Ann Cleeves - The Moth Catcher

‘Did it live up to expectations?’

‘At first. Nigel loved planning the renovations to the house. Now, I’m not sure. He’s used to the challenge of problems at work. Having the power to take decisions.’ She looked at Vera. ‘He’s just been accepted to be a magistrate. He’ll be good, I think. He’s got all the right experience. That might help give his day a bit of focus and make him feel more useful. I encouraged him to give it a go. At the moment I can tell he’s bored, fidgety, looking for projects. He doesn’t say, because he knows I love it here. It’s a beautiful place to die.’

‘When did you find out that the illness had come back?’

‘Six months ago. I still had to go for regular checks. At first everything seemed fine; then it seemed that, despite the surgery, they hadn’t got rid of the tumour. It’s spread. It’s just moved into my spine. They’ve offered more chemo, but there’s no chance of a complete cure. I’d just be buying a bit more time. I feel remarkably well at the moment, and I’d much rather enjoy the life that I have than keep dragging back to the hospital for unpleasant treatments. Inconvenient and time-consuming, and taking more than the life I’d gain.’

Vera thought she’d probably have made the same decision. ‘But you decided not to tell Nigel?’

‘He’d be devastated. And as you said, he’d kill me with his fussing. I will tell him, but when I’ve reached a state when I can’t pretend any longer.’

‘Isn’t it a strain, all this pretence?’

Lorraine gave a little laugh. ‘All couples pretend about something. We’d go mad if we were honest all the time. Successful relationships are made up of white lies, small attempts at flattery, aren’t they? We want our partners to be happy, so we tell them the stories they want to hear.’

There was a sound in the house below. The front door opening. ‘That’ll be Nigel back from the village. You won’t tell him, will you?’

‘Not unless I have to.’ Vera couldn’t see how Lorraine’s illness could be relevant to the inquiry, except that it gave an insight into a relationship she’d previously struggled to understand.

They went downstairs together. Nigel was still in the hall. ‘I was just showing the inspector my studio,’ Lorraine said. ‘She was wondering what I might see from the window. I told her only the neighbours’ gardens.’

The words came easily. She even sounder brighter, less tired. Vera hoped that the other residents of Valley Farm weren’t such proficient liars. Otherwise she shouldn’t believe anything that she’d been told.

Holly had moths on her mind. She’d been reading up about them in the brief time she’d had at home the night before. Sitting on the sofa with her laptop on her knee, drinking mugs of camomile tea, she’d stared at photos. There were huge creatures as big as butterflies, brightly coloured and fascinating, tiny micros that you could only identify by studying their genitalia under a microscope. It had come to her suddenly on the drive home that they’d forgotten about the part moths played in the case. They shouldn’t forget the natural-history connection. It had been more than a shared interest for Randle and Benton: more like a passion or an obsession for both of them. The set traps in the Gilswick Hall garden suggested that moths had drawn the first two victims together.

Now, back at her desk in the station, she was continuing the search. This was the sort of work Holly did well, and she found herself relaxing as she checked photo credits and the names at the head of abstracts for scientific journals. It was still early and the office was calm. The reward came with a question on an enthusiasts’ website. The heading was Query from a beginner and there was a request for assistance with a detail of identification. The query had come from J. Hewarth . Holly found herself grinning. She walked through the busy open-plan office to Vera’s room, but the door was shut and nobody was there. Holly knew it was pathetic, but she felt ridiculously disappointed that she couldn’t share the information now, wouldn’t have the immediate payback of a hoot of pleasure from the fat woman and a shouted ‘Great work, Hol’ in front of the whole team.

Back at her desk, she looked at the website in more detail. It hadn’t been recently updated and the query was several years old. Holly had assumed the moth-hunter had been Jonathan, but thought now perhaps Jack had taken up the hobby. She looked at the clock on the office wall. Eight o’clock. By the time she arrived at their house it wouldn’t be an unreasonable time to call on Shirley’s next of kin.

She drove through Kimmerston to a background sound of church bells. The streets were empty but for a small group of elderly women in flowery dresses on their way to Morning Prayer. The Hewarths’ house seemed quiet and the upstairs curtains were drawn, but when Holly knocked, the door was opened by a woman in her forties. Blonde from a bottle, but with the colour professionally applied. Curvy, well dressed, in a rather showy way. Make-up, a chunky necklace and a gold bangle. Bare legs covered with a smooth fake tan and sandals with small heels. Over her shoulders a cardigan and in her hand a leather bag. Jack Hewarth’s new wife was on her way to work.

Holly introduced herself. ‘Is your husband in? And Jonathan?’

‘They’re in. Not sure if they’re awake. They were up late last night talking about Shirley. You know… I thought they probably needed time to remember her, so I left them to it. Just give them a shout. You won’t need me, will you? Only I’ve got a shop in Front Street and I’m the only key-holder. We open at ten on Sunday, but I need to be there to get set up.’

She was friendly and warm, and Holly, who had dismissed her as a tarty airhead, felt a moment of shame. The woman’s heels clopped over the pavement as she walked to her car with her keys in her hand. It was a pleasant, tree-lined street of large 1930s semis. Respectable. Polished cars stood in the drives. From the neighbouring property there was already the sound of a vacuum cleaner. A jogger moved easily along the pavement. Holly thought Joe Ashworth would love to live in a street like this. She supposed the house had belonged to Mandy; perhaps she’d been married before too. It wasn’t the home of a single woman.

Inside there was no sign of life. Ahead of her an open door led to a tidy kitchen and a window looking out over a garden. ‘Hello!’ No response. Holly walked through to the kitchen and looked outside. The garden was narrow and long and beautifully tended. Borders had been freshly weeded. Close to the house a patio with tables and chairs. At the far end the square contraption that she recognized as a moth trap. For the first time since she’d got the call about the murders in Gilswick she remembered why she’d joined the police service. She heard footsteps on the ceiling above her and went back to the foot of the stairs. ‘Hello! Is anyone there? Your wife let me in.’

‘Just a sec.’

The splash of water, the scuffle of clothes being put on and Jack appeared at the top of the stairs. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked more grey and scruffy than at their meeting the previous day. Holly assumed that father and son had spent much of the night before drinking farewell to Shirley Hewarth.

‘I need coffee. Sorry, I didn’t hear the door.’

‘How’s Jonathan?’

Hewarth shrugged. ‘He’s a good lad. He’ll survive. But he’s sad. In shock. Only natural.’ He switched on the kettle and spooned ground coffee into a pot. ‘So am I. I was a journalist before I retired. Covered stories like this all the time. But then they were just stories. I never thought I’d live through one. I’m surprised the press aren’t still camped out on the pavement.’ He gave a hard little laugh. ‘They’ve got no staying power these days.’