Silent Voices (Vera Stanhope 4)

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘And where was the other camera?’ Sometimes, Vera thought, patience was the only way to deal with Charlie.

  ‘There was only one, but the car appeared on it twice.’ The second biscuit crumbled and fell into the tea before he had a chance to eat it. He swore under his breath and scooped it out with his spoon.

  ‘Why don’t you explain to me, Charlie? Words of one syllable. I’m a bit brain-dead after spending most of the day in this place.’

  ‘Yesterday, nine o’clock in the morning, the car goes east.’

  ‘So towards Newcastle.’

  ‘Aye, but if she were going into Newcastle, wouldn’t she just cut onto the A69 and go down the dual carriageway?’

  ‘I don’t know, Charlie, maybe she wanted to go on the scenic route!’ But would she? Vera wondered. If Connie were scared and had somewhere in mind to run to, wouldn’t she just choose the quickest road?

  Charlie ignored that and continued. ‘Then an hour and twenty minutes later she drove back west, past the same camera.’

  ‘So where was she going?’ Vera was talking to herself now. ‘Certainly not into Newcastle. There’d hardly be time to get there and back, never mind do whatever she wanted while she was there. Unless she just wanted to drop off her daughter for safekeeping. But that would be with the father, and he says he’s not heard from her, and why should he lie? To Hexham then? To pick up a load of food from the supermarket, if she’s planning to go into hiding. I had an idea, but I must have got everything wrong.’

  ‘If she carried on driving she’d end up in Carlisle,’ Charlie said. ‘From there, Scotland or anywhere in north-west England.’

  ‘I don’t need a geography lesson, man!’

  And I don’t need reminding that this is needle-andhaystack territory.

  They sat for a moment in silence. Doreen threw a log onto the fire and it must have been damp because it hissed and oozed sap.

  ‘Holly said an early finish might be in order.’ Charlie gave her a look, hopeful, almost pleading. It reminded her of one of those big, soft, slack-jawed dogs, the sort she’d always hated and felt like kicking under the table when the owner wasn’t looking. The sort that drooled.

  ‘Not for you, bonny lad.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘You’ve still got that car to find. I know you’re not one for leaving a job half done.’

  Now it was quite dark outside and though she thought the rain had started again because the lights that lined the drive were misty, filtered by the moisture, she couldn’t hear it. If there were still guests in the hotel they must be hidden in their rooms. No cars approached the house, though she watched Charlie’s leave. She thought she should be kinder to him. There was no real sport in having a go at him. But at this sort of job he was the best on the team, and she’d told him that too, before he’d shrugged on his stained raincoat and walked away from her.

  She shouted to Doreen to bring her a bowl of chips, maybe a burger if they could run to it. When the food arrived she had her eyes shut and was lost in thought – not relaxed at all, but the ideas bouncing around in her brain, random images colliding and connecting and almost making sense. She ate too quickly because she didn’t want to lose the thread of her deliberations and ended up with indigestion that stayed with her all night.

  Later she made a call to Durham prison. ‘Yes, I know what time it is. But this is urgent. I need to get a message to Mattie Jones. Even better, let me speak to her.’

  But the governor was unsympathetic. He’d been called in on his night off. There’d been a suicide and then trouble on one of the wings. They’d done an early lock-up in the hope of calming things down. He implied that he wouldn’t put the safety of his officers and inmates at risk on the whim of a policewoman. Vera pressed him, but without success. There was surely nothing, he said, patronizing and unmoving, that couldn’t wait until the morning.

  As soon as that call was ended, Ashworth rang. Hannah Lister was back home, he said. He didn’t know where she’d spent the afternoon, but he’d seen her arrive. Simon was there too now. Did Vera want him to chat to her?

  ‘No,’ Vera said. ‘Best leave things be, for tonight.’

  For the last time she stood up and halted in front of the fire. There was a temptation to stay where she was, to curl up in the big armchair and sleep the night there. But she went out into the soft, dark evening, intending to drive home.

