Chapter Forty-One
When Joe phoned Vera – ostensibly to ask for news of Malcolm Kerr, but really hoping to be told that his daughter had been found safe and well – the inspector was standing outside the Haven. A flock of black-headed gulls picked over a freshly ploughed field beyond the hawthorn hedge. Vera had ideas of her own about where the investigation might lead.
She knocked at the door of the big house and then went in, too impatient to wait for anyone to answer. Laurie and Susan were in the kitchen as usual and the dog was lolling against the bottom oven of the Aga.
‘Where’s Jane?’ Vera wanted this ended and was in too much of a hurry to be polite. No more killing, she thought. It seemed to her that the recent deaths had been a sickening waste. There had been no real reason for them. No adequate explanation. But she knew now who had killed Margaret and Dee, and who had killed the young man in Kerr’s yard forty years ago. Joe could have confirmed it for her, but he was caught up with his own anxieties and he wasn’t in the mood to think clearly. No more killing.
‘She’s gone into town to catch up with some mates.’ Laurie had her standard I don’t cooperate with the pigs voice.
Vera thought about this. Perhaps she didn’t need to talk to Jane now. ‘The winter fair,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It was a fund-raiser and a kind of social too. Jane invited lots of the ex-residents back. Kids. A friend of Margaret’s dressed up as Santa.’ Laurie made it clear she thought this was a waste of time.
‘George Enderby?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. He must have spent a fortune on the stalls. Besides the books he gave away. He’d wrapped them all up in Christmas paper, and we found him a sack so that he could play the part properly.’ Her voice softened.
Vera nodded. She could imagine Enderby playing Father Christmas, all jovial and generous.
Laurie continued talking. ‘It was sunny and we set stalls out in the barn as well as the house. Invited people from Holypool. They turned out to gawp at us. We had a barbecue, did mulled wine. Susan had been knitting kids’ clothes for months and we sold them all. It was cool. Until Em had one of her panic attacks.’
‘What happened?’ Vera wasn’t sure that she had time for this, but thought it might be relevant.
‘She just went all weird on us. Said she couldn’t cope and she needed to go back to hospital. Jane talked her round in the end.’
‘Do you have Emily’s address?’ This was what Vera had come for. ‘She went back to her mother’s home for Christmas, didn’t she?’
Laurie stared at her, suddenly bristling with antagonism again. ‘What do you want with Em? She’s not well.’
‘I want to stop another murder!’ Vera shouted the words so loud that she could feel the painful rasp in the back of her throat. ‘So if you don’t mind, lady, I’ll ask her a few questions. Quietly and kindly, but needing to get some answers.’
Laurie continued to stare, this time with a little more respect. ‘She lives in Tynemouth somewhere. The address will be in the office,’ she said. ‘On Jane’s computer. But it’ll be password-protected.’
‘Shit!’ They looked at each other, a moment of shared communication. If Susan was following the conversation, she gave no sign of it. She was sitting in a low chair close to the Aga, knitting something small and pink. The wool lay in a basket at her feet.
‘I can probably find it for you,’ Laurie said. ‘Not sure it’s entirely legal, though, poking around in the system. Hacking into social services.’
‘Sod legal!’ Vera saw that Laurie was enjoying this. ‘Look, I’ll take responsibility. Just find that address.’
Laurie grinned and disappeared. In the chair in the corner Susan gave a little smile and continued to knit. She hadn’t acknowledged Vera’s presence. Was this one of her less coherent days? Or was she pretending to be distant and slow so that she wouldn’t be asked to leave the Haven?
‘Tell me about Ricky Butt, Susan,’ Vera said. ‘You knew him, didn’t you? He was Val’s son and he lived with her in the Coble.’
Susan looked up from her knitting. Her eyes were cloudy. Vera thought she must still be on medication. Vera had read about people becoming addicted to tranquillizers, and Susan had been taking drugs for decades.
‘Ricky Butt,’ Vera prompted.
‘Margaret’s boss,’ Susan said.
‘Was he? Her pimp? He wanted to be.’
‘She hated him,’ Susan said. ‘And so did I.’
Vera had a sudden thought. ‘Were you at the Coble the night of Billy Kerr’s birthday party?’ she asked. ‘The night there was the fire at the yard?’
Susan closed her eyes a moment, as if she was making an effort to remember. But before she could speak Laurie bounced back into the room with a scrap of paper in her hand. ‘Here’s the address,’ she said. ‘A piece of piss. You should tell them they need better security.’
Outside it felt colder. The wind came from the east and tasted metallic, like ice. Vera’s phone went. It was Joe.
‘Joe.’ Almost faint with hope. If anything happened to his child he’d leave the police service and he’d never speak to her again. And didn’t that prove that she was the most selfish cow in the world? A child was in danger, but she could only think about losing the sole person who came close to being a friend. ‘Any news?’
‘Not yet.’
Vera said nothing. Any words would provoke him to further outrage.
‘But I think I know who we’re looking for now.’
He gave a name and a reason for believing it. Confirmation. ‘Ah, Joe man, great minds think alike.’
‘You’d got there already?’ Even in his grief she could tell that he had a moment of disappointment.
‘Something someone said. You?’
‘The same. Then a memory to confirm it. I feel like a fool.’
Another flurry of sleet rattled against the windscreen. It was so noisy that she had to ask Joe to repeat his next words.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘We go quietly,’ she said. ‘We need proof this time. No press and no fuss. You just find your Jessie.’
Emily lived in a big house on the outskirts of Tynemouth. It was new and grand, built of raw red brick with porticoes at the front. Through the big living-room window Vera saw a white leather sofa and a flat-screen television. An artificial Christmas tree that almost looked real and a pile of wrapped presents underneath. It came to Vera suddenly that, for Margaret Krukowski, a place like this would be like hell. Much better the life of a call girl operating out of a shabby house in Mardle. And that she still hadn’t bought the Secret Santa gift for Holly. She rang the doorbell.
The door was opened by a man in a polo shirt and chinos. The heat spilled out from the hall. Inside he’d need no warmer clothes. ‘Yes?’ His voice posh Geordie. A businessman in mufti, Vera thought.
‘Could I speak to Emily, please?’ She was aware that she looked even scruffier than usual. No sleep and a hangover, and no time to wash any clothes during the investigation, never mind iron them. She gave what she hoped was a winning smile.
The man looked at her as if she was a tinker selling clothes pegs and didn’t bother wasting words on her. Instead he yelled into the house, ‘Jackie, there’s someone here to see your daughter.’
Your daughter. So he must be the stepfather. And the girl was getting in the way.
He didn’t invite her in. Vera stood on the doorstep and waited. Eventually a large woman with an unseasonal tan and a lot of gold jewellery appeared. Her blonde hair was fake, but the tan seemed real. Vera wondered if Emily had been admitted into the Haven to allow the adults to take a holiday somewhere hot.
‘Yes?’ Emily’s mother wasn’t as hard as she first appeared. A troubled woman with a nervous tic and a tense smile. A woman who felt obliged to mediate between the two important people in her life.