The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,17

for him. He’d left school at sixteen and travelled. There’d been no real explanation when Matthew had asked why. Just: Things weren’t brilliant at home. It was for the best. He’d worked in vineyards in France, picked strawberries in Spain, and he’d cooked for rich sailing types on smart yachts out of ports throughout Europe. Romantic stuff that had turned Matthew’s head, made his mind spin. Wherever he’d stayed, Jonathan had picked up odd accents. When he was serious, though, his voice became rural North Devon again. Now he was definitely serious.

‘You keep me real and rooted.’ Jonathan put his hand on Matthew’s arm. ‘But you do have far too many principles. Sometimes I think you hide behind them. Just have the balls to take this on. Just this once, Matthew. Fight for it.’

* * *

When Matthew woke the next day, it was already light and he had a moment of panic, convinced he’d be late. He never overslept, but he’d been awake until the early hours, restless. He’d arranged to go to the victim’s home with Jen this morning – he needed to get a feel for the place and the people who had known Walden best – and he had a brief rush of horror when he thought he’d missed the appointment. The other side of the bed was empty. But when he checked his phone he saw that it was still early and he had plenty of time.

All night, he’d been aware of Jonathan sleeping beside him, motionless, the gentle breaths not moving his body. Jonathan had a gift for sleep that Matthew envied more than anything. More than his husband’s easy confidence, his courage, his ability to laugh off hurt and insults. Now Matthew was alone in bed and that rarely happened. Usually he was the first up.

Jonathan was in the kitchen and there was the smell of coffee and toast. For years this had seemed unattainable: a companion, a shared home, love. Matthew thought he was the most fortunate man in the world and the anxiety and insomnia of the night before seemed like an indulgence.

But your father died less than two weeks ago and you only found out because of a notice in the North Devon Journal. His funeral was yesterday. Cut yourself a bit of slack, Matthew. You’re going through a tough time. Dump the guilt.

Then Matthew felt himself smiling because he could hear Jonathan’s voice speaking the words.

They stood together in the kitchen drinking the coffee. Jonathan had already eaten the toast; he knew Matthew didn’t do breakfast. Outside everything was clear and sharp-edged, sparkling. A breeze blew the river into tight little waves and scattered the light. There were new daffodils on the edge of the grass.

Walden’s body had already been moved to the mortuary and the CSIs had finished their work, so there was nobody on the toll gate to stop cars coming through. The barrier lifted automatically, as it always did on exit. As he pulled out onto the road that led towards the sea, Matthew saw Colin Marston standing on the verge, scanning the flat land leading towards Braunton Burrows, the extensive area of dunes that stretched between the marsh and the shore.

On impulse, Matthew turned the car left at the junction, away from the village and the main road and towards the coast. This way to Ilfracombe was longer but he had time to spare and there would be less traffic. And the route brought back memories. His father had worked for an agricultural supply business and occasionally, during school holidays, Matthew would be allowed to go with him on business calls to farms along the coast. His father had converted to the Brethren to marry, and away from the house he’d seemed more relaxed, younger. Not like the rest of the sect. They’d chatted about trivial things – football, fishing – and his dad would describe the customers they’d be visiting:

Geoff Brend would be a good enough farmer if he didn’t take to the bottle whenever he hit a bad patch.

And then when they’d driven into the sunset towards a whitewashed farmhouse at the head of a valley leading down to the sea:

Mary Brownscombe’s a grand woman. She kept the business going while her Nigel was ill with cancer and she’s still making a go of it now.

The woman had been out in the yard when they’d arrived. Everything had been flooded with the red glow from the sun setting over the sea at the bottom