Ann Cleeves - Hidden Depths

‘But it was a big deal for Lily.’

‘Apparently. Her mother phoned, asked me to go and see Lily. She wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating. I had enough sense to refuse. I knew if I gave her any encouragement, the whole thing would start over again. A couple of weeks later she came back to school. She looked dreadful, pale and ill. I wondered if there might be something physically wrong with her, had this nightmare that she had some incurable disease and I was making her worse. Really, I was sure her mother would have had her checked out. In a strange way I was flattered. To have that effect on someone I’d worshipped! Lily became very isolated and withdrawn. She’d never had real friends. I hadn’t realized before we became close how alone she was. But still I thought it would be OK. She seemed to throw herself into her work. I thought she was starting to get over the separation. There were no big scenes. After a week or so she even looked a bit brighter. I mean, she started to take more notice of her appearance, she spoke to me when we met.’

‘But it didn’t work out?’

‘I wish. Now, of course, I realize how depressed she must have been. She wasn’t getting better at all. The new clothes, the chattiness, were all part of her delusion that I was about to take her back. There was a crisis over the Easter holidays. She turned up at my house all dressed up, all smiles. “Where are you going to take me?” She had it in her head that I’d arranged to take her out for the day. I didn’t know what to do. In the end I took her home to her mother’s. When she realized what was happening she started to sob. It was horrible. That was when the phone calls started. She’d ring dozens of times a day. I knew she was ill and I tried to be sympathetic but it wore me down. And it drove my parents crazy. We changed the number, went ex-directory. I don’t know if she ever had treatment or if she just came out of it. Most of the next term was study leave before the exams. I didn’t see much of her. Caught a glimpse occasionally in the distance on her way to a classroom and made sure I kept out of the way.’

‘Have you seen her since then?’

‘No. She wasn’t even at school when we all went to get our exam results. I suppose she realized she’d not done brilliantly and couldn’t face the rest of us celebrating.’

‘Has she been a patient at St George’s since then? Or an outpatient at the day centre?’

‘I haven’t seen her.’

‘You must have been curious, though,’ Vera said. ‘You admitted she was partly why you took up this branch of social work. Didn’t you check if she was in the system? I know I would have done.’

He didn’t answer her question immediately. ‘I still think about her,’ he said. ‘She was my first real girlfriend. Probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’ Then he looked up at Vera. ‘You’ll have to check with the medical staff about whether or not she’s been treated locally. But you’re right. I was curious. And I couldn’t find any trace of her.’

The landlady came to collect their plates and Ben stood up to go. Vera stayed where she was and he paused, looking down at her, realizing there was another question.

‘Does the name Claire Parr mean anything to you? She was in her late thirties, depressed. She committed suicide.’

‘No,’ he said. She could tell he just wanted to get back to work.

‘It doesn’t matter’ Speaking almost to herself. ‘I expect it was before your time.’

Vera telephoned Clive Stringer’s home number from her car. She’d parked behind the dunes and was looking out over the beach. An old man was walking along the shore, his head bent. Every now and then he stooped to pick up sea coal and stick it in an Aldi carrier bag. She thought he probably lived in a housing association flat now with central heating, but old habits would die hard.

She pressed the buttons on her phone. It went on ringing – there was no answer service at the other end – and she was about to give up, when a woman spoke. Her voice was faint, breathless. She gave the number.

‘Mrs Stringer.’

‘Yes?’ She was suspicious, used to people selling things. Perhaps her son had told her just to hang up if a stranger called.

‘My name’s Vera Stanhope, Mrs Stringer. I work for the police. Perhaps Clive said I’d be in touch. It’s about that lassie he found dead by the lighthouse.’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘Is Clive at home? Perhaps I could speak to him.’ She crossed the fingers of both hands and her phone nearly slipped from her grasp. Early afternoon, surely he’d still be in the museum.

‘He’s at work. You’d best talk to him there.’

Again Vera thought the woman was about to hang up.

‘Look, I’m going to be around your way in about half an hour. I’ll call in then. We can have a chat.’

‘Really, I’d rather you waited till Clive was here.’ Vera thought she could hear panic in the voice. That meant nothing sinister. Plenty of old people were worried about strangers knocking at the door. They’d watched all the crime prevention ads.

‘It’s nothing to be anxious about.’ Vera heard herself speak with Ben Craven’s You’re mad and I know what’s best for you voice; she winced. ‘I’ll show my identification. You can phone the police station to make sure.’ Then she pressed the button on her phone to end the conversation before Mrs Stringer started to protest again.

The Stringers lived in a low pre-war bungalow in North Shields. Once the street had been a main road, tree-lined, busy, with a shop at each end, but the surrounding area had been redeveloped and a new road system had left it stranded. Now Gunner’s Lane ended abruptly in a breeze-block wall. Beyond that a glass and concrete sports centre threw a long shadow down the middle of the street. Vera knew the area. She’d been there a few times to visit Davy Sharp, had been surprised that he lived somewhere so unassuming and respectable. It was all part of his cover, his ability to fit in.

Mary Stringer must have been watching out for her. As soon as Vera knocked, the door opened immediately, just a crack. She was tiny, her features small, her neck so thin it seemed impossible it could support her head.

‘I phoned Clive. He said he didn’t know anything about you coming to the house.’ Even through the crack in the door, Vera could tell she was shaking.

Vera made no attempt to get in. She fished in her bag for her identity card. ‘You must admit it’s me,’ she said. ‘Look at that picture. There can’t be more than one person in the north east with a face like that.’

‘Clive said I didn’t have to talk to you.’

‘And he’s quite right, but you don’t want the whole street listening to your business, do you?’

There was no reply. Vera could tell she was weakening. ‘H’away, hinny, and let me in. I called at the baker’s on the corner and got a couple of custard slices. Let’s get the kettle on and have a civilized chat.’

The custard slices seemed to swing it. The clawlike grip on the door loosened. Vera pushed it gently and went inside.

The interior of the house couldn’t have changed much since Mary Stringer had moved in. It was clean enough and tidy, but the furniture was old, a little shabby. Vera stood just inside the front door, waiting for the old woman to take the lead. Having taken the decision to allow Vera in, now she seemed almost pleased to have company. She led Vera into a small, over-filled living room and bustled away to make tea. Above the mantelpiece there was her wedding photo. Mary in traditional white and a man, as skinny as she was, looking sharp and pleased with himself in an ill-fitting suit.