The Other Child (38 page)

Her voice trembled. ‘Now, Ena, now!'

12

Stephen was not in the flat when Leslie came back. At first she thought he might be out walking or wandering around town, keeping himself occupied. But the guest-room door was ajar and peering in she saw that his travel bag was not there. It had been on a chair by the window until then.

She stepped inside the room. The bed had been made. The wardrobe's open doors showed that it had been cleared out. No question about it: the room's guest had gone.

Leslie found a note on the bedside table in Stephen's tiny scrawl:

Dear Leslie
,

I have the feeling that I'm a nuisance to you. I'm sorry if my visit overwhelmed you. I didn't want to make you feel worse than you already feel because of Fiona's death
–
that really wasn't my intention! On the contrary, I just wanted to help you and be there for you, in case you needed someone you know well, and I think that in spite of everything I am still that: a person you know well
.

My offer stands
–
to be there for you and to be ready for any kind of
conversation. But I think a little distance would do us good. I've taken a room in the Crown Spa Hotel. I'll stay there for a few days, but I won't bother you. If you need me, just come over
.

I would be happy to see you
.

Stephen

Typical Stephen. Considerate, understanding. Putting his own needs last, but in so doing subtly creating feelings of guilt. In his presence you always felt you were the bad person. Leslie suddenly realised that after his affair it had been the same. She felt like a scoundrel for ending the relationship, although he was the one who had taken a girl he pulled in a pub into his marriage bed for a screw.

She scrunched up the letter and threw it into a corner.

The pouring rain outside made her loneliness in the large building all the more apparent to her. Normally the view outside made up for everything else. There would be either blinding sunlight on the blue waters of the bay or powerfully wild cloud formations in the sky. The South Bay retained its charm in stormy as in good weather. Only the leaden, rainy bleakness of a day like today could not convey anything except its own bleakness.

No one else could be heard in the house, as so often. Nowhere were doors slamming, windows being opened or closed, nor was there a toilet being flushed. Most flats were empty, and that would not change throughout autumn and winter. The house exuded a cold emptiness.

For an intensely overwhelming moment Leslie could feel the loneliness her grandmother had lived with. It filled her with an almost physical pain. Fiona had experienced many days like this over the last few years: grey, cold and oppressively quiet. She had survived the days, somehow, and she had never complained. But she had suffered. Leslie suddenly knew that, although she could not have said how she knew. Perhaps her grandmother's energy was just so strong within her four walls that it was impossible to ignore it.

She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She asked herself uneasily what the police might have against Dave. Doubts about his statement regarding last Saturday night?

It wasn't him. He hadn't killed Fiona. She could have sworn it, although she had nothing more to go on than her instinct, and there too she had little experience of judging other people's criminal tendencies – to be precise: no experience. Dave had claimed he had gone home to bed. If that was not true, what motive might he have for hiding the truth?

She put a bag of ginger tea in a mug, added some honey and poured on boiling water. While the tea brewed, she gazed out of the window above the sink. It looked out on the well-tended little park which gave the end of the Prince of Wales Terrace, where it met the Esplanade, a picturesque look. In spite of the bad weather an old woman was dragging herself along the muddy pavement. Was she lonely too? Could she also not bear to stay in her flat and so had fled outside, risking flu or even bronchitis? There are people who say that loneliness is the worst disease of them all, worse even than death. Was Fiona one of those people?

Leslie turned away from the window. Her gaze fell onto a small metal board which hung near the fridge. You could fix notes to it with little magnets. There was a shopping list in Fiona's familiar stiff handwriting, which had not yet become at all shaky. She had noted
sugar, lettuce
and
grapes
.

