‘First I had a word with the guy he does most of his work for. Barry Middleton. Small builder. Does kitchens, bathrooms, loft extensions. He’s known Geoff for years, even before he started passing work his way. He says Geoff always had a temper on him. One of those people who could take offence if you looked at him the wrong way. There were a couple of scraps on site. He lashed out at a foreman when he was working in London. That’s why he turned up back here without a job. But apparently he changed completely when he remarried. Now he’s a real family man, according to Barry. Devoted to Kath and the little girl. He’d even started to build bridges with Julie.’
‘That’s what he said to me.’ But do I believe it? Vera thought. Do I believe people change that easily?
‘I went onto the estate this morning,’ Charlie went on. ‘Geoff and the family were leaving just as I got there. Looked like a trip to the beach. They had towels, a picnic.’
‘Very domestic,’ Vera said.
‘They didn’t see me. I had a word with the neighbours. Everyone said the same. They’re a lovely family. He’s a bit quiet. Doesn’t go to the pub or the club. Stays in to mind the bairn while the wife’s at work. But nobody had a word to say against him.’
‘What about Wednesday night? Did anyone see him leave the house?’
‘No, and one couple is certain they would have done if he’d taken his car out. They were having a barbecue, had invited a few friends round. They’d even asked Geoff. They only live a couple of doors down the street and thought he could keep calling back to check the little girl was OK. He didn’t go in the end, said he didn’t like leaving Rebecca. But they were out in the garden all evening. It’s on the corner and they’d have seen if he left. That’s what they reckon.’
Vera was pleased they could count Geoff out of the investigation. She imagined the three of them on a beach somewhere. Tynemouth, maybe. Kath laid out on a towel catching up on some sleep, Geoff keeping the girl amused, holding her hand as she jumped the waves, building sandcastles, buying ice cream. She must be going soft in her old age. She thought he deserved a second chance.
She realized the team was waiting for her to go on. ‘Let’s leave Geoff Armstrong, then. Unless anything else comes up. I want someone to talk to Luke’s consultant. Find out if Lily Marsh was treated at St George’s too. She probably wouldn’t be an inpatient. Her flatmates would know about that. She might have gone to a clinic, though. We know her dad had a history of mental illness. It’s an outside chance but worth following up. And I’d like you to check out Lily Marsh’s finances. Bank account, credit cards. All that. The way it looks, she was living way beyond her means. Did she have some other income? A rich lover, maybe. And we need to trace the lad she had the crush on when she was at school. His name’s Ben Craven. He could still be living locally.’
She thought there’d been enough talk. They all liked talk. Talk and coffee and buns saved them having to go out there and mix it with real people.
She stood up, made sure she had their attention. ‘The first priority is to make some link between the victims. Something that places them together, a person they have in common.’
They sat, staring up at her.
‘Well, go on, then,’ she said, raising her voice, teacher again. ‘You’re not going to find it in here, are you?’
Chapter Sixteen
It was Saturday and the sun was still shining, but at Fox Mill there were no preparations for the picnic Felicity had been planning as an extra celebration for Peter’s birthday. Everyone had stayed the night and they ate a late, subdued breakfast in the kitchen. The four men seemed preoccupied and washed out. Perhaps they were suffering from a collective hangover. Even James was unusually quiet and mooched back to his room to watch children’s television.
She was glad when the guests left before lunch. Peter tried to persuade them to stay, but they must have realized she wanted them out of the house. Today even Samuel was no comfort. In the afternoon Peter locked himself in his office. He had a grand project. A book about the effect of weather on the movement of seabirds. One of the larger natural history publishers had expressed a vague, polite interest, but no firm offer had been made. They’d have to see the completed work, they said. Peter’s theories had grown more complex as he analysed the material. There were days when she thought she would never see it finished.
Felicity went into the garden and began weeding the beds at the front of the house. She enjoyed the methodical, mindless activity, the instant result. There was the sound of a car in the lane. She ignored it at first. Walkers sometimes parked on the verge before setting off on the footpath to the coast. Then she could tell it had turned into the drive and she straightened, pulling off her gloves, tucking her shirt back into her jeans, preparing to meet the visitor. She had thought it might be Samuel. He would have realized she was upset. It would be like him to think the matter over and come back to check that she had recovered. She was already planning the words she would use to him, the apology for being so crabby, so inhospitable. The lie.
But it wasn’t Samuel. It was a car she didn’t recognize. She felt a sudden disquiet, then saw the big female detective from the night before struggle out from the driver’s seat. There was the moment of quiet superiority she always felt when she saw a woman of around her own age who had let herself go. The detective’s face could even be attractive if she made more effort. Her clothes were shapeless, her hair badly cut. Did she really not care what she looked like? Felicity couldn’t understand it. Somehow it made Vera Stanhope invulnerable.
‘Inspector’ She checked that her hand was clean and held it out. The woman took it with a brief, sharp grip, but her attention was on the garden.
‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘It’ll take a lot of work.’
‘Oh,’ Felicity knew she was being flattered but was still pleased. ‘We have help, of course. An elderly man from the village.’
‘Of course,’ the detective said.
Felicity heard the sarcasm, wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Just a few more questions. You know how it is. Things come up.’
How can I know how it is? Felicity thought. I’ve never found a body before.
‘Your friends have gone?’
‘Yes, they had to get away. I think Gary is working tonight.’ She felt awkward standing there, grubby and unprepared.
‘What do they do? Gary told us, but what about the others?’ Vera had moved into the shade of the house and Felicity followed.
‘Samuel’s a librarian. Also a rather fine writer. Short stories, mostly. Clive works as an assistant at the Hancock Museum. The natural history section.’
‘Does he? I loved it in there when I was a kid. My dad used to take me. It had a smell all of its own. I haven’t been there for years.’ Vera seemed lost for a moment in the memory. ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘He’s in the office,’ Felicity said. ‘Come through.’
‘Is he working too?’
‘On his research, yes.’
‘I understand he’s a botanist. That must be useful when it comes to gardening.’ The voice was jolly, impressed. Felicity didn’t know what to make of it. She decided not to explain about the seabird book. It might be considered a hobby, not work at all, and she wanted the detective to take Peter seriously.
‘We often stop for tea at about this time. Perhaps you’ll join us? I’ll give Peter a shout.’
Felicity wouldn’t have been surprised if the detective had insisted on disturbing Peter in his office, but it seemed she’d decided to be conciliatory.
‘Why not? I’m gasping.’
‘We could sit outside, make the most of the sunshine.’
