She turned and headed back towards Harbour Street, her flat shoes beating a rhythm on the pavement. At the Metro she stopped and turned up the alley to Percy Street. The CSIs were still in Dee Robson’s flat. The crime-scene tape twisted outside looked strangely festive against the grey building. Vera knocked at Malcolm Kerr’s door. No answer. Almost without pausing she turned again, carried along by the same beat, the same thoughts rapping in her brain.
Past the guest house. The day so dark that the light was on in the basement kitchen and the domestic scene inside played out like a soap opera for passers-by. Kate Dewar at the table, ladling soup from a bowl. God, I’m hungry, Vera thought. And beside Kate stood Stuart. Her lover. Had he confessed to his youthful indiscretions, despite Joe asking him not to? If I could get a good man like that, I wouldn’t mind what he’d got up to thirty years ago. He looked serious, but then he always looked serious. There was no clue to the conversation. No sign of the kids, though, and he’d have sent them away before starting to talk.
It came to Vera suddenly that Hector had come to Harbour Street, at the time when Margaret was operating out of this house. He’d known Malcolm Kerr and had hired his boat to raid birds’ eggs. He’d probably been served in the Coble by the fat landlady in the picture over the bar. Had Hector been one of Margaret’s clients? Had he slipped through the shadows from the boatyard and let himself into the big house on the corner? Had he knocked on her door?
A sudden detour. A swerve. Across the road towards the church, because Vera heard organ music. Slow and joyless. A half-remembered Christmas carol, murdered by the organist. No accompanying singing, so there was no service. This was practice, perhaps and Christ, did the organist need it!
Vera pushed open the door. Inside it was dark, apart from a light above the organ. The noise stopped with a screech and a very old voice called out, terrified. ‘Hello, is that you, Father?’ And of course she had a right to be scared because two women had been murdered.
Vera called back. ‘No, I was just looking for the priest.’
‘Father Gruskin went out.’ The woman was still suspicious, but terror was replaced by curiosity. ‘What do you want?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He’s out at that place for fallen women.’ Spitting out the words. Contemptuous.
Vera wondered how Margaret could have continued to worship here, surrounded by all this spiteful virtue. After all, it was easy enough to be virtuous if there was no temptation. She should know. She left the church, allowing the door to close behind her with a satisfying crash. The noise carried her across the street to Kerr’s yard.
The double gates were unpadlocked. Kate Dewar’s lad Ryan was sanding the hull of a dinghy; the grating sound of the machine jarred her nerves and prevented him from hearing her. She went up to him and waved in front of his face and he turned it off.
‘I’m looking for Malcolm,’ she said.
‘He’s not here.’ He smiled at her. ‘Sorry.’ He rubbed his hand along the smooth hull of the dinghy, almost a caress.
‘It’s bloody freezing out here,’ she said. ‘Come into Malcolm’s shed for a minute. I could do with a chat.’
He seemed reluctant to leave the boat, but he followed her.
‘You enjoy your work don’t you?’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ He seemed embarrassed by the admission.
‘Any chance Malcolm would take you on when you leave school?’ She pushed a charred black kettle onto the top of the stove.
‘Maybe.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure how that would work, though. I’ve got plans. I’d want to be the boss. You could make real money out of the place.’
She raised her eyebrows. Money had never motivated her. ‘Tea?’ She nodded towards the kettle.
‘Eh,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that theft?’
‘Cheeky monkey.’ She couldn’t help grinning. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any milk. We’d best have it black then.’ She looked up at him. ‘Where is Malcolm?’
‘He took the boat out. Some guy wanted to go over to the island.’
‘Prof. Craggs?’ Perhaps she would wait and talk to the academic and save Joe a journey halfway across the county.
‘Nah, some maintenance guy. Something to do with the wardens’ accommodation.’
‘Couldn’t they wait until the weather gets better?’ Vera sipped the tea. The best you could say was that it was warm. ‘There’ll be nobody living out there now.’
‘Don’t ask me! Nobody tells me anything.’
‘But you know things, don’t you?’ Because it seemed to Vera that this boy was like a sponge. People would talk to him. He’d soak up information and confidences and stray pieces of gossip. ‘You’ve lived on this street for most of your life. You’ve seen things.’
‘I have nightmares,’ he said. ‘I don’t sleep well. And then I walk. Mam hates it; she thinks I’ll get into bother out on the streets. And yeah, I see things.’
‘And what do you see?’ Vera asked. ‘What do you see when you’re walking down Harbour Street in the middle of the night?’ She paused. ‘What secrets can you share with me, Ryan?’
He looked up at her, as if he was surprised that she could be so perceptive. He seemed about to answer when his mobile rang. He looked at the caller ID and his face changed and turned blank and hard. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to take this.’ He stood up and went outside.
When she followed him a few moments later he had the sander going again. He waved at her in a friendly way, but she could tell that she’d get nothing from him now.
Leaving the yard, Vera decided there was only one option, weighing up all the possibilities: a sit-down meal of haddock and chips in the Mardle Fisheries.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Holly arrived at the Haven in the early afternoon. A flat landscape facing the sea, and the trees all bent away from the wind. A big grey sky. The house was grey too, stone and square, but crumbling through lack of care. Peeled paintwork on the window frames and gutters with weeds growing inside, slates missing on the roof. A bit of money, though, and it would be a magnificent place. Holly could see it as a smart country-house hotel or converted into luxury apartments. She was a sucker for makeover programmes on television and she read the interior-design mags at the hairdresser’s. She wondered why the charity didn’t sell the place and buy somewhere more convenient for the hostel in town. They’d still end up with a profit.
She parked next to a black Volvo and, as soon as she climbed out of the car, the wind seemed to blow right through her jacket. Somewhere a dog was barking. She knocked at the door and it was opened almost immediately by a thin girl, hardly more than a child.
‘Are you the social worker?’ Her words eager, her eyes wide. Her red hair was tied back with a ribbon. She was dressed like a student, but a student with taste and money. Holly would have had her down as a staff member, but she was too thin and too nervy, nibbling now on her nails.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Ah.’ The girl backed away from her, disappointed. ‘A social worker’s supposed to be coming to take me home for Christmas. My key worker’s away on holiday. My mother said that she’d give it another go.’
‘Any chance I could speak to the person in charge?’
And at that point a plump woman appeared in the corridor. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be here until five, Emily,’ she said to the girl. She could have been talking to an eight-year-old. ‘Go and wait in the kitchen where it’s warm.’ Then she held out her hand to Holly. ‘I’m Jane Cameron and I run this place. You must be one of Vera Stanhope’s gang. I assume you’re here to talk to the residents about Dee Robson.’