Ann Cleeves - Silent Voices

‘That’s Connie’s car.’ Charlie pointed to a far corner, which was still in shadow. ‘I nearly missed it.’ He didn’t smell quite as bad as Morgan, but he was on the way. It looked as if he hadn’t shaved for days and there was a mound of cigarette ends in the ashtray.

‘Has Eliot gone in?’

‘Well, I’ve never met him, but the car you described arrived at eight-thirty, parked in a reserved space near the door and a tall gent with grey hair went inside.’

‘That’ll be him then.’ Vera looked at her watch. It was not long after nine. ‘Joe, you come with me. Holly, you stay here and get the CSIs all over that car like a rash. Charlie, you go home and shower.’

He started to argue. ‘You’re the hero here,’ she said, ‘and we won’t forget it. Shower, shave, an hour’s kip and you can come back. You won’t miss anything exciting. We’ll keep you posted.’

‘What do Fenham and Bright do then?’ Ashworth asked. She was walking fast towards the office building and Joe was trotting to keep up with her, so his question came out in short bursts.

‘Set up phone and Internet services, mostly in developing countries. That’s why Christopher Eliot travels so much.’ She’d googled the company after meeting Eliot in the White House.

‘You think he’s involved in Connie’s disappearance?’

‘I won’t know,’ Vera said, ‘until I ask him.’

They walked through a swing door into the office reception. Two glossy women were sitting behind the desk and talking about the floods, loving the vicarious drama of it. ‘Did you see the local news on the television? That car being washed away? Some places the electric’s down.’ There were plants in big tubs on either side of the desk and they were glossy too.

‘Can I help you?’ The accent was Ashington with a posh veneer.

‘I hope you can, pet. I need to speak to Christopher Eliot.’

The response was immediate and automatic. ‘Mr Eliot’s tied up all day, I’m afraid. Perhaps his secretary can help.’

Vera put her warrant card on the desk. ‘Like I said, I need to speak to Mr Eliot. Just point us in the direction of his office. No need to let him know we’re on our way.’ Swinging through the door into the corridor, she stopped and turned back, enjoyed seeing the look of outrage on the woman’s face. ‘Some of our colleagues will be working in the car park very soon. Teas and coffees all round, please. Much appreciated.’ Hearing Joe chuckle at her side, Vera felt on top of the world.

Eliot’s office was on the first floor with a view of woodland and the hills in the distance. She thought he seemed more at home here than he did in the White House. He could have been a soldier, she thought. An officer, of course. One of those ordered men who can pack up all their worldly goods into a backpack and function equally well in Afghanistan or South Georgia. His passport would have stamps from all over the world. But this was his HQ for the moment. There was a map on the wall, red pins stuck throughout the continent of Africa. On the desk a photograph of two small boys.

‘Is this Patrick?’ Vera pointed to the smaller. He was slight and fair, took after his father more than his mother.

Eliot still sat at his desk. He’d risen briefly when Vera had come in. ‘Inspector Stanhope?’ A greeting, as well as a chilly enquiry about the intrusion. Now he looked at the photograph. It was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking. ‘Yes, that’s Patrick. It was taken on his second birthday. He died a week later.’

‘No photographs of him at home.’ Not a question.

He frowned. ‘We all grieve in our own way, Inspector.’

‘You never considered having another child?’

Vera thought he was going to tell her to mind her own business, which is what she’d have done in the circumstances, but perhaps he was grateful for the opportunity to discuss it, even with a stranger like her.

‘I’d have liked another baby, but Veronica wouldn’t hear of it. She said she couldn’t take the risk. What if something were to happen, to go wrong? She couldn’t bear another lost child. It would kill her.’

‘Did that seem like an extreme reaction to you?’ Vera kept her voice low and gentle.

He shrugged. ‘As I said, Inspector, we all grieve in our own way.’

‘Of course.’ And yours is to keep moving: hours spent in airports, drives in trucks on dusty roads, new faces, new places. No attachment. ‘Where did you meet Veronica?’

This time he did question her reason for asking.

‘Humour me,’ she said.

And he did, perhaps as used to taking orders as to giving them.

‘It was at the Willows Hotel. An engagement party. Through friends of friends. I think I’d known her as a child. You know how it is when you grow up in the same region. Her parents were rather grander than mine, but they had no money. There was a very sad story about a fire and the house being uninsured. But the party at the Willows was the first time we really spoke. She’d been away, I think. Some au-pair job up in the Borders for friends of her parents. She was lovely. Still is, of course, but then she was stunningly beautiful.’

Loyalty. Another of a soldier’s virtues.

He took a small photograph from his wallet. There was Veronica in her early twenties. Very slender and pale. Long dark hair, pushed back from her face. Serious. No hint of laughter.

‘Was Simon Veronica’s first child?’ Vera asked.

‘Of course!’ He gave a little laugh. ‘It was a very uncomplicated pregnancy. There’d been no problems, no history of miscarriage. Nothing like that. He was a bit early and I missed the actual birth, arrived in from the Middle East when all the messy bits were over. But it was quite straightforward. That was why I thought we could risk another baby after Patrick had died.’ He looked up. ‘What is all this about, Inspector?’

‘Background.’ She kept her voice light. ‘More likely just plain nosiness. Not what I’m here for. I’m here because there’s a car outside that belongs to a missing woman.’

‘Oh?’

‘Connie Masters. She lives in Mallow Cottage, just over the road from you.’

‘I’ve heard my wife speak of her, but I’ve never met the woman.’

‘So you don’t know what her Nissan Micra’s doing in your car park?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I haven’t a clue.’ He looked up at her with clear grey eyes and for once in her life she couldn’t say if he was telling the truth. She imagined him in business negotiations. Or playing poker. He’d be good. He could be bluffing, but his face would give nothing away.

She stood up and saw that Ashworth was surprised that she was prepared to leave things at that. At the door she stopped and turned back to face Eliot. ‘Was Patrick buried?’ she asked. ‘Is there a grave?’

If the question shocked him, the man gave no sign of it.

‘No. He was cremated. Veronica’s decision.’

‘And the ashes were scattered at Greenhough, her old family home.’ A statement this time, not a question.

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s why the place is so important to her?’ Vera said.

‘It’s important to us all.’

This time Vera left the room and shut the door carefully behind her.

On the short drive from the business park to Barnard Bridge, Vera didn’t open her mouth except to take one phone call. Joe Ashworth thought it was the chap in social services because Vera called him Craig, but he couldn’t tell what it was about. It was all Craig talking and Vera listening, and it lasted the whole journey. They were still using Vera’s Land Rover, which was completely against all regulations because it was about a hundred years old and likely to clap out at any time, but she’d said if there was floodwater on the road, at least they’d get through. The windows didn’t close properly and the engine was so noisy it felt as if they were riding in a tank. There was a stink of diesel fumes.