Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street (21 page)

The pub was closed. Outside a scattering of cigarette ends on the pavement and, even from where they stood, the smell of stale beer. Inside a tiny woman was pushing a Hoover across the floor. It was as big as she was. Vera banged on the window, but the woman didn’t hear until she turned off the machine. She shook her head and pointed to her watch. Vera held up her warrant card to the dirty window and eventually the door was unbolted.

‘Do you run this place?’

‘Nah, I’m just the cleaner.’ She was nervous. Vera suspected she was paid cash in hand and still claimed benefit.

‘Who does?’

‘Lawrence. He lives in the flat upstairs.’

‘Well, give him a shout, pet. Then you can get on.’

‘I’ll unlock the door and you can go up yourself.’ She was as skinny and shapeless as a ten-year-old girl. Nicotine on her fingers, and Vera could tell she was desperate for a tab. She’d be outside on the pavement smoking as soon as she’d got rid of them.

She led them through the lounge bar to a back corridor and took a string of keys on a chain from her apron pocket. Vera was reminded of a prison officer at locking-up time.

Lawrence was up, but only just. He was wearing jogging bottoms and a vest and his feet were bare. Vera had knocked on the door at the top of the narrow stairs, Joe standing behind her. The landlord was probably expecting the cleaner, a demand for payment or for new dusters.

‘Who are you?’ A giant of a man, but somehow gentle with it. Vera would have sworn like a trooper, if strangers had turned up in her home at this hour of the morning. He stood back to let them in. The room looked out over Harbour Street and onto the water.

‘Were you in the bar on the night Margaret Krukowski was murdered in the Metro?’

‘I was working early on,’ he said, ‘but not when the news first came through. The other bar staff had come in by then and I was up here, taking my break.’

‘Quiet, was it, early on?’

‘Yeah, dead. Snow had been forecast and everyone was keen to get home.’ He leaned against the windowsill and turned to look out into the street.

‘So you’d remember anyone in the bar that evening?’

‘Early on, like I said. Not later. The Metro closed down and folk couldn’t get into town, so they all piled in here.’

‘George Enderby,’ Vera said. He didn’t respond straight away, so she continued, ‘He’s one of the regular guests at Kate Dewar’s guest house.’

Lawrence nodded to show that he knew who they were talking about. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘He was in that afternoon with a mate. Older. Kind of scruffy.’

‘Malcolm Kerr?’

‘Nah!’ Lawrence said. ‘He was in later, and he had a skinful. I didn’t know the other man.’

‘Was Dee Robson in then too? We know she was in sometime that afternoon. She picked up a guy called Jason. Then she was back later in the evening.’ Vera remembered seeing the woman coming out of the pub, tottering on her heels, bowled along by the jeers.

Lawrence thought for a minute. ‘I don’t think she was in at the same time as the men. They were on their own in the lounge.’

‘What were they talking about?’

Lawrence shook his head. ‘No idea! There was music and they were in the far corner. When I went to collect their glasses they shut up.’

‘But you’d have got some impression of their mood,’ Vera said. ‘It’d be instinctive, wouldn’t it, picking up the atmosphere in the pub. Keeping an eye out for trouble.’

Lawrence gave a little chuckle. ‘Those two would be no trouble. A couple of old gadgies, sitting over a pint. But one of them was upset. At one point he was crying.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one you were asking about. George Enderby.’

Then Vera’s brain was buzzing. Because George couldn’t have been crying for Margaret Krukowski. At that point she was still alive, making her way to the solicitor’s office in Gosforth, to talk about her will. Perhaps she’d talked to George and told him that she was dying, but then there’d be no need for the man to have lied to the police. And he’d still have had time to drive to Gosforth, to follow Margaret onto the Metro and to have killed her. Then plenty of time to collect his car and drive back to Harbour Street, arriving in the guest house just before Vera and Joe had turned up. But he’d been so charming then, so confident and pleasant. Not the demeanour of a man who’d just committed murder. Or that of a man who’d sat in a pub earlier in the day crying.

‘You really don’t know who the other bloke was?’ This was Joe, getting impatient, while she was staring out of the window lost in thought.

‘I’ve seen him about in Harbour Street,’ Lawrence said. ‘He goes out with Malcolm Kerr in the boat to the island. Some sort of research.’

