Ann Cleeves - Hidden Depths

He walked back to the drive, sat on the bank where the crocuses and snowdrops grew in spring and waited. He brushed the pollen and grass seed he’d picked up in the meadow from his trousers. His phone rang. She couldn’t hear it from the house, but she could see him answer. A sudden grin. Triumphant. More scary than when he’d been so cool in conversation with her. She thought she should phone Peter at work, warn him what was going on, but when she dialled his direct number at the university there was no reply. The raucous call of a cuckoo came from the kitchen clock. It was six o’clock. He would already have left. She struggled to remember what she had planned for supper, but the thought slipped from her mind and she returned to look out of the window.

James wandered down the drive. The girls from the farm must have been called in for tea. He was wearing shorts and his knees were filthy. The detective raised his hand in greeting and James sat beside him on the grass. He was curious now about what the stranger was doing here. They talked for a few minutes. Felicity thought they were getting on well. They seemed to be sharing a joke. Surely he must realize we wouldn’t commit murder We have a lovely son. Too much to lose. We’re nice, respectable people. People just like him.

James got to his feet and walked into the house. He disappeared from her view for a minute, then appeared in the kitchen. She thought, knowing the image was a silly exaggeration: He’s like a cold-war spy who’s come across from the other side. He might have valuable information. But he opened the fridge and peered inside as if it was any other evening. ‘I’m starving. When’s tea?’

‘Won’t be long.’ She tried to keep her voice even. ‘What were you and Mr Ashworth talking about?’

‘Is that his name?’ He was drinking orange juice straight from the carton. She restrained the urge to snap at him to fetch a glass. ‘He told me to call him Joe. He was asking me about Miss Marsh. What she was like as a teacher. How she got on with the kids in our class.’ His voice grew more excited. ‘They’re bringing in crime scene investigators to look at the cottage. Like on the television. There might be some trace in there to help them find out who killed Miss Marsh. Wait till I tell Lee Fenwick.’ Lee was his best friend and keenest rival. In winter they played chess together every evening.

She heard the faint sound of a vehicle turning in from the lane. She expected it to be Peter. Please keep your temper. Please be polite. He’s only doing his job. But it was a white van. A man and a woman jumped out, greeted Joe Ashworth as if he was an old friend. They pulled on the paper suits she’d seen in films and started lifting equipment from the back of the van.

James had forgotten about food. ‘Do you think I could go out and watch?’

‘No,’ she said sharply, then regretted her tone. Of course he was fascinated. So was she in a horrible, frightening way. ‘Won’t you get a better view from your bedroom?’

James ran off and she felt a sudden relief that she no longer had to pretend that everything was normal. When he’d opened the fridge she’d seen a bottle of white wine, started the night before, and realized she was desperate for a drink. She took it out, removed the vacuum stopper and poured herself a large glass. Her hand was shaking.

Back at the window she saw Peter’s car coming down the drive. His normal parking place had been taken by the van. She saw him get out and prepare to demand it was moved. Then he realized what was happening. He saw the two figures dressed in white walking across the meadow. Their weight was tilted towards each other, because of the heavy metal box they carried between them. Like James, he had watched enough television to understand what they were doing. Felicity saw Joe Ashworth approaching him, hand outstretched, but Peter hadn’t noticed. His focus was still on the cottage, the androgynous figures who had now reached the door. His face was very pale and still. My God, Felicity thought. He looks guilty. Guilty as hell. If I was Joe Ashworth I’d think he’d killed the girl.

She didn’t dare ask herself if she thought the same thing. The thought hovered at the back of her mind and she pushed it away, concentrated on the fish she’d cook for supper and on whether she should make sandwiches for Ashworth and his friends in the cottage. Now Peter and Ashworth were deep in conversation. They walked together towards the house. She prepared herself to be normal and welcoming, took a deep breath as the door opened.

Peter looked at her with the expression he put on when he’d received bad news, a paper rejected, a record dismissed. Aggrieved. She knew he wanted reassurance, but she didn’t have the heart to give it. In the end it was Ashworth who spoke.

‘Dr Calvert’s agreed to come to the station in Kimmerston to have a chat with DI Stanhope. A few points we want to clear up. It shouldn’t take long.’

She forced herself to smile. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I told you, anything we can do to help…’

Vera thought Ashcroft had made a mistake bringing Calvert in. The botanist was hardly likely to leave the country. She believed they were showing their hand too soon. Perhaps she’d made a mistake in phoning Ashworth to tell him that Charlie had found the antique shop in York where Lily’s ring had been bought. There was still no evidence that Calvert was the lover. An older man with an attractive young woman, the owner had said. Tall, fit for his age. That could describe a lot of people, including Samuel Parr. They’d found a photo of Calvert on the jacket of a textbook he’d written, but it had been published nearly twenty years before and his hair then had been longer and dark. No wonder it had sparked no recognition. If Calvert had been the man in the shop.

The ring had been bought in January and paid for with cash. The owner had drawn his own conclusions about that. ‘It’s not unusual. He wouldn’t want his wife finding it on his credit-card statements, would he?’ And perhaps that did point to Calvert. Samuel Parr no longer had a wife to check up on him.

‘Can you remember anything about the gentleman?’ Charlie had asked. Vera could imagine him standing in the smart shop, looking scruffy and out of place. York wouldn’t be Charlie’s sort of place at all. Except for the races. He’d be quite at home there.

And then the owner had come out with the one useful bit of information they’d got from him. ‘He was in town for some sort of conference. It was lunch-time and he said he had to go back for an afternoon session. The young lady didn’t like that at all. She was trying to persuade him to miss it. There wasn’t a row, not quite that. But a disagreement. That’s why I remember. And because she was such a beauty.’

Vera would have liked some confirmation that Calvert was at a conference in York before sitting opposite him in an interview room. She’d phoned everyone she could think of, but this time in the evening there was no one around to ask. She’d set Holly onto the internet, university websites, botanical societies, but most of the sites had been updated. There was no record now of an event which had happened six months earlier.

She made sure he was treated with respect. She didn’t want to waste time dealing with complaints and she wanted him to underestimate them. He’d give more away if he was feeling superior. At the last minute she asked Holly to join her in the interview room instead of Ashworth. Maybe Calvert would feel the need to show off in front of a pretty young woman. Among the rest of the team there was a bubbling excitement. They thought it was nearly all over.

She made coffee for Calvert – from her own supply, not the crap from the machine – and carried it through to the interview room.