“Probably.”
“But there is a chance that you’ve missed something.” Vera walked further into the room and stood with her legs apart, looking round at them. For a moment Peter stared at her. Rachael saw a second of horror and, watching, thought: he’s only used to women who take some trouble with their appearance. Even I did that for him. Then the professional charm took over and he stretched out his hand and introduced himself, offered her whisky, which she accepted with a huge Cheshire cat grin. When she repeated her question it was to him, as if she had acknowledged him as the expert.
“Well, Mr. Kemp, do you think these girls have missed something?”
“I suppose there’s always that chance but I doubt it. You won’t find better field workers anywhere than Anne and Rachael.”
And Grace? She was good too?”
“She came highly recommended as you’ll see from the reference in the file.”
“The file, yes. It was very good of you to bring it.” She looked up from her glass. “Were you out this way any time yesterday, Mr. Kemp?
Checking your survey perhaps? Making sure your workers weren’t slacking?”
The sudden question surprised him. “No, I spent all day in the office.
Meetings, as my secretary will tell you.”
“Then we won’t need to take up any more of your time, Mr. Kemp. Thank you for coming over.”
He seemed uncertain how to handle this summary dismissal.
“You might as well leave the whisky,” Vera went on. “No doubt the lasses will be able to use it.”
As she walked him towards the outside door he muttered something which Rachael couldn’t make out. They heard the roar of the diesel engine as he drove up the track.
Vera refilled their glasses and made herself comfortable. Rachael expected some comment about Peter but none came.
“Of course you must make up your own minds what you do next,” Vera said, repeating almost exactly Edie’s words and meaning, as Edie had done but I’d much prefer it if you do what I want you to.
“We’re not leaving,” Rachael said. She wondered how many more times it would have to be said.
“I’m not suggesting that you should.” Vera bared her teeth in a grin.
“I’m not in any position to limit your access to the hill, except where my men are working, or to restrict your movements in any way.”
“But… “
“But my superiors are concerned about your safety. What would the bosses know? They spend their time in centrally heated offices, the sort of man who wouldn’t venture onto the Town Moor without a compass and a stick of mint cake. They can’t understand what you’re doing here anyway. All they think is two girlies on their own in the wilderness with a lunatic on the loose. You appreciate my difficulty.” She grinned and continued. “I’ve been told to get you to clear off. You’re in the way, an unnecessary distraction. And if any thing… ” she paused ‘… untoward was to happen to either of you the press would have a field day.”
She drained her glass and stared pensively into the fire for a moment then went on briskly. “So let’s take it as read, shall we? I’ve told you to piss off and you’ve refused, so now it’s your responsibility if you get into bother. You can’t sue the Chief Constable.”
“Why are you so keen for us to stay?” Rachael asked. She could read forceful middle-aged women and knew that was exactly what Vera wanted.
“I can’t see there’s any danger,” Vera said briskly. “There’ll be men crawling around the hill for weeks. You’ll be safer here than in the middle of town. Why jeopardize weeks of research when it’s not necessary?” “No,” Rachael said. “There must be another reason.”
Vera shot her a look. “You forget I’ve come to these hills since I was a kid. I don’t want a quarry here any more than you do.”
For a moment Rachael was convinced, then it came to her that Vera Stanhope was ambitious, in the same way that Peter Kemp was ambitious.
She was desperate for the investigation to succeed.
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Let’s just say that I don’t feel it would be beneficial to my investigation if your project was abandoned.” At first Rachael thought Vera was implying that she and Anne were suspects, that she was worried they would escape if they left the hill.
Then she saw there was another explanation. “You think the murderer might come back when he sees we’ve not abandoned the project. You want to use us as decoys.” Like the crow, she thought, in the trap.
Vera appeared profoundly hurt and shocked by the suggestion.
“I couldn’t do that,” she said. “The Chief Constable would never countenance it.”
But she bared her large brown teeth in another grin.
Chapter Thirty-Two.
The next day they saw little of Vera Stanhope and still the cloud was so low that there was no point trying to go out to count. By the evening Rachael thought that another day trapped in Baikie’s would drive her mad and she agreed to Edie’s suggestion that the following morning they should visit Alicia Davison, retired headmistress of the school where once, according to the papers left at Black Law, Bella had been a teacher. Edie disappeared into Black Law to make phone calls.
“I don’t like leaving you,” Rachael said to Anne, ‘ with the police still around.”
“That’s all right. I want to go into Kimmerston anyway to see a friend.”
A man, Rachael supposed, though the next morning when they set off at almost the same time there was no sign of it. No make-up or perfume.
No smart clothes stashed into a rucksack to be changed into later.
Overnight the weather had changed. There was still a haze over the moor but it was warm and still. Edie had managed to contact Alicia by phone and was pleased with herself. “I said we were researching local history. Alicia assumed it was about Corbin School. Apparently it was closed in the mid seventies. She got a bigger headship and went on to make quite a name for herself.” She was driving and paused while she concentrated on passing a tractor.
“She sat on an advisory panel on primary education and was considered quite an expert on rural schools. She published a book on it. She never left the classroom though. I suppose she’s one of those sad old spinsters who can only make relationships with small kids.”
Rachael was tempted to ask what had happened to sisterly solidarity.
Edie too was a spinster who’d taught for most of her life. But she kept quiet. It was a relief to be away from Baikie’s and she couldn’t face a row.
When Miss. Davison let them into her house it was clear she was far from sad. She was tiny, very quick and bright. Neither did she give an impression of age. She wore a grey velour tracksuit and new white training shoes and had just returned, she said, from her weekly yoga session in the village hall. Her new enthusiasm was tai chi but she liked to keep up her yoga too. As one got older it was good to keep supple.
She lived in a small development of smart new bungalows on the edge of a tidy village close to the Al.
She led them through the house rather apologetically. “When I retired I dreamed of a stone cottage and a large garden but I saw that it wouldn’t be practical. I’ve too many other interests. This suits me very well. We’re all of a certain age here in Swinhoe Close. Mostly couples of course, but they seem not to mind including me. And there’s one widower who’s very chivalrous.” She spoke quickly with sharp, staccato phrases which came out like the repeated rhythm of bird song.
“Do sit down. We’ll have the coffee presently, shall we? You don’t want to talk about me. You’re here to find out about the school. It’ll be an interesting project. I suppose you live in Corbin. You didn’t say.”