Mike Craggs, who’d also lied. He’d said he drove home to the Tyne Valley as soon as he got back from Coquet Island.

Vera thought that Enderby and Craggs were stupid men. She couldn’t see them as killers, so why hadn’t they told the truth? Unless this was a great conspiracy and all the suspects were in it together. She smiled at the thought. She was back to Enderby and his fantasies, his wild fictions. ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

Lawrence didn’t ask anything about the investigation. She liked his gentleness and his lack of curiosity. He’d make a better priest than Peter Gruskin. ‘I’ll show you out,’ he said and padded ahead of them, his bare feet splayed and huge like a bear’s.

Downstairs it was quiet. The cleaner had moved into the toilets. In the lounge there was a painting of a fat old woman. She was leaning forward with her elbows on the bar. It wasn’t a brilliant painting, but it gave an impression of someone strong and eccentric.

‘Who’s that?’ Vera nodded towards it as they passed.

‘Val Butt.’ Lawrence smiled. ‘She managed this place for years. I took over from her. She was quite a character. A fierce lady. People still tell stories about her.’

Out in the street the morning was moving on. Women were already in the fisheries preparing to open for lunchtime. Vera phoned Holly. ‘Tell me you’ve found another connection between Margaret and Enderby.’ Looking up the street, she could see that his car was still there. Why was he staying two more days, instead of only his usual one? Perhaps he was one of the ghouls who found a murder investigation exciting, who travelled from crime scene to crime scene like a rock-star groupie.

‘Nothing of any real importance. As we already know, he went along to the winter fair at the Haven a few weeks ago. He’d donated some books for them to sell and acted as their Father Christmas. According to the woman in charge, he spent a fortune on raffle tickets and whenever he won a prize he put it back on the stall.’

‘Did you get a list of residents who were staying there then?’

‘Of course.’ Holly was still full of herself after making the discovery about Enderby. ‘The same bunch as are there now, apart from an emergency admission, a woman who’d been beaten by her husband. She’s since got an injunction and is back in the family house.’ She paused. ‘Dee Robson was there for the afternoon too. Margaret took her along for a treat.’

Vera remembered Jane Cameron’s words.
Not just for a treat, but to make a point.

‘Boss?’ Holly still on the line and impatient.

‘See if you can track down Professor Craggs,’ Vera said. ‘We need to talk to him too.’

She switched off the phone and started up Harbour Street. Joe Ashworth followed and caught up with her, so they were walking side by side. ‘You can’t really think that Enderby and Craggs planned the murder?’ He thought she was mad.

‘They’ve lied to me,’ she said. ‘Both of them.’

‘People lie to the police for all sorts of reasons.’

‘But they shouldn’t.’ She stopped abruptly to catch her breath. ‘They shouldn’t lie to
me.
’

Kate was drinking coffee in the kitchen with Stuart when there was a knock at the door, so loud that she jumped and felt an irrational surge of fear. They’d had a lazy morning. George Enderby had come to the dining room for breakfast as usual and then had disappeared. The kids were out. The house was still and quiet; it rarely was, and she thought that in the future their life could be like this, peaceful and easy. Then there was the knock at the door and Stuart looked up from the newspaper on his lap, frowning. ‘Shall I go?’

But he seemed so settled there, and a little elderly in the harsh light of a working kitchen, so she got to her feet and kissed his forehead as she went past him and felt the skin very dry on her lips.

She looked through the hall window before opening the door and saw the fat detective and her sidekick standing outside.

‘Sorry to disturb you, pet. Do you mind if we come in?’ And by the time Vera Stanhope had finished the words she was inside the house, the younger man trailing after her. Kate wondered how that must make him feel, always in the fat woman’s shadow.

Vera stood in the hall, rubbing her hands against the cold, as if they’d been waiting outside for hours and not just a few minutes.

‘I was wondering if we could get breakfast,’ she said. ‘I mean, we’d buy it of course. We’d have to. These days even a freebie fry-up might be taken the wrong way. Bribery and corruption.’

And she flashed a bright smile, so Kate wondered if this was the only reason for the visit – if they’d disturbed her perfect morning just to make them bacon and eggs. Or if this was some kind of weird joke. She remembered the rush of adrenaline when she’d heard the banging on the door and felt angry. The cheek of the woman! It was hard to believe this was happening – the strange woman invading her house and demanding breakfast. But then it was hard to believe that two women had been killed in the town.

