Ann Cleeves - Telling Tales

She walked into the incident room, responding to the stare of the officer at the nearest computer with a wave. “Don’t mind me, pet. You’ll not know I’m here.”

She found herself a spare desk and a phone and began a lot of fruitless conversations with the manufacturers of ladies’ underwear. At the same time she was eavesdropping on the Winter enquiry. The way she saw things, they hadn’t much to go on. They were still trying to trace the details of Christopher’s mobile, but he hadn’t bothered registering it, and they hadn’t found anyone in Aberdeen who had the number. He’d never given the number to Emma, or to his parents, which Vera thought was odd. After an hour she got bored and went back to pester Holness. She leaned on his door frame and looked into his office.

“Did anything come of the search of that farm by the cemetery?”

“The lad was there,” Holness said. “There was a fingerprint on the door of the stable.”

“Did you find anything to suggest he met someone?”

“A couple of other prints both left by one other person. No one known to us. Might be useful if we ever get as far as pulling in a suspect.”

“And he wasn’t seen all day?”

“We think he must have hidden out in the farm until it got dark. Otherwise he’d have been noticed. Elvet’s that sort of place. Nosy.”

Halfway through the afternoon she cracked and phoned Ashworth. She’d been thinking about him since he’d left in the morning. It was clear he couldn’t talk without being overheard. He sounded pleased with himself, though, and she wished she’d taken on the job. Delegation was supposed to be about shipping out the crap, but she’d never seemed to have got the hang of it. Usually she was left with that stuff herself. She went back to the hotel, had a long bath and tried to contain her impatience.

Her phone rang at about eight thirty and she snatched it from the bedside cupboard, thinking it would be Joe Ashworth at last with some news. It was Paul Holness and disappointment made her lose concentration for a moment. She missed what he was saying because she was wondering what could have happened to Joe.

“Sorry,” she said, ‘it’s a terrible line. Would you mind repeating that?”

IWe’ve just had a phone call from Veronica Lee, the landlady at the Anchor. It seems Michael Long’s made some sort of scene there. He’s in a bit of a state, she says. Wants to speak to you. We could send one of our lads if you like, but I thought you might want to go. Jeanie’s dad, isn’t he? Nothing really to do with us.”

“Yes,” she said. “Probably best if I do it. He knows me! She thought she was a sad old bat, because a phone call like that could suddenly make her come alive.

She parked in the square and noticed that there was a light on in the Old Forge. She hesitated briefly, tempted to go there first to talk to Dan. But that could wait, she thought. He wouldn’t be leaving the village again tonight. She’d best see what had rattled Michael’s cage first. There was no sign of drama in the Anchor when she went in. Half a dozen kids were gathered round the pool table, a few middle-aged couples sat at the tables in the window, two large-bellied men were playing darts. They stared at her, then looked away. By now everyone in the village knew who she was.

“Veronica about?”

The barman was thin and spotty and scarcely looked more than a boy himself.

“She’s out the back. She said to go on in.” The short side of the bar was hinged. He lifted it for her to go through. She felt a sudden thrill to be there, standing behind the bar between the taps and the optics. It was like going backstage at a theatre. She imagined herself retired, running a small pub in a village in the hills, but knew it would never happen. She’d offend the customers and drink all the profits.

She’d thought the door behind the bar would lead through to the landlady’s living quarters, but she emerged into a kitchen where, earlier in the evening, bar meals had been cooked. The sink was full of dirty pans. Michael sat at the table looking dazed. A half-drunk cup of tea, with a film already forming on the top, stood in front of him. Veronica was looking at him anxiously. A man with pebbly eyes stood leaning against the counter looking down at them. He was eating a cheese roll and his mouth was half full.

“You’d best go back, Barry,” Veronica said. “Someone needs to keep an eye on the bar.”

“Sam’ll manage.”

“No,” she said. “He won’t. I’ll not be long myself. Michael doesn’t need an audience.”

Barry seemed inclined to argue again, but she shot him a look and he slouched off, still clutching the cheese roll.

“What’s all this about, then?” Vera said. She realized she was speaking as if Michael was an invalid or a naughty child and tried again. “They said you wanted to talk to me.”

He looked up and seemed to recognize her for the first time.

“I found out about that pilot. He used to know Mantel, changed his name. I imagined all sorts. You know the way your mind can work. He was in here tonight with that young wife of his.” The words tumbled over themselves. He looked at her fearfully, anticipating her disapproval. She saw that he’d fallen apart since she’d last seen him. Jeanie’s death had finally caught up with him.

“Did you tell her what you’d found out?” she asked. “Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“He told the whole bar,” Veronica said. “Made a bit of a scene. I should have realized what sort of strain he was under. I thought he was coping. I’ve called the doctor.”

Vera took a seat beside Michael. “You should have come to me. I’d have explained.” But what? she thought. What could I have told him?

“It was Mantel, wasn’t it?” Michael said, desperately. “He was behind it all.”

Again, she didn’t know what to answer. “It won’t be long now,” she said. “This time tomorrow we should have someone in custody. It’ll not bring Jeanie back…”

He finished the sentence for her. “But I’ll know…” For a moment he seemed to be more himself. Veronica reached across the table and took his hand.

Out in the square, Vera stood to collect her thoughts. A dog or a fox had been at a bin and scraps of rubbish blew across the street. They wouldn’t like that, the respectable people of Elvet. They liked their muck firmly shut away. She walked to the Captain’s House and banged on the door. James opened it almost immediately. At first she misinterpreted his anxiety.

“Sorry,” she said. “I should have thought before making that noise. I’d forgotten there was a baby in the house.”

“No, Matthew’s not here. Robert and Mary are looking after him. I thought you were Emma.”

“Where is she?”

“There was a scene in the pub. She ran off.” He hesitated. “You were right, of course. I should have told her myself.”

“Where’s she gone? To her parents?”

“No. The car’s still here.”

“And you just let her go off by herself?” In the dark? A week after her brother was murdered?

“She’s quite safe,” he said. “I saw where she went. She ran over to the forge. Dan will look after her.”

“Why did she go to Dan?”

“I suppose she needed someone to talk to. He’s my friend. Perhaps she thought he’d understand, make her understand. Perhaps she thought I’d discussed it with him.”

“Are they close, the two of them?”

“No,” he cried. “Not like that.”

“I’ll go over,” she said. “See what’s going on.”

“I’ll come with you:

“Best not. Give her a chance to think about it. Mind, I work for the police, not marriage guidance. I’ll not try to persuade her either way.” If she’s there. Alive and safe.