Hidden Depths (38 page)

Opening it, she tried to imagine she was visiting her neighbour. No fuss, quiet and easy. Wanting a favour.
I’ve run out of booze. Don’t suppose you could spare a bottle of wine?

Clive Stringer stood beside a narrow wooden table, his face lit by a tilley lamp. That had been the sound she’d heard, the creaking had been the pump as he’d primed it, the hissing the noise as it caught. Beside the lamp lay a bunch of flowers, mostly ox-eye daisies, their stems wrapped in damp newspaper. She tried not to look at them, or to peer into the shadow to look at the girl. Rolled up in bags in the corner, the mist nets used for catching migrant birds. And tucked inside, the thin nylon rope used as guys to anchor the poles. There’d been a mist net in Clive’s room. She was sure now he’d used a guy rope to strangle his victims. She was glad of her size, blocking the doorway. He seemed very slight.

‘It’s all over now, pet,’ she said. She kept her voice friendly. She didn’t expect him to put up a fight, thought he might even be relieved to be caught. ‘You’d just as well come with me.’

He stared at her without speaking.

She went on talking, keeping her voice even. ‘You were the obvious suspect once I knew Lily was involved with Peter Calvert. You linked both families. But I couldn’t work out why. You did it for them, didn’t you? For Tom and Peter. Your friends.’

She thought he would answer, but he took the lamp by its wire handle and flung it against the wall. The glass smashed and the wood caught immediately; the paint bubbled and blistered and the flames licked along the line of the spilled paraffin. Stringer backed away from Vera into a corner. She ignored him, all her focus now on the girl, a still figure lying on the floor at her feet. Laura was wrapped in a blanket. Her face was covered. Vera picked her up, felt how thin and light she was. Ashworth was at the door, yelling for her to get out. Vera passed the bundle to him and turned to Stringer. He was almost surrounded by flame, though none of his clothing was burning. The red light was reflected in the lenses of his glasses. She wanted to get through to him.

‘Come away out, man. Your friends wouldn’t want this.’

He gave no indication that he’d heard her.

She was going to move towards him, but Ashworth took her by the arm and pulled her outside.

He’d laid the girl on the grass. Her face was filthy, her mouth covered by parcel tape, her hands and feet bound. Vera ripped the tape from her mouth, felt for a pulse. She didn’t see the hut crumble in on itself, the heavy roof fall onto the man inside, trapping him so even if he’d wanted to escape he couldn’t. If he screamed she didn’t hear.

Vera had dreamed of taking Laura back to Julie. From the moment she realized the girl was missing that picture in her head had kept her going. She’d seen herself in the kitchen, her arm around Laura’s shoulders.
Look who’s here, pet. I told you I’d get her back to you safe and sound.
And of course Julie had been grateful. In the dream.

It didn’t happen like that. What happened was that Ashworth turned into the hero. When they stripped the tape from Laura’s mouth she started choking and wheezing. The stress of the day finally bringing on an asthma attack. Or having her breathing restricted for that length of time. It was Ashworth who worked out what was going on, called for an ambulance, went with the girl to the hospital. He sat with her, holding her hand as the sirens wailed and they sped down the Spine Road to Wansbeck General. By the time they reached the hospital she was a lot calmer. They kept her in the hospital overnight, but by morning she was itching to be home. A little girl again, wanting her mam.

It was midnight when Holly brought Julie into the side ward where Laura was under observation. The woman was tense and frowning. Until she’d seen her daughter, she didn’t dare to believe that Laura was safe. Ashworth was still sitting by the bedside when they arrived. He was the one to see Julie weeping and to receive her gratitude. And though Vera knew it was pathetic, she minded it. She’d wanted it to be her Julie thanked with tears in her eyes. But she’d been right about the killer. There was some consolation in that. Instead of delivering the girl to her mother, she stood in the garden at Deepden waiting for the travelling circus which always followed a major incident. The fire engine arrived first. The fire fighters seemed disappointed that it was such a small fire, so easy to contain. She had the feeling that only the fact of a fatality made them think it was worth their being there. While she watched them she couldn’t get rid of the image of Clive Stringer in the flame-red spectacles, standing quite still while the hut fell around him. He’d had his grand gesture after all. Later, when the scene of crime team searched through the wreckage, they found a couple of stems of daisies whole and undamaged.

