“So you got along okay?”
“Fine, I suppose. On the surface. She knew I disapproved of her life, even though I didn’t know much about it. She talked about Buddhism and Hindus and Sufis and goodness knows what, but she never once mentioned our true Lord Jesus Christ, and I brought her up to be a good Christian.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I could have tried harder to understand. She just seemed so far away from me and anything I’ve ever believed in.”
“What did you talk to her about?”
“Just local gossip, what her old school friends were up to, that sort of thing. She never stopped long.”
“Did you know any of her friends?”
“I knew all the kids she played with around the estate, and her friends from school, but I don’t know who she spent her time with after she left home.”
“She never mentioned any names?”
“Well, she might have done, but I don’t remember any.”
“Did she ever tell you if anything or anyone was bothering her?”
“No. She always seemed happy, as if she hadn’t really a care in the world.”
“You don’t know of any enemies she might have had?”
“No. I can’t imagine her having any.”
“When did you last see her?”
“In the summer. July, it would be, not long after Jim…”
“Was she at the funeral?”
“Oh, yes. She came home for that in May. She loved her father. She was a great support. I don’t want to give you the impression that we’d fallen out or anything, Mr. Chadwick. I still loved Linda and I know that she still loved me. It was just that we couldn’t really talk anymore, not about anything important. She’d got secretive. In the end I gave up trying. But this was a couple of months after Jim’s death, just a flying visit to see how I was getting along.”
“What
did
she talk about on that visit?”
“We watched that man walk on the moon. Neil Armstrong. Linda was all excited about it, said it marked the beginning of a new age, but I don’t know. We stayed up watching till after three in the morning.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m sorry. Nothing else really stood out, except the moon landing. Some pop star she liked had died and she’d been to see the Rolling Stones play a free concert for him in Hyde Park. London, that is. And I remember her talking about the war. Vietnam. About how immoral it was. She always talked about the war. I tried to tell her that sometimes wars just have to be fought, but she’d have none of it. To her all war was evil. You should have heard it when Linda and her dad went at it–he was in the navy in the last war, just towards the end, like.”
“But you say Linda loved her father?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say they saw eye to eye about everything. I mean, he tried to discipline her, got on at her for staying out till all hours, but she was a handful. They fought like cat and dog sometimes, but they still loved one another.”
It all sounded so familiar to Chadwick that the thought depressed him. Surely all children weren’t like this, didn’t cause their parents such grief? Was he taking the wrong approach with Yvonne? Was there another way? He felt like such a failure as a parent, but short of locking her in her room, what could he do? When Yvonne went on about the evils of war, he always felt himself tense up inside; he could never even enter into a rational argument about it for fear he would lose his temper, lash out and say something he would regret. What did she know about war? Evil? Yes. Necessary? Well, how else were you going to stop someone like Hitler? He didn’t know much about Vietnam, but he assumed the Americans were there for a good reason, and the sight of all these unruly, long-haired youngsters burning the flag and chanting anti-war slogans made his blood boil.
“What about the boyfriend, Donald Hughes?”
“What about him?”
“Is he the father?”
“I assume so. I mean, that’s what Linda said, and I think I know her well enough to know she wasn’t…you know…some sort of trollop.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s all right, I suppose. Not much gumption, mind you. The Hugheses aren’t exactly one of the best families on the estate, but they’re not one of the worst, either. And you can’t
blame poor Eileen Hughes. She’s had six kids to bring up, mostly on her own. She tries hard.”
“Do you know if Donald kept in touch after Linda left?”
“I doubt it. He made himself scarce after he found out our Linda was pregnant, then just after the baby was born he became all concerned for a while, said they should get married and keep it, that it wouldn’t be right to give his child up for adoption. That’s how he put it.
His child.
”
“What did Linda say?”
“She gave him his marching orders, then not long after that she was gone herself.”
“Do you know if he ever bothered her at all?”
