The Crow Trap (52 page)

“He was. Peter Kemp had drawn up some interesting proposals for the new upland nature reserve on the Black Law site. I needed to discuss that with him. We thought it would provide positive publicity to coincide with the publication of the Kemp Associates report.”

“What time did he arrive?”

“I’m not sure. About four thirty.” “No,” Barbara said loudly. “Later than that. Quarter past five at the earliest. I’d just collected Felicity. She’d been at her friend’s for tea. We pulled up at the same time.”

Godfrey looked at her calmly.

“Is your wife right, Mr. Waugh?”

“Yes, Inspector. I believe she is.”

Barbara stood up suddenly. “I promised I’d help Felicity with her homework. I’m sure Godfrey can help you with anything else you need, Inspector. He’ll see you out.”

And she left the room before Vera could say anything. After her previous hospitality the abrupt departure was awkward, almost rude.

Later Vera thought she could have called Barbara back, made some attempt to see her alone. Then she could have offered help, given her the office phone number, pushed for more information about Neville Furness. As it was she just followed Godfrey to the door and said goodbye to the girl who’d returned to the computer. Despite the talk about homework Barbara was nowhere to be seen.

Outside she paused by her car. Swifts swooped above the house weaving a cat’s cradle pattern in the sky. She lingered, thinking that Barbara might find some excuse to talk to her. But, turning back, she saw the woman in an upstairs window, not looking at her at all but staring at the hill beyond.

Chapter Sixty-Four.

In her house by the railway line Vera opened a bottle of red wine and drank most of it sitting by the open kitchen window until the colour had drained from the hills. As the wine began to take effect she was troubled not by doubts about the investigation but by memories of Constance Baikie. She had a picture of the woman as she had last seen her, lying wide and soft on her sofa, looking out at Vera with sly black eyes. Since her father’s death she had thought of him often.

With anger, guilt, occasional flashes of reluctant affection. He had been company. Another person to talk to. Connie she had largely forgotten until she had walked into Baikie’s Cottage, dripping with rain, to investigate a young woman’s murder and then all the memories had returned.

As she drained her second glass it occurred to Vera for the first time that Hector and Connie might have been lovers. After all she had never seen him with another woman. Almost immediately she dismissed the idea. Their joint passion had been for their illicit collections, for the secret obsession which took them out onto the hills before dawn to deprive birds of their young, leaving the nests empty and cold. They had shared the secret excitement. They were drawn closer by the danger which exposed them to blackmail and threatened their reputations and careers. It had nothing to do with love or even friendship.

Then, at almost the same time as she remembered that she had not eaten since Edie’s bread and cheese at lunchtime, she was struck by the thought that the murderer she was seeking could be similarly obsessive.

The daughter and then the father had been killed. Like Hector taking clutches from the same nest. There was no apparent motive but evidence of meticulous planning especially before Edmund’s death. Behind the killings she saw a passion as intense and irrational as that which had driven her father, clouded his judgement, ruined both their lives. Yet Hector had been quite different before his wife died. She had seen photographs of him, talking to friends, laughing. Even afterwards he had held down a respectable job until his retirement, had been considered a little eccentric, a bit of a loner, but not any sort of threat. She should be looking for someone with a secret obsession and when she understood what that was perhaps she would know why Grace and Edmund had been killed.

Her mobile phone rang. She came to her senses, thought, What a load of crap, get a grip, lady. Imagine explaining that to Ashworth and the crew.

On the phone was Christina Flood the psychologist. In the background was the sound of a flute playing something Celtic and mournful.

“I’ve dug out that information you wanted. You can come and get it if you like. I know it’s late but we’ve taken to sleeping at the same time as the baby and she’s definitely a night owl. We’ll be up for hours.”

Vera was tempted then she saw the empty bottle on the window sill and thought better of it. Some rules she was not prepared to break.

“I can’t tonight; she said. “I’ve had a few glasses of wine.

Definitely over the limit.”

Christina was surprisingly insistent. “Why don’t we bring it to you?

If you don’t have the stuff now, it’ll have to wait until Monday. We’re away for the weekend, showing off the sprog to doting grandparents.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. We’re all wide awake. Patrick and the baby want to play.”

Vera had almost given them up and it was midnight before she saw the headlights moving down the lane towards the house. She went out to wait for them, thinking perhaps they had been lost and would need reassuring that they’d got the right place. They were in a sea blue van with the words THE MUSIC MAN stencilled in orange along the side.

Christina was apologetic.

“My car wouldn’t start. Flat battery. So we had to come in Patrick’s.”

“I was glad you could make it.”

“Not at all. We’ve enjoyed the jaunt. Especially the baby.”

“We’re going for a walk,” Patrick said. “Leave you two in peace.”

“No need.”

“We want to,” he said. “We’ve never done moonlight before.”

And he walked down the lane with the baby in a sling on his back and disappeared into the black shadow of the old station house.

“Did you decide on a name for her?” Vera asked.

“Miranda. Theatrical enough for Patrick but not too outrageous.”

They sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. Christina’s papers were in a large box file. There were shorthand notebooks containing a jotted record of each meeting of the group, and some photocopies of patients’ record sheets.

“I need these because in the notebooks I often just use first names or initials and after all this time I can’t remember the backgrounds of every individual patient. But I’m still concerned about confidentiality. I promised each group that anything said would be secret.” She hesitated. “Look, I’d like you to read the notebooks first. That way the people involved can remain anonymous. If anything strikes you as especially significant we can discuss revealing the identity of the people concerned.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to give me a list of the patients who attended the same group as Bella and Edmund? I can see if there’s a name I recognize.”

