‘Some of them think that,’ he said. ‘Not me.’ He looked out at the sea. ‘Did you ever meet Marcus Tate?’
‘At Thomas’s funeral.’ It was a relief. I thought I’d have a chance now to share my anxieties. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so lonely. But he didn’t follow it up, he just started walking again. I stood where I was and shouted after him, not caring now who could hear. ‘Marcus Tate… Do you really believe that was an accident?’
He stopped and turned. ‘There’s no reason to believe otherwise.’
‘But you?’ I was screaming and not just to be heard above the tide. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘Why don’t you tell me what you think?’ His voice was measured, but I wasn’t taken in. He’d stuck his neck out coming to see me. He was as obsessed by the case as I was. He’d have his own reasons for that – things to prove at work, old scores to settle – but he was committed to digging away until he found reasons he could believe in. It kept him awake at night too. A sharp gust of wind blew a shower of spindrift. I could taste the salt on my tongue.
‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ I asked. ‘There’s a new place along the prom that does a decent cappuccino.’
He’d been tense, standing there, waiting to see if I’d confide in him. He nodded uncertainly, not sure whether or not he’d got an answer. Let him wait a bit longer.
The café was on a square, part of the same development as the new promenade. Brick and block paving and Victorian-style street furniture. Bland and unimaginative, it had nothing in common with the original east coast fishing village. I wondered if the architect had been there since it was built, if he woke up with nightmares. I knew Steve, the lad who ran the café. He’d sunk his redundancy from Ellington pit into the lease of the building and the purchase of a seriously impressive Italian coffee machine. He’d probably bought into the council’s dream that a couple of wrought-iron lampposts would bring the tourists flocking. I’d been there on the opening night and he’d talked about turning it into a classy, cosmopolitan place, hiring a chef to serve Mediterranean food in the evenings. But it wasn’t going to turn him into a second Harry Pool. Anyone could have told him that people from outside wouldn’t leave their cars unattended in Newbiggin at night.
Surprisingly, though, the locals loved the place. It was somewhere to meet. Young mums gathered there after dropping kids at nursery, and teenagers dropped in on their way back from school and imagined they were sophisticated. That afternoon it was like a scene from an arty European movie. Steve’s unemployed mates were in, looking dark and brooding, chainsmoking, posing until the lasses from Ashington College arrived back on the bus. Farrier and I moved outside. There were a few rickety garden tables and chairs on the square; he stuck out umbrellas when the wind wasn’t so strong. The sun had come out. Farrier had paid for the coffee. He’d asked for a receipt. I supposed he’d claim it back as informant expenses. I didn’t like the idea of that. Hated the thought of grassing.
‘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?’