Ann Cleeves - Telling Tales

She sat for so long in silence that he was about to repeat the question. “No,” she said at last. “No need. I had a hit of a poke about myself.” She explained about her search of the house in the Crescent, felt like a guilty kid.

Ashworth looked at her as if she should know better. “How do you want to handle it?”

“We’ll keep it to ourselves for the time being. No need to tell the Yorkies. We don’t want the rumours flying if there’s nothing to it. There’s nothing to link him to the Winter case. But we’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll go and have a chat tomorrow. See if I pick up on anything.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve got something special for you. A bit of a fishing trip. An away day. You’ll love it.”

Emma drove Matthew to Springhead. Arriving at the house, she sat for a moment in the car, reluctant to take him inside. She wasn’t sure now that she wanted to let him out of her sight. Would her parents be able to cope with him?

Inside though, Mary was looking out for them. She must have heard the car and the kitchen curtain was pulled aside. Emma saw her silhouetted against the yellow light and imagined her peering into the darkness. She gathered Matthew into her arms and prepared to be cheerful. Inside, her parents were drinking tea, pretending not to be waiting.

“I’ve expressed some milk so I don’t have to hurry back,” Emma said in a jolly voice she hardly recognized as her own. She handed the baby to Robert. She wanted to say, He’s only a loan. Not a replacement for Christopher. Not yours to keep. But that would have been foolish.

Back at the Captain’s House, she and James sat awkwardly at the kitchen table. She thought there was a peculiar restraint between them, a shyness. They were like a couple in a Victorian novel who had escaped the chaperone, though Matthew could hardly count as a chaperone. Now they were alone they weren’t quite sure how to proceed.

“What would you like to do?” James asked. “I could cook for you. We could go out for a quiet meal.”

“I’m not sure I want quiet,” she said. “There’s been too much of that recently. Noise would be good. Music. Talk. Would you really hate it if we just went for a drink in the Anchor?”

“People will want to ask about Christopher,” he said. “You know what they’re like. You won’t mind?”

“No. I think I’d like it. It seems healthier somehow than pretending it didn’t happen. There might be people who knew him there. Friends from school.”

“It could be a sort of wake?”

“Yes,” she said gratefully. “Exactly that.”

She went upstairs to run a bath. The oil she used had sandalwood in it and patchouli. He’d teased her when she first used it, called her a hippy, but she’d never been the sort to camp out at Glastonbury and hadn’t known what he was on about until he explained. On his way to the bedroom to change, he stopped on the landing and looked in on her. She’d propped open the door to let out the steam. The bathtub was old, made of a hard, stained enamel. It was very deep. She’d lit candles on the window sill and their scent mixed with the bath oil. She’d already washed her hair and tied it in a thin silk scarf in a knot on the top of her head. She lay back in the water, allowing her legs to float and her eyes to shut. Then she opened her eyes and saw him there, staring at her.

“Come in,” she said. He seemed poised to make an announcement. There was a long silence. She thought he was composing a sentence in his head and wondered what he could have to say. Suddenly he seemed to lose his nerve.

“I’ll leave you in peace,” he said. “Let you relax.” But the moment was spoilt for her and she climbed from the tub.

She made special preparations to go out, although they were only going across the road to the pub and she wasn’t dressing up. She’d already put jeans and the striped jersey she’d bought on her last trip to town on the chair. She came into the bedroom wrapped in a big bath towel, and sat in front of the dressing table. She used straighteners on her hair after drying it, her eyes fixed on the mirror. The towel slipped when she raised her arms above her head and she had to fasten it again. Then she took time to apply her make-up. Throughout, she was aware of James sitting on the bed and watching her.

She waited for him to come behind her and touch her, but he sat, quite still, watching. She felt breathless, light-headed. Let’s stay here, she was tempted to say. Let’s not bother to go out. I’m making all this effort for you. But the same shyness prevented her and anyway she thought she would enjoy the anticipation, being in the same room as him surrounded by people, aware of his eyes on her, knowing that soon they would come back here.

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled.

“Well?” she asked. “Will I do?”

“You’re fishing for compliments.” Now he did stand behind her. He reached out and stroked her neck. She caught her breath, but didn’t give herself away.

“No, really. I’ve never been sure I’m doing it right and I’m out of practice.”

“You look lovely,” he said. “Really.”

“It’s warpaint, of course. I’m quite nervous about facing people. I need something to hide behind.”

“Hide behind me,” he said. She caught his eye again and they laughed together at the soppiness. She felt herself relax.

By the time they arrived at the Anchor all the regulars were there. James opened the door to let Emma in first. She paused when inside to see if there was anyone she recognized. A group of kids had gathered around the pool table. She thought she’d seen them waiting for the school bus. Certainly they didn’t seem old enough to be drinking, but in these country towns what else was there for kids to do? Of course she’d never had the option of the pub. She remembered long, boring evenings at Springhead. Until she’d gone away to college her only entertainment had been the church youth club under the watchful eye of her father.

Their entrance had been noticed. Some of the life boatmen were playing darts and they stopped for a moment to nod towards James. Veronica behind the bar smiled at Emma, trying to hide her surprise. Veronica was familiar to them both. She came to church, not as a regular worshipper but on special occasions, Easter Sunday, midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. She always donated a couple of bottles for the summer fay re Her son had been to school with Christopher. They’d been in the same class. Emma struggled now to remember his name.

“How’s Ray?” It had come to her suddenly.

“He’s fine.”

“What’s he doing these days?” Emma wondered how she was performing. She wasn’t used to this sort of conversation any more.

“He’s joined the fire brigade. Leeds. Of course he was never as clever as your Christopher, but we’re very proud of him.” She paused. “I’m so sorry about what happened, love. We all are.”

“I know,” Emma said. “I know.”

“Have the police got anyone for it yet?” Barry had appeared suddenly from the back. He stood with his hands flat on the bar and he stared at Emma. The question shot out, without politeness or preamble.

“They haven’t said.”

“It’s a disgrace,” Barry said and Emma couldn’t tell whether he considered the murder a disgrace, or the police’s inability to find a suspect, or the lack of communication.

One of the darts players who’d come to the bar for another round muttered his agreement.

“Have these on me,” James said. “In memory, you know, of Chris.”

Half an hour later and there was as much noise as Emma could have wished. The kids had put something on the jukebox and in the other bar they were watching football on the wide screen and occasionally the cheers and groans were loud enough to swamp the music.