Ann Cleeves - Silent Voices

Connie flattened herself against the wall of the post office to let a livestock lorry down the narrow main road of the village. There was a campaign to get a bypass for Barnard Bridge, but nobody really thought it would happen. Outside the hall, waiting again for the end of playgroup, she thought: Twenty-four hours ago I was standing here and I didn’t know Jenny Lister was dead. She ran through her conversation with the young detective. Had she hit the right tone? It was important that he believed her. She couldn’t stand the idea of more publicity, of having to face the same intrusive questions from prying officials. She hadn’t told him everything of course, that would have been impossible. Even now, she hated the idea of appearing a fool.

Veronica Eliot made her way along the street, looking very much the country lady in smart brown trousers and a tweed jacket. She’d parked her car outside the old school. Even from a distance Connie could make out the signature, rather incongruous red lips and red nails. A vampire in cashmere and green Hunter wellies. Why do I hate her so much?

As Veronica approached, Connie braced herself for the icy stare or the barbed comment, the chin in the air as she stalked past, but instead the older woman stopped. She hesitated, uncertain for the first time since Connie had met her. It was still early and there were no other parents around, nobody to witness the meeting.

Connie took a brief moment of pleasure in the woman’s discomfort and said nothing.

‘You’ll have heard about Mrs Lister.’ For Veronica, this was tentative. It didn’t sound like a challenge, or even an attempt to fish for information, which was what Connie had been expecting. She’d felt sure Veronica would have noticed the strange car outside her cottage, and Ashworth was so obviously a detective that Veronica must have guessed there’d been a visitation from the police. She’d want to know all about that.

‘Of course,’ Connie said. ‘It was on the local news last night.’

‘You must have known her. She’d have been a colleague of yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Such a terrible shock,’ Veronica said, at last recovering something of her poise. ‘I didn’t know her well, but our children are friends. Have you heard if the police have made any headway in their investigation?’

So she was fishing after all. Or was it just that her desire for gossip outweighed her dislike of Connie?

‘They’d hardly be likely to confide in me, would they?’ Connie felt some of her old strength returning and gave a little laugh to prove it.

‘I suppose not, but I thought you’d still have friends in social services. They might have some idea what’s going on-’ Veronica broke off as a group of mothers walked towards them, then added hurriedly: ‘Look, why don’t you come to lunch. Nothing special. Bring your little girl.’ And she hurried away to greet the gathering women, without waiting for an answer. Watching her, Connie thought she looked like one of the wading birds you see on the beach, her head tipping forward to prod the mud, not for worms, but for information. She didn’t acknowledge Connie’s presence again during the ritual collection of the children, but Connie wondered if the only reason she was there was to have offered the invitation.

She was determined not to go. How dare the woman issue what was close to a summons and expect her just to fall in with the request. But holding Alice by the hand and leading her back through the village, she found herself overwhelmed by curiosity. Not just about what Veronica might want of her, but about the woman’s life and family. That social worker’s compulsion, the need to delve into other people’s lives. And lunch had been offered. Connie hadn’t been shopping for days and there was nothing much to eat in the cottage. She saw Veronica drive past in her Range Rover and wondered what it would be like to belong to her crowd, to be provided for by a rich husband, to live in a big house and drive a big car. There was a moment of envy. I want some of that.

She’d only seen the house from the lane and it felt like an intrusion to go through the big wooden gates and up to the front door. It wasn’t very old or even very grand. A solid square box, built – Connie would guess – in the Fifties, rendered and whitewashed, the silhouette softened by creeper growing along one corner, impressive only because of the large garden. It would have looked more in place in a smart city suburb. A pretend country house for a pretend country lady. Connie felt a moment of superiority: at least her tiny cottage had authenticity. It had been there for hundreds of years and had grown out of the landscape. It was mouldy and dark, but it had style.

Alice was quiet. Playgroup always wore her out. She didn’t even ask why they weren’t going straight home. What would Connie have answered? Mummy wants to know her enemy.

The front door opened and Veronica was standing there. Did she want to hurry Connie inside before her friends could see that they were fraternizing? Was fraternizing even a word you could use for women? Lack of sleep and the events of the previous day had left Connie light-headed. She felt as if she’d been drinking and other strange thoughts chased through her mind. Nobody knew she was here. One woman from the village had been murdered already. Was she the next intended victim? She found herself smiling at the idea of Veronica as killer, at the image of the sharp red nails ripping into soft flesh.

‘Thank you for coming along.’

Veronica had got her way and now she was conciliatory. Connie walked into a hall with a polished parquet floor, flowers in a big copper bowl on a little table, paintings. In pride of place the graduation photograph of a dark young man in cap and gown.

‘I’ve put out some lunch in the kitchen.’ And an effort had been made. There was a salad – ‘the first leaves from the cold frame’ – cold meat, a local pâté and Northumberland goat’s cheese. A loaf from the Rothbury bakery. White wine chilling in the fridge. For Alice, little sausages, carrot sticks and a homemade cake. Had Veronica spent the morning planning this, or was her larder always packed with goodies?

She wants more than bits of gossip to pass on to her friends.

But despite herself, Connie found she was feeling grateful for the attention. Her fight had gone. She could think of nothing nicer than sitting here in this light, white kitchen drinking cold wine while Veronica found old toys for Alice to play with: Dinky Toys that had belonged not just to her son but to his father, a wooden jigsaw puzzle and a bucket of plastic bricks.

‘Is your husband still working away?’ It was the ordinary stuff of conversation, but Veronica looked at her, as if she were searching for a deeper meaning to the question, some slight or sarcasm. She must have been reassured because she answered almost immediately.

‘Yes, a conference in Rotterdam.’

‘But your son’s home for the Easter holidays?’ Connie thought the art of social intercourse wasn’t so hard after all. The skill was coming back to her.

Again there was a pause, a quick appraising glance. No answer this time, but Veronica had a question of her own. ‘Did you know Simon, my son, was going out with Jenny Lister’s daughter?’

‘No!’ Connie took a while to process the information. The photo on Jenny’s desk had been of a slight, red-haired child, but of course now she’d be older, a young woman. ‘How dreadful all this must be for her! I never met her, but I had the impression that she and Jenny were very close.’

Veronica reached over and poured a little more wine into her visitor’s glass. ‘I suppose you went to visit Jenny. You were almost neighbours after all.’ Connie saw she was drinking very little herself.