Silent Voices

to answer.
    ‘The same things as anyone else, apparently. A decent income. A nice home. A wife and kids.’
    ‘But his potential wives were so young!’
    ‘I know, and Danny spoke as if Morgan was someone to admire. I couldn’t stand that. “Look at the way he treats his women!” I’d say. And Danny would just smile. He said Morgan was a man who liked beautiful things and young women are usually more beautiful than older ones. He could see nothing wrong in it.’ Karen stopped abruptly, narrowed her eyes, looked like a cat about to hiss and spit. ‘Do you think Morgan killed Danny? Is that what these questions are about?’
    ‘No.’ This was Ashworth playing it safe, coming up with the old platitudes. ‘We have to ask questions, make connections.’ Vera wouldn’t have minded letting Karen loose on Morgan. She’d have paid to see her rip the man apart, whether he’d killed Danny or not.
    ‘Did your son have any other close friends at the Willows?’ she asked.
    ‘I don’t really know about any of Danny’s friends, not any more,’ Karen said. Her voice was cold and quiet. ‘When he was at the high school in Hexham, we used to be close. Like friends. But lately he stopped talking to me. Since he went away to university it felt as if he had a completely new life. I only knew he was meeting Morgan because I saw them together at work. I suppose it was natural, that he should drift away from us when he left home. But he was our only son and it was hard to feel we didn’t have any place in his life. And now he’s left us completely. We’ll never have the chance to make things right again.’ She began to cry.

 
Chapter Twenty-Four
     
    It was a playgroup day, the weather sunny enough for Connie to walk Alice to the hall. The gossip on the pavement was all about Jenny Lister’s death, which made a pleasant change from the usual bitching about Connie and Elias Jones. Because Connie had worked with the murder victim, she was included in the discussion as they waited for the doors to open. There were small tentative questions at first, but after a few minutes Connie found herself in the centre of a bunch of excited young women. ‘What do you think happened? The newspapers don’t really tell us anything. What have the police said to you?’ Connie felt like a tart, but she gave them just what they wanted, little snippets of information about Jenny and her work with social services. When the hall opened they were hanging on her every word and there was none of the usual rush to get inside.
    Veronica Eliot was there, taking registration for the following term. She sat at a small table with a clipboard and pen, shiny-lipped and immaculate in a black linen shirt, its collar so stiffly ironed that Connie wondered it hadn’t slashed the back of her neck like a blade. Connie joined the queue. When things were really bad she’d considered moving Alice to a pre-school in the next village, or even bullying her ex to pay for a private nursery, but Alice would start at the primary in September and it would be madness to move her just for one term.
    When she reached the desk there was a moment of awkwardness. She assumed Veronica wouldn’t want their lunch together to be mentioned. It would signal such a U-turn in relations between them that it would be hard for Veronica to explain the shift in attitude to the other playgroup mums. How complicated were these oblique communications between women! Surely men were much more straightforward in their dealings. But Veronica gave her a friendly smile. ‘I did enjoy the other day. We must do it again sometime.’
    Connie was quite thrown. She looked at Veronica, suspecting sarcasm or other, more sinister motives. Was this the start of a joke at her expense?
    ‘It was kind of you.’ She looked around. She was the last in the queue; the other mothers were drifting away. She thought Veronica would never have made the comment if she’d had an audience. ‘Why don’t you come to me?’ Connie wondered why she’d felt the sudden impulse to reciprocate. ‘What about today? Come for tea. You won’t get home baking, but I bought a cake from the Tyne Teashop the other day for a treat and they’re always good.’
    Veronica looked up from her paper and Connie expected a put-down, at best a polite excuse. The village had a hierarchy and, even without the complication of her notoriety, they moved in different circles.
    ‘Thank you!’ Veronica said. Then there was a brief,