The Moth Catcher (Vera Stanhope series Book 7)

by Ann Cleeves

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘Did you ever see him again?’

  Jonathan shook his head. ‘My mother asked if I wanted to visit him in hospital that summer. But I’d found out that he was in St David’s. You know, the loony bin. Mum said she’d go with me, but I couldn’t face it.’ A pause. ‘That seems so mean now. Callous. I’m glad he wasn’t alone when he died. It was a double-murder, wasn’t it? I read it in the paper. He was visiting a friend.’

  Holly didn’t like to say that the bodies hadn’t been found together, that Randle had been killed in the vegetable garden and Benton inside the house, or that they still didn’t have any real idea of the relationship between the two men. She stood up. Jack stood too, but Jonathan was still, frozen in the past, reliving memories of his youth when the worst thing he had to face was the awkwardness of telling a former teacher that he no longer shared his passion for the natural world.

  At the door Holly stopped for a moment and turned to Jack Hewarth. ‘You still can’t remember why Patrick Randle’s name seems familiar?’

  ‘Sorry. I have been trying. But the more I think about it, the further away it slips.’

  ‘If you do, will you give me a ring?’

  ‘Sure.’ But he seemed disengaged again and she could tell he had no hope of the memory returning.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  At mid-morning the weather started to change and a blustery wind from the west made it feel like spring instead of summer. Joe had tracked down the chairman of the trustees of Hope North-East and had arranged to meet him. He’d stuck his head into Vera’s office before setting off and had found her in a philosophical mood. She got that way sometimes.

  ‘This case is full of people worried about dying.’ She’d leaned towards him, her eyes gleaming as if she was fascinated by death, not worried by it. ‘They can feel their time running out. The murders must have made the fear more real. Daft, isn’t it? We’ve all got to go sometime.’

  Joe wondered how he’d respond to news that he had a terminal illness. He didn’t think he’d be able to keep it secret. He’d even like the fuss and attention. And it might be exciting to be so close to death. He’d be reckless for the first time in his life. Drink too much. Take risks.

  ‘Perhaps fear in the abstract is worse than facing the immediate reality.’ Vera had still seemed preoccupied by morbid thoughts, but her voice had been cheerful. She probably wasn’t afraid of anything. Joe hadn’t bothered answering.

  Hope’s chair of trustees was a labour councillor and former union man. He lived in a miners’ welfare cottage on the outskirts of Bebington. Joe knew of him through his father. They’d been comrades-in-arms, the same post-war generation. John Laidlaw had been a kind of hero in their family. The cottage was neat, the garden tended. A handrail had been fixed close to the front door, and through the window Joe saw an elderly woman sitting with a piece of embroidery on her knee, a walking frame propped beside her. She seemed to be drowsing, but the man who opened the door was spry and fit and looked younger than his wife.

  ‘You’ll be Bobby Ashworth’s son. This is a terrible business. Come into the kitchen, so we don’t disturb Doreen. She had a stroke last year and hasn’t been herself since.’

  John Laidlaw was dressed in his Sunday best, shirt and tie and shining shoes. Joe thought he’d probably just come back from chapel. They sat on plastic chairs across a Formica table.

  ‘Shirley Hewarth was the best thing that happened to Hope. I got to know her when I was a magistrate. I knew she wasn’t happy with the way the probation service was going. Nobody in their right mind would be . . .’ The last was thrown out as a challenge. The former miner still saw a police officer as a potential enemy. ‘I offered her the job as director. Never thought she’d accept.’ A quick grin. ‘Then we had to find the money to pay her.’

  ‘Why do you think she did accept?’ That had been bothering Joe since he’d first encountered the woman.

  ‘Because she had principles and a social conscience.’ To John Laidlaw the answer was obvious. ‘She knew people coming out of prison are more likely to reoffend without support.’

  Joe remembered the woman he’d met, the glimpse of the lacy bra. He thought there’d been more to Shirley Hewarth than a social conscience.

  ‘What did she bring to your organization?’

