The Moth Catcher (13 page)

‘I know it is horrible,’ she said. ‘Two deaths in the valley. The police nosing about. But it is interesting too, isn’t it? Thrilling to be so close to violence and sudden death. I can’t help being excited by it.’

Holly drove slowly through Kimmerston, held up by heavy traffic. Roadworks in the middle of Front Street. Stopped at temporary lights, she was close to a cafe where tables had been set out on the pavement for the first time that spring. An elderly woman was sitting there. She was alone and presumably her companion was inside ordering coffee. She had round spots of rouge on her cheeks and her lipstick had seeped beyond her lips into the face powder. Her clothes were bright: a blue coat and a pink scarf. She was holding a rag doll on the table and bouncing it like a baby, talking to it. Holly had her window shut and couldn’t make out the words, but watched with embarrassment and fascination as the woman stopped bouncing the doll and cradled it in her arms and stroked the hair.

The woman obviously had dementia. Alzheimer’s, perhaps. There must be a carer somewhere, because surely it wasn’t safe to leave her alone there so close to the road. A thought flashed unbidden through Holly’s mind.
Why do they allow old people like that out in the community? Wouldn’t she be more comfortable in a home somewhere?
Knowing that it wasn’t the woman’s comfort that she was thinking of, but her own. Horrified that she could be so cruel and judgemental, that this reminder that even
she
might end her life being frail and mad, made her suddenly sick with disgust.

The traffic started moving again and Holly drove on without glancing back at the pavement. She arrived at the station early and waited on the platform for Alicia Randle’s train. The sight of the old woman from the pavement cafe was still troubling her. She’d always considered herself without prejudice, open-minded and fair. How could she have such an appalling reaction to someone who was obviously ill?

Boxes had been planted with flowers all along the platform and there were ornamental cherry trees, white with blossom beside the track; the air was heavy with the smell of them. Holly sat on a bench, suddenly tired. She must have fallen asleep and was only jolted back to consciousness by the screech of brakes as the train arrived. Alnmouth was a small station and few passengers alighted. A woman with very short white hair who’d been waiting further up the platform greeted a friend. They kissed and walked away arm-inarm. Holly tried to remember the last time anyone had greeted her with such affection. Then she saw Alicia Randle. Tall and elegant, dressed in well-cut trousers and a tweed jacket. Classy. Only a big leather shoulder bag for her overnight stay. As she got closer, Holly saw how pale she was, her eyes red-rimmed.

‘Mrs Randle.’ Holly held out her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ What else was there to say? ‘I’m Holly Clarke. We’ve been speaking on the phone.’

The woman’s hand was very cold and dry. She was older than she’d seemed at a distance, certainly in her late sixties. Holly remembered that Patrick had been a late baby, a consolation.

‘It was good of you to meet me.’ Manners would matter to Alicia Randle. Politeness was probably holding her together. It wouldn’t be good form to break down in front of strangers.

‘Let me take your bag and I’ll drive you to your hotel.’

Holly had found a small hotel for Alicia close to the park in Kimmerston. The owners brought them tea in a conservatory at the back of the house. The door was open and the sound of birdsong seemed very loud. Too cheerful for the occasion.

‘We wondered what you’d like to do this evening,’ Holly said. ‘My boss suggested that you might like to have dinner with us, but really if you’d rather stay here on your own, that’s fine too.’ She didn’t want to inflict Vera, with her size and her brash questioning, on this grieving woman. ‘There’s no restaurant here, but I’m sure they’d make some sandwiches for you to have in your room, and I can pick you up in the morning.’

‘That’s very kind.’ The politeness seeing Alicia through again. ‘Though I would like to meet the inspector, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.’

‘It wouldn’t be too much for you?’

Alicia blinked and briefly the mannerly mask cracked. ‘I’ve lost two sons and a husband, Ms Clarke. I’m sure that I can survive dinner with the women who will, I hope, bring Patrick’s killer to justice.’ There was a brief moment of silence filled by birdsong, before she spoke again. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude. You were just trying to be kind.’

