The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,23

there with her. I know there are other people working in the centre now you’re running this place, but you still know her best.’ Maurice was tempted to talk about his feelings about the new people, with their notions of independence and making Lucy get the bus, but maybe this wasn’t the right time. And deep down, he knew Jonathan would think it was good for Lucy to learn to do more on her own.

‘Of course. I can do that. I’ll make sure it’s all carefully handled.’ Jonathan gave a quick grin. ‘My husband’s a cop. I should be able to pull a few strings. I’ll give him a ring, shall I?’

Maurice blinked at that. He’d heard that Jonathan had married a man, but he wouldn’t have thought he’d be the sort to take up with a policeman. He was too much of a free spirit. Then he thought times had changed, and all that mattered now was that Lucy would be well looked after.

‘There’s one other thing.’

‘Yes?’ Jonathan had taken his phone out of his pocket to ring the police, but he set it on the table and gave Maurice his full attention. Maurice went on: ‘Lucy thought she’d seen the man before. I’d have recognized him if he’d been knocking around the village, so I think the Woodyard is the only other place she could have met him.’

Jonathan nodded as if this was something he’d already suspected.

* * *

In the end, Maurice spent all morning at the Woodyard. Jonathan’s man was there sooner than either of them had expected, and the three of them talked together before Lucy joined them. Matthew Venn was serious, sober, dressed in a suit. When he reached out to shake hands, Maurice saw that his fingernails were round and clean, like little pink shells. It was impossible to imagine him in shorts and a T-shirt. But the man’s formality inspired confidence; he wouldn’t be one for cutting corners and there was nothing flashy about him. Maurice had always been suspicious of flashy.

They were in the day centre, which was part of the Woodyard, enclosed by the perimeter fence, but separate from the tall main building. It was light and pleasant, with exposed wooden beams. Only single-storey so there wasn’t much of a view, but perfect for Lucy and her chums. Safe. It was linked to the Woodyard arts centre by a short glass corridor, but the door was shut once everyone got in. They walked past the kitchen on their way to the meeting room, where they talked before bringing Lucy in. Through the open door, he saw there was a cookery lesson going on. Lucy was chopping onions with the sort of knife he’d never let her use at home, but she seemed to be managing fine. Another woman with Down’s syndrome was peeling potatoes at the sink. Maurice recognized her but she was too engrossed in her task to turn round and say hello.

When he’d first visited the old day centre, Maurice had found it disturbing. Not everyone there was like Lucy, who was independent, bright. Lucy had been to mainstream school until she was in Year Nine – Maggie had fought for that – and she could read and write. She was better at working the TV than he was and she was always watching some rubbish on her phone.

Some of the other people had more severe learning disabilities. They were cared for in a different group. Some couldn’t talk, but made odd noises, squeaks and squeals. There was a man with a head too small for his body, people with twisted limbs, who couldn’t walk and used wheelchairs. Maurice was embarrassed now at his reaction, his horror, his feeling that this was some kind of freak show and that his Lucy didn’t belong there. Now, he knew the regulars by name and was impressed by the kindness and patience of the staff. As he followed Jonathan through the building, he nodded to the people he knew.

The detective had brought a photo of the dead man, the one they’d shown on the television, and he set it on the coffee table in front of them. The room was very small. It looked out to the wooden fence and Maurice felt trapped there, too hot. It reminded him of the rooms in the hospice where Maggie had spent her last days. Pleasant but airless. Lifeless.

‘Do either of you know him?’ the detective asked. ‘He lived in Ilfracombe with a couple of