George’s holdall was open on the floor in the corner. It seemed that he hadn’t really bothered to unpack this time, and that was unusual. Normally he hung up his work shirts and his jacket as soon as he arrived. ‘If you’re a salesman, Kate, first impressions count.’
Standing next to it was the wheelie suitcase in which George carried his samples. The sergeant laid it flat on the floor and unzipped it. Inside she saw some jeans and a heavy jersey, a pair of walking boots and a waterproof jacket.
‘But where are the books?’ Kate couldn’t help herself.
‘What books?’ The sergeant looked up. He was still kneeling on the floor. He frowned a little.
‘He carries books in the suitcase. Samples to show the shopkeepers.’
The detective said nothing. He began opening the drawers, but all George’s clothes were still in the holdall. Joe Ashworth emptied that carefully, laying each item on the bed, but it seemed there was nothing of interest to him. He looked in the bathroom, before turning back to Kate. ‘That’s been very helpful. Thank you.’ His face gave nothing away. She wanted to ask if they thought George was a murderer.
‘I have children,’ she said. ‘A daughter. Is it safe to let Mr Enderby stay here tonight?’ She could hear the hysteria in her own voice.
There was only a moment of hesitation before he replied. ‘We have no evidence against Mr Enderby. We think he can help us with our enquiries.’
She didn’t find that reassuring.
At the bottom of the stairs the detective held out his hand and thanked her again. He could have been one of her paying guests.
Stuart was still in the kitchen. He’d heard Kate come down the stairs and already had the coffee machine on again. ‘What was all that about?’ He didn’t look at her as he asked the question and she couldn’t tell how curious he really was.
‘The police. They wanted to look inside George’s room.’
‘Did you let them?’ Now he did turn to look at her.
‘Yes.’ She wondered now if she’d been a coward not to stand up to them. ‘If it helps find the killer…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘You think George could be the murderer?’ Stuart waited for her to answer and she saw that this wasn’t an idle question. She recognized the teacher in him. He’d use the same tone standing in front of his class. Is that really how you think that piece should be played? He seemed unusually serious.
She took his question seriously too. ‘No,’ she said at last, because despite her earlier misgivings and the hesitation in the detective’s voice, it was impossible to think of quiet and gentle George Enderby hurting anyone. She’d seen him open a window to allow a wasp to escape. ‘What reason would George have for killing Margaret? And he’d have hardly known Dee Robson. Unless she’d tried to pick him up in the Coble.’
‘What do you mean?’ Stuart frowned.
‘Dee was always trying to pick up men in the Coble. The locals knew her and just made fun of her.’ Kate couldn’t help an awkward smile, as she thought how embarrassed George Enderby would be by such an encounter. Polite and awkward, but terrified too.
‘Are you saying that Dee Robson was a prostitute?’ The coffee had stopped dripping and he poured a mug for Kate. She saw that he was shocked. She had never thought of him as a prude.
‘I suppose I am. Not a very good one, though.’ She gave a nervous smile. ‘An amateur, not a professional.’ Then she thought the attempt at humour was in poor taste. The woman had just been killed. She slid a look at Stuart, but if he disapproved of her flippancy he didn’t show it. He seemed lost in thought.
‘What shall we do for the rest of the day?’ She imagined a walk in the hills. The kids had said they’d be out until the evening, so there was no danger they’d be in the house alone with George. She and Stuart had talked about doing a part of Hadrian’s Wall. Then perhaps lunch in a pub. A real fire and homemade broth. Suddenly she was desperate to escape from Mardle and Harbour Street.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be a bit tied up after all.’ She was expecting an explanation, but he still seemed preoccupied. He jumped to his feet as if he had a sudden impulse to escape from her. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped abruptly. ‘Can I come round again later?’
‘Of course!’ It came to her now that the strange behaviour had a logical explanation: he was going into town to buy her Christmas present. That was why he was being so secretive. ‘You know you can come here at any time.’ And she turned her head to kiss him.
Left to herself in the big house, Kate felt that things were slipping out of her control. She wished now that the children were still at home, that Ryan was back from Malcolm’s boatyard and that Chloe hadn’t disappeared into town with a mysterious friend. She wanted everyone here, where she could keep an eye on them. Where they’d be safe.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Joe crossed the road so that he couldn’t be seen from the Harbour Guest House basement and wondered what he should do next. He assumed Vera had gone into town on the trail of George Enderby. She’d probably dragged Holly or Charlie along with her, a corroborative witness if the case came to court. He tried phoning her, but the call went straight to voice-mail. Joe was still standing there dithering, phone in his hand, when the door of the guest house opened and Stuart Booth emerged. He hesitated and then looked back at the house. Joe expected Kate Dewar to follow, but the man closed the door behind him and remained there for a moment. Dithering too. They formed mirror images of each other on both sides of the road. Booth seemed to come to a decision, before making a dash across the street to join Joe outside the church.
‘I wonder if I might talk to you, Sergeant. I have some information; it might be relevant to the murder of Margaret Krukowski.’
Joe was in a pool car and he drove Booth to the police station in Kimmerston. Vera might have done it differently, had some informal chat over tea or beer or chips. But Joe wanted this done properly – the man’s words recorded. Driving to Kimmerston, he felt a tingle of excitement. It occurred to him that the man intended to confess to murder: Booth was so still and so serious.
In the car Booth didn’t speak. Joe turned occasionally to sneak a look at him and saw that he was staring out of the window, very tense. The muscles in his face were set hard. Joe had come across men like him in rural Northumberland. Hill farmers and shepherds, with few words. Tough, sinewy men. It was hard to imagine Booth as a musician. Joe had looked him up, and Google said that jazz was his thing. Perhaps that was when he did relax, and he could picture the man then in a basement bar playing saxophone, head tilted back, eyes half-closed, wrapped up in his music.
‘What instrument do you play?’ The question came without thought.
Booth didn’t turn away from the window to answer. ‘At school, whatever they need me to. Piano for assembly, recorder to start the little buggers off. But for pleasure, the alto sax.’
Joe was pleased that he’d guessed right.
In the station Joe got Booth coffee from the staffroom, in a mug, not the cardboard cups they usually gave to witnesses. One of Vera’s tricks. Holly had gone into town with Vera in search of Enderby, so Charlie sat in, the silent man, the observer, while for once Joe took charge of the discussion. They sat in an interview room and their words bounced off the gloss-painted walls and seemed to rattle like hail from the ceiling. He asked if he might record their discussion and Booth nodded.
‘So, Mr Booth, you said that you have some information about Margaret Krukowski.’
It took Booth a while to speak. Perhaps he was expecting the officers to ask him direct questions.