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Listen to chapters 31-36 read by Jack Holden, or scroll down to read the text.
Chapter Thirty-One
JEN SPENT THE AFTERNOON in a police station in Birkenhead, bringing colleagues up to speed. They gave her a desk in the open-plan office and she felt strangely at home. It was the accents and the humour. She even recognized some of the names they were discussing. Men she’d arrested as lads now had kids of their own but were still thieving. Or dealing drugs. She’d been to school with a couple of lasses who’d just been done for large-scale shoplifting. Poor cows, she thought. She’d admired them then. They’d been super cool.
‘Has Jeremy Rosco come onto your radar at all?’ There was no record, but these officers knew the patch. Nobody had come across him, though. The younger ones hadn’t even heard of him.
She waited for and received confirmation that Imogen Holt had been working in Morocco and that she’d been on the same flight home as the rest of the crew, then she spoke to the producer who’d organized the audition that the actress had attended. It had taken place the week before Rosco’s death. Imogen could still have driven to Devon. There was a possibility that she was Alan Ford’s mysterious woman. It seemed she had no alibi for the relevant date.
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Jen called in a favour from an old mate and dropped off Rosco’s computer with the digital team. She could have gone back to the hotel then, arranged to meet up with friends in Liverpool, but instead she stayed in the police station and started to read the envelope of fan mail. She loved the buzz here. The noise of policing. The view of the river and her city on the other bank.
She almost missed it because the letter was one of the less graphic efforts. There was a declaration of admiration, of love, but no promise of sexual favours. Then Jen came across others signed by the same name.They seemed to have arrived over two time periods, with a gap of several years in between. The first few appeared to have been written by a gushing teenager, decorated with painted hearts. In the later bunch, the writer bared her soul: I’m going through a tough time. Please can we meet? I think you might understand and be able to help. A description of an unhappy relationship. They were beautifully handwritten.There was nothing recent and no indication that any had been answered. No threats of violence. Perhaps the writing itself had been cathartic. Each letter was signed by both a first and a family name. Mary Ford.
Jen was on her feet, just about to head to the hotel, where it would be quieter, to catch up with the team when Ross phoned.
‘There’s been another body.’
‘Who?’
‘Bartholomew Lawson. Nelly Wren’s husband. Commodore of the yacht club. The boss found him on a beach close to where that boat with Rosco’s body was anchored.’
‘I’ll get a couple of hours’ kip and then I’ll be on my way.’ Mary Ford’s love letters went out of her head then, until the call was over.
Chapter Thirty-Two
MATTHEW AND ROSS WERE back again in the snug in the Maiden’s Prayer. The waves in the bay were blown into small white peaks like meringue. Matthew supposed that if you lived in a place like this, you’d always notice the weather. In Greystone, the sea was the first thing he looked at when he woke up. At the house by the estuary, the bedroom only had a view of the river.
Jonathan had driven home the night before, saying that he had a Woodyard Trust meeting to prepare for, but probably not wanting to get in the way. Or perhaps he still needed time to sort out the personal matter that had been haunting him. He’d seemed distracted. Gwen Gregory was bustling in and out with coffee and toast.
‘Lawson’s death is all over the news,’ she said. ‘You’ll be looking into that too, I dare say.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Nah, we didn’t move in the same circles. He was sent away to boarding school, and when he was back, he didn’t mix with the likes of us.’
‘You must have known of him, though. Your brother gave him a lift home from the sailing club most nights.’
‘Well, yes. I knew of him. He was a magistrate, wasn’t he? Always on the local radio, spouting about law and order.’
‘Davy must have known him better?’
She sniffed. ‘I suppose, though from what I hear, the man was so pissed most nights, there was hardly much of a conversation. I can’t see how someone like that had the nerve to pass judgement on other people.’
She walked away. Matthew looked through the hatch to the bar. Carter was chatting to an elderly couple who’d come in for coffee.
‘I’ve just heard a forecast. The wind’s getting up again and there are already trees down further up the coast.’ Matthew thought of all the trees surrounding Eleanor’s home and wondered how many of them would still be standing the following day.
Carter disappeared back into his personal domain. At last, he and May could talk with no danger of being overheard.
