‘That’s petty stuff. I don’t think anyone would give a toss so many years later.’
So, Joe thought, that’s put me in my place. Vera might have given the idea at least a moment’s consideration.
She moved forward, a star preparing to step into the spotlight. ‘Could the professor tell you anything about Pawel Krukowski, the husband?’
‘Nothing. He was already off the scene by the time Craggs got to know Margaret.’ Joe was going to offer up the photo album to Vera, but thought that the mood she was in now, elated and carried away with some theory of her own, she would only mock him for implying that it had any significance.
There was a silence. Vera looked out at them, and Joe saw that at least she was gearing up to share her grand idea. ‘I don’t believe that Pawel suddenly disappeared off the face of the Earth,’ she said. ‘Margaret could have been hiding more than the fact that she sold sex for a living.’ She looked around her and again she seemed to be expecting applause.
‘You think that she killed her husband?’ Joe thought Vera was entering the realm of fantasy now. Margaret Krukowski wasn’t a killer, but a victim.
‘I don’t know exactly what to think at this point.’ She glared at him. ‘We’re telling stories. Creating theories. But tomorrow we need to check some facts.’ She was back at the whiteboard and she wiped out a bare patch and started making notes. ‘Pawel Krukowski. What’s happened to him? I’m betting that he’s dead and, if he’s still alive and living happily in Warsaw, then I’ll be buying the carry-outs for the next five years. Charlie, you take over tracing him. First thing in the morning. Get our European colleagues to help out. Hol, you see if you can find any record of the fire at Malcolm’s yard, but don’t waste too much time on it.’
She stopped, her hand raised, holding the marker pen. ‘This Susan Coulson, did you meet her when you visited the Haven, Joe?’
Joe reeled back his memory and saw a grey-haired woman stirring soup, the tears rolling down her cheeks. He’d thought she was odd, overreacting to the death of a virtual stranger, but if she and Margaret had been friends for more than thirty years that would make more sense. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I met her.’
‘Chat to her. Away from the hostel, if you can manage it. Jane Cameron’s a control freak. It takes one to know one. And I don’t want her listening in.’ Vera paused again. ‘Bring her back to Harbour Street. Buy her a fish-and-chip dinner or a port and lemon in the Coble. See if you can jog any memories.’
‘I really don’t think she’d be an admissible witness, boss. Any defence brief would eat her for breakfast.’ Holly had jumped in again. Joe wondered if she was resenting the fact that her witness had been taken away from her, though he knew Holly would have little patience with Susan, who was old and confused.
Vera kept her voice mild. ‘At this point I’m not worrying about the court case, Hol. I just want to know who killed these two women.’
When Joe arrived home the kids were looking out for him. Sal’s parents had taken them to see a panto at Whitley Bay Playhouse and the two oldest were full of it. Michael had been onstage and a clown had pulled a live rabbit from his ear. They were full of wonder, even Jessie, who claimed that she was a bit old for magic these days. He wondered how he would cope with her as a teenager, stroppy and defensive, and remembered again the schoolgirls he’d seen in the Metro on the afternoon Margaret Krukowski had died. Simpering and playing up to the boys. It was hard to imagine that they’d ever been excited by a pantomime.
In bed, he found it difficult to sleep. He was planning how he might carry out Vera’s instructions to get Susan Coulson away from the Haven. He’d been intimidated by Jane Cameron, and he could hardly kidnap the woman. And something about the picture of the older woman, her eyes streaming with silent tears, seemed very moving to him. He wasn’t sure now if she was weeping for Margaret Krukowski or for the child that had been taken away from her. Later he replayed his conversation with Michael Craggs, anxious because he felt that he’d missed something important. The last image in his mind, just before he slept, was of the elderly couple leaning over their garden gate, their arms around each other and waving goodbye to him.
When he woke, it came to him, almost as part of a dream, that he hadn’t passed the photo album on to Vera.
Chapter Thirty-One
The next day was clear and frosty and Vera was in Mardle before it got light. It felt like truancy. She should be in her office coordinating the actions, supervising. An inspector’s role was strategic. Except that she’d always been seduced by the detail. She told herself she’d be back at the station before lunchtime. It was time to reel in Malcolm Kerr. He’d been playing silly buggers with her, and she hated being taken for a fool.
The first stop was Percy Street. The curtains were drawn, so she assumed that she’d find Kerr in, but when she knocked on the door there was no response. An alley ran along the back of the houses, separated from the gardens by a wooden fence. The street light caught the frost on the overgrown grass and when she went in, there was ice on the concrete path. She banged on the kitchen door and again there was no response. When she tried the handle it was locked.
A man came out of the house next door. He wore an anorak and a Newcastle United knitted hat and matching black-and-white striped gloves. He was on his way to work and he regarded Vera with suspicion.
‘What do you want?’
‘You don’t happen to know where Malcolm is, do you, pet? Only I can’t get an answer.’ Her breath came as a cloud in the strange, white light.
He was in a hurry and now he had Vera down as someone official. ‘I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.’ And he rushed away before she could ask anything more from him. She was tempted to try to get into the house. There’d probably be a spare key somewhere, under a flowerpot or the back doormat, but if Malcolm Kerr was inside sleeping off a hangover she’d be caught in the act of breaking in. Anyway something about the stillness of the house made her think it was empty, that Malcolm was probably at his yard. She imagined him there in his shed, wrapped in an old overcoat, dreaming of the love of his life. He’d have done anything for Margaret Krukowski and Vera thought now that the man could have killed Margaret’s husband, or at least helped her to dispose of his body. That was one of the theories she was working on, which had been spinning around in her brain all night. She wanted to get Kerr safely into custody, but without frightening him. The present murders could be the result of fear, she thought. Of a man trapped into a corner and fighting to save himself.
When she arrived at the boatyard it was locked and padlocked. The street behind her was beginning to come to life, but there was no sign that anyone had been into Kerr’s secret domain. The hoar frost on the pavement was undisturbed. Now her anxiety increased. She saw Malcolm Kerr as a lost and friendless man with nothing to lose. Bad enough if he’d killed himself. But, again, she thought that he was desperate and that he might try to fight back. She wanted no more violence. She ran through the options for action. She could get a warrant to search his house and the yard. Any evidence was circumstantial and based on the fact that he’d lied to them, but with two women dead it should be straightforward. A phone call to Holly would set the process in train. Still she hesitated. She knew it was illogical, but she had a fellow-feeling for Kerr. She’d known him since she was a child. She wanted the chance to talk to him before he was labelled a killer.