Ann Cleeves - The Crow Trap

He was making an effort to keep his voice even but had begun to sound irritated. Vera thought, So, that’s what makes him tick. That’s where the ambition comes from. He doesn’t want the girl to have to struggle.

And she thought of her own father whose only ambition was to collect successive clutches of eggs from every bird breeding in the county.

Who’d never thought of her once.

Now Waugh seemed embarrassed. “Look; he said quietly. “We’ll discuss this later. The inspector doesn’t want to hear all this.”

Vera reached out to dunk a biscuit in her tea. “Don’t mind me, it’s fascinating. I’m just glad to get the weight off my feet.”

“How can we help you?” “As I said. Details to check. Very boring but necessary. Neville Furness used to work in Holme Park. He lived in the house where Edmund Fulwell was killed. It seems that he still had a key to the house.”

“Neville wouldn’t have killed anyone.”

“It’s not a character reference I’m after, Mr. Waugh. He says he was here on the evening Edmund Fulwell was killed.”

“He was. Peter Kemp had drawn up some interesting proposals for the new upland nature reserve on the Black Law site. I needed to discuss that with him. We thought it would provide positive publicity to coincide with the publication of the Kemp Associates report.”

“What time did he arrive?”

“I’m not sure. About four thirty.” “No,” Barbara said loudly. “Later than that. Quarter past five at the earliest. I’d just collected Felicity. She’d been at her friend’s for tea. We pulled up at the same time.”

Godfrey looked at her calmly.

“Is your wife right, Mr. Waugh?”

“Yes, Inspector. I believe she is.”

Barbara stood up suddenly. “I promised I’d help Felicity with her homework. I’m sure Godfrey can help you with anything else you need, Inspector. He’ll see you out.”

And she left the room before Vera could say anything. After her previous hospitality the abrupt departure was awkward, almost rude.

Later Vera thought she could have called Barbara back, made some attempt to see her alone. Then she could have offered help, given her the office phone number, pushed for more information about Neville Furness. As it was she just followed Godfrey to the door and said goodbye to the girl who’d returned to the computer. Despite the talk about homework Barbara was nowhere to be seen.

Outside she paused by her car. Swifts swooped above the house weaving a cat’s cradle pattern in the sky. She lingered, thinking that Barbara might find some excuse to talk to her. But, turning back, she saw the woman in an upstairs window, not looking at her at all but staring at the hill beyond.

In her house by the railway line Vera opened a bottle of red wine and drank most of it sitting by the open kitchen window until the colour had drained from the hills. As the wine began to take effect she was troubled not by doubts about the investigation but by memories of Constance Baikie. She had a picture of the woman as she had last seen her, lying wide and soft on her sofa, looking out at Vera with sly black eyes. Since her father’s death she had thought of him often.

With anger, guilt, occasional flashes of reluctant affection. He had been company. Another person to talk to. Connie she had largely forgotten until she had walked into Baikie’s Cottage, dripping with rain, to investigate a young woman’s murder and then all the memories had returned.

As she drained her second glass it occurred to Vera for the first time that Hector and Connie might have been lovers. After all she had never seen him with another woman. Almost immediately she dismissed the idea. Their joint passion had been for their illicit collections, for the secret obsession which took them out onto the hills before dawn to deprive birds of their young, leaving the nests empty and cold. They had shared the secret excitement. They were drawn closer by the danger which exposed them to blackmail and threatened their reputations and careers. It had nothing to do with love or even friendship.

Then, at almost the same time as she remembered that she had not eaten since Edie’s bread and cheese at lunchtime, she was struck by the thought that the murderer she was seeking could be similarly obsessive.

The daughter and then the father had been killed. Like Hector taking clutches from the same nest. There was no apparent motive but evidence of meticulous planning especially before Edmund’s death. Behind the killings she saw a passion as intense and irrational as that which had driven her father, clouded his judgement, ruined both their lives. Yet Hector had been quite different before his wife died. She had seen photographs of him, talking to friends, laughing. Even afterwards he had held down a respectable job until his retirement, had been considered a little eccentric, a bit of a loner, but not any sort of threat. She should be looking for someone with a secret obsession and when she understood what that was perhaps she would know why Grace and Edmund had been killed.

Her mobile phone rang. She came to her senses, thought, What a load of crap, get a grip, lady. Imagine explaining that to Ashworth and the crew.

On the phone was Christina Flood the psychologist. In the background was the sound of a flute playing something Celtic and mournful.

“I’ve dug out that information you wanted. You can come and get it if you like. I know it’s late but we’ve taken to sleeping at the same time as the baby and she’s definitely a night owl. We’ll be up for hours.”

Vera was tempted then she saw the empty bottle on the window sill and thought better of it. Some rules she was not prepared to break.

“I can’t tonight; she said. “I’ve had a few glasses of wine.

Definitely over the limit.”

Christina was surprisingly insistent. “Why don’t we bring it to you?

If you don’t have the stuff now, it’ll have to wait until Monday. We’re away for the weekend, showing off the sprog to doting grandparents.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. We’re all wide awake. Patrick and the baby want to play.”

Vera had almost given them up and it was midnight before she saw the headlights moving down the lane towards the house. She went out to wait for them, thinking perhaps they had been lost and would need reassuring that they’d got the right place. They were in a sea blue van with the words THE MUSIC MAN stencilled in orange along the side.

Christina was apologetic.

“My car wouldn’t start. Flat battery. So we had to come in Patrick’s.”

“I was glad you could make it.”

“Not at all. We’ve enjoyed the jaunt. Especially the baby.”

“We’re going for a walk,” Patrick said. “Leave you two in peace.”

“No need.”

“We want to,” he said. “We’ve never done moonlight before.”

And he walked down the lane with the baby in a sling on his back and disappeared into the black shadow of the old station house.

“Did you decide on a name for her?” Vera asked.

“Miranda. Theatrical enough for Patrick but not too outrageous.”

They sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. Christina’s papers were in a large box file. There were shorthand notebooks containing a jotted record of each meeting of the group, and some photocopies of patients’ record sheets.

“I need these because in the notebooks I often just use first names or initials and after all this time I can’t remember the backgrounds of every individual patient. But I’m still concerned about confidentiality. I promised each group that anything said would be secret.” She hesitated. “Look, I’d like you to read the notebooks first. That way the people involved can remain anonymous. If anything strikes you as especially significant we can discuss revealing the identity of the people concerned.”