Vera didn’t answer immediately. She thought that this room was quite similar to her kitchen at home. Bigger of course and probably cleaner, but she felt at ease here. She had the sense that if she stayed here long enough, talking through the case with this woman, she might come to a conclusion. She wondered what her boss would make of that as a case-management strategy.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe that has something to do with it.’
In the office the phone rang, obviously amplified throughout the rest of the house because it sounded very loud. Jane got up to answer it. Vera took another biscuit, then on impulse a couple more, which she put in an evidence bag and into her pocket.
When Jane returned she was halfway into her coat. ‘That was the girls. They need a lift home. Do you want to stay here and talk to them? You’d be very welcome.’
Vera shook her head and got to her feet. ‘I’m not supposed to do the hands-on stuff. Strategic planning, that’s my role. Not what I came into the job for, though.’
‘Like me.’ Jane was walking through the house to the front door. ‘If I’d stayed in social services I’d have been promoted away from the front line years ago.’
At the vehicles Vera paused. ‘Will you talk to the residents? They trust you, but most of them will have reasons to dislike the police. Any bit of gossip… And I’ll send someone round tomorrow to do a more formal interview.’
‘The lovely Joe?’
‘Aye, why not?’ Vera had the Land Rover door open, when she turned back to Jane. ‘Tell your women to keep safe, eh. No wandering around Mardle on their own.’
Jane nodded and drove off. It was dark now and the headlights of the minibus swung across the damp farmland all the way to the road.
The team came together for the evening briefing in Kimmerston police station. More photos on the whiteboard. Dee Robson’s body. No dignity in death and not much more when she was living, Vera thought. The only photo they’d found of her alive was with Margaret Krukowski, taken in a booth, both women grinning. Margaret thirty-five years older, but still more attractive. Poor lass. I know how that feels. Perhaps it had been taken on their shopping trip into Newcastle. They’d found the picture in Dee’s purse, along with four pounds thirty in loose change.
Vera looked out at the team. There was no sign of Joe Ashworth, but it was time to make a start. ‘So what have we got? Two women. Both isolated. Connected through the Haven, where Margaret had been a volunteer, and through geography; they lived two minutes’ walk from each other in Mardle. And by the fact that they were on the same Metro when Margaret was killed. How significant is that? Did they both see something that led to their deaths? Or did Dee recognize Margaret’s killer? Thoughts anyone?’
She looked out into the audience. They seemed sluggish and unresponsive. Holly raised a tentative hand.
‘Hol?’
‘Apart from the geography they don’t have much in common, do they? I mean Margaret was an educated woman. Why would she choose to spend her time with someone like Dee?’ The disdain was obvious and Vera wanted to yell at her. Do you think Dee Robson wanted to live like that? Do you really think she had a choice? But Holly was right, and this wasn’t the time to teach her the facts of life.
‘Good point, Hol. Any ideas?’
‘Krukowski was a Christian. Getting down with the sinners.’ Charlie, trying for a laugh and missing the mark.
‘Why not?’ Vera said. ‘We don’t come across them very often, but there are some good people out there.’ The door opened and Joe slid in at the back. ‘Anything for us, Joe?’ To show him that she’d registered the fact that he was late.
He grinned and her heart gave a little leap. Ah, my Joe, my little teacher’s pet, what have you got for me?
‘I’ve been chatting to the guys manning the phones. A few bits of information in the last couple of minutes.’
‘Well, don’t keep it to yourself, man.’
‘Jason, the guy who took Dee Robson back to his flat on the afternoon Margaret died, has just got in touch. He saw a picture of Dee on the early-evening news. Had to wait until his girlfriend went out to her mam’s before making the call.’
‘And?’ Vera was almost hopping with impatience.
‘Corroborates Dee’s story. He’d just been made redundant from a place in the Mardle industrial estate.’ Joe looked at his notes. ‘Mardle Foods. They make own-brand cakes for the supermarkets. His shift finished at one and he headed for the Coble with the sole intention of getting pissed. Achieved the aim big-style. Somehow allowed himself to be picked up by Dee and took her home. Realized it wasn’t such a good idea when he sobered up a bit, and he bundled her out of the flat before his girlfriend got back. Later that evening he carried on drinking with mates, who can vouch for him.’
Vera nodded. She’d always believed Dee and she couldn’t see how that got them much further forward. Ah, Joe, you shouldn’t have raised my hopes like that. But Joe hadn’t finished.
‘We know where Margaret Krukowski went the afternoon that she died.’
She beamed. She should have had more faith. ‘Well, put us out of our misery!’
‘To see a Mr Edwin Short, who has an office in Gosforth High Street. He’s been away for a couple of days – a city break in Barcelona. Not short of a bob or two, Mr Short.’ Joe looked up and grinned. ‘He’s a solicitor from the firm Medburn, Liddle and Short. Margaret Krukowski went to see him because she wanted to make a will.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
They caught up with Edwin Short at home because Vera was too impatient to wait until his office opened the following day and she swept Joe along with her. The only parking space was at the end of the street and they walked along the grand Edwardian terrace, catching glimpses of the affluent domestic lives inside: a specky lass practising the violin; a woman laying a table for dinner, carefully polishing glasses and silver before setting them on a dark wood table; an elderly gent with his eyes closed listening to something classical on the radio. Vera thought that Margaret must have lived in a street such as this as a child.
Edwin Short opened the door to them. He was a gentle, courteous man in his late fifties, silver-haired and smart except for a pair of leather slippers with a hole in the toe. He took them into a living room with a high ceiling, an open fire and shelves of books, and offered them sherry. Vera sensed that Joe was a little overawed by his surroundings. The British class thing getting in the way again.
‘Did you know Margaret Krukowski well?’ She took the glass, which looked tiny in her huge hand. Sherry wasn’t really her tipple, but Joe was driving and it didn’t do to be impolite.
‘Our firm acted for her family,’ Short said. ‘I met her parents, although they were already elderly when I knew them. My father was a lawyer, set up the practice, and I followed in his footsteps. He knew the couple better than I did, of course.’
‘Tell me about them.’ Vera leaned back in her chair.
‘James Nash was a businessman. His family had a chain of butcher’s shops in the North-East. He sold out just at the right time, before the supermarkets took hold, and after that he played at property development. He was cautious, though. Nothing too risky. When he died he was a wealthy man. His wife was a traditional home-maker. Margaret was the only child.’ He looked at Vera. ‘Is this relevant? Do say if I’m rambling.’
‘Not rambling at all.’
‘The family fell apart when Margaret married against their wishes. All quite ridiculous, of course.’ Short shook his head. ‘You have to let your children make their own decisions. My father thought it would all blow over, but Nash was a stubborn man and it seems that Margaret took after him. They never made up the quarrel. I don’t think they met again.’