‘Yes?’ He was wearing a black cassock with a black cloak over the top. A man who liked his uniform. There was nothing welcoming about the way he approached them.
‘Father Gruskin?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer, but flashed her warrant card in front of him. He squinted at it as if he was short-sighted. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about one of your parishioners.’
He took them into the vestry, where it was warmer. A Calor gas heater hissed and the fumes from it caught in the back of her throat.
‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps you’ll have heard already,’ Vera said. ‘There was a murder on the Metro early this evening. The victim was Margaret Krukowski. I believe she was one of your regulars.’
He stared at them with horror, before collapsing into a chair at a plain wooden table and putting his face in his hands. ‘I can’t believe it.’ It seemed to Vera that he was genuinely distressed and she felt a brief moment of sympathy for him. ‘What have we come to, when a fine old lady is murdered in public?’ He was posh, but local. Brought up in the city, Vera decided. Coddled. He looked as if he could do with a walk in fresh air.
‘You knew her well?’ Holly was sticking her oar in, but at least the priest looked up and answered, and he hadn’t responded to Vera’s comments.
‘She attended regularly and she was always willing to get involved,’ he said. ‘These days most churches only keep going because of the efforts of elderly women. My father was a clergyman and I grew up in a parish in the city. It was much the same even then.’ So there was a family tradition of dressing up in frocks.
‘We’re trying to trace her family.’ At least Holly wasn’t fidgeting with the electric gadget, but was giving the man her full concentration. ‘Can you help with that at all?’
‘I don’t think I can. She lived over the road in the Harbour Guest House. Perhaps Mrs Dewar would know. They were almost like family. Margaret used to bring the children to Sunday School.’
They sat for a moment in silence.
‘Margaret worked as a volunteer with you?’
‘Yes.’ He seemed preoccupied. Vera wondered if he was trying to rearrange the cleaning rota, to think of another old woman to take Margaret’s place. At last he gave his full attention to the matter. ‘Yes, at the Haven.’
Vera decided it was time for her to take over. ‘The Haven is a refuge for battered women?’
Again, it seemed that a simple answer was beyond him. ‘No, not really. It’s a hostel for homeless women. Some of them might have left home because of domestic abuse, but we care for any woman in trouble who needs accommodation. Some have been in prison, some have been in care.’
‘And it’s run by the church?’
‘It’s run by a charitable trust. I’m one of the trustees, along with a senior social worker and a local accountant. But, as a church, we support the project. Financially, practically and with our prayers. Margaret worked miracles with some of the women. She became a surrogate mother to them, I think. They’ll miss her very much.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Margaret?’ The fumes from the gas fire made Vera feel light-headed, almost faint.
‘Of course not!’ The response was immediate. ‘This couldn’t be the action of a rational person, Inspector. This was an evil and random act of violence. A sign of the times.’
‘Did she have any close friends among your congregation?’ Holly’s tone was respectful, and again he answered her in a more considered way. He faced her so that his back was turned to Vera.
‘Close friends? No.’ He hesitated and then seemed to choose his words carefully. ‘A church is a community of different personalities. Of course we should treat each other with Christian charity, but we’re only human.’
Vera interrupted. ‘And get a bunch of women together and you have cliques and bitching. Must be a nightmare!’
He turned to her and for the first time he smiled. ‘It’s not always easy.’
‘Did Margaret belong to any one group?’ Vera again. The stuffy atmosphere in the small room was oppressive. She’d prefer to be out in the clear, cold air, and she wanted to move the conversation on.
‘No,’ the priest said. ‘She hated the gossip and kept herself rather apart. That’s what I mean when I say she had no close friends. She was always perfectly pleasant and played her part fully in the life of the church, but I don’t think she confided in anyone.’
‘Not even you?’
‘No.’ This time the smile was a little sad. ‘Not even me.’
‘And this hostel. The Haven? Where can we find it?’
‘It’s the former rectory.’ This time Gruskin’s smile was tight-lipped, even resentful. ‘In different times it might have been my home, I suppose. When the status of the clergy was rather different. Even in my father’s day the parish priest lived there. But now it’s hard to justify such a large house for a single man, and the diocese lets it to the charity at a reasonable rent. It’s a little way out of the town. That’s where the main settlement was, before commercial fishing took over from farming.’ He gave a sigh and Vera thought he would have been much happier as a Victorian priest, living in the big rectory, mixing socially with the gentry and delivering sermons to the peasants in the back pews.
‘You won’t get there tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s not much of a road and in this weather… The women always grumble about the isolation. I’m not sure it’s the best place for them to be.’
Outside it was quieter. The chip shop had closed and all the curtains in the Harbour Guest House had been drawn. The snow was covered with a hard sheen of frost. Gruskin shivered. For a long while he didn’t move. Vera thought he must be freezing, with only the thin cloak over his shoulders to keep him warm. At last he set off down the pavement away from them. When Vera turned to look at him she saw that he was talking into a mobile phone.
Chapter Eight
Malcolm Kerr stood at the bar in the Coble. Behind him four elderly men were playing dominoes, rowing about the kitty or whose turn it was to go to the bar. It seemed to Malcolm that the same four men had been sitting at the same table, always arguing, since his father had first brought him to the pub. Their squabbling voices and the screaming of gulls had made up the background music of his life.
Nothing in this place has changed for thirty years.
Except tonight Malcolm was drunk and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Maybe when Fat Val was the landlady and he was young and fit and a bit of a firebrand. There was a painting of Val over the bar and she stared out at him reproachfully. She’d had a son called Rick, sly and weaselly, and remembering the two of them, Malcolm felt a sudden pang of guilt. He carried guilt around with him like extra pounds round the belly and he was so used to it that often he didn’t notice it. He wasn’t sure that he could blame the drink for that. These days he wasn’t usually a heavy drinker – he’d stop in the Coble most evenings after working in the boatyard. Have a couple of pints. Read the Chronicle. Watch Look North on TV if there was no sport on the set. Then take himself back to his little house in Percy Street – all that he could afford after the divorce.
But tonight he’d lost count of the drinks he’d had. Beer first and then red wine, when his bladder wouldn’t take pints any more. No spirits, though. He was proud that he hadn’t moved on to the Scotch. And proud that he was still standing.