The Girls on the Shore Page 2

  ‘Well,’ Jen said to the woman sitting opposite to her, facing out at the view, the wide sky and the estuary slowly filling up with water. ‘What’s been going on at home?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I’ve been phoning around,’ Jen said. ‘One of my posh neighbours has a daughter at your girls’ school. Brookes is it called? Seems your kids haven’t been there since Christmas.’

  ‘Ah yes, it’s their first day back for a week. They’ve been a little unwell.’ The woman’s voice was tense, tight.

  ‘I’ve seen the bruises on Imogen’s arms.’ Jen said. ‘Where she’s been gripped too hard. Old bruises, but they still hurt her. Olivia wouldn’t let me look at her body. Too embarrassed maybe. Or trying to protect someone.’

  There was silence.

  ‘I assume that was why you kept them off school.’

  ‘You can’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, I understand.’ Jen was barely keeping her self-control. ‘I was married to a bastard who beat me. When he started on the kids, that was when I left him.’

  ‘You think my husband hurt the girls?’ Elizabeth’s shock seemed genuine enough. ‘No! He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Was it you then?’ Matthew kept his voice gentle. He’d take over the interview now. If Jen lost her temper, the woman would only become distant and defensive. ‘I found the empty bottle in your car. Alcoholism is an illness. We can get help for you. Support.’

  ‘Is that what you think? That I’m an alcoholic?’ The fight had left her. She leaned forwards, her head in her hands. ‘No, I’m not a drinker. Not in that way.’

  ‘Why don’t you explain?’

  ‘It’s been such a fight,’ she said, ‘holding it all together.’

  Matthew said nothing and shot Jen a look to stop her from speaking too. Elizabeth wanted to talk. She was just trying to find the right words. She looked up.

  ‘We were older parents. I was thirty-nine when Olivia was born and my husband, Will, is six years older than me. Our lives were ordered. We had careers, a lovely house. We didn’t think a baby would change things very much. We were competent adults; we’d manage the arrival of a small human being into our home as we’d managed everything else. But Olivia was difficult from the beginning. She hardly slept and she cried. Oh, how she cried! And as she got older, she was never still, never content. I took time off work, then we had a series of nannies, but none of them stayed, even when we paid them a fortune. Will escaped into his business. And when he did spend time with Olivia he was cold.’ A pause. ‘Strict.’

  ‘Cruel?’ Jen asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t have described it as that.’

  The sun had risen above the house now and was shining across them, throwing long shadows across the lawn. Matthew waited for Elizabeth to continue.

  ‘I discovered I was pregnant again. It wasn’t planned. I considered an abortion, but in the end, I couldn’t do it.’ She paused. ‘From the beginning, Imogen was a very different child. She ate and she slept at regular times. I suppose she was easy to love.’ A pause. ‘Will found her easy to love.’

  ‘And Olivia resented her.’

  ‘Olivia hated her.’

  ‘She caused the bruises?’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘I think she’ll do anything for drama. Her life seems to be one long escape from boredom. If you found an empty bottle in the car, it will have been hers. She steals from us, gets older kids to buy booze for her. She’s always disappearing in the evening and we don’t know where she is. And believe me, she can look a lot older than her age.’

  ‘Did you try to get help for her?’

  The woman didn’t answer directly. ‘The girls started off in our local primary school, but Olivia was always in trouble. Will thought Brookes might provide the structure she needed.’

  ‘You didn’t ask social services for help? CAMHS?’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Will would have seen that as failure. A matter of shame. To have a social worker prying into our lives! He’s a great believer in self-reliance. Except he’s never at home to deal with it all.’ Her voice was faint with exhaustion. Matthew could imagine the relentless discussions about their daughter’s future, battles continuing long into the night.

  ‘Tell me what happened this morning. Did you get a phone call?’

  ‘Is that what Olivia told you? No. She asked me to drive here.’

  ‘And you just did as you were told?’ Jen couldn’t help interrupting.

