by Ann Cleeves
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Nine months ago she got into a fight in a Newcastle nightclub and stuck a bottle into another lass’s face. Only just missed her eye. She’s in prison.’ Paula looked around her at the cold and dusty room. ‘Annie and Sam sold up for nothing.’
Chapter Seventeen
Eight o’clock in Kimmerston police station. A weekday morning, but still the street outside was quiet. Sal had been on overnight toddler duty, so Joe felt refreshed, ready to take on the day. Ready to take on Vera. She was there before any of them and he wondered if she’d been in the building all night. Occasionally he’d found her asleep in the chair in her office at the start of the day. But she too looked bright and rested. No Holly. She’d been sent to take Alicia Randle to the hospital mortuary, so that she could view her son’s body. Even Charlie seemed awake. His daughter had moved home recently and he’d lost the air of depression and neglect that had lingered over him since his wife had left.
Vera had pinned a large-scale OS map on the board and started talking them through the geography, summing up for the new members of the team, who’d been drafted in to help. ‘This is the village of Gilswick. A pub, a church and a post office. Some older residents who’ve lived there for years, and lots of newcomers who commute to Newcastle or Kimmerston. Still, it’s a place where strangers are noticed, and I want all the houses canvassed. Let’s aim to do the whole community, even if it means repeat visits to catch folk in this evening. We know that Martin Benton arrived on the bus and Patrick Randle picked him up. Was anyone else seen in the place? We’re especially interested if they made their way down this valley.’ She pointed with a ruler to the map and looked around the room to check that she had their full attention.
‘This is where Randle’s body was found by Percy Douglas.’ Another stab at the map. ‘And this is the big house where Randle was the temporary house-sitter and where Benton’s body was found.’ A pause. ‘Joe, fill us in on what we know about our victims.’
Joe stood up. At one time he’d been nervous about taking centre-stage, but he thought Vera had cured him of that.
‘Patrick Randle. Only son of Alicia, who’s a widow. There was another boy, Simon, but he died before Patrick was born. Suicide. Patrick’s family was affluent. He went to an independent boys’ school and a good university. Graduated with a first, and went on to do a PhD in Exeter. Area of study was moths as an indicator of climate change. After the doctorate he decided to take a year out, before settling back into academia.’ For the first time Joe looked up from his notes. ‘Apparently that’s unusual. If you get offered a university post you grab onto it, before they change their minds. There’s fierce competition.’
‘So why did he take the year out?’ Vera could never keep quiet for very long in these sessions. ‘And why not do something a bit more exciting than house-sitting in rural Northumberland? It seems he separated from his long-term girlfriend at around the same time as he left university. Was that why he wanted to get away? Or was it a sign of some other crisis in his life?’ There was no answer in the room and she looked over at Joe. ‘Go on then! We don’t want to be sat here all day.’
Joe went back to his notes, though he knew the details off by heart. ‘The second victim is Martin Benton. Also the only son of a mother who doted on him, but from a very different background. Local comp, Northumbria Uni, before training to be a teacher. Suffered periods of work-related stress, before signing on for long-term sickness benefit. He was recently reassessed and found fit for work. But instead of registering for Jobseekers’ Allowance, he decided to go self-employed. We have no indication of what kind of business he set up. We know he was a whizz with computers and a skilled photographer, but we can’t find any promotional material or business plan. In fact there’s very little of interest on his PC – he seems to have been an obsessional deleter. The IT guys are digging around in it now. And although he set up a filing cabinet, there are no labels and all the files are empty. Maybe it was all still in the planning stage.’ He paused to catch his breath and Vera jumped in.
‘That reminds me,’ she said. ‘There was a Manila folder in the back of Randle’s car. Has Billy Cartwright still got it?’
The question was directed at Joe. He thought, Why am I supposed to be the person with the answer? ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen it.’
‘Track it down, will you? It might be important.’ Vera looked up sharply. ‘And get on with it, Joe. Let’s have a sense of urgency here.’
