“I want to know what’s going on,” she cried. “No one’s been to see me. It’s not fair. I’m involved.”
She had the argument clear in her head. The grievance had been growing all night. She hadn’t thought it would be directed towards Dan Greenwood. That Inspector Fletcher, Caroline, made the effort then. She kept us sweet while the police were preparing the case for court, while I could still be of use. She came every day to see what I could remember. Now I have to hear about developments on the news.
Though that wasn’t true. Dan had warned her, through James, of Jeanie’s suicide and that the case might be reopened.
While she hesitated, wondering what tone to take, her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her.
“That seems fair enough to me, pet.” The voice was very close. It seemed to rasp in Emma’s ear. She turned. The woman from the church was leaning on the wall behind her. “But that’s the police all over for you. They keep you in the dark and they feed you shit. That’s why Danny got out. Or so he says.”
She had emerged through a door. Emma could see a small room cluttered with boxes. There was a rickety armchair, a kettle, a tray of grubby mugs on the floor in one corner. The woman had been sitting there and had overheard everything they’d said.
“Who are you?” Emma demanded. Then, before the woman could answer, remembering Dan’s earlier warning, “Are you a reporter?”
The woman gave a wheezy laugh. Her enormous bosoms shook.
“Not me, pet. I’m on the side of the angels.” She held out a hand the size of a shovel. “Vera Stanhope. Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. I’ve been brought in to clear up this particular pile of crap.”
Chapter Twelve
Emma thought Vera Stanhope was the most thick-skinned person she’d ever met. It was not only in that she was impervious to embarrassment or offence. She was literally thick-skinned. Her face was scaly and uneven, covered in places by crusted blotches, her hands were hard and worn. Some sort of allergy or disease, Emma thought, but couldn’t bring herself to pity. She wasn’t the sort of woman you could feel sorry for. Vera stood, looking at them both, narrowing her eyes.
“Did you say something about coffee, Danny? But not here, eh, pet. Let’s go somewhere a bit more comfy.” She directed her gaze towards Emma. “Don’t you live just over the square?”
Emma knew what was expected. She was supposed to invite them in, sit them in the best room, brew coffee, set out fancy biscuits. Then answer this extraordinary woman’s questions. Go over the old ground. And all the time Vera’s reptile eyes would be taking in the surroundings, probing, as curious as the old ladies from the church who’d invited themselves in to see the baby when she’d first come home from hospital. She couldn’t bear it.
“We can’t go to my house,” she said quickly. “My husband’s asleep. He’s been working all night.”
Dan Greenwood rescued her. Perhaps he sensed her panic, though she could no longer persuade herself that they had a special understanding.
“Why don’t you come back to my place. I’d be breaking for lunch about now anyway.”
Vera turned a wide smile on him, as if that was what she’d been hoping for all the time.
Outside the rain had stopped and there were jagged splashes of sunlight reflected in the puddles and the wet pavements. Emma waited for Dan to lock up. Even now, she found herself watching him. He had dark hair on the back of his hands. His sleeve fell back from his wrist as he clamped together the padlock and she imagined what it would feel like to touch his arm.
“I’ll drive round,” she said. “Matthew always falls asleep in the car. It’ll mean we can talk in peace.”
It wasn’t far to Dan’s house but she didn’t want to be seen traipsing after them along the narrow pavements, part of a strange procession, a circus freak show. He lived in a crescent of 1930s semis on the edge of the village. Once they’d been council houses and there were still one or two belonging to the local authority, identifiable by the uniform green paint. The rest had been bought by their owners or sold on to in comers like Dan. They had long, thin gardens at the back, fanning out towards farmland.
Emma took her time. She let herself into her own home and watched them set off before carrying Matthew to the car and strapping him in. She didn’t want to arrive ahead of them, and thought if she passed them on the way she might feel obliged to offer them a lift. The thought of Vera Stanhope in her car gave her the same threat of violation, as if she’d been forced to ask her into her home.
When she arrived at the Crescent Dan’s door was open, and she went in without knocking, lifting the car seat with Matthew into the narrow hall. She had never been inside the house, though she knew James had. It was one of his excuses for lateness during the cricket season. I just called into Dan’s for a beer after the match. Hovering outside the kitchen it occurred to her that James had probably known all along about Dan Greenwood’s role in the Abigail Mantel murder. The subject of Dan’s previous career must have come up during those boozy Friday night discussions. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of, as he’d said.
There was a tiny living room and a kitchen of a similar size with a door leading into the garden. The kitchen wall had been painted a deep green and there was one of Dan’s jugs with some chrysanths on the window sill, but everything else could have belonged to the previous owners. You wouldn’t have guessed an artist lived here. There was none of the mess or clutter she’d have expected. They all sat at the kitchen table and Vera seemed to take up most of the room. Emma was reminded of train journeys, strangers cramped around a table, trying to make sure their knees and feet don’t touch. Dan had changed from his work boots and was wearing the sandals climbers wear. His feet were brown. He’d made filter coffee and set out chocolate biscuits on a plate. Emma couldn’t tell what he made of this invasion. Had Vera Stanhope been foisted onto him or were they allies, old friends? His attitude towards her was affectionate but cautious. It was as if she were a large dog, generally well behaved but given to lashing out at strangers. He seemed to be trying very hard to sit still.
Vera leant back in her chair, her eyes covered with thick, inflexible lids.
“Well, pet, what is it you’d like to know? Just fire away. Dan and me’ll do our best to help.”
“Are you sure Jeanie was innocent?”
“Positive.”
“What makes you so certain?”
Vera slowly sat forward, reached out for a biscuit. “She always claimed she went to London that day. An impulse, she said. She wanted to get away from the area, hide in a big city, be anonymous. Keith had asked her to leave the Old Chapel and she was devastated. She’d thought she was in love.” Vera munched the biscuit, wiped the crumbs from her chin, continued to speak though she’d not finished chewing. “She got the train from Hull. So she said. Wandered round the South Bank and listened to the free lunchtime music, went to the late Gallery, then got the train home. But no one saw her. She told Danny’s colleagues she’d left her car in the long-stay car park, but they couldn’t find the sticker she’d have had to put on her windscreen. The guy who sold her the rail ticket was shown her photograph but didn’t recognize her. No one travelling on the train came forward to identify her. And it was the same in London. You can’t believe anyone can be that invisible. It was a Sunday, not such a busy day for travelling, but nobody had noticed her. Even more strange, she never mentioned her trip to her parents. Not before she went or when she got back. Her car was gone from outside her parents’ house on the Point from eight in the morning until seven in the evening. That was all they could be sure of.”
She eyed the remaining biscuit but left it where it was. “Perhaps they could have done more. Gone national. Appealed for witnesses. But they thought she’d killed the girl. It wasn’t their responsibility to make the case for the defence.” She gave a wide, dolphin’s smile. “That’s right, isn’t it, Danny? You all thought you’d got your murderer. What is it they call it? Noble cause corruption. And who could blame you for being corrupted? The motive was clear from the beginning. Jeanie hated Abigail Mantel because she could persuade her father to do anything, and she’d persuaded him that the two of them were happier on their own.”