  Halfway there the idea came to her, sudden, like a light bulb flashing above her head in the cartoons she read when she was a child. In comics bought for her by Hector because he loved them too. She did a U-turn the next place she came to and went south and east towards the coast.

  Tynemouth was hidden by the misty drizzle and she came on it suddenly, the lamps on the wide main street hardly throwing enough light to park the car. Outside there was a smell of salt and seaweed. The foghorn was sounding, as it had that first time she’d come to interview Morgan.

  There were no lights on in his flat. She looked at her watch. Nine o’clock. Too early, surely, for the couple to be in bed. All the same she rang the bell and banged on the door. No answer. Someone appeared in the mist at the top of the street. Tall as Morgan and wearing a long coat, a snug hat that gave the same outline as a bald head would. But it wasn’t him, she saw as he approached. This man was younger, a student.

  Still she refused to give up and she walked through the village, checking all the bars and restaurants, looking for Morgan or his woman. Looking quite mad, she realized, as she grew more desperate. All she wanted was confirmation, for Morgan to dig into his memory, to relive his conversations with Mattie Jones and Danny Shaw. A few words to make sense of the whole drama. There was no sign of them and at last, after trying the flat for one last time, she went back to her car. When she arrived home, she saw it was midnight.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The water rose silently in the night. There was no wind, no rain like pebbles against the window, but, instead, a persistently steady downpour. When Vera woke it was to quite a different landscape, a countryside dominated by water. Looking down from her house, she saw that the banks of the lough had breached in places and become indistinct, almost lacy in outline, ditches had become rivers, then seeped into low meadows and formed a string of pools. But the sky was lighter now and the rain had stopped.

  It was just dawn and she was woken by her phone. Charlie. My God, he’s been up all night. ‘I’ve found the car.’ His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been speaking all night too, but triumphant.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far from where the CCTV picked it up in Effingham. There’s a small business park on the Barnard Bridge side of the village. It’s in the car park there.’

  ‘Bloody hell, man, how did you find it?’

  ‘I looked.’

  And she imagined him driving round in the dark and the rain, checking every side street and lay-by in the Tyne valley.

  ‘Are you still there now?’

  ‘Yeah, I found it about an hour ago, but I reckoned you needed your beauty sleep.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered about that!’

  ‘Aye, well, I was so knackered I dropped off myself, before I got round to calling you.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re too honest for your own good, Charlie. You’ll never make management. Can you give me the names of the businesses?’

  There was a pause and she heard him shift in his seat. She pictured him looking at a noticeboard at the car-park entrance. She knew exactly the sort of place this would be: half a dozen units in tidy brick buildings, housing insurance companies, IT firms, some local businesses, some household names. After all, the rents would be lower here than in the city.

  He reeled them off for her: ‘Swift Computing, Northumbrian Organic Foods, Fenham and Bright Communications, General—’

  ‘Stop there, Charlie. Christopher Eliot works for Fenham and Bright. Treat the car as a crime scene and don’t let anyone close to it, but don’t call in the CSIs until I’ve spoken to the man. Wa
tch him come in to work, and only stop him if he tries to leave.’ Then she remembered he’d been up all night. ‘I’ll get Holly to relieve you.’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother. I can hang on for as long as it’ll take you to get here.’

  ‘But I’m not coming straight to the Tyne valley. I’ve got to see Morgan first. I need to get a few facts straight before I have a go at the Eliots.’ She was already dressing, rooting in the drawers for clean underwear, deciding that the skirt she’d had on the day before would be fine. Just as well Crimplene didn’t crease. No time for a shower. All the way south she was on the phone, using the hands-free kit she’d transferred into Hector’s Land Rover, choosing that over her own car because she thought it would make it better through the flood.

  At first she thought Michael Morgan had done a runner. The curtains to the flat were still closed and though it was still too early for his clinic to open, she’d have expected some sign of life. She’d imagined him and Freya breakfasting on organic muesli and yoghurt after an hour’s yoga. Whale calls as background music.

