Ann Cleeves - A Lesson in Dying

‘Was he local?’

‘From Monkseaton I think. He was a trainee manager in a carpet factory. Angela gave up work in the nursing home as soon as she was married. Everyone knew she hated it. I don’t think David was happy in his work either because he packed it all in when he left Angela.’

‘When was that?’

‘Soon after Claire was born. I don’t know what he’s doing now.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re a mine of information. Considering you don’t know her very well.’

She realized he was laughing at her. ‘I know it’s all gossip,’ she said.

‘I was being serious,’ he said. ‘ Really. You’ve been a great help.’

‘There is something else,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Medburn used to help out at the old people’s home. She’d go in at weekends to be in charge so that Angela’s mother could get away. That’s probably how Angela first met Harold.’

It seemed to him then that the whole village was in some way related and that the relationships were so tenuous, complex and informal that he would never untangle them. It occurred to him that he might be keen to accept Matthew Carpenter as the murderer because the teacher was an outsider and then the whole thing would be less complicated. As he had told Patty, it was important to keep an open mind.

‘Will you talk to her?’ he said. ‘ Just as a neighbour. Don’t ask any specific questions, but if you come across anything suspicious let me know.’

‘It’s awkward,’ she said. ‘We’re not particularly friendly.’

‘But you’ll try?’ It was an echo of Hannah’s plea for help. ‘ She’ll not talk to me.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’ She was angry with herself because she agreed so easily. What was she? A mother to them all? The maternal responsibility of curing ills and making things better seemed an awful burden. But she was good at nothing else. It was all she could do.

It was odd to walk out of the dark, humid pub with its wood panels into broad daylight. It should have been evening, yet it was only half past one. There were two and a half hours before she needed to collect the children from school. She did not relish the thought of an interview with Angela Brayshaw and decided it would be better done now. She would get it over. But when she knocked on the glossy, green door it opened immediately and Angela stood on the threshold, her coat fastened, handbag and keys in her hand, obviously on her way out.

‘What do you want?’ she asked. She seemed more confident than on their previous encounter, looking at Patty with an amused superiority. Medburn’s death must have shocked her, Patty thought, but she was getting over it now.

‘Nothing special,’ Patty said lamely. ‘I just wondered how you were.’

‘You came for a nose about Harold’s money,’ Angela said. ‘ I expect everyone in Heppleburn’s talking about it. Well I can’t give you any details. I don’t know yet how much it’ll be.’

‘No,’ Patty said. ‘It wasn’t that.’ But she knew how unconvincing she must sound.

‘I’m going out,’ Angela said, ‘to spend my money. I haven’t time to gossip.’ She set off quickly down the pavement, her keys still in her hand, towards the block of garages which were grouped at the end of the street. At the bottom of the road she turned and gave a cheerful almost pitying wave.

Later Patty was not sure what had prompted her to phone Burnside. Perhaps it was to prove to Angela Brayshaw that she could not be so easily dismissed. Perhaps it was because she thought Ramsey would be pleased. She looked up the number as soon as she got home, then dialled, without having time for nervousness or second thoughts.

The phone rang for a short time then a woman answered. Patty did not recognize the voice but knew it was not Mrs Mount.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘This is Mrs Atkins. I’m phoning about the care assistant’s vacancy advertized in the post office window.’

Patty wondered before phoning whether she should use her real name, but decided that Mrs Mount would not recognize it. Even if she had heard that Jack had been asking questions in the village she would not know Patty’s married name and was unlikely to connect the two.

‘Just one moment.’ The woman spoke in a strained, affected voice which she obviously saved for the telephone, because Patty heard her lapse into accent to say: ‘Mrs Mount, there’s a Mrs Atkins on the phone about the vacancy.’ There was a whispered conversation then the woman said: ‘Mrs Atkins? Could you come in for an interview this afternoon? Mrs Mount is available to see you today.’

‘Yes,’ Patty said, rather alarmed by the immediate result of the call. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

It took her that long to make herself presentable. All her tights had holes in and her skirt needed ironing. If she were going to go through with the interview, she thought, she would have to play the part properly. She had always enjoyed drama at school. She drove to Burnside. The road was empty and the afternoon was very still. The trees were almost bare and the detail of the branches was sharp against the clear sky. There were threads of mist in the valley near the stream. She drove through the massive privet hedges which shielded the house from the road and parked on the gravel. She had never seen beyond the hedge before and was surprised by the ugliness of the house.

The interview was more formal than Patty had expected. She knew that Mrs Mount needed staff quickly and had thought there would be a pleasant chat about Patty’s attitude to old people. Instead she was asked to wait in a hall, decorated with brown wallpaper and where there was no natural light, until Mrs Mount was ready to see her. As she waited she grew nervous as if she really wanted employment and began to rehearse what she would say. She looked into the residents’ lounge, where an assistant was lifting a fat old man into a wheelchair, and wondered if she would have the patience for the work. Eventually she was shown into Mrs Mount’s room.

Angela’s mother sat behind a desk. She was wearing a blue blouse with a large bow and Patty thought she had chosen it to look like Mrs Thatcher. Her lacquered hair was shiny and hard as a helmet.

‘Sit down, Mrs Atkins,’ she said, and smiled.

Patty sat on a small wooden chair. Behind her a budgerigar began to mutter to itself. She wondered what she was doing there. How could it help to find out who had killed Medburn and Paul Wilcox?

‘So you’d like to work at Burnside?’ Mrs Mount asked.

‘Yes,’ Patty said. She grinned and tried to look enthusiastic.

‘Do you live locally?’ She spoke slowly, as if to a backward child.

‘Yes,’ Patty said. ‘On the new estate. Quite close to your daughter.’ The woman’s patronizing attitude was starting to annoy her.

Mrs Mount looked at her sharply.

‘Do you know Angela?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Patty said. ‘ She suggested that I should apply for the job. She said she thought I would fit in here.’

‘Oh?’ Mrs Mount said, her face still rigid with the habitual smile. ‘I wonder what she meant by that.’

‘I think she meant that I would have the flexibility to do what was needed.’

Mrs Mount was becoming less sure of herself. She felt there was some significance behind Patty’s words she had failed to understand, that she might even be the object of a veiled sarcasm. She changed the subject.

‘Have you any nursing qualifications?’ she asked. ‘Of course we prefer our staff to be qualified.’

‘No,’ Patty said. ‘ I worked in an office before I had the children.’

‘Any experience of nursing the elderly?’

‘Not exactly,’ Patty said. ‘ I looked after my mother. She was very ill but she was only fifty-eight when she died. I helped the district nurse when she came to treat her.’