Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street (7 page)

As he waited for the news to come on, Malcolm shook his head to dispel the pictures that crowded his head, and went to the window to shut the curtains. It came to him that he would never again see Margaret Krukowski walk down Harbour Street on her way to church or the Metro, her back straight and her eyes fixed ahead. Her mind full of charity and good works. She could make no more demands. He wasn’t sure whether the thought pleased or dismayed him.

They stood outside on the pavement. Vera stamped her feet. An attempt to keep warm, but also to wake herself up.

‘What shall we do now?’ Holly would never be the first one to call it a day. Her working life was spent persuading her colleagues that she was less of a wimp than the rest of them. ‘Do you want to try this hostel?’

‘Nah,’ Vera said. ‘We’ll go tomorrow when the weather’s better.’

‘Well then?’ Patience had never been one of Holly Clarke’s virtues.

‘Get off home,’ Vera said. ‘You live in town, don’t you? The roads should be okay. Briefing in the morning, eight o’clock sharp. Paul Keating is planning the post-mortem at ten.’

‘What will you do?’ More curiosity than concern. The whole team thought she was mad to live in her father’s house at the top of a hill, regularly cut off by snow and floods.

‘Ah, don’t worry about me, Hol. I’ll find a bed for the night.’

They walked together to the end of Harbour Street, surprised on the way by the sound of a train pulling into the station. The Metro system was open again. Everything was back to normal.

Vera stood in the street and watched Holly drive off. She was tempted by the light and the warmth of the Coble, could taste the fire of a whisky sliding down her throat. But a woman on her own in a pub in Mardle would attract attention. She might not be dressed like the big lass in the fishnet tights, but folk would stare and wonder all the same.

On impulse she walked back to Kate Dewar’s guest house. Her Land Rover was still parked outside, the windscreen now covered with ice. The lock was frozen and she had to tug on the handle to get the door open. In the back was her bag. A change of underwear and a toothbrush and toothpaste. She always kept it with her, just in case.

She knocked on the door. No reply. She knocked again and this time she heard footsteps. Kate Dewar appeared. Behind her stood a man. He was older than Kate, in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed in a checked shirt and a sweater. A grey beard and a weather-beaten face. Vera looked at her watch. Nine-thirty.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Kate’s voice was a mixture of irritation and relief.

‘Why, who did you think it might have been?’

‘I’ve had the press on the phone. The Newcastle papers.’

Of course
, Vera thought,
the death of an elderly woman wouldn’t be sufficiently glamorous for the nationals
.

‘I’ve switched off the phone, but that’s not brilliant for business.’ She seemed close to tears, the petty inconveniences pushing her near the edge.

‘Of course,’ Vera said. ‘It’s about business that I’m here. Your business. I wonder if you have a bed for the night? Full rate, of course. I’d need an early breakfast. Only I live halfway up Cheviot and I don’t fancy trying to get home in this. It’s always ten times worse away from the coast. I’d be very grateful.’

And suddenly Kate clicked into professional mode. ‘Of course. Come on in. Room six is free. Can I get you some tea in the lounge?’ Talking just a little too quickly and glancing at Vera every now and again, thinking there might be something more sinister behind the apparently simple request.

Vera didn’t answer immediately. She leaned against the door and stretched out her hand round Kate towards the man. ‘I’m Vera Stanhope. Good to meet you.’

‘This is Stuart Booth, my fiancé.’ The woman’s face lit up with a huge beam. She looked like a teenager in love for the first time. Vera tried to think if
she’d
ever felt like that.

‘Then good to meet you, Stuart.’ Vera smiled. His handshake was dry and firm. ‘You know what I’d really love? It’s been a bugger of a day. A real drink. Don’t suppose you’ve got a licence?’

‘A residents’ licence? Of course.’

Vera beamed at her. ‘Then I’ll have a large Scotch. And why don’t you two come and join me. I expect you could use a drink – the day that you’ve had.’ She pulled off her wellingtons and padded into the lounge in her stockinged feet, leaving Kate and Stuart no choice but to follow. She sat in one of the leather chairs, waited for Kate to pour the drinks and then held her glass in both hands and looked at them. ‘How long have you been together then?’