The private room in Annie’s was too big for the three of them and it felt cold and unused. The only natural light came from a narrow window. They sat at one end of a large table. In the main restaurant there seemed to be a sixtieth birthday party, three generations celebrating, and whenever the waitress opened the door laughter and children’s voices spilled in. Vera had made an effort. Her hair was combed and she was wearing the suit that she kept in the cupboard at work, in case she was called to court. She was there before them and stood up to greet Alicia Randle. ‘Eh, pet, I’m so sorry.’ Holly thought Vera might attempt to take the woman into her arms, but she sensed in time that the physical contact might not be welcome.

The service was slow and they spoke as they waited for the food. Vera offered Alicia wine and she accepted, so there was a bottle on the table. Holly never took alcohol when she was driving, not even a small glass, so the older women drank it between them. They carried on the conversation too. Holly thought she might not have been there.

‘Tell me about your son.’ A classic Vera opening line. She was spreading butter on a warm roll and was looking at that, not at the woman on the opposite side of the table. Not wanting to make this sound like an interrogation, though the way they were sitting each side of the table reminded Holly of the interview room.

‘Patrick was a joy from the moment he was born. I was already in my forties and never thought I would have another child. Simon . . .’ Alicia looked at them to check that they knew she’d had another son, ‘was born while I was still a student and he died not long after Patrick was conceived. Perhaps it was because I was already middle-aged that Patrick was so calm and relaxed. My husband was considerably older than me and he died when Patrick was a boy.’

‘And now you’re on your own.’ A statement of fact.

‘I have friends, but Patrick and I were very close. I didn’t think anything could be worse than losing Simon, but I was wrong. Losing my husband wasn’t so terrible. He’d been ill for a while when he passed away, so it wasn’t a shock.’ She paused. ‘But this is horrible. Nobody should have to suffer in this way. I’m not sure I’ll get through this intact.’

‘Of course you will.’ It was Vera at her most bossy. ‘You’re strong. I can tell that.’ She paused for just a beat. ‘Did you find another man, after your husband died?’

Holly almost gasped at the bluntness of the question, but Alicia gave a little smile. ‘Yes. A widower. He’s really rather special. We were planning to get married in the summer. Now? I don’t think I can face it. Not just yet. It’s not a time for celebration.’

‘Did you not want to bring him with you today?’ Vera was poised with the bread close to her mouth.

‘No. This was something I had to do on my own.’

Vera nodded as if she quite understood. ‘You were telling me about your boy. Patrick.’

‘He was an easy child. Self-contained. He could spend hours lying on his stomach on the grass staring at bugs. He did his homework without being asked, and he never went through that teenage time of rebellion.’ Holly could tell she loved talking about her son. She was grateful to Vera for giving her the time and the space to do so. ‘I even liked his girlfriends. Simon was much more normal.’

‘He
did
go through the teenage rebellion thing?’ Vera reached out for more bread.

‘Well, you know, he slammed a few doors in his time.’ She paused. ‘Actually it was worse than that for a few years. He mixed with kids I didn’t really approve of. He even had a brush with the law. Drugs. Though I never told Patrick that. Patrick always thought of Simon as some sort of role-model. And Simon did pull his life around. He got into Oxford. He was very bright. Very ambitious. In the end, I think that was what caused the suicide. He could never live up to his own expectations. He’d only been there six months when he died.’ A pause. ‘I was careful not to put Patrick under any pressure academically.’

The waitress came in with their food. They ate without noticing what was on the plates.

‘You said that you liked Patrick’s girlfriends,’ Vera said. ‘Was there anyone special at the moment?’

‘He’d been in a relationship for three years. All the time that he was doing his PhD in Exeter. She was a medical student. Rebecca. They were living together, and I was imagining that they’d marry. I must admit that I’d started to think about the wedding, hoping for grandchildren.’ Alicia put down her cutlery and sat for a moment staring into space. There would be no grandchildren now. ‘Then a little while ago they separated.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Patrick wouldn’t talk about it, and that wasn’t like him. He came home for a month before he started house-sitting. He seemed a bit withdrawn and moody, but he didn’t even tell me that the relationship was over until I asked when Rebecca was coming to stay.’ Alicia paused. ‘I supposed that she’d finished with him, found someone else perhaps, and that he didn’t want to admit that he was hurting. The male-pride thing.’

‘We’ll need to talk to Rebecca,’ Vera said. ‘You’ll have her contact details. Perhaps you could give them to Holly here, when she drives you home.’

