Silent Voices

over, when the house was quiet and he could have his wife to himself. Joe liked to think of himself as a perfect family man, but everyone was allowed his little self-deception. It was a still evening, and dusk when they arrived at Vera’s house. She got out of her car and smelled gorse flowers and damp foliage and cows. If Hector had given her nothing else, he had given her this house and she would always be grateful to him for that. During this investigation, with all the talk of parenting, she’d found herself thinking about him, and it came to her suddenly that he was an easy scapegoat. She blamed him for all the ills in her life and that might not be quite fair. Hector might be the cause of most of them, but not all.
    She lit the fire already laid in the grate, not because it was particularly cold, but because the rest of the room was a mess and it would give them something to look at. And because she knew Joe liked it. Her neighbours had bartered half a lamb for a load of apple logs with a guy in the Borders and had donated her some of the wood; she’d arrived home one night and found the logs neatly stacked in the lean-to at the back of her house. The couple were capable of these acts of kindness and she was grateful they were there, happily tolerated the occasional solstice party when dozens of odd people set up camp on the field in front of her house, turned a blind eye to their dope-smoking – even when it happened, thoughtlessly, in her home.
    Vera left the curtains undrawn and fetched beer from the kitchen, a loaf of bread on a board, a lump of cheese. They sat on the two low chairs, their feet to the fire. Vera thought this was as happy as she would ever get.
    Ashworth broke into her thoughts. ‘What do you make of this Elias Jones connection? Important or just a distraction?’
    She considered for a moment, felt the metallic taste of beer and can on her tongue. ‘Important anyway,’ she said. ‘I mean, even if it doesn’t provide a direct motive. Because it tells us a lot about Jenny Lister.’
    ‘Like?’
    ‘She was efficient, organized. A control freak. She didn’t like mixing home and work. Principled. Principles don’t always make you popular. If she caught someone doing something she considered wrong, she wouldn’t keep quiet about it.’
    ‘You’re thinking about the thefts at the Willows?’
    Vera took time to consider that one. ‘Maybe, though it seems very petty. More likely something going on in the village.’ She was thinking about Veronica Eliot and her pristine house and her model family. Nothing was ever that perfect, so what, exactly, was happening under the surface?
    Ashworth looked at his watch.
    ‘It’s all right, Joe,’ she said indulgently. ‘You’re safe to go home now. The bairns’ll be in bed. Tomorrow, prise Holly away from the daughter and see if one of you can track down Jenny’s secret lover. A village that size, someone will know. They’ll have seen a strange car, bumped into them in Hexham.’
    He stood up. His face was red from the fire. Or maybe the dig about the children had struck home. ‘What about you?’
    She didn’t move. He could find his own way out. ‘Me, like I said, I’m going hospital visiting.’

 
Chapter Sixteen
     
    Mattie was in a side-ward; a female prison officer sat in the corner with a pile of fashion magazines on her lap and a bag of Maltesers in her hand. God , Vera thought. I bet the woman can’t believe her luck. All this time off the wing! The officer looked about the same age as the patient in the bed, she was a dirty blonde and big-busted, the buttons straining on her white uniform shirt. Easy-going, the sort who’d really enjoy a good night out and a couple of days sitting on her arse with a load of trashy reads and chocolate.
    ‘Hiya!’ Friendly too. Vera was pleased about that. Whatever Mattie had done, Vera didn’t like to think of her terrified and friendless in hospital. ‘The sister said you’d be coming. I’ll make myself scarce, shall I, so you can have a chat? Tell you the truth, I’m desperate for a tab.’ Her eyes were inquisitive, but she set the magazines on the chair and disappeared, her craving for nicotine stronger than her curiosity.
    Vera pulled the chair closer to the bed. The woman lying there looked very young. There was a fan on the bedside locker, but she was still flushed and feverish. ‘She’s still got a nasty temperature,’ the sister had said. ‘Was hallucinating in the