Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street (8 page)

‘Fallen women?’ It was Holly, her voice a horrified shriek. ‘What century are you living in?’

‘I was being ironic.’ Charlie slid her a grin.

Vera thought that something had definitely happened in his life. He’d never have talked about irony before. ‘How do you know about the Haven?’

‘I arrested a young druggie once. No room in the cells, and I didn’t think she was fit to let out onto the street. Seemed to me she might be suicidal. Social services suggested I took her there.’

‘Joe, will you check out the Haven? You’re good at social work, when you put your mind to it. If Margaret was a regular volunteer she might have made friends with the staff, confided in them about family, relationships. And it’s possible she made an enemy of one of the women. Gruskin said they were vulnerable. Anyone with a history of mental illness, given to paranoia and violent episodes? Or an ex-offender with some sort of axe to grind.’

Joe nodded and scribbled down the address.

Holly lifted her hand. ‘If there are victims of domestic violence there, Margaret could have been targeted by a male partner.’

‘So she could, Hol.’ Vera was pleased that at least now there were lines of enquiry, but she still thought the centre of the investigation lay in Harbour Street. She leaned back against the desk and shut her eyes against the sun. ‘And the owner of the guest house, Kate Dewar – formerly known as musician Katie Guthrie – has a new man in her life. Stuart Booth. No record, not even a speeding ticket, but let’s see what we can find out about him. Track down any former partners. Any history of violence? And we’ll need to chat to the head of the school where he teaches.

‘The rest of you: we’ve set up interviews with the folk who were on the train and who’ve already been in touch. Treat them nicely, but be aware that any one of them could be the killer. So no dismissing the smart guy in the suit because he doesn’t seem the type. We need to know where they were sitting or standing, and if they saw anything unusual. Margaret’s hard to pin down socially and she could have mixed with all sorts. We’re especially interested in the people who got on at Gosforth. Did any of them see Margaret on the platform, or notice which direction she walked from to get there?’

Charlie coughed. ‘Ma’am?’

‘Yes?’ She lifted an eyebrow.

‘Don’t the Metros have CCTV these days?’

‘Usually, but the one in our train wasn’t working.’ She gave them a wide smile. ‘We’re chasing up the reason. So we’re dependent on old-fashioned policing. And before anyone asks, there was CCTV outside the station, but the snow was so heavy that it was impossible to see anything.’

She waved them back to their desks. ‘If anyone wants me, I’ll be with Prof. Keating at the post-mortem.

Kate Dewar had hardly slept. Stuart had gone home soon after Vera Stanhope had left for her room. ‘I’ve got all the end-of-term reports to finish,’ he’d said. ‘And the kids will want you to themselves.’ She’d almost asked him to stay, but didn’t want to force the issue. He could see that she was upset, and he wasn’t sure how to help her. Her sadness would discomfort him. He was never very good at talking about feelings. He’d been on his own for so long that it was as if he’d had to learn a new language. And he was a kind man. She saw that the nature of Margaret’s death had touched him, even though he hadn’t known her for long.

It wasn’t fear that had kept her awake in the night. She wasn’t expecting Margaret’s killer to break into the house and murder them in their beds. She might have been haunted by fancies like that – she had a vivid imagination – but somehow the presence of Vera Stanhope, solid and implacable, had made the idea seem quite ridiculous. Instead, more subtle anxieties kept her awake: the business, the family, how she would arrange a suitable funeral for Margaret. She lay on her side, rigid with tension, checking her bedside clock every hour. It seemed as if she’d only just fallen asleep when the alarm went off.

Usually she served breakfast from seven, but when she’d checked in Vera had asked if she might take it early: ‘Cereal and toast will be fine. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ There had been a wistful edge to her voice, though, and Kate hadn’t had Vera down as a healthy eater, so she’d had bacon and sausage under the grill just in case, eager to please. She’d always been eager to please – part of her problem. If she’d gone into her marriage deciding what
she’d
wanted from the relationship, instead of trying to guess what would make Robbie happy, perhaps things would have worked out better.

