Hidden Depths

asked if he was growing up at last. He’s in his thirties, but he’s always played the part of wild adolescent in our group.’

‘The new woman in his life is called Julie Armstrong. She’s the mother of a lad who was strangled in Seaton the Wednesday before Lily Marsh died.’ She looked up. ‘Hadn’t you heard? You’re such close friends, I’d have thought one of them would have told you. The others know.’

‘They might have tried to phone,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in meetings all day and I’ve only just got in.’

‘If Gary is the wild adolescent, what part does Clive play?’ She realized she’d finished her wine and put her glass on the table. She wondered if he’d offer her another, if she could accept it and still be under the limit.

Samuel thought for a moment. ‘Clive’s an obsessive,’ he said. ‘A brilliant birder. The best of us by far. He reads field guides like I read fiction, but he remembers every word. He’s not wonderful company in the pub. He doesn’t make us laugh. Not like Gary. Not like Peter even, if he’s on form. But he finds the birds for us. He reminds us what brought us together in the first place.’

‘Where were you on Friday before you arrived at Fox Mill for the birthday party?’

He looked at her over his glass. ‘Am I a suspect, Inspector?’ He wasn’t angry. He seemed to find the idea amusing.

‘I need to rule out anyone involved with the victim, even peripherally.’

‘I wasn’t. Not while she was alive.’ He set down the glass. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I shouldn’t take this lightly. You’re entitled to ask your questions. I was working on Friday afternoon in the library in Morpeth. I took some time back and left early. At about four o’clock. Then I came home. I was re-drafting a story. I wanted it finished to take with me that evening.’

‘A present for Dr Calvert? Something you’d written specially for his birthday?’

‘Nothing like that. Peter never reads fiction. Felicity enjoys my work. And I value her opinion. I wanted her to look at it before I sent it off to my agent.’

Vera wanted to ask what the story was about, but could see that it probably wasn’t relevant. Perhaps she just wanted to prolong the interview so she wouldn’t have to return to an empty house.

‘Can anyone confirm that you were here? Any phone calls or visitors?’

‘I’m afraid not. And I never answer the phone when I’m writing.’

‘Perhaps a neighbour saw you leave for the party?’

‘You can check, Inspector, but I’d be surprised. This is a neighbourhood where people mind their own business.’ He smiled. ‘Some more wine, Inspector? Just half a glass as I know you’re driving.’

She was tempted, but she shook her head and stood up. She wondered why he was being so pleasant to her. Men seldom bothered to make an effort with her and Samuel wasn’t flirting exactly, but he wanted her to like him. Was that habit? He worked with eccentric middle-aged women. Perhaps he’d developed it as a management style. Or did he have some other reason for wanting her onside?

He walked with her to the door, shook her hand, and stood in the small front garden while she opened her car door. Driving away she felt she’d been in a small way seduced by him. He’d controlled the conversation. Things had gone just as he’d wanted.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gary had been thinking all day about going to see Julie. The idea had got into his head and he couldn’t get shot of it. It was a bit like those annoying bits of music that run in a loop in your brain. That Comic Relief song a few years ago, for instance. You try to replace it with something better, but the effort just makes it worse and the crap song gets louder and louder, so you can hardly think straight.

He’d been doing a technical rehearsal at the Sage, in the small space. He was working from the sound desk in the body of the hall. The artist was a poet, who spoke and sometimes sang with a band behind her. Usually when he was working, he couldn’t consider anything but getting the sound spot on. The Sage was tremendous for large orchestras, but something small and intimate like this, it was tricky to get the balance right. The band was good, bluesy and moody, and he wanted to do them justice. Though poetry wasn’t at all his thing he caught himself listening to the lyrics. Perhaps it was because the artist reminded him of Julie. She didn’t look like Julie – she was black, for one thing, and younger – but there was a warmth about her and she was big and she laughed a lot. So all day he’d been wondering about Julie and how he could get in contact with her, and whether that would be a good idea or just gross.

He had a few hours free between the rehearsal and the performance. It would be a late-night gig, attracting people mellow from the bar and the arty crowd who didn’t have to get up in the morning. He walked down the steps towards the river, the heat hitting him after the air-conditioned building. You’d never think Gateshead could get this hot, he thought. Gateshead should be a biting east wind and sleet. At the top of the bank the Ferris wheel turned slowly. Looking back, the Sage was lit up, so you could see the two halls inside the outer skin of glass. He thought they looked like two great ships. The large hall was like a liner, with rows of decking, number two like a snub-nosed tug. He’d been intending to wander across the footbridge and into town to get some food, but suddenly changed his mind.

He ran back up the steps to the car park and then he was in his van, the engine running, driving north. He wanted to see her house. It didn’t mean he’d come to a decision about seeing her. He could drive down the road, turn round and come straight back. But that would be better than nothing.

Then he remembered them all in the pub after the Bird Club meeting, him talking about Julie and Peter mocking him. My God, how romantic the young are these days. All moonlight and flowers. And Gary, driving down the Heaton rat runs, avoiding the worst of the town traffic, knew that was what Julie had come back to on the night her son had died. Moonlight and flowers. That was what the inspector had meant when she said Luke’s murder had been similar to Lily’s. It had been posed in the same way.

He knew where Julie’s house was. He’d looked up her address in the phone book. It was only a quarter of a mile from where she’d lived as a kid. He’d grown up in the village too, though the other end, on the new private estate, which wasn’t new any more. It felt strange coming back. He’d come down the main road from Whitley every day on the bus when he was in high school. Memories came flooding into his head, at last pushing out his concern for what Julie would make of his turning up on the doorstep. Loud lads shouting on the top deck, throwing bags around. Him easing his arm round Lindsay Waugh’s shoulders, nibbling her ear lobe, while she blushed bright scarlet and everyone cheered. And sitting next to Clive, on their way to a green-winged teal on the River Blyth, pretending not to know him, because he was such a nerd and a geek, and what would Lindsay and the others say if they’d known Gary was a birder too.

Without realizing it, he was in the village and turning into Julie’s street. It was six o’clock and the kids were out playing. A couple of mothers sat on the doorsteps watching them. Since Luke’s death he supposed this was how it would be. He was aware of their staring. A stranger in the street. If they hadn’t been there he would probably have gone to the end of the road, sat in the car, lost his bottle, and driven away. But they made him defiant. And cautious. He was Julie’s friend. What was wrong with paying his respects? Besides, one of them would probably have made a note of his registration number by now. If he drove straight off they’d be on to the police reporting a suspicious character, claiming they’d frightened him away.

So he parked up right outside the house, and without looking at the staring women he walked up the path and knocked on the door. Standing there, he thought he should have brought something with him. A gift. But what? Not flowers. How insensitive would that be! Wine, perhaps; but then that would imply that he was gatecrashing a party. He stood, his hands slid into the front pockets of his jeans, because he didn’t know what else to do with them. Sometimes, after too much Stella and a vindaloo, he had this nightmare. He was standing on the stage at the City Hall in front of a full house, fiddling with a mic, the sound all wrong. Stark naked. That was how he felt now.

The door opened. It was a young girl in school uniform. Sort of uniform. White shirt, short black skirt. No tie. He wondered if he’d got the wrong house, then remembered that Julie had another child, a daughter. He scrabbled in his mind for a name. Laura. But before he had a chance to call her by it, a middle-aged woman scurried out from the back. She had a pair of oven gloves dangling from one hand and the air of an ineffective bouncer. ‘Laura,