  ‘I couldn’t face another scene at school. Olivia refusing to go in. When we got to the shore I needed air and space. I shouldn’t have left them alone in the car together. I see that now. After all, I had Imogen’s safety to think about.’

  ‘And Olivia,’ Matthew said. ‘She needs help too.’ He paused. ‘We’re all redeemable.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Her voice was mocking.

  ‘I do.’ It was only as he spoke that he realized it was true. He looked through the window at the girls in the kitchen. They were still drawing. From here they looked like perfectly well-adjusted children

  ‘You should talk to their father,’ Jen said. ‘Or leave him. The three of you might cope better without him.’

  Matthew was shocked. It wasn’t their place to break up a family. But he said nothing and waited for Elizabeth to reply.

  Elizabeth stared out at the shore. ‘Sometimes I dream of doing that, but I don’t think I’m sufficiently brave.’

  ‘I didn’t think I was that brave either.’ Jen paused. Matthew watched. Still he said nothing and Jen continued speaking. ‘My husband hit me. Olivia’s troubled. Seems to me that not facing up to her problems is a kind of abuse too.’

  There was a moment of silence. Elizabeth had started crying, but she made no noise. Matthew could hear the suck of the tide on the beach. The woman looked up at Jen.

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘I have friends who work in the field,’ Jen said. ‘We can help. If you’d like us to.’

  Matthew was aware that he was holding his breath. At last Elizabeth nodded, slowly, as if an important decision had been made.

  ‘I’ll make some calls,’ Jen said. ‘We’ll go in. Out of the cold.’

  Elizabeth nodded again.

  A little later, the family walked away, the mother in between the girls, her arms around them both. Olivia briefly rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. Matthew stood on the terrace and watched them go.

  Back in the house Jen was making tea. ‘Good work,’ he said.

  She grinned. ‘Hardly legitimate police stuff though, is it? Not sure what the boss will say. Two detectives spending all morning on a sad little girl.’

  ‘It’s crime prevention,’ Matthew said. ‘Without you, who knows how it would end up?’ He thought of all the young women he’d met in his career who had gone off the rails, committing ever more serious crimes. They’d all once been sad little girls, with no one to look out for them. Perhaps this time their intervention would make the difference.

  DCI Vera Stanhope returns in

  THE RISING TIDE

  For fifty years a group of friends have been meeting regularly for reunions on Holy Island, celebrating the school trip where they met, and the friend that they lost to the rising causeway tide five years later.

  Now, when one of them is found hanged, Vera is called in. Learning that the dead man had recently been fired after misconduct allegations, Vera knows she must discover what the friends are hiding, and whether the events of many years before could have led to murder then, and now…

  But with the tide rising, secrets long-hidden are finding their way to the surface, and Vera and the team may find themselves in more danger than they could have believed possible…

  Read on for the exclusive opening extract from the tenth novel in Ann Cleeves’ acclaimed series, a powerful novel about guilt, betrayal and the long-held secrets people keep.

  Coming September 2022.


  www.anncleeves.com

  Chapter One

  Philip was first of the group to the island. He’d had to drive overnight but it was worth the effort to get here before the morning high water, before the day trippers crossed from the mainland in their cars and coaches to buy ice cream and chips. He tried not to resent the squabbling children and the wealthy elderly, but he was always pleased when the island was quiet. As he did at every reunion, he wanted to sit in the chapel and reflect for some time in peace. This year would mark fifty years of friendship and he needed to offer a prayer of thanks and to remember.

  The most vivid memory was of the weekend when they’d first come together on the island. Only Connect, the teacher had called it. Part outward bound course, part encounter group, part team-building session. And there had been a connection, so strong and fierce that after fifty years the tie was still there, unbroken and still worth celebrating. This was where it had all started.

  The next memory was of death and a life cut short.