Next to it hung a postcard which Leslie recognised as the one she had sent the previous year. She had gone on a walking holiday in Greece with two colleagues. You could see a sunny bay surrounded by rocks, and an almost kitschy blue sky above it. Next to the postcard was … Leslie stepped closer. The programme invite to a Christmas party down in the Spa Complex. Christmas Eve with a ventriloquist and a garish puppet. Leslie turned over the flyer, the front of which was decorated with a Christmas tree. The
Hey Presto Dancers
and
Naughty Oscar
, who was going to show his extra special tricks. Fun for the all the family, the flyer proclaimed, on the most exciting and magical evening of the year.

The programme was from last year.

Why was it still hanging here? Had Fiona gone? Leslie knew that nothing in the programme would have amused or excited her. Silly tomfoolery. Nice for kids perhaps, who did not know how to fill their time until Christmas morning arrived when they could unpack their presents. But for a well-read, critical old woman who found fault with every comedy programme on television?

She had been lonely and had not known how else to survive Christmas Eve. That was Leslie's only explanation. Christmas was the giant, problematic obstacle which people living on their own had such trouble negotiating each year. Such a dark and scary obstacle that people preferred to flee to any old silly entertainment than to sit at home.

Why had she not told me? thought Leslie.

She remembered last Christmas. It had certainly not been plain sailing for her. To make sure she did not get down in the dumps, she had volunteered to be on duty in the hospital. The evening before she had celebrated with two much older colleagues of hers in a pub. One of the two women was a widow, the other was single. All things considered, she got through the difficult days pretty well. Now she asked herself guiltily why she had not thought of her grandmother. What could have been more natural than to drive up to Yorkshire for a week, to celebrate Christmas with her?

She was such a tough old cookie, Leslie thought, that you just didn't think she could have trouble with Christmas. You just didn't think that she could find anything problematic or frightening or shattering. Perhaps she too had felt grief and worry and fear, but why had she never shown the slightest trace of those feelings?

There had obviously been no evening celebration on the Beckett farm, else she would have gone. But probably Chad with his taciturn, strange nature had not even thought to invite her, while Gwen for her part almost never made a decision herself, and Fiona was certainly too proud to ask.

Perhaps she had hoped up to the last minute that her grand-daughter would come?

The phone rang and startled Leslie out of her guilty brooding. She picked up the receiver and simultaneously thought: Hopefully not another anonymous call!

‘Yes?' she said.

It was Colin. This time he was looking for Jennifer, and you could hear how difficult he found it to come to Leslie a second time with a Missing Person query.

‘She wanted to go shopping and perhaps have a bite of lunch. I know that the last bus went at one and the next one goes at four, but …'

‘So what's the problem?' asked Leslie. ‘It's half past two. You can probably only expect to see her in over two hours' time.'

‘The weather,' said Colin. ‘That's my problem. It can't be much fun in town with the rain, so I thought I could fetch her, if I knew where she was. But … she obviously hasn't gone to your place?'

‘No,' confirmed Leslie. ‘She's not here. And by the way, Colin – Gwen, who you spent yesterday ringing round about so frantically, did spend the night at Dave Tanner's. As I thought.'

‘Gwen's home now,' said Colin. ‘And I admit I was too worried about her. But my wife wanted to visit Dave Tanner too, and that … well, concerns me.'

‘What concerns you?'

‘You can imagine,' Colin replied.

Was he alluding to the still present suspicion that Dave was involved in Fiona's murder?

Out loud to Colin Leslie said, ‘I met Dave this morning at the harbour, and until three quarters of an hour ago we were in town together. If Jennifer had been hoping to see him at home, then she won't have managed to.'

‘Hmm,' said Colin. It was not clear whether this information put his mind at rest or not.

Leslie sighed quietly. ‘Colin, you've got some issue with letting the women around you—'

‘I don't have any issues,' said Colin sharply, ‘but my wife does, so I'm worried.'

‘It'll be all right.'

‘Goodbye,' said Colin stiffly and hung up.

Leslie took her tea and walked into the living room. Talking about Dave Tanner had reminded her that he might be in some difficulty. Perhaps he needed help. Perhaps there was something in Fiona's notes. She had to finish reading the computer printouts.

