Ann Cleeves - The Moth Catcher

‘Can you think of anyone he might have confided in?’

Alicia shook her head. ‘At one time I’d have said Rebecca, his girlfriend, but as I told you last night, they’d separated. There were colleagues, people at the university. I don’t think he was particularly close to them, though. They shared a passion for Lepidoptera, but not much else.’

‘Does Rebecca know that Patrick is dead?’

‘Not from me! I suppose she might have seen it in the media. Of course I should have phoned her.’ The woman seemed distraught. ‘How dreadful not to have thought of that!’

‘I’m sure she’ll understand,’ Holly said. ‘Would you like me to tell her?’

‘Oh, please do. Pass on my apologies. Tell her I’ll be in touch. She might like to come to the funeral.’ Alicia’s voice tailed away.

‘Have you had any thoughts about that?’ Holly thought how hard it must be to plan a funeral for a child. Somehow it was unnatural for a son to die before his mother. Two sons.

‘I’ll bury him in the churchyard in the village, next to his brother,’ Alicia said. ‘They never met, but I know that’s where Patrick would like to be.’ She looked at her watch. ‘The train won’t arrive for half an hour, but would you mind driving me to the station, please? I’m afraid I’m not very good company, and I’d rather be there in plenty of time. Punctuality has always been an obsession. Patrick used to tease me about it.’

At the station Holly got out of the car and shook the woman’s hand. With anyone else she would have been less formal, put an arm around her shoulder, taken a hand, but she knew Alicia Randle wouldn’t want that. ‘Shall I wait with you?’

‘No, no.’ It sounded as if the woman was horrified by the thought and Holly understood. Alicia was close to tears and wanted to sit on the empty platform and cry in peace.

Back in the police station in Kimmerston, Holly tried to track down Rebecca Brown, Patrick’s ex-girlfriend. The number that Alicia had given them over dinner was unavailable. She was about to call the university in Exeter when Vera wandered up to her desk. ‘Can you sort out a media release, Hol? I’d like to get it out for the lunchtime news. If there was a stranger in the valley, somebody must have seen him, and the canvassers have come up with bugger-all so far. Let’s appeal to all the nosy stay-at-homes in the surrounding villages and the people who were walking on the hills or along the burn. We need details of any unfamiliar cars or people. I’ve still got teams out there, but we need a wider hit.’

Holly nodded and replaced the phone. The call to the university would have to wait.

‘How was Alicia Randle?’ Vera leaned against the desk. The fat on her backside spread inside her Crimplene skirt, made it bulge. Holly found herself fascinated by it.

‘Very brave,’ Holly replied. ‘She said it was easier to grieve for Patrick than for her first son. Less complicated. He couldn’t be in any way to blame.’

‘Let’s hope that’s true.’ Vera slid away from the desk, leaving Holly to wonder exactly what she meant.

Later, when the media release had been sent to the press office for approval, Holly tried again to track down Patrick’s former girlfriend. The woman at the end of the phone in Exeter University’s school of medicine was cautious. ‘Give me your number and I’ll call you back. You could be the press.’

The phone rang half an hour later and the university admin officer had all the information Holly needed. ‘Rebecca Brown’s at home with her parents in County Durham.’ She read out the address. ‘It’s still the Easter holidays and she won’t be back at the university until the middle of next week. This is her mobile number.’ She finished the call without asking any questions. Holly couldn’t tell if she was very busy or very discreet.

A male voice answered Rebecca’s mobile. ‘Who is it?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘Becky’s not up to talking now.’ He sounded angry.

Holly supposed this meant that Rebecca had seen the news about Patrick’s death and had been upset by it. She introduced herself. ‘And who are you?’ Keeping the question polite.

‘I’m her brother. The press have tracked her down. So-called friends must have told them she knew Patrick. It’s been a nightmare. We’re worried that if someone doesn’t answer her phone, they’ll just turn up on the doorstep.’

‘We’ll need to talk to her, I’m afraid. Can I come there?’

There was a pause and Holly heard a muffled conversation in the background. ‘When do you want to come?’

‘Now,’ she said. ‘If that’s all right.’ She thought again that she’d be glad to escape the office and Kimmerston.

The young protector at the end of the phone agreed and gave directions.

The Browns lived in a small market town on the edge of the Durham moors. Once it must have been prosperous. There were grand Georgian houses and an impressive town hall stood on the market square. Now, though, many of the shops in the main street had been closed and were boarded up, and even in the sunshine it had an air of desolation. The Browns lived in one of the big merchants’ houses close to the square. By the time Holly arrived it was late afternoon. The market was closing down, the stallholders folding tarpaulins and clearing tables. Cauliflower leaves and overripe tomatoes littered the cobbles. There was no sign that the press had tracked down Rebecca’s address, and the street outside the house was quiet.

The door was opened by a young man who must have been close to Patrick Randle in age and a little older than his own sister. ‘I’m George. Mum and Dad are out. Dad’s a GP and he’s still at the surgery. Mum’s just gone into town to visit a friend. Becky’s in here.’

It was a big family kitchen looking out over an untidy garden, and a young woman sat in the window-seat looking out. She was big-boned, tall and blonde. When she saw Holly she stood up. Her eyes were red from crying, but she managed a smile. ‘Sorry I’m in such a state. I can tell George thinks I’m being a bit of a drama-queen. It sounds like something out of a women’s mag, but Patrick really was the love of my life. I can’t believe he’s dead.’ A pause. ‘That someone killed him.’ She sat back down, but now she faced into the room.

‘Had you heard from him recently?’ Holly took a kitchen chair. The room looked as if it had been furnished by individual purchases from auctions. Lots of beautiful pieces, but nothing coordinated. Holly thought she wouldn’t have been able to stand the clash of colours and the clutter. It would bring on a migraine. She’d need to clear the place and start from the beginning.

‘There was a cryptic text a week ago.’ Becky pulled out her phone. ‘I’ve saved it, of course. It says: Nearly fit to be your friend again. If you can forgive me. ’

‘What did you take that to mean?’

‘That whatever project had taken up the whole of his head for nearly a year was complete.’ Becky looked up at her. ‘That he was planning to come back to me.’

‘And you’d have had him back?’ Holly wouldn’t have considered returning to a failed relationship. It would never work and anyway she had too much pride.

‘Of course. I’ve told you he was the love of my life. But I couldn’t be with him as he was. Semi-detached. Obsessed with strange conspiracy theories.’

‘What sort of theories?’

Becky shrugged. ‘At first I thought it was about his work. Some scientists are haunted by the thought that another researcher will publish before them or steal their data. And Pat’s stuff was quite topical. There are still climate-change deniers, and his findings would have made their position seem even more ludicrous. He was always passionate about his work.’