She stood on the drive and looked around her, challenging the neighbours to notice. “I think we’ve been very discreet,” she said. “We could have come in a panda.”
Ashworth could tell she was enjoying herself and knew better than to spoil her fun. A small child was peering through the curtains of the house next door. It was a girl in a pink dressing gown with curly hair, about the same age as his son. He waved at her and she disappeared. Vera was already banging on the front door. There was a light in an upstairs window. They heard footsteps.
The door opened. A tall man with a newt’s face and a long neck looked out at them. He was wearing a sober suit and a dark tie. Undertaker or accountant, Vera thought. His hair was still wet from the shower.
“Can you tell Caroline we’d like a word?” Vera gave a wide, easy smile.
A paperboy in a black anorak slouched up. Like a woman in a burqa, the hood hid everything but his eyes. He thrust a copy of the Financial Times into the newt’s hand. Accountant then. The newt seemed distracted by the headline and didn’t answer immediately.
“We’ve not got all day.”
“I’m not sure…”
Vera breathed in deeply, then spoke loudly, with an exaggerated clarity. “I’m Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. I want to see Caroline Fletcher.”
The paperboy stopped at the gate and turned to stare. It would be all round the estate before he got home from school. The man’s face turned scarlet, the colour of the curtain which covered the small window beside him. Very fetching, Vera thought. Maybe he’s not a newt after all. More like a chameleon. “Go in,” he said quickly. “Caroline’s inside.” Then with an attempt at dignity, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m just on my way to work.” He grabbed car keys from the hall table, a briefcase from the bottom of the stairs and pushed past them.
Caroline was standing in the middle of the living room. She must have heard the exchange, but she waited until they’d stepped in and closed the door behind them before she spoke.
“Can I help you?” As if she was one of those icy women who sell perfume in high-class department stores. The ones who usually let Vera walk past unhindered. It was still not seven thirty but she was dressed and made up. It was as if she’d known that Vera would turn up, though she couldn’t have had inside information. Vera had told no one at HQ_ of her plans. But of course Caroline had worked in CID for six years. She’d been promoted quickly, had been good at her job. Vera had underestimated her. This would be how she’d have played it too.
“Who was that?” Vera asked. “Your hubby?” They were all still standing.
“You know I’m not married. You’ll have checked. Alex and I have lived together for four years.” She looked severe, dressed in a black skirt over black boots, a roll-necked top the colour of ripe plums. No bulges or sags, everything trim and in its place.
“Very nice,” Vera said vaguely. She sat on an easy chair next to the gas fire, pulled a notebook and biro out of her bag. “How old are you now?”
“You’ll have checked that too. Forty-six.”
“You’re wearing well,” Vera said with admiration. She meant it. There wasn’t much difference in their ages but Caroline looked ten years younger. “What are you doing with yourself now?”
“I’m an estate agent.”
“Any good at it?”
“I shift more property than anyone else in the company.”
You’ll have to be best at whatever you set your
mind to, Vera thought. Where does that come from, then? And is that why you left the police? Nothing more sinister than a fear of getting it wrong. Because in this job failure’s inevitable. Not every time. But most of it.
“Coffee?” Caroline asked.
“Aye, why not? White, one sugar. Joe here takes his black.”
While the coffee was being made Vera doodled on her pad. Spiders and interlocking webs. Joe Ashworth, looking at it from across the room, thought a psychiatrist would have a field day. Caroline must have had everything prepared in the kitchen, the tray laid, the kettle boiled, because she returned almost immediately, preceded by the smell of the coffee. She set the items on the table a large cafetiere, three matching mugs, sugar bowl, milk jug, an arrangement of shortbread biscuits on a brown plate. Vera looked up.
“Were you still at Mantel’s when they found the lad’s body last night?”
“No.” Caroline focused her full attention on pouring coffee. “I only bought a ticket because it was such a good cause. I didn’t stay.”
“You’ll have heard who was killed though?”
“It was on the radio this morning.” And someone will have phoned you, Vera thought. Bound to have.
“Christopher Winter, the brother of the lass who found Abigail Mantel’s body.”
“A strange coincidence,” Caroline said calmly. She handed a mug to Ashworth.
Aye. Maybe.”
“You think his death is relevant to the original enquiry?”
Vera didn’t consider that worthy of an answer. “You must have talked to the boy first time round. What did you make of him?”
There was a brief pause as Caroline sipped at the coffee. She left a smear of lipstick on the white porcelain. “I don’t remember,” she said. “I mean I don’t remember even talking to him. He was just a kid. Younger than Abigail. Not in the same year at school.”
“But he could have been a witness.” Vera kept her voice even, reasonable.
“He was with his family all day. Church at ten thirty, then home for lunch. He didn’t go out. Dan Greenwood had a chat with him the day of the murder.”
So you do remember. Or you’ve looked at your records. Prepared your story at least. Looking more closely at Caroline, Vera saw how tired she was. Had she slept? Been to bed, even? Had she been up all night trawling through her memory for facts to use in her defence? Vera tried to ward off a wave of sympathy. “Did you ever see his bedroom?”
There was a pause. No immediate response. She was good, Vera thought. She’d have been brilliant in court. Unshakeable. The Crown Prosecution Service would have loved her.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “I’d have to check my notes.”
i Vera leaned forward. “Look,” she said. “I don’t understand why there’s a problem here. I mean, what have you got to lose by playing it straight with me? You’ve already left the service. No one’s going to find you negligent. What would be the point? Or if they do, it’ll be in an internal report that’ll never hit the press.”
“I’m an ideal scapegoat, then, aren’t I?”
“I’m writing the report. You’ll not end up carrying all the crap. Not unless you muck me about. I know what it’s like to be a woman working with this lot.” She paused. “So, I’m going to ask you again. Did you look in the boy’s bedroom?”
“No,” Caroline said. Then, interested despite herself. “Why should I have done that?”
“From his bedroom he had a view of the field where Abigail’s body was found. He was there all afternoon. He could have been a witness to her murder.”
She crumpled as if she’d been thumped in the stomach and winded. “Shit,” she said. “Oh, shit. How could I have missed that?”
“You were blinkered. Convinced from the beginning that Jeanie Long was the murderer.”
“Everything pointed to it. She had motive, opportunity, the alibi she gave didn’t check out.”
“But no forensics. And no confession, even after ten years.”
“It was the murder of a young girl. A pretty young girl. You know what it’s like. Her picture on the news every night. The press, the politicians all after a result. There’s a pressure to clear it up quickly.”
“Aye,” Vera said. “That’s true enough.”
They sat in silence. The rain spat against the window.
“So it wasn’t personal, then?” Vera asked.
“What do you mean?” Caroline’s head shot up. She was ready for a fight again.