Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street (11 page)

The elderly woman who’d made the soup seemed either deaf or to live in a world of her own. She continued to cry, but her expression remained blank, and made him unsure whether this was grief for Margaret or a manifestation of chronic depression. Laurie spoke most, turning to the others occasionally, to check that they agreed with her. Jane didn’t interrupt them.

‘There are other volunteers, but they all have their own agendas. Like they’re religious, or they want us to be grateful to them because they’ve dropped in a few kids’ clothes. Or they want to get a job in social work, and helping out here looks good on their CV. But Margaret had none of that shit going on. She was here because she wanted to be, and she liked us and she wanted to make things better for us. By doing simple things like baking a cake for someone’s birthday. Or more complicated stuff like sitting in on supervised access, so that some of us could get to see our kids without a social worker having to be there all the time.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Joe thought this was all very well, and Vera would be interested, but now he needed some facts.

‘The day before yesterday.’ This was Laurie again, looking round before she answered to make sure she’d got it right.

‘How did she get here?’ This time the question was directed at Jane Cameron and she answered.

‘On the bus usually. Sometimes I picked her up, if I was going into town. But she was quite independent. She had her bus pass, she said. She might as well use it.’

‘And her last visit?’

‘Someone gave her a lift.’ Laurie jumped in before Jane could answer. ‘I was working in the garden and a car dropped her off at the gate.’

‘Did you see the driver?’ Joe thought this was significant. Kate Dewar hadn’t mentioned bringing Margaret to the Haven, and any other contact might be important.

Laurie frowned. ‘No. They didn’t get out of the car. But it was a silver Golf. Not a new one. X-reg.’

‘Are you sure?’ Joe never noticed cars and, in his experience, women were even less likely to be aware of them.

‘Oh yes, Sergeant.’ For the first time Laurie grinned. ‘I’m an expert. All my previous offences have been vehicle-related.’

Jane invited him to stay for tea and mince pies, but he looked out of the window at the snow still covering much of the ground and said he should leave. He’d just stood up when Laurie spoke again. ‘Someone should make sure that Dee knows Margaret is dead.’

‘Dee?’ Now all he wanted to do was get out of this place. In this weather the countryside held less appeal. He wasn’t sure he’d want to live in Holypool after all.

‘Dee Robson, one of our former residents.’ Jane walked with him past the Christmas tree and into the hall so that they wouldn’t be overheard, and they continued the conversation by the front door. ‘She never settled here. Not her fault perhaps. She has minor learning difficulties that were never picked up at school, a chaotic childhood.’ Jane gave a brief grin. ‘We have very few rules here, but Dee broke every one of them. Booze, men, aggression – you name it. In the end the other residents forced her out. But Margaret developed a special relationship with her and continued to mentor Dee even when she left. She didn’t judge her. I’m not quite sure how Dee will cope without her.’

‘Where does Dee live now?’

‘In Mardle, in a flat in Percy Street.’ Jane opened the door. ‘You will get someone to tell her, won’t you Sergeant, and check that she’s okay? She’ll have a social worker. Some poor soul trying to keep her safe.’

He nodded and wondered why Jane’s charity didn’t run to
her
telling Dee about Margaret’s killing. Outside it seemed a little milder and the snow was now soft and damp. As he turned back to the house he saw Emily, the pale teenager, staring back at him through an upstairs window. He was reminded of a children’s fairy tale, a princess imprisoned in a tower.

Vera had found a cafe in the centre of Mardle on the other side of the street from the health centre. A new place with a hissing coffee machine and fancy buns. She’d already been into the medical centre and had been told by an unhelpful receptionist that Margaret Krukowski wasn’t a patient and that she couldn’t tell the inspector if, or where, Margaret had been treated for cancer. Vera drank tea and ate a sandwich, feeling virtuous because she chose wholemeal bread. When she finished eating she got Holly on the phone. ‘I need to track down Margaret’s GP. Can you sort that for me, Hol?’

And Holly, still mellow because she’d be all over the local media, agreed without a murmur.

Now the lunchtime rush was over and nobody seemed to mind Vera sitting there. The floor was swimming with slush brought in on people’s boots. She was waiting for Joe Ashworth and found herself grinning, wondering how he’d got on in the women’s refuge. Had they eaten him alive?