Joe glared at her, but Vera only smiled.
‘Benton wore a suit for his trip to Gilswick and it’s possible that his meeting with Randle was work-related, that he’d found his first client.’ Joe took a breath. ‘Apart from a vaguely similar family structure, the only thing Benton had in common with Randle was an interest in moths. He was a keen amateur entomologist.’
‘Uh?’ Charlie’s first contribution.
‘Someone interested in insects.’
‘Thanks, Joe.’ Vera flashed him a smile, the only praise he was likely to get for his presentation. She turned back to the map. ‘After the big house, the lane follows the valley for about a mile and a half. The next house you come to is the bungalow where Percy Douglas and his daughter Susan live. She moved back with her dad when she got divorced, and her life’s work is to keep him on the straight and narrow. She cleans both for the Carswells and for all the residents of the Valley Farm development, which is here.’ The ruler hit the map again. ‘As you see, the track peters out into a footpath after the houses and then forks – one path leads down through the trees to the burn, and the other goes onto the hill and circles back to the village. It’s a popular route for walkers, and we could do with a media release asking anyone who was there on Tuesday afternoon and early evening to come forward. We’ll get Hol to work with the press office on that, when she’s seen Alicia Randle safely onto her train.’
Vera tracked her ruler back down the map until it rested on the blocks of colour that marked the house and barn conversions at Valley Farm. ‘Yesterday I spoke to all the folk who live here. An interesting group. All recently retired and relatively well off. Too much time on their hands, and nothing to think about but good works and getting pissed. So it seemed to me. First, in the barn conversion, we have Sam and Annie Redhead. They used to own and manage the restaurant in Kimmerston, but sold up in rather interesting circumstances.’
Joe listened to the information she’d gained from Paula the night before, and thought Vera was some sort of witch. How had she learned so much from a brief chat at the end of dinner?
‘Annie told me her daughter was working away,’ Vera said. ‘But having a daughter inside is probably not something you’d boast about to a stranger.’
‘I know Crow,’ Charlie said. ‘Teflon man. Nothing sticks to him.’
‘Capable of murder, do you think?’ Vera’s eyes were bright. Joe thought she was in terrier mode, sniffing out more leads.
‘Capable of anything. He’s famous, Jay Crow, for being a cold and ruthless bastard.’ Charlie stared at her. ‘But I can’t see what the motive might be. Why kill a couple of geeks who have nothing to do with his business? Who are no threat to him.’
‘Quite. I think someone should have a chat with Lizzie Redhead, though. Joe, can you do that? She’s being kept out of harm’s way in Sittingwell Prison. Apparently she likes the men, so see if you can charm some information from her. Find out if she’s ever had any contact with our victims. I don’t quite see her as a woman with a passion for natural history, but we need to check.’
Joe nodded, but felt a sudden gloom. He disliked prison visits. It wasn’t the smells, the catcalls from the inmates or being locked up. He knew he was a daft bugger, but it was coming out at the end of the session and hearing the door shut behind him, knowing that the people he’d just interviewed were still inside. ‘It might take a while,’ he said. ‘You know what they’re like these days about visits.’
‘This is a murder inquiry.’ Sh
e shot the words back at him. ‘Tell them you need to see her today.’
Sittingwell was an open establishment. Joe had checked out Lizzie Redhead’s records with the prison department. She’d spent a month in a local dispersal prison and then been sent here. Middle-class and first-time offender, so it had been decided she posed no security risk. Once Sittingwell had been a grand house. Victorian Gothic. Then a home for ‘fallen’ women, then a sanatorium. It still had the trappings of the original grand house. There were tennis courts in the grounds, but the nets had been removed and grass was growing through the hard surface. The lawns were mowed, but most of the flowerbeds were overgrown, with occasional patches where they’d been freshly weeded. A high wall surrounded the place, but there was no razor wire, no clanging gates. In reception Joe handed over his phone and signed in, then waited in a small interview room for Lizzie Redhead to be delivered to him.
