The Moth Catcher (Vera Stanhope series Book 7) Read online

  Just inside the front door a laminated sheet of paper had been fixed to the wall with a drawing pin. It said ‘Office’ and an arrow pointed up the stairs. Holly followed it and came to an empty reception desk. She hesitated for a moment when somebody shouted from a room to the right. ‘Can I help you?’

  Holly followed the voice into an untidy space. Two desks piled with files, a couple of computers that looked as if they’d been there for a decade. And two women, one large and confident, one skinny and nervous. A window looked out towards the main street and there was a background rumble of traffic.

  Holly identified herself. The skinny woman looked even more nervous. Holly heard Vera’s voice in her head: You shouldn’t read anything into that, Hol. In some communities bairns are brought up to see the cops as the enemy. It doesn’t mean they’ve got anything to hide.

  Still, Holly couldn’t help feeling suspicious. ‘Hope North-East. What’s that?’

  ‘We’re a registered charity,’ the skinny one said, too quickly. ‘We’re all above board here.’

  Holly didn’t answer and turned to the larger woman. She had an official-looking name badge that read ‘Shirley’, and wore smart black trousers and a blue silk top. Holly thought she’d get more sense out of her.

  ‘We provide support and assistance for offenders newly released from prison or young-offender institute.’ The words came easily. Shirley had given the same explanation many times before. ‘We also give help to the offenders’ families.’

  ‘What kind of service do you provide?’ Holly felt more confident now. Shirley was a professional and she could relate to her. ‘Specifically.’

  ‘Sometimes all people need is information. If the wage earner suddenly disappears from the scene, partners flounder when it comes to applying for benefits. Just the business of organizing visiting orders and transport to the prison can be a nightmare. And you can find that your friends suddenly disappear, once a family member is sentenced. When offenders are first released, we try to provide friendship and company. Practical help with housing and money. In prison it’s easy, in lots of ways. The inmates get fed, clothed, and if they’re lucky they’re given work. When they first come out some people flounder.’

  ‘What’s going on downstairs?’ Holly thought the victims could do with a bit more support, and these do-gooders should direct their efforts in that direction.

  ‘A support group for people who have a problem with alcohol. The traditional AA approach doesn’t work for everyone. Our approach is a little less formal.’

  ‘Did a man called Martin Benton work for you?’ Holly took the photograph of the dead man and placed it on the desk in front of Shirley. The skinny woman stood up to look too, more curious now than worried.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  Holly didn’t reply immediately. ‘You do recognize him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Shirley said. ‘That’s Martin.’

  ‘He died yesterday in suspicious circumstances.’ She thought the information would be all over the news by that evening, and besides you could tell from the photo that the man was no longer hale and hearty. ‘We’re trying to piece together as much information as we can about him. I understand that he worked here with you.’

  There was a moment of shocked silence, before Shirley started speaking. ‘He came as a volunteer first. Then we put in a funding bid, so we could update our IT. When I first started, it was a nightmare. Everything on card indexes, no attempt at data protection. Martin applied for the admin post and got the job.’

  ‘Were there any problems?’

  ‘None at all. He was a dream employee.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ For the second time that day Holly found her attention wandering. I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to be in a scuzzy office in a scuzzy town asking questions about a man I don’t care about at all.

  ‘He was punctual, reliable and very effective. A whizz at anything to do with the computers. In the end he was helping the clients. He ran a series of workshops for us in the local library, showing people how to register online for work and for benefits. Lots of them don’t have computers at home.’

  Automatically Holly took out her iPad and began to write notes.

  ‘How long did he work for you?’

  ‘He was here on a six-month contract,’ Shirley said. The skinny woman had moved back to her desk, but made no pretence of working and was listening to every word. ‘After that, our funding dried up and we couldn’t afford to keep him on. He still came in once a week to help out as a volunteer. I’m the only paid worker in the place, and I’m on the minimum wage.’

  ‘What’s your background?’

  ‘I did a social-work diploma and worked as a probation officer for twenty years,’ Shirley said. ‘But I didn’t fancy working for a company more interested in profit than in befriending clients, when the service was reorganized and put out to private tender. Here I’m doing what I’m good at.’

