Authors: Ann Cleeves
Taylor picked up the last flight out of Shetland that day, then blustered his way on to a packed BA plane from Aberdeen to Manchester. There was a group of oilmen on the flight; they’d just finished a stint on the rigs and were rowdy, determined to celebrate. A couple of them came from Liverpool and, trying to catch an hour’s sleep, Taylor felt the old resentment against his home city coming back. Resentment mixed with a strange kind of kindred spirit.
At Manchester Airport he picked up a hire car and as he hit the M62 he realized he was only half an hour from home. Turn west and he could be there before his brothers were back from the pub. How would they receive him if he knocked on the door, a bottle of whisky under his arm and a dopey grin on his face?
Hi, remember me? Any chance of a bed for the night?
Becoming a cop had been seen as a betrayal. He’d joined up on the wrong side in the class war. Even now that the boundaries were blurred he didn’t think that would ever be forgiven.
He took the road to the east. It was dark and he could tell he was climbing the Pennines because of the absence of lights, not because of the view. The motorway was unusually empty and he found himself
running over a fantasy in his head. About how he’d track down some fact or relationship that explained Booth’s death so far away from home. How his Liverpool relations would see him on the national TV news talking about the arrest. He’d come across as calm and modest, but everyone would know that the conviction was down to him.
On the way into Huddersfield he checked into a Travel Inn, picking up the last room on a cancellation. The adjoining pub had stopped serving food, so he ate all the biscuits in his room and went to bed. Surprisingly for him, he fell straight asleep. It was a relief to have a dark night. Shetland was unnatural, he thought. The spooky half-light which never disappeared really freaked him out. That’s why he’d slept so poorly the night before. Perhaps it was the extreme of the dark winters and sleepless summers that made the people so odd. He could never live there.
He woke very early and was on the road before six, picking up a bacon sandwich from a truckers’ café and eating in the car as he continued to drive. He’d been given the mobile number of a local DC, a woman called Jebson, but waited until seven before he called.
‘I wasn’t expecting you till later.’ She was brusque and graceless, though he could tell he hadn’t woken her.
‘Well, I’m here now. Can we meet at Booth’s house?’
‘If you like.’ She sounded less than thrilled. ‘But I can’t be there till eight-thirty.’ He heard a child’s voice in the background and thought that was the problem with women in the service. Work never came first with them. It was either their men or their kids. He was
about to comment but thought better of it. It would only take one complaint from a lass with a chip on her shoulder for his whole career to go down the pan. He’d seen it happen. And just when he seemed to be getting a bit of recognition that was the last thing he needed. ‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Eight-thirty.’
In Denby Dale he found the house from her directions. ‘Director of a theatre company’ had sounded quite grand and he’d been expecting something more impressive than a mid-terrace cottage leading straight off the street. He got out of the car to stretch his legs and get a feel for the place.
A neighbour opened her door a crack to bring in a bottle of milk. Through the narrow slit he saw she was wearing a dressing gown which slipped to reveal one bare leg. He couldn’t make out her face, just an arm reaching out to the doorstep.
‘Excuse me. Police. Have you got a minute?’
He’d startled her. The milk remained where it was. She opened the door a little wider, pulled her dressing gown around her. She was middle-aged but wearing well.
‘Could we have a chat?’ he said. ‘It’ll not take long.’
An animal-feed lorry rolled past, bringing with it a strange yeasty smell. ‘You’d best come in,’ she said. ‘I’m hardly decent for talking in the street.’
Her name was Mandy and she was a library assistant in Huddersfield, divorced, the kids all grown up. Today she wasn’t starting work till midday.
‘What was he like then, the bloke next door?’
Taylor was sitting at the table in the small kitchen. She’d made him tea, very strong, and there was bread in the toaster.
‘Why? What’s happened to him?’ She’d lit a cigarette. ‘The first of the day,’ she said, relishing it. There were times when Taylor wished he still smoked.
‘Didn’t you see his picture in the paper?’
‘I don’t bother with a paper these days.’
‘He’s dead,’ Taylor said. ‘He was found strangled in Shetland.’
