Chapter 16

Judy sits at her desk, feeling self-conscious in her mask. Should she take it off? Tony is sitting at least two metres away but he is still wearing his. Suddenly, Judy misses Clough who would have brought some normality to this abnormal situation simply by being himself, eating junk food and pretending to be an American gangster. On impulse she sends him a text, ‘Strange times eh?’ Two minutes later, Clough replies: ‘Im bulk buying frankfurters. Its a wurst case scen­ario.’ Judy sends back an eye-roll emoji but she does feel very slightly better.

Nelson said to carry on with the Avril Flowers investigation but that’s going to be hard when everything is locked down. Judy looks at her notes. She has spoken to the people closest to Avril and is no nearer to understanding what happened that night in February. The vicar has said that Avril had been worried but seemed unable, or unwilling, to be more specific. Judy thinks of Mother Wendy saying, ‘That’s what the church is here for. For worried people. That’s why we’ll always be here.’ What is Mother Wendy doing now? Judy wonders. The churches are all closed. She was surprised how shocked she’d been to hear this news. Judy might be a lapsed Catholic, but she’d always assumed that, all her life, mass would be carrying on somewhere. Thinking of the silent churches, the unconsumed communion wafers, the empty chalices, makes her feel strangely panicky. What about her grandma, who goes to mass every day? But Judy’s grandmother, an eighty-year-old diabetic, has been told to ‘shield’ and stay in her house. Judy doesn’t know when she will see her again.

The last item in her notes is a reference to Maggie O’Flynn, Avril’s friend who died in January. There didn’t, on the face of it, seem anything suspicious about Maggie’s death, which was apparently due to ‘myocardial infarction’. But Maggie was another woman on her own, someone who went to church and did good works in the community. And now she is, unexpectedly, dead. It’s still part of the pattern.

Judy decides that the best use of her first day in lockdown would be to follow up on one of Liz’s suicide cold cases. She starts, as they always do these days, with Facebook. There are no results for Rosanna Leigh or Celia Dunne. Either their pages were closed when they died, or they are in the minority of people who are not on the social networking site. Even Judy has a profile, although she hasn’t posted in five years. Cathbad doesn’t have a personal page but he does have one for his yoga teaching. Miranda is already asking to join and lots of Michael’s friends are already there, despite the age limit. Maddie has hundreds of Facebook and Instagram friends who all post identical pouting pictures of themselves. Clough posts pictures of his dog and his children. Tanya shares fitness tips. Almost the only people Judy knows who aren’t on Facebook are Ruth and Nelson. Perhaps they have more in common than they realise.

Karen Head does have a page though. Her family have kept it open as a memorial to her. Judy supposes it’s a new kind of immortality but it’s still disconcerting to see Karen’s smiling face looking out at her. Judy scrolls through the messages.

 

 

This last reminds Judy that Karen was a teacher. She makes a note to talk to the school. Presumably, even if schools are closed, there is someone to take messages? Michael and Miranda’s school is still open for the children of key workers, which presumably includes Judy. She’s not going to suggest that they go to school, though, when she knows that they’ll have a wonderful time being educated by Cathbad. As if prompted by an otherworldly power, her phone buzzes. Maddie.

‘Hi, Judy. You busy?’

‘Not really. It all feels very surreal.’

‘I know. The streets are deserted. You could have a picnic in the middle of the A149.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘I won’t. I popped in to see Cathbad and he was doing yoga with the kids in the garden.’

Judy can imagine the scene. It makes her wish that she was at home and not in this weird socially distanced workspace.

‘I was wondering,’ says Maddie. ‘Could I come and stay with you for a bit? Just while we’re in lockdown. The lease is almost up on the flat.’

‘Of course,’ says Judy. ‘Your room is waiting for you.’

‘I can help Cathbad with the home-schooling.’ Maddie always calls her father by his name, or rather by his alias.

‘It would be good if you could remind him to do some,’ says Judy.

 

Judy’s hunch is correct. Karen’s school, Gaywood Juniors, is still open and the headteacher himself answers the phone. ‘Yes, we’ve got about fifty children here,’ says Richard Parsons, ‘some of them very vulnerable. It’s been a nightmare making everything Covid-safe.’

‘It’s the same here at the police station,’ says Judy. ‘Though I suppose it must be harder making children stay two metres apart.’

‘It’s impossible,’ says Richard. ‘And it’s difficult for teachers too. Some of them are shielding or looking after elderly ­parents. I’m having to live apart from my family because my youngest has asthma.’

They talk for several minutes before Judy can mention Karen. Richard’s voice changes immediately. ‘Poor Karen. That was such a shock. She was a lovely woman and a great teacher.’

‘You say it was a shock,’ says Judy. ‘Did you have any idea that she was depressed or having suicidal thoughts?’

‘None at all,’ says Richard. ‘I knew she’d been hit hard by her divorce, but she seemed on good terms with her ex and was devoted to her daughter. Karen was always such a sunny presence around the school, organising get-togethers and what have you. She even got us to have a sponsored slim last year. I lost two stone. I’ve put it all on again since though.’

‘Karen was at a staff get-together the night before she died, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. We went out for a meal then on to a karaoke bar. Karen seemed on great form.’

