The Heron's Cry Page 5

  Another connection. Janey must be Mack’s sister. The pretty, lively one everybody likes.

  ‘She didn’t offer to give you a lift all the way?’

  ‘Nah.’ Wesley gave a wry smile. ‘She’d had enough of me by then. Janey’s not the sort to do favours.’

  ‘So, you walked all the way back from the main road?’

  He shrugged. ‘It was a beautiful evening and I’m used to it.’ He paused. ‘It’s only a mile or so. There was a car, coming in the opposite direction, down from the farm. I was in the middle of the road. That time of night, you don’t expect to see anyone. It must have freaked them out too. I jumped into the hedge and they slammed on the brakes. Missed me by inches.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the car?’

  Wesley shook his head. ‘I was blinded by the headlights. It was going fast. Too fast for the road, even though there was no other traffic about. It disappeared down the hill and I pulled myself out of the hedge, covered by bloody nettle stings.’ He held out his arm, but the stings seemed to have faded.

  ‘And this would have been about one o’clock?’

  ‘Even later than that. I was nearly home.’

  ‘Anything unusual when you got here?’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything, but I was still a bit shaken after my close encounter with mortality.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes. Matthew thought he was trying to picture the scene, the late-night, starlit farmyard. Ross was restless and seemed about to throw in a question of his own, but Matthew motioned for him to stay quiet. Wesley’s eyes opened. ‘I’m pretty sure there weren’t any lights on in the building. I’d have noticed. Sarah is like the planet police and gives us grief over any wasted energy. Eve follows the rules, so it would have struck me if she’d left a light on in her studio. Everything was quiet. I let myself into the kitchen and came up to the flat.’

  ‘You and Eve have keys to the kitchen door?’

  ‘Yes, that’s how we get into the house. Frank has the rest of the space and uses the front door overlooking the garden.’

  ‘What about the studios? Are they kept locked?’ Matthew thought Jen would have asked about that, but it was worth checking.

  ‘Yes. Even though most of my work uses stuff that people are trying to get rid of, my tools cost a fortune. Nobody much finds their way here, but I wouldn’t take the risk. And Eve’s the same about her place. Some of her commissions take hours to make and her equipment is worth a bomb. Her dad bought the furnace as a twenty-first birthday present.’

  Matthew thought that made sense. ‘Would Nigel have had a key?’

  ‘Yeah, almost certainly. He kept an eye on the place when Eve went away. She’s got uni mates in Exeter and spends weekends with them sometimes.’

  ‘Did you see Dr Yeo’s car in the yard when you arrived back from the party?’

  Wes shook his head. ‘But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. We all park in the far corner so John can get his tractor through and that’s in shadow.’

  Matthew would have liked to close his eyes now, to run through various scenarios. Nigel’s car had been found in the yard, so he’d driven here. Jen had said that he’d hardly had anything to drink at the party. Had he arranged to meet someone? Why here and not his home in Barnstaple? But a detective inspector couldn’t look as if he was sleeping in the middle of an interview, so he kept his eyes open and stood up.

  ‘I think that’s all we need for now. I’m sure we’ll have other questions.’

  ‘Of course. Come at any time.’

  He seemed very relieved that they were leaving. Matthew wondered if that was because of the cannabis. Or because the man had something more important to hide.

  Chapter Six

  IN THE LOW, WHITE HOUSE BY the shore, Jonathan was enjoy- ing a lazy Saturday morning. Matthew was at work; he’d been woken very early by his phone. Jonathan had got up too, made coffee for them both while Matthew showered, then as soon as he’d heard his husband’s car drive away down the toll road, Jonathan had gone back to bed. He’d woken again to full sunlight streaming through the open window, the long call of herring gulls and the sound of waves on the beach. Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. At this time of year Crow Point attracted lots of dog-walkers.

