Ann Cleeves - The Moth Catcher

‘I wonder if I might come to visit you?’

‘When?’ The veneer of politeness was being slowly eaten away by grief.

‘As soon as possible.’ Vera thought if she could get a decent pool car and start at once she could be there in five hours. ‘I’d like to come today.’

‘If you have news, Inspector, you could give it over the telephone.’ The voice was icy. Perhaps Alicia didn’t want her pleasant home, and all the memories of her son as a boy, sullied by the arrival of the woman who was investigating his death. But surely her elder son had already contaminated the place by committing suicide there.

‘There’s been another suspicious death,’ Vera said. ‘We think it might be related to Patrick’s murder. I know this a difficult time, but I have to talk to you.’

When she put down the phone Vera felt suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. In a conversation with Alicia Randle every word had to be chosen with care. She picked up her bag and went out to the open-plan office. ‘Charlie, you’re with me. I need you to share the driving. We can’t have the North-East losing its best detective because she’s fallen asleep at the wheel. Let’s go and see how the other half lives.’

She slept most of the way and woke when they had pulled off the motorway and had started driving down country roads. The satnav had a posh southern voice not very different from Alicia Randle’s. The hedges were high and lush and everything seemed very green. In cottage gardens and orchards, fruit trees were already in blossom. There was a village with ancient black-and-white houses tilted towards a green and a squat stone church.

‘Eh, pet!’ As soon as she’d spoken Vera wondered if she were emphasizing the accent because she was nervous, very much out of her comfort zone. ‘It’s all very Midsomer , isn’t it?’

Charlie chortled, but she saw that he was very tired. ‘You have a kip in the car while I talk to her. Probably best not to go in mob-handed anyway.’

The house had once been a rectory. It was old redbrick and seemed to hold the heat of the afternoon sun. There was a garden, not as big or as organized as that of the Hall at Gilswick, but plenty of space to keep the neighbours at bay. For a small child to set his moth traps. There was long grass in an orchard that still had a rope-swing tied to one of the trees. Vera thought of Simon, the boy who’d committed suicide, and thought she’d have got rid of that. It reminded her too much of a gallows. But perhaps Alicia had been looking forward and was still thinking of a grandchild. There’d be no hope of that now.

Alicia had a man with her. ‘This is Henry.’ Her lover and intended husband. He was just as Vera would have expected: tall, grey-haired, distinguished. He spoke with the sort of voice that had once commanded obedience through half the globe. And it seemed he had been a diplomat of some sort. ‘I was posted to every continent in the world, but I’ve never been to north-east England. Shameful, I know.’ Then he gave a little laugh that made Vera think that he wasn’t ashamed at all.

They had tea outside on the lawn. Scones that Alicia must have knocked up while she was waiting for Vera to arrive. Unless she had someone to help her in the house. Vera couldn’t quite imagine her cleaning her own toilets.

‘How can we help you, Inspector?’

‘I’d prefer to talk to you on your own, Mrs Randle. If you’d be comfortable with that.’ It was more a way of Vera establishing that she was in charge of the situation than because she objected to the man’s presence.

The diplomatic Henry was already on his feet. ‘Of course, Inspector, I do understand. There are procedures to follow.’ He rested a hand on Alicia’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be inside if you need me.’

‘What is all this about, Inspector? Henry’s been helping me to organize the funeral. Patrick had so many friends. We’re trying to track them down, and most of them will need places to stay.’ Alicia was finding her own way of coping with her son’s death by focusing on detail. Keeping busy. Now she sounded a little petulant and overwrought.

‘I explained that there’d been another murder.’ Vera took another scone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Charlie would be starving too. She’d treat him to a pile of grease, in the services on the way back. ‘Apparently there was no connection between Patrick and the new victim. She was a retired probation officer called Shirley Hewarth.’ Vera looked for a reaction, some sign that the name was familiar, but Alicia just seemed confused. Vera continued, ‘Shirley had moved into the voluntary sector and worked for an organization called Hope North-East.’

Still no flicker of recognition. ‘So you’ve come all this way to tell me that my son’s death was completely random and meaningless – the act of a psychopath. That doesn’t bring any comfort, Inspector, and you could have told me that over the phone. I’d rather you were spending your time finding the killer, before he commits another act of violence.’ Alicia picked up her cup and sipped at the tea.

The sun was still hot and the sound of wood-pigeons in the trees reminded Vera of childhood summers and made her feel drowsy. She forced herself to concentrate. ‘I said that apparently there was no link, but in fact we have found a connection between Patrick and our new victim.’ A pause. ‘At least between this place and the new victim.’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but you’ll have to explain. I don’t understand.’ That iciness again, as if the failure was entirely Vera’s for not being sufficiently clear.

‘We know that Shirley Hewarth received a letter from this village just over a month ago. We don’t have the letter itself, but there was a postmark and date stamp on the envelope.’

Alicia set down her cup. She was struggling for control. Glancing back at the house, Vera saw that Henry was standing by an open French window staring out at them.

‘What are you saying, Inspector?’

‘That somebody living in Wychbold wrote to Shirley Hewarth.’ Vera looked up. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence to suppose that any of the other residents were connected to a woman murdered so soon after your son. Did you write to her?’

There was a moment’s pause. Alicia’s gaze turned to Henry, who was still looking out across the lawn, but he was too far away to help her. ‘No! Of course not. I’ve never heard of her.’

‘Then I must assume that the correspondent was Patrick.’ Vera knew she sounded pompous, but this woman brought out the worst in her. She had always been chippy around the landed classes. Something to do with her father, Hector, being disinherited by his family. ‘You don’t know why Patrick might have written to a woman running a small charity for ex-offenders in south-east Northumberland?’

‘No! I can’t imagine why he would have written to anybody. The young don’t, do they, these days? It’s all email and texting. I never receive a letter now, not even from my older friends.’

Vera thought the woman had a point. What did the post van deliver to her door these days? Bills and the occasional Christmas card from relatives she’d lost touch with years ago. She thought they should find out when Shirley Hewarth last had a birthday; perhaps Patrick had sent her a card. ‘Could I look at Patrick’s room?’

Alicia looked horrified. Vera saw that she considered the request as a violation. She couldn’t imagine the large and ugly detective in her son’s space. Or perhaps she was frightened what they might find there. Did she worry that her golden boy might have been fragile and damaged, like her first son?

‘I haven’t been in since Patrick died,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t face it.’