Ann Cleeves - Hidden Depths

It wasn’t until she was back at the house, in their bedroom, on the wicker chair next to the phone, preparing to call Samuel again, that she remembered where she’d seen the ring. It had been on Lily Marsh’s finger. Felicity had noticed it when Lily had reached out to help James with his violin after they’d got off the bus. She’d coveted it secretly even then. It must have been loose on the young woman’s finger, slipped off sometime during the guided tour. Felicity set it on the bed. The quilt was of thick white cotton and the ring looked magnificent against it. She was tempted to keep it. She slipped it onto her own middle finger. It fitted perfectly. Who would know? Since her friendship with Samuel, all sorts of wickedness seemed more possible. She relished the idea of behaving against type, against the expectations of her family and friends who would have described her as a very good person. With the ring still on her finger, she dialled Samuel’s number. He answered immediately.

‘Parr.’

‘It’s Felicity. Returning your call.’ She always identified herself though she knew he must recognize her voice. Even when there was nobody to overhear they maintained the pretence that there was nothing between them but friendship. Until they were alone together in his house.

‘It was good of you to get back to me.’ He paused. ‘How are you?’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘You know…’

‘And James?’

‘Oh he’s fine too.’

‘I wondered if you’d heard any more from the police.’

‘They went to see Peter at work yesterday.’

‘The inspector came to me too. At the house.’ Felicity felt a moment of disgust. It was almost sacrilegious, that big, ugly woman sitting among Samuel’s lovely things. He continued, ‘I’m not entirely sure what she wanted.’

She didn’t know what to say to that and found herself coming out with the inconsequential information which was still at the front of her mind. ‘I’ve just found a piece of jewellery belonging to Lily Marsh. A ring. It was in the cottage. She must have dropped it while I was showing her around.’

‘Have you told the police?’ She was surprised by the urgency in his tone.

‘No, not yet.’ She kept her own voice light, playful. ‘It is very pretty.’

‘You can’t think of keeping it!’ He was shocked. ‘You must tell them. Straight away. If you don’t, they’ll think you have something to hide.’

‘It can’t be that important. They know she was in the cottage.’

‘All the same,’ he said. ‘They’ll see it as evidence.’

‘All right. I was only teasing.’ She thought he could be very high-minded and preachy.

‘And I was only thinking of you.’ This was as intimate as he got on the phone and she was surprisingly moved. ‘Please phone Inspector Stanhope. Now.’

‘All right.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I promise.’ Then, ‘Are you free this afternoon?’

‘No, I’ve got a meeting.’ She couldn’t tell whether he was telling the truth or whether he was still nervous about them being together. Perhaps he imagined the inspector knocking at his door, demanding to be let in, while they were making love. How he would hate that, being caught when he wasn’t entirely in control. She thought that her relationship with Samuel was something which had also been quite changed by the discovery of Lily Marsh’s body.

‘I must go,’ he said. ‘I’m wanted on the desk.’ He ended the call without properly saying goodbye.

She sat for a moment, looking out of the window at the lighthouse shimmering in the heat haze, then picked up the telephone again to speak to the police.

Vera arranged to meet Ben Craven in a day centre for psychiatric patients. He spent one day a week there meeting the clients who’d been discharged from hospital. It was on the edge of a coastal town which had once been famous for its docks. Now, it’s only claim to fame was as the drugs capital of the north east.

On the way, she stopped at the library in the town centre, a Gothic red-brick building, with a clock tower and a huge painting in the lobby of a ship in full sail. She found a collection of Samuel Parr’s short stories on a shelf marked LOCAL AUTHORS. She wasn’t sure what he’d think about being displayed in that way. Was it an honour? Or did it mean he wasn’t good enough to go on the shelves with the real writers? She stood browsing for a moment, but couldn’t find the story she’d heard on the radio. In the end she decided to take it out anyway. When she handed over the book and her ticket the library assistant said, ‘Such a lovely man. He came here to give a reading last year. He’s one of our staff, of course.’

That made Vera think of her last conversation with Samuel Parr. He’d said he’d tell her what Lily had been reading. Still curious, but also interested what Parr’s response to the request would be, she decided to follow it up. Sitting in the car she phoned Morpeth Library and asked to speak to him.

‘Ah yes, Inspector. Let me just check the system. What was the name? Lily Marsh?’

What are you playing at? she thought. Of course you remember the girl’s name. You found her body.

‘There are no books outstanding on her ticket, Inspector. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

She switched off her phone, feeling unreasonably disappointed.

The psychiatric day centre had once been a nursery school and, walking in, Vera had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone here – even the staff – had regressed to early childhood. In one of the rooms an art class was taking place. The patients wore red aprons to protect their clothes, they used thick brushes and bright acrylic paint. In another, there was some sort of music lesson with tambourines, cymbals and a couple of glockenspiels. But everywhere was the smell of cigarette smoke. She’d never bothered much if other people wanted to kill themselves, but could feel this in her throat and lungs and she knew she’d have to change her clothes to get rid of the stink. She had to walk through the common room to find the social worker. The chairs were arranged in small groups, but nobody seemed to be talking to anyone else. Everyone was smoking. A thin woman was talking under her breath. Some long story about her rent and the council hounding her. The other people in the room ignored her.

Craven had a small office at the end of a corridor. His door was open and she saw him before he noticed her. He was sitting at a desk hitting computer keys with a speed she’d never master. Her first thought was that he looked good. He was the sort of young man you’d notice in the street, follow with your eyes just for the pleasure of seeing him move. Tall, blond, muscular. A tan to show off the eyes. He was squinting at the screen but she knew they’d be blue. He must feature in the fantasies of many of his female clients. No wonder Lily Marsh had fallen for him. What a couple they would have made.

He heard her approaching and looked up.

‘Yes?’ Just one word but that gentle, patronizing tone professionals use to mad people. A smile to make her feel at ease. He thought she was a patient. She wondered if she spoke to witnesses like that. Like they were children.

‘Vera Stanhope,’ she said. ‘Inspector. We’ve got an appointment.’ Brusque enough for him to feel awkward. A silly power game, which she’d usually despise.

He reached out and shut down the computer, stood up in the same movement, held out his hand.

‘Inspector. Tea? Coffee?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said.

‘Is it about one of my clients? Perhaps we should get my boss to sit in.’

She ignored that. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Is there anywhere else we can go to talk? Maybe get some lunch?’