‘When did you last see her?’
He hesitated. ‘Yesterday morning. She was on Harbour Street, walking towards the bus stop on the corner.’
‘Did you speak to her?’ Vera thought this was like drawing teeth.
‘Only to say hello. I passed her in the street. I was coming here. I had a charter booked for one of Mrs Dewar’s guests.’
‘Who would want to go out on the water in weather like this?’
For the first time he gave a real smile. ‘A mad professor. They call him Mike Craggs. He works at the university as a marine biologist. He’s researching water temperature, and I take him out to the island for a couple of hours every fortnight. I think he samples the mainland coast too.’
‘What time were you back in the harbour?’
Kerr shrugged. ‘Late afternoon. The weather forecast was bad and the Prof. wanted to get home. It hadn’t started snowing then, but it was almost dark.’
‘And what did you do after that?’ Vera kept her voice patient. This was a conversation, not an interrogation.
‘I went home for a bit. I was frozen and I needed a hot bath and some warm food. Then I went to the pub.’ He looked up, challenging her to ask for details, but she didn’t bite. She could ask at the Coble what time he turned up there.
‘Why were you so upset when you heard about her death?’ Vera’s voice was low and gentle. ‘Had you become friends, like, over the years?’
He leaned forward, wrapped a cloth around his hand so that he wouldn’t burn himself, opened the door of the stove and threw in a piece of driftwood. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that. But I suppose she reminded me of my youth.’ He paused again. ‘Good times.’
Chapter Twelve
Holypool was just a couple of miles inland from Mardle, but Joe Ashworth felt as if he was in a different world when he approached it, a world to which he aspired. He’d always liked the village and occasionally imagined himself living in the small development of new executive housing just behind the pub. On either side of the narrow main street there were stone cottages with long, narrow front gardens. In the summer there would be birdsong. The sun and the overnight traffic had cleared the street, but there was enough snow left on the roofs to make the place look like something from a Christmas card that his nan might have sent.
In his head an ear-worm, the song ‘White Moon Summer’ that had made Katie Guthrie famous. The melody swam in and out of his consciousness throughout the drive and he remembered himself and Sal, hardly more than bairns, and that month when they’d both finished their exams and nothing mattered except each other and their plans for the future.
The Haven was based in a house set away from the road, hidden by trees and surrounded by farmland. There was a wooden gate across the drive and, as Joe got out of the car to open it, he heard dripping water – melted ice falling from the branches. The drive was potholed, the pits filled in places with ash and shale, and he had to drive slowly. He wondered what the residents made of the place. He thought most of them would be from the city and that this must seem like the end of the known universe to them. At night how would they cope with the dark and the quiet? Even he shuddered at the thought of it. A bank of cloud covered the sun. He emerged from the trees and pulled onto a flagged courtyard, surrounded on two sides by the stone house and on the third by a series of almost derelict outbuildings.
A woman in jeans and a sweater appeared from an open wooden structure that might once have been a rickety garage. She was pushing a wheelbarrow full of logs and set it down to stare at him. She watched without moving as he got out of the car to approach her. He felt uncomfortable because he couldn’t place her. Was she a client or a worker? He was happier when he could give people a label.
‘Can I help you?’ The words gave no clue to her status. The accent was indeterminate and the voice slightly hostile. Wary at least. Joe stared back, trying to work out if he’d seen her before, if she might have been one of the people in the Metro the afternoon of the murder. There was no spark of recognition. After a brief glimpse of so many people perhaps that was unlikely.
He was about to ask for the person in charge when the door to the house opened and a golden Labrador bounded out, followed by a middle-aged woman. The woman was short and round and wore a purple cord skirt and a brightly coloured hand-knitted cardigan that made her look fatter than she really was. There were wellingtons on her feet. She called back the dog, which was bouncing towards Joe.
‘Sandy, come back here.’ She was Scottish and her voice sounded as if she was laughing.
Then she repeated the words that had been spoken by the younger woman. ‘Can I help you?’ They were friendly, but demanded an answer.
Joe stayed where he was. He’d always been suspicious of big dogs since one had jumped up and nipped him on his first day of school. Something else for Vera Stanhope to tease him about. He introduced himself.
The Scottish woman smiled easily. ‘I assume you have some ID? We’re always a bit wary about strange men turning up at the Haven, aren’t we, Laurie?’
The young woman sniffed. ‘No need,’ she said. ‘He’s a pig. I can smell them a mile off.’ She bent to the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it around the side of the house.
Joe waved his warrant card towards the older woman.
‘Come in out of the cold,’ she said. ‘We’ll put on the kettle. And it’s almost lunchtime, if you’d like to join us.’
It wasn’t very much warmer inside the house. There were stone flags on the floor of the hall too, and he had to climb over a clutter of boots, a child’s tricycle and a big old-fashioned pram. The hall was wide and high and in one corner there was an enormous Christmas tree decorated with handmade paper chains and foil stars. The woman led him past it and into an office furnished with an elderly desk, a sofa so low in the middle that it was almost on the floor, and a couple of kitchen chairs. ‘I should introduce myself. Jane Cameron. I run this place, for my sins.’ Then she left him where he was and disappeared. He heard her shouting into the distance for someone to be a sweetheart and bring through a pot of coffee. Then she was back, and her personality seemed to fill the room and warm it. He thought he’d never met anyone quite like her.
‘Now, Sergeant Ashworth, why don’t you tell me what this is all about?’ She’d perched on the desk and he was on the sofa, so she was looking down at him. He had the sense that she was giving him her undivided attention.
‘You have a volunteer called Margaret Krukowski?’
‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You didn’t see the local news last night? Father Gruskin didn’t call to tell you?’
‘I haven’t heard from Peter in the last few days and we didn’t see any television last night. The electricity went off between six and eleven. All very dramatic. We made do with candles and a big fire. The women moaned, but actually I think they enjoyed the drama of it. By the time the lights came back on we were all in bed.’
‘Margaret Krukowski was murdered,’ Joe said. ‘We’re talking to everyone who knew her.’
Jane Cameron stared at him. Suddenly she seemed older, paler. ‘I don’t believe it. Who would want to kill Margaret?’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Joe said. ‘I thought you might be able to help with that.’
There was a tap on the door and the woman he’d seen previously came in, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, a plastic bottle of milk and two mugs. On a plate were some biscuits similar to those he’d already eaten in the guest house in Harbour Street. So Margaret had baked here too. Laurie set the tray on the desk. She looked at Jane and noticed the change in her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ Then Jane realized that the woman was worried. ‘Really, I’m fine. We’ll come through and explain. Just give us a few minutes.’