The Heron's Cry Read online

  ‘I slept with Wesley once.’ Eve’s words broke into his thoughts and pulled his attention away from the picture. ‘I’d been dumped by a bloke I’d been going out with since university. I was lonely, wretched and Wesley listened. At least, he came here and helped me drink the very nice bottle of whisky Dad had brought back for me from Islay. I thought he was listening. And we went to bed. But it didn’t mean anything. Not really.’

  ‘A comfort shag,’ Jonathan said.

  She gave a little giggle. Perhaps she was already on the way to getting drunk. ‘Something like that. Then I realized that crap telly and chocolate worked much better. I regretted it in the morning and neither of us mentioned it again.’

  ‘Wesley used to come into the Woodyard cafe,’ Jonathan said. ‘He was always with a woman. Not the same woman each time but the same type.’

  ‘Older, a bit arty? And I bet they always paid for the meal.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Jonathan realized then that he’d never seen Wesley at the counter with cash in his hand.

  ‘Sarah and I called them the groupies. His fans. He kindly allowed them to take him out and buy him dinner.’

  ‘Who’s Sarah?’ Jonathan thought he was starting to sound like Matthew. Asking questions. He should just let Eve talk.

  ‘Sarah Grieve. She lives in the cottage on the other side of the yard.’

  They sat in silence. Jonathan realized then that Eve was crying, that tears were running down her cheeks. He stood up, fetched a roll of kitchen towel from the bench, tore off two pieces and handed them to her.

  ‘It was my glass that killed him,’ she said. ‘Just like with Dad. Why would somebody do that? They had to go into Frank’s part of the house and steal the vase and break it. Then they set me up to find him. Who would hate me that much?’

  ‘I can’t believe that anyone hates you.’

  ‘Why use my glass then? Why try to point the blame at me?’

  Jonathan didn’t have an answer to that. He sat beside her on the sofa and put his arms around her again, stroking her hair away from her face as if she were a child.

  Chapter Twenty

  WHEN MATTHEW DROVE INTO THE FARMYARD, he saw Jen still sitting in her car, the windows open. By now, it was evening, all long shadows and silence only broken by bird calls. He got out of his vehicle and walked towards her, then nodded up towards the attic.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her yet. Jonathan asked for an hour with her, before I started the questions.’

  Matthew felt a spark of fury. How dare Jonathan interfere with his investigation and order his staff around!

  ‘I was just about to go up.’ Jen seemed awkward, uncomfortable, a child caught in the middle of rowing parents. It wasn’t fair, Matthew thought, to have to put her in this pos- ition, to have compromised her authority. Jonathan had used his relationship with Matthew to get his own way. ‘The hour’s about up.’

  ‘I’m sorry you were put in this situation,’ Matthew said. ‘Eve’s a witness and you had better things to do with your time. Jonathan should have known that.’

  ‘He was just being kind. She’s been through a tough time. She needed the support.’

  ‘We’re police officers.’ He knew his voice was sharp, hard. ‘Not social workers.’

  ‘What do you want me to do now?’

  Matthew thought for a moment. ‘Go home. It’s not your fault you’ve been hanging around here with nothing to do. Show your face to the kids. I’ve called an early briefing in the morning. Seven thirty. Lots to discuss.’ He paused. ‘In a while, I’m going to talk to Frank Ley.’

  ‘To see if the glass vase is still in his living room? Or if Eve is right and it was used to stab our victim?’

  Matthew nodded. ‘And to see what he’s been doing with himself all day. I’d like to know what he made of Wesley Curnow too.’

  He stood until Jen had driven away, trying to calm himself. He was tempted to climb the narrow stairs into Eve’s flat and tell Jonathan to go, but a public row wouldn’t help now and would only embarrass her. That conversation would have to wait until later. He walked round the farmhouse and into the red light of the setting sun.

  * * *

  He saw Frank Ley through the living room window. From this angle, Matthew couldn’t tell if the blue vase of flowers was still sitting on the hearth. Frank seemed to be working, to be going through the pile of papers that he’d placed on the arm of his chair. He was wearing little round spectacles, which made him look even more like Billy Bunter. At one point the work seemed to overwhelm him. He took off his glasses and put his head in his hands. Matthew knocked at the door. Frank saw him and beckoned him in. The door was unlocked.

