Ann Cleeves - Harbour Street

‘But you protected him. You let him operate from your pub.’

‘He’s my son!’ It came out as a wail.

‘So that night, Billy Kerr’s birthday party.’ Let’s get on with the story.

‘That night something was going on. I talked to Rick and told him I didn’t want any bother. But you could smell it. The violence. He was twitchy, angry. I wondered if some of the old crowd had threatened him, if he was expecting them to come and get what he owed them.’ The big woman closed her eyes briefly. Vera could tell that in her head she was standing behind the bar, pulling pints, cracking jokes, and all the time waiting for her son to ruin all that she’d achieved there. It would take a certain kind of courage not to fall apart. ‘Everyone had drunk too much, and it got wild and noisy, folk out in the street. I lost sight of Rick, but I couldn’t go and see what was happening. It was dark by then, but steamy hot, like it was a tropical country. You longed for a thunderstorm to clear the air. Or a bit of a breeze.’

Her attention was caught by the television again for a moment. A middle-aged couple with a dog at their feet, standing arm-in-arm outside their dream cottage. A universe away.

‘Then we saw the fire in the yard. The flames so high that you could see them from inside the Coble. By then it was gone midnight and I’d carried on selling past closing time, because everyone expects a lock-in when it’s somebody’s birthday. And I knew the police would come and I’d be in danger of losing my licence, so all I could think of was getting the place cleared.’

Vera wondered how many times Val had relived that scene. But she would never have talked about it before. The way the words came out, Vera could tell that it was new to express the thoughts out loud, and a kind of relief.

‘I didn’t see Rick again that night,’ Val said. ‘I thought that he’d made himself scarce. He could disappear like a ghost whenever he wanted to. Police, social security, probation – he seemed to know when they were on their way and he’d be nowhere to be seen.’

She looked at Vera with big haunted eyes. She was preparing herself for a confession. ‘I was pleased,’ she said. ‘I thought: You piss off back to the city with your gangster friends. Leave me here to make a life for myself. ’

‘You thought that was what happened?’ Vera asked. ‘You thought he’d been involved in starting the fire and he’d run away back to Newcastle.’

‘That’s what Billy Kerr told me. He came in the next day. Everything quiet then and stinking of smoke. The ruins of the office black and the yard looking like a bombsite. He said that I wouldn’t see Rick for a while. “Your boy lost it, Val, and torched my place. I can’t have that. I’ve told him to stay away from Harbour Street. No hard feelings to you, but you know what it’s like.” And I just nodded. Was that betraying my son? Inside, part of me was singing, because I wouldn’t have that stress for a bit. All that time since he was a small kid I was wondering what he was going to do next.’

‘Where is Rick now, Val?’ Vera still had her hand on the woman’s arm. Despite the warmth of the room the skin felt cold and clammy.

‘I haven’t got a clue.’ Another confession. ‘I haven’t seen him since that day. At first I didn’t try very hard to find him. I put a few words out. Nobody was talking. And then I stopped trying. If he didn’t want to see me, I didn’t feel like making the effort. And it was so much easier on my own, with no other bugger to worry about. I thought I’d hear if he got into real bother.’

‘And now?’

‘Now he’d be an old man. He might have grand-bairns. He’d have calmed down, wouldn’t he? I’d like to see him again. A bit of company in my old age. Maybe you could help me look.’

‘This body we’ve found,’ Vera said. ‘It’s old. We think our victim died on the night of the fire in Kerr’s yard.’

Val gave an odd little sob. ‘You think it’s Rick?’

‘It’s the body of a young man.’

‘And all this time I thought he didn’t care enough about me to let me know he was okay.’ There were tears on her cheek. ‘Every birthday I looked out for a card. And I thought: Sod you, then. But he was here in Harbour Street all the time.’

‘We don’t know for sure,’ Vera said. ‘There’ll be tests to do.’

‘I know.’ Val turned away so that Vera couldn’t see her face.

Vera drove to Harbour Street. No real reason except that she couldn’t face going straight back to the office, and if there’d been news on Malcolm Kerr somebody would have told her. There was also an itch, the start of an idea, and she needed time to organize her thoughts. This was where everything had started, and this was where she’d find the answer. The street was quiet. The Coble was open for lunchtime drinkers, but the fish shop had already closed for Christmas. There was still activity on the crime scene at Malcolm’s yard, but you couldn’t see much because of the screens they’d put up to stop ghoulish gawpers. Through the guest-house window she saw Kate Dewar and Stuart Booth in the residents’ lounge. She was at the piano and he was leaning over her shoulder pointing at some sheet music. He scribbled on it with a pencil and she turned and ran her finger down his cheek. Vera had parked right outside, but they didn’t notice her.

Still sitting in the vehicle, she phoned Holly. ‘I need you to check one of the Krukowski witness statements.’ And then she called Joe, because she had a question for him too. But he was in a dreadful state and wouldn’t listen, almost shouted at her to get off the line because he was hoping for a call. His lass Jessie had got separated from her friends in town, and she’d left her mobile at home and nobody knew where she was.

Malcom Kerr was still on a mission, but he’d never liked the city and he was almost ready to give up. What business was it of his? He thought he’d just get the Metro back to Partington and pick up his car and drive to the police station in Kimmerston. There was something pleasant in thinking that he might find the fat detective there waiting for him; she’d be glad to see him. He pictured her smiling. She’d make him tea, and might even have a drop of Scotch to put into it. And he’d tell her what had happened. He’d let her take the responsibility. He pulled up his collar against the cold and stood still, so that the crowd eddied round him, like the tide around a rock. All around him was noise. Buskers with amplified music and yelling children and pedlars in his face, trying to persuade him to buy tinsel and cheap plastic toys.

A quiet interview room, just him and the fat woman. Plain painted walls. Nothing to jar the senses. Suddenly that seemed the most attractive thing in the world.

Then the group of young people ahead of him shifted, parted by six jostling youths coming in the opposite direction. It was early afternoon, but they were drinking cans of cheap cider and swearing. Malcolm felt a stab of anger. He wanted to teach them some manners. But he’d been a yob in his time. Worse than a yob. In the following confusion the louts moved on and a single figure was left, uncertain and isolated. The sky darkened. Shards of sleet blew up the street, sharp arrows sending the shoppers into the mall. This was Malcolm’s moment of decision. He could give himself up or he could give himself a chance to put things right.

Hesitating, he thought suddenly of the vicar, Father Gruskin. Gruskin had turned up at his house the day after Deborah had left him, offering sympathy and advice. Malcolm thought that Margaret had sent the vicar, because she was worried that Malcolm might do something daft. That he’d kill himself, or kill Deborah’s new man. Gruskin had sat in Malcolm’s front room and hadn’t known what to say. He’d only called because Margaret had asked him to. Another man who would do whatever Margaret wanted him to. He’d muttered a few words and then he’d gone. Vicars should be good men, shouldn’t they? They’d make the right decisions. What would Gruskin do now, in his position?