Hidden Depths

As soon as she opened the door, her mother appeared from the kitchen. She was like a figure in one of those mechanical clocks. Not a cuckoo, of course. A peasant woman in an apron, bobbing her head and wringing her hands.

‘Thank God. Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.’

‘I told you I’d be staying at Lisa’s.’ And that wasn’t a lie, was it?

‘I expected you to be back before Laura went to school.’ The guilt again.

‘Yeah, well, I had a bit much to drink. Did she get off OK?’

‘She didn’t have time for breakfast.’

‘She never has time for breakfast.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to eat either.’ And immediately she popped back into the kitchen, to put on the kettle and start frying bacon. ‘I got this from that decent butcher in Monkseaton. It’s not all water and fat.’ And though the smell of it almost made Julie want to throw up, she sat at the table and waited until the sandwich appeared, then forced herself to eat it. To make up for lying to her mother. To make up for having a few hours when she wasn’t thinking about Luke.

It was only after the plate was clean that her mother brought in the mail for her to look at. Not such a big pile. On the top, a long white envelope.

‘Look,’ Julie said, trying to re-establish friendly relations. ‘This is addressed to Laura.’

Her mam, already in her Marigolds at the sink, turned round. ‘That’s nice. Some of her friends from school, maybe.’

‘Maybe.’ But by now Julie had recognized the square capital letters, remembered Vera’s response to the last card. ‘All the same, I think I’ll just give Inspector Stanhope a ring.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

When the call came from Julie, Vera was in her office, reading. The night before, she’d started a short story by Samuel Parr, one she’d never heard or read before. It was in the book she’d picked up from the library on her way to meet Ben Craven, a collection published by a small press based in Hexham. The title Jokers and Lovers had some sort of resonance, but she couldn’t remember where it was from. It said on the jacket that the anthology had won a prize she’d never heard of. The story she’d been looking for, the one she’d heard on the radio, hadn’t been in it, but she’d started reading anyway. Vera had fallen asleep after a couple of paragraphs but, perhaps because of the beer swilling round in her veins, the opening image had stayed with her all night. It had described the abduction of a teenager. The abduction had been described lovingly. A summer’s morning. Sunshine. The flowers in the hedgerow named. It became a seduction, rather than an act of violence. The gender of the child was left deliberately ambiguous, but Vera imagined Luke. A great deal was made of the child’s beauty. This was a form which would turn heads. And Luke could have been a girl with his long lashes and his slender body. Half child, half man, he’d been an ambiguous figure too.

In the office, Vera held the morning briefing. Joe Ashworth had checked all the car-rental places in North Tyneside.

‘Nobody of Clive Stringer’s name or description hired a car on Wednesday night or Friday. I suppose that lets him off the hook.’ He sounded disappointed.

Vera almost felt sorry for him. She described the interview with Peter Calvert. ‘We know he was Lily’s lover. We know he’s a lying bastard, with an unhealthy interest in bonny lasses. We know she left her silver and opal ring in the Calverts’ cottage. But we can’t prove she didn’t drop it when she looked round the day before. And we can’t prove any connection between him and Luke Armstrong.’ Then she’d gone on to describe the connection between Lily and Kath. ‘Is it significant that the new Mrs Armstrong didn’t tell us she knew the Marsh lass? God knows. It is to us, of course. But we’re living and breathing the investigation. Maybe she just wanted to forget all about it and get on with her life.’

Then Vera had retreated to her office. She knew there were more important things to do, but she told herself that her team would already be doing them. She was pulled back to the story, the strange central character. Then the phone rang.

‘Julie Armstrong on the line, ma’am. She won’t speak to anyone but you.’

Vera listened in silence when Julie described the envelope, the writing. ‘I didn’t want to bother you, like. But last time you seemed to think it was important. We haven’t touched it. Well, just my mam when she brought it in from the front door.’

‘Has Laura got a mobile?’

‘Oh aye, they’ve all got mobiles these days, haven’t they?’

‘Phone her and tell her to stay at school. She’s not to go out with anyone, not even someone she knows until you pick her up. I’ll send someone in a car and you can go and fetch her. I’ll contact the school. Leave the card where it is. Don’t open it.’

‘She won’t have her phone switched on,’ Julie said. Vera could sense her confusion, the onset of panic. ‘It’s a rule. They’re not allowed.’

‘Don’t worry, pet. Just send her a text and leave her a voicemail message. I’ll see to the rest.’

She hung up and took a moment to compose herself. She’d picked up some of Julie’s panic, could feel her brain start to scramble, the eczema start to itch. Then she phoned the high school in Whitley Bay, bullied her way past an officious secretary to the headmaster. He understood at once what was needed, motivated, Vera thought, as much by the possibility of tabloid headlines – How did they let it happen? Young girl snatched from school gate – as by concern for Laura’s safety. Then she told herself she was a cynical old bag. He said he’d track Laura down and keep her in his office until Julie and the police car arrived. He’d phone Vera back and let her know when that had happened. Vera sat, waiting. Her eyes wandered back to the book on her desk, the atmospheric jacket in muted blues and greens. The phone rang.

‘Yes?’

The headteacher didn’t identify himself. She heard the tremor in his voice when he spoke, thought he was starting to panic too. ‘She didn’t arrive at school. She was marked absent at registration.’

‘Nobody followed it up?’

‘We wouldn’t. Not one day. And with what happened to her brother, we could understand she might want to take some time.’ Justifying himself to her, and to the unforgiving press which would want someone to blame. Already making his excuses.

‘Of course,’ Vera said. ‘Not your fault.’

But mine? Should I have seen it coming? ‘Does she have a history of bunking off?’

‘No. She’s reliable. A worker. One of the bright ones.’

‘Can you ask around, friends, people she might have come in with on the bus? I’ll send someone to take statements.’ She thought she’d send Ashworth. He’d be good with young lasses.

‘Can you be discreet?’ he said. ‘I mean, no flashing lights and uniforms. I don’t want to start a mass hysteria, parents coming to take their kids away. Luke was a pupil here too.’

She was distracted. ‘You knew him? I mean, as more than a face, a name.’

‘Yes, I like the kids like Luke. The ones who struggle. It’s what I came into teaching for. Important not to forget that sometimes. I took an interest.’

‘Can you think why someone would have wanted him dead?’

‘No!’ The answer was immediate and vehement. ‘He was bit slow, but he was a nice kid. People enjoyed his company.’ He struggled to explain. ‘He was completely inoffensive.’ He wouldn’t be satisfied with that description, but she understood what he meant.

When Vera arrived at Julie’s house, the door was open and she was waiting to go. Her mother was hovering in the background. Julie turned to say goodbye to the older woman, but by then Vera was out of the car and blocking the door.

‘A change of plan,’ she said comfortably. ‘No rush now. Let’s go in. Any chance of a brew, Mrs Richardson?’