Vera felt like a spider in the middle of a web of information. A very large, black spider. Who needed the Internet? ‘OK. Hol, how did you get on with Shirley’s ex-husband and son?’
‘I met them both at the university. All three seem to have been on very good terms, even after the divorce. A nice family. Jonathan last saw his mother a week ago for Sunday lunch. He said she seemed quiet, but put it down to her feeling a bit under the weather. She contacted Jack during the week and asked if they could meet for a drink – she’d had a bad couple of days and needed to chat to him about something. In the end a crowd of her friends came into the pub and they didn’t get the chance to talk.’
‘Pity.’ Vera tried to assess the significance of that. Shirley obviously had other friends and colleagues. Why would she turn to an ex-husband if she wanted a shoulder to cry on? ‘Well, Charlie and I have had a very pleasant day out in the country visiting Alicia Randle and her bloke. Who is very classy, if not exactly my type. Some kind of representative of Her Majesty’s Government overseas. Or he used to be, before he retired. Alicia couldn’t shed any light on how there was an envelope with a Wychbold postmark in Shirley Hewarth’s kitchen, but luckily it seems that Patrick was very green. He saved all his paper for recycling. And in the box in his bedroom I found this.’ Vera waved the letter in its transparent evidence bag. She already knew it off by heart and recited it word-for-word. ‘So it seems the correspondence between Patrick and Shirley went both ways.’ Now she spoke almost to herself. ‘Why on earth would this pair be writing to each other? If we know that, we’ll know who killed them.’
Vera was alone in her office. The team had dispersed for the night, but she was still fizzing and not ready for home and sleep. Listening to her voicemail – the requests for statistics and completed overtime forms, replies from technicians and scientists to her own demands for speedy updates – she felt a little calmer. There was nothing new. Nothing that needed immediate action. Then she was surprised by another voice. This was someone unused to leaving a voicemail message, very different from the rattled-off information from a colleague who no longer expected to speak to a real person. The caller didn’t even give his name, but after a couple of seconds she recognized the hesitant voice: Percy Douglas, the old man who’d stumbled across Patrick Randle’s body.
‘Inspector, you asked me to call you if I came across anything. Well, it wasn’t me, like, but my Susan. It’s probably not important, but it’s secret, like. I can’t see it can have anything to do with these murders, but I thought you’d be interested in anything secret. Can you come along in the morning? I’ll stay in until I’ve spoken to you.’
Vera replaced the receiver and smiled. Oh yes, Percy Douglas, I’m interested in anything secret.
It was another glorious day, more like June than April. Early sun slanting across the valley. In the big house’s garden the bluebells had opened even more, forming a lake under the trees. Vera found Percy and Susan eating breakfast. A smell of bacon that made her mouth water as soon as she opened the door. Susan was on her feet, sticking another couple of rashers under the grill. ‘You’ll manage two eggs? Janet’s hens are doing so well she’s giving them away.’ No offer of coffee, but a big pot of tea in the middle of the table and a mug set down beside the guest. Vera’s idea of heaven. Why would I ever want to retire from doing this?
‘I feel bad.’ It was Susan again. Percy still hadn’t said a word, just given Vera a quick grateful nod when she walked into the kitchen. ‘Dad dragging you all the way out here, when you must be so busy.’
‘It’s worth coming for the breakfast.’ Vera knew Susan couldn’t be hurried and she couldn’t be made to feel guilty. Let her tell her story in her own time.
‘It’s not that it’s anything sinister.’ Susan stood by the sink and put the frying pan to soak, then finally turned to face Vera. ‘And it’s not as if I was snooping. But nothing’s been said. I’m not even sure that her husband knows. I mean, I can understand her wanting a bit of privacy, but not telling your husband…’
Vera’s mouth was full of bread and egg and she didn’t say anything.
‘Just get on with it!’ Percy was almost yelling. ‘Let Mrs Stanhope know what you found.’
Vera smiled, but didn’t correct him.
‘When I was cleaning last week-’
‘Before the murders at the big house?’ Vera thought it had been a mistake to interrupt, but she needed to make the facts clear.
‘Yes. Tuesday morning’s when I do Valley Farm, so it would have been the day Dad found young Patrick’s body.’ Susan came to a stop again. Her father nodded for her to continue. ‘I found a letter.’
‘Where?’
‘In the Lucas house. Nigel and Lorraine were out and I thought I’d give the place a bit of a blitz. It’s that time of year, isn’t it?’ Another hesitation. ‘There’s a room upstairs that Lorraine uses as a studio. For her art. She tells me not to bother doing in there. “It’d only get mucky again and, besides, I don’t like my things to be disturbed.” Not even Nigel goes in without knocking, and that’s always seemed weird to me. I mean, a married couple – it doesn’t seem right.’ Another pause.
‘But you thought you’d take the opportunity to give it a proper spring-clean.’ Vera had finished eating and pushed her plate to one side so that she could sit with her elbows on the table. ‘While they were both out.’
‘Yes!’ Susan sounded grateful. ‘I thought there wouldn’t be any harm just going in. See if there were any cups that needed washing. Lorraine often took her coffee upstairs.’
‘So this letter?’
Susan had begun to blush. ‘It was in the drawer of the big pine table she uses for her paper and stuff.’
‘And what did it say, this letter?’
‘It was a hospital appointment. The Department of Oncology at the Freeman in Newcastle. Inviting her in to discuss her options. It must have come a while ago.’
‘So Lorraine Lucas has cancer.’ Vera pictured the woman she’d seen in the old farmhouse. Skinny and pretty. Still all her own hair, as far as Vera could tell, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. ‘Why do you think she hasn’t told her husband?’
‘Because it’s never been mentioned. I remember her going into town the day of the appointment. It was a couple of weeks ago. Nigel didn’t go with her. Lorraine said she was going shopping; she wanted to buy some summer clothes because the weather was so warm.’
‘Do you remember the name of the consultant?’ Vera didn’t think this could have anything to do with the murder of three people. Cancer brought its own terror. But Douglas had been right. Secrets were always interesting, and it might say something about the couple that Lorraine hadn’t confided in her husband.
‘Robinson,’ Susan said. ‘I think that was it.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I put the letter back in the drawer and went downstairs. I knew I shouldn’t have been in there. It was only me being nebby.’ The blush deepened. ‘I didn’t tell Dad about it until yesterday. I knew he’d be angry about me snooping.’
‘Then I phoned you.’ Percy looked at Vera, wanting to be reassured that he’d done the right thing.
Vera nodded. ‘Quite right.’ She turned to Susan. ‘Is there anything else you’ve come across?’ Trying not to accuse the woman. It seemed almost like an illness itself, this need to pry into other people’s business. ‘Best to tell me now. You’ve already said that Nigel had applied to become a magistrate.’
Susan only shook her head.
‘You’ll probably know those people as well as anyone,’ Vera said. ‘In their homes every week, and I expect they take you for granted and hardly realize you’re there. They probably say things in front of you that they wouldn’t tell anyone else.’