Hidden Depths (23 page)

‘The lad she was passionately in love with when she was in the sixth form. The one she got so obsessed about she messed up her A levels.’

‘Of course,’ she said as if she’d known all along. Fooling no one. ‘What’s he up to now?’

‘He went away to university. Liverpool. Did a social work course. Moved back to the north east last summer. Guess what he’s doing now?’ He looked at them, savouring the moment, before answering his own question. ‘He’s a psychiatric social worker at St George’s. The hospital where Luke Armstrong was treated.’

‘Did he work with Luke?’ Vera wasn’t in the mood for games.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.’

‘Don’t. Not until I’ve had a chat to Julie. We don’t want to frighten him away.’

Why hadn’t Joe told her this as soon as he’d found out? She felt like demanding an explanation. But this wasn’t the place. Not in front of the others. He’s getting complacent, she thought. Cocky. He thinks he can take me for granted.

Perhaps he sensed her anger, because he became apologetic. ‘I spoke to his mum only just now. Just before the meeting.’

I take him for granted too, she thought. Think of him as family, expect more of him than I should.

‘Samuel Parr’s wife committed suicide,’ she said. ‘I want the background, how she died. Charlie, can you look into that?’

He nodded and scribbled a note on a scrap of paper.

‘Anything from the lighthouse? Anyone remember seeing a murderer with the body of a young woman under their arm?’ She knew it wasn’t funny, but it was getting to her. The nerve of the killer. The cheek of him.

‘Nothing useful yet. Someone said Northumbria Water were working there for an hour. I’ll check if their guys saw anything.’

‘Well,’ she said brightly. ‘We’ve all got a lot to get on with . . .’

Charlie cleared his throat again. The ball of phlegm seemed constantly stuck in his gullet. ‘There is something else. Probably nothing.’

‘Spit it out, Charlie!’ Thinking, as soon as the words came out:
But not literally, pet. No, not that.

‘I found this in the middle of all the papers we got from the search team,’ he said. ‘And I thought, with the flowers, like, it might be important.’

He held it in a clear plastic bag. A piece of cream card, A6 size, and, stuck to it, a pressed flower. Yellow, delicate. Some sort of vetch? Vera thought. There’d been a craze for pressing flowers when she was a kid. One of the teachers had started them off. You stuck the flower between blotting paper and weighed it down with heavy books – there’d been plenty of those in Vera’s house – but she’d never much seen the point. Clearing out the house after Hector had died she’d come across one of her attempts among the pages of one of his field guides. A primrose, picked, pressed, then forgotten for more than thirty years. It had gone onto the bonfire with the rest of the crap.

‘Anything written on the back?’

Charlie turned over the plastic bag. XXX in black ink. A row of kisses. It could have been a card made by a child for a mother. But this was something different, Vera thought. A love token?

‘Was it in an envelope?’

‘No, just like this.’

‘No chance of DNA, then.’

‘It suggests Peter Calvert, doesn’t it?’ Joe Ash-worth said tentatively.

‘Maybe.’ She found it hard to imagine the arrogant lecturer taking the time and effort to make the card. Wouldn’t it be just the sort of thing he’d sneer at? ‘Perhaps Lily did it herself, but never got the time to send it. Or it could have been preparation for something she was planning to do with the kids in her class. Get it to forensics. They might give us something on the glue.’

She was still sitting at the table after the rest of them had gone. She poured the last of the coffee from the Thermos jug, took her time over drinking it. She couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone was playing with her. She was a piece in an elaborate board game. Real murders weren’t like this. They were brutal and mucky. Unplanned usually, always ugly. She tried to remember Julie Armstrong, staring at the telly in the front room at Seaton, Dennis Marsh hiding in his greenhouse; tried to persuade herself that she wasn’t enjoying every minute.

