The Moth Catcher (25 page)

Joe shook his head. ‘We’re treating her death as suspicious.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Where was she going?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was that unusual?’ Still Joe kept his voice gentle. He had the sense that the woman was on the verge of an emotional meltdown, that Shirley and her work at Hope was all that was keeping her together. ‘I mean, did she usually tell you where she was going?’

‘She wrote down the addresses of all her visits in the big diary,’ Sharon said. ‘Health and safety. Some of our clients could be aggressive. I wanted to know where she was going. Just in case.’

Joe thought the volunteer might be emotionally frail, but she wasn’t stupid. ‘And did you have a system where she phoned in after the visits? So you’d know she was safe?’

‘She didn’t phone,’ Sharon said. ‘She’d always text. After each client.
Visit over.
Then the time.’

‘So she must have texted yesterday then. Because you didn’t panic and call us out.’ He gave a little smile to show it was almost a joke.

‘No!’ Sharon looked at him as if
he
was stupid now, as if he’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick altogether. ‘Shirley wasn’t going out on a work visit yesterday afternoon. It was personal. When she left, she said, “That’s me for today. I’m taking back a bit of lieu-time. See you tomorrow.” And she collected her coat and went out.’

‘You don’t know where she was going?’

‘We didn’t have time to chat.’ Sharon looked up at him and her narrow face seemed more pinched and grey than ever. ‘I was sorry about that. I’d wanted to tell her about Aidan and the asthma tests. She’s the only person I can talk to about stuff like that. My mam just says he’ll grow out of it and that I’m ruining him by fussing.’ A pause. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without Shirley – what any of the folk at Hope will do without her.’

‘How did she seem last week?’

There was a long pause before Sharon replied. ‘Not herself.’ Joe didn’t say anything and at last she continued, ‘Before she was always such a laugh. I mean, she was serious about her work, but she could have run this place standing on her head, so she never stressed about it. She’d been a senior probation officer, managing a whole team. She’d worked in a prison with lifers, and had to stand up in court to give evidence about hard-core clients. Nothing threw her. Nothing worried her. Not usually.’

‘But recently she’d been worried?’

‘At first I thought she was just upset, like. With Martin dying. We all loved Martin. I mean he was a bit weird. A bit of a geek. But he had a good heart.’

‘But later you thought something else was troubling her?’

There was another silence as Sharon chose her words carefully. This was a witness who needed patient handling. ‘After Martin died she got snappy. The least thing and she’d fly into a temper. And that wasn’t like Shirley. Like I said, usually she was a laugh. Easy to get on with.’ She looked out of the window. A small group of teenagers had gathered for a smoke on the pavement. Presumably soon they’d try to come in for a session, expecting to find Shirley here to run the show.

‘And she didn’t give you any idea what was bothering her?’

‘I did ask her,’ Sharon said. ‘She said it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. “And nothing that’s not my own fault.”’

‘What did she mean by that?’ Joe was finding this conversation tantalizing. All second-hand. All the impression of a woman who had plenty of problems of her own.

‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.’

The crowd on the pavement was growing and he knew he’d soon have to go down and tell them that the centre would be shut for the day. The CSIs would want to come in for a search. The computers would be taken. Then Sharon would lose concentration and start telling herself stories about Shirley, trying to make sense of the woman’s death by forming a narrative. There’d be gossip all over the town. The first response to news of her death would be lost.

‘Any of her clients have a grudge against her?’

‘No!’ Sharon was on the verge of tears again. ‘We all loved her.’

You all loved Martin, and he’s dead too. What does that tell us?

‘Can I see the diary, the one where Shirley wrote down her appointments and the addresses of her visits?’

Sharon reached under the desk and pulled out a big hard-backed notebook. She was pushing it across to Joe when there was a sudden noise on the stairs, the clatter of boots, the door pushed open. Frank appeared; his face was red and his huge tattooed fists clenched, as if he was about to hit something or someone.

‘I’ve just heard that Shirley’s dead. That some bastard’s killed her.’

Vera was on the phone to Alicia Randle. Before making the call she’d planned a gentle enquiry about any possible reason why Alicia or her son might have written to a former probation officer who ran a ragbag charity in an ex-pit-village in Northumberland. But when the phone was answered, Vera found herself asking a very different question.

‘I wonder if I might come to visit you?’

‘When?’ The veneer of politeness was being slowly eaten away by grief.

‘As soon as possible.’ Vera thought if she could get a decent pool car and start at once she could be there in five hours. ‘I’d like to come today.’

‘If you have news, Inspector, you could give it over the telephone.’ The voice was icy. Perhaps Alicia didn’t want her pleasant home, and all the memories of her son as a boy, sullied by the arrival of the woman who was investigating his death. But surely her elder son had already contaminated the place by committing suicide there.

‘There’s been another suspicious death,’ Vera said. ‘We think it might be related to Patrick’s murder. I know this a difficult time, but I have to talk to you.’

When she put down the phone Vera felt suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. In a conversation with Alicia Randle every word had to be chosen with care. She picked up her bag and went out to the open-plan office. ‘Charlie, you’re with me. I need you to share the driving. We can’t have the North-East losing its best detective because she’s fallen asleep at the wheel. Let’s go and see how the other half lives.’

She slept most of the way and woke when they had pulled off the motorway and had started driving down country roads. The satnav had a posh southern voice not very different from Alicia Randle’s. The hedges were high and lush and everything seemed very green. In cottage gardens and orchards, fruit trees were already in blossom. There was a village with ancient black-and-white houses tilted towards a green and a squat stone church.

‘Eh, pet!’ As soon as she’d spoken Vera wondered if she were emphasizing the accent because she was nervous, very much out of her comfort zone. ‘It’s all very
Midsomer
, isn’t it?’

Charlie chortled, but she saw that he was very tired. ‘You have a kip in the car while I talk to her. Probably best not to go in mob-handed anyway.’

The house had once been a rectory. It was old redbrick and seemed to hold the heat of the afternoon sun. There was a garden, not as big or as organized as that of the Hall at Gilswick, but plenty of space to keep the neighbours at bay. For a small child to set his moth traps. There was long grass in an orchard that still had a rope-swing tied to one of the trees. Vera thought of Simon, the boy who’d committed suicide, and thought
she’d
have got rid of that. It reminded her too much of a gallows. But perhaps Alicia had been looking forward and was still thinking of a grandchild. There’d be no hope of that now.

Alicia had a man with her. ‘This is Henry.’ Her lover and intended husband. He was just as Vera would have expected: tall, grey-haired, distinguished. He spoke with the sort of voice that had once commanded obedience through half the globe. And it seemed he had been a diplomat of some sort. ‘I was posted to every continent in the world, but I’ve never been to north-east England. Shameful, I know.’ Then he gave a little laugh that made Vera think that he wasn’t ashamed at all.

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.