“Freya Sheehan,” he says, throwing the name out like a trump card. “We’re talking online. Violet and me are too. I’m seeing Catherine Marlish too. Lovely girl – gifted writer. If you want to get a message to Violet, just tell me, I’ll pass it on.”
Her lip curls. She looks like she wants to spit. “Leave it,” she says. “No more.”
“It’s amazing what you learn when you pull a thread,” he continues, twin points of red temper on his pale cheeks. “All the stuff that unravels. You can weave the most extraordinary tapestry of lies but one loose thread and it all comes apart. I thought you might want to make sure you were on the right side.”
She flares her nostrils as if there’s a bad smell. From behind her he can hear her name being called again. It’s friendly, a sing-song call for ‘Eve’.
“There’s no threads to pull, lad. There’s nowt to find out. Violet’s having the time of her life. Freya doesn’t need owt dragging up. Catherine’s a soppy sod but she’s doing okay. Don’t spoil it. it’s all the way it should be.”
Rowan wants her e-cig. Wants the warmth of a fireside. He doesn’t know if he can take things forward without her help. He starts thinking about the other officers named in the case. Wonders whether he can find a next of kin for Derrick Millward. If he’s buried in the Wasdale church then Catherine’s father will be bound to know. Perhaps he could leave her to stew a little and come back when he knows more. Perhaps she’s had a bad morning. Maybe she’s not always got a face that could curdle breast milk.
“I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time,” says Rowan, softening his demeanour. “I’m struggling for transport and your number isn’t in the book. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I didn’t have some real concerns about Violet. I don’t know if you’re on Facebook but all these posts she’s been sharing – none of them have pictures. And she made no preparations for going away. I’m told you’re good friends, so that means you know how out of character this is …,”
“No more,” says Ms Cater, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “I’ve asked nicely. Now I’m going to tell you to fuck off.”
Rowan gives a sad smile, beaten. Nods, and the rain runs down his face. For a moment, Ms Cater’s demeanour seems to soften. Just as quickly it is gone. The door slams shut with an air of absolute finality and Rowan is left with just the damp air and the howling gale and the mournful cawing of the birds. He turns and trudges back the way he came, grinding his teeth together. He’s got a long walk back into the village and an even further walk home. He hadn’t really imagined things going wrong. He’d presumed that by now he would be sitting in a comfortable chair, sharing stories and bringing some much-needed distraction into an old lady’s life.
He looks up at the roiling clouds as he stomps past the tatty outbuildings and back into the unfinished tunnel of spiky hedges and trees. He’s offered a little protection from the wind and manages to get his phone out of his pocket without too much discomnfort to his healing skin. He’s recorded nine minutes of static and air. His heart sinks as he scrolls through his messages. Matti, his agent, has had a chat with his editor and they’re really excited about what he’s going to deliver. They really need to see some pages, and fast. Rowan growls as he dismisses the message and flicks past an unsolicited message from Snowdrop, telling him she can’t wait to hear how his chat with Ms Cater has gone. He’s considering throwing the phone at a low-flying gull when it pings in his hand. It’s a message from Violet, finally responding to his cheeky missive, sent while smoking with Pickle. It’s terse in tone, thoroughly dispiriting.
Away at moment. Peace and love.
Rowan looks back towards the cliff. Sometimes, it would be easier to just give in to the masochistic impulse. He can see himself lying smashed on the rocks below, his body undone, guts and bones a grisly sculpture across the sand. He keeps trudging on. There had been a pub in the village, hadn’t there? He’s sure he can persuade the landlord or landlady to open early. He can make good on any promise he makes about how much he intends to spend. He’s got a thirst, suddenly. Can feel a nervous prickling in his skin, like the air before a storm.
There is a sound behind him like distant thunder. He glances back and sees the little red car trundling slowly towards him over the pitted track. There’s a blonde lady at the wheel. He recognises her at once. She’d been at the writing group.
He makes a show of star-fishing himself against the hedge, sharp twigs pressing into his back. She slows down, the window sliding down. He gets a smell of bleach and lemon-scented wet wipes. Smells something a little like damp dog. She’s leaning across, her face open and friendly. He bends down to the open window, managing a weary smile. He takes a quick mental picture for later analysis. His age, near enough. Blonde hair, quiffed on top and shaved almost down to the skin at the back and sides. She’s wearing glasses, spotted with raindrops. Beneath a sensible fleece jacket he sees the bottom of a blue apron, rumpled around the thighs. At her neck is a glimpse of blue cord that disappears down into the folds of her clothes.
“She didn’t bite then?” asks the driver, grinning. “I wince when I hear the way she talks to visitors, I really do. Don’t take it personally, I’ve seen her reading your book and she was properly engrossed. Sat with it like she doing a crossword, underlining bits.”
“You don’t have to be extra nice just to compensate,” says Rowan, pretending to sulk. “Truth be told, I probably got what I deserved.”
“Was there anything I could help with?” she asks, looking genuinely keen to help. “I mean, I could sweeten her up for you if you tell me what you’re after. My name’s Vicky. Well, Vicky-Louise, actually.”
Rowan shrugs. “Rowan, like the tree. I’m not sure what I’m after. Somebody mentioned a case she’d worked on and I thought she might be able to fill in some gaps. Didn’t work out.”
“Ah,” nods Vicky, as if this was only to be expected. “Not one for talking about the past, our Eve. She’s a sweetie underneath but since she’s been on her own – well, you can imagine. The last house before the power station, moving closer to the cliff edge every year… it’s hardly going to keep your spirits up.”
“Is there nowhere more suitable?”
Vicky shakes her head. “Not a chance. She’d shoot the first bugger who suggested it.”
Rowan pretends to suddenly recognise her. “You were at the group, weren’t you? The writing group – at the posh house with the woman who sounded like Penelope Keith? You stood out. Youngest by about thirty years, I’d say.”
She rolls her eyes, tutting. “I reckon you were saying much the same to the vicar’s daughter. My mam enjoyed herself. Said you were very cheeky, but said it in a nice way.”
“You didn’t hear the talk?” asks Rowan, doing mental calculations.
“I just picked Mam up,” she says, apologetically. “She loves it. I told her for years to write her stories down but she’s doing it at last and she’s loving it. I’m always telling my old lords and ladies to get their memories down before they fade. It must be awful to have been here and nobody remember.”
He jerks his head back up the road. “I doubt you’ll get Ms Cater along to something like that,” he grumbles. “Writing is supposed to come from the heart, and I’m sensing a distinct absence of apparatus.”
The driver gives a polite smile. “You’d be surprised,” she mumbles, and the car rocks slightly as the wind catches her words.