Silent Voices

Masters,’ he said. ‘She was suspended, then sacked. Took her dismissal to an industrial tribunal, but they upheld the social-services department decision. Jenny Lister’s memo clinched it. She’d instructed Masters to maintain her involvement with the case, not to focus exclusively on Michael.’
    Ashworth paused. Vera wondered if he’d done amateur theatrics when he was at school. He could do a dramatic pause as well as anyone she knew. Almost. Nobody was quite as good as her when it came to summing up the essence of a case.
    ‘The important decision, of course,’ he said, looking around, making sure he had the full attention of his audience, ‘is whether this has any relevance to Jenny Lister’s murder, or if it’s entirely a coincidence.’

 
Chapter Eleven
     
    Ashworth sat in Connie Masters’s cottage. It was dark and dreary, full of second-hand furniture, everything shabby. The middle of the morning, but they still needed the standard lamp in the corner switched on. And the carpet could have done with a good clean. Joe and his wife furnished their home from Ikea, or Habitat if they could run to it, pale wood and lots of light, the occasional splash of colour.
    His head was still full of the morning briefing. After the discussion of the Elias Jones case they’d gone over the pathologist’s report, listed possible suspects at the Willows. Vera had found the method of strangulation interesting. ‘Thin rope. Clever. Nowhere much to hide a murder weapon in swimming trunks or a costume, but you call ball the rope up into a fist and nobody would know you had it with you. That would make this a premeditated crime, wouldn’t it? And the killer must have known Jenny always used the steam room after a swim. He could have been in there waiting for her.’ Then she’d stopped, hit her forehead with the palm of her hand, one of her theatrical gestures, which made Joe think she’d been considering the possibility from the start. ‘What about the nylon string the staff wear round their necks to hold their name badges? Could something like that have killed her? Can we get a sample for comparison?’ Now, in the gloomy cottage, Joe tried to leave the briefing behind and concentrate on the present.
    He’d found Connie in the house on her own; her daughter was apparently in playgroup in the village hall. ‘I’ve only got half an hour,’ she’d said as soon as he’d introduced himself. ‘Then I’ll have to go and collect Alice.’ Defensive, not really wanting to let him through the door.
    But she had allowed him in and now they sat drinking coffee. She looked tired, grey. Ashworth had glimpsed a couple of empty wine bottles on the kitchen bench and wondered if she was a boozer.
    ‘Are you telling me it’s a coincidence?’ he said. ‘That you moved in just down the road from Mrs Lister by chance?’
    Usually he avoided confrontation in interviews. It wasn’t his style, and besides he found that a quiet and sympathetic approach gave better results. But in this case he’d found himself running out of patience, first with Danny, the student cleaner, and now with this woman. Looking at her, he found it hard to put the images of Elias Jones’s drowned body out of his mind. She hadn’t committed the murder, but she’d allowed it to happen.
    She looked up at him, stung by his tone. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I didn’t even know she lived in the village.’
    ‘You worked with the woman for six years and you didn’t know where she lived?’ He allowed the incredulity into his voice, and the question came out hard, high-pitched.
    ‘Look, I’m a city girl.’ Connie looked at him over the coffee mug, set it on the table in front of her before continuing. ‘Grew up in London, came to Newcastle as a student. Lived in a flat in Heaton, then when we were married we got a tiny house in West Jesmond. I knew Jenny lived in Northumberland somewhere, out in the wilds. On the rare occasions we socialized – team nights out, that sort of thing – it was in town. Why would I know she lived in Barnard Bridge? Do you know where your boss lives?’
    A rhetorical question, but Ashworth answered it in his head. Oh, aye, I know. The number of times I’ve dropped her back there when she’s been too pissed to drive. Or when she’s summoned me at a moment’s notice to talk over a case.
    ‘You can’t think I killed her?’
    Ashworth thought this had really just occurred to Connie. The idea cut