She’d certainly made Vera Stanhope happy. The woman had cleared her plate in minutes and beamed. ‘I’m supposed to be watching what I eat these days, but no harm in a treat once in a while, eh?’ There’d been no more questions about Margaret. No mention at all of the murder. The inspector had paid her bill in cash and, when Kate had offered her a receipt, she’d waved it away. ‘Not the police service’s fault that I live out in the wilds. Can’t really get this one on expenses.’ Then she was out of the door with a little wave, and Kate had felt inexplicably bereft. A repeat of the sensation that had overcome her when she’d realized that Margaret was dead.

George Enderby arrived in the dining room at eight on the dot. He might like to come across as a free spirit, but Kate had noticed that he was a great one for routine. A pot of coffee and poached eggs on brown toast. The order was always the same. She was clearing his dishes when the kids left the house for school. Through the window she watched Ryan idling up the street, his heavy bag weighing down one shoulder. No hurry to get to his lessons. He seemed more eager to help Malcolm Kerr out in the yard these days than to get to class. Chloe left a few minutes later. Further up the street she was joined by a lad Kate didn’t recognize.

‘Where are you off to today, George?’ She turned her attention back to the room. His wheelie suitcase of books was already sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Into Newcastle.’ He smiled a little sadly. ‘A challenge. It’s hard to get booksellers interested in our titles for spring when everyone’s mind is on Christmas.’

‘That police inspector stayed last night. She couldn’t get home because of the weather.’

‘Oh?’ He was suddenly interested. She thought, now that the shock had worn off, they were all interested in Margaret’s death. It was like a television drama. Even the kids, who had been pleasant and careful with each other the evening before, seemed back to normal, sniping and bickering.

‘She left an hour ago. She didn’t say anything about the investigation, of course. I suppose they have to be discreet.’ Kate wiped crumbs from a neighbouring table with a napkin into her cupped hand.

‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I suppose they do.’

Later, when the house was quiet and tidy, she sat on the sofa in the kitchen and dozed a little; a new folk band recommended by Stuart was playing in the background and the voices sounded somehow like waves on shingle, blurred and soporific. She was shocked by the ringing on the doorbell. The detective had said that some officers would be in during the morning to search Margaret’s room. This was a piece of information she hadn’t passed on to George Enderby. His eagerness to discuss Margaret’s death had seemed a little tasteless to her, and unlike his usual courtesy. Now she supposed that the search team must be here and she rushed to let them in. She didn’t want Father Gruskin and his coven of elderly admirers to see a group of uniformed officers on the doorstep. Rumours spread like wildfire in Mardle.

But there were no policemen in the street. Instead it was Malcolm Kerr, the boatman. Sometimes Ryan helped him out in the yard for pocket money, and from her son she’d picked up snippets of gossip about his divorce, and the move from the big house in Warkworth to the ex-council place on Percy Street. His skin was very grey. He’d shaved badly and his eyes seemed yellow and bloodshot all at once. Because he’d stepped back onto the pavement their faces were on the same level and she noticed the whiff of stale alcohol on his breath.

‘Malcolm.’ She didn’t invite him into the house. Although she didn’t know him well herself, he had a reputation for being an awkward customer – taciturn, always moaning. Her first thought was that Ryan had done something to annoy him. She’d always thought Malcolm liked having him hanging around the yard, but Ryan had become a mystery to her.

‘It’s about Margaret,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’ And he quickly moved up the steps towards her so that her immediate reaction was to move out of his way before he knocked into her. Then he was in the house. She took him into the guest lounge, because it was nearer the front door; somehow she felt better speaking to Malcolm if she knew she could escape. Something about this man, intense and frowning, scared her. His yard had been on Harbour Street since before she’d moved in, for many years, she believed. He was a fixture like the church and the pub. He’d taken over from his father as boatman to Coquet Island and he’d been coxswain of the lifeboat until recent years. Stalwart of the town. Grumpy, but reliable. She’d never really taken any notice of him. Now she wondered if he was suffering from some sort of mental illness.

‘What do you want, Malcolm?’ He was a good distance from her in a corner by the fire. She kept her voice calm. It was important not to make him angry.

