‘Wait. Until I call.’
She inched her way across the grass, aware of the weight she carried, the space she took up. As if, inside the hut, he’d sense the vibration of her feet on the ground, the displacement of the air.
At the door she stopped. There was no padlock. It had been pulled to from the inside, but she didn’t think it had been bolted. She listened. No voices. Then she heard a rhythmic creaking, metal not wood, then a hissing. A white light appeared in the crack between the door and the frame.
Opening it, she tried to imagine she was visiting her neighbour. No fuss, quiet and easy. Wanting a favour. I’ve run out of booze. Don’t suppose you could spare a bottle of wine?
Clive Stringer stood beside a narrow wooden table, his face lit by a tilley lamp. That had been the sound she’d heard, the creaking had been the pump as he’d primed it, the hissing the noise as it caught. Beside the lamp lay a bunch of flowers, mostly ox-eye daisies, their stems wrapped in damp newspaper. She tried not to look at them, or to peer into the shadow to look at the girl. Rolled up in bags in the corner, the mist nets used for catching migrant birds. And tucked inside, the thin nylon rope used as guys to anchor the poles. There’d been a mist net in Clive’s room. She was sure now he’d used a guy rope to strangle his victims. She was glad of her size, blocking the doorway. He seemed very slight.
‘It’s all over now, pet,’ she said. She kept her voice friendly. She didn’t expect him to put up a fight, thought he might even be relieved to be caught. ‘You’d just as well come with me.’
He stared at her without speaking.
She went on talking, keeping her voice even. ‘You were the obvious suspect once I knew Lily was involved with Peter Calvert. You linked both families. But I couldn’t work out why. You did it for them, didn’t you? For Tom and Peter. Your friends.’
She thought he would answer, but he took the lamp by its wire handle and flung it against the wall. The glass smashed and the wood caught immediately; the paint bubbled and blistered and the flames licked along the line of the spilled paraffin. Stringer backed away from Vera into a corner. She ignored him, all her focus now on the girl, a still figure lying on the floor at her feet. Laura was wrapped in a blanket. Her face was covered. Vera picked her up, felt how thin and light she was. Ashworth was at the door, yelling for her to get out. Vera passed the bundle to him and turned to Stringer. He was almost surrounded by flame, though none of his clothing was burning. The red light was reflected in the lenses of his glasses. She wanted to get through to him.
‘Come away out, man. Your friends wouldn’t want this.’
He gave no indication that he’d heard her.
She was going to move towards him, but Ashworth took her by the arm and pulled her outside.
He’d laid the girl on the grass. Her face was filthy, her mouth covered by parcel tape, her hands and feet bound. Vera ripped the tape from her mouth, felt for a pulse. She didn’t see the hut crumble in on itself, the heavy roof fall onto the man inside, trapping him so even if he’d wanted to escape he couldn’t. If he screamed she didn’t hear.
Chapter Forty-Four
Vera had dreamed of taking Laura back to Julie. From the moment she realized the girl was missing that picture in her head had kept her going. She’d seen herself in the kitchen, her arm around Laura’s shoulders. Look who’s here, pet. I told you I’d get her back to you safe and sound. And of course Julie had been grateful. In the dream.
It didn’t happen like that. What happened was that Ashworth turned into the hero. When they stripped the tape from Laura’s mouth she started choking and wheezing. The stress of the day finally bringing on an asthma attack. Or having her breathing restricted for that length of time. It was Ashworth who worked out what was going on, called for an ambulance, went with the girl to the hospital. He sat with her, holding her hand as the sirens wailed and they sped down the Spine Road to Wansbeck General. By the time they reached the hospital she was a lot calmer. They kept her in the hospital overnight, but by morning she was itching to be home. A little girl again, wanting her mam.
It was midnight when Holly brought Julie into the side ward where Laura was under observation. The woman was tense and frowning. Until she’d seen her daughter, she didn’t dare to believe that Laura was safe. Ashworth was still sitting by the bedside when they arrived. He was the one to see Julie weeping and to receive her gratitude. And though Vera knew it was pathetic, she minded it. She’d wanted it to be her Julie thanked with tears in her eyes. But she’d been right about the killer. There was some consolation in that. Instead of delivering the girl to her mother, she stood in the garden at Deepden waiting for the travelling circus which always followed a major incident. The fire engine arrived first. The fire fighters seemed disappointed that it was such a small fire, so easy to contain. She had the feeling that only the fact of a fatality made them think it was worth their being there. While she watched them she couldn’t get rid of the image of Clive Stringer in the flame-red spectacles, standing quite still while the hut fell around him. He’d had his grand gesture after all. Later, when the scene of crime team searched through the wreckage, they found a couple of stems of daisies whole and undamaged.
Vera got to Fox Mill just as Peter Calvert was getting into his car. She saw Felicity watching them through the kitchen window, her face pinched with worry. The mood she was in, Vera couldn’t feel much sympathy.
‘I want a word,’ she said.
Calvert began to bluster.
‘You lied to me,’ she said. ‘I could charge you.’ She wished she was a man. She wanted to hit him. ‘We’ll go and chat in the cottage, shall we? Back to the love nest. It might jog your memory. Don’t worry, I’ve got a key. I rescued it from the CSI. We don’t need to bother your wife with this. Not just yet.’
She started across the meadow, knowing that Calvert would follow. She had the door open and was sitting at the table when he came in.
‘This is where Clive killed Lily Marsh,’ she said. ‘But then, you know that already. You suspected it, at least. Otherwise why lie about sending the card made of pressed flowers?’
He sat opposite her, gave a little smile. ‘A small lie under pressure, Inspector. It means nothing.’
‘You set Clive up. You were his hero. You knew he’d do anything you asked. You told him about Lily. How she was threatening to go public about the affair. When? At one of your cosy Friday lunches?’
‘I needed someone to talk to, Inspector. It was a stressful time.’
‘How did you put the idea into his head? “If only she were to have an accident…” You told him you’d sent the card. Were you worried she’d use it as evidence of the affair? “But at least I didn’t sign it. No one will trace it back to me. We were very careful.” But you didn’t mention the kisses.
‘Only Clive had a more elaborate plan than you’d anticipated. He was a chess player. He liked intricate patterns. And he had no real grasp on reality – my sergeant realized that after one meeting. It wasn’t enough to kill Lily Marsh. He had to distract us from you. He had his own reason for wanting Luke Armstrong dead, so he killed him first. And to reinforce the connection to Lily, and to protect you, he sent the card. You must have known about that. Otherwise why lie when I asked if you’d sent a similar one to Lily?’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘When was that, Dr Calvert? When did Clive admit he’d killed Luke and Lily?’
The man didn’t answer.
Vera thumped her fist on the table, so hard she knew it would be bruised the next day.
‘You’re quite safe, man. I can’t really charge you. The CPS would throw out the case in minutes. You’re bright enough to know how these things work. But tell me. Satisfy my curiosity.’