  Downstairs the group seemed to be breaking up. There were shouts as people wandered out into the street. The buzz of more animated conversation in the room below.

  ‘Did you know that Martin collected moths?’ Holly wasn’t sure how that could be relevant to the man’s death, but Joe had made a big deal about it.

  ‘Sure. He was very quiet. Shy. But when he talked about moths he seemed to come alive. Moths and computers. The loves of his life.’ Shirley smiled.

  ‘There was nobody special then?’

  ‘He never mentioned anyone. But then he probably wouldn’t. As I said, he was very shy. Anyway, he found dealing with people tricky. Martin ran the taster computer sessions with clients because he knew they were useful, but he was happier tucked away here in the office.’

  There were footsteps, heavy on the bare stairs, and a man stood just inside the office door. Middle-aged and enormous. Shaved head. Tattoos. Hands the size of shovels, with dirt ingrained under the fingernails. ‘This is Frank,’ Shirley said. ‘He’s just been running the group. Another of our regular helpers.’

  They sat in the window of a cafe. Frank drank a double-espresso and asked for a Coke to go with it. Holly had tea, too strong for her taste. Frank did most of the talking, a continuous monologue fuelled by caffeine and sugar. ‘I’ve got an addictive personality. Better coffee than booze. That’s why I got into bother when I was a kid. I wasn’t into thieving because I needed stuff. It was the buzz, the excitement. Knowing that I might get caught.’

  ‘And you did get caught.’

  ‘Of course I did. I was stupid. Detention centre, young offenders, prison. I worked my way through them. Didn’t stop me stealing, though, and by then I’d found other stuff to give me a buzz. Heroin. I got into that inside. By that time I was needing to thieve to pay for it.’

  ‘But you’re straight now?’

  ‘Yeah. Clean and straight. I’ve got my own little business. Gardening. I was never going to be any good working indoors. And I help out at Hope when I can.’

  Holly wasn’t sure how to react. She’d never been convinced that people changed so dramatically. ‘You got friendly with Martin Benton?’

  ‘He was a gentle soul, Martin. He needed someone to look out for him.’

  ‘You supported him when he came out of hospital after his mother died?’ Holly was still struggling to think of this man as a guardian angel.

  ‘Then, but also when the Job Centre got him assessed as fit for work. The stress of teaching had made him ill and he was still getting over the last breakdown. No way could he go back to that. So I suggested that he’d be better registering as self-employed. That gets the bastards off your back, you know. He was a clever guy. He had some savings in the bank to see him through until he got set up. And he had skills.’

  ‘Moths and computers.’

  ‘And photography! Have you seen inside his office? All those beautiful pictures. He just needed the confidence to go it alone.’ Frank drained the Coke and fidgeted in his seat.

  ‘What business did
he decide on in the end?’

  For the first time Frank seemed hesitant. ‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. Not in detail. He’d met some guy who wanted him to do some work. He wouldn’t tell me any more than that.’ There was a pause. ‘I wondered if he was getting ill again. When he was really ill he heard voices, you know. Got paranoid. Dreamed up weird conspiracy theories. He said he’d been sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘And you thought he was psychotic?’ Holly decided that this was a nightmare. Vera would want facts, not news of a madman who heard voices.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not qualified to tell. I’m not a doctor, am I? Martin seemed sane enough, but his stories didn’t hang together. Why would he turn setting up a new business into such a mystery?’ Frank was drumming his fingers on the table.

  Holly saw that she wouldn’t keep him here for very much longer. ‘Can I get you another coffee?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve got work.’

  ‘Can you tell me again what Martin said about his business? Where did he meet the man who offered him the work?’

