They had tea outside on the lawn. Scones that Alicia must have knocked up while she was waiting for Vera to arrive. Unless she had someone to help her in the house. Vera couldn’t quite imagine her cleaning her own toilets.
‘How can we help you, Inspector?’
‘I’d prefer to talk to you on your own, Mrs Randle. If you’d be comfortable with that.’ It was more a way of Vera establishing that she was in charge of the situation than because she objected to the man’s presence.
The diplomatic Henry was already on his feet. ‘Of course, Inspector, I do understand. There are procedures to follow.’ He rested a hand on Alicia’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be inside if you need me.’
‘What is all this about, Inspector? Henry’s been helping me to organize the funeral. Patrick had so many friends. We’re trying to track them down, and most of them will need places to stay.’ Alicia was finding her own way of coping with her son’s death by focusing on detail. Keeping busy. Now she sounded a little petulant and overwrought.
‘I explained that there’d been another murder.’ Vera took another scone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Charlie would be starving too. She’d treat him to a pile of grease, in the services on the way back. ‘Apparently there was no connection between Patrick and the new victim. She was a retired probation officer called Shirley Hewarth.’ Vera looked for a reaction, some sign that the name was familiar, but Alicia just seemed confused. Vera continued, ‘Shirley had moved into the voluntary sector and worked for an organization called Hope North-East.’
Still no flicker of recognition. ‘So you’ve come all this way to tell me that my son’s death was completely random and meaningless – the act of a psychopath. That doesn’t bring any comfort, Inspector, and you could have told me that over the phone. I’d rather you were spending your time finding the killer, before he commits another act of violence.’ Alicia picked up her cup and sipped at the tea.
The sun was still hot and the sound of wood-pigeons in the trees reminded Vera of childhood summers and made her feel drowsy. She forced herself to concentrate. ‘I said that apparently there was no link, but in fact we have found a connection between Patrick and our new victim.’ A pause. ‘At least between this place and the new victim.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but you’ll have to explain. I don’t understand.’ That iciness again, as if the failure was entirely Vera’s for not being sufficiently clear.
‘We know that Shirley Hewarth received a letter from this village just over a month ago. We don’t have the letter itself, but there was a postmark and date stamp on the envelope.’
Alicia set down her cup. She was struggling for control. Glancing back at the house, Vera saw that Henry was standing by an open French window staring out at them.
‘What are you saying, Inspector?’
‘That somebody living in Wychbold wrote to Shirley Hewarth.’ Vera looked up. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence to suppose that any of the other residents were connected to a woman murdered so soon after your son. Did you write to her?’
There was a moment’s pause. Alicia’s gaze turned to Henry, who was still looking out across the lawn, but he was too far away to help her. ‘No! Of course not. I’ve never heard of her.’
‘Then I must assume that the correspondent was Patrick.’ Vera knew she sounded pompous, but this woman brought out the worst in her. She had always been chippy around the landed classes. Something to do with her father, Hector, being disinherited by his family. ‘You don’t know why Patrick might have written to a woman running a small charity for ex-offenders in south-east Northumberland?’
‘No! I can’t imagine why he would have written to anybody. The young don’t, do they, these days? It’s all email and texting. I never receive a letter now, not even from my older friends.’
Vera thought the woman had a point. What did the post van deliver to her door these days? Bills and the occasional Christmas card from relatives she’d lost touch with years ago. She thought they should find out when Shirley Hewarth last had a birthday; perhaps Patrick had sent her a card. ‘Could I look at Patrick’s room?’
Alicia looked horrified. Vera saw that she considered the request as a violation. She couldn’t imagine the large and ugly detective in her son’s space. Or perhaps she was frightened what they might find there. Did she worry that her golden boy might have been fragile and damaged, like her first son?
‘I haven’t been in since Patrick died,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t face it.’
‘We’ll go together then, shall we?’ Vera got to her feet. Her head spun for a moment. Too little sleep and not enough good food. If she didn’t get some fruit and veg inside her, she’d end up with scurvy. Her young doctor would have a fit if she could see what the team consumed in the course of an investigation.
Alicia led her through a small back door, not the French window. Henry had been watching their progress and was waiting for them in the hall. He stooped slightly towards Alicia, but didn’t touch her. They stood awkwardly for a moment. ‘All done? That’s good. I expect you want to be on your way, Inspector Stanhope. You’ve got a long trip north. Or shall I organize more tea?’
‘The Inspector wants to look at Patrick’s room.’ Alicia reached out and took the man’s hand, clung to him.
‘Well, I can see the sense in that.’ Henry spoke easily. ‘No need for you to go up though, Allie. Not if you don’t feel up to it. I can show the Inspector the way.’
There was a silence broken by the heavy ticking of an old clock in the hall. Vera waited with interest for Alicia’s response.
‘No, I’ll go too.’
‘Why don’t you come with us, Henry?’ Vera thought the last thing she needed was for Alicia to go all faint and wobbly on her, if they were on their own up there. It seemed oddly informal to be calling the man by his first name and she realized she’d never heard his surname. ‘You can give Alicia some moral support.’
So they trooped together up the main stairs and into a huge room at the front of the house. Vera stood at the door and was swept again by a tide of exhaustion. This was a waste of time. The room was full of stuff: bookshelves covered the long wall, there were fitted cupboards in the alcoves on each side of a chimney breast, boxes of paper, a pile of prints of moths and butterflies stacked against a wooden chest and all the debris of leftover adolescence – posters of rock bands, a cricket bat, photos of young sportsmen grinning into the camera. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the long sash windows and was reflected from a mirror on the wall, small glittering objects like pencil sharpeners and paperclips scattered over Patrick’s desk, a microscope lens. A trained search team would take weeks to look through it properly.
‘We spoke to Patrick’s girlfriend.’ Vera realized suddenly that she’d forgotten to ask about this, and that it was important. ‘She told us that he’d been engrossed by a project, but that it was almost over. Do you know anything about that?’
‘No, I didn’t even know that Patrick and Rebecca were still in touch. I told you, he hasn’t been very communicative with me recently. I asked him what I’d done to upset him, but he didn’t give any sort of coherent answer.’ Alicia stood just inside the door as if she was reluctant to engage with the memories of the room. ‘I suppose we’ll have to clear all this out.’ And then, with a little cry, ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘No rush,’ Henry said. ‘All in your own time. If you can’t face it now, we can leave the inspector to it. I’m sure we’re both ready for a stiff drink.’
Vera supposed that he’d dealt with crises before, imagined his reassuring plummy voice notifying relatives of sudden deaths, arrests, accidents overseas.