  She banged on the door, aware of neighbours looking from windows across the street. They’d remember her from the night before. Any minute now they’d be calling the police. Neighbourhood Watch would be big in Tynemouth. It was that sort of place. Just as she was thinking she’d cut her losses and head straight off to meet up with Charlie, she heard footsteps on the stairs and the door was opened.

  She saw immediately that Morgan had been drinking. Maybe all night, or maybe he’d had a couple of hours’ sleep and woken up with a hangover that hadn’t quite kicked in yet because he was still pissed. She was an expert. He was wearing loose jogging pants and a hooded sweater and he stank of alcohol and sweat.

  ‘My God, man, I thought you were into clean living.’ She pushed the door further open and he stumbled back a little before following her upstairs. She drew the curtains and opened windows at both ends of the room. There was an empty vodka bottle on the floor, a tumbler beside it. Without speaking, she went into the kitchen and made two mugs of instant coffee.

  ‘Did Freya buy this?’ She held up the jar of Fair-trade instant and shook it at him. ‘You’re into the real stuff, aren’t you? You and Danny Shaw were both snobby about your coffee.’

  ‘Freya’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’ Inside she gave a little cheer, but she kept her voice sympathetic. You could have taken her for a social worker.

  ‘She’s fallen for someone else. One of the other drama students. Brilliant actor, apparently. Destined for stardom.’ With each phrase he grew more bitter. Vera wondered how much of his reaction was grief that Freya had left him and how much was shock that she’d dared choose someone else over him. Like Danny, when Hannah had dumped him. Pride was something else the two men had in common.

  ‘Well, she’s very young,’ Vera said. ‘Too young to settle down maybe.’

  ‘But I wanted to settle down!’ It came out almost like a scream. ‘I wanted a home and a family. I wanted all those things everyone else has.’

  ‘It’s not all about what you want though, is it, pet?’ She thought he was like one of those toddlers she saw occasionally in the supermarket, lying on the floor and kicking and shouting because his mam wouldn’t buy him an ice cream. ‘Besides, I’ve got more important things to talk about than your love life. Drink that coffee and get yourself sorted. I need some questions answering and I haven’t got all day.’ She lowered herself on the futon in the living room and waited for him to follow her.

  Later, when the interview was over and she’d heaved herself to her feet ready to go, he said: ‘I really cared for Freya, you know. It wasn’t just about me.’

  And Mattie Jones really cared for you. But she didn’t spend a night getting pissed on cheap vodka; she killed her child. Vera looked at him and said nothing. Perhaps after all she couldn’t blame him for that.

  Charlie was still in the business park when Vera arrived there. She slid into his car on the passenger seat. Holly and Joe were already in the back. The complex was smart and landscaped, the visitor parking hidden from the office blocks by a row of trees and shrubs.

  ‘That’s Connie’s car.’ Charlie pointed to a far corner, which was still in shadow. ‘I nearly missed it.’ He didn’t smell quite as bad as Morgan, but he was on the way. It looked as if he hadn’t shaved for days and there was a mound of cigarette ends in the ashtray.

  ‘Has Eliot gone in?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never met him, but the car you described arrived at eight-thirty, parked in a reserved space near the door and a tall gent with grey hair went inside.’

  ‘That’ll be him then.’ Vera looked at her watch. It was not long after nine. ‘Joe, you come with me. Holly, you stay here and get the CSIs all over that car like a rash. Charlie, you go home and shower.’

  He started to argue. ‘You’re the hero here,’ she said, ‘and we won’t forget it. Shower, shave, an hour’s kip and you can come back. You won’t miss anything exciting. We’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘What do Fenham and Bright do then?’ Ashworth asked. She was walking fast towards the office building and Joe was trotting to keep up with her, so his question came out in short bursts.

  ‘Set up phone and Internet services, mostly in developing countries. That’s why Christopher Eliot travels so much.’ She’d googled the company after meeting Eliot in the White House.

  ‘You think he’s involved in Connie’s disappearance?’

