The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,35

would be eager to hear the recording. They should be able to trace the originating number from the phone company. She played it again and tried to place the accent. It was southern and she found southern voices hard to pin down. Walden had come from Bristol, so perhaps that was it.

Out on the pavement she hesitated for a moment then walked to the corner of the high street. Although the rough sleeper had moved away, a different man stood almost in the same place. He waved a copy of The Big Issue in front of her and she felt in her pocket for change.

‘This your regular spot?’

He nodded.

‘Do you know the people who live at number twenty? Two lasses and a bloke?’

‘You a Scouser?’

‘Yeah, you?’ She’d been able to tell just from those three words and wondered what his story was.

‘Birkenhead,’ he said.

‘What brought you here?’

‘A woman,’ he replied. ‘It’s always a woman, isn’t it?’

She didn’t know what to say to that. ‘I was asking about the people at number twenty.’

‘You a cop? You don’t look like a cop, but I can smell them.’ He touched the side of his nose. Not hostile, just telling it like it was.

She gave a brief nod up the hill towards Caroline Preece’s house. ‘Investigating the murder of the guy who lived there.’ She thought he’d know about that, even if he didn’t have access to morning television. ‘I heard he’d been having a rough time before he moved in there.’

‘What was his name?’

Jen thought the man was buying time, planning his response. He knew already. ‘Simon Walden.’

‘Yeah, I’d seen him around. Bit of a boozer. Seemed to have landed on his feet. Nice place.’

‘Not landed on his feet now, though, has he?’

There was no reply.

‘Any reason why he should have been killed? Had he made any enemies round here? Owe any money?’

‘He wasn’t dealing.’

‘Using?’ Though they’d find out soon enough once they got the post-mortem toxicology report.

The man shook his head. ‘The drink was his poison. He drank in The Anchor at the other end of the high street.’

‘Anything else you can tell me?’

‘I don’t know that he’d ever been sleeping rough. He was one sad bastard, though. I never saw him smile.’

* * *

The Anchor was a locals’ pub, small and dark. There was nothing to attract tourists. No food, no fancy ciders. If strangers did walk in, they’d be stared at, a matter of interest and curiosity rather than resentment. Most visitors found the attention off-putting and left after one drink. At a table in a corner a middle-aged couple were holding hands. They looked as if they’d been there since lunchtime. Behind the bar a little man, thin as a whippet, was cleaning glasses.

Jen held out the photo of Simon Walden. ‘I hear he used to drink in here.’ When the man didn’t answer immediately. ‘I’m a police officer. We’re investigating his murder.’

‘I’d heard he was dead.’

‘Killed,’ she said. ‘Stabbed on the beach at Crow Point. Sounds as if he’d upset someone. Any idea who that might have been?’

The man shook his head. ‘He wasn’t a social drinker. He always turned up early and on his own. Five-ish. Not every night and I hadn’t seen him the last few weeks. I thought he’d moved on. Most of the people who come in at that time are here for the company. A game of dominos, a chat. Older people or guys stopping for a quick pint on their way home from work. He would come with a paper, sit with his back to the room, drink solidly for an hour and then go away. I never even knew his name until I saw his picture on the telly.’

Chapter Eleven

IN THE WOODYARD KITCHEN, THE WORKING day was nearly over, the pans clean, the stainless-steel surfaces scrubbed. It was open to the cafe, separated by a counter, tiny with an oven and a hob on one side and a sink on the other. Matthew had been to the cafe often with Jonathan. The coffee was good and the cakes were better. A few lingering visitors were finishing tea. They passed Matthew on their way out as he was taking a seat at the table nearest to the counter. The chef, Bob, was a large man but nimble on his feet. Jonathan had once said that watching him at work was like seeing an elephant dancing. Miraculous. Bob hung a tea towel over the hob and looked at Matthew. ‘I expect you could