Ann Cleeves - The Crow Trap

“Did it?”

“Of course not.” At first the idea seemed to amuse him, then realizing she thought the response inappropriate, he was more serious. Like her, he seemed awkward, scared of striking a wrong note. “If anything, it makes things more difficult for the company. We need public opinion on our side. Any rumour that associates us with the death of a young survey worker will alienate it.”

“It’s still “our side” then?”

“I’m still employed by the company.”

“And so am I, indirectly. At least for a few more months. The fieldwork’s nearly finished. It’ll take me a while to finish the report but I don’t need to be at Black Law to do that.”

“What’s it like working for Peter Kemp?”

“Interesting.” It was her standard response to the question.

“And do you see your long-term future there?” She smiled. “Are you offering me a job?” It was an off the cuff remark but she wondered immediately if there was some truth in it.

Perhaps Neville had been set up by Godfrey Waugh to buy her off with a meaningless post within Slateburn Quarries environmental officer perhaps with thirty-five grand and a car. Though even if she accepted, what would it achieve? Anyway, the report would state that the quarry would cause little significant damage.

Neville shook his head. “If my plans go ahead I’ll be in no position to offer anyone work. I’ll be lucky if I can scratch together a living for myself.”

“I’ve been thinking recently that I might like a change,” she said.

“Perhaps I’ll try to move into the voluntary sector, one of the wildlife charities. The pay wouldn’t be so good… “

‘… but at least you wouldn’t have to consort with grubby businessmen.”

“Something like that.”

There was a break in the conversation. He lit the candles, invited her to sit at the table. She realized suddenly, with horror, that she hadn’t warned him she was vegetarian. Better to plough through a meal of dead animal than make a fuss at this stage. Or would she be sick?

That would be worse.

“I’m sorry.”

He was carrying a Le Creuset casserole with thick oven gloves.

“This is really stupid. I should have said. I don’t eat meat.”

“Nor do I much. Mushroom ri sotto OK?” Shit, she thought. I needn’t have opened my big mouth. He poured her another glass of wine.

“So what’s it like to work for Godfrey Waugh?” she asked, slightly desperate.

“Interesting.” She smiled politely. “No, I’d like to know. Power is always intriguing, isn’t it?”

There was a moment of silence. He paused with his fork halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Perhaps you’d better ask your colleague.”

“Which colleague?”

“Mrs. Preece.”

She looked at him, astounded. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and continued to eat. She couldn’t make out whether the indiscretion had been a mistake, a slip of the tongue, or deliberate, some kind of warning. Later she wondered even if it was the real reason for the invitation to dinner. She didn’t know what to say. At last she asked, pathetically, “Have you lived here long?”

Perhaps he sensed some criticism about the house or the neighbourhood because he sounded defensive. “Since I left the estate. That all happened in a rush. I had to find somewhere quickly. It suits me well enough though and I’m not here much.”

“Where did you live when you worked for the Fulwells?”

“They gave me a house, one of those semis at the end of the Avenue.

That was why I had to move so quickly when I resigned.”

“Why did you leave?”

He paused, tried to find the right words. “It was never a very comfortable working environment. I don’t think I’ve the right temperament for the feudal life.”

“What do you mean?”

But he shook his head.

“Did you ever meet Edmund, Grace’s dad?”

“Not when I was working on the estate. The family had dropped all contact with him at that point. I think they wanted to pretend he didn’t exist. But earlier, when I was growing up at Black Law, I saw him around. For us kids he was a bit of a bogeyman. Grown ups would say: “If you don’t behave you’ll end up like Edmund Fulwell.” Without really telling us what was wrong with him.”

“So you’ve no idea where he is now then?” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry. Vera Stanhope told me to ask.” The wine must have already gone to her head because the nervous giggle she had been stifling all evening came out. “Not much of a detective, am I?”

“Does she think Edmund killed his daughter?”

“I don’t know what she thinks.”

He piled plates and took them into the kitchen. They moved from the table. She sat on his IKEA sofa.

He opened another bottle of wine. Both started talking together. She gestured for him to continue.

“I’m sorry about this evening,” he said. “I’m not very used to this sort of thing. Too busy. Out of practice.”

“No,” she replied. “I’ve enjoyed it.” And realized she meant it.

He walked her home. He’d had too much to drink to drive. It wasn’t late. As he led her through the front door into the small garden two boys were chasing down the path between the houses, kicking a ball around in the last of the light. Through uncurtained windows she saw flickering televisions, kids sprawling on the floor with homework.

Neville seemed too solitary for this sort of communal living.

“When will you make up your mind about moving to Black Law?”

“Soon,” he said. “There are a few things to sort out.”

“Does Godfrey Waugh know what you’re planning?”

“No, I’ve only talked to you.”

At Riverside Terrace their pace slowed. She wondered if Edie was looking out for her from one of the upstairs windows. If so, it would be a novel experience for her. Edie, who had suggested a trip to the family planning clinic as soon as Rachael reached sixteen, would have welcomed boyfriends for breakfast, would have seen it as a healthy sign. Certainly, there would have been no need for stolen goodnight kisses on the doorstep.

“Will you come in for a coffee?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

And then, unexpectedly, he did kiss her. She felt his beard on her lips. A real kiss, but so quick and light that it could have been a friendly gesture of farewell.

She wanted to pull him closer to make it last, but he was already walking down the street away from her.

“When will I see you?” She shouted this without worrying that her mother might be watching.

He stopped, turned, smiled. “Soon,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

As she watched him walk very quickly down the street there was a movement in the shadow. It appeared to be a jogger in tracksuit and training shoes. He ran for a moment on the spot until Neville turned the corner then jogged down the street after him.

When she turned away from Neville in the street and approached the house Rachael could see Edie in the basement kitchen, silhouetted against the Chinese paper lampshade, talking on the telephone. But by the time she had opened the front door Edie had finished the conversation. She appeared at the top of the kitchen stairs, obviously excited.

This is it, Rachael thought. The inquisition. Other people’s parents might be curious about their daughter’s dates, but their questions were usually limited to financial status, the decor of the intended’s home, marital status. Edie’s questions were usually more detailed and more difficult. She wanted to know what Rachael’s friends were really like.

She probed their relationship with their parents and had been known in the past, without ever meeting the man in question, to pass judgement on his stability, his ability to empathize and even on the possibility that he was a latent homosexual.