Silent Voices

to build, I wouldn’t get Shaw involved.’
    ‘He’s lost his son.’ Simon spoke softly, but they all looked at him. ‘Whatever you think about him, he’s lost a child.’ Did he really care about the young man’s loss? Or was he simply warning his mother to be more tactful?
    ‘Of course!’ And now Veronica did seem stricken. ‘I’m so sorry, Inspector, that was unforgivably heartless.’
    Ashworth and Vera walked slowly away from the house. Vera insisted on going to the cafe for breakfast before they called at the cottage. The smell of food in the Eliot kitchen had driven her wild. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate without a bacon stottie inside her. The cafe wasn’t open, but the Yorkshire woman was already there, took pity on them and let them in.
    ‘That was Holly on the phone,’ Ashworth said. He’d tried to explain before, but Vera’s focus had all been about finding food. ‘There’s some interesting information on Veronica. Might explain why she gave Connie Masters such a hard time when she first moved into the village.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘She lost a child. A toddler. A little boy called Patrick. He drowned in the river. He was playing down on the beach near Connie’s house and he wandered under the bridge and slipped into the river. Veronica was there, but Simon, who was a bit older, was with her too. He’d run off towards the road and she’d chased after him, worried that he might get in the path of a car. When she got back, the little one was face-down in the water. She tried to resuscitate him, but it didn’t work.’
    ‘Poor woman.’ That stopped Vera in her tracks. ‘Poor, poor woman.’ Vera tried to think what that sort of guilt would do to you. How could the family still live in that house, looking down every day at the point where their son had drowned? The memory of it must have eaten into Veronica’s brain and her bones, scarring her forever. Her upbringing would have prevented her from seeking help. No counselling for her. No getting pissed with her friends either. Stiff upper lip and life must go on. Or had that been impossible in the end?
    Then Connie Masters had moved into the village: another woman who had allowed a child to drown.
    And what had the accident done to Simon? The son who had distracted his mother and indirectly caused the death of his brother. Had he ever been told about his part in the tragedy?
    Vera found herself near to tears. But she was exhilarated too. Perhaps this was the breakthrough in the case they’d been waiting for. If Veronica blamed Connie for Elias Jones’s death, had she held Jenny Lister ultimately responsible for it? In killing the social worker, had she found a sort of redemption for her own child’s drowning?
    Nah , Vera thought. Real life doesn’t work like that. She’d never been one for psycho-babble, and the death of a strange child wouldn’t move a woman to murder. Veronica would only have cared about her own son’s drowning.
    But all the same, Vera felt she was inching towards a solution. The Eliots were hiding something. If Connie Masters could identify Danny Shaw as the man who’d called at the cottage, then they had a link between them and Shaw, and that should be enough to move the investigation forward. She finished the last mouthful of sandwich, took a slurp from her mug and almost ran from the cafe, leaving a ten-pound note on the table. At the door she paused only to make sure Ashworth was following her.
    But when they arrived at Connie’s place, the cottage was empty and her car was gone. They knocked on the door, knowing there would be no answer. Vera felt under the plant pot near the front door. No spare key. She walked round to the back of the house and moved the wheelie bin that stood just outside the kitchen. A key lay on the bare soil and they let themselves in.
    ‘Is this strictly legal?’ Ashworth knew Vera wouldn’t care, but he wanted to make a point.
    ‘We’re worried that Connie’s had an accident,’ Vera said, all mock concern. ‘It’s our duty to check.’
    The house looked as if it had been left very quickly. There were dirty bowls in the sink and the kettle was still warm. Upstairs neither of the beds had been made.
    ‘Maybe she’s just taken the lass to playgroup?’
    Ashworth shook his head. ‘It’s not on today.’
    ‘Gone shopping then?’
    ‘She knew we were coming to see her with the photos of Shaw and Morgan. And she’d have seen our cars parked out in the