Joe expected Vera to follow, but instead she walked across the carpet and leaned against the piano, bending to touch the tapestry covering on the stool.
‘What did you make of him?’ The words came out as a sharp bark that surprised him.
‘I don’t know. He seemed pleasant enough.’ Joe looked at his watch again, less discreetly now.
‘Telling the truth, do you think?’
‘Aye, I can’t think of any reason why he should lie.’
‘We need details of Kate Dewar’s new boyfriend,’ Vera said. ‘Someone new in the house.’
He nodded. And suddenly he knew what was familiar about the scene in the kitchen. ‘That woman,’ he said. ‘Kate Dewar. She’s Katie Guthrie, the singer.’
Vera looked blank.
‘You must remember. She was big when I was young. A young singer-songwriter. Had a hit with “White Moon Summer”.’ He paused and was dragged back in time. He and Sal had done their courting to that song. He thought of one long summer, intense and charged. Parties on the beach, and conversations lasting into the early hours. It seemed that they were hardly the same people today. Despite himself, he hummed a few lines.
‘You’re wasted in the police service, Joe Ashworth, with a voice like that.’
He was never quite sure when Vera was taking the piss. ‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘Our Jessie takes after me.’
‘So our Kate Dewar was famous?’
‘For a couple of years she was a real star,’ he said. ‘And then she fell out of favour. Or fell out of sight. Seemed like almost overnight.’
‘What must that be like?’ Vera was speaking almost to herself. ‘To have all that fame and influence, and suddenly you’re nobody.’
Joe wondered if she was thinking about her own retirement and how she’d cope with that. He didn’t answer and there was a moment of silence.
‘What next then?’ She looked up at him, a challenge, as if she’d set him a test.
‘Talk to the priest,’ he said. ‘She might have confided in him about her family – what really went on in the marriage.’
‘Confession, you mean?’ She gave a little chuckle.
‘I don’t know.’ Joe was confused. He’d grown up in a Methodist family, and Methodists didn’t go in for that sort of thing. ‘More just a chat, I was thinking.’
‘And he might know about the women’s refuge.’ Vera was almost talking to herself now. ‘That might be a motive, do you think? An abusive bloke, too much to drink, blaming our Margaret for the fact that his lass finally found the guts to leave him.’
The gas fire hissed as it cooled.
Vera turned towards him. ‘I suppose you want a lift home?’
‘Aye, if that’s okay.’ That was a relief. He’d thought she’d keep him out all hours and suggest a drink on the way back to talk things through.
There was a pause. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Do you mind getting a taxi? It’s stopped snowing now and they’ll have the gritters out, so you should get back okay. Put it on expenses. Pop down to the flat and get the details of Kate’s new man on the way out. I’d like to stick around in the town for a while.’
‘You want me to stay too?’ Usually she did want him to.
‘Nah.’ A wicked grin. ‘You get back to Sal and the bairns. I don’t want to be in her bad books again. Besides, Holly’s on her way.’
Chapter Seven
Vera watched Joe Ashworth drive away in his taxi. She could tell he was torn and that he’d almost have preferred to be standing out in the cold with her. It was so easy to wind him up that really there was no sport in it. She shouldn’t torment him. There was a light in St Bartholomew’s Church and for a moment she was tempted to go inside and ask for the Father Gruskin mentioned by Kate Dewar. But she was starving and could never work properly when she was hungry.
It was so cold that she was gasping for breath and, talking to Holly on her mobile, she could see spurts of vapour coming from her nose and mouth; caught in the street light, it almost looked as if the steam had been turned to ice.
‘Where are you, Hol?’
‘Liaising with CSI, Ma’am, just as you told me.’ Classic Holly, tart and chippy at the same time.
‘Can you make it over to Mardle? Joe’s gone back to the bosom of his family and I could do with a hand. I’ll be in the fish shop close to the harbour. Shall I order anything for you?’
‘No thanks, Ma’am, I’ve eaten.’ And she would have done. A Tupperware box full of salad leaves and an apple. No saturated fat for health-conscious Holly. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Vera walked on down the street, drawn by the smell of frying fish. A woman, big and blowsy in laddered tights and a short skirt, stumbled out of the pub. Vera thought she’d catch her death. From inside someone shouted at the woman, the words indecipherable, but the tone abusive and faintly amused. Vera felt a stab of sympathy for her. Underfoot the freezing snow squeaked.
In the Mardle Fisheries Vera took a seat at a table – more than half the space was set out as a restaurant. It felt good to walk past the queue at the takeaway counter, to have a waitress approach her immediately for her order. Vera wondered if class was so ingrained in England that even here in a Mardle fish shop she was tainted by it, if feeling slightly superior was a natural – if guilty – pleasure. Inside it was warm, condensation running down the windows, a television with some daft chat show on in the background. The waitress came with a tray. Tea in a pot, bread and butter on a china plate, the batter crisply thin and the haddock soft. Oh yes, Vera thought, this is class!
Holly arrived just as Vera had finished the meal. She was skinny and stylish, even now, dressed for the weather. Was it possible to get a designer parka? If so, Holly was wearing one. She sat opposite her boss, wiped the table in front of her with a paper napkin.
‘Have they finished at the crime scene?’
‘They’ve taken the body to the mortuary.’ Holly had a southern, educated voice. Not her fault. ‘And the train back to a shed in Heaton. Billy Wainwright says it’s a nightmare. So many traces and footwear prints. They’ll be in there for a few days yet. Maybe longer. But at least the Metro line’s clear. They’ll reopen it later this evening if there’s no more snow.’
‘She’s an interesting woman, our victim.’ Vera leaned back in her seat. ‘Married a Polish guy straight out of school. Divorced a couple of years later and since then seems to have lived alone. Given to religion and good works, apparently. Stayed rent-free in a guest house just up the road here, in return for helping out in the place, but it seems to me she’s more like one of the family. The landlady is Kate Dewar, a widow with two teenage kids and a new bloke who doesn’t live in.’
‘Not a natural victim then.’ Holly had some sort of electronic gadget on the table and was typing into it.
Vera resisted the urge to ask what was wrong with an ordinary notebook. ‘No.’ The early-evening rush was over and the chip shop was quieter now, the queue had dissipated. Vera got to her feet. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where are we off to?’ Holly turned off the device and slid it into her handbag.
‘We’re going to see a priest.’
There was still a light in the church and when they pushed the heavy door it opened, though the building seemed empty inside. It smelled of damp and mould and incense, and the same furniture polish as had been used in Kate Dewar’s house. Vera wondered if Margaret Krukowski had cleaned in here too. If so, they’d need to look for another member of the congregation to take on the domestic chores. Here there was no Christmas decoration, and the only colour came from a stained-glass window over the altar.
‘Hello! Anybody home?’ Churches always made her feel irreverent.
There was a scuffling noise ahead of them and a dark figure emerged from a door to their left. Vera thought this was probably the ugliest man she’d ever met. He was younger than she’d been expecting, perhaps in his early thirties. Black hair, black caterpillar eyebrows, thick lips that moved, even when he wasn’t speaking, and narrow eyes. A large and shambling Mr Bean. He should be a stand-up comedian. He’d just have to walk onstage and there would be horrified, rather nervous laughter.