Silent Voices (Vera Stanhope 4) (3 page)

The house, known as Mallow Cottage, was pretty from the outside. Traditional stone, with a tile roof and a small garden leading to a burn, which joined the river just beyond a small bridge. Inside it was dark and damp, but Connie could cope with that. The first couple of weeks had been great. She’d enrolled Alice into the playgroup, began to make friends of a sort. Women, at least those who asked her in for coffee, let their kids come to the cottage to play with Alice. Connie had decided to use her maiden name. She’d been divorced for a while, so Frank’s surname had no relevance for her. Maybe she could slide into anonymity, perhaps even find work again now that the publicity had died down. After all, she needed the money. She couldn’t live off her savings and Frank’s charity forever. And back at work, perhaps the nightmares would leave her.

Then there’d been an article in a national newspaper, commemorating the first anniversary of Elias’s death. A photo of Connie, looking frightened and tearful coming out of court. And suddenly there were no callers at the cottage for coffee. Except Elizabeth, whose motives were purely professional. And no invitations for Alice to go to tea. The whispers had started, the sideways glances. Some women made attempts to be friendly in a breathlessly curious sort of way, but Connie became aware of a campaign led, she soon realized, by Veronica Eliot.
If you make friends with her, it’s as if you condone what she’s done. Is that what you want? Do you want people to think you’re like her? I don’t know how they can let her keep her daughter.
The words were childish and petty, could have been spoken by the leader of a gang of eight-year-olds in the playground, but were effective. It was a sort of mob rule. People didn’t stand up to Veronica. And then Connie was met by silence in the queue at the playgroup door, icy glares when she went to the post office to collect her child benefit.

The old Connie would have stood up to her.
Look, you stupid cow, give me a chance to explain.
But after a year of police enquiries and reports and court appearances, all the fight had gone from her. Besides, it seemed immoral that she should feel sorry for herself. She’d given up that right after Elias had died. So she slouched around the village, expecting no contact or kindness. She grew thin. Sometimes, she fancied she’d disappeared altogether, and only Alice could see her. Her only solace was the half bottle of wine she allowed herself in the evening when her daughter was asleep. She was almost grateful for the nights when Alice wet the bed and climbed in with her; then she had someone to hold on to.

They had just gone outside when the visitor arrived. Perhaps he’d been there all along, looking down from the bridge, hidden from them by the tree. On one of his trips to the cottage Frank had slung a thick rope over the bough of the apple tree that stood in the corner of the small garden at the top of a bank. Alice used it as a swing. She’d be at school in September and was big and strong for her age. Physically fearless. She’d grip the rope and run and then, kicking away from the ground, she’d be in the air, almost over the river. Connie knew better than to comment. She couldn’t impose her fears on her daughter. But she turned away briefly so that she didn’t have to look at that moment when Alice went flying, bit her lip to stop herself shouting out.
Take care, sweetie. Please take care.

Alice was playing on the swing now. The apple blossom was in bud, the new leaves a startling bright green, blocking the view of the road. Connie was drinking the coffee she’d made after lunch. Then Alice called out ‘Hello!’ to someone Connie couldn’t see, and the stranger appeared at the gate. He stopped there, looking in at them. Connie’s first thought was that this was a reporter who had tracked them down. That had been a fear since they’d moved to the valley. The man was young with the easy smile of a natural charmer. Definitely a reporter. Over his shoulder was a rucksack that could contain a camera. Though the knitted hat gave him the look of a rambler, so perhaps he was walking along the river bank.

‘Can I help you?’ Her words were so sharp that Alice, who’d just swung back to the ground, looked up at her, surprised.

He seemed a little shocked too. The smile wavered. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

Not a journo, Connie thought. Journos didn’t apologize. Not even the charming ones. She gave a little wave of her hand, her own apology. ‘You surprised me. We don’t get many visitors.’

‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said. His voice was educated.

