It seemed that Martin Benton had taken the other bedrooms for his use. The smaller one was just big enough for a single bed, small wardrobe and chest of drawers. The bed was made. Sheets and blankets, army-style. The clothes in the chest and the wardrobe were mass-produced. What struck Joe as strange was that they were all very similar. Jogging bottoms, all black. Polo shirts. Two grey fleeces. Two pairs of trousers of the sort that old men wear to work and a few folded shirts, all white. It seemed that Benton had only possessed one suit and he’d been wearing it when he died. Why had he been wearing his suit for his trip to Gilswick? It suggested something formal. An interview? Had there been a parent in Gilswick village, wanting him to tutor a child? That still couldn’t explain his presence in the valley. And would Benton really have cycled all the way from Kimmerston to Gilswick in his suit? Joe thought they still needed to find out how he’d made his way to the big house.
The second room looked out over the yard and was a revelation. It was kitted out like an office: a large desk against one wall, one main computer and a laptop. Next to the window was a filing cabinet and on a shelf above the desk a row of reference books and academic textbooks, all related not to maths, but to natural history. The impression was more of a gallery than an office. The walls were white and hung with photographs. Beautiful photographs of butterflies, moths and other insects, all blown up so that every detail could be seen. Joe’s attention was caught by a picture of a caterpillar on a laurel leaf. Every vein on the leaf was sharp and clear. There was a raindrop, a shimmering prism like a tear. It seemed to Joe that if Benton had intended to set up his own business, it would surely have been as a photographer. A camera that Joe guessed had taken up six months’ invalidity benefit was hidden in one of the filing-cabinet drawers.
If Benton had been in Gilswick to take photographs of the house or the gardens, why hadn’t he taken his camera?
The camera was in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet; the other two drawers were conventionally arranged. Each drop-file was neatly labelled with a letter of the alphabet, but all of them were empty. Joe suddenly felt a wave of depression. He imagined Benton preparing his office for business, excited perhaps; but he had been killed before he could start out. If he’d gone to the big house for work, it must have been the first contract of his self-employment and might have marked a turning point in his life. Joe checked the desk for a mobile phone. There was nothing. The landline phone was in the hall downstairs. No messages. He dialled 1471 and a disembodied voice gave him a mobile number. He made a note of it and then went outside into the sunshine, closing the door carefully behind him.
Kitty was still sitting in her bay window. He tapped on her door and she answered at once.
‘Do you know what that contraption is, at the bottom of Martin’s garden?’
‘Oh, aye,’ she said. ‘That’s his moth trap.’
Chapter Nine
When Holly got back from the post-mortem, Vera left her in the police station and headed out to Gilswick. She knew that was the wrong way round, and that she should be the person coordinating the action from a desk while her subordinate should be doing the legwork. But it was spring and being the boss should carry some perks. With the first real sunshine of the year, she couldn’t bear to be inside. She’d parked outside the big house and was watching the search team walking through the woodland between the road and the manor when Joe phoned to say that he’d got a name for the grey man. Martin Benton. An anonymous kind of name for an anonymous man.
She ended the call, waited for a moment and then started the car. It was time to get to know the other residents of the valley. The lane wound past Percy Douglas’s bungalow and ended in a small development. Three houses converted from a farmhouse and two barns. Vera supposed that the buildings had once been a part of the Carswell estate. All over the county farm tenancies were being relinquished and buildings converted to residential use. It was hard to make a living in the hills.
All the houses faced into a paved square, which had probably once been the farmyard. The stone farmhouse had a small front garden, with more land at the back; the barn conversions led straight onto the yard. Fancy cars were parked outside each of them. There was a view of the valley and the hills beyond. It would be as exposed as Vera’s place in the winter and she wondered how all the glass in the barns stood up to the weather. Would you get a window cleaner to come all the way out here? She thought someone must have seen her car coming along the track, and she stayed in the Land Rover for a moment. There were three households here and she needed to speak to the most inquisitive resident. She didn’t have to wait for long.
The door of the farmhouse opened and a squat man appeared. Late fifties or early sixties. A bit of a beer belly and a rolling gait that made her think of a sailor. He came up to her and she opened the car door to greet him.
‘Can I help you?’ A southern English voice. Not posh. Jovial enough, but making it plain all the same that she’d strayed onto private property.
She smiled. ‘I hope so, pet. I’m after information.’ Laying on the accent, because she’d taken an irrational dislike to him and wanted to mark this out as her territory, not his. She climbed out of the vehicle. ‘Inspector Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police.’
‘Ah, we saw all the activity at the Hall.’ His manner had changed from suspicion to interest. He’d be one of those ghouls who’d want all the details of the killings. He held out his hand. ‘Nigel Lucas.’
‘You’ll have heard rumours, no doubt.’
‘Well, we got a phone call from Susan Savage, old Percy’s daughter, last night and she said that the Carswells’ house-sitter had been found dead in the ditch. I must admit we went upstairs to look at what was going on down by the burn.’ Vera wanted to slap him. And remind him that the lad had a mother who was grieving for him.
‘I’ve got a few questions,’ she said. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
The interior of the house had been torn apart and rebuilt. Once there would have been small rooms, easy to heat. Now there was one L-shaped open-plan space. The door opened into one of those kitchens that you’d be scared to cook or eat in. All granite and stainless steel, more laboratory than home. Vera found herself wondering where they kept their boots and the vacuum cleaner. There must be hidden storage space and she was distracted, looking for where it might be. But Lucas was leading her on through an arch into a living space, the width of the house, where the original flagstone floor was scattered with rugs. The walls were eggshell blue and covered with paintings. Watercolours. Vera recognized some of the scenes as local. There was a giant television screen, a glass coffee table and two white leather sofas. Not much else. She sat on one of the sofas and hoped she wouldn’t leave a mark from her greasy coat when she stood up. Or at least that nobody would notice.
‘Can I get you something to drink, Inspector?’
‘I’m on duty.’ She wondered why she couldn’t be more gracious, why she found the man so intensely irritating.
He gave a little laugh. ‘I wasn’t thinking of alcohol. It’s not quite wine o’clock, even in the Lucas household. And we had a bit of a session here last night. But I could do you a coffee.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely.’
The man shouted up the polished wooden stairs that twisted from a corner of the room. ‘Lorraine, we’ve got a guest. Are you ready for a break?’
There was a muffled reply.