Silent Voices

Park. Nice enough. We invited them round to dinner one night. Before Maurice was taken ill, we liked to entertain. Still do, but only close friends these days.’
    ‘What happened with this Lawrence?’
    ‘I don’t know. They were talking about setting up home together, and the next thing I heard they’d parted.’
    ‘Did Jenny ever talk to you about it?’
    ‘She wasn’t one for weeping on folks’ shoulders,’ Hilda said. With the apron removed, Ashworth saw she was rather stylishly dressed. A pleated skirt and a yellow cotton blouse. A smart woman, in every sense of the word.
    ‘But you’d have been the nearest thing she had to a mother.’
    ‘I saw her in the garden soon after it happened. She looked dreadful. Pale as a ghost, and you could tell she’d been crying. I asked her in for coffee. She told me they’d split up. I made a comment about men – you know how you do when someone’s upset: “Don’t worry about it. Most of them are commitment-phobic.” Something of that sort. But she said Lawrence wasn’t like that, and it had been her decision to stop seeing him.’
    ‘Did she say why? Was there someone else?’
    ‘Aye.’ Hilda looked up at him. ‘Someone completely unsuitable. Her words not mine. “I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself. He makes me feel alive.” That’s what she told me.’
    ‘Did she tell you any more about him? You do realize how important this might be?’
    ‘She was ashamed of the relationship.’ The dumpy little woman looked up at Ashworth to make sure he understood what she was saying. ‘It didn’t seem healthy to me. You should never have to apologize for your choice of man. Maybe she’d met him by chance, had what they call a one-night stand. Or I wondered if she’d come across him through work.’
    ‘A colleague?’ Ashworth could tell how that might be frowned upon, but surely sleeping with a social worker wasn’t necessarily a matter of shame.
    ‘More likely a client, don’t you think?’ Hilda was speaking to Ashworth now as if he were an equal, almost as perceptive as herself. ‘I could see that happening. She’d feel sorry for someone, try to help him, then get too emotionally involved.’
    Ashworth could see how that might happen too, and why it would have to be a secret. It would probably be against the rules of her profession, and Jenny would also be afraid of appearing a fool. The cool professional tangled up with some loser. How would that look?
    ‘It could have been a married man,’ Ashworth said. ‘Someone local, someone you know maybe, so she wouldn’t want to tell you about him.’ The idea of Jenny falling for a client made more sense to him, but he had to explore other options.
    ‘Maybe.’ Hilda seemed unconvinced. ‘But people don’t seem too bothered about having affairs these days. I don’t know that Jenny would have been that upset. Besides, if it had been someone local, I might well have heard about it before now.’ Implying that there was no doubt about it.
    ‘Cuthbert says he doesn’t know half the folk who live in the village these days.’
    Hilda gave a wicked grin. ‘Aye, well. Cuthbert doesn’t belong to the WI.’

 
Chapter Eighteen
     
    The morning after her lunch with Veronica Eliot, Connie Masters woke feeling washed out and tired. She drove to Hexham to shop for food, but returned home without even stopping in town for coffee. Outside a newsagent’s in the main street there was a blown-up headline: TYNE VALLEY SOCIAL WORKER’S DEATH. THE INVESTIGATION CONTINUES. No link had yet been made to Elias Jones, but Connie thought it was only a matter of time before the press picked up on it, until they’d hunt her down again.
    Alice had woken several times in the night, troubled by the old nightmares. She trailed listlessly round the supermarket, hanging on to Connie’s hand, and when they got home she fell asleep straight after lunch on the sofa in the living room, watching children’s television. Connie covered her with a quilt and let her sleep. In the quiet house, with the background sound of running water, she imagined herself back in the social-services office where she’d been based, trawling through the conversations she’d had with Jenny Lister in the months either side of Elias’s death. Trying to find an answer for the new murder, one in which she played no part.
    Jenny’s room at work had been small. One wall was covered with drawings and paintings done by the children she’d