‘Do you have an address for Marcus?’
‘His father owned the house in Seaton Delaval. Thomas was living with him. I didn’t realize until he died and the address was in the paper.’
She turned away, so I couldn’t tell what she thought of that.
‘What about his paid work at Harry Pool’s? Did Thomas have any friends there?’
‘Drinking mates,’ she said. ‘People to go to the pub with when they all finished on Friday nights. I never met any of them. Not my thing.’
‘Did he enjoy work?’
‘I think it embarrassed him. It was ordinary. Thomas always thought he would be famous. He talked about what he’d do if he got the chance – journalism, television, music.’ She paused sadly. ‘And now he’s made the front page, he’s not around to appreciate it.’
Dan came in then, clutching three mugs by the handles, spilling coffee on the way. He handed the first to Nell, carefully, and set mine on the trestle. He sat beside her on the dusty purple cushion, put his arm around her and held her close. She looked at me over his arm and she smiled, not a horrid smile but gentle, pitying, as if she was able to sense my jealousy and didn’t want to hurt me.
‘I should go,’ I said. ‘Jess will be worrying.’
He didn’t move. That made me cross. I was only there because of him.
‘You don’t mind taking me, Dan, do you? Only I don’t really want to wait for a bus.’
‘Right.’ He got reluctantly to his feet. What else could he do? ‘If there’s nothing else…’
He looked at Nell. I thought there was something else I wanted to ask. About Shona Murray, the MP, and what Thomas might have been writing to her about. But mention of an MP might trigger a memory of a House of Commons stamp on the back of a letter, so it would have to wait.
On the way back to Newbiggin he asked me what I thought of Nell.
‘Bonny,’ I said. ‘She’s really bonny.’ It was true.
Chapter Seventeen
When I arrived back at Sea View, Jess was in the kitchen ironing. She always stood up to iron, her feet planted firmly apart, and she attacked the washing with the same sort of energy as if she’d been doing aerobics at the gym. I stood for a moment watching her, thinking about her and Ray and whether they’d get married, and Dan and Nell, and wondering if I’d ever have sex again with someone I cared about. Then Sally, the pensioner who lives on the estate round the corner, turned up with her shopping trolley of News Post Leaders. She’s seventy-five if she’s a day and our paper girl. Jess always makes her tea because we’re about halfway through her round, and anyway she knows the old girl’s lonely and it’s an excuse for her to chat. Sally’s a spinster and I wondered if she’d ever had sex at all.
I sat with them at the kitchen table, drinking tea and flicking through the paper while they gossiped about people I’d never met. The Leader’s a free sheet but there’s usually plenty of local news in it. It’s not all advertising features and car sales. Today there was a full page on Shona Murray, headlined ‘A Day in the Life of Our MP’. A reporter had followed her round the constituency until she took the night train from Newcastle to get to the House in time to vote on an education bill. According to the article she was specially interested in education because she’d been a lecturer in a sixth-form college before she joined Parliament. A lot of her shadowed day had been spent visiting schools.
I stood up and slipped out of the room, taking the newspaper with me. Jess and Sally seemed not to notice. They were talking about Jerry, the community policeman, and Sally’s hairdresser, Trish. According to Sally, they were having an affair. There’d even been a passionate weekend away in a hotel in Scarborough. Sal might never have had sex, but she loved to talk about it.
I’d hidden Shona’s letter to Thomas in my knicker drawer. Jess never came into my room without asking, but I hadn’t wanted to take any risks. I pulled the letter out and read it again before turning my attention back to the article. It said that Miss Murray was holding her regular monthly surgery in Newbiggin Sports Centre the following evening. It wasn’t necessary to make an appointment. When I returned the paper to the kitchen, Sally and Jess had moved on to the funeral of Mattie Watson, who used to keep the pub next to the post office. I’d never met Mattie, but by the time Sally went I felt I knew him as well as they did. If I’d had any relatives of my own he’d have felt like a favourite uncle.
When I got to the sports centre the next day, there were already half a dozen people in the queue ahead of me. I was the youngest by about thirty years. Shona was using one of the meeting rooms as an office and we sat in a corridor outside. I felt as if I were waiting for a job interview, nervous and strangely competitive. I eyed up the other candidates, thinking that none of them could have as interesting a reason to see Shona as I did. A smart young woman who didn’t identify herself asked for my name. I gave it half expecting a reaction, if not from her, then from the listening people waiting – Eh, aren’t you that lass that found the body in Delaval? But there was nothing. Thomas’s murder was already old news.
‘Shona’s running a bit late,’ the young woman said. ‘The trains again.’ Her voice was pleasant enough and she flashed a smile, but she didn’t look at me. I said I didn’t mind but she was still looking at the sheet of paper in her hand and I’m not sure she heard.
I sat on an orange plastic chair of exactly the same design as the one in the interview room at the police station, took out my library book and got lost in a Celtic dream world of a beautiful maiden and her seven brothers who were turned into swans. OK, so I like fantasy, right? I know it’s sad, but it’s harmless and I don’t care. When my name was called I looked up and saw with a start that all my competitors had disappeared. Even the young PA had gone. Shona Murray had put her head round the door to call me. I recognized the red hair from the television. She seemed tired but she managed to smile and look at me at the same time. Perhaps she was relieved I was the only one left. I followed her into the room.
She didn’t sit behind a desk but on a low easy chair by a coffee table. When I went in she was arranging her skirt around her. It was long and full and already crumpled. She motioned for me to take a seat beside her. I was reminded suddenly of my forced therapy sessions with the elderly psychiatrist. The layout of the room was much the same. So was the initial question; each time it seemed he’d forgotten who I was and what I was there for.
‘Well, what can I do for you?’
I’d always been tempted to give a flip reply: Sign my sick note and tell the court I’m complying with the order. I never had, though. In some situations you have to be prepared to go with the games. With Shona I wanted to play it reasonably straight. When she came out with the question I paused for a moment, then answered, ‘I’m the person who found Thomas Mariner’s body in Seaton Delaval.’
Her interest until then had been professional and courteous. I was aware now of something else. She was more alert.
‘I read about it,’ she said. ‘It must have been terrible.’
‘Had you ever met him?’
She didn’t answer directly. ‘He wasn’t my constituent.’
I pushed it. ‘But you had met him?’
‘I visited Absalom House, the hostel where he was living.’ She paused. ‘It’s an interest of mine. Young people who’ve dropped out of formal education.’ She was more confident talking about herself than about Thomas.