‘The Raging Storm’ Chapters 31-36

She drank deeply, then continued.

‘As you know, Imogen’s an actress. Not a major celebrity, but doing okay. Usually in work. A bit of telly but mostly live theatre. She owns a nice flat in a smart part of the Wirral. Rosco moved in with her a few years ago. Nobody locally seems to have been aware that he was living there, and that’s a bit odd considering his celebrity. I checked with the local sailing club and he wasn’t a member. She fell for his charm and I think she’s still besotted even if the gloss is wearing a bit thin. When he disappeared this time, without giving her any real explanation, she suspected he was having an affair.’

‘Did she strike you as the jealous type?’

‘She’s certainly impulsive,’ Jen said. ‘She thought I was breaking into her house and took me on. But really? I can’t imagine her stabbing Rosco, planning the whole thing with the boat.’

‘But she could have tracked him down?’ Ross said. ‘She still could be the mysterious woman at the bottom of Quarry Bank?’

‘Maybe. But it’s a long way to come to check up on her bloke.’

‘Did she give any reason for Rosco keeping such a low profile?’ Venn asked.

Jen shrugged. ‘He told Imogen he just didn’t need the hassle. People bothering him to be patrons of their charities, open school fetes, be mentors for sporty youngsters from deprived backgrounds. That was why he kept the flat in Morrisham as his official address and had his mail forwarded to Imogen.’

‘I had the impression of someone who quite liked being in the public eye, though.’ Venn leaned back in his chair and yawned. Ross thought he had as little stamina as the sergeant. ‘I wonder if there was some other reason why he might want to avoid the public’s gaze. Can we have another dig into his past, Jen? He might not have a record, but let’s see if there were any complaints made against him. Official or unofficial. It’s almost as if he were trying to hide.’

She nodded. ‘I did come across something interesting. Rosco had an office in Imogen’s flat. I found these there.’

She set an envelope on the table in front of them. ‘He kept all his fan mail. He obviously needed an ego boost from time to time. Check these out.’

She spread out a fan of handwritten letters. Ross looked at the name at the bottom before reading them. ‘Mary Ford. I wouldn’t have had her down as a fan girl.’

Venn read them carefully. Time passed slowly.

Ross found himself losing focus, distracted. It had been like that at school. He’d keep his attention on what was being said for a short time, but then it would slide away, despite his best efforts. When Venn looked up, Ross couldn’t help jumping in, sharing the ideas that had been rattling round his head, even though they had nothing to do with Mary Ford or Imogen Holt.

‘I was wondering if there was anything significant about Scully Bay. I mean, there must have been easier places to dispose of a body. All that pantomime with getting the tender there. I know we thought it was about Rosco having been a sailor, but then when Lawson ended up there too …. It can’t just be random, can it?’

‘What sort of significance were you thinking of?’ Venn leaned forward across the varnished table. ‘I asked Eleanor about the bay. She said they’d all grown up with myths about the place, stories about smuggling and wrecking. She implied it was romantic nonsense dreamed up for the tourists.You’re thinking there might have been something more recent?’

‘Yes,’ Ross said. ‘These killings feel almost like revenge. Someone sending a message maybe. I wonder if there was a case of negligence that was put down as an accident. Some other tragedy.’

He could tell now that Venn was listening intently. The boss’s attention never wandered, even when he was tired. ‘I went to see Sammy Barton, to ask if any lives had been lost near the headland. The Moon Crest tender was used after all, and he’d know about any fatalities as he manages the lifeboat crew. He wasn’t there – he was at a Brethren meeting apparently – and I spoke to his wife.’

‘What did she say?’

‘The same as Eleanor. That it was all childish adventure stories. But I’m not sure. I had the feeling she might have been hiding something.’

‘It might be worth asking Mary Ford,’ Venn said. ‘She’s an incomer and might not feel the same need to protect local reputations. Why don’t we talk to her in the morning? And at the same time, we can ask about these letters.’

Ross was left with the sense, not exactly that he’d been vindicated, but at least that the boss had taken him seriously.

+++

The sea was still wild from the wind of the night before. It was dark by the time Ross reached the sailing club, but the tide was high and he could hear the breakers on the shore. He parked at the back and rang the bell. A woman’s voice answered and he was let in. The bar was much as it had been on his last visit. There was the same woman serving drinks; the person who’d taken Barty’s keys from him to stop him driving home.

