In the silence that followed Vera could hear the hens at the bottom of the garden. She thought they sounded like old women gossiping. That’s all I am. An old woman who gossips. She stood up and sensed the relief in the room. It was physical, like a smell.
John O’Kane gave her a little wave, but made no move to get to his feet. Janet walked with her to the door. ‘Call in again, Inspector. Any time.’ A polite formula that certainly wasn’t sincere.
Vera got into the car and drove down the lane. There were messages on her phone, but she didn’t want to read them until later. She thought all the residents of Valley Farm were watching to make sure that she’d driven away.
Chapter Thirteen
When Vera arrived at The Lamb they’d already stopped serving food, but the landlady took pity on her. Vera found herself alone in the small bar with a plate of reheated shepherd’s pie. No alcohol. She needed a sharp brain. There were missed calls from Joe and Holly. She called Joe first.
‘What have you got for me?’ The words slurred because of the pie. The phone in one hand and a fork in the other.
‘I’ve found a connection between Benton and Randle.’ He sounded jubilant. She thought he’d been waiting for her call so that he could pass on the information.
‘And?’
‘Moths.’
‘You’d better explain, lad.’
‘Randle did ecology at university and his PhD was something about moths. I checked with his supervisor. I couldn’t quite grasp the detail. Something about moths being an indicator of global warming.’
‘And?’ The prompt was automatic. Her plate was empty and she pushed it away from her, took a scrap of paper and a pen from her jacket pocket.
‘Benton was into moths too. There was a trap in his garden in Kimmerston and his office was full of photographs. He might have been an amateur, but you could tell he knew what he was on about. The woman at the charity where he’d worked said he had two passions: computers and moths.’
‘Do we have a record of any communication between them? Phone calls? Emails?’ Vera was struggling to understand how an interest in Lepidoptera could lead to murder. Hector had never been into moths. His obsession had been for larger, more macho creatures: buzzards, peregrines, goshawks. She imagined moth-trapping as a gentler occupation, old-fashioned. The pastime of elderly clerics and schoolmasters. One of her father’s friends had been a collector. Like Hector, he’d seemed more interested in dead beasts than live ones, and there’d been drawers of insects pinned onto boards.
There was a sudden flash of memory. Vera and Hector had stayed with the collector one night in a house close to Kimmerston. The place hadn’t been as grand as Gilswick Hall, but had been large and shabby, surrounded by farmland. She remembered the mercury-vapour bulbs of the moth trap in the garden sending shafts of light into the sky, and the chug of the generator that powered them. Then, at dawn, examining the contents that had collected in the egg boxes at the base of the trap. The two men poring over them, excited as children taking part in a lucky dip. Later Hector had been dismissive: ‘There’s something distasteful about a grown man fiddling with the genitals of a small insect to make an identification.’ But at the time he’d been caught up in the excitement of discovery. Vera decided he just hadn’t had the patience for such detailed work.
Joe’s voice brought her back to the present with a start. ‘We haven’t found either of the phones yet. We’re trying to track down the service providers. Randle’s mother will have a number for him, but she’s on her way north and I don’t want to disturb her unless I have to. The last call to Benton’s landline was from a mobile number.’
‘What time are we expecting the mother?’
‘Holly’s meeting her train at Alnmouth at six. We’ve found accommodation for her at Kimmerston and we’ve arranged for her to see Patrick’s body first thing tomorrow.’
‘Tell Holly to take Mrs Randle out for a meal. I’ll join them if I can.’ Vera thought the last thing a recently bereaved woman would need would be to be alone all evening in a strange hotel. But perhaps making conversation to strangers would be even worse. ‘If she’d like to, of course. Give her the option. We can talk tomorrow, if she’d rather.’ She paused. ‘What about emails?’
‘The techies have got Martin Benton’s computer. Nothing yet, they say. He seems to have deleted all his communications as he went along. Almost as if he was paranoid about security. And Randle didn’t have a laptop in the flat. At least there wasn’t one there when the search team went in.’
‘Seems a bit odd.’ Vera thought that if Randle was planning to continue his academic research he’d want to keep up with the latest scientific publications. To write. Even if he’d had an iPhone for calls and emails, surely he’d need a computer too.
‘You think the murderer took his computer?’
‘Well, we’re assuming the same person killed both men, even though the cause of death was different, so we know they were in Randle’s flat.’ She felt suddenly tired. It was the food and the warmth. I’m not much younger than the folk at Valley Farm. They’ll be relaxing at home or pottering in their gardens. Perhaps I’m past my sell-by date. But she knew that was ridiculous as soon as the thought floated into her head. She was as sharp as ever. ‘I’ll be driving back to the office shortly. Let’s get together before Holly heads out for Patrick Randle’s mam. I want everything you can dig out on the three couples who live at that small development at the head of the valley. Sam and Annie Redhead. They used to have the classy restaurant on the square at Kimmerston, but they seem a bit young for retirement.’ Younger than me? ‘Find out why they sold up so suddenly. Nigel and Lorraine Lucas. They lived south, somewhere in the Midlands. He had his own security business and she was an art teacher. And Professor and Mrs O’Kane. He was a historian at Newcastle Uni and she was some kind of social worker. All ladies and gentlemen of leisure, but there’s a weird feel about the place.’ Vera tried to remember how Janet had described it. ‘A kind of desperation.’
Later they sat in her office drinking the lethal coffee that she’d brewed to keep her awake. In the open-plan room beyond the glass door there was a buzz that reminded her of the hens at Valley Farm. Muttered conversations on phones and the hum of the printers. Late-afternoon sun flooded through the windows. She perched on her desk so that she was looking down at Holly and Joe. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what can you tell me about our victims? Hol, you checked out Benton’s workplace. Any motive there?’
‘He seemed a gentle sort of guy.’ Holly was choosing her words carefully. She was always anxious about getting things wrong. A perfectionist. Better say nothing than make a mistake. ‘Nobody mentioned him losing his temper or annoying people in the office. He was negotiating his way through the benefits system, but he was luckier than most claimants moved from sickness benefit. He’d inherited the house from his mother, so there were no housing costs, no worries about the bedroom tax, and he had some savings. He’d been in and out of mental hospital, but once he’d given up teaching his health seems to have improved too.’
‘Apart from one episode immediately after the death of his mother,’ Joe said.
‘Yeah, apart from that.’ Holly was concentrating so hard on her narrative that the interruption failed to throw her. ‘It’s almost as if he saw the withdrawal of his benefit as an opportunity. A chance to follow his dreams for once.’ She looked up. ‘Sorry, that sounds daft.’
‘Not daft at all.’ Again Vera thought of the tiny community at Valley Farm. This case seemed to be all about people following their dreams. It had appeared a bit self-indulgent to her. ‘But we still don’t have any idea what his business might have been?’