Ann Cleeves - The Crow Trap

“Waugh’. It sounded so like the imitation of a dog barking that for a moment Anne was distracted. When she did speak she managed to sound as confident as if they were old friends.

“You did tell me to get in touch. I thought I’d better not just turn up. You might be busy.”

But Barbara Waugh wasn’t busy. And she remembered Anne perfectly, though they had met only once several months before. She insisted that Anne come to the house now.

“Do come if you’re free. Stay for lunch. It’s perfect. Felicity’s spending the day with a friend and Godfrey’s away for two days at a conference.”

So if he’s lying, Anne thought, it’s to both of us.

Godfrey had never invited Anne to his house. After all, it was one of Barbara’s characteristics that she never went out. Apparently, even if she occasionally planned a trip shopping or to the cinema, she didn’t always go. Perhaps it was a sort of sickness. Anne knew where the house was, all the same. She had driven past out of curiosity, seen a rather stern modern house built of grey stone with a grey slate roof.

Anne would have broken the harsh lines with creeper and climbers but the Waughs’ garden was conventionally tidy. There was a bare expanse of lawn, curved borders, coloured now by symmetrical clumps of crocus and snowdrops, backed by more mature shrubs. The only touch of imagination was the tree house, nailed into a gnarled sycamore.

Although the platform on which the house was built was only about three feet from the ground it was reached by a wooden ladder. Anne thought Godfrey had probably built the house himself for the Beloved Felicity.

Recently she had come to think of the child in this way, seeing the words beginning with a capital letter like an obscure saint or martyr.

When she arrived it was still raining. The front door opened before she left the car. Barbara was standing there. Anne sprinted over the gravel to meet her and stood in the hall shaking the water from her hair. Barbara was dressed in blue denim trousers, but not the sort of jeans Anne was wearing. These wouldn’t fade at the knee or rip at the bum. Over the trousers she wore a navy fine wool sweater. Her face was discreetly made up and there was a hint of perfume. Anne had considered going home to the Priory to change but couldn’t face bumping into Jeremy. Besides the jeans she was wearing a rugby shirt and a waterproof. She wore no make-up and her hair could have done with another application of colour tint. It was more grey than rich chestnut brown.

Anne was aware of a polished woodblock floor, a staircase with flower patterned Axminster and the smell of coffee. Barbara seemed eager and anxious at once. She was speaking quickly and Anne, shaking the water from her hair, couldn’t quite make out the words. Now that she was here it didn’t seem such a good idea. It had started as a bit of fun; now she wondered if she could decently make an excuse and leave. But Barbara had already led her into a large living room and was speaking, repeating perhaps what she had said in the hall.

“I’m so glad you could come. Something’s been troubling me. It seemed such a lucky coincidence when you rang. You are probably the best person to talk to.” She paused then, realizing that this wasn’t the stuff of normal social interchange. “I’m sorry. This is rude. Do sit down. Would you like a drink? Sherry or coffee perhaps? I think I’d like a coffee.”

Anne, who felt very much like a drink, said she would have coffee too.

When Barbara left the room, Anne tried to compose herself. She thought she might have the nerve to see it through without too much harm. She was sitting in a comfortable room which would have been more in keeping with an older house. Nothing was shabby, but the furniture was solid, heavy, rather dark. There was a wood-burning stove. Against one wall was an upright piano. On the stand, open, a book of child’s music. On another wall a pencil drawing of the Beloved Felicity was hanging. Anne wondered if Barbara had done it herself, but it was rather good and she thought not. The girl was frowning as if concentrating on a problem she had no hope of solving.

Barbara brought coffee in a Pyrex filter jug. She saw Anne looking at the drawing.

“Do you have children, Mrs. Preece?”

“Anne, please. No, no children.” Without thinking she continued with the flip explanation she always gave in these circumstances. “I never felt the need of them.”

Barbara looked horrified as if, Anne thought, a guest had farted at the dinner table, but she said immediately, “It was so good of you to come.”

Anne poured herself a cup of coffee but she didn’t reply. She thought the only subject Barbara could want to discuss with her was her relationship with Godfrey, but she sensed no hostility. Rather the reverse was true. Barbara seemed embarrassingly grateful to have her there, despite her not liking children.

“This is rather delicate.” She sat, hand poised on the coffee jug.

“It’s the new quarry. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

Anne was caught off guard. “I’m sorry?”

“I suppose you think I’m disloyal discussing it with you when my husband’s away but I’d say the same if he were here. I have said exactly the same to him. I think it’s a mistake. It’ll alienate too many of our customers. It’s bad for our image. I was involved with this business long before Goff was. It matters to me.”

“Why do you think he’s so keen?”

It wasn’t a question she’d ever asked Godfrey she wouldn’t ever be able to think of him as Goff but now she found it interesting. If she were in his place she’d want the quarry for the excitement of the development, the drama, even the confrontation. But Godfrey wasn’t like her. He wasn’t greedy and he never took pleasure in being the centre of attention. Perhaps it was a fear that his business might otherwise stagnate which drew him on.

Barbara, however, had other ideas. “I don’t think he is keen. Not personally. Neville Furness has persuaded him that it’s the only way the business will survive.”

“Neville Furness?” Anne needed time to think.

“He works for Goff. You must have seen him at some of the public meetings, very dark.” “Yes,” Anne said. “I know.”

“Since Neville started working for us Goff’s been restless, preoccupied. And I hardly ever see him.”

I can solve that mystery for you, Anne thought. She said, carefully, “Do you think an employee would exert that sort of influence?”

“Not usually perhaps but… ” She broke off and her mood suddenly changed again. “Let’s go through to lunch. You don’t mind eating in the kitchen? It’s only something out of the freezer. And only paper napkins I’m afraid. Would you like a glass of wine? I put some Muscadet in the fridge.”

Anne followed her. They sat at a round pine table set in the corner of the sort of kitchen featured in magazines which end up in dentists’ waiting rooms. Anne took in the gleaming surfaces, the spotless Italian tiles on the floor and supposed that Barbara had a cleaning lady. She wasn’t jealous though. The Priory was classier. Such cleanliness smacked of the suburbs.

She was, however, impressed by the food. The rich onion flan might have come out of the freezer but Barbara had cooked it before it went in. It was topped with tomatoes and parmesan and latticed with anchovies and olives. They ate it with a salad and warm close-textured bread which must also have been homemade. Considerable effort had gone into the preparation of this meal. Anne, who often set out to impress, if not through food, wondered what Barbara was after.

“You were talking about your husband and the company.”

Barbara drank half a glass of wine very quickly. Her face was flushed.