Ann Cleeves - Telling Tales

She woke to light, in a panic.

“Where’s Matthew?”

James was dressed. The light came from the lamp on the dressing table. He was stooped in front of the mirror, knotting his tie.

“Asleep,” he said. “It’s still early.”

“Are you sure? He never sleeps through.” Her heart was thudding. She felt clear headed, wide awake.

“I checked.” He pulled a face to confess that he’d panicked too.

As if on cue there was a grizzle from the monitor they’d bought, then a small cry.

, “You stay there,” James said. “I’ll get him.”

She propped herself against all the pillows on the bed and wondered why she couldn’t be happy with this: a good husband and a baby to feed.

She kept Matthew with her and read until the light came through the window and the traffic started moving. James had long gone. She changed the baby and put him back in his cot, then went downstairs to make tea. She half expected to find Chris where she’d left him, slumped over the table amidst the remains of the meal, but there was only the debris. He must have roused himself sufficiently to drag himself to the spare room. It would have been late though. She hadn’t heard him. She filled the kettle then stacked the dishwasher and switched it on.

When the tea was made she decided to share it with Chris. She pictured herself sitting at the end of his bed, the duvet tucked around her feet, continuing the conversation of the night before. It wasn’t too late for them to become close. She had to set the tray on the table on the landing so she could knock at the door. There was no reply. She wasn’t surprised. He must be practically unconscious after all that booze and so many nights without sleep. Still she persisted. She knocked louder, then opened the door.

The bed was empty and still made, though it was slightly crumpled, as if Chris had lain on top of it. The rumpled cover was the only sign that he had ever been there. His bag was gone and he hadn’t left a note.

Downstairs, Emma sat in the warm kitchen. She drank the tea while it was still hot. After two cups she telephoned her parents’ house. There was no reply.

Michael was coming back to life, thawing out. And it was painful. Like when a numb foot gives way to pins and needles or cramp. It had started in the church: the stab of fury, which had caused him to spit the wine at Robert Winter, had cut through the dead iciness. Then Vera Stanhope, big and warm and generous, had continued the process. Now he was restless, fidgety. He couldn’t sit in the bungalow waiting for things to happen.

“What can I do?” he’d said when he stood up to let the inspector out of the house. “I want to help.”

She’d hesitated and he’d held his breath, dreading a patronizing response. Leave it to us. I’ll let you know if I think of anything. The silence had gone on for so long that he’d thought she never would answer. She’d walk out into the street, leaving him still waiting.

“Mantel,” she’d said at last. “Is he still involved in village life?”

“As far as I know. I haven’t mixed much since Peg…” He’d been ashamed to admit how isolated he’d become. He never went out. Before the escapade in the church and Jeanie’s funeral, his only trip out was once a month to the barber, and then he’d go early on a week day when he knew the shop would be empty.

‘It’d be useful to find out what he’s up to. Not just work. Has he got a woman, for example, in that fancy house of his? People will talk to you when they won’t to me.”

“Haven’t you spoken to him?”

“Not yet. I will do, of course, but I want to know what I’m dealing with first.”

“You don’t think he killed his daughter?” Michael had felt dizzy at the thought. Was that where Vera’s enquiries might be leading?

She hadn’t answered. She had stood for a moment, just inside the door, then she’d said very formally, “Goodbye, Mr. Long,” given him a big wink and walked out into the street.

At lunchtime he got ready to go out. He didn’t dress up in the suit he’d worn to church, but he chose his clothes carefully, an actor intent on giving the right impression through his costume. Comfortable was what he was after. Comfortable and relaxed, as he’d been in the old days before Abigail Mantel had died and Jeanie had been locked up. He chose a pair of corduroy trousers which still had a splash of varnish on one knee and a fawn ribbed jumper, then a waterproof, because there were still flecks of rain against the window. Outside, he fumbled a bit with his keys when he locked up but there was none of the usual panic. He walked past the knot of reporters on the square with his back straight and his head high.

At the door of the Anchor he stopped and marvelled at the change that had come over him. Then he opened the door and the smell was the same as it had always been. Hops and cigar smoke Veronica’s husband, Barry, smoked fat stubby cigars wood polish and a hint of fried food from the kitchen at the back, even though no one was eating today. Veronica was behind the bar and Barry, a slight, sandy man with fishy eyes, was sitting on the punters’ side, on one of the tall stools. He was the laziest man Michael had ever known. Rumour had it that he was dying of some rare illness, but Michael had heard that rumour fifteen years ago and Barry was still alive. Still propping up the bar and listening to gossip like a woman. His name was over the bar but everyone knew it was Veronica who ran the place.

It was Veronica who saw Michael first. She looked up from the glass she was polishing and gave him a quick, polite smile as if he were a stranger, a tourist who’d wandered in for a bar meal. Then she registered who he was. There was a moment of wonder as if she could hardly believe her eyes.

“Hello, love,” she said. “The usual?”

All those years and she remembered. That was a landlady for you. She was wearing a white blouse of some silky material and he could see the more dense white of her bra through it. He remembered suddenly that he’d fancied her, even when Peg was still alive. Just as in a very different way he’d fancied Abigail Mantel. But all men would be the same, wouldn’t they? There was no need for the sinking sense of shame in the pit of his stomach.

Veronica was staring at him. “It is Theakston’s, isn’t it, love?”

“Please,” he said.

Barry swivelled on the plastic seat of the bar stool as if the effort was too much for him. He was always curious and usually sat half-turned to face the door, so he could see who was coming in. He almost fell off when he saw Michael.

Michael walked slowly towards them. What did this remind him of? One of those Westerns he’d liked as a kid. He was the old deputy returning to his home town for the last time to see off the villain. Swaggering into the saloon. Letting the townsfolk know he was back, still alive.

Veronica set the pint on the bar for him. “On the house,” she said. “Welcome back, love.”

“When’s the funeral?” Barry asked, the wide pebble eyes unblinking. “Your Jeanie’s, I mean.”

He’d never be a great gossip, Michael thought. No tact. No subtlety.

“It’s come and gone. I didn’t want a fuss.” He was looking at Veronica. If Barry carried on like that, he’d be tempted to give him a slap. Better ignore him, try to shut him out. The funeral had been arranged by the prison chaplain, a young woman so short it had been hard not to think of her as a child. They’d decided on the crematorium. He couldn’t stand the thought of being buried and at the last minute had decided it wouldn’t be right for Jeanie either. She must have hated cramped, suffocating places too. The chaplain had sat beside him. The governor who’d come to the house had read from the Bible. There’d been a couple of women he hadn’t recognized. He supposed they were prison staff, teachers, maybe. Smart anyway, in suits. At the end of the service the chaplain had put her hand on his and he’d had a jolt of surprise. It hadn’t just been the physical contact though that had been a shock in itself after all this time. But her hand had looked just like Jeanie’s, the fingers tapering and strong, although she was such a short woman. She had even worn a silver ring very similar to one that Jeanie had possessed. At that moment, for the first time, he’d come close to tears.