  ‘A professional approach. Before that, we were a glorified self-help group. Ex-offenders providing advice for their mates. And I’d use my contacts to drag in some volunteers to run occasional sessions. It was more like a drop-in centre. It served to keep lads off the street, but not much more than that. Shirley knew her way round the funding system and managed to pull in pots of money from a variety of sources. That meant we could run training courses, evaluate the work we were doing, provide individual counselling to clients who needed it. Then, because we had some credibility, statutory agencies bought in our services.’ Laidlaw stopped for breath.

  ‘I take it you had the accounts properly audited?’

  ‘What are you suggesting, man?’ Laidlaw’s voice was quiet, but he was angry enough to bunch one hand into a fist on the table.

  ‘Two people involved in your organization have been killed. I’m trying to find a reason. If someone had been fiddling the books, that might provide a motive.’

  ‘Nobody’s been fiddling the books. We run that place on a shoestring. The people working there put in more than they took out. I know damn fine that Shirley worked double the hours she was contracted for.’ When Laidlaw spoke, Joe pictured his father preaching. Both men full of righteous indignation, fuelled by class resentment.

  ‘What about Martin Benton?’ Joe asked. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I was on the interview panel that appointed him for the temporary IT post. That was Shirley’s idea. She said they were wasting time on admin when they could be working face-to-face with clients. I saw him in the office a couple of times after that, but I never felt I knew him.’

  ‘He was your chosen candidate?’ Joe was finding the interview trickier than he’d expected. Laidlaw had years of experience as a local politician. Not giving a straight answer was wired into his DNA.

  ‘He seemed to work wonders in the place when he was on the short-term contract, and had the commitment to come back as a volunteer.’ Laidlaw frowned. ‘Besides, Shirley vouched for him and that was good enough for me.’

  Joe wondered if Laidlaw had been distracted by the lacy bra too. If, in his later years, he’d seen the possibility of a different sort of life, one not restricted by Christian socialist morality. ‘But what did you think of Benton when you interviewed him?’

  ‘Why, he seemed a nondescript man,’ Laidlaw said. ‘No personality. As soon as he walked out of the door I’d forgotten what he looked like or how he’d answered his questions. But he was the best qualified and Shirley wanted him, so we gave him the post.’

  ‘When did you last see Shirley?’

  ‘About a fortnight ago. A trustees’ meeting.’ Laidlaw paused. ‘I had a call from her since, though. Friday lunchtime.’

  Joe looked up sharply. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘She wanted to fix up a meeting. Nothing urgent, she said, but she could use some advice.’ Laidlaw paused again. ‘I felt flattered, you know. Usually she was dishing out advice, not asking for it.’

  Joe thought there was the beginning of a pattern here. Shirley had set up a meeting with her ex-husband too. How had she thought these older men could help her?

  Laidlaw was continuing. ‘I told her I was free that afternoon. Doreen has the Women’s Guild on a Friday afternoon, so I could call into the Hope office after I’d dropped her off at the chapel. But Shirley said she already had a meeting and could we make it early next week.’

  ‘Did she tell you who she planned to visit on Friday afternoon?’ Joe tried to keep his voice easy, but could hear the excitement in it.

  Laidlaw was scathing. ‘Do you think I’m daft, lad? I’d worked out she mig
ht have arranged to meet her killer. If she’d given me more details, don’t you think I’d have told you?’

  In the silence that followed Joe’s mobile rang, startling them both. Joe thought Laidlaw was more tense and nervy than he was letting on. He answered his phone. It was Vera, chirpy. ‘Can you get yourself back here? Billy Cartwright’s got some news.’

  Driving back to the police station Joe found his mind wandering to the first time he’d met John Laidlaw. It had been at his grandfather’s funeral. His grandad had been ill for months: lung cancer, probably caused by smoking Capstan Full Strength tabs and spending his early years underground in the pit. Joe had been a young boy and could just remember the occasion. The chapel full of old men. John Laidlaw had done a reading. On the way to the crem, Joe had asked his father what it was like to be dead. ‘We can never know for sure,’ his father had said. ‘It’ll be everyone’s last big adventure.’ Even as a child Joe had been surprised. He’d heard his father preach about life in the hereafter and had expected something more positive. More certain.

