Ann Cleeves - Silent Voices

‘No.’ Elizabeth’s voice was calm and easy. Connie was never sure exactly what the vicar’s wife made of Veronica. ‘I need to talk to her too. I’ll call into her house on my way home. This lovely weather, she might have decided on a day in the garden. I think Christopher’s working away at the moment.’

Connie automatically took the paintings Alice had handed to her. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘We’ll put them up in the kitchen when we get home, shall we?’ Her voice was distracted; she was listening for more news of Veronica, and for once was happy to linger in the hall. But now the conversation had moved on to the allocation of school places, to some social function in the pub. Veronica was forgotten and Connie walked away, still holding Alice by the hand, without speaking to anyone.

Connie had rented the cottage by the river when she’d left the city, just desperate to get away, not really caring where she went. It belonged to friends of Frank’s parents. They couldn’t be arsed to do holiday lets any more, Frank had explained. And they didn’t use it themselves; they were both still working. They’d bought it as an investment, a way of saving for their retirement, before the bottom dropped out of the housing market. Frank had even offered Connie a place in his house when things blew up. For Alice’s sake, he’d said hurriedly, in case Connie got the wrong idea. He’d moved on after the divorce, had a new woman in his life. But they were welcome to his spare room until the reporters got pissed off with camping outside her gate. She’d been so desperate at that point that she’d almost accepted. Perhaps Frank had realized he might end up with a couple of unwanted lodgers, because the offer of the cottage in the Tyne valley came soon afterwards. Connie imagined him on the phone to all his mates. Help me out here. You must know of somewhere she can stay. Yeah, she might have brought it all on herself, but no reason Alice should suffer. I’ll have to let them crash here if I can’t come up with something else. He did still use words like ‘crash’. He was artistic director of a theatre in Newcastle and his new woman was a young designer.

The house, known as Mallow Cottage, was pretty from the outside. Traditional stone, with a tile roof and a small garden leading to a burn, which joined the river just beyond a small bridge. Inside it was dark and damp, but Connie could cope with that. The first couple of weeks had been great. She’d enrolled Alice into the playgroup, began to make friends of a sort. Women, at least those who asked her in for coffee, let their kids come to the cottage to play with Alice. Connie had decided to use her maiden name. She’d been divorced for a while, so Frank’s surname had no relevance for her. Maybe she could slide into anonymity, perhaps even find work again now that the publicity had died down. After all, she needed the money. She couldn’t live off her savings and Frank’s charity forever. And back at work, perhaps the nightmares would leave her.

Then there’d been an article in a national newspaper, commemorating the first anniversary of Elias’s death. A photo of Connie, looking frightened and tearful coming out of court. And suddenly there were no callers at the cottage for coffee. Except Elizabeth, whose motives were purely professional. And no invitations for Alice to go to tea. The whispers had started, the sideways glances. Some women made attempts to be friendly in a breathlessly curious sort of way, but Connie became aware of a campaign led, she soon realized, by Veronica Eliot. If you make friends with her, it’s as if you condone what she’s done. Is that what you want? Do you want people to think you’re like her? I don’t know how they can let her keep her daughter. The words were childish and petty, could have been spoken by the leader of a gang of eight-year-olds in the playground, but were effective. It was a sort of mob rule. People didn’t stand up to Veronica. And then Connie was met by silence in the queue at the playgroup door, icy glares when she went to the post office to collect her child benefit.

The old Connie would have stood up to her. Look, you stupid cow, give me a chance to explain. But after a year of police enquiries and reports and court appearances, all the fight had gone from her. Besides, it seemed immoral that she should feel sorry for herself. She’d given up that right after Elias had died. So she slouched around the village, expecting no contact or kindness. She grew thin. Sometimes, she fancied she’d disappeared altogether, and only Alice could see her. Her only solace was the half bottle of wine she allowed herself in the evening when her daughter was asleep. She was almost grateful for the nights when Alice wet the bed and climbed in with her; then she had someone to hold on to.

They had just gone outside when the visitor arrived. Perhaps he’d been there all along, looking down from the bridge, hidden from them by the tree. On one of his trips to the cottage Frank had slung a thick rope over the bough of the apple tree that stood in the corner of the small garden at the top of a bank. Alice used it as a swing. She’d be at school in September and was big and strong for her age. Physically fearless. She’d grip the rope and run and then, kicking away from the ground, she’d be in the air, almost over the river. Connie knew better than to comment. She couldn’t impose her fears on her daughter. But she turned away briefly so that she didn’t have to look at that moment when Alice went flying, bit her lip to stop herself shouting out. Take care, sweetie. Please take care.

Alice was playing on the swing now. The apple blossom was in bud, the new leaves a startling bright green, blocking the view of the road. Connie was drinking the coffee she’d made after lunch. Then Alice called out ‘Hello!’ to someone Connie couldn’t see, and the stranger appeared at the gate. He stopped there, looking in at them. Connie’s first thought was that this was a reporter who had tracked them down. That had been a fear since they’d moved to the valley. The man was young with the easy smile of a natural charmer. Definitely a reporter. Over his shoulder was a rucksack that could contain a camera. Though the knitted hat gave him the look of a rambler, so perhaps he was walking along the river bank.

‘Can I help you?’ Her words were so sharp that Alice, who’d just swung back to the ground, looked up at her, surprised.

He seemed a little shocked too. The smile wavered. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

Not a journo, Connie thought. Journos didn’t apologize. Not even the charming ones. She gave a little wave of her hand, her own apology. ‘You surprised me. We don’t get many visitors.’

‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said. His voice was educated.

‘Yes?’ The caution had returned. Her body was tense, ready to repel him if he asked for her by name or made a move to come through the gate.

‘Mrs Eliot. Veronica Eliot.’

‘Ah.’ She felt relief and curiosity too. What could this man want with Veronica?

‘Do you know her?’

‘Yes,’ Connie said. ‘Of course. She lives in the white house at the end of the lane. Just over the crossroads. You can’t miss it.’ He paused for a moment before turning away and she added: ‘If you’re driving, there’s a lay-by just down the track where you can turn round.’ No reason now not to be helpful, and she was curious. She hadn’t seen a car.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t drive. I came on the bus.’

‘Blimey, that’s brave! Do you hope to get back tonight?’

He smiled. She thought now it was hard to age him. Certainly younger than her, but he could have been anything between eighteen and thirty. She knew Veronica had a grown-up child, a model offspring of course, reading history at Durham. But his friends would surely know where Veronica lived.