The waiter came back with their tea. As he lowered it to the table, liquid slopped onto the tray. He paused, expecting a reaction from them, anger, complaint, but they sat in silence until he left them again.
‘I was worried that detective would find out about us,’ Felicity said.
‘How could she?’ But she saw that the idea had occurred to him too. Perhaps that was why he seemed so uneasy, so unlike his usual urbane and confident self.
‘I wondered if perhaps we should tell her, in confidence,’ she said. ‘That way she would know it could have no bearing on the girl’s murder.’
‘Of course it has no bearing!’ His voice was impatient. She imagined he might speak in the same tone to a foolish library assistant. She felt tears come to her eyes.
‘We know that.’ She tried to sound reasonable. ‘But Lily Marsh came to Fox Mill the day before she was murdered. You can imagine the police jumping to conclusions, building up a scenario. What if we were together that afternoon and she saw us? That might give us a motive for killing her.’
She waited, expecting another angry response, but he smiled. ‘You should write fiction,’ he said. ‘A creative imagination like that. We weren’t together, were we? Not in the afternoon. I was at work all day on Wednesday. Book selection, then Library Management Team. I’d be able to prove it. We only met up in the evening to go to the theatre. Besides, James was there with you when the girl was at your house.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was.’
Samuel looked around the room. There were no other customers now. The staff were at the counter, engrossed in conversation. He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘How can anyone know?’ he said. ‘We’ve been so careful. I’d hate it to come out. It would seem so squalid. How could people understand?’ He pulled away from her and leaned back in his chair. His voice was still very low and she had a struggle to make out the words. ‘I couldn’t bear it if Peter found out. I’d die.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
When they’d finished with Clive Stringer, Vera took Joe home. She could tell he was fretting about his pregnant wife and his daughter. But she couldn’t settle. She called into the police headquarters at Kimmerston and raged around the building, demanding action and answers. Holly was out, but Charlie was there, hunched over his desk, staring at the computer screen. His waste bin was overflowing – empty Coke cans, burger cartons, greasy chip paper. She remembered hearing that his wife had recently left him for a younger man. Like Vera, he probably didn’t have much to go home to.
‘Nothing unusual about Lily Marsh’s bank account,’ he said. ‘She had a bit more money this year because they get a grant for doing the post-graduate teaching course, but she still spent pretty much up to her student overdraft limit. No mysterious payments to suggest a rich boyfriend. She was paid direct into her account by the dress shop, but it wasn’t a fortune. Better than the minimum wage, but not by much.’ He paused. ‘Something a bit odd, though. I can’t tell how she paid her rent. Not by cheque and it wasn’t covered by standing order. No regular withdrawals of cash either.’
‘Maybe she had a different account,’ Vera said. ‘Building society. Internet account. Perhaps there’s a statement in that material we recovered from her flat. Get onto it, Charlie. She was living beyond her means. She should have been massively in debt. But she wasn’t. Something doesn’t add up.’ And she stamped away without giving him the chance to complain.
She set off for home then, but she knew she’d only start drinking as soon as she got in. She was in that sort of mood. A large whisky before she scratched together a meal and downhill from there. Passing the Morpeth turn-off she decided to call on Samuel Parr. She’d have seen them all, then. The whole group. The four birdwatchers who claimed they had nothing to do with the murders except being present when the body was found, but who seemed tangled up with the case all the same. Gary, who had fallen for Luke Armstrong’s mother. Clive, who, as a kid, had known Luke Armstrong’s best friend. And Peter Calvert, who worked at the university where Lily Marsh had been a student. In the north east there were a lot of small communities, all interlinked. There were always going to be connections. Perhaps it was of no significance, but she couldn’t ignore it. And where did Samuel Parr fit in?
He looked as if he had not long arrived home. When she rang the bell of the small stone house, he answered immediately. He’d been standing in the hall. Perhaps he’d just shut the door behind him. There was a briefcase at the foot of the stairs. He wore a linen jacket, slightly crumpled.
‘Is this convenient?’ she asked. Samuel Parr was a minor local celebrity. She’d looked him up. His stories had been read on Radio 4. He’d got an OBE in the people’s honours for service to libraries. She’d best treat him with a bit of respect. At first, at least.
‘Yes, of course, Inspector. Come in. It’ll be about that business on Friday night. Dreadful.’ He took off his jacket and hung it on the banister. ‘I’m late home. A meeting in Berwick. Awful traffic on the A1.’ He was tall, bony and his hair was very short.
She remembered hearing one of his stories. She never bothered much with television, but the radio was on all the time at home. It had been a domestic tale. A man and a woman in a loveless marriage. A stranger in town who had become a lover. The ending had been horrific and quite unexpected. The couple had collaborated in killing the lover. They needed the stability and routine of their marriage more than the excitement of love or of loss. Vera tried to remember what they had done to the body. She knew it had been disturbing. Not explicit in the description of the violence, but so chilling, that it had haunted her for days. So chilling perhaps that she’d forced it out of her mind and the details wouldn’t return. Now, looking at this quiet, middle-aged man, she found it hard to believe he had dreamed up the tale. She thought she should get the anthology out of the library. See how the story had ended.
‘I always indulge in a glass of wine at this time of the evening. Can I tempt you?’
She thought he was playing up to the stereotype of the librarian. Surely he didn’t talk like that while he was in the watch tower and the skuas were streaming past in a northerly gale. Then he’d shout and swear like the rest of them.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I only have red, I’m afraid. I live alone, so I just buy to suit myself.’
‘You never married, Mr Parr?’
‘I’m a widower.’ There was a pause. ‘Claire, my wife, committed suicide.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She’d always thought suicide the most selfish act.
‘She’d suffered from depression since before I knew her. I didn’t understand how desperate she was. Of course I’ll always blame myself.’
He’d led her into a long narrow room, which covered the width of the house. He opened a window and let in the song of a blackbird, the smell of cut grass. He turned his back on her to stand at a Victorian sideboard and open the wine. She couldn’t make out if he was as calm as he seemed. She wanted to ask how his wife had killed herself. Had she drowned? It wasn’t a question to ask over a glass of Australian Shiraz, and anyway she’d be able to find out. There’d be a coroner’s report. And where had she been treated for depression? On the wall, there was a photograph of a woman, her head thrown back, laughing. Claire? It seemed to be the only record of the woman in the room.
He turned now and held out a large glass of wine to her. She nodded at the picture. ‘She was very pretty.’ He didn’t answer.
She took the wine, sat on a scarred leather Chesterfield, waited for him to speak. He told stories for a living. Let him go first.