She walked out through the gate to join him. He smelled of the tobacco he rolled into cigarettes; she stepped away until it was lost in the background scent of dead leaves. Safest not to get too close.
“You haven’t got the baby with you today, then?” he said.
“No:
“You must feel you need some time to yourself occasionally.” “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“Let me walk back to the village with you. I don’t like the idea of you being out on your own.”
She thought again that James hadn’t bothered about that. “I can’t see there’d be any danger. Not with all these police around.”
He didn’t answer, but moved over, so he was closest to the road, and fell in step with her. Despite the misty drizzle, he wasn’t wearing a coat, just a jersey of coarse navy wool, and the damp smell of that overlaid the tobacco. She felt awkward, clumsy.
“What made you decide on the pottery when you left the police?” she asked, for something to say.
He didn’t speak for a moment. “It took me a while to decide on anything. I’d had a sort of breakdown. Stress. I knew I wanted to do something creative. When I first left the service I went to art school for a couple of years, but I couldn’t get my head round most of it. Conceptual art. What was that all about? Some of it I liked though. The craft side. Ceramics, producing something concrete for people, something useful.” He paused. “Not making much sense, am I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“I had a bit of a pension from the police. Enough to get me started. Then my mother died and left me the money I needed to buy the forge.”
“Is that why you left the police? Because the stress was getting to you?”
“I suppose.” He smiled to make a joke out of it. “Ibo sensitive for my own good, I daresay. I couldn’t forget the victims were real people.”
They walked on in silence until they reached the village. At the door to the forge they paused. Emma knew she should carry on walking, cross the road, let herself into the Captain’s House. James might be looking out for her.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a coffee,” she said. She could feel the colour rising in her face. “As you said, I don’t have the chance to get out much without the baby. I’m not sure I can face the house again just yet.”
“Of course.”
She couldn’t tell at all what he made of her request. Did he think she was going mad? Put it down to grief? “But perhaps you’re too busy,” she added. “Perhaps I should go.”
“No.” The door had warped and caught at the bottom against a flagstone. He put his shoulder against it to push it open. “I’ll be glad of the distraction.” On a bench just inside the door there was a row of jugs he’d hand painted, swirling patterns in intense blues and greens.
“They’re lovely,” she said. “They make you think of water, don’t they? You feel you’re drowning in the colour.”
“Really?” He looked genuinely pleased. “When they’re glazed you must have one.”
The sick excitement came back.
They sat in the small room she’d seen on her first visit. He made the coffee, apologized for the chipped mug, the lack of fresh milk.
“What were you doing at the cemetery?” she asked suddenly. It was hot. She felt ill at ease. Now she was here, she couldn’t carry off the situation with polite conversation. She wished she could do the joking banter which had come naturally to her colleagues at the college. “Were you there to visit Abigail’s grave?” She remembered what he’d said as they’d walked back to the village. “Was it because even though you’d never met her, Abigail Mantel was a real person to you?”
He seemed startled by the question. “No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”
“I’m sorry. None of my business.”
“I’d heard the lads were starting a search on Wood-house Farm and even after all this time it’s hard not to be curious. I suppose I miss the police in a way. The friendship, certainly. I keep in touch with some of the lads but it’s not the same.”
It seemed sad to her, the thought of him watching his former colleagues working two fields away.
“Did you ever meet Abigail while she was alive?” She didn’t know where the question had come from, regretted it as soon as it was spoken.
He looked up sharply from the coffee he was cupping in his hands. “No. Of course not. How could I?”
“I’m sorry. It’s brought it all back. Christopher dying.”
“I did meet him! Dan said. “That afternoon you found the girl’s body, I was talking to him in the other room, while my boss was in the kitchen with you and your mother.”
“If he’d seen the murderer he’d have said, wouldn’t he?”
“He answered all my questions. I didn’t have the impression he was keeping anything back. Did he ever say anything to you?”
“No.” She set down her mug. It was still almost full. “I should go. Taking up your time like this.”
“There’s no hurry,” he said. “It’s a lonely business this. Tell you the truth I’m glad of the company.”
“You should find yourself a woman.” She spoke lightly and was quite proud of the jokey tone. It would make him realize she had no designs on him.
“Maybe I’ve already found one. But things aren’t working out quite how I’d hoped.” He stared at her and a ridiculous thought came into her head. He wants me to ask what he means. Is he talking about me?
“Look,” she said. “I must go now. James will be wondering where I am. I don’t want him worried.”
“Come back,” he said. “Whenever you want to talk.”
She didn’t know what to make of that and left without answering. Outside she stood for a moment, trying to recover her composure, before going home. On the other side of the road, the bulky figure of Vera Stanhope appeared in the bakery door. She crooked her finger and beckoned for Emma to join her. Like the witch, Emma thought, out of Hansel and Gretel, tempting her into the gingerbread house. And like the children, she felt compelled to obey.
“What have you been up to?” Vera asked.
“I went for a walk. Bumped into Dan. He invited me in for coffee.”
“Did he now.” There was a pause, loaded with a significance Emma couldn’t guess at. Then Vera added lightly, “At your age you should know better than to go off with strange men.”
“Dan Greenwood’s not strange.”
There was another pause. “Maybe not. All the same, just take care.” The same instruction Joe Ashworth had given at their last meeting. The inspector turned away with a little wave and Emma was left with the impression that she’d been warned off.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Michael Long hadn’t seen Vera for days. Not to speak to. He’d glimpsed her across the street, and once he’d approached her, but she just gave a friendly wave and continued on her way as if she was too busy to talk. At least he thought that was the impression she’d wanted to give and he didn’t think it was fair. He deserved better than that. Not only was he Jeanie’s father, he was the man who’d pointed Vera in the right direction when it came to Keith Mantel. And he was an important witness, the last person to have seen Christopher Winter alive. Michael would never have put it that way, but he felt like a jilted lover. He wanted Vera to take some notice of him again. He stayed at home in case she called. Whenever there was a knock on the door, he hoped it might be her.
Then he thought, Sod it. He wasn’t going to hang around for any woman. He’d do his own research, collect his own information and he’d show her. He imagined presenting her with a fat file on Mantel, all organized and typed. It would provide her with everything she needed to show the man was a murderer. Because that was what Michael wanted to prove to her. Mantel was a monster who’d killed his own daughter and the young Winter lad. And Mantel was to blame for