More paintings were leaning against the wall. Holly pulled them out one by one. They looked as if they’d been painted in acrylic on some kind of board. The subject was always the same. A stone cottage almost derelict, surrounded by pine trees, with ivy covering most of the wall and growing through one of the window frames. It was like something from a fairy tale and Holly wondered if Lorna was trying her hand at illustration, or perhaps there’d been a specific commission. The roof was rusting corrugated iron and that was almost lovingly painted. Lorna seemed to have enjoyed the texture, the variety of colour. Each was neatly signed in the corner but only one had a title. It was of the cottage in winter, the grass frosty, the one at the top of the pile, so probably the most recent. It was labelled ‘The Darkest Evening’.
In some of the paintings the scene was almost dark and there was a light in the window. A pale light from a candle or lamp. In others the cottage was shown in full daylight. Sunshine slanted through the trees onto the building, changing the colour of the stone to silver. Clover and buttercup grew in a meadow in front of the house, bringing splashes of colour, making the scene feel almost joyous.
She called down to Charlie. ‘What do you make of these?’ She heard the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, then he was standing behind her, peering at the pictures on the wall.
There was a moment of silence. ‘Are we sure that she did these?’
‘Yes, your friend Veronica in the pub told me she went to a community art class.’
‘Poor lass,’ he said. ‘Poor troubled soul.’
‘Then there are these.’ Holly stood aside so he could see the cottage paintings. She’d leaned a number against the wall, facing out. ‘All of the same place. Any idea where it is?’
He shook his head. ‘Somewhere out here in bandit country. The boss might know.’
Holly nodded and started taking photos. ‘Why so many paintings of the same place? Some kind of obsession? A place where she was once happy?’
Charlie shrugged and repeated his earlier words. ‘Poor troubled soul.’
Chapter Eighteen
VERA KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF the Home Farm house, where the Heslops lived, but there was no answer. There were lights on inside, though, and she thought the family must be around. She moved to the side of the building and looked through a sash window into a long living room. The view was partially blocked by a giant Christmas tree, a Scots pine. It was hung with ancient, home-made decorations and fairy lights shaped like flowers. On the top was a star, a child’s creation, years old, covered in glitter. She thought that the tree had been recently cut and decorated because there was no sign of dropping needles. No sign of people either. No fire in the grate.
The house was quiet, but Vera became aware of music, drifting from somewhere beyond it. She continued moving around the building towards the yard and the music got louder. Vera was mystified. It was dark and cold and, even if the Heslop young people had been willing to brave the elements for an impromptu party, this was hardly rave material. This was the traditional music she remembered from her childhood.
There had been a pub Hector had frequented when he’d felt a sudden need for company, or he’d run out of booze in the cottage. As a small girl, she would be left outside in the car with crisps and lemonade, and occasionally, when the door opened, she’d see two elderly men by the fire, one playing fiddle and the other the Northumbrian pipes. The music brought the image immediately to mind now.
Moving on, she came to a square wooden barn facing a yard, where half a dozen cars were parked. Bunting was strung outside, along with more fairy lights, as if for a celebration. The timing seemed odd, almost as if the family was responding to the death of Lorna Falstone in the most inappropriate way possible. A wake before the funeral. The wide barn door slid open and the two Heslop girls came out. They walked into the shadows and shared a roll-up. For a moment, before the door closed behind them, Vera glimpsed people gathered inside, a long trestle table loaded with food, bales of hay forming makeshift seats.
‘Hiya! What’s going on here?’
She must have startled them, coming out of the dark, but Nettie seemed to recognize her voice immediately. ‘Cath’s birthday party.’ She shivered dramatically. ‘A family tradition. All birthdays celebrated by a bash in the barn, whatever the weather.’
‘All right if I gatecrash? I was hoping to speak to your brother.’
Cath answered. She was rounder and softer than her sister. Gentler, with less attitude. ‘Of course. The more the merrier. Josh is in there.’
She put out the cigarette, put the stub carefully back into the tin of tobacco and led Vera into the barn.
Their father, Neil Heslop, was standing at the front on a low stage formed of bales, playing a violin. An older woman, sitting beside him, leaning forwards, was on guitar. Vera hadn’t seen Heslop properly on the night he’d found Lorna’s body. Then he’d been wrapped up against the cold, hood up, a scarf around his face. She thought now there was something of the Viking about him: sandy-haired, blue-eyed.
The