‘They’ve found Lawson’s car,’ May said. ‘It was outside the sailing club. I’ll go later and speak to the members.’
‘I think I should talk to Davy Gregory.’ Matthew believed Davy would have been closer to Lawson than Gwen had implied. He’d acted as a kind of nursemaid to the man, and would surely know his secrets. Besides, if Lawson had been at the sailing club the night before, wouldn’t Davy have expected to pick him up later?
‘What do you want from me?’
‘By the time I get back from Gregory’s place, Jen should be here. She’s going to drop the kids at home and then come on to Greystone. She reckons she’ll be able to stay over. The kids can look after themselves because it’s the weekend and she doesn’t have to see them off to school. Can you do a bit more digging on Imogen Holt? She couldn’t have killed Lawson, but Jen says she meets the description of the woman Alan Ford saw in the street. And she suspected he’d run away to meet another woman.’
‘Bit of a stretch, isn’t it? No way she’d be able to get him in a boat and out to Scully Bay if she wasn’t local.’
‘She could be a witness, though. If she’d come for a quick visit before going away to work in Morocco. To surprise him perhaps. Or to check up on him. She might have seen something.’
‘Nah!’ Ross was dismissive. ‘That’s surely too much of a coincidence. And why wouldn’t she have told Jen if that was how it happened?’
‘Because she didn’t want to be involved in a murder investigation? She’s just about to start a new acting role.You could see that the last thing she’d need would be adverse publicity. Very few people seem to have known that she and Rosco were an item.’
May shook his head. ‘I just don’t see it.’
+++
Matthew drove along the wet roads towards the Gregory house. There was a brief startling flash of sunlight, so the tarmac shone gold, and then the clouds blew in again. When he got to the farmhouse, he saw that each of the couple’s cars were there. Matilda opened the door to him. She was dressed in jeans and a long black sweater, her blonde hair loose about her shoulders.
‘Inspector.’ Her voice was neutral. Not hostile, but hardly welcoming.
‘There’s been another killing,’ Venn said. ‘I expect you’ve heard.’
‘No,’ she said. He couldn’t tell if she were shocked or not. ‘We were out all morning and I’ve been adding up the cash we raised for Artie’s fund at the fayre, so I can announce it at school on Monday. I haven’t been listening to the news.’
‘And Davy?’
‘I think he’s been watching an old film.’ A little smile. ‘And probably snoozing. He works late with the taxis. He quite often has a daytime nap.’
‘Was he late home yesterday evening?’
‘He was. I’m not sure what time he got in, though. I was fast asleep when he came back.’ She stood aside to let Matthew in. ‘When we were first married, I would wait up for him, but I’m an early morning person. I soon realized I’d have to give up on the late-night vigils.’ Now she asked the question that he’d have thought she would have put to him earlier. ‘Who has died?’
‘Bartholomew Lawson,’ Matthew said. ‘One of Davy’s regular customers.’
‘Oh!’ At last, she seemed almost dismayed. ‘Davy will be upset. Barty had his problems, of course, but Davy did rather like him.’
She walked through into the living room, with its view down the valley towards Scully Bay. Gregory was stretched out on the sofa. In the corner daytime television burbled. Gregory was gently snoring. Matilda touched him on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got a visitor, love.’
He woke and smiled at her, stretched and sat upright, then saw Venn. ‘What are you doing here at the weekend?’ Trying to keep his voice pleasant, but not quite managing it.
‘The inspector’s come with some bad news.’ She moved away towards the door. ‘He wanted to tell you himself. I’ll leave you both to it and get back to my marking.’
‘I’d rather speak to you both,’ Matthew said. ‘If you could give me a few moments.’
‘Of course.’ She sounded reluctant, though. She took a seat next to her husband on the sofa.
‘What’s all this about?’
‘It’s about one of your regular customers. Bartholomew Lawson.’
‘Ah,’ Gregory said. ‘Poor chap. His liver finally packed up, has it? It was only a matter of time.’