He came in, his collar turned up against the weather. He always looked smart. A call-out at four in the morning and he’d turn up with a freshly ironed shirt and a suit. Something to do with the Protestant work ethic? Or a wife with nothing better to do than look after her man? Vera called for a fresh pot of tea and a couple of scones and ordered her thoughts back to the matter in hand.

‘Anything useful?’

‘Aye, I think so.’ Joe poured tea. ‘Margaret worked at the Haven the morning before she died. Somebody gave her a lift there. One of the women saw her get out of the car.’

‘But didn’t see the driver . . .’ Vera knew Ashworth. He’d not have been able to save the good news, if he had any.

‘I wondered if it might have been the priest,’ Joe said. ‘The church is involved with the place.’

‘Aye, maybe.’ But Peter Gruskin hadn’t mentioned it and he didn’t seem the sort to hide his good works.

‘The lass did see the car, though. Old silver Golf. X-reg.’ Joe cut open his scone and buttered it tidily. Vera had already eaten hers. ‘She’s an ex-offender car nut. Done for TWOC, driving without insurance, reckless driving. So I reckon she knows what she’s talking about.’

Vera tried to remember if she’d seen a car like that in Harbour Street, but it didn’t ring any bells. George Enderby, the publisher’s rep, would drive something newer and more efficient. She’d always supposed that the Renault parked outside the guest house belonged to Kate Dewar. ‘Check out what Gruskin drives.’

‘There’s another woman they think we should talk to.’ Joe wiped the crumbs from his fingers with a paper napkin. ‘Dee Robson. I’ve checked her out too. A record that goes back twenty years. D&D. Soliciting. Shoplifting. Lives in a flat in Percy Street, but mostly to be found in the Coble drinking away her benefit, when she can’t find a punter daft enough to buy her a drink.’

‘I think I saw her.’ Vera remembered the woman in the fishnets, and the jeers that followed her out of the pub. ‘What could Margaret have to do with her?’

‘She used to stay in the Haven and Margaret befriended her. Still acted as a kind of mentor, once Dee got thrown out of the refuge for getting pissed and taking men back to the place.’

‘Margaret was ill,’ Vera said suddenly, realizing she hadn’t yet shared this information with Joe. It had been playing on her mind since the post-mortem, and even as she’d been listening to him. ‘Possibly terminally ill. Bowel cancer. Paul Keating thought she might not have survived very much longer anyway. I’m not sure if she’d seen a doctor. But if she knew . . . She was religious, wasn’t she? Maybe there was an idea of setting her affairs in order.’ She slapped her hands on the table in front of her. ‘I need to know where she’d been before she got onto the Metro that day.’ She stood up suddenly.

‘Where are we going?’ He hadn’t finished his tea.

‘To see Dee Robson. Alcoholic and occasional sex worker.’ Vera stamped across the wet floor to the counter and ordered a bag of cakes to take out.

The snow in the street had turned to a grey mess and it was drizzling, rain mixed with sleet. The flat was in a Sixties box, built at the end of a street of 1930s houses, and Dee lived at the top on the third floor. It wasn’t as grim as an inner-city tower block, but there was graffiti all over the stairwell and the inevitable smell of piss and damp concrete. The door looked as if someone had recently tried to batter it in. An over-enthusiastic client or something more sinister? Joe knocked. Nothing. Vera banged on the door with the palm of her hand and shouted, ‘Come on, pet. Let us in. We’re not here to hurt you.’

There was a movement behind the door, but still it didn’t open. Vera pulled Margaret’s keys from her bag and tried the one they hadn’t yet identified. The door opened.
One mystery solved, then.
Dee Robson stood just inside, legs apart, braced for a fight. When she saw Vera she spoke with loud and righteous indignation.

‘Hey, lady, you can’t just let yourself into my home!’

Vera took no notice and looked around her. If she hadn’t known better she’d have thought the flat was derelict. There was the same smell as in the stairwell. Mould grew where the walls and the window frames met. There was no carpet on the floor, which was sticky underfoot. Through an open door she saw the bedroom. Here there was a stained rug and a double mattress covered with a shiny pink quilt. In there Dee must entertain the men, so desperate or so drunk that they’d been persuaded home with her.

