corner. The woman had been sitting there and had overheard everything they’d said.
“Who are you?” Emma demanded. Then, before the woman could answer, remembering Dan’s earlier warning, “Are you a reporter?”
The woman gave a wheezy laugh. Her enormous bosoms shook.
“Not me, pet. I’m on the side of the angels.” She held out a hand the size of a shovel. “Vera Stanhope. Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. I’ve been brought in to clear up this particular pile of crap.”
Chapter Twelve
Emma thought Vera Stanhope was the most thick-skinned person she’d ever met. It was not only in that she was impervious to embarrassment or offence. She was literally thick-skinned. Her face was scaly and uneven, covered in places by crusted blotches, her hands were hard and worn. Some sort of allergy or disease, Emma thought, but couldn’t bring herself to pity. She wasn’t the sort of woman you could feel sorry for. Vera stood, looking at them both, narrowing her eyes.
“Did you say something about coffee, Danny? But not here, eh, pet. Let’s go somewhere a bit more comfy.” She directed her gaze towards Emma. “Don’t you live just over the square?”
Emma knew what was expected. She was supposed to invite them in, sit them in the best room, brew coffee, set out fancy biscuits. Then answer this extraordinary woman’s questions. Go over the old ground. And all the time Vera’s reptile eyes would be taking in the surroundings, probing, as curious as the old ladies from the church who’d invited themselves in to see the baby when she’d first come home from hospital. She couldn’t bear it.
“We can’t go to my house,” she said quickly. “My husband’s asleep. He’s been working all night.”
Dan Greenwood rescued her. Perhaps he sensed her panic, though she could no longer persuade herself that they had a special understanding.
“Why don’t you come back to my place. I’d be breaking for lunch about now anyway.”
Vera turned a wide smile on him, as if that was what she’d been hoping for all the time.
Outside the rain had stopped and there were jagged splashes of sunlight reflected in the puddles and the wet pavements. Emma waited for Dan to lock up. Even now, she found herself watching him. He had dark hair on the back of his hands. His sleeve fell back from his wrist as he clamped together the padlock and she imagined what it would feel like to touch his arm.
“I’ll drive round,” she said. “Matthew always falls asleep in the car. It’ll mean we can talk in peace.”
It wasn’t far to Dan’s house but she didn’t want to be seen traipsing after them along the narrow pavements, part of a strange procession, a circus freak show. He lived in a crescent of 1930s semis on the edge of the village. Once they’d been council houses and there were still one or two belonging to the local authority, identifiable by the uniform green paint. The rest had been bought by their owners or sold on to in comers like Dan. They had long, thin gardens at the back, fanning out towards farmland.
Emma took her time. She let herself into her own home and watched them set off before carrying Matthew to the car and strapping him in. She didn’t want to arrive ahead of them, and thought if she passed them on the way she might feel obliged to offer them a lift. The thought of Vera Stanhope in her car gave her the same threat of violation, as if she’d been forced to ask her into her home.
When she arrived at the Crescent Dan’s door was open, and she went in without knocking, lifting the car seat with Matthew into the narrow hall. She had never been inside the house, though she knew James had. It was one of his excuses for lateness during the cricket season. I just called into Dan’s for a beer after the match. Hovering outside the kitchen it occurred to her that James had probably known all along about Dan Greenwood’s role in the Abigail Mantel murder. The subject of Dan’s
“Who are you?” Emma demanded. Then, before the woman could answer, remembering Dan’s earlier warning, “Are you a reporter?”
The woman gave a wheezy laugh. Her enormous bosoms shook.
“Not me, pet. I’m on the side of the angels.” She held out a hand the size of a shovel. “Vera Stanhope. Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. I’ve been brought in to clear up this particular pile of crap.”
Chapter Twelve
Emma thought Vera Stanhope was the most thick-skinned person she’d ever met. It was not only in that she was impervious to embarrassment or offence. She was literally thick-skinned. Her face was scaly and uneven, covered in places by crusted blotches, her hands were hard and worn. Some sort of allergy or disease, Emma thought, but couldn’t bring herself to pity. She wasn’t the sort of woman you could feel sorry for. Vera stood, looking at them both, narrowing her eyes.
“Did you say something about coffee, Danny? But not here, eh, pet. Let’s go somewhere a bit more comfy.” She directed her gaze towards Emma. “Don’t you live just over the square?”
Emma knew what was expected. She was supposed to invite them in, sit them in the best room, brew coffee, set out fancy biscuits. Then answer this extraordinary woman’s questions. Go over the old ground. And all the time Vera’s reptile eyes would be taking in the surroundings, probing, as curious as the old ladies from the church who’d invited themselves in to see the baby when she’d first come home from hospital. She couldn’t bear it.
“We can’t go to my house,” she said quickly. “My husband’s asleep. He’s been working all night.”
Dan Greenwood rescued her. Perhaps he sensed her panic, though she could no longer persuade herself that they had a special understanding.
“Why don’t you come back to my place. I’d be breaking for lunch about now anyway.”
Vera turned a wide smile on him, as if that was what she’d been hoping for all the time.
Outside the rain had stopped and there were jagged splashes of sunlight reflected in the puddles and the wet pavements. Emma waited for Dan to lock up. Even now, she found herself watching him. He had dark hair on the back of his hands. His sleeve fell back from his wrist as he clamped together the padlock and she imagined what it would feel like to touch his arm.
“I’ll drive round,” she said. “Matthew always falls asleep in the car. It’ll mean we can talk in peace.”
It wasn’t far to Dan’s house but she didn’t want to be seen traipsing after them along the narrow pavements, part of a strange procession, a circus freak show. He lived in a crescent of 1930s semis on the edge of the village. Once they’d been council houses and there were still one or two belonging to the local authority, identifiable by the uniform green paint. The rest had been bought by their owners or sold on to in comers like Dan. They had long, thin gardens at the back, fanning out towards farmland.
Emma took her time. She let herself into her own home and watched them set off before carrying Matthew to the car and strapping him in. She didn’t want to arrive ahead of them, and thought if she passed them on the way she might feel obliged to offer them a lift. The thought of Vera Stanhope in her car gave her the same threat of violation, as if she’d been forced to ask her into her home.
When she arrived at the Crescent Dan’s door was open, and she went in without knocking, lifting the car seat with Matthew into the narrow hall. She had never been inside the house, though she knew James had. It was one of his excuses for lateness during the cricket season. I just called into Dan’s for a beer after the match. Hovering outside the kitchen it occurred to her that James had probably known all along about Dan Greenwood’s role in the Abigail Mantel murder. The subject of Dan’s
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