Ann Cleeves - Harbour Street

‘Margaret Krukowski was murdered,’ Joe said. ‘We’re talking to everyone who knew her.’

Jane Cameron stared at him. Suddenly she seemed older, paler. ‘I don’t believe it. Who would want to kill Margaret?’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ Joe said. ‘I thought you might be able to help with that.’

There was a tap on the door and the woman he’d seen previously came in, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, a plastic bottle of milk and two mugs. On a plate were some biscuits similar to those he’d already eaten in the guest house in Harbour Street. So Margaret had baked here too. Laurie set the tray on the desk. She looked at Jane and noticed the change in her. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes.’ Then Jane realized that the woman was worried. ‘Really, I’m fine. We’ll come through and explain. Just give us a few minutes.’

Laurie looked furiously at Joe Ashworth, as if she blamed him for Jane’s distress, and left the room.

Jane poured coffee, offered milk and sugar in a distracted way. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t take this in. Margaret seemed indestructible. She had more energy than anyone I knew. And we’ll all miss her here so much. She was very much part of the family. She even brought Kate’s children along with her sometimes. She still does occasionally, if we’re running a special event. We had a winter fair a couple of weeks ago to raise some cash and Kate and the kids came along to that.’ She gave a tight little grin. ‘We’re always strapped for money here. Always under threat of closure, and these events never seem to make as much as I hope.’

‘Tell me about the Haven.’

‘It’s been running for about twenty years. I’ve been here for all that time, and Margaret started volunteering soon after I arrived. It’s a place for women who need somewhere safe to stay on a temporary basis. Not just a refuge for victims of domestic violence, but women with problems of addiction, or who need support after leaving care or being discharged from psychiatric hospital or prison. We can take the kids of residents too, though we don’t have any staying with us just now.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘I was working as a senior social worker in the city and took a six-month sabbatical to set the place up. I never left. A cop-out perhaps, but much less stressful in some ways. But it’s a chance to work intensively with people and to build a community. I still stay in touch with ex-residents. We have reunions sometimes – loads of them turned up to the fair. It’s brilliant to see what some of the women have achieved. I’ll be here until I retire now – it’s my life’s work.’ She smiled to show that she didn’t take the thought, or herself, too seriously.

‘And you live here?’ Joe wondered what that must be like. Sal thought he gave every spare minute to his work. Your soul belongs to the fat woman. But Jane Cameron could have no escape from hers.

‘I’ve got my own flat,’ Jane said. ‘The women are usually pretty good at respecting my privacy. And I have friends in town – they put me up when I need a break or a bit of culture.’

But no family of your own? No partner? Vera would have asked, but he couldn’t bring himself to put the question.

‘You must have problems over the years,’ he said. ‘Abusive husbands. Dealers. Pimps. Coming here and causing trouble.’

‘All of those,’ she replied. ‘We’ve built up a very good relationship with the community police officers, who turn out to help when needed. But there’s been no hassle recently. And there was no reason why anyone would target Margaret. She was a volunteer and her style was unobtrusive. She befriended the women once they arrived here. She had nothing to do with persuading them to come in the first place.’

Joe drank his coffee. ‘I’ll need to talk to your residents. Margaret might have confided in them, told them if anything was worrying her.’ He looked up. ‘She didn’t mention anything of that sort to you?’

Jane shook her head. ‘I learned from the start that Margaret was very private. She didn’t talk about herself. If anything, I was the one who confided in her . I’ll miss her.’ She paused. ‘Though when she was last here she did say that she’d like a chat sometime, that she could use some advice. I was busy and asked if next week would do.’ The social worker looked up, horrified. ‘I should have made time for her. All those hours she gave to us and I couldn’t squeeze a few minutes from my schedule. But she seemed okay about the delay. At least, she said she was.’

‘And you have no idea what she was concerned about?’

Jane shook her head sadly. ‘Why don’t you come and meet the others. Margaret might have talked to one of them. It’s almost lunchtime and you can join us. I warn you that they’ll be extremely upset. As I said, Margaret was like a family member. More like a mother or a grandmother to them than a volunteer. You can be sure that none of our residents killed Margaret.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said. ‘I can’t rule anyone out at this stage.’

She gave a sudden wide smile. ‘Not even me? Of course I appreciate the importance of an open mind, but really on this occasion it would be foolish to pursue that line of enquiry. As I said, none of our residents killed Margaret, Sergeant. The weather was so foul yesterday that nobody went out at all. They were here all afternoon. I can vouch for that.’ She looked up at Joe, challenging him to contradict her, but he said nothing.

The residents were sitting in a large and untidy kitchen. It was warmer there – heat came from a chipped and grubby Aga. Children’s paintings were stuck on the walls, the corners distorted with age. The dog had curled up in a basket near the stove. Mince pies cooled on a wire tray on the bench. Joe recognized Laurie, who’d been carting in the logs, and there were five others, ranging in age from a teenager – skinny and nervy with a pale, angelic face and long curly red hair – to an elderly woman who was stirring soup on the hob.

‘This is Sergeant Ashworth, girls, and he’s come to talk to us. I’ve suggested he join us for lunch.’ Jane put rolls onto a plate and took a tub of margarine from the fridge.

Laurie was laying the table and looked up. ‘What does he want?’

Joe stared back at her. ‘Margaret was murdered yesterday.’ He thought he might as well get this over. The soup smelled good, but he couldn’t imagine sitting at the table with them, putting questions while they all ate. Vera might be an expert at cosy chats. He preferred a proper formality.

Nobody moved. It was as if they were struggling to take in the news. He saw tears running down the cheeks of the old woman by the stove as she stirred the pan. The girl with the long, red hair was frozen like a statue.

‘Why the fuck would anyone kill Margaret?’ It was Laurie, so tense and angry that Joe thought she might be capable of murder. Jane put an arm around her shoulder and held her very tight, part comfort, part restraint. Laurie continued, looking round the room: ‘Well? She was amazing, wasn’t she? Everyone here adored her.’ She stared at Joe. ‘You can’t think we had anything to do with it?’

‘I think you might be able to help us find her killer.’

There was silence in the room. Outside it seemed suddenly very dark and a gust of wind blew a branch against the window. Jane moved away from Laurie to switch on the light.

‘Let’s eat,’ she said. ‘You know how Margaret liked good food. We can eat and remember her, and tell Joe everything we know about her.’

So despite his intentions and the flurries of snow that threatened to cut him off from the outside world, Joe found himself sitting at the table, sharing a meal with seven women, listening to their memories of Margaret Krukowski.