Both kids were home when they arrived back. Ryan hadn’t long got in; it was raining and his jacket, thrown over the banister at the bottom of the stairs, was wet. Kate and Stuart had had a couple of drinks in the interval to keep them going through the second half of the gig and Kate was still not entirely sober. She felt very happy, in a tipsy, emotional way. Both her children were safe at home and she had this wonderful new man and her future seemed exciting.
The kids were in the basement sitting room in front of the television.
‘There’s been another murder,’ Ryan said as soon as they were in the room. ‘They were talking about it in the Coble.’
For a moment she didn’t take in what he’d said. She knew he went into the Coble occasionally, but she didn’t like it. Stuart had once said in his dry, practical way: ‘Boys that age are going to drink anyway. Better that they do it in the pub where there are other adults around.’ Her worry, which she’d never discussed with Stuart, was about where Ryan got the money from for drink. She gave him an allowance, but would that run to pub prices? She knew Malcolm Kerr paid him, but Ryan always seemed to have cash. Deep down she was anxious that he’d started thieving. It was as if she had a stranger in the house. She remembered the small, affectionate boy who’d held her hand when they walked to the park, but this stylish young man bore no resemblance.
Then the shock of another killing hit her and her concern about Ryan seemed petty.
‘What did you say?’
Ryan seemed sober, but hyper, and he repeated the words with a kind of repressed excitement that made her feel ill.
Stuart seemed not to notice the boy’s reaction. ‘Do you know who the victim was?’
‘Some woman,’ Ryan said. ‘She drinks in the Coble and lives in Percy Street. Dee Robson they call her.’
Kate recognized the name and remembered that Margaret had talked about her. One of her waifs. Dee needs someone to look after her, and all they can do is call her names.
‘We’re waiting for the late local news.’ Chloe was wearing the same black knitted jumper as she’d had on for school; it was too big for her, and she seemed to disappear inside it. She was drinking a mug of tea.
There was a strained silence. Kate was quite sober now, but she couldn’t find anything appropriate to say.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Stuart said at last. ‘Anyone else want a brew?’
But nobody answered because the local news came on the television and there were the flats in Percy Street, with blue-and-white police tape stretched around the lamp posts, and scientists in white suits and masks making their way to the door. Even Stuart paused on his way to the kitchen to watch.
Chapter Twenty
Joe Ashworth found Vera still standing outside the flat in Percy Street when he arrived, as if she’d been fixed there since calling in the murder, waiting for him to arrive. He knew that she’d be upset. Something about Dee Robson had moved her. She could be as callous as hell, but occasionally she connected with a witness and, when that happened, she would move heaven and earth to help them. The objects of her pity were usually loners, clumsy, despised. And fat, Joe thought, grinning to himself despite the situation. Much like Vera herself.
‘What do you think happened?’ It was cold. A draught blew up the stairwell. He knew that the last thing she’d want would be sympathy.
‘She must have been killed not long after we came to see her.’ Vera was standing with her hands in her pockets. There wasn’t much room there and his elbow brushed against her arm.
‘A customer?’
‘She was dressed for work, but still wearing her knickers. No evidence that sex had taken place.’
He could tell that she’d already thought this through. ‘It could still have been a punter,’ he said. ‘We know that she wasn’t much good at risk assessment. She went off with that guy Jason, without knowing where he lived.’
‘The link with Margaret Krukowski is just a coincidence, do you think?’ Vera gave a sharp little smile. ‘That’s some elephant-sized coincidence.’
‘What then?’ He was losing patience. If Vera Stanhope had a theory, why didn’t she just tell him? Why play games?
‘Dee Robson knew something about Margaret’s killer,’ Vera said. ‘But she didn’t know that she knew. Otherwise she’d have told us when we saw her yesterday.’ There was a pause. ‘Or maybe she was smarter than anyone thought.’
‘Blackmail?’ Sometimes he knew the way her mind was working. ‘She kept the information secret so that she could make money from it.’
She gave a slow clap. ‘Well done, that boy.’
‘You think that she’d have been capable of that?’ He couldn’t see it. He didn’t think Dee had been bright enough to make the connections, and he’d been convinced by her performance the day before.
‘She was desperate,’ Vera said. ‘An alcoholic, living like this – there’d be an incentive to get money any way she could. Maybe Margaret said something to her when they last met. Something so obvious that you wouldn’t have had to be Einstein to work out who’d killed her.’
There were footsteps on the stairs and Billy Wainwright appeared. He looked grey and ill.
‘You okay, Billy?’ Joe disapproved of Billy’s lifestyle choices – the string of young lovers seemed undignified for someone of his position – but couldn’t help liking him.
‘A bit of a hangover. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.’ He was already in the scene suit and was putting on a mask, so the words were muffled.
‘I thought you were so busy with the crime scene in the Metro there’d be no time for partying.’ Vera’s words were sharp.
‘All work and no play…’ Joe could tell by his voice that he was grinning. ‘You could do with a bit of play yourself, Vera.’
‘Just go in there and do your work, Billy. Tell me who killed these women. Find some fibres or spit or fingerprints, and link the two investigations. That would be a good start.’
He realized that she was serious, gave a mock salute and went into the house. Outside came the sound of sirens. ‘The cavalry,’ Vera said.
Joe couldn’t face standing here for much longer, watching Vera tear herself apart with guilt, but bottling it all up inside. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Knock on some doors, Joe. Start in the flats and then move down the street. Dee would have been an object of interest. There might even have been a campaign to get her shifted. She was hardly a model tenant. Let’s hope there’s a busybody somewhere who’s made a note of the comings and goings. I’ve sent Hol back to the station to coordinate calls from the public.’ When he paused she continued angrily. ‘If it’s not beneath your dignity as a sergeant, sometime today would be good.’
He put up his hands, a gesture of surrender, and walked away. When she called him back he thought she was going to apologize for being so sharp. But she handed him a greasy carrier bag. ‘Get rid of these, will you? Fish and chips. They’ll be cold by now.’
He started at the ground floor and worked up. Two flats on each floor, six lots of tenants. Mid-afternoon and the week before Christmas he expected most people to be out, but he was 50 per cent lucky. The first door he knocked on had a handrail outside and a ramp to the front step. A tiny elderly woman with a walking frame opened the door. She had shining white hair permed into tight curls. He showed his warrant card.