In the Captain’s House, the curtains were drawn. Were James and Emma Bennett having a cosy chat by the fire? Was he telling her the real story of his life?
There was a light at the Old Forge. She banged on the arched door. Nothing happened.
“Come on, man. Let me in. I’m desperate for a piss.”
Eventually she heard footsteps and Dan Greenwood shot back a bolt and opened the door. He seemed dazed, as if he’d been woken from a deep sleep, or interrupted from work which took great concentration.
“You’re working late, Danny boy.”
“Just as well, if you’re as desperate as you claim. The toilet’s in the yard out the back.”
She walked through the pottery, but paused by the back door and looked at him before she went through it. He was piling together some papers from the top of his desk and shoving them into a drawer. When she returned the top of the desk was clear.
“Do you always work so late?” she asked.
“A habit it’s hard to get out of when you’ve been a cop. Besides, there’s not much to take me home.”
“No woman in your life, then?” She’d remembered the last comment he’d made about that, thought that at this time of night he might be more prepared to talk about it.
He shrugged noncommittally, gave a brief smile. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“That’s a bit cryptic for this time of night. What’s not to be sure about?”
“I like her well enough. I’m not sure what she thinks of me. Not sure where the whole thing’s going.”
“Maybe you should ask her. I always favour the direct approach myself.” Though look where that had got her, Vera thought. There was no man in her life. Hadn’t been for years.
He smiled again and she guessed he was thinking the same thing, but was too much of a gentleman to say so. “What are you doing wandering round on your own after dark?” he asked. “Don’t you read the crime prevention notices?”
“Just restless,” she said. “You know what it’s like.”
“How is it going?”
“I’m losing it,” she said. “Losing the big picture. There’s too much going on here. You know what it’s like with an investigation this size. All the information. All the detail. Too much to take in. You just get swamped.”
Aye,” he said. “I remember.”
“Was it like that with the Mantel case, first time round?”
“First time round it seemed there was just the one suspect. Right from the beginning.”
“But you never thought it was Jeanie Long, did you?”
“It could have been her. It just didn’t seem likely.”
“Why not?”
“Sounds daft; he said. “Trite. But she just didn’t seem the type.”
“Who was, then? You must have had an idea. Someone you fancied for it.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “No,” he said. “Not really. I just didn’t think it was Jeanie.”
“Could it have been Caroline Fletcher?”
“No! No way. She broke a few rules, cut some corners. And she was besotted with Mantel. But she was no murderer.”
“Fletcher thought Emma Bennett could have been involved.”
“Did she?” He seemed surprised, shocked even. “She never said so at the time. I never interviewed Emma, but it doesn’t seem likely. Even now she seems timid, shy. Then she was only a girl. Caroline must be mistaken.”
“You always think the best of everyone, don’t you, Dan?”
He stood up briskly and moved away, anxious, it seemed, to put some distance between them. “I suppose you want some coffee.”
“Well, Danny, that’d be very civil. And if you could dig out the chocolate biscuits… That place we’re staying, the size of the portions, you’d think they were feeding hairns…”
She watched him go into the small scruffy room with the tray and the kettle. The door swung to behind him. She opened the drawer where he’d stuffed the pile of papers when she’d turned up, demanding to be let in. Underneath a stack of invoices there was a photo album, hard covered, ring bound. She lifted it onto the desk, turned the pages. It was a record of the Mantel investigation. Grainy newspaper articles, snipped out and pasted in. The names of the papers and the date of publication had been written in black biro at the top of each piece. They came from nationals and locals and some had been bought on the same day. If they were too big they were just stuck at the top and carefully folded. They’d often been looked at. In some places the folds were close to ripping. Then there was a faded copy of the forensic report and the pathologist’s report. A photo of Abigail lying at the crime scene, and another of her on the stainless-steel table at the mortuary.
On the last page there was a photograph of the girl when she was still alive. A studio portrait, head and shoulders, the body side on to the camera, the face turned towards it. Abigail was smiling seductively. In the background there was a loosely pleated curtain, the lighting could have been filtered, certainly the image seemed soft focused. She was wearing make-up which looked as if it had been professionally applied and her hair was piled onto her head. Her neck and shoulders were bare apart from a pearl necklace. She looked much older than fifteen and it couldn’t have been taken much before her death. Perhaps it had been a birthday present from her father, Vera thought. His style. The sort of thing he’d do. But how, then, had Dan Greenwood got hold of it?
In the small room, she heard the kettle click off and the rattle of teaspoon against mug. She folded back the newspaper clippings and shut the book. When Dan came in, carrying the tray, the desk top was clear. She was leaning back in the chair as if she’d been dozing.
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
There is still a wind, but it has turned southerly and is soft and heavy with unspilled rain. Emma sits at her window in the Captain’s House and looks out over the street. It is late afternoon. A light is switched on in the forge. She hasn’t seen Dan Greenwood for days and is hungry for a glimpse of him. But as she is willing him to make an appearance, her attention is caught by four elderly women who bustle out of the church. They all wear hats shaped like upturned button mushrooms made of felt or fake fur and short woollen coats and they seem to peck at each other as they talk. There has been a service. Mid-week evensong or a meeting of the Mothers’ Union. Emma wonders if Mary has been there too, if she’s dragged herself out to face the world. She hopes so. She hates to think of her parents stranded in Springhead House, enveloped by the damp and the silence, brooding on the loss of their son.
Emma considered this story for a few moments. Did it need polishing? Redrafting? Did the women coming out of the church really seem to peck at each other? Was that the right phrase? And was she still hungry to see Dan Greenwood though she knew now he was an ex-detective, whose response to her had been embarrassment not lust? Certainly, she thought. If anything, greedy came closer to describing her feelings. But why? All her certainties were cracking and shifting. The old life, the life of happy families had been founded on secrets and half truths. Now her image of her parents and James had blurred like the outline of a melting candle. Since Christopher’s death, the fantasy of Dan Greenwood seemed more real than anything else in her life. It was a comfort. She held onto it greedily. She wanted him more than ever.