‘You’ll be here about the commodore. We’re all in shock.’ And there was a quietness about the place. It was less raucous than it had been before. The woman, though, seemed more curious than upset. ‘What happened exactly then? Nobody seems to know.’

‘Mr Lawson’s body was found at the bottom of cliffs close to Scully Bay. We’re treating it as an unexplained death.’ Which, Ross thought, was what she knew already, and he wasn’t about to pass on any other gruesome details. ‘Was he here the night before his body was found?’

‘No.’ She started polishing glasses. ‘We were expecting him. Usually, he’s regular as clockwork.’

‘His car was parked outside.’

‘Well, I was on duty all night and he didn’t show up.’

‘You didn’t check with anyone? To find out why he wasn’t here?’

She shook her head. ‘Why would I? He was an adult! Only needed looking after when he’d had a few too many whiskies. Besides, he didn’t like anyone interfering in his personal affairs.’

‘Oh?’ Ross managed to appear interested, but not too interested.

The woman lowered her voice into a stage whisper. ‘Only last week he got into a row with one of the newer members. It all got a bit unpleasant. I’m not sure how it all started, but it ended with Mr Lawson standing up and yelling that “the whole bloody lot of you should mind your own business.”’

‘Who was Mr Lawson arguing with?’ Ross asked. ‘Is he here today?’

Now the barmaid looked as if she was already regretting the gossip. Her voice dropped even lower. ‘It’s Brian Moore,’ she said. ‘Over there by the window with Helen, his wife. He used to own that car showroom on the edge of the town, and a couple more in the county. He sold them about three years ago. Everyone says he’s minted. He’s got a fancy yacht in the marina.’

Ross didn’t look across the room, but continued talking. ‘I’ll need a list of all your members. I can talk to the people who are here now, but, as I said, Mr Lawson left his car outside this building and somebody must have noticed him. That was probably the last time he was seen alive.’

He took his time making his way to Brian Moore and his wife, stopping on his way at all the tables, taking names and contact addresses, asking who had been in the club the night of Lawson’s disappearance. Nobody said that they’d seen Lawson or his car.

‘Sorry, I didn’t notice.’

‘It gets dark so early these days, doesn’t it? Really, we should get some better lighting.

‘The commodore? No, we were all saying how strange it was that he wasn’t here that night.’

Ross moved slowly across the room, glancing up occasionally to check that the Moores were making no move to leave. They had the best view in the house, and could look down at the marina and the shore beyond. Again, Ross was distracted for a moment, his attention pulled to the white hulls below, moored along the pontoons, caught in bright security lights. While the car park at the back of the clubhouse might not be lit, from here it was possible to see every detail.

‘You’re asking about Lawson?’ Moore had a Midlands accent. ‘I’m sure one of them has told you we had a row last week. Almost came to blows. But that was two guys, old enough to know better, behaving like teenage kids. It soon blew over.’ He was drinking beer and paused long enough to take a sip. ‘The commodore had a temper, though. He completely lost it, turned in a moment. And that night he hadn’t even had much to drink.’

‘What triggered the argument?’

‘It was the night after Jem Rosco died. I went over to the commodore and suggested we should have some sort of memorial here in the club. I’d fund it if cash was short. He’d been here as a junior, hadn’t he? It was where he started his sailing career. I couldn’t understand why we hadn’t made him an honorary member, invited him to speak at one of the dinners. A celebrity like him and we’d draw a crowd.’

‘Mr Lawson hadn’t liked the suggestion?’

‘That’s putting it mildly, isn’t it, bab?’

Helen Moore nodded. She was middle-aged, comfortable, still good-looking, and she wore a lot of gold – bangles, earrings and a chunky necklace. She could carry off the look. ‘You’d think a bloke of that age would have a bit more self-control. The language! And he was frothing at the mouth. Literally.’

‘What exactly did Mr Lawson say?’

‘That Jeremy Rosco had been a disgrace to the town and the county. That he had behaved despicably throughout his life. And if he’d ever been made a member of the club, it would have been over Lawson’s dead body.’ Helen looked over the table at Ross. Her face was plump, almost without lines. ‘He picked up Bri’s empty beer glass. I thought he was going to smash it on the table and stick him one. But one of the other members came over and took it off him.’