‘Where?’ She was curious but she didn’t seem terribly upset that her neighbour had died.
‘The Shetland Islands. Right off the north of Scotland.’
‘Oh.’ She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in her saucer. ‘I thought I hadn’t seen him lately, but he keeps strange hours. I suppose the house’ll be up for sale. I hope we don’t get a noisy bugger moving in.’
‘Was Mr Booth noisy?’
‘Not really. Occasionally he’d have friends in late. I’d hear them talking, maybe a bit of music, but they weren’t rowdy. Nothing you could complain about.’
‘How long had he lived there?’
‘About five years. He moved in after me.’
‘Was he on his own for the whole of that time? No girlfriends? Boyfriends?’
‘He wasn’t gay,’ she said seriously. ‘At least I don’t think he was. He’d been married once. And he’d had a child. But he left them. Quite suddenly.’
‘How do you know all that?’
‘He told me,’ she said.
‘Close, were you?’
‘No. We lived our own lives. I don’t want the whole village knowing my business and nor did he. But one night he’d locked himself out of his house. He’d left all his keys in the Mill. There was a lass who works for
him, lives in Huddersfield, and she had a set, but it took a while to get hold of her so he waited in mine. I’d just opened a bottle of wine and we ended up sharing it. It was the only time we really talked. That was the time he told me about his wife. He regretted just walking out on her, but she didn’t understand his dreams.’ She paused, looked at Taylor. ‘Dreams! You’re all the same, you men. Selfish bastards.’
Taylor wanted to reply that in his experience it was the women who were the dreamy ones, but he made no comment. ‘He didn’t tell you he was going away this time, then?’
‘No. Like I said, we weren’t that sort of neighbours. I just noticed that I’d not seen him around for a few days.’
The toaster popped. She nodded towards it. ‘Do you fancy a piece?’
But Taylor didn’t have anything else to say and couldn’t imagine sitting at her table making polite conversation. That was much more Perez’s style than his. He refused the offer and thanked her. As she showed him out she was already lighting another cigarette.
Back on the street, teenagers were coming out of the houses and wandering towards the bus stop for school. How old would Booth’s child be now? He wondered if Jebson had traced the wife, if she’d even found out that the man had been married. A small train wound along a viaduct crossing the valley. The sun was already hot enough for Taylor to feel warm in his jacket.
Jebson arrived dead on time. He’d gone into a newsagent’s and was sitting in the car trying to concentrate on a paper. She was square with very dark
hair and dark eyebrows. He’d have marked her out as CID from a hundred yards, but wasn’t sure why. He got out of his car and joined her on the doorstep of Booth’s house. She pulled a bunch of keys from her bag.
‘Where did you get those?’
‘Martha Tyler, Booth’s assistant. She’s been into the house once. She was worried when he didn’t come back. He’d said he’d only be away a couple of days. She imagined some sort of accident.’
Inside, it had the feel of a bachelor household. Tidy enough but not very clean. His place was much the same. He walked quickly through, stopping at the door of each room and looking inside. A small kitchen, the microwave the most prominent piece of equipment, a living room with a sofa and a coffee table a convenient height for eating takeaway food in front of the TV.
‘Have you found the wife?’ he asked.
‘What wife?’
He felt a stab of satisfaction. He’d been here an hour and already he was showing the Yorkies how to do the job.
‘According to a neighbour he deserted a wife and child. A few years ago now. Didn’t Miss Tyler mention it? You must have asked her about next of kin.’
Jebson shrugged. ‘She said she didn’t have any contact details for relatives.’
Suddenly he hated being in the small house. It was too depressing, too close to home. If
he
died suddenly, would anyone know who to contact for him? ‘We should leave this for the search team,’ he said. ‘We’ll only get in the way. First priority is to check phone
calls and emails. Work computer and home PC. He had some reason for going to Shetland. He knew people there, though no one’s admitting to it at the minute, and he must have been in touch to make the arrangements for the visit. And get into his bank account. He might have left his wife and child but he should have been supporting them financially. The CSA ought to have records.’
‘You’ll have to check with the boss,’ she said. ‘The way he sees it, it’s not even our case.’