  ‘Inspector, do you have any news? Have you found out what happened to Nigel?’

  Matthew’s eyes were drawn to the hearth. No flowers. No vase. He looked back at Ley. ‘I’m afraid I have other news. Another tragedy, involving Westacombe Farm. Wesley Curnow is dead.’

  ‘How did he die? Accident? Suicide?’ The words were explosive, the tone so out of character that Matthew was shocked.

  Matthew didn’t answer. He kept his voice even, conversational. He knew some of his team considered him dull, but sometimes he used lack of drama as a tactic. A weapon, even. He’d never found that shouting produced results. ‘Was Wesley the type of man who might commit suicide?’

  ‘I’d never thought of him in that way. But when you mentioned his death, I wondered if the two events might be related.’

  ‘You thought Wesley might have killed himself because he’d murdered Nigel?’ Matthew thought that was a strange conclusion to jump to. ‘A fit of regret. Conscience. Do you think Mr Curnow was capable of murder?’

  ‘I think most of us would be capable of murder, Inspector.’

  Would I? Perhaps when I lose my temper, when my reason drowns in the stark, white light, when my control shatters into pieces like Eve’s hand-blown glass.

  ‘We don’t think Wesley killed himself,’ Matthew said. ‘We believe that he was murdered too.’

  Frank looked away. ‘What’s going on here?’ His voice was low, almost mumbling. ‘This is like some second-rate horror film.’

  ‘He wasn’t killed here. He was stabbed in the Woodyard Centre, in the place where he stored the materials for his work.’ Matthew paused. ‘Eve found him there.’

  ‘Oh no!’ He stared back at Matthew in apparent disbelief. ‘Not Eve again. How is she?’

  ‘Very shaken, of course. A friend is with her.’ Until now, Matthew had been standing but he took a seat on the sofa. ‘We have to inform Wesley’s next of kin. I wonder if you know who that might be and how we might get hold of them?’

  ‘I do!’ The man seemed glad of the chance to help. ‘Their names are Martin and Liz. Martin was a financial journalist and I knew him through my work. I’ll get their phone number. They moved to France when they retired, to live the good life in the Dordogne.’ Francis fumbled for his phone, his hands trembling, and passed it to Matthew so he could make a note of the numbers.

  ‘Is that how Wesley came to be living here? Because you were a friend of his parents?’

  ‘The family were from Cornwall. That gave Martin, Wesley’s father, and me something in common when I was in London. We worked in different fields, of course, but we were both West Country boys. Both interested in the politics of money. Wesley was always happier staying with his Cornish grandmother than in the city, and spent all his holidays there; he ended up at school in Truro.’ Frank paused. ‘He tried all sorts when he left, but he couldn’t settle. He dropped out of art school, ran a bar in Newquay for a couple of seasons, but couldn’t make it pay, joined a band for a summer. All the time his parents were subsidizing him. Not really doing him any favours. By then he was in his thirties, almost middle-aged, and he’d never really earned his own living. In the end, they decided to cut him loose.’

  ‘And you took pity on him?’ Matthew wondered if that was down to guil
t again, to Ley’s sense that his comfortable living had been achieved through luck and at the expense of other people.

  ‘I didn’t want him out on the streets,’ Frank said. ‘He paid rent, just like Eve. He made some beautiful objects. He really seemed settled, happy.’ He paused. ‘I liked to believe that I’d helped in that a little.’

  ‘Did he know Nigel Yeo?’

  ‘Only through Eve, I think.’ Frank considered for a moment. ‘After Helen, Nigel’s wife, died, I’d invite Nigel to dinner along with the others. Wesley certainly met Nigel here.’

  ‘You asked Lauren Miller along once too? She went on to become Nigel’s colleague.’

  ‘I did! A lovely woman.’ He paused. ‘I had hoped we might get to know each other better…’ His voice tailed off. ‘But in the end, I was too shy to ask to see her on her own. Besides, I’m sure I wasn’t her type. She might have gone out with me through pity, but I could tell there was no real attraction. Not on her part.’