Vera got to Fox Mill just as Peter Calvert was getting into his car. She saw Felicity watching them through the kitchen window, her face pinched with worry. The mood she was in, Vera couldn’t feel much sympathy.

‘I want a word,’ she said.

Calvert began to bluster.

‘You lied to me,’ she said. ‘I could charge you.’ She wished she was a man. She wanted to hit him. ‘We’ll go and chat in the cottage, shall we? Back to the love nest. It might jog your memory. Don’t worry, I’ve got a key. I rescued it from the CSI. We don’t need to bother your wife with this. Not just yet.’

She started across the meadow, knowing that Calvert would follow. She had the door open and was sitting at the table when he came in.

‘This is where Clive killed Lily Marsh,’ she said. ‘But then, you know that already. You suspected it, at least. Otherwise why lie about sending the card made of pressed flowers?’

He sat opposite her, gave a little smile. ‘A small lie under pressure, Inspector. It means nothing.’

‘You set Clive up. You were his hero. You knew he’d do anything you asked. You told him about Lily. How she was threatening to go public about the affair. When? At one of your cosy Friday lunches?’

‘I needed someone to talk to, Inspector. It was a stressful time.’

‘How did you put the idea into his head? “If only she were to have an accident . . .” You told him you’d sent the card. Were you worried she’d use it as evidence of the affair? “But at least I didn’t sign it. No one will trace it back to me. We were very careful.” But you didn’t mention the kisses.

‘Only Clive had a more elaborate plan than you’d anticipated. He was a chess player. He liked intricate patterns. And he had no real grasp on reality – my sergeant realized that after one meeting. It wasn’t enough to kill Lily Marsh. He had to distract us from you. He had his own reason for wanting Luke Armstrong dead, so he killed him first. And to reinforce the connection to Lily, and to protect you, he sent the card. You must have known about that. Otherwise why lie when I asked if you’d sent a similar one to Lily?’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘When was that, Dr Calvert? When did Clive admit he’d killed Luke and Lily?’

The man didn’t answer.

Vera thumped her fist on the table, so hard she knew it would be bruised the next day.

‘You’re quite safe, man. I can’t really charge you. The CPS would throw out the case in minutes. You’re bright enough to know how these things work. But tell me. Satisfy my curiosity.’

‘There was a Marmora’s warbler at Deepden a few days ago. I gave Clive a lift back to town. He told me then. As if I should be pleased with him. I was horrified.’

‘Not sufficiently horrified to tell us what had happened, though.’ Her voice was deceptively calm. ‘There could have been another victim. But still you kept your mouth shut. Why was that, Dr Calvert? A warped sense of loyalty? Or were you scared Clive would implicate you in the murders?’

‘I don’t have to listen to this, Inspector. As you said, you can’t charge me.’

He got up from his seat and walked out through the open door. Vera watched him cross the meadow, and stop to blow a reassuring kiss to his wife, who must still have been looking from the window.

At ten that morning Ashworth’s wife went into labour. He phoned the office at teatime, to tell her they’d had a boy. Jack Alexander. He’d been nearly ten pounds, a real bruiser. Vera was just about to leave the station for bed, but she agreed to meet up with him for a drink. She found it hard to celebrate other people’s babies but she’d rather have a few drinks with Joe than go back completely sober to an empty house. In the end, she suggested he come to the old station master’s house on his way through. She knew she’d not be able to stick at a couple of halves and it’d save her having to drive. On the way home she stopped at the supermarket and got a bottle of champagne and a huge bunch of flowers for Sarah. She thought Ashworth would appreciate the gesture. Also in the trolley she put a ready-cook Indian meal and a bottle of Grouse. She’d need something to get her to sleep.

Ashworth arrived just five minutes after her. From her kitchen window she saw him leap out of the car, bleary-eyed and beaming. She’d already had a large Scotch. She rinsed out the glass and put it back on the tray, so he wouldn’t know.

They sat outside. The house was even more untidy than usual and she didn’t want him seeing it. She couldn’t bear it if he started feeling sorry for her. She was light-headed through lack of sleep. Their conversation was punctuated by the sound of her neighbours’ animals – sheep, goats, the inevitable cockerel.

