‘I’m just asking, pet. Lots of people do.’
‘He’s not depressed, if that’s what you’re saying. We’re very content here, him and me. We don’t need anyone else prying into our business.’
Vera let it go, wondered if the woman was protesting too much.
‘You don’t mind when he stays away?’ she asked.
‘It doesn’t happen much these days. One time, it was every weekend. Up the coast with those grand friends of his. I didn’t complain, mind. He has his own life to live. But since I had the stroke he’s been a bit more thoughtful. I said to him, “How would you feel if I had a turn and I was here by myself?”’
Vera was starting to think Mary was a poisonous old witch. She could have understood if Clive had wanted to do away with her. ‘You knew he was going to be away last Friday?’
‘Of course. He wouldn’t have arranged it without asking me first.’
‘He prepared you a meal?’
‘Like I said, he’s a good lad. He usually cooks if he’s here. He didn’t eat, mind.’ She sniffed. ‘He was going to get something fancy at the party.’
‘What about the Wednesday?’
‘He was a bit late home from work because he went shopping on his way home. I was waiting for him. When you’re on your own all day, you look forward to the company.’
‘He doesn’t drive much now, he was telling me.’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘I used to quite enjoy our jaunts out in the car, but he never much liked driving. When it failed its MOT a few years ago, he didn’t bother having the car fixed and sold it for scrap. He says it’s better for the planet to use public transport. It would be handy for me now, though. He’d be able to give me a lift to the outpatient clinic at the hospital.’ She gave a quick look to the clock on the wall. ‘Is there anything else? Only the quiz I like on television comes on soon and it makes my day.’
Vera decided she’d go before she said something she regretted. She’d checked out Clive’s story. She couldn’t see him as Joe Ashworth’s madman, who killed young people just because he was jealous of the way they looked. He might be depressed, but who wouldn’t be, saddled with the self-obsessed mother?
Mary had switched on the big TV. Vera had begun by being sorry for her. Now she thought the woman had her life organized very much the way she wanted it. Vera got up. ‘I’ll see my way out, shall I?’
The little woman nodded. ‘If you don’t mind. I’m not so good on my feet, since I was ill.’
Vera closed the living-room door behind her and stood in the hall. The signature tune from the television faded. The host made a joke. Mary chuckled. Vera pushed open one of the doors leading from the corridor. It had a thick white carpet on the floor. A double bed with a pink candlewick quilt. That old ladies’ smell of worn nightclothes and talcum powder. The next door she tried was the bathroom. It was very small, a shower over the bath, the blue shower curtain with a pattern of beaming fish. The smell in here slightly more masculine. Shower gel? Aftershave? She looked at the bottles on the shelf. Had Clive always made an effort with his appearance, hopeful perhaps that one day he’d find a woman, an excuse to move away from his mother?
Then she was standing at the door of Clive’s room. It was firmly shut but not locked and opened with a gentle click. The curtains were drawn and she had to switch on the light. She had been expecting something dusty, full of specimens like the workroom in the museum, but it was uncluttered, anonymous. A single bed and matching pine wardrobe and chest of drawers. A bookcase with standard field guides. In one corner a mist net packed into a canvas bag. So Clive must be into ringing birds too. A few fantasy novels, an upturned book on the bedside table. A computer desk with the ubiquitous PC. A chess set. No pictures on the wall. It was as if he knew his mother had access to his room and he wanted to give nothing away. There was just one photograph, propped on the bedside cabinet, where you might expect the picture of a girlfriend or lover. This was of the group of four friends – Clive looking shy and awkward, Gary laughing, and each side of them Peter Calvert and Samuel Parr. It had been taken at the lighthouse and they were all gazing out to sea.
Vera walked back into the corridor. There was a burst of laughter from the television studio audience. She took advantage of the noise to shut the front door behind her and walk out into the street.
She stood for a moment then walked three doors down to where the Sharps lived. Now she was here, she might as well talk to Davy’s wife.
Chapter Thirty
Vera could tell that Diane Sharp knew who she was as soon as the door was opened – not her name or where she came from but that she was a police officer. She must have developed some sort of sixth sense after years of practice. She was a plump woman in her forties, with very pretty features, hair which looked as if she had it done every week. She wore a pink blouse and a white linen skirt.
‘You’re wasting your time here,’ she said. ‘Davy’s inside. Acklington.’
‘I know. I spoke to him last week.’ Vera was trying to remember if she’d met Davy’s wife before, thought she probably hadn’t.
‘And our Brian doesn’t live here any more. He’s got his own place in town.’
‘It’s you I want to talk to,’ Vera said.
The woman seemed surprised by that, so surprised that she stood aside and let Vera in.
‘I don’t get mixed up in their business.’ As she spoke she led Vera through to the back of the bungalow. Everything was very neat, very respectable. She opened a door and suddenly light flooded into the space. There was a conservatory the width of the building, looking out onto a tiny patch of lawn. ‘Davy had this done last time he was home,’ she said. She settled herself into a wicker chair, nodded for Vera to join her.
‘This isn’t about what your men get up to,’ Vera said. She paused. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Thomas.’
The woman sat very still before replying. ‘That was an accident,’ she said at last. ‘Nothing for you to trouble yourself about.’
‘Are you sure about that, Mrs Sharp?’
‘Aye, it’d have been easier if there was someone to blame, but it was just lads larking around.’
‘You’ll have seen in the paper that Luke Armstrong was killed?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was a smashing lad. Tom spent a lot of time at his place.’
‘Did he come here?’
‘Not so often. Brian was still at home then. There were things going on. I didn’t want Tom involved.’
‘What sort of things?’
She hesitated, chose her words carefully. ‘Brian mixes with a rough set,’ she said. She could have been talking about a five-year-old mixing with bad company at school.
Vera knew one of the rough set had been convicted of attempted murder, a stabbing in a city-centre pub, but she let that go. ‘Tell me about the memorial they did for Tom. The flowers on the river. Whose idea was it?’
‘I’m not sure who started it.’ Diane was looking through the glass at the trimmed lawn. ‘Someone in the street probably. Everyone here was very fond of Tom. I don’t think it was organized. At first there was one bunch of flowers. Then everybody joined in.’
‘Did anyone blame Luke Armstrong for Tom’s death?’
The woman looked up. ‘You’re thinking of Brian? After revenge?’
‘Your little brother drowns, you’d want someone to blame. Like you said, we all want that.’
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t Brian. I’d have heard.’
Vera thought that was probably true. Besides, Brian Sharp would have kicked the Armstrong door down, battered Luke with fists and boots. He wouldn’t have charmed his way in with flowers.
‘Tell me about the Stringers,’ she said. ‘Your neighbours.’