  Back in the station, Vera was in the office with Holly. ‘Billy’s pretty sure he knows where Shirley Hewarth was killed. He thinks she was stabbed in her own car. There’s blood on the driver’s seat and the wheel. And then more blood in the boot.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean Shirley was stabbed inside the car.’ Holly was frowning. ‘The blood on the driver’s seat and wheel could have come from residue on the murderer’s clothes.’

  ‘So it could, Hol.’ A wide smile from Vera to show them she’d got there already. ‘But the important point is that she could have been stabbed anywhere, then the killer stuck her in the boot and dumped her in the valley.’

  Joe wondered why it had been done that way. ‘Could we be looking at a different murderer? Could the body have been left in the valley so that we made the connection with the first two victims?’

  ‘Eh, pet, that’s a bit elaborate for me. I’m a simple soul. A body turns up a spitting distance from two other murders and I assume they’re connected. Especially when there’s already a link between the victims.’ Vera suddenly got to her feet and grabbed her bag from the desk. ‘Come on, you two. Let’s get out there before the rain comes. Let’s a have a ferret around the valley and see what we come up with.’

  ‘You think that’ll help?’

  She grinned at him. ‘It can’t do any harm and I’m going stir-crazy in here. Think of the time when we worked together on that case in the National Park. It was years ago, Joe. The one with those women doing an environmental survey. They talked about ground-truthing. Checking that their data matched what was actually happening in the field. Sometimes it’s important to do that in policing too.’

  Joe said nothing. He could remember the case, but he wasn’t quite sure what Vera was on about.

  The three of them squeezed into the front bench-seat of the Land Rover. A bank of cloud covered the sun as they drove out of the town. When they reached Gilswick there was a sudden downpour, the rain bouncing off the dry soil, forming a pool of water in the road close to where Randle’s body had been found. He wasn’t surprised when Vera turned into the drive of the big house. Under the trees it was almost dark. Joe sensed Holly, tense and uncomfortable, beside him. He thought briefly that she seemed even more uptight during this investigation than usual.

  Vera was speaking again. ‘I think the killer used Randle’s car to dump his body in the ditch. No other vehicle’s been reported in the valley.’

  ‘Have Forensics come up with anything to support that?’ This was Holly’s first contribution since they’d left the station.

  ‘No blood in the boot, but maybe the murderer was more careful the first time. He’d had time to plan it.’ Vera grinned. ‘And as the car belonged to Randle, we would expect to find evidence that he’d been in it.’

  Holly didn’t reply and Vera went on. ‘My theory is that after getting rid of Randle’s body, the killer brought the lad’s car back here and left the keys in the ignition. We always thought that was a bit odd. Even out in the wilds, most of us lock our cars and it would have been a habit for Randle.’ She brought the Land Rover to a sudden stop, so it skidded a little way in the gravel. ‘The big question’s this: was Benton already dead by then? And if so, why move Randle’s body to the ditch?’

  She looked across at them, but didn’t seem to expect an answer. She shoved the gearstick to reverse and turned the Land Rover to face the road.

  ‘Let’s take a look at where Shirley Hewarth’s body was found, shall we? It was hard to get any sense of it on Friday night, with the dark and the chaos and all those people milling around.’

  She brought the Land Rover to rest by the gate that led onto the hill. Remnants of the investigation remained: blue-and-white crime tape caught in the wind like kite tails, tyre tracks and footprints. Vera got out of the vehicle and Joe and Holly followed. It was unlike the inspector to move unless she had good reason. And in fact she only walked a couple of steps to the gate.

  ‘You can’t see the new conversions from here.’ She leaned against the Land Rover so that she was looking down to the valley. ‘There’s the dip in the hill that hides them. If that body had been dumped anywhere else, you’d see the car stopping.’

  ‘You think that’s why Shirley was left here?’ Joe was starting to see the sense in this trip now. It wasn’t just one of Vera’s weird ideas. ‘They must have known that the body wouldn’t go undiscovered for long, though – not that close to the footpath and at the start of the weekend.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t mind her being found. They just didn’t want an audience while they were lifting the body from her car.’

