Ann Cleeves - The Moth Catcher

‘He did go through the teenage rebellion thing?’ Vera reached out for more bread.

‘Well, you know, he slammed a few doors in his time.’ She paused. ‘Actually it was worse than that for a few years. He mixed with kids I didn’t really approve of. He even had a brush with the law. Drugs. Though I never told Patrick that. Patrick always thought of Simon as some sort of role-model. And Simon did pull his life around. He got into Oxford. He was very bright. Very ambitious. In the end, I think that was what caused the suicide. He could never live up to his own expectations. He’d only been there six months when he died.’ A pause. ‘I was careful not to put Patrick under any pressure academically.’

The waitress came in with their food. They ate without noticing what was on the plates.

‘You said that you liked Patrick’s girlfriends,’ Vera said. ‘Was there anyone special at the moment?’

‘He’d been in a relationship for three years. All the time that he was doing his PhD in Exeter. She was a medical student. Rebecca. They were living together, and I was imagining that they’d marry. I must admit that I’d started to think about the wedding, hoping for grandchildren.’ Alicia put down her cutlery and sat for a moment staring into space. There would be no grandchildren now. ‘Then a little while ago they separated.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Patrick wouldn’t talk about it, and that wasn’t like him. He came home for a month before he started house-sitting. He seemed a bit withdrawn and moody, but he didn’t even tell me that the relationship was over until I asked when Rebecca was coming to stay.’ Alicia paused. ‘I supposed that she’d finished with him, found someone else perhaps, and that he didn’t want to admit that he was hurting. The male-pride thing.’

‘We’ll need to talk to Rebecca,’ Vera said. ‘You’ll have her contact details. Perhaps you could give them to Holly here, when she drives you home.’

Alicia nodded. ‘I was tempted to speak to Rebecca myself when they separated. I even thought about coming up to Durham to meet her. But I knew Patrick would hate it if I interfered. And really it was none of my business. I just hated seeing him so unhappy.’

‘Was he still unhappy?’ Vera had finished her meal before the rest of them and sat back in her chair. She poured the last of the wine into Alicia’s glass. She wasn’t usually so moderate in her drinking, so Holly supposed Vera would be driving later. At least she wouldn’t have to taxi Vera home. ‘You’ll have been in touch with him since the two short contracts he did for the house-sitting agency. How did he seem?’

‘Better,’ Alicia said. ‘He was home for a month before he came north to Gilswick. He sulked around the house for a couple of weeks and spent hours in his room on his computer, but then he seemed to snap out of it. Become the old Patrick again. Though perhaps not quite. I asked him what the problem had been, but he didn’t want to talk to me.’

‘Did he catch moths when he was at home?’

‘Yes! He’s been doing that since he was about eight years old. We set up some traps in the orchard. One of the masters at his school was very keen, and a group of them became interested. I think Patrick’s the only one who’s maintained the passion.’ She gave a sad little smile. ‘I thought even when he was boy that he’d make a career of it, become an academic and continue his research.’

‘The second victim, an older man called Martin Benton, was passionate about moths too,’ Vera said. ‘It’s the only connection we can find between them. Do you recognize the name?’

‘No, but I wouldn’t do,’ Alicia said. ‘Patrick seemed mostly to communicate with other enthusiasts online. He had his own website and visited other people’s. There are separate lists for the different counties. It’s all rather esoteric. I could never get terribly interested, especially in the tiny moths – the micros – and they were Patrick’s favourites. Hard to identify, and a challenge.’

‘Martin Benton was a photographer.’ It was the first contribution Holly had made to the conversation. ‘His images are rather beautiful.’

‘I think Patrick was more interested in the science than the aesthetics,’ Alicia said. ‘He took pictures to help in identification. He’d put the moths in small jars in the fridge, because they’re still when they’re cold and easier to photograph. Then he let them go in the garden. He had no interest in collecting.’ She seemed lost for a moment in her memories. ‘But I suspect that he would have met Mr Benton, at least online. It’s a very small community.’ She looked up and her expression changed. Again the veneer of politeness shattered. ‘I need to know why somebody would have wanted my son dead. It’s the randomness of the brutality that makes it so hard to understand. I don’t even want vengeance. I just need to know what happened, and why.’ Her voice was scratchy, as if she had a throat infection or had been screaming.

‘And that’s what we want too.’ This time Vera did make contact. Alicia’s bony hand was lying on the table and Vera covered it with her big paw. ‘Can you let us have Patrick’s mobile number? We haven’t found his phone.’

‘Of course.’ The woman reeled off the number without having to check.

Holly looked in her notebook. It was the number Joe had taken from Benton’s landline. She caught Vera’s eye and gave a little nod.

Vera gave Alicia’s hand a little pat. ‘You’ll be tired with all that travelling. Holly will take you back now and we’ll catch up in the morning.’ She stood up and, obedient as children, both other woman followed.

It was dark outside. Vera came with them to the door, but didn’t follow them out. Alicia Randle took her place in the passenger seat and sat in silence, gripping her handbag on her knee, until they’d almost reached her hotel.

‘I’m glad that I met your boss,’ she said. ‘I think she’s a good woman.’

Holly thought for a moment. ‘She is.’ She paused. ‘And she’s a very good detective.’

Holly sat in the car outside her flat, overtaken by the exhaustion that had hit her at Alnmouth station. She felt as if she could sleep here in the street and not wake up until morning. At last she roused herself and climbed out of the vehicle. She let herself into the flat and stooped to pick up the post. In the kitchen she switched on the kettle.

The flat was new, in a recently built block on the site of a former fire station. Low-rise and discreet, its dark-red brick had been chosen to match the surrounding Edwardian houses in one of Newcastle’s more fashionable suburbs. Her apartment was at the back and looked over a cemetery. Most of the graves were old, covered with lichen and sheltered by mature trees, but occasionally there were funeral parties; elderly women dressed in black coats and hats shaped like mushrooms gathered around the newly dug hole in the ground, like crows around a roadkill rabbit.

Holly made some camomile tea and moved into the living room. It was square and uncluttered and she loved it. It had taken years of saving to get the deposit for the mortgage, but usually when she arrived here after work she didn’t begrudge a penny. This was where she could be calm and free from the irritations of work. She liked the silence, the lack of traffic noise, the sharp edges of the newly plastered walls and the sharp folds of the ironed linen sheets. She’d moved to the North-East because she thought a challenging place would be good for her career, and since moving to the flat she hadn’t considered leaving. Until now.

She seldom invited friends here. She preferred to meet in one of the restaurants and wine bars close to her home. Her friends were people she’d met at university or at the evening classes she took. She kept her distance from her colleagues. She enjoyed her own company. She set her tea on the glass table and went to close the blinds at the window. There was a moon now and the white light was shining on the marble headstones in the cemetery. It occurred to her that, at work and at home, she was surrounded by the dead.