  Matthew didn’t say anything. It seemed Nigel and Lauren hadn’t mentioned their relationship to Frank. At this point, he couldn’t see any need to do it.

  ‘I understand that Wesley was friendly with the Mackenzies,’ he said. ‘I presume he knew that Nigel was investigating the son’s death. The family would have discussed it with him.’

  ‘The family perhaps, but not Nigel. He wouldn’t have gossiped. He was always very discreet. He never told me what he’d discovered about the circumstances surrounding Mack’s death, and I doubt if he told George and Martha either. The complaint might have come from them, but Nigel said from the start that any findings would be in a report to the health trust.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be made public?’ Matthew thought that was interesting.

  ‘Oh, I think it would, but the trust would be given the opportunity to respond first.’

  ‘Do you know if the report had been completed?’

  ‘No, you’d need to ask Nigel’s colleagues in NDPT. Of course, Lauren might know.’ Frank paused. ‘I don’t see that there was any way Wesley could have learned about Nigel’s findings.’ He turned to the window and stared into the garden. ‘Besides, Wesley was always self-centred. I’m not sure he’d have cared much about it. Unless it related to him.’

  It was getting late. The colour had seeped out of the sky. Frank hadn’t switched on any lights and the room was shadowy.

  ‘I have to ask this. What were your movements this afternoon?’

  It was too dark now for Matthew to see clearly the expression on the other man’s face.

  ‘I was here, working, mostly in my office in the house. I sat outside for a while this afternoon, but I didn’t go anywhere else. You had an officer on the gate, I think. He’d be able to see my drive where it joins the lane. You’ll be able to check.’

  Matthew nodded. He thought there was probably a way from the bottom of the garden to Instow, but he couldn’t imagine Frank scrambling through bramble and gorse to get there. He stood up. ‘When I came yesterday there was a vase of flowers on the hearth. It was large, round, more like a bowl than a conventional vase. I think Eve had made it. What happened to it?’

  Ley looked at the space, as if noticing the absence for the first time. ‘Sarah must have come in earlier to do a quick tidy. I imagine the flowers were dying, so she threw them out and put the vase away.’

  It seemed odd to Matthew that the man wasn’t more curious about his reason for asking the question, but he said nothing and let himself out.

  * * *

  Matthew stood for a moment in the farmyard. There was a police van parked and a light on in Wesley’s flat, so he assumed the search team were already in and working. There was still no sign of Jonathan. Again, he was tempted to go into Eve’s flat to see what was happening there, but his anger had dispersed a little and he hated the idea of making a scene.

  Joe Oldham, his boss, had left him a voicemail, saying they could push the budget a bit on this one. ‘The PCC is under pressure to get it sorted quickly. They don’t want tourists cancelling because they think we’ve got a serial killer on the loose. The press has already got wind of the second murder.’

  Classic Oldham, shifting responsibility to the officers below him, piling on the pressure, taking no real action to respond to the situation beyond giving him a little extra money. Oldham was close to retirement, ineffective, and all he wanted was a final year without confrontation or controversy. Matthew couldn’t really blame him.

  He thought it would be churlish to drive home, leaving Jonathan here to get a taxi, and was about to text his husband to offer a lift when his attention was caught by a view inside the Grieves’ cottage. The curtains hadn’t been shut and through the window, he saw the couple inside, framed. They were sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mugs in front of them. He tapped at the window, surprising them. Sarah waved for him to come in.

  ‘I’m sorry if I made you jump. I should have thought…’ Matthew introduced himself.

  ‘We spoke to your sergeant earlier.’

  ‘I know. But that was before your neighbour had been killed.’

  ‘Of course.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I can’t believe that Wes won’t just wander in, saying the whole thing was some kind of tasteless joke, and trying to con a drink from us. The whole thing is a nightmare. So scary.’ Sarah had got to her feet and automatically switched on the kettle. ‘We’ve been trying to work out what to do for the best, wondering if I should take the girls and stay with my mother for a bit. But they’ve got school, and everything we have is invested in this business.’