  Philip had no fear of dying. Sometimes, he thought he would welcome death, as an insomniac longs for sleep. It was as inevitable as the water, which twice a day slid across the sand and mud of the shore until the causeway was covered. Eventually, he would drown. His faith provided no extra comfort, only a vague curiosity. Almost, he hoped that there would be no afterlife; surely that would take energy and there were days now when he felt that he had no energy left. It had seeped away in his service to his parish and the people who needed him.

  He did regret the deaths of others. His working life moved to the beat of funeral services, the tolling of the church bell, the march of pall-bearers. He remembered the babies, who’d had no experience of life at all, the young who’d had no opportunity to change and grow. He’d been allowed that chance and he offered up another prayer of gratitude.

  An image of Isobel, so young, so bonny, so reckless in her desires and her thoughtlessness, intruded into his meditation and he allowed his mind to wander.

  Was it Isobel who kept the group returning to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne every five years? Had her death at the first reunion bonded them together so tightly that, despite their differences, they were as close as family? Perhaps that deserved gratitude too, because these people were the only family he had left.

  In the tiny chapel, with its smell of damp and wood polish, he closed his eyes and he pictured her. Blonde and shapely and sparking with life. A wide smile and energy enough for them all.

  From the first floor of the Pilgrims’ House, he’d seen her driving away to her death. He’d watched too the argument that had led to her sudden departure. Forty-five years ago, Isobel had drowned literally. No metaphor had been needed for her. Her body had been pulled out of her car, once the waters had retreated. Her vehicle had been swept from the causeway in the high tide of the equinox, tossed from the road like a toy by the wind and the waves. Once she’d set out on her way to the mainland, there had been no chance to save her.

  Had that been the moment when he’d changed from a selfish, self-opinionated, edgy young man to a person of faith? Perhaps the conversion had begun a little later, the evening of the same day, when he’d sat in this chapel in the candlelight with his friends and they’d cried together, trying to make sense of Isobel’s passing. Annie and Daniel, Lou and Ken, Rick and Philip. The mourning had been complicated because none of them had liked Isobel very much. The men had all fancied her. Oh yes, certainly that. She’d featured in Philip’s erotic dreams throughout his undergraduate years. But she’d been too demanding and too entitled for them to like her.

  Philip opened his eyes for a moment. The low sunlight of autumn was flooding through the plain glass windows into the building, but he knew he had time for more reflection – more guilt? – before the others arrived. He closed his eyes again to remember Isobel and that argument which must surely have led to her death. He hadn’t heard the words. He’d been in his first-floor room in the Pilgrims’ House looking down, an observer, not a participant. Isobel and Rick had been fighting in the lane below him. There’d been no physical contact – it hadn’t come to that – but Philip had sensed the tension, which was so different from the weekend’s general mood of easy companionship.

  The fight had seemed important. Almost intimate. Not a row between casual friends or strangers. Not over something trivial. That had been clear from the body language, not the words. Even if Philip had been closer, he might not have made out what was being said, because there was a storm blowing and the wind would have carried the words away. He’d relished the drama of the scene, looking on with a voyeur’s excitement, as he’d watched the row play out beneath him.

  Then, from where he’d stood, he’d seen Annie rounding the bend in the lane, a woven shopping bag in one hand. She must have been into the village for provisions. No longer a mother, she’d mothered them all that weekend, and now, all these years later, she was still the person who shopped and cooked.

  Rick and Isobel hadn’t noticed her, because they were so focused on each other, spitting out insults. Rick had hurled one more comment and suddenly Isobel had been flouncing away, her long hair blown over her face, feeling in the pockets of her flowery Laura Ashley dress for her car keys. At that point Philip could have changed history. If he’d rushed downstairs and outside, he might have stood in front of the car and stopped her driving away. He’d known after all that the tide was rushing in and it would be foolhardy to attempt the crossing.