“I don’t think so. She never said, never even mentioned him or the baby again.”
“Did he ever come here after that, asking about her?”
“Just once, about three weeks after she’d left. Wanted to know her address.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know. Of course, he didn’t believe me, and he made a bit of a fuss on the doorstep.”
“What did you do?”
“I sent him packing. Told him I’d set Jim on him if he came back again and shut the door in his face. He left us alone after that. Surely you don’t think Donald could have…?”
“We don’t know what to think yet, Mrs. Lofthouse. We have to look at all possibilities.”
“He’s a bit of a hothead, anyone will tell you that, but I very much doubt that he’s a murderer.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I still can’t seem to take it in.”
“I understand,” said Chadwick. “Is there anyone you’d like me to get to stay with you? Relative? Neighbour?”
“Mrs. Bennett next door. She’s always been a good friend. She’s a widow, like me. She understands what it feels like.”
Chadwick stood up to leave. “I’ll let her know you want her to come over. Look, before I go, do you have a recent photograph of Linda I could borrow?”
“I might have,” she said. “Just a minute.” She went over to the sideboard and started rummaging through one of the drawers. “This was taken last year, when she came home for her birthday. Her father was a bit of an amateur photographer.”
She handed Chadwick the colour photograph. It was the girl in the sleeping bag, only she was alive, a half-smile on her lips, a faraway look in her big blue eyes, wavy blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll let you have it back.”
“And you’ll keep in touch, won’t you? About the arrangements.”
“Of course. I’ll also send someone to drive you to the hospital and back to make the formal identification.”
“Thank you,” she said, and stood with him at the door, holding a damp tissue to her eyes. “How can something like this happen to me, Mr. Chadwick?” she said. “I’ve been a devout Christian woman all my life. I’ve never hurt a soul and I’ve always served the Lord to the best of my ability. How can He do this to me? A husband
and
a daughter, both in the same year?”
All Chadwick could do was shake his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wish I knew the answer.”
“Just outside Sheffield” turned out to be a quaint village on the edge of the Peak District National Park, and the house was a detached limestone cottage with a fair-sized and well-tended garden, central door, symmetrical up-and-down mullioned
windows, garage and outbuildings. In the Dales, Annie guessed, it would be valued at about five hundred thousand pounds these days, but she had no idea what prices were like in the Peak District. Probably not much different. There were many similarities between the two areas, with their limestone hills and valleys, and both drew hordes of tourists, ramblers and climbers almost year-round.
Winsome parked by the gate and they made their way down the garden path. A few birds twittered in the nearby trees, completing the rural idyll. The woman who opened the door to them had clearly been crying. Annie felt grateful she hadn’t been the one to break the news. She hated that. The last time she had told someone about the death of a friend, the woman had actually fainted.
“Annie Cabbot and Winsome Jackman from North Yorkshire Major Crimes,” she said.
“Yes, come in,” said the woman. “We’ve been expecting you.” If the sight of a six-foot black woman surprised her at all, she didn’t show it. Like many others, she no doubt watched crime programs on TV and had got used to the idea of a multiracial police force, even in such a “white” enclave as the Peaks.
She led them through a dim hallway where coats hung on pegs and boots and shoes were neatly aligned on a low slatted rack, then into an airy living room with French windows that led to the back garden, a neatly manicured lawn with stone bird bath, white plastic table and chairs and herbaceous borders. Plane trees framed a magnificent view over the fields to the limestone peaks beyond. The sky was mostly light grey, with a hint of sun hiding behind clouds somewhere in the north.
“We’ve just got back from church,” the woman said. “We go every week, and it seemed especially important today.”
“Of course,” said Annie, whose religious background had been agnostic, and whose own spiritual dabbling in yoga and meditation had never led her to any sort of organized religion. “We’re very sorry about your son, Mrs. Barber.”
“Please,” she said. “Call me Louise. My husband, Ross, is making some tea. I hope that will be all right?”
