Silent Voices

from previous visits. Open moorland as far as you could see, and a small lough where the geese came in winter. In the valley, the River Coquet that ended up at the coast, and from her house a bird’s-eye view of a small grey village and a peel tower. Her neighbours had been through lambing and, even inside, they could hear the ewes. There was never any traffic noise. Nothing but the occasional jet on a training flight from RAF Boulmer as it flew low, following the line of the valley.
    They sat in her house and talked about Jenny Lister and then about Danny Shaw. He took a bottle of beer and drank it slowly; she’d had three by the time he’d finished. As good as her word, she made sandwiches and between munches she talked, hardly giving him a chance to speak. Occasions like this, that was his role: to be an audience, her sounding board. It was how she best processed information. Once, exasperated after a late night of listening to her holding forth, he’d asked her why she needed him there at all. ‘You take no notice of anything I say. You’d do just as well without me.’
    She’d been astonished. ‘Nonsense, lad. If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t bother to think things through. You make me focus.’ She’d paused. ‘And now and again you come up with a few good ideas.’
    So he sat and listened, as outside the moon rose and the breeze dropped. She broke off briefly to throw a match on the fire and turn on the standard lamp with its tatty parchment shade, but soon she continued, ordering her thoughts, reaching conclusions, planning future actions. During the team briefings she used the whiteboard to make her points clear, but Joe could see that she had no need of written notes or charts. It was all in her head; all the links and apparent coincidences seemed fixed in her mind.
    And she spoke about the dead woman as if she’d known her. ‘Jenny Lister. The way I see it, she was a proud woman. That was what motivated her. She was good all right: a good mother, a good social worker, a good boss. A good-looker too for her age. We’ve heard that from all the people who knew her. But she thought she was a bit better than everyone else. Clever enough not to show it, but deep down that was what she believed. That’s what the planned book was all about. She thought she had something to teach the world about compassion.’ Vera looked up from her beer. ‘If I’d known her, she’d have got right up my nose. I can’t stand perfect people. And she didn’t have many friends, did she? Not real friends. There’s that teacher, but she was more like an admirer than a friend, and Jenny didn’t confide much in her. She just threw out a few hints to make herself interesting.’
    Joe said nothing. When Vera was in full flow it was best to let her get on with it. The inspector continued. ‘So why was she murdered? And why in such an elaborate way? You don’t strangle someone just because they get on your tits. And if you want to kill, you choose somewhere private. Not the swimming pool in a flash hotel, where anyone could walk in on you at any minute. This looks like a game to me, a show. And which of our suspects makes the best showman?’
    Most of Vera’s questions were rhetorical, but this time, it seemed, she expected an answer.
    ‘Well? Are you falling asleep here? Am I talking to myself?’
    ‘Danny Shaw?’ His response was tentative and he was ashamed of that. She always made him feel like an eight-year-old desperate not to make a fool of himself in front of the teacher.
    ‘Our second victim? So we’re back to Charlie’s theory that Danny was killed in revenge. Nah, I don’t buy that. Oh, I’m sure Danny was a show-off all right, and cocky with it. But maybe lots of lads are at that age. No, I’m thinking of Michael Morgan. Seems to me that his acupuncture business is more about theatre than medicine. He likes to create a scene, cause a distraction. People believe in the magic and that makes them feel better.’
    ‘Why kill Danny?’ Joe was playing the stooge again, feeding her the lines.
    ‘We know they met. Maybe Morgan let slip something of what he was planning. Danny was desperate for money. I wouldn’t have put it past him to try a bit of blackmail.’
    ‘Why would Morgan choose the Willows for his stage set in the first place? He must have realized we’d find out he worked there. And surely he’d be the last person to dump Jenny’s bag in Connie’s garden. He wouldn’t want us