“The original investigating team would have spoken to him?”
“I can’t remember.” Robert frowned. “They were here, of course, that afternoon, talking to Emma. I presume they interviewed Christopher but I can’t remember it.”
“There’ll be a record, at any rate,” Vera said, though she wasn’t convinced. There were more gaps in the Mantel file than a trawl net drying at North Shields Fish Quay. And the smell was much the same too. “But if he was in all day he couldn’t have seen anything which would have been a threat to the murderer. You see the way my mind’s working?”
“I’ve said he was a quiet boy, but he wasn’t lacking in confidence,” Robert said impatiently. “If he’d seen something suspicious he’d have said so at the time.”
“You know, I don’t think that’s necessarily true.” Vera sat with her forearms flat on the table. “It didn’t take the police long to arrest Jeanie. He’d have no reason to question their judgement. It’s not only hairns who believe we’re infallible. He’d have dismissed any evidence which pointed elsewhere, wouldn’t he?”
“Until now,” James said quietly. “Until it’s become clear that there was a miscarriage of justice. Then he’d remember. Did he mention anything like that last night, Em?”
Emma shook her head. “He wasn’t very coherent, but no, we didn’t discuss Abigail’s murder. Not specifically.”
“Besides,” Robert said. “We’ve already established that Christopher was with us all that Sunday. He couldn’t have seen or heard anything significant.” Vera thought he had the tone of an irritable schoolteacher trying to drum the obvious into a stupid pupil’s head.
“You could see the field where I found Abigail from his bedroom,” Emma said slowly. She turned to Vera. “His bedroom was right at the top of the house. Afterwards, that night, we watched from the window. The spotlights and the scientists in those white paper suits. Just like tonight. We watched them carry Abigail’s body back.” She seemed lost in the memory.
“Did he spend a lot of time in his bedroom?”
“Hours,” Robert said, more irritable than ever. “I’ve explained. He wasn’t the sort of boy who needed company.”
Vera thought Emma was about to comment, but seemed to think better of it, so she stood up suddenly, scraping her chair on the tile floor.
“That’s enough for tonight; she said. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.” She touched Emma’s arm. “Before we go would you show me where the lad used to sleep?”
Emma handed the baby to James and led the way upstairs. As they reached the second landing they could hear the baby screaming. Emma paused for a moment, then the noise faded and she continued.
The room was on the third floor and much as it had been when Christopher had been sleeping there. It was long and narrow, with one long side making up the outside wall. In that there were two windows. The opposite wall was covered with book shelves. The books were mostly non fiction and looked as if they’d been collected from charity shops and jumble sales. There was a single bed with a striped quilt, and a wardrobe which had been painted white. Ice like fine lace spread up the windows from the sill and the rest of the glass was covered in a mist of condensation. The window sills were low and thick enough to sit on. Emma leaned against one and wiped a hole in the mist with her hand. Vera took the same position at the other.
“This is where we sat,” Emma said. “The two of us. You can’t see much now. You’ll need to come back in daylight.”
Vera stared out at the scene. The moonlight was pale and none of the details of the landscape were clear. “Where was the body?”
“About three fields in.”
There were no houses visible, no street lamps or car headlights. The Mantel house was hidden by a clump of trees and a slight dip in the land.
“Flat as a witch’s tit,” Vera said. “You could see for miles, couldn’t you? Anyone coming and going along that path. Do you remember your brother being interviewed?” She knew the answer before Emma had shaken her head.
Chapter Twenty-One
Vera drove slowly away from Springhead House towards Elvet. It was late, but she felt more awake than she had done since arriving in East Yorkshire. Her thoughts were clear and sharp and focused on Caroline Fletcher. They came fully formed and beautiful like the crystals of ice on Christopher Winter’s bedroom window.
Caroline would have been waiting for a phone call since the case against Abigail Mantel had fallen to pieces. She must have been. She’d have been expecting a phone call or a letter, a formal summons to the station for interview. She’d have run the questions in her head. Can you explain your reasons for charging the suspect at that point? Why did you restrict your lines of enquiry in this way? And she’d have rehearsed the answers. Over and over.
Caroline must have heard that Vera and her team had been called in. She’d still have friends at headquarters. Maybe she’d done a bit of research, asked about Vera’s style, looked at old cases. She’d have been wired up and ready. But the days had passed and nothing had happened. Her nerve would have been starting to crack. Perhaps that was why she had turned up at the bonfire. It took guts to sit and do nothing but wait.
And now she’d be more strung up than ever. Another murder and her at the scene.
Vera was planning her approach. She’d turn up on Caroline’s doorstep. No warning. Nothing official. I thought it would be a good idea if we had a chat, pet. No need for a solicitor, is there? Put on the kettle and well see if we can get it sorted between us. She’d play on their sisterhood, the struggle they’d both had to be taken seriously by male colleagues. She imagined reeling Caroline in, disarming her. Beautiful women never see fat, ugly ones as a threat. She longed to take on Caroline now, was almost too excited to wait, but she knew that wouldn’t do. It was already midnight and if the woman did get hold of a competent solicitor Vera didn’t want accusations of harassment flying around. She’d go back to her hotel, get a couple of whiskies and a few hours’ sleep and hit Caroline Fletcher first thing in the morning.
Her phone went. She pulled onto the verge. The road was greasy with ice and she couldn’t do two things at once at the best of times. The signal wasn’t brilliant and she got out. The cold took her breath away. Her feet snapped the frozen blades of grass.
“Ma’am.” Faint and familiar, slightly ironic. She grinned slowly.
“Joe Ashworth. Where the hell have you been?”
“You said to leave it a few days. Then when the news of the Winter lad’s murder came through I thought you’d like me there immediately.”
“Taken to mind reading now, have you, lad?”
“Not really. It was the boss’s idea.”
But your suggestion, she thought. You’d not want to miss out on anything. “Where are you?”
“The services on the M62. About half an hour from Hull. They’ve booked me into the same hotel as you.”
“Have they, though! It’s a decent sort of place. I hope their budget will run to it.”
She stood there for a moment before driving off. Ashworth was her sergeant. Not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. Too gullible for one thing and born a city boy for another. Too wrapped up in his wife and baby. But he’d be an ally against all these bloody Yorkies. And he was the closest thing to a son she’d ever have.
They arrived at Caroline Fletcher’s house early the next morning. The quiet spell of weather was over. There was a piercing east wind and rain with shards of ice in it, sharp and grey as flint. It was seven o’clock and the street was waking. Caroline lived a couple of villages inland from Elvet and the estate was new and smart. There were double garages and fancy cornices, and a fat conservatory bulged behind every house. It was the sort of place Ashworth would like to live one day, when he got promotion. Vera would have been hounded out for an untidy garden and unruly friends.