Silent Voices

conversation she’d had for months and she hoped to prolong it. How pathetic, she thought. That things have come to this!
    He hesitated. The simple question seemed to have thrown him. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Not exactly.’
    ‘I don’t think she’s in,’ Connie said. ‘The car wasn’t in the drive when I walked from the village earlier. And I heard that her husband Christopher is working away. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea to wait? If Veronica’s been out for lunch, she’ll be back soon and we’ll see her car pass from here.’
    ‘Oh, well, if it’s not too much trouble.’ And he opened the gate and walked into the garden. Suddenly he seemed less nervous, almost arrogant. Connie had a sudden moment of panic. What had she done? She felt that she’d invited disaster across her threshold. The young man sat beside her on the wooden bench with the peeling white paint and waited politely. She’d offered him tea, so he expected her to provide it. But the kitchen was at the back of the house and she wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Alice from there. Connie thought it would be impossible to leave her daughter here with a stranger.
    ‘Alice, come with me. You can be waitress. Fetch the biscuits.’ She hoped she had biscuits, because the word worked its magic and Alice trotted obediently after her into the house.
    They prepared a tray. Teapot and cups, milk jug and sugar basin. Juice in a beaker for Alice. I’ve lived in the country too long. Next thing I’ll be in the WI. But that wasn’t much of a joke. Veronica Eliot was chair of the WI, and of course Connie would never be made welcome, even if she wanted to join. They processed out into the garden. Connie carried the tray and Alice followed with a few biscuits on a flowery plate. But when they walked round to the sunny side of the house with its view of the lane and the river, the white bench was empty. The young man had disappeared.

 
Chapter Four
     
    When Vera was a child, the Willows had been a grand hotel, family-owned and famous throughout the county. One of the few memories she had of her mother was of the three of them there for a lunch. Her mother’s birthday perhaps. It would have been Hector’s idea; her father had always liked the grand gesture. She couldn’t remember what they’d eaten. She suspected now the food wouldn’t have been very good. Post-war British. An overcooked slab of meat and vegetables turned grey in the boiling. But it had had a faded glamour. There had been a woman in a long dress playing a grand piano in the corner. Hector had ordered champagne in a loud, showy-off voice and her mother had drunk two glasses and become giggly. Hector, of course, had drunk the rest.
    Originally it had been a large country house and there was still a drive that wound through parkland. It had been built on a bend in the river, so there was a feeling almost that it was on an island, especially at this time of the year when the Tyne was swollen from melted snow. There were coppiced willows that marked the boundary and stood now with their roots in water. Local history said that one of the archaeologists who’d done much of the early work on Hadrian’s Wall had lived there, and in the library and lounge there were faded sepia photos of excavations, men in plus fours, women in long skirts.
    More recently the hotel had been taken over by a small chain with a head office in the south. The basement had been turned into the health club, and any sense that it was a place only for the very wealthy or the glamorous had disappeared. They’d let in Vera, for goodness’ sake! But it still had pretensions. In the dining room gentlemen were expected to wear a jacket and tie. The furniture was old and shabby, but once it had been good.
    In the health club now there was still an air of excitement and of chaos, but Vera felt in control, happier than she had for months. Sod all that exercise – what she needed to make her feel really alive was interesting work.
    Billy Wainwright, the crime-scene manager, had turned up to take control of the scene. The room was clear of steam, but all the surfaces were damp with condensation. ‘You do realize this is about the worst crime scene I’ve ever visited? No chance of fingerprints on these surfaces. Half the population of Newcastle could have walked through here without leaving a trace.’ As if, somehow, it was Vera’s fault. Billy Wainwright, famous in the service for his bonny