Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

Howdon looked at me uncertainly. Mad cow, he was thinking. ‘Why would he? Lovely wife. Two children. Why would he rock the boat? Later there was guilt, I suppose. He knew he was dying and wanted to get his affairs in order.’

I sat there wondering how Philip could have messed with me like this. How could he be so dumb? Would I like my father to come looking for me? Of course I would. It was what I fantasized about when I lay awake in the early mornings. Someone making the effort to find me. But I didn’t need this. Christ, I was screwed up enough already. I didn’t care about Thomas. Really, I didn’t. But even as I was thinking that, I had the picture of another boy in my head. Not Thomas but Nicky.

‘I don’t think I’m the right person to do this,’ I said evenly.

‘Philip thought you were absolutely the right person. You read what he said.’ He returned the paper to the envelope as if he didn’t care one way or the other what I decided.

I intended to turn him down, to tell him where to stick his money. Then I thought what I could do with £15,000. I could kit up the empty room in Sea View with a computer, a phone line and a fax. It would buy me time to decide what to do next. Only rich people have the luxury of not taking cash into consideration. And it wouldn’t be like being paid for sex, would it? It would be a legitimate business deal.

We sat for a moment in silence, staring at each other. I was still thinking I could just walk away. Then Howdon reached down, pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a brown padded envelope. I could tell from the way he lifted it that it was heavy. He pushed it across the desk to me. It hadn’t been sealed and it was full of £50 notes.

I reached out my hand towards it. He smiled. He knew he’d won. I was as greedy as he was.

There was still a Mariner living at 63 Priory Way. It was in the phone book, right at the top of the list: A. Mariner. Some relation? Or had Philip even got the name of his child’s mother wrong? I called from Jess’s, waiting until she was out before using the phone. When I returned from Philip’s funeral I’d just said a friend had left me some money in his will. She didn’t pry. It wasn’t her style. I hadn’t explained what I had to do to get the money. I’m not quite sure why. Because it was between me and Philip, because I wanted some success to report before I told her what was going on.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered and I was about to give up. Then an elderly woman repeated the number. I crossed my fingers.

‘Could I speak to Kay, please?’

‘Eh, pet, she’s not lived here for years. Who’s speaking?’

My brain went into slow motion. I hadn’t prepared any sort of cover story. ‘Jess,’ I said. ‘An old school friend.’

‘I don’t remember any Jess. The high school, was it?’

‘That’s right. Could you let me know how to get in touch with her?’

She paused, not really suspicious but protective. Perhaps her daughter was strong on privacy. ‘Give me your number, pet, and her dad or I will tell her that you called.’

Then I panicked and replaced the phone, glad that I’d dialled 141 before the number to stop the call from being traced.

Priory Way was one of the tidy streets near the Linskill Centre, the old school where Tyneside kids go for their music lessons, close to the overgrown waste of Northumberland Park. North Shields must have a thriving place once, with the ship building and the boats going out to the fishing, but nothing much seems to happen there now. Lots of the shops in the town centre were boarded up. There were posters everywhere for the Fish Quay Festival. The place had come alive for the bank holiday weekend with bands on the Quayside and street theatre and fireworks, then it had slid back into a coma.

I visited the Mariners during the day. If they had a teenage grandchild, I thought they’d have retired and be at home in the afternoon. The woman I’d spoken to on the phone certainly sounded elderly. This time I was better prepared.

Along the street there was a row of trees, all in blossom. Occasional snatches of breeze from the river scattered the petals over the pavement. I’d got the bus into Newcastle, then the metro out towards the coast. I’d looked at the A-Z on the train, so I walked down the street now as if I knew precisely where I was going, very purposeful and businesslike in my linen jacket, carrying the black nylon bag I’d got at a conference on teenage violence and which I’d used as a briefcase ever since. I could almost believe I was a competent professional.

The house was part of a terrace halfway down. More care had been lavished on it than on most of the kids I grew up with, but it’s daft to be jealous of a house. The windows had been polished and the nets were so bright that they gave you snow blindness. The front steps had been swept recently. Only a light scattering of pink petals covered the path. I stepped on them and knocked at the door.

After a moment, a woman of about seventy opened it. She’d left the chain on and I had a glimpse of a round face and tight white curls.

‘Who is it?’

‘Miss Bartholomew. Social services.’ Hoping she wouldn’t recognize the voice from one brief phone call, I flashed the pass which had never been taken from me. She looked at the photo, peered at me and smiled. It had been issued by Northumberland, not North Tyneside, but she seemed not to notice. She unhooked the chain and opened the door wide. She was leaning heavily on a stick and it took her a while.

‘That was quick,’ she said. She was delighted to see me. There’d been no need to fuss that she’d recognize the voice. ‘I only phoned the other day. Come in.’

That threw me. I’d prepared a story that I was undertaking a survey of elderly people in the area to find gaps in local authority services. If she was expecting a real social worker, I’d have to wing it. She led me into a gleaming living room which smelt of lemon furniture polish and baking.

‘Is Mr Mariner in?’

‘No.’ She smiled fondly. They must have been married for forty years but the sound of his name still made her happy. ‘It’s his bowls day.’ There were awards on the mantelpiece, a photo of a small moley man in specs and whites holding a cup, his arms round the shoulders of a bigger bloke with a red face.

‘You sit there, pet.’ She patted the arm of the sofa. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You’ll have to give me a hand when it’s made. I’ll not be able to carry it through.’

So we sat together in her front room in the sun and she told me the story of her life. Without hesitation. It was scary that she trusted me absolutely on the basis of a bit of plastic and a photo.

‘It’s the arthritis,’ she said. ‘I’m down for a new hip but it could take a couple of months and now it’s in my hands too. Archie and I manage very well between us. He’s turned into a canny housekeeper. But he’s anxious if I’m here on my own. I can’t use the phone. The buttons are that small. He says what if I had a fall… Stupid old fool. Nothing’s going to happen to me. But he doesn’t like to leave me and if he does go out he worries. I don’t want that. He loves his bowls and I don’t want him rushing back. No reason why he shouldn’t have a cup of tea and a bit of a chat with the lads. We thought maybe a panic button, or one of those phones with the big numbers. What do you think?’

‘You’d probably be eligible for both.’ I’d trained with a lass from North Tyneside who worked with the community care team. She’d put the Mariners on the list for me. It would save one of their staff making a visit. ‘Do you have family? Anyone who comes in to keep an eye on you?’