Ann Cleeves - Telling Tales

He seemed to be forming an explanation but she didn’t allow him a chance to speak. “You recognized me when we first met. Did you come to Springhead the day I found Abigail? I don’t remember.”

“I spoke to your father.”

“But you saw me?”

“Through the kitchen door. Briefly. And then later James confirmed who you were.”

“Does he know you’re an ex-cop?”

“It’s not something I feel I have to hide. It came up recently in conversation.”

How? she wondered. Does James use that incident in my past as an excuse for my behaviour? We’d have you round to dinner, but Em’s not very good in company. She found the body of her murdered best friend… As if one had any relevance to the other.

“Didn’t you think I’d be interested to know that you’d worked on the case?”

“I didn’t think you’d want reminding of it.”. “It’s hard to forget,” she said. “Now, with all that’s going on.”

“Have you been bothered by the press?”

“No.”

“They’ll track you down. I know you use your married name but it might be worth changing your phone number.”

“We’re ex-directory.”

“That won’t stop them.”

The exchange seemed unnaturally loud and fast. The words seemed to ricochet off the walls. They looked at each other for a moment in silence.

“Look,” he said. “I can make you a coffee.” He wiped the seat of the chair with his sleeve. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I want to know what’s going on,” she cried. “No one’s been to see me. It’s not fair. I’m involved.”

She had the argument clear in her head. The grievance had been growing all night. She hadn’t thought it would be directed towards Dan Greenwood. That Inspector Fletcher, Caroline, made the effort then. She kept us sweet while the police were preparing the case for court, while I could still be of use. She came every day to see what I could remember. Now I have to hear about developments on the news.

Though that wasn’t true. Dan had warned her, through James, of Jeanie’s suicide and that the case might be reopened.

While she hesitated, wondering what tone to take, her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her.

“That seems fair enough to me, pet.” The voice was very close. It seemed to rasp in Emma’s ear. She turned. The woman from the church was leaning on the wall behind her. “But that’s the police all over for you. They keep you in the dark and they feed you shit. That’s why Danny got out. Or so he says.”

She had emerged through a door. Emma could see a small room cluttered with boxes. There was a rickety armchair, a kettle, a tray of grubby mugs on the floor in one corner. The woman had been sitting there and had overheard everything they’d said.

“Who are you?” Emma demanded. Then, before the woman could answer, remembering Dan’s earlier warning, “Are you a reporter?”

The woman gave a wheezy laugh. Her enormous bosoms shook.

“Not me, pet. I’m on the side of the angels.” She held out a hand the size of a shovel. “Vera Stanhope. Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. I’ve been brought in to clear up this particular pile of crap.”

Emma thought Vera Stanhope was the most thick-skinned person she’d ever met. It was not only in that she was impervious to embarrassment or offence. She was literally thick-skinned. Her face was scaly and uneven, covered in places by crusted blotches, her hands were hard and worn. Some sort of allergy or disease, Emma thought, but couldn’t bring herself to pity. She wasn’t the sort of woman you could feel sorry for. Vera stood, looking at them both, narrowing her eyes.

“Did you say something about coffee, Danny? But not here, eh, pet. Let’s go somewhere a bit more comfy.” She directed her gaze towards Emma. “Don’t you live just over the square?”

Emma knew what was expected. She was supposed to invite them in, sit them in the best room, brew coffee, set out fancy biscuits. Then answer this extraordinary woman’s questions. Go over the old ground. And all the time Vera’s reptile eyes would be taking in the surroundings, probing, as curious as the old ladies from the church who’d invited themselves in to see the baby when she’d first come home from hospital. She couldn’t bear it.

“We can’t go to my house,” she said quickly. “My husband’s asleep. He’s been working all night.”

Dan Greenwood rescued her. Perhaps he sensed her panic, though she could no longer persuade herself that they had a special understanding.

“Why don’t you come back to my place. I’d be breaking for lunch about now anyway.”

Vera turned a wide smile on him, as if that was what she’d been hoping for all the time.

Outside the rain had stopped and there were jagged splashes of sunlight reflected in the puddles and the wet pavements. Emma waited for Dan to lock up. Even now, she found herself watching him. He had dark hair on the back of his hands. His sleeve fell back from his wrist as he clamped together the padlock and she imagined what it would feel like to touch his arm.

“I’ll drive round,” she said. “Matthew always falls asleep in the car. It’ll mean we can talk in peace.”

It wasn’t far to Dan’s house but she didn’t want to be seen traipsing after them along the narrow pavements, part of a strange procession, a circus freak show. He lived in a crescent of 1930s semis on the edge of the village. Once they’d been council houses and there were still one or two belonging to the local authority, identifiable by the uniform green paint. The rest had been bought by their owners or sold on to in comers like Dan. They had long, thin gardens at the back, fanning out towards farmland.

Emma took her time. She let herself into her own home and watched them set off before carrying Matthew to the car and strapping him in. She didn’t want to arrive ahead of them, and thought if she passed them on the way she might feel obliged to offer them a lift. The thought of Vera Stanhope in her car gave her the same threat of violation, as if she’d been forced to ask her into her home.

When she arrived at the Crescent Dan’s door was open, and she went in without knocking, lifting the car seat with Matthew into the narrow hall. She had never been inside the house, though she knew James had. It was one of his excuses for lateness during the cricket season. I just called into Dan’s for a beer after the match. Hovering outside the kitchen it occurred to her that James had probably known all along about Dan Greenwood’s role in the Abigail Mantel murder. The subject of Dan’s previous career must have come up during those boozy Friday night discussions. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of, as he’d said.

There was a tiny living room and a kitchen of a similar size with a door leading into the garden. The kitchen wall had been painted a deep green and there was one of Dan’s jugs with some chrysanths on the window sill, but everything else could have belonged to the previous owners. You wouldn’t have guessed an artist lived here. There was none of the mess or clutter she’d have expected. They all sat at the kitchen table and Vera seemed to take up most of the room. Emma was reminded of train journeys, strangers cramped around a table, trying to make sure their knees and feet don’t touch. Dan had changed from his work boots and was wearing the sandals climbers wear. His feet were brown. He’d made filter coffee and set out chocolate biscuits on a plate. Emma couldn’t tell what he made of this invasion. Had Vera Stanhope been foisted onto him or were they allies, old friends? His attitude towards her was affectionate but cautious. It was as if she were a large dog, generally well behaved but given to lashing out at strangers. He seemed to be trying very hard to sit still.