Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

‘So this is informal?’ I said.

‘Confidential. The information you give will never be traced back to you.’

‘What did Thomas write in his letter to Shona Murray?’

‘You can’t expect me to tell you that. It’s confidential too.’

‘No deal, then.’

We faced up to each other across the table. A couple of gulls were fighting over some discarded chips on the other side of the square.

‘I need,’ I went on, ‘a gesture of good faith. You must be able to understand that. I know some of it. I know he was intending to become a whistle-blower.’

‘You know most of it, then.’

‘Who was he going to shop?’

Farrier shrugged, as if to say that I’d won and much good may it do me. ‘He didn’t give Ms Murray any details. Honestly. Nothing useful. He said he suspected “a prominent member of the community” of breaking the law. Before he gave her evidence he wanted an assurance that his position would be protected.’

‘What position? His position at work?’

‘I don’t know. Really, Lizzie. Why else would I be here, grovelling to you?’

He was hardly grovelling, but he seemed genuinely frustrated by the lack of information. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth about Thomas’s letter to Shona, but I’d probably had all he was prepared to give.

‘Have you got anything on Harry Pool?’

‘He’s no criminal record.’

‘That’s not what I asked. You must have done some checking. Whistle-blowing implies work, doesn’t it?’

He wiped a smear of foaming milk from his top lip before saying cagily, ‘We haven’t turned up anything significant.’

‘He lives in a bloody big house,’ I said. ‘Even for someone with his own business. Especially when hauliers are supposed to be going bust because of the high fuel charges.’

‘Have you been to see him too?’

I nodded.

‘And?’

‘He didn’t admit to stabbing Thomas to death, if that’s what you’re asking. He makes a big effort to come over all law-abiding and respectable. Condemning the fuel protesters. Standing up for the other members of his trade body. All that.’

‘But?’

‘Dunno if there are any buts. Maybe he’s really a nice guy.’ I paused. ‘Did you know that he’d fallen out with Thomas, a month or so before the murder?’

‘No. Who told you that?’

I paused again. ‘Marcus Tate.’

‘Did you talk to him at the funeral, then?’

‘Everyone went to the pub afterwards.’ That was true, wasn’t it? I still didn’t want to give too much away. ‘You should have come.’

‘I wasn’t invited. What else did Marcus tell you?’

‘Not much.’ I remembered the notes I’d made in Sea View at the kitchen table, could see the spidery writing. ‘That Thomas saw his voluntary work for the Countryside Consortium as a crusade.’

‘He was young,’ Farrier said. ‘Everything’s black and white at that age.’

I would have liked to ask him what he’d been passionate about as a kid. Instead I said, ‘What do you know about the Countryside Consortium?’

‘Not much. It’s a pressure group for the countryside, isn’t it? Pulled together after foot and mouth. Landowners working to limit rights of way, small businessmen, people interested in field sports. It started in the north but now it’s a nationwide thing. There was a rally at Westminster not long ago. Huge numbers turned out. They’re talking about putting up candidates for parliamentary by-elections.’

‘Ronnie Laing is a supporter.’

‘I suppose that’s how Tom Mariner got involved, then.’

‘No. That’s what’s so weird. Tom hated his stepfather.’

‘I should go,’ Farrier said suddenly. Perhaps his wife would have his tea on the table. Perhaps he had an appointment with the thin-lipped Sergeant Miles. I didn’t care.

‘Have you been to Wintrylaw, talked to Joanna?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t understand why Philip asked me to find Thomas. He and Ronnie Laing were friends. He must have known about a stepson.’

‘Na. Not if they were the sort of friends who only had an interest in common. We’re not like women. We don’t share our life stories over the first pint.’

He looked at his watch. I didn’t want him to leave.

‘Aren’t you interested in what else Marcus told me?’

‘Sure.’ Being polite, playing the game.

‘Thomas was devastated when his girlfriend dumped him but he was convinced he’d get her back.’

‘Was he?’ At least there was a spark of surprise. ‘I interviewed Miss Ravendale. A very tough young lady. She didn’t strike me as someone who’d change her mind. Hasn’t she got a new boyfriend? You were sitting next to them at the funeral.’

‘Dan Meech. I was at college with him.’

‘Were you now? Neither of them was very forthcoming with me. They don’t like the police. Fascist pigs. They didn’t quite say so. Well brought up. Manners. But they made it clear.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you likely to see them again?’

‘No plans to.’

‘Might be useful to know why Thomas was so sure they’d get back together. Was she seeing him, do you think, behind Dan’s back?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that would be her style.’

‘If you do get anything out of her, you’ll let me know?’ Then he stood up, without waiting for an answer.

We walked back along the sea wall. The fisherman were still there, but the little girl and her father had gone.

Just before we got to Sea View I said, ‘I was with Marcus Tate the evening before he died.’

Dumb, I know. Perhaps I just wanted Farrier to take more notice of me. It didn’t work at first. He didn’t even stop walking.

‘You said. You all went to the pub.’

‘After that.’

Then he did stop. ‘What happened?’

‘I was pissed. He took me back to the house in Seaton Delaval. Later, he drove me home. It was eleven, eleven-thirty. He wasn’t drunk. There was no way he drove that car over the bridge. Not then.’

He didn’t say anything. He just stared, and it was like he was trying to get his head round the facts, trying to make sense of it.

‘I suppose you want me to make a statement.’

‘No. Never mind that yet. Does anyone else know you were there?’

I shook my head.

‘Don’t tell anyone, Lizzie. Promise. And forget what I said about Nell Ravendale. Just keep your head down. Go away for a while. I don’t want any nasty accidents happening to you.’

He touched my arm lightly and walked away.

Farrier was being kind when he suggested that I leave Newbiggin for a few days and I should have taken his advice. But isn’t kindness the biggest turn-on in the world? His concern for me surprised and touched me and I didn’t want to run away. His casual suggestion that I might speak to Nell took on an importance that he hadn’t intended. I felt I’d be doing him an enormous favour. It would please him. I imagined him throwing his arms around me in a hug, spontaneous and father-like. Those were the pictures I was running in my head. Pathetic, huh?

I was still taking the pills. I don’t want you to think I was delusional. Not at that stage. But stress is a factor and Marcus Tate’s death, his face pressed against the windscreen as the shiny new car fell towards the River Wansbeck, haunted me. I told myself that he would have been unconscious by then, but I pictured him fighting to free himself. Nicky always seemed to be lurking at the back of my mind too at that time. The flashbacks were occurring more frequently, taking me unawares during the day as well as at night. It was better to imagine Farrier, scruffy and safe in his ill-fitting jeans, telling me how brave and clever I was. Those thoughts kept the nightmares at bay.