‘It was a shame,’ Brian said. ‘Embarrassing when a famous man had just died. It did Lawson no favours.There was already talk in the club that someone should stand against him as commodore.’

‘Would you have put yourself forward?’

‘No way! Too much like hard work. That’s why I sold up and retired early: so that I wouldn’t have any stress in my life. Doctor’s orders after a heart attack. I came to sailing later than most. Never thought it would be for someone like me, to be honest. I’ve still got that working-class chip on my shoulder. But I love it! Just the sailing, mind you. Not all the bollocks that goes with it.’

‘Did you see Mr Lawson the night before last? His car was parked here, but nobody seems to have noticed him arriving.’

He shook his head. ‘We weren’t here. It was our wedding anniversary. Thirty years.We had a night away in our favourite hotel in Cornwall. I can give you the name. You can check.’

Ross wrote down the details, but he thought the couple would have been there. They were too relaxed, too confident and easy in each other’s company, to have made up a story like that. He’d check, of course, and he’d make a note of the hotel’s name. Maybe he’d take Mel there on a special occasion. Their next anniversary.

 

Chapter Thirty-Four

WHEN MARY FORD GOT back from the school run, the two male detectives were waiting on the doorstop. She’d been hoping to lose herself in her work and swore under her breath.

‘How can I help you?’ A pause. ‘If you want to talk to my father again, he’s gone home. His neighbour’s really understanding about feeding his animals, but he wanted to get back to them. He was quite certain that he’d seen that woman on the night Jem Rosco died.’

The older detective introduced himself, though she knew exactly who he was. In a place like Greystone, everyone was known.

‘We will want to talk to Mr Ford. We’d like him to look at a photo of a woman who might possibly be the person he saw that night. But this morning, we’d like to talk to you. If you can spare the time.’

‘Sure.’ She stepped aside. ‘My head’s not really in the right place for work today anyway. Artie was disturbed in the night. I thought he might be building up to a seizure. He hasn’t suffered like that yet, but it’s one of the symptoms that could happen as the disease progresses.’ She felt her voice tighten. Keeping the panic and the grief at bay. But aware, at the same time, that the sick child card was always worth playing.

‘I’m sorry.’ The words were pathetic, inadequate, but she thought that he meant them. She’d heard the rumours in the village, that he’d grown up in the Brethren but he’d lost his faith.

‘No, come on in. I’ll be glad of the distraction. You’ll have to excuse the mess, though.’

There was a mess. This wasn’t the false modesty of a house-proud mother. In her life there was more to deal with than a mucky home. There were toys scattered on the floor, and in the kitchen at the back of the room, a table with cereal bowls, a carton of milk, spills and crumbs. Mary piled the toys into a big wicker basket and gathered up stray children’s clothes from the chairs, so there was somewhere for them to sit.

‘We’ve found out where Jeremy Rosco was staying in the last few years.’

‘Oh?’ Once she would have pretended to be uninterested. Now, it wasn’t an act.

‘He was living with a woman on the Wirral. Of course, we had to search their flat. Routine. I’m sure you understand.’

She felt a flush spread from her neck and to her cheeks. She hadn’t thought that she could do embarrassment any more. It was such a petty emotion in comparison to her other feelings. But now she wanted to shrink away from the men, who were sitting on her sofa, smiling at the photo of her son on the mantelpiece.

‘We found some letters.’ There was no judgement in Venn’s voice.

‘I used to write to him.’ She looked up to them. ‘It began when I was a kid, then I started again when I was older. Lonely. He never replied. I thought perhaps he never received them. I sent them to his Morrisham address and he wasn’t often there.’

‘But you carried on writing anyway?’

‘I needed to tell someone what I was going through. My husband and I were having a crap time, and my mother was ill. My father had enough on his mind looking after her. Jem was, I suppose, the equivalent of a child’s imaginary friend.’

‘More than a friend surely. More like a lover?’

Mary could feel the flush deepening. Venn was right, of course. Her dreams had been erotic, exciting. ‘I met him a couple of times when I was still at school. He came to the sailing club. I was young, a bit wild. He said I reminded him of himself at that age. I was flattered. And I fancied him rotten. Became a bit obsessed by him when my marriage started falling apart. But I knew, deep down, that nothing would come of it. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel if he finally agreed to meet up with me.’

