Silent Voices

wearing the cotton trousers and walking boots in which she’d travelled.
    They sat in stylish Scandinavian chairs looking down at the valley.
    ‘We got Simon’s phone call when we were driving up the A1. I can’t believe it. Jenny of all people.’ There was a rucksack on the polished wooden floor close to the door. Occasionally she would glance at it and Vera could tell that, despite her friend’s death, it irked her not to be unpacking immediately. She was a woman who would hate untidiness, unfinished business. Unbidden, a phrase from the Elias Jones report came into Vera’s head: Michael hates clutter. The women weren’t soulmates then. Jenny’s house had been comfortably cluttered; it wouldn’t have bothered her to go off to work with a couple of mucky plates on the counter.
    ‘Where’s your husband now?’ Vera asked. If Jenny had gone on holiday with them both in the past, the man might have something useful to contribute.
    ‘He’s gone to collect our dog from the kennel.’ Anne gave an apologetic grin. ‘We don’t have children. The dog’s our baby.’
    The lower floor of the barn was open-plan, a big wood-burning stove at one end and the kitchen at the other, all shiny black granite and stainless steel.
    ‘What does he do for a living?’ This place wasn’t bought on a teacher’s wage.
    ‘He’s an architect. This was his project.’ She smiled again, waited for the anticipated compliment.
    ‘Lovely,’ Vera said, with no attempt to pretend that she meant it. ‘Now, what can you tell me about Jenny Lister? I understand that you were close friends.’
    ‘Very. We met about ten years ago. I was teaching in Hannah’s primary school – I’m still there, for my sins. Jenny joined the PTA. We’d share lifts back to the village after meetings, took to calling into the pub for a drink afterwards, and found we had lots of interests in common: film, theatre, books. The friendship developed from there.’
    ‘How often did you meet?’
    ‘At least once a week. Wednesday was our night. We were both so busy that it was easier to keep one evening free. Sometimes we’d go out – we’d always do the RSC, for example, when they came to Newcastle; occasionally there’d be something we’d fancy at the Sage. Recently we took a six-week basic flamenco course, great fun, though Jenny was much better at it than I was. Usually we’d just stay in the village. Supper here or at her house. A walk in the summer, if the weather was good.’ Anne suddenly looked stricken, and Vera saw that she was thinking there’d be no more companionable Wednesday evenings. Nothing to look forward to, to break up the week. Then no doubt she’d felt guilty for being so selfish. Vera had always thought guilt an overrated emotion.
    ‘Did she talk to you about the Elias Jones murder?’
    ‘Not in any detail. She was very professional about her work. When there was all the publicity – the stuff in the papers laying into social workers – I could tell she was having a bad time. I asked her once why she did it. I mean, teaching isn’t the easiest job in the world, but you’d have to be mad to go into social work, wouldn’t you? You get all the blame and none of the credit.’ Anne paused, and looked out of the huge glass window towards the village. ‘Jenny just said she loved it. It was the one thing she was good at. Not true, of course: she was good at lots of things. She was a brilliant mother.’ Another pause. ‘And a wonderful friend.’
    ‘What did you talk about then?’ Vera was struggling to imagine it. These two middle-aged, middle-class women spending all that time together. Wouldn’t they just run out of things to say? She’d never had that sort of friendship. She was growing quite close to the hippy-dippy neighbours who had the smallholding next to her house in the hills. Some evenings they got pissed together on her whisky and their dreadful home-made wine. She’d help them when the sheep needed clipping or the hens had escaped. But to spend hours, just talking . . .
    ‘Recently, I suppose, it was me talking and her listening.’ Anne seemed strained suddenly, and Vera thought now that she’d been tense throughout the conversation. It wasn’t just that her best friend had been murdered. Perhaps she was that sort of woman – nervous, anxious. Perhaps that was why she’d chosen to spend her professional career teaching well-brought-up bairns in a pleasant rural school. She wouldn’t manage