Vera had liked Mrs. Gregory. She was a soft, motherly woman whose children had all grown up and married. Even when Hector had stopped paying Mrs. Gregory to look after her, Vera had treated the Station House as a second home. When the junction was closed and the Gregorys had moved away she’d cried, though she’d never let Hector see.
She got out of bed and opened the curtains. Her room faced away from the track over a low meadow towards the hills. Now the grass was long and mixed with buttercups and clover. The rain had stopped but everything was wet, gleaming. She looked at her watch. Six o’clock.
Too early to phone Ashworth. Just.
Since the Gregorys had moved the Station House had changed hands several times. Recently a couple in their forties, vaguely New Age in character, had taken over. They’d bought the field on the other side of the lane and grew vegetables and kept animals. From her window Vera could see a tethered goat and a wire mesh chicken run. The cockerel crowed. Perhaps that was what had wakened her.
She lay in the bath and planned her day. If she hadn’t been used to it the room would have depressed her. The bath had chipped and scaled enamel. The walls were white tile with greying cement. There were dead flies trapped in the frosted glass bowl which covered the light bulb. Apart from burning the contents of the spare-room wardrobe she hadn’t made any changes in the house since her father’s death. Plans but no changes.
By the time she was dressed it was ten to seven and she thought, Bugger it. If he’s not awake by now he ought to be.
Joe Ashworth answered immediately, but with the shocked voice of someone startled in the middle of a dream.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” she said.
“Yes.” He was short. It wasn’t like him to be bad-tempered.
“I thought babies got up early.”
“He’s been awake all night with his teeth. We’ve only just got him back down.” “Sorry,” she said. Meaning it even if it didn’t sound as if she did.
“What can I do for you?”
“There are a couple of things I want to sort out this morning. Can you get over to Holme Park? Start putting together a list of the people who were there yesterday afternoon. Lily Fulwell should have one. See if there are any names we recognize.”
“Like who?”
“Anyone connected with the quarry. Godfrey Waugh, Peter Kemp, Neville Furness. They were business acquaintances of the Fulwells. It’s possible they got an invite.”
“Wouldn’t Mrs. Preece have mentioned seeing them?”
“I didn’t ask. She was very shocked still. And there was quite a crowd milling around. She might not even have noticed.”
“Can I ask what you’ll be doing?”
“Me? I’ll be going out for coffee.”
The night before she’d arranged for an officer to visit Rod Owen. He’d supported Edmund more than the family and deserved to be told personally about his death. With what she thought of as great consideration she waited until after she’d finished her Shredded Wheat before phoning him. She presumed that restaurateurs kept late hours.
When he answered, however, he sounded brisk, businesslike. “The Harbour Lights.”
She started to give her name but he seemed to recognize her voice and broke in. “Any news?”
“Not yet. A question though. Did Edmund have a regular day off?”
“Yes. Right from the beginning. Since he started working here again after leaving hospital. He didn’t have much routine in his existence but it was something he hung on to. A sort of superstition I think.”
“What day was that?”
“Wednesday.”
“Do you know what he did?”
“Not specifically but he always went out. Even if he’d been on a bit of a bender he usually managed to spruce himself up, have a shave. He’d leave the flat by about ten thirty.”
“But he worked for you all those years and never told you where he went?”
“I didn’t ask. None of my business. It could have been some sort of therapy, couldn’t it? Personal.”
“It must have been somewhere local because Edmund didn’t drive. If it was therapy, after care, would that have been held in St. Nick’s?”
“He definitely didn’t go to the hospital. He told me it still gave him the jitters walking past and he never wanted to step foot in the place.
Actually I don’t think it was anywhere in town. I saw him once in a queue at the bus stop near the harbour.”
“Do you know where the bus was going?”
“You must be joking. It was years ago. Even if I’d noticed I wouldn’t remember now.”
On her way into Kimmerston, Vera passed the woman from the Station House. She was climbing over the wire mesh of the hen-run, carrying a shallow basket of eggs. She waved, then gestured a pantomime to show that she had plenty spare if Vera wanted any. The couple had rather taken Vera under their wing. She wondered if they knew what she did for a living and if they’d be quite so friendly if they found out.
The police station in Kimmerston was red brick and gloomy, set right onto the pavement opposite the bus station. There was dusty blue paint and the brass handles on the outside doors were tarnished. Vera was tempted to stop and find out the times of the buses from the harbour to Kimmerston on a Wednesday morning. She thought that from her office window she could have seen Edmund get off one of the brown and cream buses. If this was where he was heading. Which she felt in her bones that it was.
But she didn’t stop. If she went into work now she’d never get away.
She drove on past the police station towards the car park near the shopping precinct. It was nearly nine o’clock and the traffic was heavy. She felt her blood pressure rising, resisted the temptation to hit her horn or stick up a finger at the slick young man in the silver Mondeo who pulled out in front of her.
There was only one cafe in the shopping centre. Despite the delay, when she got there it was still closed. It faced into an enclosed square in the precinct. Sunlight streamed through the glass roof, formed patterns on the concrete as it shone through raindrops. There were white plastic tables and chairs on the paved square outside the shop, but they were piled one on top of the other. Patience had never been one of Vera’s virtues. She rattled the locked door of the cafe and began to bang on the glass.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
A middle-aged woman with a straight back and a fierce expression came up to her from behind.
“What does it look like?”
“We don’t open until ten. There’s a machine in the arcade if you’re that desperate.”
“I don’t want coffee,” Vera snapped. “I want the answer to some questions.”
She showed her warrant card. The woman was unimpressed.
“Well, you should know better,” she said. “What sort of impression does it give to the youngsters? This used to be a well-mannered town.”
Vera muttered under her breath, stamping her feet impatiently as the woman unlocked the door and followed her in.
“I might as well have a cup of coffee while I’m here,” she said.
Belligerently.
“You’ll have to wait until I get the machine going. Unless you can make do with instant.”
“Instant’ll do.”
The woman plugged in the kettle, spooned powder into a mug. She took a green overall from a drawer and put it on, then set the steaming mug in front of Vera.