Silent Voices

seemed to have made a good impression on the jury. Connie hadn’t been in court while he gave evidence, but she’d spoken to people who had been there, who’d said he’d seemed really caring and kind. Charming, even. What had Jenny made of him? Now, Connie was fascinated. Why didn’t I ask her while I had the chance?
    The room suddenly got darker and Connie was aware of a figure blocking the light from the small window. Someone was outside, looking in. A woman, big, untidy, with a round moon face. Connie decided it was one of those travellers who appeared sometimes, selling dishcloths or lucky heather. She hurried to the door before the woman knocked and woke up Alice, and was surprised at how much milder it was outside than in the room.
    ‘I never buy anything at the door.’ Best to be firm from the start, before you started getting the sales pitch.
    ‘Eh, pet, I’m not selling.’ The woman grinned. Stood, solid as a rock, refusing to budge from the doorstep.
    ‘I don’t need religion either.’
    ‘Nor me.’ The woman sighed. ‘My father was a scientist, of sorts, and I was brought up to despise the Church. But I always found it a tad appealing all the same. Forbidden fruits, you know what it’s like.’
    ‘Well, what do you want?’ By now Connie was so exasperated that she forgot the sleeping Alice and raised her voice.
    The woman put a finger to her lips, a parody and a rebuke. ‘We don’t want to wake the little one. I saw her through the window. Sweet. Shall we talk out here? My name’s Vera Stanhope. Detective Inspector, Northumbria Police. You had a word with my colleague Joe Ashworth yesterday.’
    ‘You’re a police officer?’ Connie was astonished. And not just a police officer, a senior detective!
    ‘I know, pet. Hard to believe, isn’t it? But we’re not all pretty little boys like Joe.’ She sat heavily on the wooden bench under the window and patted the seat to indicate that Connie should join her. ‘Leave the door open and we’ll hear if the little girl wakes up.’
    And to her surprise, Connie did as she was told.
    ‘Jenny Lister,’ Vera said.
    ‘I’ve already told your sergeant everything I know.’ But was that true? Details were dribbling back into her mind. Like the fact that Jenny had mentioned going to see Michael Morgan.
    Vera looked at her with clear, steady eyes. ‘Oh, surely not everything,’ she said. ‘Anyway, things move on. There are new lines to investigate, new questions arise.’ She paused. ‘Did you know Jenny was planning to write a book about the Elias Jones case?’
    ‘No.’ It wasn’t the question she was expecting. She wondered if this woman was entirely sane. But thinking about it, the idea of Jenny as a writer wasn’t surprising. Jenny had been convinced she was right about everything, and might see it as her duty to pass on her wisdom to the world.
    Vera nodded and continued immediately.
    ‘Did you know she visited Mattie Jones every week in prison? Even when the lass was on remand?’
    ‘No. Not really.’ This time the answer was less emphatic and Vera picked up on the hesitation.
    ‘You were still working with Jenny before the case went to trial. Surely she would have told you?’
    ‘I was moved from the case as soon as Elias’s body was found,’ Connie said. ‘Standard practice, even before the disciplinary hearing.’
    ‘But you were based in the same office,’ Vera persisted. ‘You must have met in the tea room, bumped into each other in the Ladies. You’d have thought she’d tell you what she was up to.’
    Connie shook her head. ‘Not Jenny’s style. She was discreet. I was no longer involved in the case.’
    ‘You don’t seem surprised. About the prison visits.’
    ‘No.’ Wood pigeons were calling in the trees on the other side of the river. They reminded Connie of childhood holidays in the country, long summer days. ‘Mattie was more than a client to Jenny. She’d known her for years. Jenny would have felt she’d let her down.’
    ‘So it would have been a kind of penance?’ Religion creeping in again.
    ‘Yes,’ Connie said. ‘Perhaps. Something like that.’
    ‘This book . . .’
    ‘Really, she didn’t say anything to me.’
    ‘Apparently,’ Vera paused, clearly choosing her words carefully, ‘she was quite evangelical about it. She wanted to tell the world what the social worker’s life was really all about. The human face. The moral dilemmas. Get away from all the tabloid stereotypes.