Ann Cleeves - The Moth Catcher

Annie Redhead was making biscuits. A fat woman in a dreadful coat had just come out of the Lucas house and was sitting in her car making a phone call. Annie wondered if she had anything to do with the death of the Randle boy. Surely she must do. Could she be a reporter? They’d been bothered by the press a few times after Lizzie was sent away.

The biscuits were made with dried ginger and golden syrup and the kitchen was full of the smell of them. She lifted a tray out of the cooker and prised each biscuit onto a wire tray to cool and harden. She and Sam couldn’t possibly eat them all and she’d give most of them away to the neighbours, but baking reminded her of the old life, before they’d come back to Gilswick. When they’d run the restaurant, she’d made tiny pieces of shortbread or brownie to go with after-dinner coffee. Otherwise Sam had never allowed her into his kitchen.

There was a sound of an engine. She looked out of the window again, but the woman was still there, still talking into her phone. The sound was made by Sam’s car turning into the yard. Every morning he went down to the village to soak up the news and collect his paper, and now he was back. He must have seen the stranger, but he didn’t acknowledge her. He’d never been one for confrontation. That was why they were living here, miles from anywhere, and why Annie was making biscuits for entertainment.

The door opened and Sam walked in as if he didn’t really have the right to take up the space. The way he always walked into a room. She stooped to put another baking tray into the oven and felt the strain on her hip as she stood up. She should lose some weight. If it came to it and she needed a hip replacement, it wouldn’t do to be carrying all this fat. ‘All right?’

He smiled. ‘I met Gordon in the shop. He sent his love.’

‘That’s nice.’ Gordon had been the postman when they’d first married and lived in the valley the first time. He’d seemed ancient even then and it was hard to believe that he was still alive.

‘Percy was there.’

She looked up sharply. ‘Any more news about what’s been going on at the Hall?’

‘Perce reckons there are two people dead. The lad that he found in the ditch and another in the house.’

‘Not the major? Or Mrs C?’

Sam shook his head. ‘Can’t be, can it? They’re visiting their boy in Australia.’ He folded his newspaper on the table so that he could read it. He did the same every morning, and Annie switched on the kettle for tea. That was their ritual. Tea and the crossword.

Sam looked up. ‘Who’s in that car in the yard?’

‘I don’t know. She’s been in next door.’

And that was when the doorbell rang and, glancing through the window, she saw that the fat woman was standing on their step.

Annie went to open the door. She thought again that she’d always done the front-of-house. That had never been Sam’s style and she was quite surprised to see him, still in his seat, when she led the strange woman into the kitchen. She’d almost expected him to have scuttled upstairs.

‘Eh, this is a lovely house.’ The woman was even bigger than Annie. She stood in the middle of the kitchen and, unlike Sam, seemed to expand to fit the room, to suck all the extra space into her body. ‘Cosier than that great palace next door. I’m Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. You’ll likely have been expecting me.’

‘Aren’t you Hector’s daughter?’

The women turned to look at Sam. Clearly the question had surprised them both.

‘For my sins,’ Vera said. ‘Did you know him?’

‘Knew of him.’

‘He didn’t have many friends,’ the detective said. ‘Lots of acquaintances. Through his business. You weren’t one of those?’

Sam shook his head slowly.

‘That’s all right then. They were an unsavoury lot.’

Annie looked at them for some explanation, but none was forthcoming. She’d have to ask Sam later. She made tea and put some of the biscuits that had cooled onto a plate. Remembered just in time to take the others out of the oven.

‘So how can we help you?’ Annie realized that her voice was sharp, but she wanted this over. Vera Stanhope seemed to have no urgency, and Annie didn’t like having the detective in her house. It made her uneasy.

‘Two murders,’ Vera said. ‘Not what you’d expect in a place like this. A disturbing time. I’m sure you want to help.’ Then she fired a question at Sam. ‘What business were you in then, before you retired?’

‘We had a little restaurant,’ he said. ‘On the square at Kimmerston.’

‘Annie’s!’ She beamed. ‘Of course. I ate there myself a couple of times. If there was a special occasion. You had a great reputation with the foodies.’

Annie found herself smiling. She knew this fat woman was trying to get her onside, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘That was Sam. He was the chef.’

Sam shrugged. ‘It’s all in the ingredients.’ Which is what he’d always said when he got a compliment for his cooking.

‘Why did you sell up?’ The detective again. As much tact as a tank.

Annie got in before Sam had to answer. ‘It’s a tough business,’ she said. ‘Long hours. We wanted some time for ourselves before we got too old.’

‘Very sensible,’ Vera said, though Annie couldn’t imagine this woman would ever retire. Vera paused for a moment to drink her tea. ‘Did you ever meet the dead lad? They called him Patrick Randle and he was the house-sitter at the Hall.’

‘I met him a couple of times,’ Sam said. He didn’t usually volunteer information and Annie thought he wasn’t as intimidated by the detective as she was. Perhaps that was because he’d known Vera’s dad. He was always more comfortable with folk who’d grown up in the hills. ‘In the post office in the village. We got talking. You know how it is, waiting in the queue.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Nice enough.’ A pause. ‘Canny.’

‘Eh, man, that doesn’t tell me anything. I’ve never met him and it’d help to have your opinion.’

Sam tried again. ‘Just the sort of lad the Carswells would ask to look after their house. Pleasant and polite. He could have been a friend of their son’s.’

‘Was he a friend of the son’s?’

‘Not as far as I know. But they could have mixed in the same circles. Posh school. University. You know.’

Vera nodded. ‘You got kids?’

‘A daughter,’ Annie said, not looking at Sam. ‘Lizzie. She’s working away at the moment.’

Annie felt Vera’s eyes on her. They seemed to bore through her skull and into her brain and her memory. Annie held her breath, expecting more questions about Lizzie, knowing that she’d find it impossible to lie to this woman again. Besides, the detective would be able to find out all about their daughter, if she really wanted to know. Lizzie , she thought as she had so many times before, where did we go wrong?

But the inspector had a different question. ‘This Patrick Randle, did you ever meet him, Annie?’

‘Not to speak to. I saw him a couple of times in the lane, walking the dogs.’

‘There was a second murder,’ Vera said. ‘A bit of a mystery. We can’t imagine what the victim was doing in the flat in the big house. His name’s Martin Benton, a middle-aged chap. Apparently he’d lived in Kimmerston all his life. Worked as a teacher most of the time. Single. Does that mean anything to you?’

Annie shot a look at Sam.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, ‘but as I get older, names don’t mean so much.’

Vera barked, a sound that was a cough mixed with a laugh. ‘I’m just the same, pet. It’s a nightmare in my work. But have a think, will you? Ask around.’ She paused. ‘We’re wondering if Patrick Randle might have employed Benton in some capacity. It seems as if he’d just set up his own business. Any idea what that could be about?’