  Despite herself, Holly was starting to get engaged. ‘That might tell us something about the time of death. At least about the time the body was carried onto the hill. Because you wouldn’t care if you could be seen from the house, if it was nearly dark.’

  ‘You’d be taking a chance to do it in broad daylight, though!’ Joe thought the idea was crazy.

  ‘Would you?’ Vera looked away from the hill again and across the valley. ‘You might not be able to see the houses from here, but you’d hear any car coming from the development. You’ve got a view of the footpath right to the top of the hill and down to the burn. I’d say you’d be prepared to take the risk. Especially if you knew the habits of the folk at Valley Farm. Like when Janet O’Kane was most likely to be out with the dogs and when she’d be inside, pandering to that husband of hers.’

  ‘You think one of the Gilswick residents killed three people?’ Joe thought Vera was mad. ‘They’re old!’

  ‘Not much older than me.’

  ‘But they’ve got no motive.’

  ‘Then we’d better find one.’ There was a rumble of thunder in the distance. Vera opened the Land Rover door and climbed in before them. ‘That means it’s back to Valley Farm to talk to the retired bloody hedonists.’ She slammed her door shut and started the engine. ‘But I can’t face them again today. All that respectability in one place – it gives me the creeps.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Lizzie woke early when it was still dark and lay still. She’d woken with a start in the middle of a dream: a prison officer screaming at her, his face so close to hers that she could only see his open mouth and yellow teeth, yelling at her that she’d never be let out. It took her a while to realize it had been a dream and she’d still be released that morning. The relief made her feel like laughing out loud, but she didn’t want to disturb the others. There were so few times in prison to feel alone.

  She sensed the emptiness beyond her window. The space was like pressure on her skin, her eyes and ears. She imagined herself as a diver or someone in deep space. Of course in an open prison there was more freedom; it was possible to be outside, and her work on the farm gave her plenty of fresh air. But in a way that had just made her confinement more disturbing. It was as if she was constantly being told: You can go this far, but no further.

 
; It started to get light. There was the bright song of a blackbird. Other noises. The day-shift screws’ cars arriving. A shouted greeting. This is the last time I’ll hear this. Not knowing whether she was terrified or exultant. Then she remembered the photos in the book she’d found in the library and decided that the hugeness of the world was a pool to dive into, not somewhere to drown. She loved the image, repeated the words in her head so she wouldn’t forget them, and wished she had time for one more meeting with the writers’ group so that she could share it. She knew the teacher would be impressed.

  Rose worked in the kitchen and was already getting dressed. Lizzie lay in bed and watched. Not in a voyeuristic way. Rose always turned her back to the others and scrabbled into her underwear to maintain an illusion of privacy. Lizzie never bothered with that stuff. She didn’t mind the others seeing her body. She knew she was fit. She’d never had kids, didn’t have stretch-marks or flabby tits. Before she headed out to work, Rose bent and kissed Lizzie on the cheek. The gesture was so unexpected that Lizzie sat up, startled.

  ‘I won’t see you again before you leave.’ Rose was whispering. The cousins were still sleeping. Nothing woke them.

  ‘I’ll be at breakfast.’

  ‘But everyone’s there. It’s not the same.’

  Lizzie climbed out of bed and they hugged. Lizzie wasn’t usually into casual physical contact, felt it like insects crawling over her skin, but Rose had looked after her inside. Taken care of her when the first few days had been a nightmare. Lizzie could see how she’d have been gentle with the old folk in the home, thought it was a shame Rose would never get to do that sort of work again.

  In the canteen everyone wanted to come and say goodbye. Queuing at the counter for breakfast, Lizzie found herself almost in tears. Wondering what was making her so upset about leaving, she decided it was because people weren’t on her case all the time here. If you followed the rules they let you get on with things. There was none of that prodding and prying she’d got from her mother. The meddling with her head. The wringing of the hands. How are you, Lizzie? How can we help? What did we do wrong? Perhaps things would have been different if there’d been other kids for her mother to mither over. If her mother had been younger when Lizzie had been born. If her mother had been more careless in living her own life. More selfish. That would have been easier to handle.