  Frank got to his feet, leaned over the table towards Holly. ‘He wouldn’t tell me. Nothing. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Frank, but I’m sworn to secrecy.” And his eyes were kind of glittery, so I wondered if he was on something.’ He looked directly at Holly. ‘Then he said that I’d be proud of him. “You, of all people, would understand.” I asked him what he meant, but he just smiled.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Vera was hungry. Biscuits were all very well, but she hadn’t had a proper meal since the pizza the night before, and pizza never seemed very filling to her. More like a snack. She was thinking she might slide back to the village for pie and chips in The Lamb, when the door of the barn conversion on the other side of the farmhouse opened. The two Labradors she’d seen in the big house burst out, followed by a middle-aged woman. The woman was fit. Not an inch of spare flesh. She wore specs and had curly hair that looked like a Brillo pad. She wore wellingtons, jeans and a T-shirt. No coat or jersey.

  ‘Janet O’Kane?’ Vera was only halfway out of the car and had to shout above the sound of excited dogs.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman stopped, but the dogs bounded off.

  ‘Inspector Vera Stanhope. Have you got time for a chat?’

  ‘If you don’t mind a walk.’ She nodded after the Labradors. ‘They’re used to a big garden and they’re going stir-crazy in the house.’

  ‘It was good of you to take them on.’

  ‘I’m not sure what my husband makes of our new house-guests but, really, it was the least we could do. Two people dead! I can hardly believe it.’ She paused and they walked down the track for a little way. ‘I’m pleased that you can join me. I was a bit anxious about going out on my own, even with the dogs. Ridiculous, I know. John said he’d come, but he’s not been well and I could tell he’d rather not.’

  She set off down the lane.

  ‘I’d usually go up onto the hill, but there are lambs, so it’s probably better to avoid there today. Wren’s very well behaved, but Dipper’s a bit of a bugger. He’s her son.’

  It took Vera a moment to realize that she was talking about the dogs. ‘Do you look after them very often?’

  ‘If the Carswells are only away for a weekend I go down to the house a couple of times a day to feed them, let them out – you know. I’d love to have a dog of my own, but John’s not keen.’

  ‘It’s a lovely place to live,’ Vera said.

  ‘Isn’t it? John was an academic at Newcastle University and the plan was always to retire early and find somewhere with some space to breathe. Live the good life. Maybe it’s a bit daft, but it works for us.’ Her voice was very bright.

  She took a footpath that led from the lane and onto a narrow bridge over the burn. The dogs nosed through the undergrowth. There were wood anemones, celandines and all around them birdsong. It occurred to Vera briefly that she should get out more, take a bit of exercise as the doctor had advised. At least it would stop Joe nagging, and she might even enjoy it. ‘How well do you know the Carswells?’

  ‘I met Helen when I was walking and she was out with the dogs. I didn’t realize who she was at first. Since then we’ve been down to the big house for drinks a few times, and John and Peter seem to get on very well. Both history geeks. Helen calls in for coffee if she’s walking our way. She’s a very sympathetic woman. I miss her company while she’s away.’

  ‘Very chummy.’ Vera wondered about that, if the close relationship between the O’Kanes and the people at the big house caused resentment among the other residents of Valley Farm. ‘And you get on well with your closer neighbours?’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Oh, we do. We’re very lucky.’ She threw a stick and watched Dipper chase after it. ‘Sometimes I think this period of our lives is a kind of regression. We have no real responsibilities. The six of us at the farm are of an age when we should be caring for elderly parents or grandchildren, but coincidentally we’re all free of those ties. It feels a bit like being a student again. We have nobody to worry about except ourselves.’

  ‘The retired hedonists’ club.’ Vera was feeling a little breathless and wished the woman would slow down. She sat on a fallen tree and Janet came to join her.

  ‘Ah, somebody told you about that. John’s little joke. Though the pedant in me thinks it’s not quite right. It sounds as if we used to be hedonists and now we’ve stopped. In fact we’re hedonists who happen to be retired.’

  ‘And what form does the hedonism take?’ Vera had never been very good at grammar at school. Hadn’t seen the point, as long as you could make yourself understood, and now she was just confused.

