Ann Cleeves - The Moth Catcher

‘That he might write something one day,’ O’Kane said. ‘That he had a brilliant story to tell. But that wasn’t why he’d come to Gilswick.’

‘Did he tell you what had brought him to the place?’ Vera found she was holding her breath.

‘Not really. He said he was doing his own kind of research.’

‘Did he mention Martin Benton?’

O’Kane shook his head. ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’

‘Can you tell us anything else at all about your conversation?’ Vera was losing hope that she’d gain anything useful from the man. She looked out of the window. There was still a fine rain blocking the view of the garden.

‘He said he was going to set some moth traps under the trees here. He invited me to come down one night and see what he’d caught. I said I’d like that. I wasn’t really bothered, but it sounded like a diversion. And he was so keen. It seemed a real passion. I could tell it would please him.’

Joe sat next to Vera in the kitchen at the Hall and watched her perform. This was a masterclass in witness interrogation. The individuals who’d seemed little more than puppets previously – the dutiful wife, the jolly husband, the dying artist, the grumpy academic – seemed to become real in front of his eyes. Her words blew life into them. He resented the skill, which seemed to come to Vera so easily.

When John O’Kane had left the room Vera sat back in her chair. ‘What did you make of that? Not just the professor, but the whole bunch.’

‘It makes the “retired hedonist” thing sound a bit hollow,’ Holly said. ‘A sham. They all seem pretty miserable.’

‘The effect of having three murders on your doorstep, do you think?’ Vera was bright-eyed. She knew she’d conducted the discussions brilliantly. ‘You can see that might be a bit of a downer.’

‘If anything, you get the sense that the killings just provided some relief from the boredom.’ Holly was looking down at her notes. ‘Janet O’Kane seemed genuinely upset, though.’

‘What have you got to contribute, Joe?’

He turned to his boss and his mind emptied, all rational thought flushed away. Sometimes Vera had that effect. He’d described the experience to Sal and she’d laughed. ‘Sounds like a kind of intellectual enema,’ she’d said. ‘Like colonic irrigation, only of the brain.’ Now the vacuum in Joe’s mind didn’t seem so funny.

‘They all had some contact with Jason Crow, even if it was only through his company,’ he mumbled at last. ‘Seems another weird kind of coincidence.’ He knew his offering was pathetic.

‘Aye, well, you know what I think about coincidence…’ Vera looked at her watch. ‘Where are Annie and Sam? And it’d be good to chat to the terrible Lizzie, if she’s there too. I’d like to meet her for myself. You did phone and ask them to get their arses down here?’

‘They were out,’ Joe said. ‘I left a message on their answerphone.’

‘Well, phone again. Let’s talk to them while I’m on a roll. And if there’s nobody there now, try their mobile number. With a fair wind, we could have this over by this time tomorrow.’ She shut her eyes. A fat, complacent Buddha, keeping her own counsel and her thoughts about the case to herself.

Joe went outside to ring the Redheads. He’d visited a demented elderly aunt in a care home once and the calls of the woodpigeons in the trees sounded like the moaning of old people there. Gentle and plaintive. He stood in the shelter of the house. Through the window he saw that Vera hadn’t moved. There was no reply from the Redheads’ house phone and so he tried Annie’s mobile. She answered immediately, obviously not recognizing his number. ‘Yes?’ The voice almost panicky.

He explained that the inspector would like to see them in the big house at their earliest convenience.

‘We’re in Newcastle for the day, Sergeant. I’m afraid we won’t be back until later this afternoon. That is alright? Nothing else has happened?’

‘No, nothing else.’ Because what more could he say? Vera might have demanded their presence, but he couldn’t insist that they return to Gilswick immediately just to suit her. Annie was about to end the call. ‘Perhaps we could talk to your daughter?’ he said. ‘Will she be at home?’

‘No.’ The answer came quickly. ‘She’s visiting friends in Kimmerston. And I don’t know how Lizzie can help you. She wasn’t even here when these dreadful things happened. I think you should leave her alone.’

They ended up in the pub for a late lunch. Joe thought there were other things they could be doing; it was ridiculous to be hanging round in the valley just to wait for Sam and Annie Redhead to return. Vera had gone gnomic on them. Turned in on herself. Uncommunicative. They sat in the corner of the lounge and he could tell she was earwigging the conversation in the bar. Percy Douglas was there with an elderly mate, talking about the good old days when the Carswell estate still sustained tenant farmers and there were decent EU headage payments for sheep. Holly was rereading the notes she’d made during the interviews. Joe felt excluded. If Holly hadn’t been there, Vera might have talked to him.

When they left The Lamb, Vera suddenly seemed to have a change of heart. ‘No point you two hanging around here, twiddling your thumbs. Get back to Kimmerston. Hol, get those notes in a form that we can present to this evening’s briefing. We’ve got a bit more background on them all now. Joe, have a little wander around Kimmerston. Places where young Lizzie might be hanging around with her friends. I want to talk to her, so give me a shout if she comes to light. And I’d really like to know if Jason Crow headed off to France to meet up with his family, as he told me he would, or if he’s still in town.’ Vera bundled them into the Land Rover and dropped them off at the big house to pick up Holly’s car. As they drove off, Joe saw the boss was still sitting there in the driver’s seat, her eyes closed once more.

From the station Joe phoned the offices of Kimmerston Building Services and asked to speak to Jason Crow. A middle-aged woman answered. ‘I’m afraid Mr Crow is in meetings all day. Can anyone else help?’

‘Will he be free tomorrow?’

A pause, the sound of pages being turned. An old-fashioned diary. ‘I’m not sure of Mr Crow’s movements for the rest of the week.’ So Crow hadn’t joined his family for a perfect holiday in the French countryside. Not yet at least. Joe thanked the woman and hung up.

He headed out into the town. He wasn’t sure where young people hung out in Kimmerston during the day. He tried the bus station first and tracked down the driver who’d driven from Gilswick that morning. It was the same man who’d carried Martin Benton to his death. Joe described Lizzie. ‘Pale. Red hair. Bonny.’

‘Aye, she was waiting at the first stop in Gilswick.’ He was outside in the designated smoking area, sucking on a tiny roll-up as if it would save his life.

‘Did she come all the way into town?’

‘Not quite. She got off two stops before the bus station. That posh estate on the hill. What’s it called? Something naff. Heather View.’ He threw the remains of his cigarette onto the floor and stamped on it. ‘They changed the whole route to take in the estate, but there aren’t many buggers from there who use public transport.’

‘Was anyone waiting for her?’ Because Jason Crow lived in one of the palaces on the edge of Heather View.

The driver shook his head.

‘Did you see which way she walked?’

‘Aye.’ A slow, conspiratorial smile. ‘She was worth watching. You know what I mean?’

‘And?’

‘She walked up the hill, away from the town.’