Vera was still talking. ‘You’re not on your own, are you? I thought you still had guests staying.’

‘Only George,’ Kate said. ‘George Enderby.’

‘Ah, I thought I saw his car outside. We wouldn’t have disturbed you if we’d thought you were planning to take the day off.’ She walked further into the house, looking round her. ‘Is Mr Enderby around?’ She made the question casual, but Kate could tell it was important.

‘He went out,’ Kate said.

‘Oh?’ Still the pretence that it didn’t really matter. ‘But his car’s still there.’

‘He got the Metro into town.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’ Vera’s eyes were sharp as tacks and there was no mention now of Kate cooking breakfast for her. It seemed that was just a pretext to get through the door.

‘Some library? Something about getting a fix, a visit to a proper place for books to be cherished, before he heads south tomorrow.’ George had mentioned it at breakfast, but Kate hadn’t taken much notice.

‘The Lit & Phil Library?’

‘Yes!’ Kate thought the inspector must be some sort of witch to have guessed that right. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s where book-lovers hang out.’ Vera flashed her another smile. ‘And the lonely and the slightly mad. I should know. I’m a member myself.’ Another pause. ‘Can you show Joe here into Mr Enderby’s room? I need to get back to work.’

Kate hesitated. She found it hard to stand up to the fat detective. ‘But I can’t do that. It’s an invasion of his privacy.’

‘It’s your house, pet. Give us permission and we don’t need a warrant.’

They stood for a moment staring at each other, and finally Kate gave in. She didn’t owe George Enderby anything and, if he was involved in these murders, then it was her duty to help the police. She wondered what Stuart would make of it. Surely he would agree too. And perhaps there’d always been something a bit odd about the man, something a bit unsettling.

Kate went into the kitchen to fetch her keys and, when she returned, Vera Stanhope had disappeared. It was hard to imagine that such a big woman could move so quickly or so lightly. The sergeant followed her up the stairs and waited in silence while she opened the door. She thought he would send her away, but he nodded for her to go in first. Perhaps he needed her there as a witness. Kate hadn’t been in to make up the room yet, but it was tidy as always, the duvet folded back to air the bed, the cup on the tray next to the kettle.

George’s holdall was open on the floor in the corner. It seemed that he hadn’t really bothered to unpack this time, and that was unusual. Normally he hung up his work shirts and his jacket as soon as he arrived.
‘If you’re a salesman, Kate, first impressions count.’

Standing next to it was the wheelie suitcase in which George carried his samples. The sergeant laid it flat on the floor and unzipped it. Inside she saw some jeans and a heavy jersey, a pair of walking boots and a waterproof jacket.

‘But where are the books?’ Kate couldn’t help herself.

‘What books?’ The sergeant looked up. He was still kneeling on the floor. He frowned a little.

‘He carries books in the suitcase. Samples to show the shopkeepers.’

The detective said nothing. He began opening the drawers, but all George’s clothes were still in the holdall. Joe Ashworth emptied that carefully, laying each item on the bed, but it seemed there was nothing of interest to him. He looked in the bathroom, before turning back to Kate. ‘That’s been very helpful. Thank you.’ His face gave nothing away. She wanted to ask if they thought George was a murderer.

‘I have children,’ she said. ‘A daughter. Is it safe to let Mr Enderby stay here tonight?’ She could hear the hysteria in her own voice.

There was only a moment of hesitation before he replied. ‘We have no evidence against Mr Enderby. We think he can help us with our enquiries.’

She didn’t find that reassuring.

At the bottom of the stairs the detective held out his hand and thanked her again. He could have been one of her paying guests.

Stuart was still in the kitchen. He’d heard Kate come down the stairs and already had the coffee machine on again. ‘What was all that about?’ He didn’t look at her as he asked the question and she couldn’t tell how curious he really was.

‘The police. They wanted to look inside George’s room.’

‘Did you let them?’ Now he did turn to look at her.

‘Yes.’ She wondered now if she’d been a coward not to stand up to them. ‘If it helps find the killer . . .’ Her voice trailed away.