The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,59
with the others to the reception area of the centre and when she didn’t come back, they assumed she’d been collected or gone home with the minibus as usual. The centre’s trying to encourage a degree of independence, so they didn’t actually accompany her to the car.’ Vicki Robb was young, keen. Matthew was already impressed.
‘Has anyone spoken to the aunt and uncle?’
‘Not yet,’ Vicki said. ‘I could go if you’d like me to.’
‘No, I’ll do it. There’s another call I need to make in Lovacott anyway.’ It would be interesting to catch up with Dennis Salter after all these years. And this was a good excuse to leave the office. Walking back down the stairs to collect his car, he wondered if his mother would see his job differently if he managed to deliver Christine back to Susan. And if he failed to find the woman, would his mother see that as just another example of his failure as a man?
Matthew was on his way out when Oldham appeared at the top of the stairs and called him into his office. ‘If you’ve got a moment, Matthew…’
Oldham’s office was like its owner: shabby, untidy. Matthew had always been wary of the man. There was something about his attitude to Matthew that wasn’t dislike exactly, but more akin to distaste. Something Oldham couldn’t help and tried to control, but a prejudice that was always there under the surface. Matthew wasn’t sure if he was a homophobe or he just didn’t like the idea of a new inspector on his patch. He also found the DCI an object of pity. His wife had died of cancer a couple of years before and rumour had it that he’d started to hit the bottle then, that the beer with friends in the rugby club each evening had taken priority over work. They’d had no family. Ross, the son of a good friend, was the closest thing he had.
‘This Crow Point murder.’ Oldham leaned back in his chair. ‘I understand the victim worked at the Woodyard?’
‘He was a volunteer there.’
‘And your partner runs the place?’
‘My husband. Yes.’ A moment of silence. ‘And it seems that the woman with Down’s syndrome who’s missing was abducted from there.’ Matthew took a deep breath. ‘I wondered if I should withdraw from the case. I obviously have a conflict of interest. Perhaps you should take over as SIO.’
Another silence. Oldham closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them very slowly. Matthew watched the lids slide up and was reminded of a lizard, or perhaps a crocodile. ‘No need for that,’ Oldham said at last. ‘I trust my team. Just keep me in the loop.’
So, Jonathan had been right and idleness and a need for a quiet life had won, but as Matthew was leaving the office, Oldham spoke again:
‘Just don’t cock up, eh? If you cock up, we’ll both be in the shit, and that’s the last thing I need.’
* * *
Matthew carried on down the stairs, collected his car and took the same route as he’d travelled with the bus the afternoon before. The light was fading and the weather was changing. It was still warm but the air felt heavy with rain. He arrived in Lovacott more quickly than he’d expected, surprised to be suddenly there, dropping down to the village. He hadn’t noticed any of the landmarks that he’d glimpsed from the bus. Christine’s aunt and uncle lived in a tall, straight, confident house right on the square. Once, Matthew thought, a merchant might have stayed there, trading in wool, spreading prosperity. Now it was the home of Grace and Dennis Salter, stalwarts of the Barum Brethren. He’d known them since he was a child. Salter’s rejection of Matthew, after his statement of independence at the final meeting he’d ever attended, had hurt. Before that, Matthew had liked the man. He’d been one of the few Brethren to take Matthew seriously when he was a child, to answer his questions. Grace he hardly remembered at all.
He hadn’t phoned ahead, but there was a light on in the front room and he stood for a moment looking inside. He’d been in that room with his parents. Occasionally meetings had been held there. Dennis had led the worship and Alice Wozencroft, the most elderly member of the Brethren, had played a squeaky keyboard so slowly that the singing was always a few bars ahead. There was dark varnished panelling on the walls, a long, polished table.