‘The Prof.’s wrong about the time. You know what these academics are like. Not fit to be let out in the real world. It was later than that. Nearly dark.’ He took her hand to help her to her feet and then leaned across her to grab one of the rails to hold the boat steady. She hoisted herself onto the ladder, aware of how close to him she was. When she got to the top and looked back, he had the engine running and the boat on its way back to its mooring. He waved at her and she waved back.
As she walked along the wall to Harbour Street, the pavement felt uneven under her feet. Even after such a short trip she could still feel the motion of the boat. The smell of frying fish in the chip shop almost tempted her inside, but she carried on past. She phoned Holly.
‘Did you get hold of a social worker to check up on Dee Robson?’
‘I spoke to social services. Her key worker’s a guy called Jim Morris.’
‘And?’ Sometimes, Holly Clarke, you really wind me up.
‘There’s absolutely no chance that anyone will get round to see her before Christmas. And there’ll just be a skeleton staff on over the holidays. Emergencies only.’
Vera switched off the phone without answering. For a fleeting moment she considered inviting Dee home with her for Christmas. Her neighbours, Joanna and Jack, wouldn’t judge the woman. They’d all sit round the table in the farmhouse, drinking too much and eating Joanna’s fabulous food, and if Dee flirted with Jack they’d just laugh. But Vera knew that it wouldn’t do to have a suspect in a murder inquiry as a temporary lodger. She grinned as she imagined Joe Ashworth’s outrage if she suggested it.
She phoned Holly again. ‘Have you got the number of that hostel, the Haven?’ Holly, as efficient as ever, found it within seconds. Vera had to keep her talking while she got into her car and found a pen. ‘Just repeat that number again, Hol, would you?’
Her call was answered by someone with a motherly voice and a Scottish accent. Vera explained who she was.
‘Inspector, how can I help?’
Vera explained that she was anxious about Dee Robson. ‘She’s an important witness. She’s spent quite a lot of time with Margaret Krukowski recently. She has a very chaotic lifestyle and, without Margaret’s supervision, I’m frightened that she’ll just disappear.’
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
‘I wondered if you might put her up at the Haven, just over the holidays. So we know where to find her, if we need to interview her again.’ Vera could tell she was wheedling and hated it. She’d never been good at asking for favours.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, we’ve just taken another emergency resident. I’m afraid that we have no vacancies.’ The phone went dead.
Out in the street, Vera looked briefly into the Coble, thinking that Dee might be there. It was still early and almost empty. In the bar a couple of elderly men played dominoes. There was no sign of the woman, and Vera knew better than to look in the lounge. That wasn’t Dee’s territory. On impulse she went into the fish shop and bought two haddock and chips to take away. Even wrapped in paper and in a carrier bag, the smell walked with her down the alley between the church and the Metro line.
She walked quickly up the concrete stairs of the flats, feeling the strain on her legs from when she’d climbed the ladder at the harbour. Eh, Vera, pet, you’d best catch this killer quickly or there’s a danger that you’ll get fit. She knocked at Dee’s door, but didn’t expect an immediate response. When they’d turned up there before, the woman had checked who was on the doorstep before letting them in. There could be a man from the council in the corridor wanting his rent, or some irate wife. Dee had at least some notion of self-preservation.
But the door opened when Vera hit it. She stayed where she was and shouted in. ‘Are you there, Dee? It’s Vera Stanhope. I’ve brought fish and chips.’
Still no reply. Vera set the carrier bag on the floor in the corridor outside and went in, noticing again the stain of damp on the wall by the door. The living room was empty. The empty paper bag that had held the cakes she’d brought as a previous peace offering still lay ripped on the table.
‘Dee, are you there?’
The bedroom door was shut and Vera listened before going in. Not through embarrassment, but because she wanted to know what to expect before she burst in on Dee Robson at work. Silence. Vera opened the door. In the bedroom Dee lay on the mattress staring at Vera. She was dressed for work: short skirt and white lacy top, shiny white plastic shoes. Glitter blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick slightly smudged. There was a kitchen knife in the side of her neck. It was the knife with which Vera had cut the custard slice the day before.
Blood had pooled under her head and her neck, a dark background to the very pale skin. Her skin was icy blue, except where her bare legs touched the mattress, and there it was dark, almost purple. The flesh looked like plastic. Vera was reminded of a big blow-up doll. The woman had probably died not long after she and Joe had visited the previous day.
Vera went to the hall to make the phone call. She smelled the fish and chips and was almost sick.
Chapter Nineteen
Kate was waiting for George Enderby to arrive. She wanted to book him in quickly because Stuart would be here soon. She was already excited, listening for the sound of Stuart’s key in the door. They had plans. The Metro into Newcastle for an afternoon of culture – a new exhibition at the Baltic on the river and a stroll round the Laing Art Gallery. Then dinner. Stuart had a mate from the Ramblers’ Association who’d opened a restaurant near the cathedral. ‘Nothing pretentious,’ Stuart had said. ‘But decent enough, and he could do with the support. You know.’ Stuart didn’t have many mates, but he was loyal to them. She liked that. She thought he’d be loyal to her.
And afterwards they had tickets for a concert in the small hall of the Sage. A Danish poet and a musician from the Faroes. ‘It’ll probably be awful,’ Stuart had said, ‘but if we don’t go we might miss something important.’ He was full of surprises. She’d never have thought he would go for something so experimental. It seemed to Kate that her world had shrunk with her marriage to Robbie and it was as if she was being given a second chance to explore it. They’d get the last Metro home and Stuart would stay over. She was daydreaming about that too. Since Rob had died all she’d had were daydreams; now there was flesh and skin, touch and taste. Some days it seemed that thoughts about sex swamped her brain, leaving room for nothing else. Maybe that was why she’d become such a crap parent and why she felt so little grief at Margaret’s murder. Had her infatuation for Stuart left her heartless and cold?
In the past there would have been no problem about leaving the guest house. Kate would have asked Margaret to let George in and show him to his room. Margaret would have made his tea and left it in the lounge, just as he liked it. She’d have kept an eye out for the kids too. Today Ryan was out and probably wouldn’t get back before Kate and Stuart. She never knew where he was. Sometimes he just wandered around the neighbourhood, marking the boundaries of his world. Even as a small child, if anything had upset him he’d walk miles, backwards and forwards from Margaret’s flat at the top of the house to the basement. Chloe was at the kitchen table, her nose to the laptop and the pile of books higher than ever. But she had her phone on the table next to her and Kate saw her attention stray to it occasionally, as if she was willing it to ring. She knew what that was like.
‘It’s the start of the holidays,’ Kate had said, trying to keep her voice light. Stuart never said anything, but she could tell that he thought she nagged the kids too much: Chloe for working too hard and Ryan for not doing enough. ‘Give yourself a break!’