Silent Voices

Seven
     
    At the Lister house, Vera tried to persuade Hannah to move in with Simon’s parents, at least for a few days, but the girl refused. ‘I want to stay up all night and cry. I’ll probably get very drunk. I couldn’t do that anywhere but in my own home.’
    ‘We can arrange for a liaison officer to camp out with you then.’
    ‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘Absolutely not. I couldn’t bear it.’
    She moved back to the window and stared down at the garden, which was all in shadow now.
    ‘You’ll stay with her?’ Vera directed the question to Simon. The girl took no notice of them.
    ‘Of course,’ Simon said. ‘I’ll do whatever she wants.’
    He stood behind the girl and wrapped his arms around her. They seemed not to notice Vera’s leaving.
    On her way out of the village, Vera saw the white house Hannah had described as Simon’s home, and on impulse she pulled into the gravel drive. She still thought of Simon and Hannah as hardly more than children and she’d feel happier if an adult were involved in the girl’s care, or at least aware of what was going on. Besides, perhaps Simon’s mother and Jenny Lister had been friends. The woman might have useful information.
    Vera saw as soon as she drove past the high yew hedge that the garden was immaculate. The daffodils and narcissi were past their best, but still there was colour everywhere: clumps of blue grape hyacinth and forget-me-not and deep-purple hellebores. The lawn had even had its first cut of the season. Either the woman’s a fanatic or she has paid help. Vera couldn’t bear tidy gardens, and she was more interested in growing food than flowers. She let dandelions grow in damp patches and picked the leaves for salad on the rare occasions when she fancied a healthy meal. Her neighbours were ageing hippies who were pleased not to have order in the next-door garden. Vera wondered briefly what they’d make of this.
    There was a twitch at an upstairs window. The noise of the car had attracted attention. Vera wondered if news of Jenny’s death had spread throughout the village. Had Simon told his mother on his way out that his girlfriend’s mother was the victim? Possibly not, Vera thought. He’d arrived so quickly to look after Hannah that surely he wouldn’t have had time for any conversation. Nobody appeared at the door. Simon’s mother – if that were the person upstairs – wouldn’t want to be thought a woman who peered out of windows. Or perhaps she just hoped the visitor would drive away?
    Vera rang the bell and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and an open door.
    ‘Yes?’ The woman was tall. She was in her fifties, perhaps the same age as Vera herself, but as well groomed and tidy as the unforgiving garden. Dark hair curled away from her face, grey trousers, a white cotton shirt and a long grey cardigan. Lipstick. Was she on her way out, or did she always wear it? Vera stood on the doorstep and thought how odd some women were.
    ‘Can I help you?’ The woman was losing patience. She was confused, Vera could tell. The car Vera was driving was large, new and rather expensive. One of the perks of her rank. Mrs Eliot would consider it the sort of car to be driven by a successful man. Yet Vera was large and shambolic, with bare legs and blotchy skin. She never wore make-up. Vera looked poor.
    ‘I’m from Northumbria Police. Inspector Stanhope.’ Somewhere at the bottom of her bag there was a warrant card, but best not go there. She might find that bit of bacon sandwich discarded from breakfast yesterday.
    ‘Oh?’ The woman seemed preoccupied but not scared, which was often the response to an unexpected knock from the police. What have I done? Has there been an accident? Has anything happened to my husband, my daughter or my son? Simon’s mother took in the information and seemed almost excited. Perhaps, after all, she had heard of her neighbour’s murder. Though there was no grief, or pretence of grief.
    She held out her hand. ‘Veronica Eliot. Are you here about Connie Masters? She changed her name, but I recognized her at once. I knew there’d be charges brought eventually.’
    The name was vaguely familiar to Vera, but she refused to be distracted.
    ‘I’m here about Jenny Lister.’
    The woman frowned. Confused? Disappointed? ‘What about Jenny?’
    ‘So your son didn’t tell you?’ Then, when the woman shook her head. ‘Look, pet, why don’t you let me come in?’
    Veronica Eliot moved