The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,10

decaying now and turned into flats and bedsits. Some had boarded-up windows. An empty can, which had once held strong lager, rolled down the pavement.

‘Hope Street,’ Ross said. ‘Otherwise known as addicts’ avenue. I thought I recognized the address.’

Jen liked Ilfracombe, the mix and edginess of it. A few of her friends lived here and she’d considered moving herself because the houses were cheaper, the parties wilder and more her style. But the kids were settled at school now and the drive to work would be a bit of a drag. Like other former holiday towns, it pulled in transients and misfits, people lured by the prospect of seasonal work in the big hotels. When the trippers went home the workers stayed, because they’d found friends, or out of inertia, or because they had nothing left to return to. Some of the guest houses had been turned into hostels or bedsits, others rented out rooms for the winter, not caring that they had no real facilities for a long-term let. Hope Street contained those sorts of premises but there were signs of gentrification too; some houses had bright new paint and coloured blinds, window boxes and shrubs in tubs in the tiny front gardens. At the bottom of the street, Jen saw the silhouettes of two men, hunched together in conversation.

They found number twenty halfway down the hill. A black door, freshly painted. No sign that it was a place of multiple occupancy, no separate doorbells or letter boxes. No doorbell at all, so Ross knocked. Jen thought she heard someone moving inside. Ross knocked again and the door was opened to reveal a generous front hall, the floorboards stripped and patchily varnished, and a young woman who wore jeans and a long sweater in kingfisher blue, a slash of red lipstick.

‘Hiya.’ She looked them up and down with interest. ‘Sorry, if you’re selling something, I’m skint. And if you’re selling religion, I’m an atheist. The resident God-botherer is out. So, there’s nothing for you here.’

Jen thought she’d remember that next time she got cold callers at the door. ‘We’re not selling anything. We’re police officers.’

‘Is it about my bike?’ Her face lit up. Expressions flew across her features like the shadows of clouds on a windy day. The face was never still. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found it after all this time. We’ve got a new lock on the door into the back alley so we haven’t had anything nicked since.’

‘Not the bike,’ Ross said. ‘Perhaps we could come in.’

The woman led them into a large room at the back of the house. Jen, who was an expert on these things, thought all the furniture had been upcycled or freecycled. Seating was a huge squashy sofa in purple velvet, cushions on the floor, a couple of armchairs that looked as if they’d been newly upholstered, but not quite finished. It seemed the craftsperson had become bored with the project. A long, low table had been formed from a plank door. On the walls posters and original paintings. A small black wood burner, dirty and unlit, and a wicker basket full of logs. A single patio door led out into a tiny yard, where huge ceramic pots provided a garden. Daffodils were already coming into bloom. There was a high wall with a rickety doorway, through which, Jen assumed, the stolen bicycle had been taken.

‘Could we have your name?’ Jen had chosen one of the armchairs. Ross was still standing.

‘Gaby. Gaby Henry.’

‘Do you own the house?’

‘No, that’s Caroline. Caz. Well, theoretically she owns it. It’s mortgaged to the hilt. And of course, she was helped out with a deposit from the bank of mum and dad. Or just dad actually, because her mum died years ago. Helped too by the rent from her lodger. That’s me.’ A flash of a smile and a pause, as if she was a stand-up comedian waiting for applause after the punchline of a joke. Her voice was southern but not local. London maybe.

Jen leaned forward. ‘A man was found dead on the beach at Crow Point this afternoon. There was something on his person to connect him to this address.’ She paused. There was no response from the woman. For a moment Gaby stood very still. Jen looked at her, then continued. ‘Do you have a husband? A partner?’

Now Gaby did speak. ‘I’m fancy free. Caz has Edward. A curate. But he’s not here at the moment. He doesn’t live in. They don’t believe