‘And then he turned up in Greystone.’

She nodded. ‘My fantasy made real.’

‘Did you go to the house he was renting?’

‘No!’

‘Really? After writing to him all that time? Asking him to meet you? And all you had to do was wander up the hill and knock at the door.’

‘I went to the Maiden’s,’ she said. ‘A few nights after he arrived. Dad came to babysit. The village was full of it. Jem Rosco blowing in, almost taking up residence at the bar.’

I dressed up for him. Not a frock, nothing like that. But nice underwear and my tightest jeans. My black boots. I used straighteners on my hair.

‘What happened?’ This time the young detective asked the question. Not quite smirking, but ready to mock. She thought her story would be all around the police station. The mother with two kids who lost her head over an old sailor.

‘Nothing happened.’ She was determined not to cry. ‘I went up to him, reminded him who I was. He was charming. But I could tell he couldn’t remember reading my letters. I suppose he got so many. “Oh yes,” he said at last. “You’re Alan Ford’s maid. I remember. A bit of a sailor.” That was all I was to him: a bit of a sailor.’

I slunk out of the pub and ran home, pretended to my father that I’d got the flu, wept into my pillow so he and the kids wouldn’t hear. But the next morning I was cured of my obsession with my imaginary lover.

‘You didn’t try to see him on his own?’

‘No. I came to my senses. Life isn’t a fairy story, is it? It’s about just getting through.’

‘Sometimes,’ Venn said. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with wanting more.’

That last sentence surprised her. He didn’t seem like a man who would demand very much.

‘Will you get rid of the letters?’ she said. ‘Burn them.’

‘Once the case is over,’ Venn said, ‘they’re yours to do what you like with.’

She thought she’d put them in a cotton shopping bag weighed down by a very large rock and drop them into the sea when the lifeboat was next out on exercise.

‘Had you heard there’s been another unexplained death?’

‘Yes. Bartholomew Lawson, wasn’t it?’ It had been all over the news the night before.

‘You knew him?’

‘I’d met him a few times. He was commodore of the yacht club. They did occasional fundraisers for the lifeboat. We had to bail out his members a couple of times.’

‘When they got into difficulty?’

‘They aren’t all the great sailors they think themselves to be. They like the idea of the sea, but don’t always show it the respect it deserves.’

‘Have there been more incidents at Scully Bay?’ Venn asked. ‘It seems an odd coincidence. Two men’s bodies found dead there. Two sailors of the same generation.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Honestly? Nor do I. We wondered if there’d been some sort of tragedy there. Other lives lost. If these men’s bodies had been placed there as a kind of homage to the past.’

Mary thought about that, and remembered the crew mumbling behind her as she took them into the cove. ‘There are lots of superstitions about the place. Some of the older crew don’t like going there on exercise. When we enter the bay, they mutter to themselves.’

‘Mutter?’

She didn’t explain directly. ‘All sorts of things are considered bad luck at sea. Having a woman on board. Not wearing the same boots every time you’re out. Whistling. Honestly, it’s not unusual, especially in the fishing community, and most of our men have been fishermen.’

‘But they put up with you as helm?’

‘They haven’t got a choice! It’s hard to get regular volunteers. And most of them are used to it now.’ For the first time since the men had arrived, she smiled. ‘I think they see me as an honorary man.’

‘So, the mutter is a kind of incantation to ward off evil spirits?’

‘I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s not only sailors, is it? Sportsmen and women have the same need for ritual. Sometimes going out on a shout is literally a matter of life and death. I don’t believe any of it, and I’m not sure the crew do either, but I can understand why it happens. It’s a kind of insurance policy.’ She wondered if that was why people in the Brethren, like Matilda Gregory, could believe in their God, in the rapture, and that only they would be saved. Just in case it turned out to be true.

‘What do the crew say to ward off ill luck?’

‘Skulls and bones and the white, white light.’ She grinned. ‘It’s supposed to be a reference to the wreckers who lured sailors to the beach with torches, mimicking the harbour light at Greystone, which guided boats into the jetty. The sailors would drown and the locals would loot the ships, of course.’ Another grin. ‘Personally, I think the words were made up in the Maiden’s Prayer by some old guys having a laugh a generation ago.’