‘Yes?’ The caution had returned. Her body was tense, ready to repel him if he asked for her by name or made a move to come through the gate.

‘Mrs Eliot. Veronica Eliot.’

‘Ah.’ She felt relief and curiosity too. What could this man want with Veronica?

‘Do you know her?’

‘Yes,’ Connie said. ‘Of course. She lives in the white house at the end of the lane. Just over the crossroads. You can’t miss it.’ He paused for a moment before turning away and she added: ‘If you’re driving, there’s a lay-by just down the track where you can turn round.’ No reason now not to be helpful, and she was curious. She hadn’t seen a car.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t drive. I came on the bus.’

‘Blimey, that’s brave! Do you hope to get back tonight?’

He smiled. She thought now it was hard to age him. Certainly younger than her, but he could have been anything between eighteen and thirty. She knew Veronica had a grown-up child, a model offspring of course, reading history at Durham. But his friends would surely know where Veronica lived.

‘There is supposed to be a bus back to Hexham in a couple of hours,’ he said uncertainly. ‘And I can get a taxi if all else fails.’

‘Are you a relative?’ She realized this was the first
normal
conversation she’d had for months and she hoped to prolong it. How pathetic, she thought. That things have come to this!

He hesitated. The simple question seemed to have thrown him. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Not exactly.’

‘I don’t think she’s in,’ Connie said. ‘The car wasn’t in the drive when I walked from the village earlier. And I heard that her husband Christopher is working away. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea to wait? If Veronica’s been out for lunch, she’ll be back soon and we’ll see her car pass from here.’

‘Oh, well, if it’s not too much trouble.’ And he opened the gate and walked into the garden. Suddenly he seemed less nervous, almost arrogant. Connie had a sudden moment of panic. What had she done? She felt that she’d invited disaster across her threshold. The young man sat beside her on the wooden bench with the peeling white paint and waited politely. She’d offered him tea, so he expected her to provide it. But the kitchen was at the back of the house and she wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Alice from there. Connie thought it would be impossible to leave her daughter here with a stranger.

‘Alice, come with me. You can be waitress. Fetch the biscuits.’ She hoped she had biscuits, because the word worked its magic and Alice trotted obediently after her into the house.

They prepared a tray. Teapot and cups, milk jug and sugar basin. Juice in a beaker for Alice.
I’ve lived in the country too long. Next thing I’ll be in the WI.
But that wasn’t much of a joke. Veronica Eliot was chair of the WI, and of course Connie would never be made welcome, even if she wanted to join. They processed out into the garden. Connie carried the tray and Alice followed with a few biscuits on a flowery plate. But when they walked round to the sunny side of the house with its view of the lane and the river, the white bench was empty. The young man had disappeared.

When Vera was a child, the Willows had been a grand hotel, family-owned and famous throughout the county. One of the few memories she had of her mother was of the three of them there for a lunch. Her mother’s birthday perhaps. It would have been Hector’s idea; her father had always liked the grand gesture. She couldn’t remember what they’d eaten. She suspected now the food wouldn’t have been very good. Post-war British. An overcooked slab of meat and vegetables turned grey in the boiling. But it had had a faded glamour. There had been a woman in a long dress playing a grand piano in the corner. Hector had ordered champagne in a loud, showy-off voice and her mother had drunk two glasses and become giggly. Hector, of course, had drunk the rest.

Originally it had been a large country house and there was still a drive that wound through parkland. It had been built on a bend in the river, so there was a feeling almost that it was on an island, especially at this time of the year when the Tyne was swollen from melted snow. There were coppiced willows that marked the boundary and stood now with their roots in water. Local history said that one of the archaeologists who’d done much of the early work on Hadrian’s Wall had lived there, and in the library and lounge there were faded sepia photos of excavations, men in plus fours, women in long skirts.