Alicia nodded. ‘I was tempted to speak to Rebecca myself when they separated. I even thought about coming up to Durham to meet her. But I knew Patrick would hate it if I interfered. And really it was none of my business. I just hated seeing him so unhappy.’

‘Was he still unhappy?’ Vera had finished her meal before the rest of them and sat back in her chair. She poured the last of the wine into Alicia’s glass. She wasn’t usually so moderate in her drinking, so Holly supposed Vera would be driving later. At least she wouldn’t have to taxi Vera home. ‘You’ll have been in touch with him since the two short contracts he did for the house-sitting agency. How did he seem?’

‘Better,’ Alicia said. ‘He was home for a month before he came north to Gilswick. He sulked around the house for a couple of weeks and spent hours in his room on his computer, but then he seemed to snap out of it. Become the old Patrick again. Though perhaps not quite. I asked him what the problem had been, but he didn’t want to talk to me.’

‘Did he catch moths when he was at home?’

‘Yes! He’s been doing that since he was about eight years old. We set up some traps in the orchard. One of the masters at his school was very keen, and a group of them became interested. I think Patrick’s the only one who’s maintained the passion.’ She gave a sad little smile. ‘I thought even when he was boy that he’d make a career of it, become an academic and continue his research.’

‘The second victim, an older man called Martin Benton, was passionate about moths too,’ Vera said. ‘It’s the only connection we can find between them. Do you recognize the name?’

‘No, but I wouldn’t do,’ Alicia said. ‘Patrick seemed mostly to communicate with other enthusiasts online. He had his own website and visited other people’s. There are separate lists for the different counties. It’s all rather esoteric. I could never get terribly interested, especially in the tiny moths – the micros – and they were Patrick’s favourites. Hard to identify, and a challenge.’

‘Martin Benton was a photographer.’ It was the first contribution Holly had made to the conversation. ‘His images are rather beautiful.’

‘I think Patrick was more interested in the science than the aesthetics,’ Alicia said. ‘He took pictures to help in identification. He’d put the moths in small jars in the fridge, because they’re still when they’re cold and easier to photograph. Then he let them go in the garden. He had no interest in collecting.’ She seemed lost for a moment in her memories. ‘But I suspect that he would have met Mr Benton, at least online. It’s a very small community.’ She looked up and her expression changed. Again the veneer of politeness shattered. ‘I need to know why somebody would have wanted my son dead. It’s the randomness of the brutality that makes it so hard to understand. I don’t even want vengeance. I just need to know what happened, and why.’ Her voice was scratchy, as if she had a throat infection or had been screaming.

‘And that’s what we want too.’ This time Vera did make contact. Alicia’s bony hand was lying on the table and Vera covered it with her big paw. ‘Can you let us have Patrick’s mobile number? We haven’t found his phone.’

‘Of course.’ The woman reeled off the number without having to check.

Holly looked in her notebook. It was the number Joe had taken from Benton’s landline. She caught Vera’s eye and gave a little nod.

Vera gave Alicia’s hand a little pat. ‘You’ll be tired with all that travelling. Holly will take you back now and we’ll catch up in the morning.’ She stood up and, obedient as children, both other woman followed.

It was dark outside. Vera came with them to the door, but didn’t follow them out. Alicia Randle took her place in the passenger seat and sat in silence, gripping her handbag on her knee, until they’d almost reached her hotel.

‘I’m glad that I met your boss,’ she said. ‘I think she’s a good woman.’

Holly thought for a moment. ‘She is.’ She paused. ‘And she’s a very good detective.’

Holly sat in the car outside her flat, overtaken by the exhaustion that had hit her at Alnmouth station. She felt as if she could sleep here in the street and not wake up until morning. At last she roused herself and climbed out of the vehicle. She let herself into the flat and stooped to pick up the post. In the kitchen she switched on the kettle.

The flat was new, in a recently built block on the site of a former fire station. Low-rise and discreet, its dark-red brick had been chosen to match the surrounding Edwardian houses in one of Newcastle’s more fashionable suburbs. Her apartment was at the back and looked over a cemetery. Most of the graves were old, covered with lichen and sheltered by mature trees, but occasionally there were funeral parties; elderly women dressed in black coats and hats shaped like mushrooms gathered around the newly dug hole in the ground, like crows around a roadkill rabbit.