‘So, local people would know about the path down to the cove from the coastal path?’

‘Sure. When I was growing up round here, it was a secret hangout for young teenagers wanting to drink, or have the occasional spliff. A way of avoiding our parents and the tourists, even in high summer. We didn’t care at all about the skulls and the bones, and the white, white light.’

‘But you can’t think of anything more recent that would have triggered that old fear about the place?’ Venn thought about the events of the previous summer, when a boy had fallen to his death from a cliff nearer to the home that he shared with Jonathan. ‘A suicide perhaps? Accidental drowning if someone got caught in the tide?’

‘There might have been a suicide,’ Mary said. ‘I think I remember hearing about it, when I was a young kid. Some chap from Morrisham whose business went tits up threw himself over the cliff. But Dad would be able to tell you more about that.’

Venn thought they’d be able to check the details, but it seemed unlikely that a tragedy that had happened decades before would link together the Rosco and Lawson murders.

Ross May had been quiet throughout the discussion, but just as Venn was about to leave, he asked a question of his own.

‘What did people make of Barty Lawson? Other Greystone locals, I mean. The lifeboat crew? People like Sammy Barton?’

‘They despised him, I think. He was a bit of a laughing stock, all bluster and fine words. A couple of the youngsters had been before him in the court. A brawl outside a bar in Morrisham that got out of hand. Local feeling was that Lawson had been heavy-handed with the sentence. Sammy couldn’t stand him, but that was down to Barty’s wife’s family, and the quarry closing. Sammy must have seen it coming but he’d been foreman there. Important. Good wages and a reputation within the village.’

 The quarry closure wasn’t Eleanor Lawson’s fault, though,’ Ross said. ‘Hadn’t the family sold out years before to a bigger business?’

‘Yeah, but that didn’t stop Sammy being resentful.You don’t allow the truth to get in the way when you need someone to blame!’

 

Chapter Thirty-Five

THE KIDS HAD MOANED all the way back from Hoylake, and Jen had struggled to sleep in the coffin-like room at the back of the pub. She was sure Ross had been given something slightly more luxurious and resentment had simmered until she’d finally dropped off.

Apparently, Robbie had told Ella and Ben about the baby after he’d taken them out for brunch. Some burger joint that had made Ella moan again because there was nothing veggie for her to eat. I haven’t eaten meat since I was, like, twelve. You’d think he’d remember. Make a bit of an effort. And then he’d walked them along the seafront and told them that his girlfriend was pregnant.

That had understandably grossed them out a bit, because after all he was so old. Though, Jen thought, only three years older than she was. Ella had shown a bit of interest on the drive home.

‘I suppose it might be quite cute to have a baby sister, but then we hardly see Dad, do we? It’s never going to be a close relationship. And I’ve not even met the mother. It’s not even the same woman as when we were last staying with Gran and Grandad.’

‘The baby is a girl then?’ Jen had tried not to sound too eager for information, not wishing to give the impression that it particularly mattered to her.

‘So he said.’

Ben had just stuck in his Airpods to listen to his music. He wasn’t bothered, it seemed, one way or the other.

+++

After Venn and Ross left to interview Mary Ford, Jen walked out to the quay to clear her head, an attempt to make sense of the deaths. Two middle-aged men. Apart from a love of sailing they seemed as different as it was possible to be. Connected only by a woman. Eleanor. Nell. Both men had been infatuated by her.

Then she thought that perhaps Rosco and Lawson had had more in common than she’d first believed. Both full of themselves, entitled in their own way. Both unable to form proper relationships. They’d been lonely men, hadn’t they? Despite Lawson’s apparent bonhomie at the yacht club, Ross had described him as sitting, and drinking, alone. And Rosco had hooked up with Imogen to provide him with company, but it seemed there was little warmth towards her. He’d kept all his fan mail, but never replied to the women who wrote to him. Adoration, it seemed, was enough for him.

She remembered the photograph Venn had shown her: Rosco with two other teenagers on a shingle beach, which might have been Greystone. The man seemed to have had friends then. And he’d had Eleanor, which had been a fantasy; the sort of infatuation which surely wouldn’t have lasted if they’d married. The sort of infatuation that Mary had felt for him.

