Back in the kitchen she tried to phone Stuart again, but still he didn’t answer.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Vera would have continued searching Malcolm’s yard all night, would have been there on her own with only a torch and the street lights to illuminate the scene, if she hadn’t realized that it would look ridiculous. They’d already gathered an audience. Teenage kids and workers on their way from the Metro to the Coble for a drink before heading home. Staff from the fisheries on their fag breaks. Malcolm wasn’t there. He was at home, sitting in the bleak living room in the house on Percy Street, with Charlie to keep an eye on him. She felt a moment of guilt about Malcolm, a moment of self-doubt. She didn’t have enough evidence to charge him, but the locals would all have him down as the murderer now, even if the search team didn’t find anything in the yard. The press had turned out big-style, before the team gave up the operation for the night, and there would be lurid pictures in the papers the next day. His ex-wife had already done an exclusive with a tabloid, telling them that Malcolm had once battered her.
When the search team pulled out they left a PC to secure the yard and another outside Malcolm Kerr’s place. She gave Charlie a lift home and they sat for a moment outside his house. There was a light on inside and the curtains were shut. So Charlie had found another woman then. Vera thought that maybe she wasn’t such a bad detective after all.
‘Who is she?’ She nodded towards the house. Then, when he didn’t reply immediately: ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, keeping quiet about a new woman in your life.’
‘It’s not a new woman. At least, not how you mean.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s my daughter. She finished uni in the summer and couldn’t get a job. Couldn’t get on with her mother, either. So she’s back with me.’ He grinned despite himself.
‘It’s working out okay?’ Vera supposed she must have known that Charlie had a daughter, but couldn’t remember anything about her.
‘Champion!’ He grinned again. ‘She’s doing work experience with an engineering company in Blyth, thinks she might get a real job at the end of it.’ He couldn’t keep the pride from his voice.
‘Good for your lass.’ Meaning it really. But Charlie had been a loner like her since his wife had left, and now it seemed that Vera was the only oddball in the team. She couldn’t help feeling she’d been deserted, that he’d let her down.
When Charlie disappeared into the house without a second glance back at her, she phoned Joe. She’d have liked to spend a bit of time with him, but she could tell there was no way he’d come out. His lass would want him for herself: mulled wine and carols and crap TV. So Vera drove home and sat alone in the cold house. Drinking like she had in the old days, before she got the doctor’s warning. Worrying at the case, not allowing herself to think that they’d find nothing of any importance in Malcolm Kerr’s yard; that all that manpower and expense would be wasted and she’d be a laughing stock.
The next day she was first in the briefing room. A hangover, dull like a bruise or an aching shoulder. The team turned up on time. Eager and expecting results, because she’d been so positive the day before.
She stood in front of them and tried to keep her energy level high. ‘Hol. Charlie. Any news on our elusive friend Pawel?’
‘Not yet.’ Holly pulled a face. ‘I took it over yesterday afternoon when Charlie went out to Mardle, but civil servants seem to stop working at least a week before a bank holiday. I’ve got a couple more contacts to try today.’
‘That’s our priority. The searchers will be back at first light, and if they find anything we need to know what we’re working with. We need a date for the last time we can prove that the man was alive.’ Vera swept her eyes around the room. ‘Charlie, how was Malcolm yesterday? Did you get any sense from him that he’s bothered by us digging around in the yard?’
‘Nah. He seemed kind of frozen. As if he didn’t care one way or another.’
‘Joe?’
‘I’m going to see the woman who ran the Coble for years. Prof. Craggs has some photos which suggest that they were all friends – the Kerrs, Margaret and the landlady and her son. Maybe Pawel too. Susan Coulson from the Haven says she knew the others, though she has no memory of Margaret’s husband. The landlady’s name is Valerie Butt and Charlie’s tracked her down to an address in Mardle.’ He turned apologetically to Vera, as if he knew he wasn’t helping much. He realized that what she needed now was proof that Krukowski was dead. Bones. Teeth. Or a witness who had seen him killed. ‘I thought she might remember gossip about Pawel disappearing suddenly. I’m still a bit confused about timings, about when exactly he left the town. Talking to other people might help.’
Vera thought it was a long shot, but she didn’t want to put him down again in front of the others. Whatever his shortcomings, he’d always be her favourite. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Why not? Worth a punt.’
It was light now and the team would have started in Harbour Street. She was drawn back there. A terrible fascination, because she knew that if nothing was found, her theory would be baseless. If Pawel hadn’t been killed by Kerr, or with his help, there’d have been nothing more for Margaret to confess to and no reason for Kerr to have killed her. Vera was certain that Margaret had been keeping a more profound secret than just her profession. Without a body, Vera would have to rethink the investigation entirely. Immediately after the briefing she headed back to Mardle, only telling Joe where she was going.
When she arrived they’d searched most of the yard. There was one rusting hull to get into and Malcolm’s shed still to clear. She stood by the fence, feeling the tension coming up from her feet like the cold. She couldn’t keep still, but she knew better than to interfere. Bad enough that she was here, keeping them in her sight, instead of letting them get on with it. She’d hate a superior officer watching over her. She knew what they were thinking: Doesn’t the woman have any work of her own to get on with? In the end she could stand it no longer and walked away, telling herself that she wanted coffee, but really just needing to move, the nerves in her body jingling, the muscles in her face tense.
On the other side of the road Peter Gruskin hesitated on the pavement, looking in at the activity outside the yard. She caught his eye and he hurried away. She thought that he was like a crow, hovering over a piece of carrion. A predator on other people’s miseries. But then she’d inherited Hector’s antipathy to the clergy.
In the smart cafe opposite the health centre she drank black coffee and ate a croissant. It had almond paste in the middle, very sweet, and she felt a rush of energy from the caffeine and the sugar. She knew she should get back to the police station in Kimmerston. That was her proper place. In an office. She should leave the detail to other people. But she told herself it would do no harm to call back into the search site first. They might have found something in the last half-hour. It would be crazy to drive away without checking.
When she arrived at Malcolm’s yard there was no sense of urgency. Most of the officers were standing by the fence drinking tea from flasks. Just a couple of men were emptying the junk from the shed. First she felt angry and then sick with disappointment. They’d given up. She bobbed under the tape to join them. Now the shed was empty and there was nothing left but the small stove standing on the bare concrete floor. She went inside and found the team leader there.
He looked at her. Part pity and part derision. ‘Nothing.’ He was a Scouser and it sounded as though he was spitting the word. ‘No clothing dating back to the time in question. Nothing that could have belonged to your man. No sign that anything’s been buried, or that the concrete’s been disturbed anywhere in the yard.’