“That’ll be perfect,” said Annie.
“You’d better sit down.”
The chintz-covered armchairs all had spotless lace antimacassars, and Annie sat carefully, not quite daring to let the back of her head touch the material. In a few moments a tall, rangy man with unruly white hair, wearing a grey V-neck pullover and baggy cords, brought in a tray and placed it on the low glass table between the chairs and the fireplace. He looked a bit like a sort of mad scientist character who could do complex equations in his head but had trouble fastening his shoelaces. Annie admired the framed print of Seurat’s
Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
over the mantelpiece.
Once tea had been served in tiny rose-patterned, gold-rimmed cups, and everyone was settled, Winsome took out her notebook and Annie began. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but anything you can tell us about your son would be helpful right now.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Mr. Barber asked.
“I’m afraid not. It’s early days yet. We’re just trying to piece together what happened.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm our Nicholas. He was harmless. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”
“It’s often the innocent who suffer,” said Annie.
“But Nicholas…” He let the sentence trail off.
“Did he have any enemies?”
Ross and Louise Barber looked at one another. “No,” Louise said. “I mean, he never mentioned anyone. And like Ross says, he was a gentle person. He loved his music and his books and his films. And his writing, of course.”
“He wasn’t married, was he?” They had been able to find no record of a wife, but Annie thought it best to make sure. If a jealous wife had caught wind of what Barber was up to with Kelly Soames, she might easily have lost it.
“No. He was engaged once, ten years ago,” said Ross Barber. “Nice girl. Local. But they drifted apart when he moved to London. More tea?”
Annie and Winsome said yes, please. Barber topped up their cups.
“We understand that your son was a music journalist?” Annie went on.
“Yes,” said Louise. “It was what he always wanted. Even when he was at school, he was editor of the magazine, and he wrote most of the articles himself.”
“We found out from the Internet that he’s done some articles for
Mojo
magazine and written a couple of biographies. Can you tell us anything else about his work? Did he write for anyone in particular, for example?”
“No. He was a freelancer,” Ross Barber answered. “He did some writing for the newspapers, reviews and such, and feature pieces for that magazine sometimes, as you said. I’m afraid that sort of music isn’t exactly to my taste.” He smiled indulgently. “But he loved it, and apparently he made a decent living.”
Annie liked pop music, but she hadn’t heard of
Mojo
, though she knew she must have seen it in W.H. Smith when
she was picking up
Now, Star or Heat
, the trashy celebrity gossip magazines she liked to read in the bath, her one secret vice. “You didn’t approve of your son’s interest in rock music?” she asked.
“It’s not that we’re against it or anything, you understand,” said Ross Barber. “We’ve just always been a bit more inclined towards classical–Louise sings with the local operatic society–but we’re happy that Nicholas seemed to pick up a love of music at a very early age, along with the writing. He loved classical music, too, of course, but writing about rock was how he made his living.”
“He was lucky, then,” said Annie. “Being able to combine his two loves.”
“Yes,” Louise agreed, wiping away a tear with a lacy handkerchief.
“Do you have any copies of his articles? You must be proud of him. A scrapbook, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Louise. “It never really entered our heads, did it, darling?”
Her husband agreed. “It wouldn’t mean anything to us, you see, what he was writing about. The names. The records. We would never have heard of any of them.”
Annie wanted to tell them that wasn’t the point, but it would clearly do no good. “How long had he been doing this for a living?” she asked.
“About eight years now,” Ross answered.
“And before that?”
“He got a B.A. in English at Nottingham, then he did an M.A. in film studies, I think, at Leicester. After that he did a bit of teaching and wrote reviews, then he got a feature accepted, and after that…”
“He never studied journalism?”
“No. I suppose you might say he got in through the back door.”
“What’s your profession, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I was a university professor,” said Ross Barber. “Classics and ancient history. Rather dull, I’m afraid. I’m retired now, mind you.”