Jen had believed herself in love with Robbie when they’d first got together; had even imagined her wedding as the happiest day of her life. Such self-delusion! She’d dreamed about him at night, and he’d been at the back of her mind every minute of the day. It had been a kind of madness. She’d put up with too much hurt because the dream had lingered. Because she’d invested so much of herself in the make-believe.

‘What do you want me to do, boss?’ she’d asked, over breakfast.

He hadn’t answered immediately. That wasn’t Venn’s way. Everything was considered.

‘I’d like to know more about Lawson. Let’s have a dig into his finances. He lives in that big house, but that came to him through Eleanor’s family, and there’s no sense of any wealth there. It’s all a bit run-down and shabby. The land alone would be worth a fortune, and if you converted the house into apartments, you’d make an eye-watering sum. But I can’t ever see Eleanor selling out to a developer. It means too much to her.’ Then he’d passed on the contact details for Matilda Gregory’s parents. ‘Give them a ring. They probably won’t be able to help much but they knew Rosco when he was a troubled boy. There might be something …’

She’d nodded. She understood Venn’s need for background detail.

‘Can you chat to your friend Cynthia, see what she knows about him? He was a magistrate. She might have some gossip.’

Oh yes! Cynth always has the gossip. And it’d be a chance to catch up over lunch or a coffee.

Venn had continued talking. ‘Lawson’s grandfather must have had money – he was the leading light behind the yacht club. Bartholomew was sent away to school, so his family can’t have been on the breadline when he was growing up. Perhaps Cynthia will know what happened to all the cash.’

‘Shall I go and see Eleanor?’ Jen thought it had taken some nerve to ask the question. ‘Might be good to get a fresh perspective on her? You’re the only one of the team to have met her.’

There’d been a moment of silence before Venn had nodded. ‘Yes. Go and see her first. Ask about Lawson and his finances. It’ll help you to know where to start digging. Her family owned the quarry here in Greystone. Another link with the place, I suppose. Another connection.’

Now, with her back to the wind and the sea, she phoned Roxy, the officer who was acting as family liaison for Eleanor. ‘The boss has asked me to come and chat to her. How’s she holding up?’

‘Well,’ the woman said. ‘She doesn’t say much. She’s very self-contained. There’ve been calls from friends who wanted to visit, but she wouldn’t talk to them, and asked me to tell them she wasn’t ready yet for company. I have the impression that she and Barty led very separate lives.’ There was silence on the end of the phone. ‘But really? She’s one of those stoic women. Very British stiff upper lip. She could be weeping inside and I’d never know.’

+++

As Jen approached the house, she thought it looked from the outside like something from an old-fashioned horror movie: all soot-stained stone, chimneys and turrets. She rang the front doorbell and heard it echoing inside. Then there were footsteps on a hard floor, and the door opened. It was Roxy, the police officer: cropped hair, leggings and a big jumper. Tattoos where they wouldn’t show at work. Jen had seen her off-duty at parties.

‘I hope you’re wearing your thermals. It’s a bit parky in here,’ Roxy whispered. She then added in a louder voice: ‘Eleanor’s in the kitchen. She’s expecting you. We were just about to make coffee.’

Jen followed her through the house, and had glimpses of large wood-panelled rooms, with dark paintings and leather furniture. As Venn had said, it was all rather shabby, and gloomy. He’d obviously been very taken by the building, but she couldn’t see the attraction. Not for one person. Not even for a couple. You’d be rattling round in the place. Why not sell up, buy somewhere a bit more manageable, spoil yourself, travel? The kitchen was more comfortable, warmer. And sitting at the table, with a dog at her feet, was Eleanor. Nell. Rosco’s Nelly Wren.

The woman was small, round, dressed in a brown cord skirt and a brown jumper, which was pilling and fraying a little at the cuffs. And yet, Jen thought, you wouldn’t overlook her. In a crowd, she would be the person you’d notice. Cynthia would say she had an energy, an aura. But it was also her eyes, round and expressive. She got to her feet, held out a hand, and that was brown too. Jen imagined a summer of pottering in the garden.

‘You must work with Inspector Venn,’ Eleanor said. ‘Lucky you! What a very nice man he is!’