Christina paused again, chose her words carefully. “It might be simpler but I don’t think you’d find it useful.”

“You’re saying there’s something relevant in these notebooks?”

“I think you should read them.”

So Vera read. Bella and Edmund were founder members of the first group. Christina had taken detailed notes of each session. Bella was referred to by first name and Edmund by initials. In the beginning it was clear that Christina was frustrated by the way the group was operating. She even considered packing the whole thing in. A male patient was dominating every discussion. He talked constantly about his destructive relationship with his mother. She’d overprotected him and became ill every time he wanted to leave her. The other patients were too polite or too apathetic to shut him up. Vera was surprised no one had thumped him.

Only in the third meeting was some progress made and then it was Edmund who had interrupted. Christina had written down his exact words.

“For Christ’s sake, do you think you’re the only person to have had a shitty childhood? Haven’t you ever read Larkin?”

And he had gone on to talk angrily about his life at Holme Park, about the mother who was always too wrapped up in her social life and her elder son to give time to him, the succession of incompetent nannies, the restrictions and the boredom. “There was only one person who cared for me and the rest of them treated her like shite. Just because she couldn’t read or write very well.”

Nancy Deakin, Vera thought. And she cared for him until the end.

That had stimulated a more general discussion. Others had come in with halting stories of their own. There were hints of abuse and bullying.

One woman had been brought up believing her mother was her sister.

Another’s father had thrown himself under a train.

Very jolly, Vera thought. She hoped Christina was happy in her work.

There was no mention of any contribution from Bella until the fifth session. Then, prompted by Edmund who had already befriended her, she had told the story of her father’s death. It was much as Vera had expected. Charles had always made her feel guilty she at least had escaped for a while, made friends, found a job she enjoyed. And Arthur Noble had never hit her. All his frustration had been taken out on the boy. When she returned to the family home Bella’s little brother had increased the pressure relentlessly.

In her notebook Christina described the scene as Bella told her story.

It was remarkable. Until Edmund persuaded her to speak Bella had always been a passive member of the group, sometimes supporting other people but never seeking attention for herself. Now it seemed she couldn’t stop talking and she moved physically into the centre of the circle. She began to act out the attack. which killed her father, starting with receiving the phone call from her brother and ending with raising her arm to smack the heavy bronze onto his skull. She was in tears, saying that she should have been charged with murder and not with manslaughter. She had planned to kill him. The group gathered round to offer support.

Vera looked up briefly from the notebook. “She could have left them to it. Gone back to teaching. She was still responsible.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she should have got away with it?”

“Do you think she did?” Christina stood up, stretched. “I’ll make some more tea, shall I?”

When she returned with the mugs Vera was engrossed, hunched over the table frowning. Eventually she looked up furiously, pushed the notebook towards the psychologist.

“Why didn’t you do something about this at the time?”

“Because I didn’t believe it.”

“Didn’t you recognize the story?”

“Of course. But it wasn’t unusual. The patient had experienced a number of psychotic fantasies, had imagined, for example, being famous.

Those were triggered by news events, movies, even TV soaps. Later we managed to control the episodes but at the time I couldn’t be expected to take the story seriously.”

“How did the rest of the group respond?”

“They didn’t believe it. They were sympathetic but sceptical.”

“What do you think now? Do you believe it could have been true?”

“I think it’s far-fetched but you have a right to know what was claimed. That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Vera stood up, walked to the window. There was a full moon which lit up the meadow. Patrick and the baby were silhouetted against the light.

“Could that sort of illness reoccur after a period of normality?”

“You’d need to check with a psychiatrist, but no, it wouldn’t be unusual. Do you think that’s what’s happened here?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” Christina said. “As a way of surviving, these murders make perfect sense. I don’t think that’s madness.”

“Well, it’ll not be for me to decide. Thank God.” Vera turned back into the room. “You’ll have to let me see the patient’s notes. You do realize that. I have to know who this lunatic is. If it is a lunatic.”

For a moment Christina hesitated. Through the open window they heard footsteps on the lane as Patrick approached. He was singing to the baby. Some sort of lullaby.

“For Christ’s sake,” Vera hissed. “You of all people can’t let this go.”

“No.” Christina took a single sheet of paper from her file and left it on the table. She went out of the house to meet Patrick. When they returned the paper was back in its file and Vera was on the telephone.

The baby was fast asleep, her mouth slightly open, her head tilted back. Vera replaced the receiver.

“Will you make an arrest?” Christina asked.

“Not yet. As you said the story’s too far-fetched to accept without proof. But there’ll be no more killings either, I hope.”

She walked with them to the van. It was just starting to turn from moonlight to dawn. There was a pale grey flush on the horizon. In the distance a single blackbird began to sing.

“It was an obsession, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yes.” Christina was cradling Miranda in one arm, sliding her into the baby seat without waking her. “If we’re right, that’s exactly what it was.”

Chapter Sixty-Five.

Vera’s instinct was to wait. The Black Law Fells seemed empty but they were exposed. There was no way she could drive to the site without the chance of being seen by a gamekeeper, a shepherd or a walker and the last thing she wanted was a rumour in Langholme, spreading like a moorland fire, that the police were snooping around again. It was a small place. Soon everyone would know.