More recently the hotel had been taken over by a small chain with a head office in the south. The basement had been turned into the health club, and any sense that it was a place only for the very wealthy or the glamorous had disappeared. They’d let in Vera, for goodness’ sake! But it still had pretensions. In the dining room gentlemen were expected to wear a jacket and tie. The furniture was old and shabby, but once it had been good.

In the health club now there was still an air of excitement and of chaos, but Vera felt in control, happier than she had for months. Sod all that exercise – what she needed to make her feel really alive was interesting work.

Billy Wainwright, the crime-scene manager, had turned up to take control of the scene. The room was clear of steam, but all the surfaces were damp with condensation. ‘You do realize this is about the worst crime scene I’ve ever visited? No chance of fingerprints on these surfaces. Half the population of Newcastle could have walked through here without leaving a trace.’ As if, somehow, it was Vera’s fault. Billy Wainwright, famous in the service for his bonny wife and his serial adultery. A genius at his job, but a complete rat of a man. Vera stood well out of the way, but, looking in through the open door as he was working, she got a better view of the dead woman. A classic Willows Health Club member. Well groomed, middle-aged, but with the body of a younger woman. She saw a locker key pinned to the strap of the woman’s bathing costume.

‘What’s the number on the key, Billy?’

He lifted it carefully with fat gloved fingers. ‘Thirty-five.’

She’d expected Taylor the duty manager to have left them. Surely he would have important things to do. But he was still at the poolside, oddly incongruous in his suit and shiny black shoes. The walkie-talkie was back at his ear. She strode across to him, waited impatiently while he finished his conversation.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just trying to rearrange a few meetings to keep the lounge free for your witnesses. We’re hosting a conference of personnel managers.’

‘I assume you have a pass key for all the lockers.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, can you get it for me.’ Why was she so sharp with him? He’d been helpful enough. Perhaps it was his reluctance to leave them to their work. His obvious thrill to be involved in the investigation, even if only as an observer. I’m allowed to feel excited, she thought, because it’s what I do with my life. He’s just some sort of voyeur.

Now, at last he did walk away from the pool and through the changing rooms to the desk beside the turnstile. Upstairs in the lounge they could hear excited conversation, the clatter of coffee cups. Ashworth had pulled in some uniforms to help him take statements, but it was obviously going to be a slow process. As Vera had suspected, most of the elderly members were treating this as free entertainment; they were in no hurry to leave. Taylor spoke to the woman at the desk.

‘Can you give me the locker pass key, pet?’

It was as if he was speaking to a child; Vera thought that if Taylor was that patronizing to her, she’d have thumped him. The woman at the desk was older than him, could have been well past forty, but fighting it. Black hair and heavily mascaraed eyes. The name-tag said she was Karen.

‘Is your lad the temporary cleaner?’ Vera asked.

Karen had turned to take a key from a hook on the wall behind her. ‘Why? What’s he got to do with this?’

‘Probably nothing. But I need to chat to him. Is he on duty today?’

Karen put the key on the counter. ‘He does lates. He won’t be in until four.’

‘No rush,’ Vera said easily. ‘I’ll catch up with him then.’

There was a uniformed female officer guarding the changing-room door and at that point Vera sent Taylor away. ‘No point taking up any more of your time. I can manage from here.’ She thought he was going to argue with her, but he caught himself just in time and smiled instead. She watched the light catch the polished heels of his shoes as he disappeared up the stairs.

Vera recognized the officer guarding the door, but couldn’t remember her name. ‘Is it all clear in there?’

‘Aye.’

‘Billy Wainwright taken a look?’

‘For all the good it’ll do, he says.’ The woman smiled fondly and Vera wondered what it was with the man. He wasn’t even much of a looker. He was sympathetic, she supposed. A good listener. Perhaps that was the attraction.

‘I’ve been in the changing room already,’ Vera said. ‘So there’s no real problem with contamination if you let me in.’

The policewoman shrugged. Vera was the boss and, besides, it wasn’t her problem.