She sat down on the sofa, sipping her tea. She was very tired. She would lie down, just for a couple of minutes.

She put her cup down and stretched out on the sofa, falling asleep before any more thoughts came to her.

13

It was not an interrogation. At least Valerie did not want to create that impression for now. She had invited Dave Tanner into her office and asked him to sit across the desk from her. Reek brought them both coffee. When she had to get tough with people, she used another room with bare walls, furnished with only a table and a few chairs. She was not at that point with Tanner. Maybe it was because he was not her favourite suspect, even if she would never have expressed that to anyone. All her instincts pointed her in another direction. Nevertheless she shouldn't, she thought, ignore the contradictions of Tanner's statement about Saturday night. She shouldn't make her mind up too soon. She shouldn't let the impatience she felt coming from her bosses push her to hurried conclusions.

She shouldn't, she shouldn't, she shouldn't
…

She asked herself briefly if she would ever reach the point where she didn't just repeat the guidelines for investigating officers like a schoolgirl. When she wouldn't use half her energies in just controlling herself, and in keeping her unease in check.

Don't think about that now, she ordered herself, focus on Tanner!

She looked at him. He was just taking a sip of coffee. He grimaced, because it was scalding hot. It did not look to her as if he had a guilty conscience, but he certainly did not look comfortable. That did not mean he had anything to be guilty about. Most people would prefer to spend their time doing almost anything other than being questioned in a police station.

‘Mr Tanner, as Sergeant Reek has already told you, there are some … inconsistencies regarding your statement that you drove straight home on Saturday night and went to bed immediately … We have a statement from a neighbour …'

He put his cup down and looked at her intently. ‘Yes?'

‘A lady who lives opposite saw you leave your landlady's house at around nine p.m., get into your car and drive off.'

He groaned. ‘Mrs Krusinski, wasn't it? She spends her whole time, day and night, watching the street, because she lives in fear of her ex. Do you think she's a reliable witness?'

‘That's not the question right now. I just want to hear what you have to say concerning the statement.'

She could see in his expression how his thoughts were racing. He had expressive features, she realised. She thought she even saw the moment when he caved in.

‘It's true,' he said. I drove off again that evening.'

‘Where to?'

‘To a pub in the harbour.'

‘Which one?'

‘The Golden Ball.'

Valerie knew the pub. She noted it down. ‘Were you alone? I mean … did you arrange to meet someone?'

She could just see his hesitation.

Valerie leant forward. ‘Mr Tanner, you should tell the truth. This is not a game. We're investigating a murder. Because of what happened on Saturday at your engagement party you are one of the main suspects. The fact that you gave a false statement doesn't exactly count in your favour, as you no doubt realise. Don't make everything worse for yourself. Don't hide or change anything from now on.'

He snapped out of his paralysis. ‘I met a woman.'

‘Who?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Yes. She will have to confirm your statement.'

‘Karen Ward.'

‘Karen Ward?' asked Valerie, surprised. She had spoken to her twice in connection with her investigation into Amy Mills's death. Not that much came of it. Karen Ward had not known Amy Mills well and had not been able to help the police.

Small world, thought Valerie.

‘She's a student here in Scarborough,' she said. ‘She lives in a shared flat in Filey Road, if I remember correctly. On the corner of Holbeck Road.'

He nodded. ‘Yes. I know you've met her already. Because of—'

‘Amy Mills, yes. Carry on. So, you met Miss Ward?'

‘I called her on her mobile. She normally works behind the bar in the Newcastle Packet on Saturday nights. That's—'

‘I know the one. Down at the harbour, too. A karaoke bar.'

‘Yes. She was very tired and said she'd already spoken to her boss and he was fine with her going at nine. The bar was practically empty. I suggested that I pick her up and we go for a drink. She was up for that. So we ended up in the Golden Ball's bar.'

‘At around a quarter past nine, twenty past nine, I'm guessing?'