  Now he was in the kitchen planning. The following day, Matthew’s mother would be coming for Sunday lunch. Such a simple event was fraught with difficulties. They’d invited her before, but she’d always refused. Too proud or too bigoted to meet her son’s husband. Or too anxious, Jonathan thought, about what her friends in the small, tight, uptight religious community to which she belonged might think. More worried about appearances than her son’s happiness. Matthew had grown up in the same community, and despite rejection, seemed not to have a strong sense of resentment against the Brethren. There was more a cold reluctance to engage, either with his former friends or with his mother. Tomorrow would be her birthday. Jonathan had issued the invitation in writing, in a card, and a small formal note of acceptance had been sent back. That was when he’d told Matthew what he’d done, and Matthew had been worried about it ever since. Matthew was a worrier in every situation. He’d rushed off to his murder scene this morning almost with a sense of relief. Work would be a distraction.

  Jonathan would cook, of course. He loved cooking and sometimes had dreams of leaving the Woodyard and setting up a restaurant, something unpretentious and welcoming to celebrate local food. He knew he’d never do it, though. The Woodyard, the arts centre and community hub on the banks of the Taw, in Barnstaple, was his baby, his creation. He’d found the funds, set it up and from the magical opening evening, he’d managed it. Now, he couldn’t imagine life without it.

  Lunch would have to be a roast, because it would be a Sunday and Dorothy Venn would expect it. She’d be traditional in her tastes. He’d never met her, but he thought he knew her. And a roast would make Matthew happy. Jonathan was almost entirely veggie these days, and because he did most of the cooking, so was Matthew, at home at least. A large slab of meat, a rib of beef perhaps, would be a treat. And it would give Jonathan the chance to show off his Yorkshire puddings. Afterwards there would be cake. A special birthday cake, still to be decided on. Something spectacular with a lot of whipped cream and the first strawberries from the garden.

  He made more coffee and went outside to sit and drink it, lazing on the wrought-iron bench with its view of the estuary. He was wearing shorts and sandals, and the sun was already hot on his bare legs. He was writing a shopping list, planning his trip into town, when his mobile rang. It was one of the young craftspeople he’d encouraged to exhibit in the Woodyard when it had first opened and he was looking for the support of younger artists. Soon afterwards, Eve Yeo had become more than another work contact. They’d become friends when her mother was in the final stages of Alzheimer’s disease, close to death. Eve had come into his office one day and burst into tears, spilled out her grief and her guilt and her rage. He’d comforted her and she’d come back a few weeks later with a jug made from cloudy blue glass with a clear twisted handle. ‘Just to say thank you.’ He’d gone to Helen Yeo’s funeral a fortnight later.

  Now, Jonathan was pleased to hear from her. He was proud that she liked to keep in touch. He wasn’t quite old enough to be Eve’s father, but if he’d had a child, he’d have loved them to be someone like her: passionate, creative. He loved her energy and her dedication to her art.

  ‘Hi, Eve.’

  ‘Can I meet you?’

  They got together occasionally on Saturday mornings for coffee in George Mackenzie’s bar in Instow, but plans for the meal were still at the forefront of his mind. He never liked to rush when he was creating.

  ‘Sure,’ he said easily. ‘One day next week?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to see me today. Something rather dreadful has happened. I need to get away from Westacombe for a while.’

  Only now could Jonathan tell how upset she was. She was just about holding it together. H
e didn’t want to pry over the phone, though. Eve had always been a private young woman. The only time he’d seen her break down was the time she’d cried in his office. Even at her mother’s funeral she’d been controlled, almost calm.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, thoughts of the meal forgotten. ‘Lunch at George’s, in the Sandpiper?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘That’s still a bit close to home.’

  ‘I’m planning to go into Barnstaple anyway. Why don’t we meet in the cafe in the Woodyard? It’s not too busy at the weekend.’

  ‘That would be perfect.’ He could sense her relief. ‘Half an hour?’

  ‘That might be a bit optimistic with the traffic,’ he said. ‘But yeah. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

  * * *

  Once, the place had been a timber yard, putting together door and window frames and shipping them all over the country. When it had first become a part of Jonathan’s life, the yard had been derelict for years, the warehouses crumbling behind a high security chain fence. There had been plans to clear the empty buildings and replace them with a new retail park, but the shops on the high street were already struggling for survival, and Jonathan had seen the site’s potential. His vision had created the Woodyard, an arts centre with spaces for performance and exhibitions. It housed a community choir and a youth theatre, and a day centre for people with learning disabilities.

