“Why did you arrange to meet him in the lane outside the Mantel house?”
“I didn’t. He must have made his way here. Hoping to make a scene perhaps. Some sort of confrontation. James and Emma must have mentioned the fireworks. When he came here and the house was empty, he crossed the fields to the Chapel.”
Taking the path Abigail had used ten years before. “When I went to fetch my coat, he was waiting by the car. It was a terrible shock. It was as I told you. I switched on the headlights and there he was. He was very cold. He’d been waiting for a long time. He looked like a tramp. I hardly recognized him. He said his father had killed Abigail. I told him that was ridiculous, that it wasn’t true. He got out his mobile and said he was going to phone the police. I had to stop him. Of course I didn’t mean to kill him.”
Didn’t you? thought Vera, no longer convinced. Was it really another accident? Like Abigail? It’s much easier to love a dead son, than a live, inconvenient one.
“He was your son,” she said, forgetting again the rule about staying detached. “Yet afterwards, you kept to your story. When we talked to you the next day you were very calm.”
“It was the greatest sacrifice a woman can make,” Mary said. “I did it to protect Robert, to keep the rest of the family together. I couldn’t let the sacrifice be in vain.”
Bollocks. You panicked and you did it to protect yourself. “What did you hit him with?”
“There was a torch in the car. Long, very heavy. He turned away to make the phone call. I hit him. He fell into the ditch. He fell awkwardly. All you could see was that horrible anorak. I moved him so that he looked more peaceful. He wasn’t breathing. I checked. There was nothing anyone could do to save him. And he wasn’t happy any more. He wasn’t happy as he’d been when he was a boy, living with us.”
“What did you do with the torch?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “It had blood on it. I wiped it on his anorak. That was dirty anyway. Then I put it back into my bag.”
And I let you carry it away, Vera thought. I knew we’d have to search your car, but we didn’t search you. I thought you were too distressed to bear it. How long will I have to live that one down? She was already wondering if there was some way that could be left out of the final report.
She realized then that Emma was crying. She wasn’t making any noise, but tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Chapter Forty-Six
Vera caught up with Dan Greenwood in Wendy’s cottage on the Point. She thought she deserved some light relief before she left for the north. It was the next morning. She hadn’t been to bed. The night had been a blur, a nightmare. She remembered Robert standing by the kitchen door at Springhead as they’d led his wife away into the freezing night. “One day, Mary, I hope I’ll be able to forgive you.” What had all that been about? A grand theatrical gesture which meant fuck all. She’d have liked to charge him too, but Ashworth had persuaded her that they had no grounds. Winter had never had sex with Zoe Sullivan. The mother had been quite clear about that. Probably not with Abigail either. Two murders and nothing but a sad, middle-aged man’s fantasies as a reason for them. A sad middle-aged man and a mad middle-aged woman. He’d be back at church on Sunday and no doubt the old ladies would rally round, offering him home-made soup and sympathy.
Wendy opened the door. She was in her dressing gown.
“I want to see Greenwood,” Vera said.
Wendy hesitated.
“Don’t piss me around. I know he’s here. Emma Bennett saw you together last night in the pottery.”
“Poor Emma,” Wendy said. “I think she had a bit of a crush.”
“Don’t tell Danny boy that. You don’t want to flatter him. He’s not in any bother. I’m just here to say goodbye.” She raised her voice. “Come on down, Dan. Decent or not.”
She followed Wendy into the cottage. She wondered if she was wearing knickers under the dressing gown. Black knickers with a sequinned heart. Of all the places in El vet, this was the house where Vera felt most at home. She loved the untidiness, the view over the water. Danny emerged down the stairs. He was still pulling a jersey over his head. “How long’s this been going on?” she demanded.
“I don’t know. A couple of months.” Wendy was grinning, couldn’t help herself. She perched on the arm of the chair where Danny was sitting, could hardly stop herself from touching him.
“Why did you keep it quiet?”
“Wouldn’t you? A place like this?”
“Aye, maybe.” She stood by the window, looked out. “It’s all over,” she said. “There’s someone in custody.”
“Who?” Danny asked.
“Mary Winter, the mother of the lass who found the body.”
“My God!” He sat quite still for a moment, trying to take it in. “Why did she kill them?”
“God knows,” Vera said. “She says she thought she was acting for the best, but I’m not sure I believe her. Simple jealousy perhaps, because the lass was young and bonny and the husband fancied her. That’s for the lawyers to fight over. But it’ll make no difference to the verdict. It’s over.”
“A bit late for Jeanie Long.”
“Not for you, though. Time to set it behind you.” A tanker was easing slowly up the river. “I found that file in your desk.”
“I wondered if you’d seen it.”
“For a while I wondered if you’d killed her.”
“No,” he said. “That was a different kind of obsession. I thought one day I might be able to put it right. Find the real murderer. Not that I did anything about it. Just took the file out every now and again to rub salt in the wound.”
“What will you do with it now?”
“Burn it.”
“Good luck,” Vera said, ‘with everything.”
“Thanks.”
“Right then. I’m off.”
“Home?”
“Aye,” she said. “North of the Tyne. Civilization.” She smiled broadly. “No offence.”
She had to drive through the village to pick Ashworth up from the hotel. She was forced to slow down at the Captain’s House to let a couple of kids run across the road and saw that Emma Bennett had returned home to James. She was sitting in the bedroom window, looking out over the square, apparently lost in thought. Like the heroine of some Victorian melodrama, Vera thought.
It was about time she got a life.
About the Author
Ann Cleeves is the author behind ITV’s Vera and BBC One’s Shetland. She has written over twenty-five novels, and is the creator of detectives Vera Stanhope and Jimmy Perez – characters loved both on screen and in print. Her books have now sold over one million copies worldwide.
Ann worked as a probation officer, bird observatory cook and auxiliary coastguard before she started writing. She is a member of ‘Murder Squad’, working with other northern writers to promote crime fiction. In 2006 Ann was awarded the Duncan Lawrie Dagger (CWA Gold Dagger) for Best Crime Novel, for Raven Black, the first book in her Shetland series. In 2012 she was inducted into the CWA Crime Thriller Awards Hall of Fame. Ann lives in North Tyneside.
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