It was lunchtime, and through the window Holly could see students in groups on a piece of grass, chatting. It could have been midsummer.
‘The local news is linking my mother’s death with the double-murder that happened in Gilswick last week.’ Jonathan shot another intense stare in her direction. ‘Is that true?’
‘One of the earlier victims worked with Shirley as a volunteer,’ Holly said. ‘It seems too much of a coincidence not to be some sort of connection. Did you ever meet Martin Benton?’
‘I don’t think I ever met him when I called into the office to see my mother. She did talk about him, though. She said he was brilliant at all things technical.’
There was a silence. Vera would have known how to fill it, would have elicited confidences and useful pieces of information. Yet again Holly felt inadequate in comparison. I’m not even good at this, so why do I put myself through it every day?
‘Patrick Randle, one of the earlier victims, wrote to your mother from his home in Wychbold. That’s a town in Herefordshire. Do you know what that might have been about?’
The student seemed bewildered. ‘I have absolutely no idea. Mum worked all over the place when she first qualified, but I don’t think she ever lived that far south. Besides, that was years ago, long before I was born, and I don’t think she kept in touch with anyone she worked with there. Except maybe on Facebook.’
Holly made a mental note to get the techies to check Shirley’s Facebook page. Perhaps that had been how Patrick found her. Or how she’d found him. ‘When did you last see your mother?’
‘Just under a week ago. It was Sunday lunchtime. She cooked for me in her flat. Roast lamb. My favourite. Veggie pie for her. Then we walked along the front to Tynemouth and had a couple of drinks in a bar there, before I got the Metro back to town.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He seemed lost in his thoughts. ‘My memory is coloured by what’s happened since. Looking back, she seemed a bit distracted, not quite herself – a bit quiet maybe. I asked her if everything was okay and she said she thought she was going down with a cold. I accepted that. She wasn’t a woman you felt you had to take care of.’
‘Have you been in touch with her since?’
‘Only by text. Some mail had come to the flat for me. Should she post it on or keep hold of it? Did I fancy the new play at the Live Theatre? She was an absolutely perfect mother. Supportive when I needed her, but never interfering, never in-my-face.’
There was a tap at the office door. A woman stood outside accompanied by an older man in jeans and a jersey. ‘Your dad’s here.’
The woman was obviously Jonathan’s tutor. The man put his arms round his son and they clung to each other. Jonathan, who’d been holding things together well until now, seemed to collapse into his father’s arms. Holly felt awkward faced by the show of affection. The tutor walked away without another word. Jack Hewarth was crying silently and without fuss, allowing the tears to run down his face.
‘This is a detective, Dad. She’s investigating Mum’s murder.’ Jonathan had pulled away.
‘Would you mind if I asked you some questions too, Mr Hewarth? Background stuff.’ Holly wished they would both sit down. She felt at a disadvantage in the low chair.
‘Aye, why not? If it’ll help. It’ll be the same madman that killed those two people in Gilswick, though, won’t it? That’s where her body was found.’
‘We’re not ruling anything out at the moment.’
The man took a seat opposite to her. He was unshaven, untidy, and Holly thought that was his natural state and not a reaction to grief.
‘We were still friends,’ he said. ‘I didn’t hate her. Nothing like that. And she came along to the wedding when I got married again and gave us her blessing.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘Staffordshire. Two Geordies out of their comfort zone. She was with a bunch of friends in a bar and I recognized the accent, went over for a chat.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘It was my first job. Cub reporter on a small-town local rag, but I loved every minute. She’d just qualified as a probation officer and seemed a bit overwhelmed. I couldn’t see it was right, a young thing like her dealing with murderers and rapists. They’d send her out to interview men on council estates where the police would only go in pairs. After a day like that she just wanted fun, and nobody can let their hair down like people from the North-East.’
‘When did you come back north?’ Holly supposed she’d been a young thing when she started working with murderers and rapists. She’d never been one for letting her hair down much, though.
‘Soon after we married. I got a job on The Journal and stayed there till I took early retirement. She found a post easily enough and worked her way up to team leader. She ended up in the prison. Sittingwell. She’d worked in institutions before and I think she liked it there. It’s an open nick, and she thought she could do positive work with the girls. Then there were all sorts of changes to the probation service, plans to privatize, and she got disheartened. She couldn’t see a future for herself under the new regime. Retirement wasn’t for her, though – I’m an idle bastard, but she always had enough energy to power the National Grid.’
Holly thought the information that Shirley had worked at Sittingwell was new. Another connection between her and the Redheads, though she would already have left the prison by the time Lizzie was convicted. ‘So she got the job at Hope?’
‘It was just a bunch of volunteers, before she took it on. She was approached by the trustees and asked if she’d consider doing it. It meant a massive cut in salary, but she was always up for a challenge, our Shirley.’
Jack Hewarth seemed to find some comfort talking about his former wife and Holly would have let him continue without interruption. This was the sort of information Vera loved to have. But Jonathan turned away from the window and joined the conversation.
‘She always said she’d never work at a job she wouldn’t do without pay. That was why she encouraged me to do the drama degree. Most parents would have advised against it, but she said I’d regret it if I didn’t give it my best shot.’
There was a moment of silence, broken by the wail of a saxophone from one of the practice rooms further down the corridor. Holly thought this had been a strong family; despite the divorce, the couple had maintained a good relationship and had brought up their son together. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want Shirley Hewarth dead; surely her killing must be the result of the double-murder in the big house. Shirley had known something, or guessed something, that had made her death inevitable.
‘Does the name Patrick Randle mean anything to you?’ She directed the question to Jack, expecting an immediate denial. Instead there was a hesitation.
‘Something about it is kind of familiar.’
‘He was one of the earlier victims at Gilswick.’ Holly leaned forward across the desk towards the man. ‘You probably heard the name on the news.’
‘Aye, maybe.’ But he didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘I thought I knew it from a different context, though. Something that happened a while ago. It’s the journo in me. You never forget a contact.’
Another silence. The musician along the corridor was playing scales.
‘Did Shirley ever talk to you about Martin Benton? He worked with her at Hope.’ Holly was going through the motions now. The Hewarths might have parted on amicable terms, but they’d been separated for years and she didn’t think they’d share confidences.