The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,5
mother used to make. Not always very clear to strangers, but he was tuned into it, tuned into her moods.
‘Where’s he from, maid?’ Maurice didn’t like this. Lucy was a trusting soul. Anyone who showed her kindness was a potential friend. Or a boyfriend. Maggie had tried to talk to her about it, about the people she could hug and the people she should keep at a bit of a distance, but he couldn’t find the right words.
‘I dunno.’ She looked away. ‘I just seen him around.’ Making it clear she didn’t want to answer the question. She could be stubborn as a mule when she chose.
Maurice turned back to face her. ‘Did he ever do anything? Say something to upset you?’
She shook her head and sat down heavily. ‘No!’ As if the idea was ridiculous. ‘He’s my friend.’ Her face was still red with the exertion of walking.
‘And he didn’t do anything he shouldn’t? He didn’t touch you?’ Maurice tried to keep the worry out of his voice. Luce picked up the tone of a person’s voice better than she understood the words.
‘No, Dad. He was always nice to me.’ And there was that wonderful smile again that lit up the room and made the world seem better.
Maurice felt a rush of relief. He didn’t know how he’d manage if someone hurt his daughter. He’d promised Maggie at the end that he’d always look after her. He had a brief picture of the overheated room in the hospice. Maggie, thin and bony with hair so fine he could see her pink scalp through it, gripping his arm. Fierce. Making him swear. She should have known him better than that, known he loved Lucy as much as she did. And perhaps she had known, because afterwards, she’d smiled and said sorry, she’d lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. He chased the image away.
‘He gave me sweets,’ Lucy said. ‘Every day on the bus he gave me sweets.’
That made Maurice worried again. He thought he’d phone the social worker and tell her it wasn’t safe for Lucy to travel on her own on the bus. If he had to, he’d scrape together the money and pay for a taxi himself.
‘Where did he usually get off the bus, this man?’ Maurice set the mug of tea in front of Lucy. She liked it milky and weak.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘With me. That’s why I was late. I waited in case he’d got another bus and he’d come back to see me.’
‘Maybe you’ll have seen him in the village then.’
She reached out and took a biscuit from the tin. She nodded but Maurice could tell that he’d lost her attention. Now she was here with her dad and her tea and a biscuit, the man seemed forgotten. Any memory that might have troubled her had disappeared.
Chapter Three
THE WOMAN HAD THE DOOR OF the toll keeper’s cottage open almost before they’d got out of the car. There was something hungry, desperate, about her need for information.
‘I’m DI Venn,’ Matthew said. ‘This is DS Rafferty.’
‘Hilary and Colin Marston. You’re here about the body.’ She looked them up and down. ‘You’re detectives. Unexpected death, your chap out there said, but this isn’t natural causes, is it? Not just a heart attack or an accident. There wouldn’t be all this fuss for an accident.’
‘Perhaps we could come in and ask you a few questions?’
‘Of course.’ She backed away and they were let into a hall. A pair of wellingtons stood at the foot of the stairs and a waxed jacket hung on a peg next to a smart black coat, which seemed out of place in the cottage.
It was hard to age her. The hair had been dyed almost black and she was wearing make-up. Late fifties? Matthew wondered. Early sixties? She was big-boned and strong, taller than the man who stood behind her in the passage. She wore black trousers and a black jacket over a white top, office wear for a middle-manager, Matthew thought. The coat must belong to her. Again, out of place, here on the edge of the marsh.
Her husband seemed more at home. He was short and round, a woollen jersey stretched over his stomach. Matthew thought they must have moved in recently; there was a hint of a Midlands accent and he’d seen the previous residents – an elderly couple who’d come out to collect the toll and have a chat – at Christmas. Perhaps the automatic barrier had