Silent Voices

suspicious death,’ she said. No need after all to go into how she came to be involved. She sketched in the details. ‘Get things moving and get yourself down here.’
    ‘Why isn’t it natural? Heat, exertion, you’d think heart attack. Maybe someone at the health club’s been watching too many cop shows on the telly? Put two and two together and come up with five?’
    ‘The poor woman was strangled.’ Vera knew it was wrong, but she expected somehow that Ashworth could read her thoughts, was always irritated when it was clear he couldn’t. Besides, would she really have called him out for a heart attack?
    ‘I’m just down the road,’ he said. ‘In that fancy garden centre to pick up a present for my mam’s birthday. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
    She ended the call and continued dressing. Somehow her skirt had fallen on top of her costume and had a damp patch at the back. Looked as if she’d pissed herself. She swore under her breath, walked back to the pool area, avoiding the footbath and aware of disapproving glares. This wasn’t a place for the fully clad. She needed to find a manager, but she didn’t want to leave the scene. The aerobics class was reaching its climax. A conga of prancing ladies – with one or two gents – circled the pool. The music stopped and the conga fell apart in a laughing, chattering heap. Lycra-woman shouted into her microphone that they’d all done very well and she looked forward to seeing them next time.
    Vera snatched her moment, and the microphone, from the hand of the instructor. Paused for a second. She’d always enjoyed being the centre of attention. Was aware that she was considered at times a figure of fun, but minded that less than being ignored.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
    They stared, disturbed it seemed by this change to routine, by this woman who was so obviously out of place. What was going on? A demonstration perhaps? The Fat People’s Democratic Front insisting on the right to be unhealthy? This, at least, was how Vera judged their reaction. But she had her clothes on and that gave her a sense of superiority. From here she could see the wrinkled necks and the bingo-wings; she looked down on the untinted roots of their hair.
    ‘I’m Inspector Vera Stanhope of Northumbria Police.’ Glancing up, she saw Joe Ashworth emerge from the changing rooms with a man in a suit whom she took to be part of the hotel management. He’d been even quicker than she’d expected. ‘I regret to say that there’s been a sudden death in the club and I ask for your cooperation in the matter. Please return to the changing rooms. Once you’re dressed, you’ll be asked to wait in the lounge for a short while until we take a few details. We’ll inconvenience you as little as possible, but we might need to contact you further.’ She looked across the water at Ashworth and his companion. Both nodded to show they too had understood what was expected of them.
    The pool emptied slowly. They were all curious and excited. Like a bunch of school kids, Vera thought. At least there’d be no complaints about their being kept waiting for statements to be taken. They had too much time on their hands and not enough excitement in their lives. It was hard to believe that one of them might be a murderer.
    Ashworth moved around the pool to join her, followed by the suit. The stranger was young, eager to please, small and bouncy and round. She’d worried that the hotel management might be obstructive: murder might not be good for business; but this man seemed as excited as the pensioners in the pool. He stood on the balls of his feet and rubbed his hands together. It seemed to Vera that he was thinking what a good story he’d have to tell his lass when he got home that night, and hoping that his picture might appear on the local television news. These days everyone wanted their moment of fame.
    ‘This is Ryan Taylor,’ Ashworth said. ‘Duty manager.’
    ‘Anything I can do, Inspector?’
    ‘Aye. Rustle up some tea and coffee. Lots of it, and serve it in the lounge. With biscuits. Sandwiches. We’ll be keeping folk hanging around for a long time and it’s already lunchtime. Best keep them sweet.’
    Taylor hesitated.
    ‘You can charge them for it,’ she said, catching his drift. ‘The fees at this place, they can afford a couple of quid for a fancy coffee.’
    His face brightened. The death of a strange middle-aged woman wasn’t so much a tragedy for him, she