The doctor had given Julie tablets to help her sleep. Every night she thought they weren’t going to work, then sleep came in an instant. It was like being smashed over the head, a sudden unconsciousness. For the first time, that morning she remembered dreaming. She woke abruptly as she always did with the pills. It was early morning. She could tell by the noise of the birds and because there was no traffic in the street. The curtains were thin and the light came through them; it was sunny again.

Her first waking thought was of Luke, as it had been every morning since he’d died. The picture of him lying in the bath, the heavy scent, the condensation running down the mirror over the sink. But she was immediately aware too that he hadn’t been the subject of her dream. It had been a sexy dream, the sort of daydream she’d conjured up after Geoff had left, when she’d thought she’d never have sex with a man again. In this dream, she and Gary were walking along a beach at night. There was a heavy moon just above the horizon, the sound of waves. The sort of thing you’d read in a cheesy magazine, one of those mags for old ladies which her mam took on coach trips. But then the dream shifted and they were in the dunes, making love. She remembered the weight of him on top of her, the sand rubbing against her back and her shoulders, his tongue in her mouth. Now it was like the memory of a real event, not a dream at all. Lying in bed she put her right hand on her left breast and believed it still felt tender, as if it had been pressed and squeezed. She started to move her hand down over her stomach and between her legs, then stopped herself. There was a shock of guilt. What was she doing? How could she even consider sex at a time like this? What sort of mother had she been? She should have sent Gary away the day before. What had possessed her to let him into the house?

She looked at the alarm clock by her bed. Nearly six o’clock. She zapped the remote and the portable TV on the chest of drawers came to life. She dozed, watching the moving pictures, not listening to the words, until her mother came in with a cup of tea and a pile of post. She could tell there were more cards. All her friends sending messages of support, telling her how sorry they were. She knew what they’d be like. Pictures of crosses and churches and lilies. She hadn’t been in a church since they’d had Laura baptized, wondered what it was about dying that brought out the religion in everyone. She hadn’t been able to face opening the mail and added the new envelopes to the mound of unopened post by the bed.

All morning she struggled to banish thoughts of Gary. Her mother seemed to sense she was more unsettled today and tried to distract her. Or perhaps she thought Julie had had enough moping around and it was time she pulled herself together. She wasn’t given to sentiment and was easily irritated. She got Julie up for breakfast, then set her to making a packed lunch for Laura to take to school. When the girl was out of the house and Julie was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space, she brought the bundle of letters and cards down from the bedroom.

‘These need answering, Julie. You can’t just ignore them. That’d be rude.’

Julie had been wondering where Gary was today. She had his number, hadn’t she? She could phone him. She had this fantasy that he would come and collect her, take her to work with him. There’d be a dark room, flashing lights and a rock band. Really loud music which would blow away all the other thoughts from her head. The thumping of a bass which she’d feel vibrating through her body. Then the guilt hit her again and, as a sort of penance, she sat as her mother told her, a mug of milky coffee at her elbow, and began opening the cards.

When the doorbell rang, she felt her pulse racing. Gary had come back. Her mother was upstairs making the beds but she shouted down, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it.’ And Julie stayed where she was and made herself breathe slowly, telling herself over and over again that it was wrong to be thinking about a man at a time like this. Then she heard Vera Stanhope’s voice, loud enough that you’d believe the whole street could hear, and she felt like bursting into tears.

Vera came into the kitchen and sat beside her. ‘Sorry to interrupt again, pet. Just a few more questions.’

Then she noticed what Julie was doing, saw the one opened card on the table. ‘That’s bonny. Did it come today?’

And for the first time Julie looked at the image on the card. No church this time. It was one of those classy handmade things which cost a fortune. A pressed flower on thick cream card. She was going to pick it up to look at the message on the back, but Vera stopped her, physically stopped her by putting her great paw over Julie’s hand.

‘Humour me, pet. This might be important. Was it delivered today?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Julie said. ‘I haven’t been able to face opening them. They’ve been arriving since Friday.’

‘Still got the envelope?’

‘Aye, it’s there on the table.’

