Hidden Depths (25 page)

Craven had a small office at the end of a corridor. His door was open and she saw him before he noticed her. He was sitting at a desk hitting computer keys with a speed she’d never master. Her first thought was that he looked good. He was the sort of young man you’d notice in the street, follow with your eyes just for the pleasure of seeing him move. Tall, blond, muscular. A tan to show off the eyes. He was squinting at the screen but she knew they’d be blue. He must feature in the fantasies of many of his female clients. No wonder Lily Marsh had fallen for him. What a couple they would have made.

He heard her approaching and looked up.

‘Yes?’ Just one word but that gentle, patronizing tone professionals use to mad people. A smile to make her feel at ease. He thought she was a patient. She wondered if she spoke to witnesses like that. Like they were children.

‘Vera Stanhope,’ she said. ‘Inspector. We’ve got an appointment.’ Brusque enough for him to feel awkward. A silly power game, which she’d usually despise.

He reached out and shut down the computer, stood up in the same movement, held out his hand.

‘Inspector. Tea? Coffee?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said.

‘Is it about one of my clients? Perhaps we should get my boss to sit in.’

She ignored that. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Is there anywhere else we can go to talk? Maybe get some lunch?’

‘Do the mentally ill make you uncomfortable, Inspector?’

‘Don’t be daft, lad. I’ve worked with more loonies than you’ve had hot dinners. And I don’t just mean the offenders.’

He smiled and she thought he might be human after all. ‘I usually take a break around now.’

They walked out into the street. On the other side of the road was a narrow stretch of dune then the sea. In the distance a power station in the process of demolition. He led her down a terrace of double-fronted Edwardian houses, still stately despite their surroundings, and into a pub. The Mermaid. A carving like a ship’s prow over the door. At night time they probably dealt drugs here, like everywhere else in the town, but now it was quiet, restful. A couple of old men with pitmen’s wheezes playing dominoes in one corner. A middle-aged couple at a table eating steak pie and chips.

Craven ordered orange juice and a sandwich. She went for a half of Workie Ticket and a burger. Standing at the bar to pay, she looked at him, caught in the dusty sunlight, until she realized she was staring and turned away.

‘Luke Armstrong,’ she said, as soon as she sat down. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Isn’t that the lad who was killed in Seaton?’

‘You knew him, then?’

‘No, I never worked with him. But I heard other staff in the hospital talking. Gossiping. That’s how I know he’d been an inpatient at St George’s. I don’t think he was ever referred to the social work department.’

‘You didn’t see him in hospital?’

‘I might have done in passing while I was visiting someone else on the ward, but I certainly don’t remember. Look, you really would be better talking to my boss. She’d know if there was any social work input with the family.’

‘What about Lily Marsh?’ Vera said. ‘You
did
know her.’

He sat in complete silence. Still as a statue. Gilded by the sunshine. A bit of art she’d have in her house any day, she thought, only half as a joke.

‘I haven’t seen Lily since I was eighteen.’

‘You heard she’d died too?’

‘My mother phoned at the weekend,’ he said. ‘She told me there’d been some sort of accident. Lily was drowned. Up the coast somewhere.’

Vera wondered if that was the story Phyllis had spread round their village when she’d first been told of her daughter’s death. Did she think it was shameful to be a murder victim? Not quite nice? It wasn’t a fiction she’d be able to sustain for long.

‘Lily was strangled. Just like Luke Armstrong.’

‘You’re saying the two deaths are connected?’

Bright too. Not just a pretty face.

‘We don’t get that many violent deaths in this part of Northumberland,’ she said, not hiding the sarcasm. ‘Not in one week anyway.’ Then, watching him. ‘You don’t seem very shocked. It’s a nasty business. You were very close to her at one time.’

‘Of course I’m shocked.’ He looked up at her. ‘But not surprised. Not really. I don’t believe in natural victims, but she wasn’t an easy person to be close to. There were times when I felt like killing her. Not her fault. I saw that even then. I wanted to understand. Perhaps that’s what pushed me into this line of work. But it didn’t stop me feeling like strangling her.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I was in love with her,’ he said. ‘That mad, passionate obsession that you only get when you’re a teenager. I wanted to write poems to her, spend every minute with her—’

‘Fuck the pants off her,’ Vera interrupted helpfully.

He laughed. ‘Well, that too, I suppose. But in a very tasteful and romantic way. We’d been reading Lawrence. I imagined it in moonlight, on a pile of hay. Something like that. Young people are so pretentious, aren’t they?’

Vera thought of Luke Armstrong and Thomas Sharp, stealing from building sites, mucking around on the quayside, standing up for each other when the bullying started. Not all young people, she thought. A plump, motherly woman walked up with their food. Vera waited until she’d returned to the bar before continuing.

‘Did it live up to expectations?’ she asked.

‘At first.’

She wanted to ask if they’d done it outside, like his fantasy, but thought that was just prurient. She was like the sad middle-aged detectives who had their day made when they were asked to go through a mound of seized porn.

She was about to tell him to get on with it, but he continued without prompting. ‘It was the autumn at the beginning of year twelve. I mean, that was when I plucked up courage to ask her out. There was a band I knew she liked at the City Hall. I managed to get tickets, asked if she’d like to go. I’d just passed my driving test and persuaded my mother to let me borrow the car for the night. There’d be no other way of getting home that late. I was so nervous before I asked if she wanted to go with me. I remember I was shaking. We were waiting at the bus stop on the way to school. We’d both got there early and I just took my chance. It was one of those lovely days you can get in October. Sunny with a hint of a frost. I stumbled over my words, felt about eight years old. She smiled. That was when I knew it would be all right. “I thought you’d never ask.” That was all she said. Then some other kids turned up to catch the bus.’

