Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

‘No.’ She paused, sorting out her thoughts and her words. ‘He was all drama and mystery. It was impossible to tell what was real.’

‘So you never led him to believe that you’d go out with him again?’

‘What is this about?’ She was imperious. Again I was astounded by her confidence. Perhaps it was having parents who believed she was a creative genius, a boyfriend who worshipped her. But I had the feeling that even with all that I’d never have faith in myself. Not as she did.

‘You wanted to talk about Thomas. I’m talking. Did you ever have any second thoughts about dumping him?’

‘Not really.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that if I’d known he was going to die horribly and suddenly like that, I wouldn’t have left him. I’d have hung on for a few months. It would have made life much easier. I’d have got more sympathy, wouldn’t I? Instead people don’t expect me to care. They put me down as cruel and hard-hearted.’ She looked suddenly wretched. ‘I do care, you know. But it wouldn’t have worked out between us.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘A couple of weeks before he died.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was waiting for me outside school. I was late getting out. There’d been an English exam. Shakespeare. And afterwards we were talking with the teachers. The usual post-mortem. He was there, waiting. Patient. He could have been there all day, and I had the feeling that if I hadn’t come out then, he’d have waited until the morning to catch me on my way back in. I knew it was me he was there for. I could tell by his face when he saw me walk out of the gate. But I said, “Hey. What are you doing here?” Friendly but casual. I didn’t want to encourage him. “Why aren’t you at work?”’

She shut her eyes. Perhaps she was getting the picture clear in her head. Perhaps she just wanted to shut it all out.

‘He was really excited. Eager, bouncing around like some puppy or something. Wanting you to pat his head and tell him he was a good boy. “You won’t believe what’s happened, Nell. You won’t believe what I’ve found out.” And it was too much. He was always too much. That was what attracted me in the first place and that’s what I couldn’t cope with in the end.’ She looked up at me. ‘I expect you think I’m a heartless bitch.’

I shook my head. ‘How could you possibly know what was going to happen?’

‘I knew he was desperate to talk to me, but I couldn’t face it. I’d had the shitty exam and another in the morning to revise for and I knew how it would be. He’d go over the same stuff again, about how he hated Ronnie and about how things might have been different if he’d had a real father, and he’d suck all the energy out of me. At the start I found it flattering. That he needed me so much. But I couldn’t take it any more.’ She composed herself to complete her story. ‘A friend drove out of school. She stopped and offered me a lift. I just shouted to him, “Sorry, Tom, can’t stay and chat.” And we drove off. That was the last time I saw him. That’s the picture I have of him. Staring after me as if I’d just spat in his face.’

‘Did he try to get in touch with you again?’

‘He left a message on the answering machine at home. It was much more controlled. Quite weird. Sorry to have missed you the other day, but probably it’s as well we don’t meet until I’ve got something definite to report. Be in touch soon. That was it. Weird, as I say. One of the reasons I wrote to him was to make it clear that I wouldn’t go out with him again. That I hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but I wasn’t going to change my mind.’

‘Did you tell Inspector Farrier about the meeting and the message?’

‘It didn’t come up. He just wanted to know where I was the morning Thomas was killed. And it’s not the sort of thing you’d discuss with a stranger.’

I didn’t ask her what she’d told Farrier, though I was curious. He’d have checked out any alibi. And I didn’t really think she was capable of stabbing Thomas with a knife. Her guilt was more subtle than that.

‘Do you have any idea what Thomas was on about? What he’d found out?’

She hesitated, and for a moment I thought she might have something useful and important to say, then she shook her head. ‘Something about his father perhaps. It was a real obsession with him.’

That would fit in with what Ellen had told me. But why would Thomas’s discovery that Philip Samson was his father have triggered his murder?

Nell was gazing through the leaves of a giant umbrella plant out of the window. Suddenly her face relaxed and she stopped being angry and haunted. Dan was walking along the pavement towards the bar, moving easily round the people, taking the last of the evening sun. He caught her eye and stopped, tentative, wondering if he’d given us long enough to talk. She smiled and waved at him. He came into the bar and started to pull over a chair to join us, but I stood up to make my excuses. I’d have only been in the way. I was almost at the door when something occurred to me, a question which had been niggling away at the back of my mind since I’d chanced on the news conference at Harry Pool’s yard and which took on a sudden and surprising relevance.

‘Those Eastern European girls at the hostel, where exactly did they come from?’

I didn’t think Dan had heard. He was looking at Nell, eyes glazed, thinking of sex.

‘Romania,’ he said in the end. ‘I think that’s it. It could be the Czech Republic. They don’t have much English.’

‘Were they placed by social services?’

He was still finding it hard to concentrate. ‘You know what Ellen’s like. She’ll take anyone. No questions asked.’

I didn’t know anything about asylum seekers. Only what I’d read in the papers and seen on the news, and there was precious little factual reporting in that. And I didn’t mind the paucity of fact. It saved me having to think through the issue clearly. My sympathy lay with the immigrants. Of course. What else would you expect? I’m a social worker, all liberal conscience and fuzzy sentiment. Just the sort of person Doreen at the Consortium despises. And there was more to it than that. A lot of the Eastern European immigrants are Roma, gypsy, and I have some fellow feeling. If the popular Newbiggin myth is to be believed, we could be related. When I hear people slagging them off, I take it personally.

I phoned a mate who worked for social services. A sort of mate. She’d trained with me, but she knew all the right games to play and she was already a team leader. That meant she didn’t have to visit grubby flats any more, or think up new excuses for not drinking tea, or play with the snotty kids of her clients. It took a bit of persistence to get through to her and when she did make herself available her voice was wary. It only occurred to me later that she probably thought I was on the scrounge for a job.

‘Lizzie. Hi. It’s been a long time. How are things?’

‘Fine,’ I said, trying to sound it, only managing that mad jollity which sounds natural to infant teachers.

‘We should meet up sometime.’ That was the last thing either of us wanted. She’d be embarrassed to be seen with me and she’d always bored me rigid.

‘Really, I was just after a favour.’

‘Yeah?’ The tone had turned distinctly chilly.

‘Some information. It’s something I’m working on. A kind of project. It’s about asylum seekers.’

‘Oh, right.’ She was too relieved to ask what kind of project.

‘Is North Tyneside one of the official dispersal areas? If so, do you know who’s in charge of resettlement?’