The room might once have been the hospital’s office. It had a high ceiling and a large sash window. The prison was pleasant enough in late spring, though it still had the institutional smell of disinfectant and overcooked greens. In winter Joe imagined it would be unforgiving; an easterly wind would rattle the draughty windows and the big trees would be bare and gloomy. Outside a work party was pushing bedding plants into a patch of soil close to the main door. The women seemed happy enough, chatting with the prison officer in charge, breaking out into an occasional burst of laughter, but most of them were of an age when they’d have small children and his thoughts were with the kids. Sittingwell had a mother-and-baby unit, but once the children were toddlers they were sent away to live with relatives or foster parents.
The door opened and Lizzie was brought in. Joe stood up and held out his hand. Vera had told him to charm her. Even in her uniform denim and ill-fitting jeans she was stunning to look at. Coppery hair and white, flawless skin. Not too skinny. Sal was always on a diet, though Joe had told her she looked better when she was eating properly. Lizzie took a seat at the little table and looked across at him. He felt flustered and for a moment forgot how he’d planned to start the interview. She didn’t speak and there was a silence that he found awkward, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all.
‘What am I supposed to have done now?’ she said at last, her voice amused. She leaned back in her chair. Her accent was classy and he wondered how she fitted in here. Even in an open prison, she’d be out of place.
‘There have been two murders near to your parents’ home.’
‘Well, you can’t blame those on me.’ When she smiled he saw that her teeth were small and very white, oddly sharp. A carnivore’s teeth. There was something about her that reminded him of a fox. ‘I’ve been in here for three months.’
Joe felt like a new officer. His brain had turned to sawdust and he’d lost control of the interview already. ‘Jason Crow,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like you much. He’s not the sort to take kindly to people who steal from him.’
‘I’m sure he hates my guts.’ She paused and gave a brief smile. ‘But he wouldn’t kill two strangers just to inconvenience my parents.’
‘Were they strangers?’
‘What do you mean?’ Lizzie was playing for time. Or just playing with him.
‘Did you know either of the victims? You’ll have a telly in here. You’ll have seen the story on the news.’
‘I don’t watch television much. Most of what’s on is drivel.’ She looked up at him. ‘Remind me.’
‘Patrick Randle and Martin Benton. Patrick was a student. Not local. Martin was a teacher a while ago.’ Joe had a sudden thought. ‘Maybe he taught you?’ The timings would fit.
She paused for a moment. Thinking. Or pretending to think. ‘The names don’t ring any bells. I hated school. I’ve tried to forget all that.’
‘You didn’t come across those names when you were working for Crow?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember them.’
There was another silence, broken this time by Joe. ‘What’s it like in here?’
She seemed surprised by the question. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Some of the screws are okay.’ She paused. ‘My parents sent me away to boarding school when I was thirteen. They said all I needed was a bit of discipline, and to get away from the bad crowd in Kimmerston. That was much worse than being inside. Everyone hated me. I was only there for six months. The same sentence as I got for nearly blinding a woman. Here everyone’s screwed up and I’m one of the sane ones. Almost responsible. It makes a change to be one of the good guys.’
‘Do you know anything about moths?’
‘What?’ She looked at him as if he was mad. He’d have bet a month’s salary she wasn’t acting this time.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It was just a long shot.’
Outside the gardeners were moving on to a different flowerbed, piling tools onto a wheelbarrow. He could hear another peal of laughter, remembered the tabloid papers’ descriptions of open prisons as holiday camps and pushed the thought away.
‘How are my mum and dad?’
‘Don’t they come and visit?’
‘My mother does. My father can’t bear to. He loved the restaurant and he blames me for having to sell up.’ She stared at the women outside. ‘Quite right too. It was all my fault.’ She stared out of the window. ‘Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me, why I can’t be like other people. It’s boredom mostly. I’ve always got bored so easily.’ Another pause. ‘I’ve got less than a week to go before I’m released. Full remission. Like I said, I’ve been a good girl.’ She didn’t sound delighted by the prospect of leaving prison.
