Ann Cleeves - Murder in My Backyard

“Can’t you give her anything?” James had pleaded. “She seems desperate.”

“It would only make her worse. That’s part of the problem.”

“What can I do?”

“Stand up to her. She knows she can manipulate you.”

“But I want to help her.”

“Then persuade her to go into hospital for a while. She needs time away from you both to sort herself out. You look after her too well. She needs to face up to her problems herself.”

“I don’t know,” James had said. “It seems so hard. I’ll think about it.”

He had tried to take the doctor’s advice, but whenever he did talk to Stella indirectly about going to the hospital, as if by magic she would improve. She would emerge from her bedroom and begin to play her part in the house again. She would help Carolyn with homework and encourage her in violin practice. She would make herself beautiful and go with James to civic functions or into Newcastle to the theatre. She would plan dinner parties and the house would be full of other well-dressed people.

For Carolyn the times of normality were almost worse than the periods of depression, because she knew with a helpless certainty that the relief was only temporary. Each day, when her mother was well, she would wake up wondering if this would be the day of crisis, when Stella would erupt in temper or retreat into silence. At the same time she knew that this anxiety was wasteful and she should make the most of her mother’s happiness while it lasted. There was no-one to talk to about this worry. When her mother was well, her father seemed able to convince himself that she would remain so for ever. Only Aunt Alice seemed to understand a little of Carolyn’s insecurity, and now she was no longer there to provide comfort and sympathy.

Stella did not come downstairs until lunchtime and then she ate very little.

“I’ll have to go out this afternoon,” James said. “ You don’t mind? It’s work. I’ll not be long.”

Stella looked at him incredulously. “ But no-one will expect you to be there today,” she said. “They’ll have heard about Alice.”

She was wearing black stretch leggings and a long black sweater, which reached almost to her knees. Her hair was tied back from her face. Her eyes were dark-rimmed and hollow. She wore vivid red lipstick.

“I’m sorry,” James said. “Really, I have to go.”

Carolyn was surprised. Usually he never stood up to her mother.

“But I hate being on my own.” Stella slammed her coffee mug onto the table. “ You know I hate it.”

“You won’t be on your own,” James said mildly. “ Carolyn will be here.”

“But I don’t want Carolyn,” she screamed. “ I want you.”

Carolyn felt tears suddenly come into her eyes, as if she had been slapped. She knew her father was upset enough, so she turned away. She did not want him to see her crying.

“That’s ridiculous,” James said uncomfortably. “ I’m sorry. I really have to go. There’s this week’s paper to put together. I can’t leave it all to the others.”

He put his arm round Carolyn’s shoulder and squeezed it, then prepared to leave the house. As he went out through the front door, Stella shouted after him: “You care more about that paper than you do about me!”

When he had gone, the house was quiet. Stella wandered into the sitting room and picked up a magazine. It was a long, narrow room with a window at the end overlooking the garden. There was a view down to the river. It was lit by the cold light of the remaining snow outside. There was a marble fireplace and the chairs were covered in marble-patterned fabric in a frosty blue. Carolyn followed her into the room. She never liked her mother’s company when she was in this mood, but if Stella was left alone she worried. She laid out the pieces of a jigsaw on a low, white table and knelt on the carpet to do it.

“I’m sorry about that scene,” Stella said suddenly. “ I don’t know what came over me. I was upset, I suppose, about Aunt Alice.”

“That’s all right,” Carolyn said.

“Don’t you want to watch television?” Stella asked. “There are some good children’s programmes on this afternoon.”

“I don’t mind.”

“If you want to go to your room to watch it, I’ll be fine,” Stella said. “I didn’t mean what I said to Daddy. I was just upset. I don’t mind being on my own.”

“Well,” Carolyn said, relieved to be released. “If you’re sure…”

Stella smiled. “Of course.”

As Carolyn was on her way out of the room, Stella stretched out her hand, palm down, like a princess waiting to be kissed. Carolyn took it and held it for a moment, then she ran upstairs. When she came down a little later to fetch a drink from the kitchen, her mother was in the hall on the telephone. Carolyn could not hear what she was saying and as soon as Stella saw her coming down the stairs she hung up.

“Who was that?” Carolyn asked, curiosity overcoming the care that she usually took when she questioned her mother.

“Daddy,” Stella said. She seemed, Carolyn thought, pleased with herself. “ I phoned him to apologise for being so silly earlier.”

“Will he be home soon?”

“I don’t know,” Stella said absently. “I don’t expect he’ll be long.”

James Laidlaw walked to the office. As soon as he was out in the street he realised he was not properly dressed for the weather. The cold took his breath away and he thought he should have put on a warmer jacket. He could not return to the house to fetch one. Stella might not let him out so easily again. He followed the footpath along the river past the abbey. The river was frozen at the banks and a dirty-looking swan moved slowly along a channel in the middle. There might be a story in that, he thought: the effect of the cold weather so late in the spring on wildlife. He’d get one of the youngsters to look into it tomorrow. From the riverbank there were some steps onto the bridge that crossed the Otter and led into the town. The people James passed in the street seemed grey and unhappy, suffering, he supposed, from the unseasonable poor weather. He walked quickly, hoping the movement would fight off the cold.

He looked for Mary Raven’s Mini in one of the spaces along the wide main street, but there was no sign of it. The Express had premises on two floors over the Blue Anchor Inn, and access was by a narrow door by the pub’s entrance. There was a steep staircase, and another glass door at the top led to the office where the receptionist sat and he and the other reporters worked. The receptionist was the wife of the high school’s headmaster, solid and sensible. She supervised the young staff with a motherly compassion.

“Is Mary in?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen her,” she said, “but I’ve just come in from lunch. I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Parry.”

“Yes,” he said. “ It was a terrible shock.”

He walked through into the big room where all the reporters worked, but most of the desks were empty, the computer screens blank. It was the quiet time of the week, despite what he had said to Stella. In a corner one telesales woman was trying to persuade an estate agent to buy advertising. She looked up as he went past and smiled sympathetically. He looked in the small kitchen, thinking Mary might be there making the dreadful instant coffee that she drank black and continuously and that had stained all of the mugs in the place, but there was no sign of her. His office seemed unnaturally cold. He shivered, fetched the electric fire they kept for emergencies, and plugged it in beside his desk. Then he made a cup of Mary’s coffee and stirred in powdered milk and sugar to hide the taste. He began to work.

Mary Raven woke that morning with a hangover to the sound of the independent local radio station on her radio alarm. There was inane music and a breathy reporter talking about the “tragic death of Alice Parry.” She had been out all the day before, drinking with her friends in Newcastle, and it was the first time she had heard the death reported. She switched radio channels for a more detailed review of the local news, then showered and dressed. The flat was a pit. There were unwashed pans in the kitchen and clothes all over the bedroom floor. She had to search through a drawer of laddered tights and single socks to find a clean pair of knickers. But the worst of the hangover seemed to have disappeared and she was left only with a dull, persistent headache.