‘No.’ Ashworth thought Connie understood where this was leading, but she pretended ignorance. ‘Veronica was early. I was still clearing up at the back of the house. She came to the kitchen door and gave me a bit of a shock.’
Vera gave the huge grin of approval that made everyone included in it feel like the most important person in the world. ‘So, hypothetically of course, Veronica could have hoyed the bag into the weed patch on her way round the side of the cottage. She wouldn’t know the bairn would be playing out there this afternoon.’
‘Hypothetically,’ Connie said, ‘I suppose she could.’
They stood up. ‘Does the name Danny Shaw mean anything to you?’ Vera asked.
Connie frowned. ‘No. Should it?’
‘You’ll see it on the news first thing in the morning. He was a student. He was strangled this afternoon at his home just up the valley.’
Connie was suddenly tense. Ashworth could see that her instinct was to gather up her child and run away with her, to take her somewhere safe.
‘The same killer?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Vera said. ‘But the cases are linked. We’re sure the cases are linked.’
Of course the cases are linked, Ashworth thought. But proving the connection was another matter entirely.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ashworth had expected Vera to drag him to the Eliot house immediately, although it was so late. He’d sensed her excitement when Connie Masters had described Veronica’s visit, and Vera had never been the most patient of people. But standing by the cars outside the cottage, she surprised him by saying they’d call it a day.
‘You don’t want to speak to the Eliot woman?’
Vera looked up to where the big house gleamed white in the darkness. ‘Do you think she was staring at us earlier? Is she wondering what we’ve found out about her? I bet she was upstairs at one of the bedroom windows with a pair of binoculars.’
‘Maybe.’
‘We’ll let her stew then, shall we? Give her a sleepless night and go to see her tomorrow.’
‘Do you fancy a pint?’ he asked. His way of making his peace with Vera. He’d sensed her antagonism earlier in the day. They were like a bickering married couple, he thought. In the end, they couldn’t survive without each other and one of them had to give in. Usually, it was him.
‘Thought you’d never ask, pet. Tell you what, it’s my treat. I got a few bottles of Wylam in last time I was in that shop in Hexham where they do the fancy local produce. Come back to mine and I’ll do you a sandwich too.’
And that way you don’t have to drive home after we’ve been to the pub. But he didn’t say anything. He’d have to drive back anyway – Sarah would kill him if he turned up pissed in a taxi. He’d already phoned her to say he’d be very late. She wouldn’t be expecting him yet. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
Vera’s house was the most inconvenient place to live in the whole county. Stuck halfway up a hill along a track that was always blocked by the first snow and that turned into a river as soon as it rained. For her personal use she still drove Hector’s Land Rover, and he’d never known her not show up for work because of the weather. Joe suspected the dippy hippies turned out with shovels to dig her out, in recompense for her turning a blind eye to what went on in their house, or maybe she camped out in the pub in the nearest village if the forecast was bad. She would never move now. She’d grown up in the hills and got twitchy and bad-tempered if she had to leave them for more than a day.
But the view was fantastic, Joe had to give her that. Too dark to appreciate it now, but he remembered it from previous visits. Open moorland as far as you could see, and a small lough where the geese came in winter. In the valley, the River Coquet that ended up at the coast, and from her house a bird’s-eye view of a small grey village and a peel tower. Her neighbours had been through lambing and, even inside, they could hear the ewes. There was never any traffic noise. Nothing but the occasional jet on a training flight from RAF Boulmer as it flew low, following the line of the valley.
They sat in her house and talked about Jenny Lister and then about Danny Shaw. He took a bottle of beer and drank it slowly; she’d had three by the time he’d finished. As good as her word, she made sandwiches and between munches she talked, hardly giving him a chance to speak. Occasions like this, that was his role: to be an audience, her sounding board. It was how she best processed information. Once, exasperated after a late night of listening to her holding forth, he’d asked her why she needed him there at all. ‘You take no notice of anything I say. You’d do just as well without me.’
She’d been astonished. ‘Nonsense, lad. If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t bother to think things through. You make me focus.’ She’d paused. ‘And now and again you come up with a few good ideas.’
So he sat and listened, as outside the moon rose and the breeze dropped. She broke off briefly to throw a match on the fire and turn on the standard lamp with its tatty parchment shade, but soon she continued, ordering her thoughts, reaching conclusions, planning future actions. During the team briefings she used the whiteboard to make her points clear, but Joe could see that she had no need of written notes or charts. It was all in her head; all the links and apparent coincidences seemed fixed in her mind.
And she spoke about the dead woman as if she’d known her. ‘Jenny Lister. The way I see it, she was a proud woman. That was what motivated her. She was good all right: a good mother, a good social worker, a good boss. A good-looker too for her age. We’ve heard that from all the people who knew her. But she thought she was a bit better than everyone else. Clever enough not to show it, but deep down that was what she believed. That’s what the planned book was all about. She thought she had something to teach the world about compassion.’ Vera looked up from her beer. ‘If I’d known her, she’d have got right up my nose. I can’t stand perfect people. And she didn’t have many friends, did she? Not real friends. There’s that teacher, but she was more like an admirer than a friend, and Jenny didn’t confide much in her. She just threw out a few hints to make herself interesting.’
Joe said nothing. When Vera was in full flow it was best to let her get on with it. The inspector continued. ‘So why was she murdered? And why in such an elaborate way? You don’t strangle someone just because they get on your tits. And if you want to kill, you choose somewhere private. Not the swimming pool in a flash hotel, where anyone could walk in on you at any minute. This looks like a game to me, a show. And which of our suspects makes the best showman?’
Most of Vera’s questions were rhetorical, but this time, it seemed, she expected an answer.
‘Well? Are you falling asleep here? Am I talking to myself?’
‘Danny Shaw?’ His response was tentative and he was ashamed of that. She always made him feel like an eight-year-old desperate not to make a fool of himself in front of the teacher.
‘Our second victim? So we’re back to Charlie’s theory that Danny was killed in revenge. Nah, I don’t buy that. Oh, I’m sure Danny was a show-off all right, and cocky with it. But maybe lots of lads are at that age. No, I’m thinking of Michael Morgan. Seems to me that his acupuncture business is more about theatre than medicine. He likes to create a scene, cause a distraction. People believe in the magic and that makes them feel better.’
‘Why kill Danny?’ Joe was playing the stooge again, feeding her the lines.
‘We know they met. Maybe Morgan let slip something of what he was planning. Danny was desperate for money. I wouldn’t have put it past him to try a bit of blackmail.’