‘Well, I’m hardly going to send a search team from Shetland
. . .
’
She shrugged again.
Out on the pavement again, he realized he should have handled things differently. But he’d used up all his sweetness and charm with Perez and his team. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have made assumptions. It’s a sod of a case. But you can see we need to know more about Booth, and you’re the people on the ground.’
‘Like I said, you’ll have to have a word with the boss.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Martha Tyler said she’d get into work early today. She should be there by now. I’m due in court at nine-thirty, but I’ll point you in the direction of the Mill.’
Martha Tyler was in the office drinking coffee. Her hair was tied into one plait, so long that it reached halfway down her back. It seemed old-fashioned and at odds with the jeans and the skimpy green vest top. She watched Taylor approaching across the rehearsal
room and got up to meet him. She looked as if she’d had a heavy night.
‘I don’t know what to do with the company,’ she said. ‘The actors are supposed to start a school tour on Monday. Should we carry on?’
‘Did Mr Booth have an accountant? A lawyer? Perhaps it would be wise to check the legal position with them.’
‘I don’t know. I’m only here on a sort of work experience.’ She returned to the office, sat behind the desk, motioned for Taylor to take the other chair. ‘It even seems odd sitting here. This was Jeremy’s domain.’
‘Tell me about him.’ The sort of question Perez would have asked, which drove Taylor to distraction because it took so long to get relevant answers.
‘He was an actor,’ she said. ‘That’s the first thing to remember. I was never quite sure if he was performing, if I was getting the truth or a story. I’m sure he didn’t mean to lie. He just liked his version best. He was funny and kind, but there was always this mask. You never knew what was going on in his head.’
‘What did he do before he started the company?’
‘Bits and pieces of acting, I think. He was full of the people he’d worked with. Maybe some of it was true. But it’s such a tough business. Even if you’re good, it’s all about luck. It’s the good people who never make it that I’m most sorry for.’
‘And before that? Drama school?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. He was quite scathing about the kids who turned up here to work with their degrees in performance and no real experience in theatre.’
‘Did he ever talk about his private life?’
‘Never. Only about work.’
‘No relationships?’
‘I think there might have been a few brief flings – young actresses taken in by the bullshit and too much to drink. He liked to be seen with them. It must have been good for his ego. They never lasted, though.’
‘They saw through him?’
‘No. He was always the one to do the dumping. A couple of them were quite smitten. He was very kind and he did have a certain style.’
Taylor’s phone rang. He went into the rehearsal room to take it. It was Jebson.
‘The court case was adjourned, so I’ve made a few calls for you. Work history through the DSS. He’s been self-employed for fifteen years, as an actor. I’m waiting to hear back from the tax people about his income.’
‘Before then?’
‘He was a teacher. A school in Chester.’
‘Thanks.’
‘One more thing. I’ve traced the wife.’
Kenny liked Friday evenings. Edith didn’t work at the weekend and when she arrived home from the care centre he knew he would have her at home, all to himself, for two days.
She arrived home late, as she often did on Friday, looking tired and a little strained. She said she’d been out of the centre all afternoon doing home visits. She often said the relatives were more difficult than her clients. He took a bottle of wine from the fridge as soon as he heard her car outside, opened it and poured her a glass, so it was ready on the bench as soon as she came in. An end-of-week ritual. She dropped her bag on the floor and took off her jacket, kissed him lightly, then took the wine with her to run a bath. Another ritual. He heard the water run into the tub. When she came out she’d be the old Edith, wearing jeans and a sweater, calmer, more relaxed.
Earlier he’d been on the phone to friends about helping to bring the sheep down from the hill for clipping. The forecast had been fine for the following day. He enjoyed the sense of occasion that came with clipping the sheep; it was one of the days that marked midsummer – everyone walking across the hill together in line, pushing the beasts ahead of them
until they reached the dyke, then walking them down towards the croft. It took him back to his childhood, when there’d been more communal work. He liked the banter and the edge of competition as everyone tried to get the fleeces off whole, not nicking the flesh, but keeping up the pace so they weren’t at it all day. And then in the evening they’d all come into the house for beer and a few drams, maybe some music.