‘No.’ Again, Matthew looked down the valley. He wondered how long it would take to walk to the coastal path. Perhaps he’d walk it when he’d finished here. Perhaps. Or he might send one of the local officers to give it a go. ‘Mr Lawson’s death is unexplained. Suspicious even. His body was found at the bottom of the cliffs on the edge of Scully Bay.’
There was a moment of complete silence, before Matthew continued speaking.
‘I understand that Mr Lawson was a regular customer. You’d pick him up most nights from the sailing club in Morrisham and take him home.’
‘Not every night,’ Davy said. ‘Sometimes I had another job, something that paid better.’
‘How did Mr Lawson get home if you couldn’t collect him?’
Davy shrugged. ‘I suppose one of his friends gave him a lift. Or one of the staff took him. I know they took his keys off him as soon as he got there. He was a magistrate. It wouldn’t look good for him or the club if he was done for drunk driving.’
‘And the night before last? Did you pick him up then?’
Davy shook his head. He was wide awake now and quite sharp. ‘I probably would have been able to. I had another job later, but he was usually ready to go before eleven. Or the staff wanted him gone before he started making a scene. But nobody phoned me. That was the deal. Someone would book me if Barty was there. But he wasn’t there every night and I wasn’t going to save the slot unless I knew for definite that he’d need taking back.’
‘I understand.’ Matthew thought the man was probably telling the truth, about this at least. He was intelligent enough to know that they’d check with the sailing club staff. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t been waiting for Bartholomew when he’d arrived at the club. Lawson’s car had been there after all, and somebody with a vehicle had brought him to Scully Bay and pushed or thrown him over the cliff. ‘When was the last time you did see him?’
‘Wednesday night, the night after the big storm. Barty was in the club on Wednesday night and I picked him up as I usually did and I took him home.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Good,’ Gregory said. ‘Not quite as drunk as he usually was. Quite chatty. He even gave me a tip when he dropped me off. The rides were usually on the club account, and that didn’t happen very often.’
Venn thought for a moment and then he turned his attention to Matilda. ‘You told me that your father worked for Mr Lawson’s father. Did you know the family?’
She shook her head. ‘My father was an accountant. He worked in the office. The Lawsons had a portfolio of properties and Dad made sure the rents were paid and accounts were in order. He left, though, while I was still a young child, and set up in business on his own. I don’t remember meeting the Lawsons at all.’
‘Not even at the sailing club?’
‘No.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m terrified of the water. I can’t even swim. My parents were into it, and had their own boat, but no, it wasn’t for me and I never joined the club.’
‘You told me that your parents knew Jeremy Rosco when he was a teenager.’
‘Yes, but that was before I was old enough to remember.’ She paused. ‘They had great faith and they believed they were doing the Lord’s work in their care for Jeremy. I don’t think he responded as they might have hoped.’ She frowned. ‘Later, when I asked about him, they told me that he’d let them down. They were never specific about what he’d done. I suspect that he stole from them. They hoped he might come back to them when he was ready, but he never did.’
‘I wonder if I might speak to your parents.’
She seemed reluctant but at last she answered. ‘I suppose so. They’re retired now and living in Barnstaple.’ She jotted down their contact details on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
‘Is there a footpath from here down to the coastal path?’
‘What are you thinking?’ Davy was defensive. ‘I told you, I didn’t see Barty that night, and even if I had, I wouldn’t bring him back here and set him walking out towards the shore.’
Matilda put a warning hand on her husband’s knee.
‘I’m just exploring possibilities,’ Venn said. ‘Trying to get my head round the geography of the place. Don’t worry. I’ve got an OS map in the car. I can check with that.’
‘There’s a footpath leading from the lane at the end of our drive to the coast. It was a real nuisance in the summer when we were farming the place, because there’s no parking, and tourists would block the gate into the field there. They still do, but it’s not my problem these days.’
‘Thanks,’ Matthew said. ‘That’s very helpful.’
‘If you see Barty’s wife,’ Matilda said, ‘please pass on our condolences.’
‘Do you know her?’ Matthew was surprised. He didn’t think they’d move in the same circles. Besides anything else, there was the religious divide. Eleanor had told him that hers was a Catholic family.