They stood for a moment in the hall, staring at each other. ‘Well?’ the woman demanded. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ She was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie and it smelled as if she’d been sleeping in them for days. She hadn’t cleaned off the make-up of the night before and the mascara had run down her cheeks. She’d been crying.

‘You’ve heard about Margaret,’ Vera said.

Dee nodded. ‘They were talking about it in the Coble last night. Then it was on the news this morning. You’re the police.’ Not a question.

She wandered into the living room and they followed her. Again the floor was bare. A Formica kitchen table stood against one wall, with two plastic stools at each side. There was an easy chair, the shape of springs visible through the orange fabric, and in the corner on the floor stood a small flat-screen television.

‘Margaret gave you the telly.’ Vera nodded towards it.

‘Aye. She said she didn’t watch it much anyway, and I’d have gone crazy on my own in this place without one.’ Still the woman was wary. ‘I didn’t nick it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘We’re here to ask about Margaret. She was your friend, and you might be able to help us find out who killed her.’ Vera kept her voice gentle.

Joe Ashworth was hovering just inside the door as if he was worried he might catch something. He must have been in hundreds of scuzzy houses since joining the police service, but the way some people lived still horrified him.

Just wait until your Jessie becomes a student.
Vera gave a quick secret smile.

‘Have you got tea, Dee?’ Vera asked brightly. ‘Milk? I’m gasping for a cuppa and we’ve brought cakes. I never go visiting empty-handed.’

The woman looked at her as if she hadn’t understood a word.

‘Off you go, Joe. Kettle on. And if you can’t find what you want, nip out to the shop. Dee and me are going to have a chat.’

‘There’s milk!’ Dee seemed suddenly to come to life. ‘Margaret brought it with her when she came to visit. She always brings milk. She knows I forget.’

‘When did she last call round?’ Vera asked. She landed on a stool. Dee took the easy chair. In the kitchen there was the sound of a tap being switched on. Joe would be scrubbing the mugs.

‘Yesterday lunchtime. She said she was on her way into town.’

‘Did she say where she was going?’ Vera tried to imagine the elegant, well-dressed woman Joe had described from the train, sitting in this room, drinking tea from the stained mugs and talking to Dee.

‘No, just that she had business to sort out.’

Vera supposed that could mean anything. A visit to a solicitor? An accountant?

‘How did she seem?’ Vera asked. ‘Quiet? Upset? Angry?’

But Dee just shook her head, as if another person’s feelings were beyond her.

Joe came in then, carrying the tea. Vera put the bag of cakes on the table and tore open the paper so that Dee could see inside. Joe looked at the stool, but chose to lean against the door instead.

‘And before that,’ Vera prompted, ‘had you seen Margaret recently?’

‘Last week.’ Dee’s mouth was full of cream sponge. Joe looked away.
Fastidious
, Vera thought.
That was the word to describe him
. ‘We went shopping in town.’ She seemed suddenly excited, and Vera thought sadly that the trip into Newcastle could have been the highlight of Dee’s month.

‘Margaret took you shopping?’

‘Aye, she said I needed a proper jacket or I’d catch my death. The church has a fund. Mostly for the lasses at the Haven – extras they might not be able to afford – but Margaret said there was no reason why I shouldn’t get some of it.’

‘Why did you leave the Haven?’ This was Joe, not able to help himself, accusing. He’d bring back the workhouse, given half a chance.

Dee muttered something that Vera could only just make out, about being stuck in the middle of nowhere, and a cow called Jane who picked on her.

‘Tell me about going shopping,’ Vera said.

Dee’s face brightened again. ‘We went in on the Metro. Had our dinner in a caff. I had fish and chips. Margaret only wanted a sandwich. We bought the jacket in New Look. Dead smart.’ She launched into a description of the coat. Given any encouragement, she’d have brought it out to show them.

Vera allowed her a couple of minutes, then interrupted. ‘Was it just shopping? You didn’t go anywhere else? An office? Or perhaps Margaret met someone she knew?’

A pause. Great concentration. ‘She didn’t meet anyone, but she saw someone.’

‘Tell us what happened, Dee.’ Vera reached out for a vanilla slice. ‘No stories, mind, just the truth.’

‘We were walking down Northumberland Street and there was this man on the other side of the road. Margaret told me to wait where I was and she ran after him. But he was faster than her and she couldn’t catch him up.’