Silent Voices

mother-in-law,’ Vera said with a smile.
    ‘The doctor gave me some pills and now I don’t feel very much at all.’ Hannah had drooped after the flicker of her exchange with Simon. She lay back in the seat with her eyes half closed.
    ‘But you do have to eat, and neither of us can face the supermarket.’ He was still leaning forward, the seat belt stretched to its limit, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.
    ‘I never did ask you,’ Vera said, talking to Simon’s reflection in the mirror, ‘where were you the morning Jenny died?’ She had a sudden horrible thought that he might be implicated in some way. She hadn’t checked, after all, that he had an alibi. But she hated the idea of it, of Hannah’s saviour as killer.
    ‘At home,’ he said. ‘Hannah wanted to revise, so we hadn’t planned to meet up until the evening.’ He must have realized why she was asking, but he didn’t seem at all offended.
    ‘Was your mother in?’
    ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I’d been out on the piss the night before, catching up with some of the lads I was at school with. I didn’t surface until midday. Mum was out then, but she came back soon after.’
    By now they were approaching the crossroads, the turn-off to the village. Connie Masters’s cottage was on one side and the big white house was on the other. ‘Do you know the woman who lives there?’ Vera nodded towards the cottage.
    ‘No, I’ve seen people in there. A mother and a child. Are they permanent tenants? It always used to be a holiday place.’
    ‘Her name’s Masters,’ Vera said. ‘Connie Masters.’ Hannah stirred. ‘Wasn’t she the social worker supervising Mattie Jones?’
    ‘That’s right. Did your mother talk about her?’ ‘I didn’t realize she lived here. Mum felt sorry for her. About the way she’d been treated in the press. Because she screwed up over Elias Jones.’
    As she watched the young people walk away, Vera wondered what she’d have made of Hannah’s mother if they’d met. Vera disliked good-looking women as a matter of course, and Jenny’s competence, her certainty that she was right in every situation, would have irritated her too. It seemed to Vera that Jenny, apparently so admired and respected, could have had many secret enemies. A book that would have exposed her clients’ and colleagues’ frailties would surely have added to the list. Connie, for example, would almost certainly have appeared in it. She definitely had an interest in ensuring that Jenny’s work was never published.

 
Chapter Twenty-Three
     
    Vera parked in the main street of the village and went in search of food. The pub was open and she was tempted, but she knew how word got around in small places: that big boss policewoman was drinking at lunchtime. And besides, she wanted more than a bag of crisps and it seemed there was nothing else on offer. Walking down the street, she got on the phone to Ashworth. ‘Lister’s handbag. It still hasn’t turned up. A big red leather affair that she used as a briefcase.’ Knowing that shouting at him would serve no real purpose, because the team already had it as a priority and most of Northumbria Police were already looking for it. She had low blood sugar and it always made her radgy. ‘Any chance you can meet me at Danny Shaw’s place? I thought it was about time I met him.’
    She found the Tyne Teashop and decided that would do. All the windows looked out on the river, and the place had a calm green light from the trees and the reflections of water that had seeped out onto the flood meadow. Most of the tables were occupied. Older couples: big bossy women and slight subdued men for the most part. You should have carried on working, pet , she thought, directing her sympathy to the men. Bet you never thought early retirement would be like this, acting as chauffeur to the wife, and endless cups of tea.
    Then she turned her attention to home-made corned-beef pie and the whereabouts of Jenny Lister’s handbag. Had the murderer taken it from her locker? Did that mean she was murdered for what it contained: notes for the book she planned to write. And what had happened to it since? It would be hard to destroy a substantial bag, though of course the paper inside could have been burned. She shook her head and moved on to a meringue filled with cream and covered with grated chocolate. The meringue was crisp on the outside and slightly squelchy in the middle, as near perfect as was possible for an