Ann Cleeves - Hidden Depths

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.’

Nothing floral, then. No connection there.

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.

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 at the top of the stairs, wheezing, heaving for breath.

‘I don’t like lifts.’ The words came out in quick accusing pants, as if she was blaming him for living there. ‘I’m never quite sure they’ll carry my weight.’ And he realized her appearance was something she was sensitive about. She’d have been bullied at school and the only way to deal with it would have been to get the jibe in first. Surprised that last night he’d been intimidated by her, he leaned back against the door and let her walk into the flat ahead of him.

Inside, he watched her checking out the flat, saw it through her eyes. It would be tidier than she’d expect. He had lots of electronic equipment but it was all boxed and stacked on shelves along one wall. He didn’t mind a bit of mess but he didn’t like chaos. Against the same wall stood a long desk with a PC and printer, a pair of headphones, a pile of audio magazines. In the middle of the room a sofa and coffee table. In the corner a TV and DVD player. A couple of enlarged black and white photos on the wall. One of the river in the centre of town. Dusk. Looking through all the bridges to the Blinking Eye. But there was nothing really personal, he thought. Nothing to give himself away. He’d allowed himself to keep one photo of Emily, but it was on his desk, small, nothing flashy. The inspector wouldn’t notice that.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

Her face was red with the effort of climbing the stairs. He didn’t bother with the lift either unless he had heavy gear, but didn’t even have to catch his breath when he got to the top. He told himself not to be such a smug bastard. She was an overweight, middle-aged woman. Hardly competition.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a beer, have you?’ she said. ‘I’m not fussy, pet. Whatever you’ve got in the fridge.’

He found himself smiling. Despite himself he couldn’t help liking her. He brought out two cans of lager, a glass for her. She lowered herself carefully onto the sofa. He sat on the floor, legs stretched in front of him, felt her looking him over.

‘Your file says you’re thirty-five,’ she said. ‘You’ve not worn badly. If I was guessing, I’d say five years younger.’

‘Thanks.’ He was annoyed at himself for feeling flattered. It was an odd thing for her to say, an odd feeling to have her eyeing him up. It occurred to him briefly that women must feel like this all the time.

‘This place must have set you back a few quid.’ She looked out towards the window. ‘A view like that.’

‘Not really. I bought it from new six years ago. Everyone thought I was mad moving to Shields. I’d make a canny profit if I sold it now.’

‘Live here on your own?’

‘Yes.’

I’m not so sad, he wanted to say. Not really sad, like Clive. I was engaged once. To Emily. The love of my life. We were going to live together in a tidy flat in Jesmond. And since then there’ve been women. Not living in, maybe. Not real girlfriends. But I’ve never gone without for long. And now there’s Julie.

She tugged at the ring pull on the can. He slipped a look at his watch. He still had that phone call to make.

‘Expecting someone?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Nothing like that. Is this about that student who died? I thought you’d finished with me last night.’

She made him wait until she’d taken a mouthful of beer, straight from the can, not bothering with the glass he’d set on the table in front of her. ‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ she said. ‘You’ve heard it before. This time I want you to think about it.’