  The cafe had a view over the river. The sliding doors to the terrace had been opened and most customers were sitting outside. Lucy Braddick, a woman with Down syndrome, who worked part-time as one of the waitresses, was clearing tables. She gave him a little wave and a huge smile. Eve was there before him. She’d chosen a table inside, in a corner, hidden by a pillar. As soon as he saw her, Jonathan could tell that she’d been crying. He gave her a hug; her shoulders were rigid, could have been formed from twisted wire.

  They sat for a moment in silence. There was no need to ask her what was wrong. She’d tell him when she was ready. Staying quiet was one of the skills he’d learned from Matthew.

  ‘I think I met your husband today,’ she said at last. ‘You did tell me he’s called Matthew and that he works as a detective?’

  ‘Yes. He was called out to a case earlier this morning.’ This wasn’t at all what he was expecting.

  ‘He’s at Westacombe. At the farm.’ She looked up. ‘I only saw him briefly, but he seems very nice.’ Her voice was horribly controlled. ‘It was a woman who spoke to me.’

  ‘That will have been Jen. Jen Rafferty.’

  She nodded. ‘Somebody killed my father,’ she said. ‘Stabbed him with a piece of my glass. I found him in my studio early this morning.’

  ‘Oh love.’ The shock seemed a little like a stab. It was as if the blood was draining from his face and he felt almost that he was about to faint. How must Eve have reacted to finding Yeo? To a horrific scene in the place where she was at her most creative? She was closer to her father than he’d ever been to either of his adoptive parents; he’d envied the relationship she and Nigel had shared. He pulled his chair closer to hers and held her in his arms again. He couldn’t believe that an hour earlier he’d been obsessing about the ingredients for Sunday lunch; that choosing the right menu had seemed the most important thing in the world. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘That’s the worst thing. Not knowing what happened or why. It seems so random. Everybody liked my father; he was a good man. And yet, a piece of my glass killed him, caused all the blood. I know it’s irrational, but I feel somehow responsible.’

  Jonathan didn’t know what to say. Usually words came easily to him. He held her hand for a moment. It felt tiny, the bones thin, like a small bird’s, and it fluttered, as if it were separate and alive.

  At last, he spoke. ‘Matthew will find out. That’s what he does. It’s almost who he is.’

  Gently, she pulled her hand away. ‘I should go back. I can’t run away forever.’

  ‘Do you want to come and stay with us for a while?’ The words came out on impulse.

  She thought for a moment. ‘Not today,’ she said. ‘I need to be on my own now. But I might take you up on the offer. In a couple of days maybe.’

  ‘Anytime. Really, anytime.’

  Chapter Seven

  JEN STOOD OUTSIDE WESTACOMBE COTTAGE, rang the bell and waited. The cottage was like something out of a child’s picture book, with low eaves and a thatched roof, but Jen didn’t appreciate its beauty. It was early afternoon and she was starving; breakfast seemed an age away. Sarah Grieve opened the door, and stood, blocking the way, silent and implacable.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Jen said, ‘but I do need to ask some questions.’

  ‘It’s not convenient.’

  ‘Eve’s dad is dead. Someone stuck a piece of glass in his neck. He bled all over her studio floor. That was more than inconvenient.’ Jen stopped speaking, and thought she’d ruined any chance she’d had to build a relationship with the woman. Even Ross would have done better and Matthew would be furious. But something about this woman, and missing lunch, and the remnants of a hangover, had got under her skin. She was about to apologize when Sarah Grieve stood aside.

  ‘I suppose you’re just doing your job.’

  ‘The first few hours are important,’ Jen said. ‘We need to talk to you all.’

