Ann Cleeves - Hidden Depths

Vera walked back into the corridor. There was a burst of laughter from the television studio audience. She took advantage of the noise to shut the front door behind her and walk out into the street.

She stood for a moment then walked three doors down to where the Sharps lived. Now she was here, she might as well talk to Davy’s wife.

Vera could tell that Diane Sharp knew who she was as soon as the door was opened – not her name or where she came from but that she was a police officer. She must have developed some sort of sixth sense after years of practice. She was a plump woman in her forties, with very pretty features, hair which looked as if she had it done every week. She wore a pink blouse and a white linen skirt.

‘You’re wasting your time here,’ she said. ‘Davy’s inside. Acklington.’

‘I know. I spoke to him last week.’ Vera was trying to remember if she’d met Davy’s wife before, thought she probably hadn’t.

‘And our Brian doesn’t live here any more. He’s got his own place in town.’

‘It’s you I want to talk to,’ Vera said.

The woman seemed surprised by that, so surprised that she stood aside and let Vera in.

‘I don’t get mixed up in their business.’ As she spoke she led Vera through to the back of the bungalow. Everything was very neat, very respectable. She opened a door and suddenly light flooded into the space. There was a conservatory the width of the building, looking out onto a tiny patch of lawn. ‘Davy had this done last time he was home,’ she said. She settled herself into a wicker chair, nodded for Vera to join her.

‘This isn’t about what your men get up to,’ Vera said. She paused. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Thomas.’

The woman sat very still before replying. ‘That was an accident,’ she said at last. ‘Nothing for you to trouble yourself about.’

‘Are you sure about that, Mrs Sharp?’

‘Aye, it’d have been easier if there was someone to blame, but it was just lads larking around.’

‘You’ll have seen in the paper that Luke Armstrong was killed?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was a smashing lad. Tom spent a lot of time at his place.’

‘Did he come here?’

‘Not so often. Brian was still at home then. There were things going on. I didn’t want Tom involved.’

‘What sort of things?’

She hesitated, chose her words carefully. ‘Brian mixes with a rough set,’ she said. She could have been talking about a five-year-old mixing with bad company at school.

Vera knew one of the rough set had been convicted of attempted murder, a stabbing in a city-centre pub, but she let that go. ‘Tell me about the memorial they did for Tom. The flowers on the river. Whose idea was it?’

‘I’m not sure who started it.’ Diane was looking through the glass at the trimmed lawn. ‘Someone in the street probably. Everyone here was very fond of Tom. I don’t think it was organized. At first there was one bunch of flowers. Then everybody joined in.’

‘Did anyone blame Luke Armstrong for Tom’s death?’

The woman looked up. ‘You’re thinking of Brian? After revenge?’

‘Your little brother drowns, you’d want someone to blame. Like you said, we all want that.’

She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t Brian. I’d have heard.’

Vera thought that was probably true. Besides, Brian Sharp would have kicked the Armstrong door down, battered Luke with fists and boots. He wouldn’t have charmed his way in with flowers.

‘Tell me about the Stringers,’ she said. ‘Your neighbours.’

Diane seemed surprised by the sudden change of subject. ‘Why do you want to know about them?’

‘Clive’s a witness in another enquiry. I’m just curious.’

‘Mary Stringer was like a mother to me when we moved here,’ Diane said. ‘Davy wasn’t around much and I was pregnant with Tom. She was on her own apart from Clive. She lost her husband in an accident. Clive wasn’t like either of my boys. He was very quiet. Always had his head in a book. No trouble. Not really. He was teased a bit as a kid, but Brian soon put a stop to that. We were almost like one family. Mary looked after Tom for me most days until he started nursery. I had my hands full with Brian and she was only on a widow’s pension. She needed the money and I was happy enough to slip her a few pounds. Clive loved having Tom around. Most lads wouldn’t have been interested, but for a few years they were like brothers.’

‘Did Clive ever meet Luke Armstrong?’

‘He might have done. Tom never said.’

Vera couldn’t think of anything else to ask and stood to go. Diane shut the door firmly behind her. Outside, Clive Stringer was standing next to her car. He must have left work as soon as his mother phoned him about Vera’s intended visit. He was wearing black jeans, a black polo shirt, black trainers. He had the sort of complexion which easily burns and his face was red, greasy with sweat. Vera could tell he’d stood there, fuming, getting hotter and crosser, waiting for her to return to her car.

‘You had no right bothering my mother.’

‘She didn’t seem to mind, pet. We had a nice pot of tea.’

‘Anything you want to ask, you can come straight to me.’

‘You look as if you could do with a cup yourself. Is there anywhere round here we could get a drink? Save bothering your mam again. Stand here any longer and we’ll start gathering a crowd.’

A gang of teenagers were slouching down the road on their way home from school and they’d already begun to stare. Clive shrugged. ‘There’s a caff on the corner’ He set off along the pavement leaving Vera to follow.

The cafe had set a garden table and chairs outside on the pavement. Any attempt to create a continental atmosphere was ruined by the smell of greasy burgers and stale cigarettes coming through the open door, but the pavement was in the shade now and they sat there anyway. Vera drank instant coffee, Clive a bottle of bright-orange fizzy pop. She thought again that he’d never grown up.

‘It can’t have been easy,’ she said, ‘growing up without a dad.’ As soon as the words were out she thought that was a patronizing thing to say, but in the short walk Clive seemed to have become calmer.

‘My mother’s never been easy,’ he said. He looked up with a sudden grin as if he’d made a joke.

‘She depends on you?’ Vera was feeling her way with him. One wrong word and she knew he’d clam up again.

‘There’s nobody else. No relatives. She’s not very good with friends. She makes demands on them, but won’t make any effort in return.’

‘She made an effort with Diane Sharp.’

‘Diane paid her. Besides Mam liked Tom when he was a baby. She could make believe he was hers. She didn’t like him so much when he was old enough to answer back.’

‘You never answered back?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I never got the hang of it.’ She expected him to smile again, but he seemed quite serious.

‘How did you get on with the Sharps?’

‘At one point they were like family,’ he said and Vera thought that Diane had said almost the same thing. ‘It would have been easy to get sucked into all that. You know, the stuff they were into. But the bird-watching came along and that was a way out for me.’

‘And another sort of family.’

‘Aye,’ he said, grateful that she seemed to understand.

‘Do you have any idea what lies behind these murders? The flowers. The water.’ Of all the people, she thought he might have. He had the sort of mind which could see the patterns in things. The question came out before she’d considered whether it would be sensible to ask.

He sat for a moment, his eyelids blinking wildly behind the thick lenses of his glasses.