She watched, dazed, while Vera took a pen from her pocket and flipped the envelope over so she could see the postmark and the address. She couldn’t think what could be so important, didn’t really care, stared out of the window at a tractor driving round and round a field in the distance.

‘This isn’t addressed to you,’ she heard Vera say. ‘It’s addressed to Luke.’

Then she did look at the envelope, which was white, not cream, and didn’t seem to belong to the card.

The writing was in black ink, in capitals. LUKE ARMSTRONG, 16 LAUREL WAY, SEATON, NORTHUMBERLAND. No postcode.

She looked up at Vera. ‘That’s wrong,’ she said. ‘This isn’t Laurel Way, it’s Laurel Avenue. Laurel Way is round by the school.’ Still she couldn’t understand what the fuss was about.

‘It was sent on Tuesday,’ Vera said. ‘First-class stamp. If they’d got the address right it’d have got here on Wednesday.’

‘If it’d arrived on Wednesday, Luke would have opened it. No way would I have opened a letter addressed to him. I might not have done it today, if I’d realized. I just assumed it was for me.’ She watched Vera sitting there, frowning. ‘It came with the others on Friday. Must have done. Is it important?’

‘Probably not, pet. Let’s just see what they had to say. Don’t suppose you’ve got a pair of tweezers I could borrow?’

Julie went upstairs to fetch them, glad of the action. Her mother was in the bathroom. Julie could hear the sound of water, then the hiss of the spray cleaner. Every day her mother cleaned the bath, bent over it, rubbing away so you’d think the colour would come off on the cloth. It didn’t make any difference. Julie still hadn’t felt she could use it. But the bathroom door was shut so at least she didn’t have to explain what was going on. Back in the kitchen, Vera held the card carefully with the tweezers and turned it over. The back was blank.

‘Maybe some sort of joke,’ Julie said.

‘Aye. Maybe. But I’ll take it away with me, if you don’t mind. Get it checked out.’

Julie had a fleeting moment of curiosity, but it passed. Really, what did it matter what the inspector was up to? She flicked on the kettle to make Vera coffee. When she returned with a mug in her hand, the card and the envelope had disappeared.

‘You said you had some questions?’ She had no interest, just wanted to get this over as quickly as possible. Why? So she could return to her fantasy world of mindless heavy metal and a boy she’d first chased around the playground when she was six? She opened the biscuit tin and pushed it across the table. Vera took a chocolate digestive and dipped it in her coffee, bit it quickly just before it dropped.

‘Did Luke have a social worker?’

‘There was someone who came round when he first started having problems at school. Nosy cow.’ Julie hadn’t thought about her in years. She’d gone in for long cardigans and flat shoes, thick tights in strange colours. She’d had a mole on the side of her nose. In her head, Julie had called her
the witch.
‘I can’t remember her name.’

‘Anyone more recently?’

‘I didn’t need a social worker. I managed fine.’ She looked at Vera suspiciously. ‘And I don’t need anyone sticking their oar in now. It’s bad enough having my mother around the place.’

‘I know you’re managing,’ Vera said, in a way that Julie knew she meant it. ‘But we’re looking for connections between Luke and the lass that was killed. It might help us find out what happened. Did you talk to one of the hospital social workers?’

‘I don’t think so. But it’s possible. I mean, it’s not like a real hospital where the nurses wear uniform and you can tell who everyone is. They all looked the same. Doctors, nurses, psychologists. All so young you’d think they were just out of school. They had name badges, but I never bothered looking at them. My head was so full of crap I knew I’d never remember. And every time I went, there was someone new.’

‘This was a young man,’ Vera said. ‘Not long out of university. Name of Ben Craven. Does that mean anything?’

Julie wanted to help. She wanted to make Vera smile, to please her, but when she thought about those visits to the hospital everything was a blur. All she could remember was the smell – stale cigarette smoke and old food – and Luke’s huge haunted eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘He could have been there. I don’t know.’