Ann Cleeves - Silent Voices

‘What about the stuff that went missing from the staffroom? Are you putting that down to senile dementia too?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ Danny had given up his attempt to be pleasant and looked like a petulant teenager. ‘I don’t go into the staffroom much. Crap coffee and crap company.’

Ashworth shook his head and let the boy go.

He couldn’t find a CSI to come with him to look for Jenny Lister’s car. They had better things to do, they implied, than wander round in the dark with him. Once he’d tracked it down, he could give them a shout and they’d tape it.

Outside it was still clear and the moon lit up wisps of mist over the river. There were a few parking spaces very near the house and then a larger car park hidden by trees closer to the gate. He walked down the row of cars by the hotel, clicking the fob of the key Vera had given to him. Nothing. He had a small torch in his jacket pocket and felt stupidly proud to be so well prepared. In the big car park it was very dark. The lights from the house didn’t reach there and the trees blocked out the moonlight. Again he walked past the scattered vehicles pressing the fob, thinking that perhaps Jenny had got a lift and this was a waste of time, until there was a click and the flash of headlights and he was standing by her car.

It was a VW Polo, small, but only a year old. He shone the torch through the windows. No handbag on the front or rear seat, or as far as he could tell on the floor. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and used it to open the boot. He’d rather face the fury of the CSIs than the wrath of Vera. Still no bag. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

Walking back to the hotel, to let the CSIs know which car was Jenny Lister’s, his phone went: his wife, calling to ask if he intended staying out all night.

He’d just pulled into the drive at home when his phone rang again. This time it was Vera Stanhope. He sat in the car to take the call. Sarah would have heard his car, but she didn’t like work conversations in the house.

‘Yes?’ He hoped he sounded as tired as he was feeling. He wouldn’t put it past her to send him out again.

Her voice was loud. She’d never really got the hang of mobiles, yelled into them. She sounded as if she’d just woken up after a good night’s sleep. Murders took her that way, invigorated her as much as they excited the pensioners he’d spent all afternoon interviewing. Once, after a few too many glasses of Famous Grouse, she’d said that was what she’d been put on the Earth for.

‘Connie Masters,’ she said. ‘Name mean anything to you?’

It did vaguely, but not in enough detail to satisfy her and he knew that once he’d chatted to his wife and shared the details of her day, he’d be up most of the night, his laptop on his knee, checking it out for the other woman in his life.

Connie hadn’t watched the news on TV since the day Elias died. She was always frightened that she might catch a glimpse of herself: pale and inarticulate at that first press conference, or running down the steps of the court in the rain at the end of the case, knowing even then that this was nowhere near over. Her preferred viewing now was light and escapist; she watched documentaries about celebrities, or selling houses or moving to the sun. Every evening, once Alice was in bed and asleep, she would pour herself a glass of wine, eat a supper that took no preparation and lose herself in the inanities on the screen. She had survived another day. Alice had survived another day. That alone was worth celebrating. Boredom was a small price to pay.

It was almost ten when her ex-husband phoned. So few people called her these days that the sound was a shock. She found that she was trembling.

‘Yes?’ There had been threatening phone calls, but they’d dwindled away to nothing. Perhaps the newspaper article commemorating Elias’s death had stirred things up again.

‘It’s me.’ Then when she didn’t answer. ‘Frank.’ A sharp bark, as if she were deaf or very old.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know. What do you want?’ She supposed it was about taking Alice away on holiday. He’d been talking about camping in France in June. She’d agreed of course, she couldn’t deprive her daughter of a treat like that, but all the time there was a niggle at the back of her mind. A very un-adult envy. Why can’t I come too?

‘I wondered if you’d heard. About Jenny Lister.’

‘What about her?’ Jenny had never been her favourite person. On the surface friendly enough. Supportive. But underneath quite ruthless. Steely even. Given to principles.

‘She’s dead. Murdered.’

Connie’s first reaction – absolutely appalling of course – was that it served priggish Jenny Lister sodding well right. Then that this might make life very awkward. What if the business with Elias was raked up all over again? Only then came a moment of guilt, because deep down she knew that Jenny had dealt with her as well as any manager would, and that with someone else in charge of the case the experience would have been no different.

Frank was still talking. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. But I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thanks. I hadn’t heard.’ She replaced the receiver. The television was still yattering away in the background and she turned it off. Then all the noises came from outside: the burn running over the pebbles at the end of the garden, and the leaves of the apple tree against the upstairs window. And the voices that were inside her head.

She shivered. She could smell the damp in Mallow Cottage now, imagined it oozing through the stone floor and running down the lime-washed walls, green and slimy like the stones in the burn. She went upstairs, pulled the duvet from her bed and took it down to the living room, poured another glass of wine, one more than her usual daily allowance. Curled up on the short sofa, her duvet tucked around her, she relived her memories of Jenny and Elias, grieving for both of them as best as she could. Not doing a good job of it, but at least making an attempt for the first time. She was still there when it was getting light, and by then the wine bottle was empty.

Jenny Lister had employed her. Connie had got into social work in her late twenties after a spell, ironically, working on a local paper. What had attracted her? The usual ideals, she supposed. The romantic notion that she might make a difference in people’s lives. Throughout the training she’d had an image of this family held together through her support: a tousle-haired boy and a girl with big sad eyes climbing on her knee, thanking her for helping their mummy and daddy. All crap of course, but she’d always needed a bit of praise to keep her going. Jenny had been quite good at the praise thing, at least at the beginning.

Once a month they’d have supervision sessions in Jenny’s office. Real coffee and nice biscuits – sometimes home-made. Jenny was one of those superwomen who baked at weekends and went to the theatre and read proper books. The sort of woman Frank’s new lover might grow into. And Connie would talk through her caseload. They were part of the child-protection team – the most exciting and dramatic area of social work. No incontinent old ladies or smelly, schizophrenic men for them. Jenny was in charge of fostering and adoption, of assessing and training prospective adoptive parents, but most of Connie’s work was following up kids on the ‘at risk’ register. Some of them would end up being fostered or adopted of course, but while Jenny chatted to nice middle-class foster parents in leafy suburbs on her home visits, Connie’s took her to the skankiest estates in the North-East. All dog shit and graffiti, and not a tousle-haired boy or sad-eyed girl in sight. Sometimes she thought Jenny didn’t have a clue what it was like.