The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,68
that wasn’t Matthew’s style.
* * *
Waiting in the reception area of the Woodyard, Jen felt right at home. Most of the staff were women of about her age, they dressed like her and looked like her: arty, dramatic. She thought that Matthew had known what he was doing sending her here. It didn’t do to underestimate him. She stood at the door, showing Christine’s photo, catching members of the public as they came in. There was a sympathetic response, interest, but no useful information. It was as if Christine had disappeared into thin air that afternoon. But as they drifted off to their classes, they were still discussing the missing woman. Word would get out.
In the distance Jen saw Gaby Henry approaching the building, and she was so focussed on the woman that she almost missed the man who was walking past her. He was familiar but for a moment she couldn’t place him. He was small, balding, in late middle-age, dressed more for a country walk than for a visit to an arts’ centre, in corduroy trousers and boots. He carried a clipboard. In the end it was the binoculars strung around his neck that gave him away. This was Colin Marston, who lived with his wife in the toll keeper’s cottage on the way to Crow Point. Jen turned her head away, hoping he’d not see her, that he’d put her down as just another woman with untidy hair and eccentric clothes. She wanted to find out more about his connection to the Woodyard before talking to him. He walked past her and into the body of the building.
Jen brought her attention back to Gaby. Today the woman was dressed in black – a long black dress, black tights and black bikers’ boots. Slung across her body like a holster, a red leather bag. The signature red lipstick. Jen waved to her as soon as she came into the building.
Gaby waved back and looked as if she was about to approach her, but seemed to think better of it and disappeared into the crowd. Before Jen could follow her, her phone rang. A number she didn’t recognize. ‘Jen Rafferty.’
‘Sergeant Rafferty, it’s Caroline Preece. You gave us your card, said to call you if we had anything useful to tell you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there’s something I’d like to show you. I can’t leave St Cuthbert’s. Is there any way you could come here?’
* * *
St Cuthbert’s was right in the middle of Barnstaple on a cobbled lane that ran on to a series of alms houses, black and white timbered, ancient but still used for their original purpose of caring for the elderly. It was too narrow for cars, though pedestrians used the lane to cross between two busy streets. The church itself was newer, Victorian, rather too grand for its setting, and it backed onto the road, shutting out the traffic noise. Beside it, and surrounded by grass holding a couple of mature oaks, stood a former dame’s school, of the same age as the alms houses. It had been used for many years as the church hall, but recently it had been renovated and it housed the charity where Caroline Preece worked. Jen had always loved this part of the town. She’d felt she was stepping back in time. It was an oasis of peace.
A skinny young man with bad skin stood outside the old school, smoking a roll-up cigarette. He took no notice of Jen. The doors were arched and locked. There was no bell. The young man finally looked up. ‘You’ll need to go around the back.’
The building had been extended at the back, and was connected to the church by a new, open cloister of stone and wood. The extension was beautifully done, but Jen wondered how it had slid past planning rules. Surely the old school was listed. Perhaps Christopher Preece had influence with the council, or perhaps, because it wasn’t immediately visible from the lane, it had been allowed through anyway. As Jen approached the door that led into the newer part of the building, a young man in a clerical collar emerged. He nodded to her and walked down the cloister and into the church. Jen supposed this was Edward, Caroline’s curate.
Inside, there was a reception space with a desk and a middleaged woman staring at a computer screen. She looked up and smiled. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Caroline Preece. It’s Jen Rafferty.’