“Not professionally, but Patrick and I go quite regularly to the Harbour Lights. At least we did.” She smiled at the baby. “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to do that sort of thing so often now.”
“Did you know that his daughter had been murdered?”
“Yes. I’d heard that a woman had been killed near Langholme but I hadn’t connected her with Edmund until Rod told us. We were in the restaurant the night after she was found. I went upstairs to see Edmund. Just to tell him how sorry I was. To offer my support.”
“Was he as you would have expected?”
“More together, I’d say. More rational. I was afraid it would start his drinking again but he was sober. I asked him if I could help in any way. He said not yet. He needed to sort things out in his own mind first. But it must all have been a brave show. When we went back a week later he’d disappeared.”
“Did you have the feeling that he knew something about Grace’s death?
Not that he’d killed her, I don’t mean that. But some idea about what might have been the reason for it. I’m looking into a motive for his own murder. If he’d worked out who killed Grace it’s possible he was murdered so he couldn’t tell anyone else.”
“I suppose it’s possible. I just took him to mean that he needed to come to terms with the fact that his daughter was dead. They hadn’t been conventionally close but he was very fond of her. Very proud.” “You said that Bella Noble was in the same group as Edmund. What group was that?”
“One of the first things I did when I went to St. Nick’s was to develop the idea of group therapy. The patients were isolated, not used to trusting people. If you’ve been you’ll know what it’s like.
Everyone sitting in his own private hell staring at the telly or at those bloody fish. Bella and Edmund were in the first group. I wanted it to be a success so I chose the participants carefully. Not just those I thought would get most out of it but people who could make it work. Bella was one of those. She was solid as a rock. All the same I think she benefited as much as anyone.”
“In what way?”
“You know she killed her father?”
Vera nodded.
“She’d never talked about it. Before the trial her lawyers persuaded her to plead guilty to manslaughter. They told her hospital would be better than prison. In the secure hospital she was isolated and uncommunicative. That was one of the reasons they kept her in. At first in the group she was as silent as ever. She’d join in the exercises and give support to everyone else but she wouldn’t talk about herself. Of course the others loved that. Most of us would rather have an audience than listen to other people’s troubles. It was Edmund who persuaded her to tell us what had happened. He said, “You’re not a stupid woman. Even if it was hell at home I don’t understand why you didn’t just walk away from it.” ‘
“And Bella said it wasn’t only herself she had to worry about.”
Christina looked at Vera with respect. “You know about that?”
“Since Bella died I’ve had a long conversation with her brother. He won’t admit to anything. Nothing we could charge him with at least, but I understand what sort of pressure she was under.”
“I didn’t realize Bella was dead too.”
Vera gave an expurgated version of the story which led up to Bella’s suicide. “She and Edmund stayed friends.”
“Did they?” Christina seemed pleased. “Couldn’t he have helped her out financially? His family was loaded.”
“I don’t think he saw any of their money.”
“No, I don’t think he did. None of them ever came to visit him in hospital. Except Grace.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Not to speak to. I saw her occasionally, hovering in the distance.
Waiting for him.”
“Sometimes I feel she’s doing that to me. Hovering in the distance waiting for me to sort out what happened to her.”
“I’d help more if I could.”
Vera pounced. “Could you give me a list of everyone in the group? Not now. Write it down. Names if possible and something on the background of each of them.”
“I don’t know.”
“I realize it’s difficult after all this time.”
“It’s not that. At least not only that. In one of the boxes in the workshop there are notes. I always meant to turn them into a book. Or at least into a paper. It’s more a question of confidentiality.”
“I’ll come here. I won’t take the list away. You knew them. Grace, Edmund and Bella. I don’t want the medical details. They wouldn’t mean anything. More your personal impression. A reason.” “OK,” she said. “OK.”
Patrick must have been listening at the door because he came in that moment with tea. He talked about flutes and folk bands and about how now he’d got a kid he’d really have to get more involved in the fight to keep music in schools. The baby stirred and
Christina started to unbutton her tunic to feed her. Hurriedly Vera said it was time to leave and that she’d see herself out. She left them, sitting together on the sofa, bickering amiably about the baby’s name.
Chapter Fifty-Nine.
When Vera arrived back at Kimmerston it was seven o’clock. She bought chips from the fish shop opposite the police station. The skeletal middle-aged man in the long apron behind the counter recognized her in the queue and served her first, handing the greasy parcel over the heads of the people waiting, waving away her money, saying he’d take it off her next time.
Still eating the chips she stood at the door of the big room where Joe Ashworth was working, staring glassy eyed at a computer screen.
“Where are the other buggers?” she demanded.
“Still working through the guest list from Holme Park. Lots of them were out during the day.”
“Anything?”
“No one saw anyone going into the house at the end of the Avenue. No one saw a car parked outside. There were people on foot going up to the Hall but descriptions are pretty sketchy.”
“Have you managed to contact Neville Furness yet?”
“He’s been out on a site visit. And not answering his mobile.”
Reluctantly he turned away from the screen. “What about you?”
“More evidence that Bella and Edmund were very close. At the hospital they confided in each other, trusted each other. But as to how relevant that is now?” She shrugged. Rolled the chip paper into a ball and lobbed it towards a waste bin.
“Anne Preece has been trying to get in touch with you.”
“What for?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. Implied it was women’s stuff. Anyway, she said she’ll be in all evening if you want to give her a ring.”
Vera felt more cheerful. It was a reprieve. She could put off for several hours her return to the house by the railway with its ghost of her father. And of herself as a child, lonely, ugly as a bagful of nails. Once, at an attempt at kindness, Hector had said, “I wouldn’t mind, you know, if you’d like to bring a friend back to tea.” She hadn’t told him there was no one to ask and worried for weeks that he would mention it again.
I should sell the place, she thought. Get out. Buy a flat in Kimmerston. Something small and easy to manage. Rent even. Spend the profit on a few holidays abroad and a smart new car.
But she wouldn’t. It was an impossible dream, like winning the lottery. She was tied to the house and the memories of it. Better the ghosts than no sense of belonging at all. She realized that Ashworth was staring at her, waiting for her perhaps to pick up the phone to call Anne.
“I’ll go and see her,” Vera said. “She might have remembered something. It’s better done face to face.”
“Do you want me to come?” He put as much enthusiasm as he could summon into the question but she wasn’t deceived.
“No,” she said. “Go home to your babby.” She thought of Patrick and Christina in their house overlooking the Tyne and wondered what was wrong with her. Even when she’d been younger the thought of producing kids had made her feel ill. “The other bastards on the team’ll be home already. They’ll have their feet up in front of the telly. Why shouldn’t you?”