‘Not really.’ It was Davy who answered. ‘I’d meet her sometimes when the man was too drunk to let himself into the house. She always seemed a nice woman.’
Matthew realized that there might well have been a connection between Eleanor and this family. Perhaps not with Matilda, but with Davy at least. He’d claimed to be big mates with Rosco when they were at school and Eleanor had been Jem’s girlfriend then for a while at least.
‘You never met her when she was going out with Jeremy Rosco? When you were all kids?’
Davy shook his head. ‘Jeremy was always talking about her. He claimed she was the love of his life. But he never really introduced us. He thought we were a bit rough and ready for his lovely Nell, that we’d frighten her off.’
‘Wasn’t he a bit rough and ready himself?’ That was the myth at least. Rosco was the scally falling for the princess in the big house.
‘He could always put on a show, though, could Jem.’ Davy paused for a moment and seemed lost in thought. ‘I did see her with him once or twice, at a party, I think, and when they were in the marina at Morrisham about to go sailing, but I never really knew her.’ There was another silence. ‘And really, when they were together, they only had eyes for each other. I might as well not have been there.’
+++
Outside, Matthew looked again down the valley. He took his car to the end of the Gregorys’ drive and pulled onto the verge. There was a wooden signpost pointing to the footpath. Everything seemed very sharp and very close to him, an indication perhaps that the weather was about to break again. He thought he’d come to regret this, but he climbed the stile and set off. He set the stopwatch on his phone. The footpath crossed two fields of sheep, separated by a fence and another stile, the grass wet, the path ill-defined, not well used. The light was already starting to fade, but there was no sign that a body had been dragged here. No trail of flattened grass. But then his footprints disappeared almost as soon as he’d made them, the sheep-cropped sward too short to leave a mark. Only a small kissing gate in the opposite corner showed where the path should end. Through that, there was a footbridge over a stream, very fast flowing after the earlier downpour. Beyond the bridge, the path led sharply downhill and through a patch of woodland. And then he’d already arrived at the lane. He could see cars still parked on the verge, Jimmy Rainston back on duty, looking bored, keeping drivers out of the layby.
Venn stood and watched. Rainston was talking into his phone and didn’t notice him. Anyone could have crossed the lane here and made their way down by the steep and hidden path to the beach. He checked his watch. The walk had taken fifteen minutes and Venn hadn’t been moving quickly. He turned and made his way back to his car, his mind playing out various scenarios. None of them quite fitted this particular landscape, these particular facts.
In the car, he checked his phone. Jen Rafferty had left a message. She was home, and was heading out to Greystone now.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ROSS MAY HAD FOUND nothing more useful on Imogen Holt. There was a local news report in the Liverpool Echo about her being axed from the soap. A review of a play she’d starred in. He moved on to check the CCTV footage sent through by Vicki from Barnstaple, looking for Lawson’s car and Gregory’s taxi on the night of the commodore’s disappearance. He still hadn’t got any results. Now he was bored of staring at a screen and was ready to do some proper policing. He felt an itch of resentment: he could have been doing this routine stuff in Barnstaple, and gone home at the end of it for a night with Mel. And why did they have to wait for Rafferty anyway?
Venn arrived back from his visit to the Gregory house. He stuck his head round the door of the snug.
‘See if you can rustle up some coffee, can you, Ross? Thanks. I won’t be long.’
Then he went again, apparently going up to his room, perhaps for a quick shower or to call his husband on the phone. Ross’s resentment grew. He wasn’t some sort of tea boy. When Venn returned Jen was already coming through the door, so Ross didn’t have the chance to talk to him alone, to share his theories and perhaps influence the progress of the investigation without her interference. He’d been getting on better with Jen and the boss lately, but there were still times when he felt like the new boy.
‘So, tell us about Rosco’s new partner.’ Venn directed the question at his sergeant. ‘Let’s catch up with that before we move on to Lawson’s death.’
‘Imogen Holt.’ Jen looked tired. She grabbed the coffee mug with both hands, like an addict desperate for the caffeine. No stamina, Ross thought.
More From Ann Cleeves
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Short Story: ‘The Girls on the Shore’
Companion piece to ‘The Raging Storm’ available free online
A Chat With the Author
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