Ann Cleeves - Harbour Street

‘What now?’ he asked.

‘We go quietly,’ she said. ‘We need proof this time. No press and no fuss. You just find your Jessie.’

Emily lived in a big house on the outskirts of Tynemouth. It was new and grand, built of raw red brick with porticoes at the front. Through the big living-room window Vera saw a white leather sofa and a flat-screen television. An artificial Christmas tree that almost looked real and a pile of wrapped presents underneath. It came to Vera suddenly that, for Margaret Krukowski, a place like this would be like hell. Much better the life of a call girl operating out of a shabby house in Mardle. And that she still hadn’t bought the Secret Santa gift for Holly. She rang the doorbell.

The door was opened by a man in a polo shirt and chinos. The heat spilled out from the hall. Inside he’d need no warmer clothes. ‘Yes?’ His voice posh Geordie. A businessman in mufti , Vera thought.

‘Could I speak to Emily, please?’ She was aware that she looked even scruffier than usual. No sleep and a hangover, and no time to wash any clothes during the investigation, never mind iron them. She gave what she hoped was a winning smile.

The man looked at her as if she was a tinker selling clothes pegs and didn’t bother wasting words on her. Instead he yelled into the house, ‘Jackie, there’s someone here to see your daughter.’

Your daughter. So he must be the stepfather. And the girl was getting in the way.

He didn’t invite her in. Vera stood on the doorstep and waited. Eventually a large woman with an unseasonal tan and a lot of gold jewellery appeared. Her blonde hair was fake, but the tan seemed real. Vera wondered if Emily had been admitted into the Haven to allow the adults to take a holiday somewhere hot.

‘Yes?’ Emily’s mother wasn’t as hard as she first appeared. A troubled woman with a nervous tic and a tense smile. A woman who felt obliged to mediate between the two important people in her life.

Just dump him , Vera wanted to say. There are worse things than being single. She decided that there were different forms of prostitution. Maybe Margaret’s form wasn’t the most degrading.

‘I think Emily might be able to help me,’ Vera said. ‘She’s not in any bother, but I wonder if we might have a chat.’

‘Are you a social worker?’

Good God, do I look like a social worker?

‘No, I’m the police. But, as I say, Emily’s not in any trouble. I think she might have some useful information.’ Vera took a breath. It wouldn’t do to scare this woman by rushing her. This was the time for some common politeness. ‘How’s she getting on at home?’

‘Oh, you know. One day at a time.’ The woman seemed grateful that anyone was taking an interest.

‘But well enough to chat to me?’

Jackie didn’t answer, but she stood aside to let Vera in. ‘I don’t know how we came to this,’ she said. ‘She was such a good girl at school. Easy. Biddable, you know. We had no idea that she was having problems.’ There was a pause and a moment of honesty. ‘I should have given her more time. But I was going through the divorce, and work seemed the only way to stay sane. She was quiet, but she’d always been quiet. And quiet’s good, isn’t it? Quiet’s well behaved.’

Vera was aware of time passing. She was no priest paid to give absolution. ‘If I could just talk to Emily, Mrs James…’

‘Of course.’ The tic had returned. Did she think Vera would judge her by the state of her daughter? Perhaps she thought Vera would accuse her of being a dreadful parent because Emily cut herself. And perhaps Joe and Sal thought the world would hate them because they’d let their Jessie have a bit of freedom.

Emily seemed okay, less jittery than when Vera had last seen her. She was a beauty. Her long curly hair reminded Vera of a Pre-Raphaelite painting she’d seen in the Laing Art Gallery when she’d been at school.

‘Should I stay?’ Jackie asked. She seemed still more nervous and keen to do the right thing. She was more tense now than her daughter. Vera thought things might work out for them.

‘Why not?’ Vera said easily. ‘We’re just having a chat after all.’

Later, outside in the gloom, she checked her phone. She’d switched it to silent on going into the house. There was a missed call from Holly. She’d left a message to say that CCTV in the Metro system had flagged up Malcolm Kerr earlier in the day, but they’d lost him again. The trains were so crowded now that it was impossible to pick up individuals and there was no sign of Jessie. ‘Can you get in touch, Ma’am? We’re not quite sure where we should go from here.’

Vera left the Land Rover in Harbour Street and got a lift to North Mardle beach in an unmarked car. A hunch. This was where Malcolm had made promises to Margaret Krukowski, and this was where he came to think. She needed to talk to him before he did anything stupid. The light had almost gone, but the sky had cleared. As the cloud thinned the temperature had dropped, and there were strange white ponds in the bowls formed by the sand at the top of the dunes. Places where hailstones had pooled and frozen. There was a big white moon. Perhaps Kate Dewar would write another song just for the season.

Vera found a vantage point in the dunes. She could see the car park behind her and the beach in front. Further south there were the lights of Mardle town centre and the harbour wall. Out in the bay a boat was moored and on the horizon was a huge container ship making its way towards the Tyne. No sound. Not even of surf on the beach, because there was no wind and the tide slid in like oil. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and it seemed that everything was breathless, waiting.

Vera’s phone pinged. A text from Holly: Kerr has collected his car from Partington. One passenger. A name. Which meant, Vera thought, that Malcolm wasn’t thinking straight if he hoped to avoid being picked up. More likely, he no longer cared what happened to him. She sent a text in return: In place. Keep your distance.

She supposed that she was taking a risk. Perhaps they should pick him up immediately, go in mob-handed, blues and twos. The press and her boss would like that. But she still sensed that Malcolm felt trapped and desperate and had no concern for his own safety. Again, like a mantra or a popular song, the chorus flashed into her head: No more killing.

She waited. Nothing. No sound of a car in the distance, and surely they should be here by now if Malcolm had come straight from Partington. It was only a couple of miles away. Occasionally she believed she heard something – footsteps in the frozen sand, or the rumble of an engine – but it was all in her imagination. She was chilled despite her thick coat and her gloves and boots. If Malcolm should appear now, she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to move.

The headlights appeared first, sweeping like searchlights over the flat coastal plain behind the dunes, across the reclaimed subsidence ponds where once there had been pits. Vera crouched, because her silhouette might be seen on the horizon against the full moon. The car parked below her. She heard the doors open and shut. Both doors, so there were two people, just as Holly had said. But even in the moonlight it was impossible to make out individual forms. They were just dark shapes. And it was impossible to tell if they were both there voluntarily or if one was the prisoner of the other. There was no other activity on the narrow road leading to the coast. She’d given orders that the officers following should wait on the main road and make their way in carefully on foot. She didn’t want to frighten these people. No more killing. And she hoped it would all be over before they arrived.