They looked at each other. ‘About a year.’ Stuart’s voice was northern, but not local. Yorkshire?

‘Stuart teaches at the kids’ school.’ Kate looked at him as if he was some sort of miracle, as if she could hardly believe that he was real.

‘How does that work? Must be a nightmare to have your teacher turning up and telling tales to your mam.’ Vera set the glass on the arm of the chair.

‘None of us finds it easy. And, really, I’d never tell tales.’ He had a way of speaking slowly that was very precise, as if he was considering every word. He took Kate’s hand.

My God
, Vera thought,
they
are
like a pair of teenagers
.

‘You knew Margaret Krukowski?’

‘Of course,’ Stuart said. ‘She was like one of the family.’ He gave a shy smile. ‘She was going to give Kate away at the wedding.’

‘You’ve planned your wedding then?’ Vera was tempted to ask why they’d bother, but held her tongue.

‘Well, we’ve fixed a date.’

‘When did you last see Margaret?’

‘At the weekend.’ He looked at Kate for confirmation and she nodded. ‘The kids were out and we invited her down for supper.’

‘You don’t live here then?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I stay over sometimes, but as you said, Chloe and Ryan find it awkward. We think they’ll find it easier to accept when we’re married.’

There was a silence. Stuart slid his arm around Kate’s shoulder. Vera felt uncomfortable, as if she were intruding, and thought the kids must feel like this all the time.

‘What do you teach, Stuart?’ Small talk had never come easily to her. It was one of the few things that she and Hector had had in common. She thought the man sitting opposite might struggle with it too.

‘Music,’ he said. Then, as she made no comment, he added, ‘I run the county youth orchestra too. And the jazz band.’

Vera gave a bright little smile. ‘That’ll be one of the things the two of you have in common – the music.’ She turned to Kate. ‘My sergeant said you were a star at one time. What made you give it up?’

‘Oh, you know. Family commitments. Kids.’ Kate shook her head as if she was embarrassed to talk about it.

‘But I’m persuading her to rebuild her career.’ The man’s voice was earnest and it was almost as if he wanted Vera’s approval for the new venture. He stroked Kate’s hair, and the charge of intimacy made Vera feel awkward again. She said she’d take a second drink and some tea to her room.

The bedroom was well furnished and comfortable and looked out over the street. Vera sat at the window with her tea and her whisky, and when the glass was empty she topped it up from the bottle she kept in her bag. Also for emergencies, like the toothbrush and the clean knickers.

She thought about Margaret Krukowski, who had lived in this house for years. What had kept her in Mardle? Poverty, or a kind of lethargy? Perhaps she’d got used to the place and couldn’t face a change. And she’d liked this family, Vera decided. Liked watching the kids grow up and feeling that she was part of Kate Dewar’s life. A part of something. She might have been a self-contained woman, essentially private, but she hadn’t wanted to be completely alone. So what had Margaret made of Stuart Booth, who was closer in age to her than to Kate? Had she thought her life would change when Kate married?

Why had she been killed? Why now, on a snowy afternoon, when everyone was full of Christmas spirit? Why had she been stabbed? Vera was reminded of an old news story: a spy or a dissident stabbed with the end of an umbrella, the tip containing some lethal and secret poison. She’d thought at the time that the incident was ludicrous. There were easier ways to kill people, and this had smacked of little boys playing adventure games. Then she remembered George Enderby’s fantasy that Margaret Krukowski was a spy left over from the Cold War, and she thought she could see what had triggered his imagination. The exotic Eastern European name, of course, but also the sense that this was a private woman who carried secrets with her.

Share your secrets with me, Margaret Krukowski. Help me to find your killer.

Vera stood up to go to the bathroom. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was eleven o’clock. She’d been sitting here for more than an hour. She pulled back the curtain and looked outside. Closing time at the Coble, and a scattering of drinkers were making their way back to the town centre. There was a light on in the church. As she watched, the lights went out and the door opened. The priest emerged, still clothed in his black robes.

What have you been praying for, Father? Margaret Krukowski’s immortal soul? Or your own?

