Ann Cleeves - Telling Tales

November, you don’t get many trippers. And if you were the sort who liked young girls, you’d not expect to find one lurking on the edge of a bean field. Besides, she weren’t raped, were she?”

She stopped abruptly, her hand over her mouth, a gesture too stagy, surely, to be sincere.

“I forgot. She were a friend of yours. I am sorry, love.”

“No,” Emma said. “She wasn’t raped.” She looked across her coffee mug to Wendy. “Were you living round here then?” Wendy must be in her thirties. She’d have been about the same age Emma was now.

“In Elvet. In one of the council houses. Married to a bastard. Just before I saw sense and started work on the ferries.”

“Did you know Jeanie Long?”

“I went to school with her. Not that we mixed much. She weren’t my type.” The eyes flashed. “All I’m saying is watch yourself. Don’t take chances. I’m surprised James let you out today on your own with the baby.”

“He’s asleep. He doesn’t know.” She looked at her watch. It was nearly four o’clock, already getting gloomy outside. “Perhaps we should get back.”

“Aye,” Wendy said. “You get on before it gets right dark. And take care now.”

But when Emma left she didn’t lock the door behind her guests. She lit the cigarette and returned to the iron, as if she sensed that she was in no danger.

When they returned from the Point it was dark and the doors of the pottery were padlocked shut. The square was deserted. It could have been midnight. Inside the house, Emma felt suddenly safe. There was that relief of coming in and slipping off her shoes and making tea, which she remembered from when she’d been working. Perhaps that’s all that’s wrong with me, she thought. I’ve been spending too much time in this house. I can’t appreciate it. Perhaps it’s time to think about going back to work.

James was up. He’d drawn the curtains in the living room and banked up the fire. The walls in this room were dark red and hung with large pictures in gilt frames which he said he’d inherited from ancient relatives. He loved it. When they came in he was sitting on the leather sofa reading a newspaper, but he stood up and took Matthew from her, held him in the air above his head.

“That was a long walk,” he said. He didn’t sound anxious and she felt resentful. There was a murderer on the loose and he wasn’t even concerned. Instead he stood leaning against the window sill looking around the room, beaming.

“We went to see Wendy.”

“She’ll have liked that.”

“She thinks the person who murdered Abigail Mantel could still be living round here.” #

He frowned. “I suppose it’s possible. Does it bring that all back? Like a nightmare? Of course, I can’t possibly understand what it can be like.”

She was surprised and moved, went up to him and kissed his forehead.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. “Not to either of you.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t I cook? You get the baby ready for bed, then put your feet up.”

She thought this was how it could be. She could give up her dreams of Dan, who after all was edgy and unpredictable, not even likeable if she thought about it seriously. They could be content, the two of them. She could make small concessions, like going willingly to church with him, and taking more interest in his work, like initiating regular if unimaginative sex, and he would take care of them. For some reason she knew she could trust him to do that. He would agree to her returning to teaching, even if he didn’t much like the idea. Their marriage would survive without argument or disturbance; it would be at least as happy as that of most of their friends. Was that what she wanted? And anyway, did she deserve it?

When she came downstairs from settling Matthew to sleep, James was in the kitchen. He was standing at the workbench chopping onions and garlic, concentrating so hard that he didn’t hear her approach. He’d changed into jeans and a thin woollen jersey. There was nothing between the jersey and his skin and

Emma found herself thinking, with an odd excitement, about the faint irritation this must cause. She stood behind him and slid her hand beneath the jumper, moved her fingers down the knots of his spine, inside the waist of his jeans. He turned, still with the knife in one hand, a bulb of garlic in the other, disarmed. He bent and kissed her forehead, ran the tip of his tongue over her eyelids.

“Why don’t you leave that?” she said. “We can have it later.” It was an experiment. Could she forget her fantasies of Dan Greenwood and learn to make do with reality? A quiet domestic life?

James reached behind him to replace the garlic and knife on the bench. It was as if he had his hands tied behind his back. All the time he was kissing her, and just for a moment she felt herself relaxing.

Then there was a banging on the door. The heavy knocker was rammed down three times. In the quiet house the sound seemed to echo. Emma immediately imagined Vera Stanhope standing there. She was certain it was her, could picture her, legs apart, putting all her weight behind the knocking.

“We could ignore it,” James said. Emma thought the suggestion was half-hearted. It would be too daring for him, and already he was feeling slightly embarrassed by his abandon.

Ske came to his rescue. “No.” If it was Vera Stanhope she wouldn’t go away. She would stand there all night if necessary, get a warrant and smash in the door.

Emma had been so convinced that the inspector would be standing there that she almost felt cheated. She’d been planning an angry outburst. Do you realize my baby’s asleep? I’ve already told you everything I know.

The figure on the doorstep was taller than Vera Stanhope, better proportioned, almost athletic. He’d turned away and was looking out at the square. His long hair was tangled. He wore a thin waterproof anorak and there was a small rucksack at his feet. It was the last person she would have expected.

“Chris,. What are you doing here?”

He turned to face her. His face still had the brooding quality he’d developed as an undergraduate. She’d thought it was a pose, a way of attracting women, but now it seemed to have become a habit. There were dark shadows under his eyes, emphasized by the light over the door, which also made his features more angular than she remembered.

“I’ve come to see my sister,” he said. “Of course.” He bent and pecked her abruptly on her cheek. His lips were icy. “I hope you’ve got some beer in there. Otherwise we’ll have to send James out to find some. I’ve been travelling all day. I’m desperate.”

“How did you get here?”

“Last bus from Hull. It took bloody hours.”

“You should have phoned. I’d have come to get you.”

“I don’t believe in cars.” He laughed. She couldn’t work out if it were a joke at his expense for having such uncomfortable principles, or if he were mocking her for taking him seriously. She’d never known how to react to him. Although she’d been the older one, she’d always been intimidated by his intelligence. The gap between them had grown wider since Abigail’s death. Neither of them had made the effort to bridge it.

She realized she was still standing in the doorway, blocking his way into the house. She moved aside.

“Come in. James is cooking supper. I’m sure there’s beer.”

The kitchen was at the back of the house and she led Chris through. During the day it seemed dark and rather gloomy, but now, after the chill of standing on the step, it was warm, even welcoming. James had returned to chopping onions. He sliced them into fine, almost translucent semicircles.