‘You were right, then,’ she said. ‘Stringer was a nutter.’

‘You knew it was him, though, didn’t you?’

‘I thought it was a possibility.’

‘You didn’t let on.’

‘No proof. And I met a few lads like Clive Stringer when I was growing up. Obsessives. Loners. They didn’t all turn into serial killers.’

‘Why did he?’

‘He was a romantic,’ she said. ‘He believed in happy families.’

‘That’s no kind of motive.’

‘It made sense to him,’ she said. ‘It had a weird sort of logic.’ Looking into the distance, she thought the hills seemed very sharp and close this evening. She wouldn’t be surprised if the weather didn’t break soon.

‘You’ll have to spell it out.’ Joe believed in happy families too, had done even before he got one of his own. But then he’d grown up in one. She caught him looking at her as if she was daft.

‘Clive was a loner,’ Vera said. ‘No dad. No friends. Only that witch of a mother who tried to suck the life out of him. He had two surrogate families – the Sharps and Peter Calvert’s birdwatchers. Both murders were committed to protect them. He was very close to Tom Sharp, looked out for him when he was a kid, blamed Luke for his death. The Calverts were his idea of a perfect couple. He idolized Peter and fancied himself in love with Felicity. He didn’t want her hurt by news of her husband’s affair.’

‘We’ll never really know what was going through his mind, will we?’ Ashworth looked up from his glass. She could tell his head was full of the wonder of his new son, wrinkled and red and screaming. She’d had to hear all the details of the birth before he’d let her start talking about the murders. About how brave Sarah had been. ‘All she had was a couple of puffs of gas and air’ He didn’t care why Clive Stringer had murdered two people and kidnapped a third. Not tonight.
Nutter
was good enough for him.

But Vera cared. And she knew.

‘Peter Calvert was his hero. Clive was doing what Peter wanted, saving his marriage, getting rid of Lily Marsh for good. Do you remember, we asked Clive in the museum if he’d keep quiet if he’d found out one of his friends had committed murder? He said of course he would. We should have asked him if he’d commit murder for his friend.’

She spoke almost to herself. The sun and the whisky and the lack of sleep had sent her into a sort of trance. ‘If he’d kept it simple he might have got away with it.’

Joe looked up from his drink, his attention caught at last. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Lily Marsh was his first target. She was threatening to make life difficult for Calvert. We know she was starting to get awkward. That was why she turned up with James to look at the cottage. She assumed Felicity would tell her husband Lily had been there and he’d realize it was a threat.
Take me back or I’ll tell your wife.
She was phoning Calvert at work. She’d even convinced herself she was pregnant. Calvert confided in Stringer. They met up for lunch every week. He knew he was Stringer’s hero, has the sort of ego to allow him to believe a friend would commit murder on his behalf. We’ll never be able to charge him with it, of course.’

She imagined Clive in the bungalow in North Shields, Calvert’s words rattling around in his head, planning the murders while his mother watched television game shows in the other room. Obsessing about it, as he obsessed about birds and friendship. ‘He played chess,’ she said. ‘He used to play with the Calvert boy. He worked out the moves in this drama well in advance.’

‘So why Luke Armstrong? And why was he killed first?’

‘He had to be. Stringer didn’t want Calvert implicated in any way with the murders. By making Luke Armstrong the first victim, he thought we’d concentrate on the boy in our search for a motive.’

‘So the first victim could have been anyone? Stringer chose him at random to throw us off the scent?’

‘No. It wasn’t random. Stringer would never have worked himself up to commit murder unless he’d convinced himself that Calvert needed him, but I think he was glad of an excuse to kill Luke. He blamed him for Tom Sharp’s death. Lots of people did. He looked on Tom as a brother. As I said the Sharps were his surrogate family. And he was there when Gary was talking about his plans to go out with Julie, so he knew she wouldn’t be in the house that Wednesday night. Perhaps he saw it as a sign, decided it was time for him to make a move. He didn’t know about Laura, though, didn’t know she was there when Luke let him in. Gary told him later that Luke had a sister and she’d been in the house.’