Ann Cleeves: Silent Voices

The house was more modest than Vera had been expecting, part of a terrace on the main street running through the village. She parked right against the pavement. It was five o’clock and the place was quiet. The Co-op on the corner was still open, but there was nobody about. This was teatime for kids, and the commuters from the city would still be at work or on their way home. She knocked on the door, not really expecting an answer, but almost immediately there were footsteps inside, the click of the Yale being turned.

‘Forgotten your key again?’ The words were spoken before the door was properly opened. There was laughter behind them. ‘Really, Mum, you are the limit.’ Then the girl saw Vera, paused and smiled.

‘Sorry I was expecting someone… Can I help you?’

‘Is your mum Jenny Lister?’

‘Yes, but I’m afraid she’s not here.’

‘I’m with Northumbria Police, pet. I think I’d best come in.’ She saw the panic that was the inevitable result of a police officer turning up unexpectedly on the doorstep. The girl stepped back to allow her in, and then her questions followed Vera down the narrow hall.

‘What’s this about? Has there been an accident? Have you come to take me to the hospital? Shouldn’t we leave now?’

Vera took a seat at a table in the kitchen at the back of the house. The walls were yellow and the low sun lit them up. Again this wasn’t what Vera had been expecting. She’d imagined Jenny as a stay-at-home wife, kept in idleness and luxury by a hard-working businessman, but this looked more like a student house. The kitchen looked out over a small garden, the Sunday papers were still on the table, and a bottle of red wine stood on the counter, half drunk, a cork stuck back into the neck.

‘Is it just you and your mam?’ Vera asked. There were photos pinned on a big cork noticeboard on one wall. The victim with this girl, both of them smiling into the camera. No doubt then as to the identity of the dead woman, and Vera felt suddenly very sad about that. She looked like a nice woman. No reason why decent women shouldn’t join health clubs too.

‘Yeah, my dad left when I was a kid.’ The girl had red hair, that opaque cream skin that often goes with it. She was wearing jeans and a long cotton top with flowers on it. Bare feet. She was so skinny it was hard to put an age on her. School sixth form maybe. But pleasant and polite. None of that adolescent rage you read about. She was still standing, leaning against the windowsill, looking outside.

‘Sit down,’ Vera said. ‘What’s your name, pet?’

‘Hannah.’ The girl chose a seat opposite to Vera’s. ‘Will you please tell me what all this is about.’

‘There’s no easy way of telling you this, I’m afraid, hinny. Your mother is dead.’ Vera leaned across the table and took Hannah’s hands in hers. No point in saying how sorry she was. What good would that do? She’d been younger than this lass when her own mother had died. But at least she’d had Hector. Hector had been a self-centred bastard, but he’d been better than no one.

‘No!’ The girl looked at her almost as if she pitied Vera for having made such a ridiculous mistake. ‘My mother’s not ill. She’s fit for her age. She swims, does Pilates, dances. She’s just taken a flamenco class.’ She paused. ‘A road accident then? But she’s a dead careful driver. Neurotic. You’ve probably got the wrong person.’

‘Does she belong to the health club at the Willows?’

‘Yes, I bought her membership. She was forty the birthday before last. I wanted something special, did a guilt trip on Dad and squeezed the money out of him.’ The girl seemed finally to believe what she had been told, stared at Vera in horror.

‘She didn’t die of natural causes.’ Vera looked at her to check she understood what she was saying, watched the silent tears roll down the perfect cheeks. The girl seemed unable to speak and Vera continued: ‘She was murdered, Hannah. Someone killed her. This is hard. Too hard for anyone to bear, but I have to ask you questions. It’s my job to find out who killed her. And the sooner I know all about her, the sooner I can do that.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘Of course. I’ll take you to the hospital myself if you like. But that won’t be possible until later this evening or maybe tomorrow.’

Hannah sat opposite Vera with her back to the window. The sun lit up her hair, like a halo.

‘Would you like me to ask your father to come round?’ Best do this by the book.

‘No. He’s in London. That’s where he lives now.’

‘How old are you, Hannah?’

‘Eighteen.’ She answered automatically, too stunned to question Vera’s right to ask.

A responsible adult then. No need for a minder. Not legally. But all the same, she just looked like a bairn. ‘Is there anyone else you’d like with you? A relative?’

She looked up. ‘Simon. Please get me Simon.’

‘Who’s he, then?’

‘Simon Eliot. My boyfriend.’ She paused. Then, despite her sadness and confusion, she corrected herself, taking a small comfort from the idea. ‘My fiancé.’

Vera felt like smiling. It seemed like they were playing mothers and fathers. Who got married that young any more? But she kept her voice serious. ‘Live local, does he?’

‘His parents have the big white house at the other end of the village. You’ll have passed it on the way in. He’s a student in Durham. Home for the Easter holidays.’

‘Why don’t you give him a ring? Ask him to come round. Or do you want me to speak to him?’ Vera was thinking the lad’s parents would look after Hannah if there was nobody else. At least until they could contact the father and bring him back from London. Hannah already had her mobile out and was punching out the numbers. At the last minute, as it started ringing, she passed it back to Vera. ‘Do you mind? I can’t talk about it. What would I say?’

‘Hello, you.’ A deeper voice than Vera was expecting, warm and sexy. It came to her suddenly that nobody had ever spoken to her like that.

‘This is Inspector Vera Stanhope from Northumbria Police. There’s been a sudden death. Hannah’s mother. Hannah asked me to contact you. I wondered if you’d come round. She needs someone with her.’

‘I’ll be there.’ The phone went dead. No messing. Vera was glad Hannah hadn’t taken up with a fool.

‘He’s on his way,’ she said.

While they waited for him, Vera made tea. She was desperate for a cup, and the pasty hadn’t done much to stop her hunger. This was a house where there’d be biscuits. Possibly even home-made cake.

‘What did your mam do for a living?’ She’d plugged in the kettle and turned back towards Hannah, who was still staring into space. There was no indication in the house, no clues for Vera to pick up, but she thought something arty. The things in the house – the furniture, crockery, pictures – wouldn’t have cost much, but they were put together with flair.

Hannah looked up very slowly. It was as if the question had taken hours to get through to her brain and she had only just remembered what had been asked. ‘She was a social worker. Fostering and adoption.’

Vera had to readjust her ideas. She’d never thought much of social workers. Either interfering busybodies who wouldn’t let folk get on with their own lives or ineffective wimps. A social worker had come to visit when her own mother had died, though she’d called herself something different then. Child Welfare Officer, that was it. Hector had charmed her, said of course he’d be fine to look after his daughter, and that had been the last they’d seen of the woman. And even though Hector had been hardly what anyone would call a model father, Vera wasn’t convinced having a social worker involved would have improved things. She was saved the need to answer because there was a brief knock on the front door, then Simon let himself in. He must have his own key . The thought flashed into her mind as she watched the young man take Hannah into his arms. Though it was hardly relevant because Jenny hadn’t been killed at home, it made him seem somehow part of the family and the idea of the couple being engaged seemed less ridiculous.