  There was a dark hall, coats piled onto hooks, boots and shoes spilling out of a rack.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess.’ The words were automatic; there was no sense that Sarah really cared what Jen thought about the state of her house. There was an open door leading into a kitchen. A tall, good-looking man with an impressive beard, and two small girls in shorts and T-shirts, sat at a scrubbed pine table. They’d been eating lunch and the remains of the meal were crammed at one end. At the other stood a pile of files, a basket of knitting wool, a doll with one arm and stray pieces of Lego.

  The man stood up, stared. Jen picked up hostility. Was this how he always reacted to strangers in his home? ‘This is one of the detectives,’ Sarah said. ‘She wants to ask us some questions.’

  ‘I need to get back to work.’ But John Grieve hovered where he was. He didn’t move towards the door.

  ‘It won’t take long.’ The window in the room was small and there was no direct sunlight. After the brightness of the courtyard, it seemed very dark. Even in this heat, there was a faint smell of damp. The cottage might be idyllic from the outside, but it was cramped for a family of four. Jen was still struggling to make out all the detail in the kitchen. There seemed to be nowhere for her to sit.

  ‘Why don’t you go and play?’ Sarah said to the children. ‘You can use the laptop in our bedroom. Just half an hour.’

  This seemed an unexpected treat and the girls ran off.

  ‘We don’t usually allow them screens.’ Sarah sat on one of the chairs and nodded for Jen to join them at the table. Jen thought briefly that if she’d been any kind of mother, she’d have limited her kids’ access to the internet, but it was too late for that now. Ben could barely make it through dinner without recourse to his phone. John Grieve returned to his chair. No move was made to clear the bread board, the rinds of cheese, the wilting salad. The woman leaned back in her chair. ‘So, what do you need to know?’

  ‘Did you hear or see anything unusual last night? Or the early hours of this morning?’

  The couple looked at each other. Jen couldn’t work out what was going on. Some secret message passing between them? But they must have known the question would be asked and they would have had time to work out a story.

  ‘I was in bed by ten,’ John Grieve said. ‘I have to be up early for milking.’

  ‘I was later,’ Sarah said. ‘Frank wanted something in writing on the changes we’re planning to make to the dairy. I thought I’d make a start while it was clear in my head.’

  ‘What time did you finish?’

  ‘Midnight. Maybe a bit after
.’

  ‘Did you hear a car in the yard? We know Nigel drove to Westacombe last night. At least, his vehicle is here.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I was listening to music and had headphones on so I wouldn’t wake the kids.’

  ‘You didn’t see headlights?’

  ‘No, sorry. I was pretty focused on the screen.’

  Grieve looked up. ‘I noticed Nigel’s car when I went out to the cows this morning. I thought he’d had an early start.’

  ‘You didn’t see him?’

  ‘No, I thought he’d be in the flat with Eve.’

  ‘Nothing unusual at all?’

  ‘Sorry.’ John Grieve got to his feet. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. It’s a busy time.’ He gave a brief nod to his wife and left the room. Through the kitchen door, Jen saw him pull on his boots in the hall and there was a sudden flash of sunlight as he went into the yard.

  In the cluttered room, there was silence. Jen waited. She thought the woman might have more to say. Everything was still. She felt for a moment like a character in a gloomy Dutch painting. All brown interiors and rotting fruit. Her friend Cynthia fancied herself an expert in art, and dragged Jen round visiting exhibitions occasionally.

  The silence stretched, until at last Sarah spoke. ‘Everyone thinks it’s paradise living here. We’re almost rent-free because I look after the big house for Frank when he’s not around, and he gives Wes and Eve a great deal too. But it’s not without its difficulties, living practically on top of each other. This place might look pretty, but it’s a bit low on mod cons. And Frank isn’t always easy.’

  ‘In what way not easy?’ This wasn’t Jen’s idea of paradise. She could imagine it in the winter when the westerly gales came hurtling off the Atlantic, the place all draughts and mud. And wouldn’t that attract vermin? Mice? Rats even?

  Another silence, only broken by laughter from the girls upstairs.

  ‘He’s full of principles, which is great if you’re minted, but not so easy for the rest of us.’