Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

‘Did he enjoy it?’

He gave an awkward laugh. ‘Does anyone enjoy work at that age? I know damn fine I didn’t.’

‘But nothing was bothering him? He got on OK with everyone?’

‘Of course. We all did. They’re like family, my lads.’

He stood up. I felt I was being chased away, as he’d chased his grandchildren back to their mother the night before. As he shut the door behind me, I heard the phone ring.

It was as I was on my way back to the car that I realized how relieved he’d been to see me go. He didn’t seem to notice that he’d given me no new information on the Spicer case.

I had a shock when I got back to Sea View. There was Inspector Farrier sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and chatting to Jess like he was one of the Newbiggin Mafia and they’d been friends for ever. I’d got right into the room before they saw me. Farrier looked up first. His face creased into a cross between a smile and a wink, but Jess was so wrapped up in what she was telling him that she didn’t notice me. ‘Our Lizzie’s a sensible girl, Inspector. A bit headstrong at times, but that’s hardly surprising, is it, after all she’s been through? And really, she’s not been a peck of bother since she arrived.’

I could feel myself blushing, at least my skin turning hot. Farrier was enjoying every minute. He grinned and that’s when Jessie realized I was there. She was startled – ‘Hey, man, Lizzie, don’t creep up like that.’ But not embarrassed. She made an excuse about nipping to the shop to pick up extra milk, but Farrier said he’d been sat all day and maybe I wouldn’t mind a walk either. We could pick up the milk on our way back.

I let him out through the front door. He admired the little garden and the view, but I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about what he could be doing there. He must have found out that I’d left the pub with Marcus Tate that evening before he died. There were a couple of lads in waders fishing from the beach, and a father and daughter flying a kite, but no one to overhear us. A breeze was blowing from the water, gusting so the kite swooped and dived, and we started walking along the sea wall. It wasn’t sunbathing weather.

‘I should have been round before,’ Farrier said, ‘to apologize in person. I believed Howdon. I couldn’t see what he had to gain by lying.’

‘He’s a lawyer. You should have known better. It’s what they do for a living.’ It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but I felt awkward. Apology doesn’t come naturally to policemen and, despite the warm and fuzzy image, that’s what Farrier was. Then I realized. ‘You’ve not come all this way just for that.’

‘I had a phone call from your MP,’ he said. ‘Shona Murray. You went to see her.’

‘I had to do something.’ Defensive, because I was sure he was going to warn me about meddling. ‘You thought I was a murderer.’

‘No,’ he said, so softly I could hardly hear the words above the water breaking on the rocks and the wind. ‘I never did.’

I wanted to believe him. ‘Did she show you the letter Thomas wrote?’

‘Aye. It took her a bit of time to get round to it, the silly woman, but she got in touch eventually.’

‘I told her to. I gave her your name.’ It’s not my style to crawl, but I needed the brownie points. I wanted him to tell me what was in the letter.

He stopped, leaned his back against the painted railings. ‘You could have come to me, Lizzie. I’d have chased it up for you.’

I looked at him. Couldn’t help it. I could hardly walk on without him. He was dressed like a student who’s come to learning late, in middle age. There were a few of them at university. Nerdy jeans, too baggy round the legs, a hand-knitted sweater, ribbed, beige with little brown flecks. In the winter he’d probably wear a duffel coat. Whenever I’d seen him before he’d been in a suit and tie, and I couldn’t work out what the scruffy gear was all about. Was this his day off or had he dressed down on purpose, a way of persuading me to lower my guard?

‘What do you want from me?’

I knew I sounded rude, but the persuasion was starting to work. I could feel myself being seduced by the fatherly voice, the patience and the kindness. I’m a sucker for older men. Look at Ronnie Laing. I’ve got the discrimination of a rabbit. Manic depressives are always being taken in by unsuitable people.

The wind was making his eyes water. He took a white hanky from the jeans pocket and wiped them.

‘I want to know who else you’ve been talking to, what else you’ve found out.’

‘Picking my brains?’

‘Yes. Just that.’

‘Why isn’t this official, then? Why aren’t you with the skinny cow with the notebook? Why not get me down to the station, take a proper statement?’

‘Is that what you’d prefer?’

‘I just want to know where I stand.’

He didn’t answer.

‘They still think I did it, don’t they? They think it was done by a crazy, so it must be me.’

‘Some of them think that,’ he said. ‘Not me.’ He looked out at the sea. ‘Did you ever meet Marcus Tate?’

‘At Thomas’s funeral.’ It was a relief. I thought I’d have a chance now to share my anxieties. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so lonely. But he didn’t follow it up, he just started walking again. I stood where I was and shouted after him, not caring now who could hear. ‘Marcus Tate… Do you really believe that was an accident?’

He stopped and turned. ‘There’s no reason to believe otherwise.’

‘But you?’ I was screaming and not just to be heard above the tide. ‘What do you think happened?’

‘Why don’t you tell me what you think?’ His voice was measured, but I wasn’t taken in. He’d stuck his neck out coming to see me. He was as obsessed by the case as I was. He’d have his own reasons for that – things to prove at work, old scores to settle – but he was committed to digging away until he found reasons he could believe in. It kept him awake at night too. A sharp gust of wind blew a shower of spindrift. I could taste the salt on my tongue.

‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ I asked. ‘There’s a new place along the prom that does a decent cappuccino.’

He’d been tense, standing there, waiting to see if I’d confide in him. He nodded uncertainly, not sure whether or not he’d got an answer. Let him wait a bit longer.

The café was on a square, part of the same development as the new promenade. Brick and block paving and Victorian-style street furniture. Bland and unimaginative, it had nothing in common with the original east coast fishing village. I wondered if the architect had been there since it was built, if he woke up with nightmares. I knew Steve, the lad who ran the café. He’d sunk his redundancy from Ellington pit into the lease of the building and the purchase of a seriously impressive Italian coffee machine. He’d probably bought into the council’s dream that a couple of wrought-iron lampposts would bring the tourists flocking. I’d been there on the opening night and he’d talked about turning it into a classy, cosmopolitan place, hiring a chef to serve Mediterranean food in the evenings. But it wasn’t going to turn him into a second Harry Pool. Anyone could have told him that people from outside wouldn’t leave their cars unattended in Newbiggin at night.

Surprisingly, though, the locals loved the place. It was somewhere to meet. Young mums gathered there after dropping kids at nursery, and teenagers dropped in on their way back from school and imagined they were sophisticated. That afternoon it was like a scene from an arty European movie. Steve’s unemployed mates were in, looking dark and brooding, chainsmoking, posing until the lasses from Ashington College arrived back on the bus. Farrier and I moved outside. There were a few rickety garden tables and chairs on the square; he stuck out umbrellas when the wind wasn’t so strong. The sun had come out. Farrier had paid for the coffee. He’d asked for a receipt. I supposed he’d claim it back as informant expenses. I didn’t like the idea of that. Hated the thought of grassing.