‘Yes. He is. Very nice.’

‘Roxy here said you had more questions. She’s been brilliant at fending off the press and my more inquisitive and pushy acquaintances. But we’ll make some coffee first, shall we?’ She moved a kettle onto the hob. It must have recently boiled because it whistled almost immediately.The noise was horrible but the dog scarcely stirred.

‘Frankie’s deaf,’ Eleanor said. ‘I think that may be a blessing, don’t you?’ She looked at Jen as if she really wanted to hear the answer.

‘Perhaps for a dog. I’d miss the chat, the gossip.’

Eleanor laughed. ‘I’d probably have said the same when I was your age. Now, I value silence.’

‘I have to ask you more questions, I’m afraid. Silence isn’t really possible in my work.’

‘Of course, you must ask. I do understand.’

‘Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill your husband? Because we’re sure now that he was murdered.’

‘He was an alcoholic,’ Eleanor said. ‘Functioning, but unpredictable when he’d been drinking heavily. I did try to persuade him to get help, you know, but in the end, he had to want to be sober, and he enjoyed drinking too much. Or perhaps he needed to drink.’

Jen said nothing. There were times when she too knew the value of silence and she could tell that Eleanor had more to say.

‘He had a temper. Usually he could control it, but sometimes it flared. Wild like fire. Triggered by a word or a look.’

‘Was he violent towards you?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘No. Never.’ A pause. ‘But I can see how it might happen. Someone saying something to which Barty took exception. He’d lash out. Unsteady on his feet and no danger really to anyone. But if the person were provoked to retaliate ...’ Her voice tailed off.

‘So random, you think? Not in any sense premeditated.’ Jen gave that time to sink in. ‘Doesn’t that seem rather a coincidence? After Mr Rosco’s murder?’

‘You believe the same person killed them both?’ Eleanor looked up sharply. The sudden movement made the dog stir in his sleep.

‘It would seem a reasonable assumption.’

‘Oh no!’ Eleanor said. ‘Not at all. The men barely knew each other. Even when we were all young, they mixed in quite different circles.’

Jen let that ride. ‘What did Mr Lawson do for a living?’

It took Eleanor a little time to answer. ‘His family had property all over the county. Barty managed the portfolio, collected the rents.’ A pause. ‘His father was a gambler. Another form of addiction, so I assume there was probably some inherited trait. One by one the properties were sold. In the end there was no rent. Nothing to manage.’

‘Your husband couldn’t find work?’ Jen’s dad had been a docker. When the docks had closed, he’d laboured on the buildings. When he’d got too old for that, he’d driven a van.

‘Nothing that suited,’ Eleanor said. ‘We managed here very well. I have a little savings. My parents were more prudent with their investments than Barty’s.’

‘You didn’t consider selling this house? All this land?’

‘Barty might have considered it, but it’s in my name and he knew I’d never agree.’ She looked, and answered the question Jen hadn’t felt able to ask. ‘He would have inherited it, of course, if he’d survived me, and then, I suppose, he could have done what he liked with it. At that point, I’d be beyond caring.’

‘And now that he’s died first?’

‘I have no heirs and no close relatives. I’ll leave it to charity. I’ve still to decide which one. Perhaps one caring for deaf dogs like this one.’ She caught Jen’s eye, saw how shocked the detective was and laughed again.

‘There’s no possibility that Mr Rosco and your husband met up while he was staying in Greystone?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘They weren’t friends. There was always bad feeling between them. A strange kind of jealousy. I’m not even sure that they would have recognized each other after all these years.’

 

Chapter Thirty-Six

JEN HAD TEXTED HER friend Cynthia Prior before heading for Eleanor Lawson’s place. You free for lunch? There’d been an immediate and enthusiastic reply saying that she was. Before setting out to meet her, Jen phoned the number Venn had given her for Matilda’s parents. There was no reply. He’d have to contact them later.

She and Cynthia met in the cafe in the Woodyard, the arts centre managed by Matthew’s husband, Jonathan. The tide was out and, through the big windows facing the river, there was a view of mud and stranded, rotting boats. Jen got there first and had time to chat with Lucy Braddick, the woman with Down’s Syndrome who worked there and who’d become a friend.