‘It’s about Margaret.’

‘If you know anything about Margaret you should tell the police.’ She added, a sudden inspiration: ‘They’ll be here soon. They want to search her room.’

‘Can I see it?’ The words fired from his mouth like a shot. It was as if they’d formed themselves without his thinking about them.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Can I see her room? Where she lived?’

‘Of course not!’ She was less scared now than exasperated. He seemed rather old and confused, sitting in the high-backed chair, his hands on his knees like a resident in a care home. ‘I don’t have the key and, besides, it’s private.’

Then she saw that he was crying. Large round tears rolled down his cheeks. It occurred to her that he was so unused to weeping that he didn’t know what to do with them. She pulled a paper handkerchief from her pocked and walked across the carpet to give it to him.

‘I didn’t realize you were such friends,’ she said, more gently.

He took the tissue and dabbed at his face. ‘Margaret Krukowski worked for me. A good while ago. My father was still alive and we had an office on the yard then. She kept our books, sent out the invoices, answered the phone in the office, took the bookings.’

‘Ah,’ Kate said. ‘I didn’t know.’ She thought there were lots of things she didn’t know about Mardle. Her children belonged to the place more than she did. Ryan especially picked up things at school. Secrets about other families. Rumours about the businesses in Harbour Street. Stuck in this big house, Kate learned very little and Stuart took no interest at all. He seemed entirely self-contained and only needed his music and her. She got her gossip second-hand, through the kids and from overheard snatches of conversation in shops and cafes.

‘Things got tough.’ Malcolm was talking almost to himself. ‘We had to let her go. And there was a fire, so we lost the office too.’

‘I’m sorry.’ What else was there to say?

He stood up suddenly and the power of his movement, the size of him, frightened her again, so she backed away from him.

‘The funeral,’ he said.

‘I don’t know when that will be,’ Kate said quickly. ‘I suppose we have to wait for the police to release her body.’

‘But I’d like to help,’ he said. ‘Whatever needs doing.’

She saw that he was close to tears again. ‘I’ll let you know. Really.’ She walked towards the door, hoping he would follow. He made his way after her, but stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up. For a moment she was scared that he’d become unpredictable again, that he’d clamber up the stairs towards Margaret’s room. She had the sense that he had been in this house before and knew his way around.

Kate was going to mention it:
You must see a difference in the place.
Because really there was no comparison to the way it had been before she took over, and he hadn’t been in the house recently, had he? Margaret had never taken visitors to her room. But before she could speak, Malcolm turned and almost ran down the steps to the pavement. It was as if he’d been chased away. He lifted his hand to wave goodbye to her, but didn’t turn round and didn’t stop walking.

Kate shut the door and locked it, then returned to the kitchen. The music was still burbling as if nothing had happened, and she felt for a moment as if the encounter with Malcolm Kerr was the subject of the song. Vera Stanhope had left her business card on the breakfast table when she’d got up to leave. ‘Just in case you remember something that might be useful.’ Kate took it from the dresser and held it between her fingers. And then on impulse she reached for her phone.

‘No matter what it is,’ Vera had said. ‘It’s the trivial things that make the difference.’

Kate felt like a child again. The good girl at the front of the class, wanting the teacher to like her. Eager to please. She told Vera that Malcolm had been at the house and that Margaret had worked for him and his father.

‘I had the feeling,’ Kate said, after Vera had listened patiently to her explanation, ‘that they were more than friends.’

Vera had never been bothered by post-mortems. Dead people couldn’t hurt you; it was the living you should be frightened of. Paul Keating, the pathologist, was from Belfast. He was a religious man, taciturn and dignified, and a great golfing friend of crime-scene manager Billy Wainwright. Vera wondered what the two men could talk about on the course or in the bar after the game. She sometimes thought they would have nothing in common except the dead.

The mortuary was even chillier than usual and she wondered if the electricity had cut out at the hospital overnight too, as it had in the freezing police station, because of the heavy snowfall. The woman lying on the table certainly looked cold. Frozen. Vera wasn’t squeamish, but she wished they would cover her with a blanket.