Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

‘Nothing. Not deliberately, anyway.’

‘He said you were a meddling cow.’

‘Not very nice.’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘He didn’t say cow. He said something worse.’

‘Definitely not very nice.’

‘He wants to give you money to keep your nose out of their affairs.’ That threw me a bit. I hadn’t been meddling in their affairs. Not since our ruck at the exhibition at least. I’d been more concerned with Harry Pool and Absalom House since then. Then I thought of course, Marjorie had told him about my visit to Warren Farm.

‘I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

‘Ronnie said that wouldn’t do any good. You weren’t the sort to be bought off.’

So Ronnie knew who I was. But how much did he know? Surely not that Philip had hired me to find Thomas? Or were they all involved? Was there some elaborate conspiracy after all?

‘Was Ronnie a friend of your dad’s?’

Dickon considered. Friendship wasn’t an idea to be taken lightly. ‘Dad was sorry for him. He said he’d had a bad time and he’d done really well to sort himself out. Most people would have gone under.’

‘What sort of bad time?’

‘Dunno. Never asked.’

‘Your dad was a magistrate, wasn’t he? Could he have met Ronnie in court?’

‘I’m not sure. He didn’t talk much about court. He said he wasn’t allowed.’ He pulled on my sleeve to attract my attention back to the scene outside. ‘Do you think the fireworks’ll start soon?’

‘What do you make of Ronnie Laing?’ I asked, because Dickon’s opinion was all I could get at the moment.

‘I think he’s OK. He helped me build a den in the wood. We had a campfire. And he came with me badger watching. Do you know you have to stick coloured cellophane over your torch to stop the light frightening the badgers away?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You could come sometime. They haven’t got cubs any more but you can get really close…’

I interrupted. ‘Has Ronnie ever talked about his stepson, Tom?’

‘Has he got a son?’ That grabbed Dickon’s attention for a minute. ‘No, he never said. Perhaps he’ll bring him over to play.’

I didn’t know what to say to that. They’d have been brothers.

The show was coming to a close. All the performers got onto the stage to take a final bow. I wondered if Joanna would make a speech, but she was back at her place on the terrace next to Howdon. Dickon saw me looking at them.

‘She doesn’t like Mr Howdon,’ he said angrily. ‘Not in that way. She can’t do. I asked her why he’s always here these days and she said it was business.’

‘Do you know what sort of business?’ I asked, but the first of the fireworks were being let off and I knew I’d lost him.

‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘Bye.’

He didn’t look away from the garden. ‘See you.’

I took a scrap of paper from my bag and wrote down my phone numbers – Sea View, my mobile. ‘If you want a chat any time, give me a ring.’ It was for my benefit, not his. I couldn’t cope with the thought that I might not bump into him again. He took the paper from me and stuck it into his jeans pocket, his eyes still fixed on the coloured lights outside.

I sat with the crowd until the display was over. I didn’t want to have to make conversation with Joanna while Howdon was there. The state I was in, I’d only have confronted him and caused a scene. How much did you think you could pay me off with?

When the last rocket was fired over the sea, I pushed my way out towards my car. I hoped to be among the first to leave, but everyone else had the same idea and there was a crush of people heading for the car park. That’s when I saw Dan and Nell. They were some way in front of me, hand in hand as they always were. Nell was in a long silk skirt. Black or dark purple. I couldn’t really tell in the dark. But it was certainly them. There was no mistake about that. Their faces were caught in a car headlight and they looked stern and determined.

I told myself there was nothing sinister about their presence. Dan would still have contacts with the university. He mixed with an arty set. Probably some of their mates were acting and singing. But I wasn’t really convinced.

The next morning I phoned Farrier, not thinking I’d get through to him, expecting to be fobbed off. But after I’d hung on for five minutes he came onto the line.

‘Lizzie?’ He sounded concerned, anxious even. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

There was a silence which implied, Well, why are you bothering me, then? I was suddenly awkward and tongue-tied. ‘Look, this is probably like teaching my grandfather to suck eggs…’

‘But?’

‘You would check if anyone close to Tom had a criminal record, wouldn’t you?’

‘Depends how close.’

‘Stepfather close.’

‘What makes you think Ronnie Laing has a criminal record?’ The tone was sharp. He didn’t sound anything like a friendly grandfather now.

‘Nothing specific. I mean really. I suppose it’s more a wild guess.’

‘You promised you’d keep out of it.’

‘I am! I have!’ Protesting too much. I didn’t like lying to him, but he seemed taken in by it.

‘Yes, we would check family members for past offending.’ He was humouring me, mock long-suffering. This time I used the silence.

‘Really, Lizzie, you can’t expect me to tell you.’

More silence.

‘OK, then, to put your mind at rest. Ronnie’s clean as a whistle. Never been charged. A model citizen.’

But a model citizen with a troubled past, I thought. Philip had told Dickon that, and I trusted Dickon’s memory and Philip’s judgement. What had happened to him? A family tragedy, mental breakdown, bankruptcy? There were two ways to find out. I could ask Ronnie Laing himself. Even to me that seemed unnecessarily foolhardy. Or I could ask his wife. I fished out the scrap of paper with her work number on it and dialled.

I’d expected Kay to be hostile, but she was almost embarrassingly eager to see me. ‘Come this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Straight after school. Three o’clock. It’s the last day of term, so there’ll be no meetings. Everyone will want to be away on time.’ The directions she gave were very precise and businesslike, but her voice was shaking.

The school was in Wallsend in a busy street not far from the town centre. Cranes from the shipyard towered above cramped houses. The building was redbrick Victorian and could once have been a workhouse. The kids came out a class at a time with their teachers. I don’t know if that was a regular thing, or if it was meant to give the parents a chance to say goodbye before the long holiday. Kay’s class was the last into the playground. She held a mucky little boy firmly by the hand and the other children filed out in a crocodile behind her. They were remarkably well behaved and even the parents seemed daunted by her. They collected the kids and kept their distance. But once the yard was empty, the bright professional smile disappeared. She looked ten years older and wretched.

I walked through the gate into the playground and was six years old again, thinking, Another school. Another routine to understand. More teachers to please. Then Kay saw me and I turned back into the adult. I was the one with the responsibility to make things right. She hurried over and took my hand impulsively. ‘Miss Bartholomew, it was good of you to contact me. Come in.’ I wasn’t sure the responsibility was something I was up to. She seemed to be expecting too much.

We talked in her classroom, perched on low tables. She hadn’t had a chance to clear up after the school day. There were still jam jars with paintbrushes on the bench, sand on the floor, piles of flash cards and library books.