  But Philip hadn’t moved. He’d stayed where he was, staring out of the window like a nebby old woman, waiting to see what would happen next. Annie had arrived at the Pilgrims’ House by then, and was trying to persuade Isobel to wait. Rick, in contrast, had just stood aside and let her go, pleased, it had seemed, to be shot of her.

  So, here Philip was, a priest on the verge of retirement, an old believer, yet with no great desire to meet his maker. Here he sat, hands clasped and eyes shut, waiting for his friends, longing again for the connection and the ease that only they could give, pondering the moment of Isobel’s death. It seemed to him now that he’d spent the rest of his life trying to find relationships that were as intense and fulfilling as those developed here. Nothing had lived up to expectation. Not even, if he was honest, his trust in Christ.

  Perhaps that was why he’d never married. Later, there’d been women he’d fancied himself in love with, but there’d never been the same depth of understanding, and in the end, he’d refused to compromise. If one of the women who’d shared that first weekend of connection had been free, perhaps that would have worked. Now, it crossed his mind again that Judith, the teacher who’d brought them together, might make a suitable partner, that he might find company and intimacy in old age. They were both alone after all. But Philip knew that he was probably too cowardly and too lazy to make a move. He smiled to himself; he wasn’t sure he wanted to share his life after all this time. He was too comfortable, and too set in his ways.

  He got to his feet, walked down the narrow aisle and out into the sunshine. He could smell seaweed and salt. He felt at home.

  Chapter Two

  Annie Laidler shut the deli door and locked it. A regular customer turned up two minutes late and looked through the window. Usually, Annie would have let her in, all smiles and welcome – but today she pretended not to see. Jax had already left and this was October, a reunion year. Annie had been planning the moment for weeks.

  She began to pack the two wicker hampers with jars and dried goods. They’d already been pulled from the shelves and were standing in a line on the counter. Then she turned her attention to the fresh items. There were green and black olives, all scooped into separate tubs. Slices of charcuterie glistening with fat. Cheese: Doddington, with its black rind and hard, sharp taste, Northumberland nettle, oozing brie and crumbling Wensleydale. Squat loaves of ciabatta and sourdough baked by Jax early that morning. Local butter, wrapped in greaseproof paper. A taste of home for her friends who’d moved away. A reminder to them th
at she and the region had moved on.

  Still, at the last moment she added stotties – the flatbread cakes that they’d filled with chips when they’d all been kids – then home-baked ham and pease pudding. Traditional Geordie fare. A kind of irony, a joke that they’d all appreciate. Through this food, memories would be triggered, and anecdotes would follow. Images clicked into her head like slides dropping into an old-fashioned projector carousel. A school play dress rehearsal. Rick in full costume as Claudius, collapsing suddenly in giggles and the rest of them losing it. Except Philip, who was Hamlet, furious that his long speech had been interrupted. And Miss Marshall, their English teacher, almost in tears because she thought the performance itself would be a disaster.

  More slides. More images of Only Connect – the event originally organized by the school, or at least by Miss Marshall, as an attempt to bring together some of the new lower sixth. She wanted to challenge their preconceptions, she’d said; to open their minds to possibilities beyond Kimmerston Grammar. That initial weekend gathering – a kind of secular retreat – had turned them into this tight group. Still friends fifty years on; still meeting in the same place every five years. This time the recollection was of teenagers, talking endlessly, sitting at the long tables in the kitchen at the Pilgrims’ House, dipping stotties into the veggie soup, hardly pausing the conversation long enough to eat.

  After the first reunion, and Isobel’s death, Annie had wondered if the reunions would continue, but they had. Rick had said to meet up would be an act of remembrance, but after all this time, the mentions of Isobel had become a ritual, no more meaningful than the Friday night drinking, or the Saturday afternoon walk.

  The hampers were almost too heavy for Annie to carry to the car. Five years ago, she must have been fitter, stronger. She’d get someone to help her at the other end. One of the men. Rick was always keen to prove how macho he was, with his tales of marathons run, and trips to the gym.