‘She’s the patron.’
‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged. ‘She’s a well-known photographer. She lets them put her name on the letter heading, holds fund-raisers, garden parties.’
Like the queen, I thought. She’d enjoy that.
‘Do you know her?’ he asked.
‘I knew her husband.’ Just saying that made me feel good.
He leaned down and poured more coffee. The mugs were matching, white with royal-blue bands.
‘Have you ever heard of Stuart Howdon?’ I asked. ‘Is he involved too?’
He twisted the mug, his long fingers splayed across the rim, moving it backwards and forwards over the carpet. ‘I’ve told you. You should let it go.’
‘Do you know who killed Thomas?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘Perhaps I fall for older women. Something to do with my mother having walked out when I was so young.’ I could tell he regretted the flip remark as soon as it had shot out of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused a beat. ‘You were drunk. You wouldn’t tell me where you lived. I didn’t want you driving.’ He broke off again, this time for longer. ‘Honestly. I told you, this is my first day back. I couldn’t face coming back here alone after the funeral.’
‘Is there anywhere else you can go? Or I could probably stay tonight, if you like.’
He shook his head. ‘It was just then, coming in through the door. Knowing he wouldn’t be here. It’s not that we were close. Not specially. Not any more. But we’d been friends for a long time.’ He stood up. ‘I’m OK to drive. I’ll take you home.’
I let him, though nobody else connected to Thomas’s murder, except Dan, who for some reason didn’t seem to count, knew I lived in Newbiggin. I made Marcus park at the church and said I’d walk from there. It wasn’t raining but way out to sea there was a storm; a crack of lightning lit the horizon. He’d got out of the car to say goodbye, opened the passenger door to let me out. The perfect gentleman. I had the impression there was something more he wanted to say, but he just stood awkwardly, next to the open door. I pulled his head towards me and kissed his forehead, then his lips lightly. I suppose I was still drunk, but it seemed the right thing to do.
Chapter Twenty-five
That night Marcus died. An accident apparently.
I found out about it the next day. I’d gone to Whitley to collect my car from outside Nell’s house. On the way there on the bus I’d noticed the inside lane of the Spine Road was closed, but I’d put it down to bridge repairs. There have been roadworks along that stretch for as long as I can remember. Back at Sea View Jess was cooking chilli; you could smell it from the yard, and hear her singing through the open window, so I knew Ray would be there. Chilli’s his favourite and Jess only sings when she’s content. They asked me to eat with them and I said that I would because I like chilli too. As I’ve said before, I’ve got no pride.
She grinned at me, pleased that we’d be playing happy families. ‘It’ll be ten minutes. I’ve got the rice on.’
It would be brown rice. Ray was a health freak and brought it from the wholefood place on Gosforth High Street.
I wandered through to the living room and flicked the local news on the telly. There was a new lass reading the headlines. Young. Bonny. Blond, short hair. I was going to call through to Jess to ask what had happened to the old bald guy who used to do it, when a photograph of Marcus came up onto the screen. He was wearing a white V-necked jersey and looked as if he’d been playing cricket or tennis. I stood there staring at him while she described the accident. He’d driven his car off the bridge on the Spine Road, the high bridge which crosses the River Wansbeck, just before it runs into the sea.
Then Marcus left the screen and there was a shot of his car, hardly recognizable, on the side of the river bank. The incident must have taken place in the early hours of the morning, the reporter said. There were no witnesses. Then she went on to describe the visit of the Princess Royal to a nursery school in Alnwick and Jess called me through for my tea.
What I felt first was a terrible sense of loss. It was entirely selfish. Marcus might have become a friend and now I wouldn’t have the chance to know him better. At that point I didn’t consider his death objectively. It didn’t hit me then that, coming so soon after Thomas’s, it might be more than a terrible coincidence. I didn’t feel in danger myself.
I didn’t mention the accident to Jess and Ray. I didn’t want to talk about it. The next day there were more details in the Journal. The paper had made the link between Marcus and Tom and talked about a tragedy. But the implication was that it had been Marcus’s fault. The tone of the report was sanctimonious. Blood tests showed a high alcohol level. It was understandable that he’d been drinking on the night of his friend’s funeral, but reckless. Someone else could have been killed.
I couldn’t take it in. Nothing seemed to fit. I’d left Marcus at eleven-thirty and there were plenty of cars on the Spine Road then. He’d been drinking earlier in the day, but not as heavily as the rest of us and he’d stopped six hours before. He’d had nothing with me in the house in Delaval. His driving when he’d taken me home had been anything but reckless. He had a new car, properly new, not like mine, another present from Daddy, and he was being very cautious. No way would he have been speeding. Then the old fear came back. Perhaps I wasn’t remembering it properly. Perhaps the confusion was mine. More paranoia.
I was tempted to go to Farrier. I could have explained that Marcus was fine when he left me. But that wouldn’t have explained the alcohol level in his blood. Where had he been? It had been too late for the pub when he left me. Besides, I didn’t want to tell the inspector that I’d been with Marcus just before he died. I could picture him raising his eyebrows and giving me his kind, fatherly look. What is it with you and young lads, Lizzie Bartholomew? You’re the kiss of death to them. I wouldn’t have blamed him. If I’d have been a detective it’d have me suspicious. Besides, all my instincts told me it was crazy to get mixed up voluntarily with the police.
So for two days I sat in Sea View and brooded about it. As Marcus had said, I was given to obsession, even in my well-behaved medication-taking days. If not an accident, then suicide or murder. Suicide because he’d been responsible for Thomas’s death? Or murder because he knew too much about it? I sat at the kitchen table and wrote notes. My writing was very small and cramped, not my usual style at all. I recorded my conversation with Marcus, word for word, as best I could remember it. There’d been a row with Harry Pool, Ronnie Laing had known that Thomas was living with Marcus but hadn’t passed on the information to Kay, Tom had seen his work at the Countryside Consortium as a crusade. Was there anything else? Anything I’d missed?
Jess hovered around me at this time, brewing tea and feeding me home-made cake, growing more concerned. On the third day she brought herself to speak. ‘You should get out, pet. I’m no company for you. Go and spend some time with your friends. What about that nice lad who brought you the flowers?’
She meant Dan. I presumed he’d still be working in Absalom House. With Ellen. Like a shock, I remembered the conversation we’d had in the pub on the afternoon of Thomas’s funeral. ‘He was troubled,’ Ellen had said, as she gripped my arm. Perhaps he’d talked to her, given her more than the few hints he’d dropped to Marcus Tate.
She answered the phone herself when I rang the hostel.
‘It’s Lizzie Bartholomew,’ I said. ‘I wondered if I might come and talk to you. As we agreed.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The same double hiss which was a habit of speech, almost a nervous tic. ‘As soon as you like. Whenever you can.’
‘Can I buy you lunch somewhere? It might be easier to talk away from Absalom House.’ There’d be fewer interruptions, I thought. No one to overhear. No Dan to stir up memories.