Leaving the rest of the debris on the floor she pressed a button on the phone and began to listen to her voice mail Without waiting to be asked Joe Ashworth crouched in the corner and switched on the plastic kettle which stood with mugs and jars on a stained tray. He pretended not to hear the angry voice of Vera’s boss, demanding to know what the hell she thought she was buggering about at and to report to him as soon as she got in. The voice was slightly querulous. The superintendent knew that he was no match for Vera. He wasn’t very bright and she always had an answer.
The room, was as high as it was wide, painted in pale green gloss, cell-shaped. There was one window with a frosted glass pane. It reminded Vera of a women’s public lavatory yet she would have resisted moving elsewhere. It had been hers since her promotion to inspector, a refuge at least from the complaints and demands of her father. There were no pictures or plants, nothing personal, nothing to give information to the nosy bastards who were curious about where or how she lived. Ashworth was the only one of her colleagues who’d seen her home and that was when he’d dropped her off there late at night after work. She’d have liked to invite him in for a drink but hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. They were already calling him teacher’s pet or worse.
“I’ve just got in from Holme Park,” he said.
“Anything?”
“I didn’t get to speak to Lord or Lady Muck.”
“Don’t tell me they’re too upset for visitors.”
“Hardly. They’re in a meeting.”
“Who with?”
“Slateburn Quarries at the office here in Kimmerston. Apparently it was arranged a while ago.”
“To discuss the preliminary findings of the Environmental Impact Assessment,” Vera said almost to herself. “Probably. But I bet they’ll be taking the opportunity to talk about the effect Edmund Fulwell’s death will have on public opinion. I wonder if it’ll be enough to stop Waugh going ahead. Lily will be upset if he starts getting cold feet.”
“You don’t like the idea of this quarry, do you?”
“What I like is neither here nor there. So, was it a wasted trip?”
“Not entirely. I had a mooch round, had a chat with all the staff I could get hold of. None of them had any idea that Edmund was hiding out in the house at the end of the Avenue. Robert must have been careful. It must be hard to keep secrets in a place like that.”
“Did you manage to speak to the keeper’s wife in the house next door?”
“Yes. It’s a madhouse. Kids, music, animals. Everyone shouting at each other. You could have a rock band practising and they’d not hear.”
“They didn’t see anyone hanging about yesterday?”
“They were at the Hall all day helping to prepare for the party. Even the teenagers had been roped in.”
“So we’re not much further forward?”
“Olivia’s secretary gave me a list of the guests who were at the party.
I didn’t recognize anyone connected with the quarry. It was mostly friends of the family and people from the village.” He pulled a face.
“The secretary said that Olivia wanted it to be a real community event.”
“Very civic-minded. Though it doesn’t make much difference to the investigation. Once the jamboree had started there’d be no witnesses in the Avenue and while the guests were arriving no one would have taken any notice of strangers. Very convenient. I wonder if that’s why he was killed yesterday? In that case the murderer must have known about the party, even if he didn’t attend it.” She looked down at Ashworth. “I suppose it was common knowledge.”
“Oh aye. Apparently everyone in Langholme was fighting for an invite.”
The kettle had eventually boiled. He poured water over a tea bag in a grimy mug, poked it with a spoon until the liquid was thick and brown and stirred in whitener from the tin.
“Aren’t you having one?” Vera asked.
He shook his head. “I asked Mary Sawyer to visit Nancy Deakin. I thought
… “
“Good choice!” Mary was unflappable, classy but not bossy. “Any joy?”
“Nancy was heartbroken. Robert Fulwell hadn’t bothered telling her Edmund was dead.”
“Did she get anything useful?”
“Lots of childhood reminiscences. Apparently Nancy’s quite sane when she talks about the past. Less reliable about the present.”
Aren’t we all, Vera thought. Especially if it’s the past that’s spooked us.
According to Nancy, Edmund was never wanted. His mother had a hard time giving birth to Robert and didn’t want to go through it again.
She’d had a boy. That was enough. When Edmund was born she hardly acknowledged him. Hardly surprising he grew up a bit weird.”
“Does she know who Edmund was scared of?”
“If she does she isn’t telling.” He sat across the desk from Vera. “Go on then, what have you been up to?”
“Me? I’ve spent the morning doing Rachael Lambert’s dirty work. I’ve been trying to find out why Bella Furness killed herself.” She grinned. “It’s all right, lad, I’ve not lost my marbles. It is relevant. Every Wednesday Edmund Fulwell caught the bus from the coast and met Bella in Kimmerston. They must have kept in touch since they were in hospital together. Only friends, I think. But close friends, confidants. Occasionally they were joined by another woman. I’d give my back teeth to know who that was. Age and description could match Anne Preece and she lived in Langholme, could have known them both.
But if it was her, why didn’t she tell us?”
She stopped, dreamy-eyed, lost in thought, considering wild possibilities.
“Did you find out?” Ashworth asked.
“Mmrn?”
“Why Mrs. Furness killed herself?”
“I think so. Though even that doesn’t quite make sense. She and Dougie are broke. In danger of losing the farm. She tries to get in touch with her brother, to ask for the money he put by for her after the sale of the family home. Her money. Instead she gets through to the wife, who does a very sweet little girl lost act but who’s as ruthless as they come. She tells Bella the money’s been spent.”
“That makes sense. She was depending on money from her brother to bail her out. When she had to face losing the farm she hanged herself.
Rachael was wrong. There was no conspiracy.”
“No. It won’t work. It wasn’t in character. Bella was tough. She’d survived years in the loony bin. Not complaining. Seeing it out. Then she ran that business on her own after Dougie’s illness. She must have seen there were other options. Why didn’t she talk to Neville?
According to Rachel they’d been getting on better. He was sympathetic.”
“If he was telling the truth.”
Vera glared at him. “Of course. I realized the possibility that he’s been lying. I’m not daft, lad. But why didn’t she stick it out for a few more months? If the quarry was approved she’d be able to flog the access to the mine for a fortune. It might not have appealed to have Godfrey Waugh’s lorries going through the yard but it must have been better than moving into town or jumping off a bale with a rope round your neck.” Joe Ashworth said nothing. Better to keep quiet. Vera didn’t want intelligent comment at this point only an admiring audience. N
She went on, “So, there were other pressures. Something that closed down those options. Something that stopped her seeing straight.”
Still Ashworth kept his mouth shut. A mistake.
“Well?” she demanded crossly. A teacher pr ising an answer out of a reluctant child. “What do you think that might have been?”
“Caring for Dougie?”
“Nonsense. She’d been doing that for years. She thrived on it.” She paused. “Let me give you a clue. I told you she’d been seeing Edmund Fulwell. They were friends. Close friends. They’d seen each other through some bad times.”
“And he would have hated the idea of her selling off land to Slateburn Quarry or even coming to an access agreement with Godfrey Waugh.”