  Matthew could see that she was exhausted. ‘Just one question. Did you go in to clean for Frank today?’

  ‘Good God, no! I haven’t had a moment. Things have been bonkers for the last two days and we’ve just been trying to catch up, do the essential stuff.’ She looked up. ‘Why? Did he say he needed me to go in?’

  ‘He told me you’d been in to do a quick tidy.’

  She shook her head. ‘He must be mistaken. I dropped off a tub of cream in his fridge – he’s a bit of an addict – but that was all. Is it important?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Probably not. We’re just trying to work out where everyone was. Did either of you leave the farm?’

  ‘I went into Barnstaple to do a supermarket shop,’ Sarah said. ‘I took the girls and we went to the park first. They’ve got all this space to play in, but they do love it and I just wanted to be away for a bit. You do understand?’

  ‘Of course. Mr Grieve, where were you today?’

  The man looked up. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Working. There’s all this drama, but the place doesn’t look after itself.’

  Matthew nodded. He wished he could speak to the man on his own. Grieve carried about him a sense of resentment. And if the rest of the family were in Barnstaple all afternoon, perhaps he could have slipped away. He’d know the land, might have access to a vehicle away from the farm. But now wasn’t the time for that conversation. Matthew was tired and he felt his concentration wandering. He wasn’t in the right mood to listen and often, he thought, his work was all about careful, intense listening.

  Back in the farmyard, Jonathan was waiting for him, leaning against the car. His hair looked very white in the dusk. It glowed like a halo.

  ‘Is Eve okay?’

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘As well as she could be in the circumstances. Halfway through a bottle of Pinot, but there’s no other booze in the place. I checked. The last thing she needs is to wake up with a hangover.’

  ‘You should have left Jen Rafferty to do the interview. It wasn’t your place to interfere.’ Matthew unlocked the car and got inside. Jonathan followed.

  ‘I wasn’t interfering. I was being a friend.’ He paused. ‘I’d have left as soon as Jen came up. But I wanted to make Eve comfortable. She was so stressed. Rigid with shock.’

  Matthew started the engine. He said nothing and let the tension stretch.

  ‘You don’t think she killed those two men?�
� Jonathan demanded at last. ‘Her father and her friend. You don’t think she took a piece of glass that she’d created and smashed it and stuck it in their necks and watched the blood flood out?’

  ‘No!’ Matthew said. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Then what possible harm could I do?’

  Matthew was about to talk about the importance of rules, procedure, but he could see that the words would mean nothing to Jonathan. Rules had never mattered to him. So instead, they drove back to the coast in silence.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE NEXT DAY, ROSS ARRIVED AT the police station early, but the boss was still there before him, doing the things that most senior officers wouldn’t think to do themselves: filling the coffee machine, setting out the chairs in the ops room. Ross knew Venn’s willingness to muck in was admirable, but it made him uncomfortable. He liked his boundaries to be clear, to know where he stood. Besides, he was ambitious. One day he’d be a DI and he wouldn’t want to be concerned with the trivia of an investigation. He was anxious that Venn might be setting an unfortunate precedent.

  Jen Rafferty flew in at the last minute, red hair flying. Ross had got to know her better when they’d worked on the Simon Walden murder, but he still found her tricky. She was too opinionated, too dismissive of his ideas. Too willing to side with the scrotes. Too emotional altogether. Venn stood at the front. Ross always thought he looked like an undertaker. It was the understated dark suits, worn sometimes even in this weather, and the shiny black shoes, the sombre, thoughtful manner. The hair, already quite grey.

  Venn had started talking.

  ‘Two murders,’ he said. ‘Nigel Yeo and Wesley Curnow. Connected through the community at Westacombe Farm.’ A pause. ‘Of course, the press will have a field day with this – I’ve already seen one of the national tabloid headlines, Double Murder on Sunshine Coast – but we have to ignore that sort of speculation. The victims were individuals and they have fam- ilies. They deserve our respect. However, we’ll obviously be looking for connections. These killings weren’t random or coincidental.’