  ‘I won’t know,’ Vera said, ‘until I ask him.’

  They walked through a swing door into the office reception. Two glossy women were sitting behind the desk and talking about the floods, loving the vicarious drama of it. ‘Did you see the local news on the television? That car being washed away? Some places the electric’s down.’ There were plants in big tubs on either side of the desk and they were glossy too.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The accent was Ashington with a posh veneer.

  ‘I hope you can, pet. I need to speak to Christopher Eliot.’

  The response was immediate and automatic. ‘Mr Eliot’s tied up all day, I’m afraid. Perhaps his secretary can help.’

  Vera put her warrant card on the desk. ‘Like I said, I need to speak to Mr Eliot. Just point us in the direction of his office. No need to let him know we’re on our way.’ Swinging through the door into the corridor, she stopped and turned back, enjoyed seeing the look of outrage on the woman’s face. ‘Some of our colleagues will be working in the car park very soon. Teas and coffees all round, please. Much appreciated.’ Hearing Joe chuckle at her side, Vera felt on top of the world.

  Eliot’s office was on the first floor with a view of woodland and the hills in the distance. She thought he seemed more at home here than he did in the White House. He could have been a soldier, she thought. An officer, of course. One of those ordered men who can pack up all their worldly goods into a backpack and function equally well in Afghanistan or South Georgia. His passport would have stamps from all over the world. But this was his HQ for the moment. There was a map on the wall, red pins stuck throughout the continent of Africa. On the desk a photograph of two small boys.

  ‘Is this Patrick?’ Vera pointed to the smaller. He was slight and fair, took after his father more than his mother.

  Eliot still sat at his desk. He’d risen briefly when Vera had come in. ‘Inspector Stanhope?’ A greeting, as well as a chilly enquiry about the intrusion. Now he looked at the photograph. It was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking. ‘Yes, that’s Patrick. It was taken on his second birthday. He died a week later.’

  ‘No photographs of him at home.’ Not a question.

  He frowned. ‘We all grieve in our own way, Inspector.’

  ‘You never considered having another child?’

  Vera thought he was going to tell her to mind her own business, which is what she’d have done in the circumstances, but perhaps he was grateful for the opportunity to discuss it, ev
en with a stranger like her.

  ‘I’d have liked another baby, but Veronica wouldn’t hear of it. She said she couldn’t take the risk. What if something were to happen, to go wrong? She couldn’t bear another lost child. It would kill her.’

  ‘Did that seem like an extreme reaction to you?’ Vera kept her voice low and gentle.

  He shrugged. ‘As I said, Inspector, we all grieve in our own way.’

  ‘Of course.’ And yours is to keep moving: hours spent in airports, drives in trucks on dusty roads, new faces, new places. No attachment. ‘Where did you meet Veronica?’

  This time he did question her reason for asking.

  ‘Humour me,’ she said.

  And he did, perhaps as used to taking orders as to giving them.

  ‘It was at the Willows Hotel. An engagement party. Through friends of friends. I think I’d known her as a child. You know how it is when you grow up in the same region. Her parents were rather grander than mine, but they had no money. There was a very sad story about a fire and the house being uninsured. But the party at the Willows was the first time we really spoke. She’d been away, I think. Some au-pair job up in the Borders for friends of her parents. She was lovely. Still is, of course, but then she was stunningly beautiful.’

  Loyalty. Another of a soldier’s virtues.

  He took a small photograph from his wallet. There was Veronica in her early twenties. Very slender and pale. Long dark hair, pushed back from her face. Serious. No hint of laughter.

  ‘Was Simon Veronica’s first child?’ Vera asked.

  ‘Of course!’ He gave a little laugh. ‘It was a very uncomplicated pregnancy. There’d been no problems, no history of miscarriage. Nothing like that. He was a bit early and I missed the actual birth, arrived in from the Middle East when all the messy bits were over. But it was quite straightforward. That was why I thought we could risk another baby after Patrick had died.’ He looked up. ‘What is all this about, Inspector?’