Relieved to be let off the hook, Stuart flashed him a sudden bright smile, and got out of the car.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Vera stood outside the Georgian symmetry of the Lit & Phil Library in Newcastle city centre, waiting for Holly, and letting her mind wander. Passengers from Central Station swept past her and cars screeched at the lights, but Vera was lost in thought and took no notice. Two women. Margaret Krukowski, bright and smart, born into affluence and wanting to set her affairs straight because she realized that she was ill. Dee Robson, one of life’s unfortunates, someone who’d needed looking after from the moment she was born, though until Margaret had come along, nobody had bothered much. They were linked by geography, living close to each other, on the seaward side of the railway line, and they’d both travelled on the same Metro train the afternoon of Margaret’s death. As had Joe Ashworth. And his daughter Jessie. Vera wondered if it had occurred to Joe that he and Jess might be in danger too. Perhaps it was just as well that he had so little imagination.
Holly appeared, fighting against the crowd, still immaculately made-up. They went inside and stood at the bottom of the grand stone stairs.
‘Do you know the Lit & Phil?’ Vera was a member. Hector had brought her here for lectures on birds and bugs. A love of the building was one of the few things she’d inherited from him.
‘Of course. Brilliant, isn’t it?’
Of course she knew the library. Holly had no areas of ignorance at all. Or so she thought.
‘Apparently Enderby’s inside. He left Harbour Street straight after breakfast and told Kate he was coming here. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’
They climbed the stairs to the library on the first floor and opened the door to a room flooded with light from the glass domes. The walls were made of books. There was no immediate sign of Enderby either at the reading tables close to the door or at the hatch where coffee was served. The members looked up briefly, but took no notice. The library assistant behind the desk gave Vera a wave. Holly seemed surprised that her boss had been recognized – the Lit & Phil wasn’t the inspector’s natural habitat.
Scouring the room for Enderby, Vera felt a rising panic. Perhaps the man was cleverer than they’d thought and had misled Kate. Perhaps he was on a train south. She looked round the corner into the other leg of the L-shaped room. Still no sign of him. Ignoring Holly, who was trailing behind her, Vera returned to the desk.
‘George Enderby,’ Vera said. ‘Big guy. Balding. From the south. Loves his books.’
‘Ah, George.’ The library assistant smiled fondly and Vera saw that the man had worked his charm on her too. ‘Yes, he came in as soon as we opened. He’s one of our southern members. You’ll probably find him in the Silence Room. He prefers to read in there.’
Vera told Holly to stay where she was and went through the door at the back of the room and down the stairs. The heavy door shut out the sounds of the library. There was the gurgle of a cistern in the distance, otherwise a dense quiet. Vera paused outside the Silence Room. A moment of superstition, as close to prayer as she’d ever get. Let him be there. She opened the door.
It was a square room with no natural light. Silent. Of course. Talking wasn’t allowed. Even a cough provoked tutting. At first it seemed empty, but bookshelves jutted into the room at right-angles to the walls, forming small alcoves, and she couldn’t see into those from the door. In one a middle-aged woman typed furiously on a laptop. In another was George Enderby, leaning forward with his head on the small card table, as if he were asleep.
The rules of silence were entrenched from childhood and she couldn’t bring herself to speak. She came close to him. He was still in his overcoat and must be very warm. She tapped him on the shoulder. For a brief moment there was no reaction and she had the wild thought that he might be dead. Another victim. Then he woke with a start. In his shock he seemed about to talk and she put her finger to her lips. She motioned for him to follow her and left the room.
They used one of the upstairs rooms for their discussion. Vera had liked Enderby when they’d first met, but had felt even then that he was playing games. All that talk of stories, of Margaret Krukowski as a spy. Now she watched him drink coffee and let him sit in silence, the tension building. He was used to words and didn’t cope well with quiet. He spoke first, as she’d known that he would.
‘This is very pleasant, Inspector, but I was surprised to see you, I must admit.’ The shy, boyish smile. ‘Clever you, to track me down! To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Did you know Dee Robson, Mr Enderby?’ A question sharp like sleet on the skin. He hadn’t been expecting it.
He paused. ‘That poor woman who seems to live in the bar of the Coble? I’ve seen her there of course, and heard the cruel comments.’ He hesitated again. ‘I’ve bought her a drink once or twice. I always sit in the lounge, but passing through the bar, you know, I’ve felt sorry for her. Perhaps it’s because she was one of Margaret’s good causes that I always felt obliged to be kind.’
‘You haven’t heard that she’s been murdered?’ Holly asked the question, and Enderby turned towards her and seemed startled by the intervention. It was as if an impertinent child had interrupted a conversation between adults.
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t go into the Coble last night. I had a large lunch before I got back to Harbour Street and managed with a sandwich in my room. How would I have heard?’
‘I need to know why you lied to us, Mr Enderby.’ Vera leaned forward across the table. The room was very warm. There was no response. The man stood up and took off his coat, folded it carefully on the back of his chair.
‘Well, Mr Enderby?’ Vera was at her imperious best. ‘Why the porkie-pies?’
‘I don’t quite understand, Inspector.’
‘You told us that you were in the region to sell books. But as far as we can tell, you haven’t been near a bookshop since you arrived. So would you like to tell us what this is all about?’
He seemed to collapse from inside. Vera had the inappropriate thought that he was like the shiny bag inside a box of wine once all the booze had been drunk. All the gentlemanly politeness had been a protection from the world and, now that it wasn’t working, he was empty. She thought he might cry, but instead he looked up with a quiet desperation. ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said.
‘So why all the lies?’
‘You wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
There was a silence. Vera thought he was taking time to compose one of his stories, but in the end the words came out as an unfiltered stream. It was the same pleasant voice, but she sensed this conversation was personal, not his usual performance.
‘I was lazy at university – not intellectually lazy, you know. I always found time for work. But emotionally. Can you be emotionally lazy?’ He looked up at them, but didn’t seem to expect an answer. ‘So there was this girl in our tutor group. Pleasant enough. Good-looking in a staid, country-rose sort of way. And she seemed to fancy me, so I thought, why not ask her out? She was from a good family, so my parents liked her. And I didn’t dislike her. It was all very easy, and I could give my energy to my books and at the time that mattered more than anything.’ He paused and took a breath. ‘After university we sort of drifted into marriage. I knew I didn’t love her or anything like that, but everyone expected it and it would have been very unkind, you know, to dump her once we seemed to have got engaged. So I just went through with it. As I explained, a sort of emotional laziness. Or cowardice. Perhaps that would be a better word.’ He stopped again. Vera poured him some coffee. She could see that Holly was wondering where this was leading. She was itching to tell the man to get to the point, but knew better than to interrupt in front of Vera.