  They’d retrieved three different pages containing text, it seemed, and all three were partially charred, one so severely that they’d been lucky to get anything. The first page was the most intact, but contained what looked like a final paragraph. At least, the writing stopped a third of the way down the page. According to the lab, one corner was burned so the ends of some of the sentences were lost, and they’d re-created the pattern of the writing as accurately as they could on the screen. Vera thought that it wasn’t hard to make out the sense.