‘How’s your dad, love?’ Maurice Braddick missed Lucy now she’d moved into independent living. Jen thought he needed looking after more than his daughter these days.

‘He’s okay.’ Lucy paused. ‘I go and see him every weekend I’m not working here, stay the Saturday night. Just to keep him company. We go to the Fleece for our tea.’

‘Ah,’ Jen said. ‘That’s kind.’

Lucy smiled. ‘Nah, they do great steak pie. Dad and me both love steak pie.’ She moved away to clear another table.

Cynthia flew in late, wearing a new pink coat, trailing scarves, carrying a smart bag. She was newly single and revelling in the freedom, giddy with possibilities. She’d already decided that she’d stay in Barnstaple, in the pleasant house she’d shared with her husband. She must have done well from the divorce, Jen thought. Jen’s ex, Robbie, was a lawyer and he’d screwed her over big style financially. When they’d separated, money had been the last thing on her mind; she’d just been relieved to have the kids safe and to be away from him. Jen wondered where Roger, Cynthia’s former husband, was now.

Cynthia must have read her mind. ‘I think the bastard’s slunk back to the city and conned himself into another flash job. We still had cash left over from the sale of the London property and I’ve bought him out of the Barnstaple house with my share of that.’

‘I’m working on the Bartholomew Lawson case.’ They’d ordered food and coffee from Bob in the kitchen.This weather and this time of the year, there weren’t many visitors, and they had the place almost to themselves. The windows were still streaked with salt and muck from an earlier gale, so the people who walked past seemed blurred and shadowy. ‘You must have known him.’

Cynthia was a magistrate too and took the role seriously. She leaned forward across the table, suddenly earnest. ‘Bartholomew Lawson was a horrible man. Honestly, he’d have brought back hanging and flogging given half a chance, and he was lazy as well as bigoted. He’d already made up his mind about the disposal of the offenders before reading the presentence reports; he just skipped through them and took no notice of any recommendations. There was no sympathy, no understanding.’ A pause. ‘If it weren’t for our lovely clerk to the court, he’d have exceeded sentencing guidelines on more than one occasion. He was a bully and some other members of the panel wouldn’t stand up to him. He was lucky still to be on the bench. I should have reported him for incompetence really.’ She paused for breath. ‘And he was a patronizing git.’

‘So, you tried to avoid being in court with him?’

‘No! It was a pain, but if there was nobody else with a mind of their own on the panel, I tried to make sure I was there. Just to be certain that justice was tempered with a bit of mercy. Otherwise, every single mother who’d shoplifted would be sent down, leaving social services to be responsible for their children. He had a real downer on women with kids.’ Cynthia finished her sandwich and looked up. ‘What happened to him? Really, there were times when I felt like killing him myself.’

Jen didn’t answer directly. Her mind was elsewhere. ‘He and his wife were never able to have children. Apparently, it affected him deeply.’

‘God, I can’t imagine him as a father. He’d be the sort to pack them off to boarding school as soon as he could. He’d like the idea of them, carrying on the bloodline and the family name as if they were race horses, but not the reality.’

Is that me too? Is this longing for another child about the fantasy, not the real thing?

‘Is there anyone who hated Lawson enough to kill him?’ Jen tried to focus on the present. ‘We’re treating the death as unexplained, but really we can’t see it as anything other than murder. Was there an offender who threatened him? Someone who might actually have carried out the threat?’

‘His body was found under the cliffs at Scully according to the news. Really, I can’t see any of our chaps getting out there. A stabbing outside a bar in the middle of town if Lawson was walking past I could understand, but not something out in the wild.’

‘You can’t think of any offender based in Morrisham?’

Cynthia shook her head. ‘Not at the moment. I’ll have a think and ask around, though.’

Later, they stood outside in the car park for a moment, enjoying each other’s presence, not wanting to go their separate ways. Jen wanted to tell Cynthia about Robbie and the baby, her irrational longing, but Cynthia had never shown any interest in having children and she probably wouldn’t understand.

‘Let’s have a girls’ night in when your case is over,’ Cynthia said. ‘A film, and some of the very good wine Roger left behind. Lots of his very good wine.’ She started to walk towards her car, but turned back for a moment. ‘You can tell me what’s troubling you then. Because I can tell that something is …’ Then there was a flash of pink coat and she was gone.