‘Will you go and stay with your parents?’ Joe thought if Lizzie had been bored in Kimmerston, the house at the end of the valley would drive her to madness in a matter of hours.
‘For a while,’ she said. ‘I suppose. Until I get myself sorted out.’
‘You could see it as a new chance.’
She grinned, showing the sharp fox’s teeth. ‘You sound like my social worker.’
‘Aye, well, my boss always says I’m a soft touch.’ As soon as he spoke he thought that instead of charming Lizzie Redhead, he’d been charmed by her. Vera would have been better sending Holly, who was never taken in by anyone’s sob-story.
He stood up and opened the door to tell the prison officer outside that the interview was over.
‘So you can’t help about these murders?’
She shook her head and got to her feet, but the officer gestured for her to stay where she was.
‘You’ve got another visitor. Popular today. You might as well wait here.’
So Joe left on his own, without really having a chance to say goodbye to her. He turned to look as he was led away, but Lizzie had her back to him and was nibbling her nails and staring into space.
In reception he had to wait while a smartly dressed woman was let in through the outer door. He listened while the officer behind the glass signed her in. Her name was Shirley Hewarth and she said she was from the charity Hope North-East. When she’d passed through into the prison, Joe spoke to the officer on the gate. ‘Any idea who she was going to visit?’
He thought the man would refuse to answer, but he only sounded bored. ‘The same lass as you. Elizabeth Redhead.’ He looked up briefly from his paperwork. ‘Bloody do-gooders, eh?’
Chapter Eighteen
Lizzie watched the detective leave the room. She’d been surprised to see him there when the screw had brought her in. She’d been expecting Shirley Hewarth. Joe Ashworth hadn’t seemed much like a detective to her. He was too gentle. Good-looking enough, but not her type. He talked more like a doctor or a priest. He’d be no real match for her. There’d be no steel in him. No fire. Nothing to hit against.
She looked out of the window while she waited for her new visitor to arrive, imagined Ashworth walking out through the main door, getting into his car and driving through the gate. She thought she’d soon be there too. Outside. The women talked about Outside as if it w
as a different place in a different universe. But lots of them were at Sittingwell because they were working towards a release date after years inside a high-security prison. Lizzie had met murderers here. Women who’d killed their kids. Their men. Of course they’d be daunted to be leaving. She didn’t think she’d find it so hard to adjust to the outside world. She had plans.
The policeman’s visit had been a shock. She couldn’t have anticipated a double-murder in the valley. She was running through the implications of the news when the door opened and Shirley Hewarth came in. The woman always looked very smart. Professional. Lizzie liked that about her. She thought appearances mattered. Shirley had brought a bag of sweets and opened them on the table, nodded for Lizzie to take one. Lizzie took a sherbet lemon. Her favourite. She liked the sharp burst of sherbet on her tongue when the hard lemon case was shattered.
‘So, Lizzie. Only a few days until your release. We should be thinking of your future.’
Lizzie nodded. She thought any screw listening in to the conversation would be completely misled. The conversation sounded just like any other pre-release interview between a social worker and an offender. They would never guess that Shirley and Lizzie shared secrets. And, sure enough, there were footsteps on the parquet floor in the hall outside as the officer moved away to sit at the desk in reception.
‘I’m going to chat with your mother,’ Shirley went on. ‘Is that okay with you?’
‘Why do you need to talk to her?’ Lizzie looked up sharply.
‘You’ll be staying with her, won’t you?’
Lizzie thought about that. Her parents didn’t feature in the pictures she held in her head. But she was suddenly surprised by a wave of emotion as she thought how it would be good to spend some time with them. Inside, she’d come to enjoy the ritual of daily life. The calmness of the expected. Her parents would provide that for her too. It would be a good place to make decisions and set her up for her next big adventure.