  ‘Oh, nothing very dramatic! We don’t go in for orgies or hallucinogenic drugs. We probably drink too much. Eat too much. Enjoy each other’s company. Take the occasional trip into Newcastle or Kimmerston for the pictures or the theatre. A weekend away. Perhaps it’s not so much regression as a kind of desperation. We see time trickling by and want to enjoy life while we can.’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘But the Carswells aren’t members?’ Vera remembered Nigel Lucas’s resentment when he spoke of the people in the big house.

  ‘Oh no!’ As if the idea was unthinkable. ‘And they do still have responsibilities. Peter’s chair of the Country Landowners’ Association and sits on lots of committees. Helen is something to do with the hospice in Kimmerston and a trustee of any number of charities. Annie and I are involved in the community too, but not to the same extent.’

  ‘The Carswells don’t have grandchildren?’ Vera remembered the photographs in the living room of the big house. No babies there.

  ‘Not yet! But there’s one on the way.’ Janet got to her feet. It seemed she was eager to continue with the walk. ‘That’s why they’re in Australia.’

  Of course. Joe had provided that information.

  ‘What did your neighbours do before they retired?’ Vera knew she should move on to the detail, to questions more relevant to the investigation, but she’d always been a nosy cow.

  ‘Lorraine and Nigel Lucas? Nigel had his own business. He made a fortune when he sold it. Money’s definitely not a problem in that house. Lorraine was a teacher. Not in a school. She taught art to troubled youngsters and in prisons.’

  Vera blinked and had to reassess her image of Lorraine Lucas. Vera had seen her as a trophy wife, attractive but with little personality. It was hard to imagine her dealing with young offenders. ‘They never lived locally before they retired?’ Vera tried to remember what the couple had told her. Joe had passed on the information that Martin Benton had worked for a charity that helped offenders and their families, and she was desperate to make connections.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure they were based in the South. The Midlands somewhere, I think.’ She spoke as if the South was a mysterious place with ill-defined boundaries.

  They began the walk back towards Valley Farm. Vera had to walk very fast to keep up. ‘Did
you know Patrick Randle, the Carswells’ house-sitter?’

  ‘Well, I met him. Helen asked me to call in the day after he arrived, to make sure he was okay. Susan, their cleaner, was going to let Patrick in and show him the ropes, but Helen thought it would be nice if I dropped in, to welcome him to the valley. And introduce him to the dogs, of course.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘He seemed very pleasant. Polite. Charming even. He took me up to the flat and made me tea. I said that he’d have to come to dinner one night, but we didn’t fix anything definite. I gave him our phone number in case he needed anything. That was all. I thought we’d have a couple of months to get to know him.’ Janet paused. ‘It’s still not really hit me that he’s dead.’

  They climbed out on the lane, so now they could walk side by side.

  ‘The second victim was a man called Martin Benton,’ Vera said. ‘Did the Carswells mention anyone of that name to you?’

  Janet shook her head.

  ‘He was found in the flat at the big house. Any reason for him being there? For example, were the Carswells planning to get any work done on the house while they were away?’

  ‘I don’t think so, and Susan would probably know more about that than me.’ They’d reached the houses and the dogs were chasing around the yard.

  ‘I’ve got a few more questions,’ Vera said.

  There was a brief hesitation and Vera sensed something. Panic? Hostility? Then Janet smiled. ‘Of course. Come in. Meet John and have a coffee.’

  They sat in a room at the back of the barn conversion. It seemed rather shadowy. There was a view of a long, narrow garden that ended with a drystone wall and then the open hill, but the sun was behind the house. John O’Kane was dark-haired and dark-eyed. Vera could see he would have been handsome when he was young, imagined him as a new lecturer, adored by his students. He was wearing cord trousers and a big sweater. He’d taken a chair in the window and had a box of tissues on the floor beside him. There was a bowl of boiled sweets on a table and he sucked them throughout the conversation. His words were interrupted by fits of coughing and sneezing. Vera thought he was one of those men who couldn’t be quietly ill. The room was a comfortable clutter of books and papers, quite different from the magazine-perfect style of the house next door. Vera wondered what the two couples could have in common, couldn’t quite imagine them sharing drinks on a Friday night and laughing at the same jokes.