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.
‘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.
Chapter Ten
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.