‘When did it start going wrong?’

‘Just before Christmas the following year. We had coursework to get in for A levels. It was even more important for her than me. She’d got a conditional place at Oxford. But suddenly she didn’t seem bothered about revising for exams. She expected to see me every night, even though we’d spent the day together at school. I was starting to feel suffocated.’

‘So you finished with her?’

‘Not at first. I suggested we should just go out at weekends. It would make the time we had together more special.’

‘Did she go for that?’

He shook his head. ‘I did still care for her, but she was starting to do my head in. She accused me of seeing other women behind her back.’

‘And were you?’

‘No! I was trying to get some decent A levels so I could get away to university.’ He paused. ‘We had this enormous row. We’d been to the pub in the village where she lived and I was walking her back home. She’d been drinking quite heavily. She suddenly lost it, started shouting and swearing at me. Said I’d never loved her, that I’d spent all evening eyeing up the lass behind the bar, that she couldn’t bear it if things carried on like this. I’d had enough. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s call it a day.” She was almost home, so I turned and started walking back. She chased after me, pleading with me to change my mind. “I’m sorry, Ben. I can’t help it. I just love you so much.” It was pissing with rain and I thought how crazy she looked standing there, sobbing, her make-up running down her face. I didn’t know what to do. She was so upset. So I put my arm around her and went with her to her front door, waited until she’d got the key in the door and ran for it.’

‘Quite the gentleman,’ Vera said.

‘It was too much for me to deal with. I should have spoken to her parents, explained why she was distressed, but I couldn’t face them. They always seemed very old to me. Quite strait-laced. Anyway, things like that you didn’t talk to your parents about.’ He paused, played with the empty glass. ‘That was a Friday. She wasn’t in school the next week. Her parents sent in a message to say she had some sort of throat infection. I was relieved because I didn’t have to face her. I thought that would be the end of it. She’d come back to school and everything would carry on as it had before we started going out. People were always breaking up. It wasn’t a big deal.’

‘But it was a big deal for Lily.’

‘Apparently. Her mother phoned, asked me to go and see Lily. She wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating. I had enough sense to refuse. I knew if I gave her any encouragement, the whole thing would start over again. A couple of weeks later she came back to school. She looked dreadful, pale and ill. I wondered if there might be something physically wrong with her, had this nightmare that she had some incurable disease and I was making her worse. Really, I was sure her mother would have had her checked out. In a strange way I was flattered. To have that effect on someone I’d worshipped! Lily became very isolated and withdrawn. She’d never had real friends. I hadn’t realized before we became close how alone she was. But still I thought it would be OK. She seemed to throw herself into her work. I thought she was starting to get over the separation. There were no big scenes. After a week or so she even looked a bit brighter. I mean, she started to take more notice of her appearance, she spoke to me when we met.’

‘But it didn’t work out?’

‘I wish. Now, of course, I realize how depressed she must have been. She wasn’t getting better at all. The new clothes, the chattiness, were all part of her delusion that I was about to take her back. There was a crisis over the Easter holidays. She turned up at my house all dressed up, all smiles. “Where are you going to take me?” She had it in her head that I’d arranged to take her out for the day. I didn’t know what to do. In the end I took her home to her mother’s. When she realized what was happening she started to sob. It was horrible. That was when the phone calls started. She’d ring dozens of times a day. I knew she was ill and I tried to be sympathetic but it wore me down. And it drove my parents crazy. We changed the number, went ex-directory. I don’t know if she ever had treatment or if she just came out of it. Most of the next term was study leave before the exams. I didn’t see much of her. Caught a glimpse occasionally in the distance on her way to a classroom and made sure I kept out of the way.’

‘Have you seen her since then?’

‘No. She wasn’t even at school when we all went to get our exam results. I suppose she realized she’d not done brilliantly and couldn’t face the rest of us celebrating.’

‘Has she been a patient at St George’s since then? Or an outpatient at the day centre?’

‘I haven’t seen her.’

‘You must have been curious, though,’ Vera said. ‘You admitted she was partly why you took up this branch of social work. Didn’t you check if she was in the system? I know I would have done.’

He didn’t answer her question immediately. ‘I still think about her,’ he said. ‘She was my first real girlfriend. Probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’ Then he looked up at Vera. ‘You’ll have to check with the medical staff about whether or not she’s been treated locally. But you’re right. I was curious. And I couldn’t find any trace of her.’

The landlady came to collect their plates and Ben stood up to go. Vera stayed where she was and he paused, looking down at her, realizing there was another question.

‘Does the name Claire Parr mean anything to you? She was in her late thirties, depressed. She committed suicide.’

‘No,’ he said. She could tell he just wanted to get back to work.

‘It doesn’t matter’ Speaking almost to herself. ‘I expect it was before your time.’

Vera telephoned Clive Stringer’s home number from her car. She’d parked behind the dunes and was looking out over the beach. An old man was walking along the shore, his head bent. Every now and then he stooped to pick up sea coal and stick it in an Aldi carrier bag. She thought he probably lived in a housing association flat now with central heating, but old habits would die hard.

She pressed the buttons on her phone. It went on ringing – there was no answer service at the other end – and she was about to give up, when a woman spoke. Her voice was faint, breathless. She gave the number.

‘Mrs Stringer.’

‘Yes?’ She was suspicious, used to people selling things. Perhaps her son had told her just to hang up if a stranger called.

‘My name’s Vera Stanhope, Mrs Stringer. I work for the police. Perhaps Clive said I’d be in touch. It’s about that lassie he found dead by the lighthouse.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

‘Is Clive at home? Perhaps I could speak to him.’ She crossed the fingers of both hands and her phone nearly slipped from her grasp. Early afternoon, surely he’d still be in the museum.