“No!” Ashworth was shocked. But then he was easily shocked. Some days that was the only entertainment Vera had, provoking a response from him.
“You didn’t think she was frightened of him, then?”
“No,” Ashworth said slowly. “Frightened for him perhaps. Worried that he was taking so long in the church. More protective I’d say. Like she was the mother and he was a kid.”
“A spoiled kid,” Vera said. As I heard it, he joined the God Squad, decided to give up his business in York and move out here and she just went along with it, dragging the family along with her.”
She broke off. Her attention was caught by Dan Greenwood, who emerged from the pottery and blinked as the cold air hit his face. Without bothering to lock the door behind him he ran across the street into the bakery. Vera watched him, wondered what it was about him that stopped her looking away. He disappeared from view, but they could hear him in the shop next door ordering a roast ham and mustard harm cake and a vanilla slice to take away. He returned to the Old Forge without seeing them.
“What is the story with Dan Greenwood?” Ashworth asked.
“He worked on the Mantel case first time round,” she said. “Fletcher was his boss.”
“Like you and me then,” Ashworth said. He looked about six, Vera thought. A gob of red jam from a doughnut on his chin. Not fit, really, to be let out alone.
“Oh, aye, I look a lot like Caroline Fletcher.”
“Was there something going on there, like? Did he fancy her?”
“No. They never got on.” Though that wouldn’t have stopped Dan fancying her, then despising himself for it, Vera thought.
“Oh?”
“You could see what Fletcher’s like. Hard as nails. On the surface at least. And Dan was too sensitive for his own good. One of those people who don’t like the sort of games you have to play to get on. He’s simple. Not dumb, I don’t mean that. But straightforward. No pretence. No small talk.” Intense, she thought. That’s why you can’t take your eyes off him. Too much emotional energy. Then wondered if she was being daft.
“Is that why he left? Personality clash? You’d think he’d manage a transfer.”
“He had a breakdown,” she said. “Stress related. He’d always struck me as a bit nervy. One of those people who can never sit still. He left on medical grounds soon after Jeanie Long was put away. Later he moved to Elvet and set up the pottery over the square.”
“Was it the Mantel case which made him ill? I’d not have thought there’d be that much pressure. The press would be pushing all the way, of course, but they cleared it up canny quickly, didn’t they?”
She could tell he was thinking of some of the cases he’d worked on. Cases which had gone on for months, days without sleep, without seeing his family, and then no result at the end of it.
“He never believed Jeanie was guilty,” Vera said. “But he didn’t have the guts to make a fuss at the time.”
“So now he blames himself for her suicide?”
“Maybe.”
“How do you know him?”
“We’d met a couple of times, courses, training days. Then a lad from Wooler jumped bail and ended up down here. I came down for a few days. I liked Dan. He was one of those people you take to straight away. Like I said, no side to him. No agenda. He phoned me before he left the service. They’d offered him this deal and he asked my advice.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That we needed people who cared about the job, but that if it was making him ill he should take the money and run.”
“Why did he think Jeanie Long was innocent?”
“He was in on the interviews. He believed her.”
“And that was it?”
“There was no forensic evidence. And Dan said it all happened really quickly. Easily. As if it had been set-up. As if someone was pulling the strings.”
“You think that was Mantel?”
“You get a grieving father pointing the finger, saying he knows who killed his daughter, that’s hard to ignore. Especially when he says it in public. And when he’s a big figure locally. With friends who are magistrates and on the police committee.”
“In everyone’s interest to clear it up quickly, then.”
“Everyone’s except Jeanie Long’s.”
“Whose strings exactly was Mantel pulling?”
Vera pushed half a curd tart into her mouth. “We’ll have to ask him, won’t we? But that’ll have to wait. There’s Robert Winter coming out of the church.”
Winter was still standing in the church porch when they met up with him. He was poised as if to set off down the path towards the gate, restrained, it seemed by an invisible barrier. The path was slippery with wet leaves and at one point Ashworth almost tripped, but Winter gave no sign that he had seen them approach. He stared out at the bare trees which lined the churchyard.
“Your wife will be worried about you,” Vera said.
Only then did Robert acknowledge them with a courteous nod. He didn’t respond, though, to the words.
“We’ve only just come from your house. Mary wasn’t expecting you to be so long. Here, give her a ring.” Vera groped for a mobile phone in her bag. “Tell her we want a quick word with you first, but you’ll not be long.”
“Yes,” Robert said. “Of course. I’ve been very thoughtless.” He took the phone and at last made the effort to leave the porch, walking a few paces away from them, turning his back so they couldn’t hear what was said.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Vera asked when he’d finished.
“Here? In the church?” As if, she’d say to Ashworth later, she’d suggested an interview in a brothel or a gents’ lav.
“If we wouldn’t be intruding.”
“I’d prefer not to.”
So they ended up in the little room by the bakery again, with more tea. On the way they passed the news agent and the headlines in the local papers screamed Christopher’s name. But Vera couldn’t feel sorry for Robert Winter and all the time they were talking she wished she’d been more forceful, stood her ground. What was it about the man that he always seemed to get his own way?
She began with a question he wouldn’t be expecting, hoping to throw him.
“Why the probation service? A bit different from architecture.”
“More challenging.” He smiled politely. She thought he’d played these word games before.
“What do you get out of it?”
“Not money, certainly,” he said. “Architecture was more lucrative. Most professions would be.”
Beside her, she could sense Ashworth willing her to change tack. She knew what he was thinking. Robert Winter was a bereaved relative who should be handled with a bit more sensitivity.
i “So, what then?” she demanded.
“Occasionally we can make a difference,” Robert said. “Change lives. When that happens there’s no more rewarding job in the world.”
“Did you make a difference to Jeanie Long?”
“Obviously not.” Still he kept calm, didn’t even show a trace of irritation. “I accepted the judgement of the court that she was a murderer. I failed her because I didn’t believe her story.”
“You must feel bad about that.”
“Of course I do, but I can’t let it affect my work with other prisoners. I don’t think I can blame myself. Many of the people I work with are manipulative and plausible. Many of them claim to be innocent. Sometimes we get it wrong ‘
“You see,” Vera interrupted, “I think it must be a bit like joining the police. The same motivation, I mean. It gives a licence to meddle. It’s a way into all that muck and corruption we respectable folk wouldn’t normally come across. There’s a glamour about crime, isn’t there? An excitement. Everyone’s curious about it, but we’re paid to stick our noses in. And so are you.”
“That’s one interpretation, Inspector. But not one I’d subscribe to.”