The police station at Kimmerston was freezing. The snow had brought down the power lines and cut off the electricity overnight. The power was back on now, but the timer was out and the heating had only just come on. They sat in their jackets, wrapped up in scarves and gloves. A good night’s sleep and a full English breakfast had Vera feeling on top form.

She stood before the whiteboard. There was a recent photo of Margaret Krukowski, donated by Kate. It had been taken when the woman hadn’t been expecting it. She was standing at the table in the basement kitchen, a biscuit cutter in one hand, and she’d looked up at the camera at the last minute. Her expression was startled and amused. Vera had also brought Margaret’s wedding photo from the guest house. Sometimes she thought that the younger members of her team considered older people a different species. Close to death anyway, so not worth the same effort. Not like a child or a teenager. They would never say that, probably would not even think it consciously, but Vera hoped this picture of a young and beautiful woman would jerk them out of that mindset.
Once she was young and just like you.

‘Margaret Krukowski. Stabbed on the Metro yesterday afternoon. Apparently without anyone seeing – though the Metro was so busy that’s not as impossible as it seems. People would have heard if she’d screamed loudly, but probably not a moan. Nightmare scenario, but this time we’re lucky because there was an expert witness on hand throughout. That’s right, isn’t it, Joe?’

Joe smiled. She thought all his bairns must have slept well and he’d had a good night. He and Sal were getting on at the moment and that always improved his mood. ‘I was in the same carriage,’ he said. ‘But a few rows away from her. And the place was jammed. You know what it’s like just before Christmas and the rush hour.’

She nodded. ‘All the same,’ she said. ‘Give us what you remember.’ She listened as he told his story again and listed the characters he could recall. There were no omissions and no elaboration. He was a good witness. She’d trained him well.

Vera went on. ‘We have a nightmare forensically. So much material that it’ll take them weeks to work through it. The one blessing is that it’ll keep Billy Wainwright busy throughout the holiday period. Office parties get him over-excited, and he’s too old for that kind of carry-on now.’

There were a few sniggers. Crime-scene manager Billy enjoyed his reputation as a serial adulterer.

‘Most important actions for today: some folk who were on the Metro have already come forward. It was the four-thirty from Newcastle Central Station and it was stopped by the weather at Partington. Margaret was in the first carriage. We need a media release asking everyone else who travelled on the same train to get in touch. Then we’ll put together a plan showing where people were sitting or standing and what they saw.’ She looked out at her audience. ‘Holly, that’s for you. Do the press conference. A broadcast request on BBC’s
Look North
, if we can manage it. Contact the press office and tell them what we need. Then you take charge of the responses that come in, get a floor plan of the seating arrangements and see what you can put together.’

Holly preened, and Vera patted herself on the back: she was getting better at handling her DC. Holly would love to do the television and would be good at collating the passenger information. If Vera had asked her just to do the paperwork she’d have sulked for a fortnight. Getting her team onside was a piece of piss. Who needed management training?

‘Next. What was Margaret doing in Gosforth? We think she grew up there. Did she have family still living in the area? We’ve checked the records and her maiden name was Nash. Charlie, see what you can track down. She might even have a parent still alive, given the age we all live to these days. Can we check with the Department of Work and Pensions and the care homes in the area? She never talked about her family to folk in Mardle, but the one thing we do know about Margaret is that she was intensely private. She might have been in Gosforth to visit her relatives.’

Charlie nodded. Vera noticed that he was tidier these days. When his wife first left him he could have passed for one of the homeless guys who hung around Kimmerston bus station. She could be less than tidy herself, but she was never dirty. Well, not often. She wondered fleetingly if he’d found himself another woman or if he’d just come to terms with being left to fend for himself. She’d always thought he missed having his laundry done more than he missed his wife’s company.

Vera paused for breath. It was getting light. A bright, icy gleam shone through the window directly into her face and made her squint.

‘The other thing we know is that Margaret was given to good causes,’ she continued. ‘All sorts of good causes, but especially a charity called the Haven.’

‘That place for fallen women in Holypool Village.’ Charlie looked up from his mug of coffee.