floor.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Julie said. ‘You know…’
Vera nodded, happy to accept the excuse, but she knew it would always be messy. Probably messier than it was now, because Mrs Richardson was here, keeping on top of things. Julie wouldn’t be one for a tidy house. Not like Kath on the prim estate in Wallsend.
Mrs Richardson hovered just inside the door. ‘Tea, Inspector?’
‘Champion.’ If I have more tea, I’ll drown, Vera thought, but she didn’t want the mother listening in to this. She sat on an armchair covered by a puce chenille throw, beckoned for Julie to sit down again too.
‘It’s about Gary,’ she said. ‘Gary Wright.’
Julie moved her head very slowly until she was looking at Vera. ‘What about him?’
‘You do know him?’
‘Not really.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I was with him the night Luke was killed. I mean, not
‘That wasn’t the first time you met him?’
‘No, a few weeks ago I was in the Harbour Bell with my mam and da. Sunday afternoon. Just before they let Luke out of hospital. Laura was spending the day with a friend. Da likes his music. If you let him, he’ll bore you for hours about the old days. The Animals. The clubs in town where he used to go in the sixties. The Bell has live music on Sunday afternoons and there was a band he wanted to hear. I’d had my dinner at theirs and went just for the ride. I had a good time. Gary was doing the sound.’ Julie’s voice tailed off. She looked straight at Vera. ‘You know, that could have been months ago. Years. It feels as if everything has changed. It’s me I’m talking about but it’s like I’m describing a different person.’
‘I know,’ Vera said.
‘Gary made me laugh,’ Julie went on. ‘At first you could tell he was just showing off. Telling stories about his work. The musicians he’d done the sound for. You could tell he’d come out with the same stuff to anyone. Any woman, at least, aged between fifteen and fifty.’
Even me? Vera thought.
‘Then we just clicked. We found out we’d been to the same primary school, started chatting about the people we could remember. Mam had to come and get me in the end. She was worried we’d miss visiting time at the hospital. She was coming with me to see Luke.’
‘And you arranged to meet him in town?’ Vera said.
‘No. It wasn’t a firm arrangement. Not really.’ But Vera could tell it had been firm enough for Julie. Special. ‘He just asked if I ever got into town, and I said, hardly ever. Then I remembered Jan’s birthday and how the girls had asked me to go with them. So I said I’d be there. That night.’
Vera could imagine how that had been. The mother listening in. Julie keeping her voice casual, but making sure he’d made a note of the date, the places the girls always went.
Mrs Richardson appeared from the kitchen, a mug in each hand. Vera accepted hers, then tipped most of the contents into the compost of a sad umbrella plant when the woman went to get biscuits. Julie, staring at the blank television screen, didn’t notice.
‘A great cup of tea,’ Vera said, slurping the dregs. ‘Just what I needed.’ Now the two women sat, looking at her. Perhaps they could tell she had something else to say. ‘There’s been another murder. A young woman. A student. She was called Lily Marsh. Does the name mean anything to you?’
They shook their heads. They didn’t really care about the death of a strange woman. Luke was all that mattered to them. Vera found a space for the mug on the coffee table. ‘I wanted you to know,’ she said. ‘It’ll be in the press. And it might make it easier for us to find Luke’s killer. It’ll give us more to go on.’ That was the theory, at least. She stood up. ‘I’ll be off now, Mrs Richardson. If there’s any news, I’ll be in touch.’
Julie got up from her chair too. ‘Why did you want to know about Gary?’
‘No reason, pet. Just routine.’
At the door Vera stopped. ‘Did Luke have a middle name?’
‘Geoffrey,’ Julie said. ‘Like his dad.’
As Vera walked into the street she could sense the eyes behind net curtains; the neighbours would wait until she’d driven off before getting on the phone to share the latest rumours.
Chapter Eighteen
One time, he wouldn’t have admitted to living in North Shields, Gary thought. Certainly not if he was chatting up a woman, trying to impress. People from outside had a picture of it. All charity shops and boarded-up buildings, Wilkinson’s and Poundstretchers the only stores doing business. Even now, if you waited at the metro, you’d share the platform with teenage mothers and gangs of lads who skipped off the trains whenever the ticket inspector arrived. But it was changing. Now if he said he lived in Shields people nodded, understanding. It was the sort of place where people in his business might live. Still not quite respectable, but interesting. There were new apartments, bars and restaurants on the Fish Quay. A couple of writers had taken up residence. House prices in Tynemouth were so high that people had crossed the boundary, blurring the edges. There was no shame to living in Shields these days. Sunday’s Quiz Night at the Maggie Bank pub was full of lecturers and social workers. Gary had been a regular once, but only bothered going now to catch up with old friends. Even though he could score on the music round, he had no chance of winning.
He lived in a newish development on one of the steep streets between the Fish Quay and the town, a four- storey block of flats, with a Gothic stone Methodist chapel on one side and a carpet warehouse on the other. He’d bought it soon after he split up from Emily; thinking back, he couldn’t remember much about moving in. He’d been pissed when he signed the contract, swore at the estate agent about something that had irritated him. Clive had helped him carry the few bits of furniture they couldn’t get into the lift up the stairs, organized Northern Electric to get the power on, even made the tea. That was the sort of friend he was. He never made a fuss but was there when he was needed. Gary hoped he’d act the same way if the circumstances were reversed, but he wasn’t sure. Now the flat felt more like home than anywhere he’d lived since he was a kid. It would be a wrench to leave.
That morning, he’d given Clive a lift back from Fox Mill. In the car, they’d talked about the dead girl in the pool, tuned the radio to the local BBC station in case it had made the news. Gary had done most of the talking. Clive hadn’t said much, but then he never did. Perhaps that’s why they got on so well: Gary liked a ready-made audience. At school Clive had been a loner. He still didn’t have any other friends. Only Gary, Samuel and Peter. The discovery of the body headed up the news, but there were no details. Nothing about the way she was found or the flowers. Not even her name.
Gary wandered out onto the balcony and looked over the town and down to the river. Upstream the ferry was sliding away from the South Shields jetty. He had his phone with him and leaned on the rail to dial. He was on the top floor and there wasn’t too much noise from the street. He was about to press the buttons when the intercom buzzer sounded and he went inside to see who was waiting in the lobby. He wasn’t sorry to have to put off his phone call. He still hadn’t decided quite what to say.
‘It’s me, pet. Vera Stanhope.’ The detective of the night before. He thought he’d answered all her questions and her presence threw him. At one time he’d have been able to take this in his stride. He’d had the confidence to talk himself into any event, out of any bother. Now, it wasn’t so easy. But he couldn’t leave her there, waiting.
‘Come on up.’ Keeping the voice light, to show he had nothing to hide.
He checked his appearance in the long mirror. Habit. Reassurance. Like spending a fortune on the right haircut, a decent pair of shoes. Then he opened the door of the flat and stood there, waiting for her to appear. He couldn’t hear the lift and was wondering if she’d been called away on more urgent business, when she appeared
