The young man takes my name and address. “We’ll be in touch,” he says, and spits on the ground. Not a word of apology for the injuries I’ve suffered or the damage he’s done to my equipment.
There’s a lot of noise as the cars perform complicated turning manoeuvres on the narrow track. Then they roar off towards the main road.
Peace at last.
I tentatively swing my arm. There’s some pain, but it’s not, after all, a broken clavicle. I should be able to handle the bike. I pack up the camera and tripod. If the Canon is ruined it will be a great loss. But in some ways the greater loss is my failure to get the picture I crave. These opportunities don’t occur very often. I have other cameras but who knows when there will be another evening like this?
Now the clouds have lost all definition and interest. The lake is a dark pool, and in the sky there’s just a prosaic red glow. I watch, filled with regret, until the sun goes down.
Night falls.
The golden hour is over.
THE HABIT OF SILENCE by Ann Cleeves
NEWCASTLE IN NOVEMBER, Joe Ashworth thought, is probably the greyest city in the world. Then running up the steps from the Westgate Road he realized that he’d been to this place before. His seven-year-old daughter had violin lessons at school and he’d brought her here for her grade one exam. They’d both been intimidated by the grandeur of the building and the girl’s hand had shaken during the scales. Listening at the heavy door of the practice room, he’d heard the wobble.
Today there was rain and a gusty wind outside and the sign Lit and Phil Library open to the public had blown flat on to the pavement. Taped to the inside door, a small handwritten note said that the library would be closed until further notice. Mixed messages. The exams took place on the ground floor but Joe climbed the stone staircase and felt the same sense of exclusion as when he’d waited below, clutching his daughter’s small violin case, making some feeble joke in the hope that she’d relax. Places like this weren’t meant for a lad from Ashington, whose family had worked down the pit. When there were still pits.
At the turn of the stairs there was an oil painting on the wall. Some worthy Victorian with a stern face and white whiskers. Around the corner a noticeboard promoting future events: book launches, lectures, poetry readings. And on the landing, looking down at him, a tall man dressed in black, black jeans and a black denim shirt. He wore a day’s stubble but he still managed to look sophisticated.
“You must be the detective,” the man said. “They sent me to look out for you. And to turn away members and other visitors. My name’s Charles. I found the body.”
It was a southern voice, mellow and musical. Joe Ashworth took an instant dislike to the man, who lounged over the dark wood banister as if he owned the place.
“Work here, do you?”
It was a simple question but the man seemed to ponder it. “I’m not a member of staff,” he said. “But, yes, I work here. Every day, actually.”
“You’re a volunteer?” Joe was in no mood for games.
“Oh, no.” The man gave a lazy smile. “I’m a poet. Sebastian Charles.” He paused as if he expected Ashworth to recognize the name. Ashworth continued up the stairs so he stood on the landing too. But still the man was so tall that he had to crick his neck to look up at him.
“And I’m Detective Sergeant Ashworth,” he said. “Please don’t leave the building, Mr Charles. I’ll need to talk to you later.” He moved on into the library. The poet turned away from him and stared out of a long window into the street. Already the lamps had been switched on and their gleam reflected on the wet pavements.
Joe’s first impression, walking through the security barrier, was of space. There was a high ceiling and within that a glass dome. Around the room a balcony. And everywhere books, from floor to ceiling, with little step-ladders to reach the higher shelves. He stared. He hadn’t realized that such a place could exist just over the room where small children scratched out tunes for long-suffering examiners. A young library assistant with pink hair sat behind a counter. Her eyes were as pink as her hair and she snuffled into a paper handkerchief.
“Can I help you?”
The girl hadn’t moved her lips and the words came from a small office, through an open door. Inside sat a middle-aged woman half hidden by a pile of files on her desk. She looked fraught and tense. He supposed she’d become a librarian because she’d wanted a quiet life. Now she’d been landed with a body, the chaos of the crime-scene investigation, and her ordered life had been disrupted. He introduced himself again and went into the office.
“I suppose,” she said, “you want to go downstairs to look at poor Gilbert.”
“Not yet.” As his boss Vera Stanhope always said, the corpse wasn’t going anywhere. “I understand you’ve locked the door?”
“To the Silence Room? Oh, yes.” She gave a smile that made her seem younger and more attractive. “I suppose we all watch CSI these days. We know what we should do.” She gestured him to sit in a chair nearby. On her desk, behind the files, stood a photo of two young girls, presumably her daughters. There was no indication of a husband.
“Perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened this morning.” Joe took his seat.
The librarian was about to speak when there were heavy footsteps outside and a wheezing sound that could have been an out-of-breath hippo. Vera Stanhope appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light. She carried a canvas shopping bag over one shoulder.
“Starting without me, Joe Ashworth?” She seemed not to expect an answer and gave the librarian a little wave. “Are you all right, Cath?”
Joe thought Vera’s capacity to surprise him was without limit. This place made him feel ignorant. All those books by writers he didn’t know, pictures by artists whose names meant nothing to him. What could Vera Stanhope understand of culture and poetry? She lived in a mucky house in the hills, had few friends, and he couldn’t ever remember seeing her read a book. Yet here she was, greeting the librarian by her first name, wandering down to the other end of the library to pour herself coffee from a flask set there for readers’ use, then moving three books from the only other chair in the office so she could sit down.
Vera grinned at him. “I’m a member of the Lit and Phil, pet. The Literary and Philosophical Society Library. Have been for years. My father brought me here to lectures when I was kid and I liked the place. And the fact that you don’t get fined for overdue books. Don’t get here as often as I’d like though.” She wafted the coffee mug under his nose. “Sorry, I should have offered you some.” She turned back to Cath. “I saw Sebastian outside. You said on the phone that he found the body.”
The librarian nodded. “He’s taken to working in the Silence Room every afternoon. We’re delighted, of course. It’s good publicity for us. I’m sure we’ve attracted members since he won the T. S. Eliot.”
Vera nudged Joe in the ribs. “The Eliot’s a prize for poetry, Sergeant. In case you’ve never heard of it.”
Joe didn’t reply. It wasn’t just the smell of old books that was getting up his nose.
Cath frowned. “You know how Sebastian hates the press,” she said. “I do hope he won’t make a scene.”
“Who else was around?” Joe was determined to move the investigation on. He wanted to be out of this place and into the grey Newcastle afternoon as soon as possible.