Judy doesn’t say that a karaoke bar would be her idea of hell. She asks who would have been the last person to see Karen that night.

‘I think that was Sue Elver. They shared a taxi together.’

‘Have you got a phone number for Sue?’

‘I think so. She left the school after Karen died. Left the profession entirely. But I think I have a number somewhere in my phone. Yes. Here it is.’

Judy takes down the number, thanks Richard for his time and wishes him good luck with the rest of term.

‘It’s not so bad,’ says Richard. ‘I love teaching and it’s good to be back in the classroom. It’s not the same for everyone. I’ve already had parents on the phone begging me to take their children back.’

‘My partner seems to be enjoying home-schooling,’ says Judy.

‘That won’t last,’ says Richard cheerfully. ‘Bye now.’

 

Sue Elver also answers the phone quickly. ‘I’m at home with my teenage children.’ she says. ‘Any diversion is welcome.’

‘Must be tough for teenagers.’

‘It is. My son was meant to be taking his GCSEs in the summer. Now they’ve been cancelled. It’s all going to be based on teacher assessments. He’s regretting now not having done any work for the past five years.’

Judy has already explained that she’s investigating the death of Karen Head. Now she asks Sue about her friend.

‘I still can’t get over it,’ says Sue. ‘It was why I left teaching really. Just couldn’t imagine school without Karen.’

‘Tell me about her,’ says Judy, knowing that this is the best way of asking this question.

‘Karen was great fun,’ says Sue. ‘That’s what I remember most. We laughed all the time. It’s the only way to survive teaching really, finding things funny. But it was a nice school and Richard’s a good head. I was happy there. Karen was happy.’ She pauses.

‘Was there anything that made her unhappy?’ prompts Judy. ‘Her divorce . . .’

‘Her divorce was as amicable as these things can be,’ says Sue. ‘She still got on well with Chris and they were devoted to Maisy, their daughter.’

Chris had discovered Karen’s body, Judy remembers. She must talk to him next.

‘Can you think of anything that was worrying Karen in the weeks before her death?’

There’s another pause. A more significant one this time.

‘She was seeing someone,’ says Sue. ‘And she said I’d disapprove.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘No, but I got the impression there was an age difference. Something like that.’

‘Did she say anything else about this person?’

‘No,’ says Sue. ‘But I was a bit worried. I wish I’d asked more.’

But people don’t always ask those questions, thinks Judy. And now it’s too late.

 

By six o’clock, Ruth is exhausted, her head thumping, her vision blurred. This feels more tiring than driving to work and back in the rush hour. Ruth has done two Zoom lectures and three tutorials. She has also overseen Kate’s schoolwork and tempted her out for a walk to the sea. They came back with a pile of ‘interesting stones’ that will probably never move from the middle of the kitchen table. Ruth has also made lunch and sundry snacks for Kate and Flint. Now they are both making noises about supper.

Ruth looks down at her emails. There seem to be even more of these than usual: students asking for reassurance, lecturers unable to log onto Zoom, opportunistic companies wanting her to spend money. Three messages immediately catch her eye. The first is from Janet Meadows saying that the plague exhibition will now be a virtual event. Ruth sends a quick reply commiserating and congratulating. She adds a quick PS. Do you know anything about researching the history of a house?

The next two missives are blasts from her romantic past. The first is Daniel saying that he is thinking of her ‘in this strange new world of ours’. The next is from another ex-boyfriend, Peter Snow.

Ruth met Peter when they were excavating the Bronze Age henge. It had been a magical summer, long days digging and long evenings by the camp fire watching the birds wheeling across the Norfolk sky. Peter wasn’t an archaeologist; he was a historian who turned up one day and offered his help on the site. He had been enthusiastic, so enthusiastic that he almost drowned in quicksand trying to reach the buried timbers. Erik had saved him, crawling over the treacherous ground with his hand held out. That night, Ruth realised not only that Peter had nearly died but also that she loved him. Life was suddenly very precious. Erik’s wife Magda seemed to read her mind and suggested that Ruth and Peter go and collect samphire together. There, by the water’s edge, they had, simply and sweetly, walked into each other’s arms. Peter had encouraged her to apply for the job at UNN and to buy the cottage. They were together for nearly five years and Ruth was so used to Peter that she didn’t at first notice that she’d fallen out of love with him. She ended the relationship, to her mother’s horror, and, apart from a strange, abortive reunion twelve years ago, Ruth hasn’t seen Peter since. She knows he’s now married with a child. There’s no mention of either in his email. Ruth’s finger hovers over the reply arrow.

Ruth wonders whether Peter will respond but, when she opens her laptop later that evening, after Kate is in bed, there’s another email from him.

Ruth looks at this missive for some time. It brings back Peter in all his lovable, annoying glory. He had loved the cats and they had shared their kittenhood together. The mention of Sparky still makes Ruth sad, even after all these years. The comment about the purchase of the house being nobody’s business but hers seems rather pointed though. There had been some talk of them buying the house together, but Ruth had, even then, been determined that it would belong to her alone. She must have known, at some level, that she and Peter were not destined to be partners for life. But she had forgotten about ‘The Cabin’. There had even been a sign with a lopsided drawing of a house. It had seemed funny back then when ‘horror story tropes’ were an amusing, academic joke.

She can’t believe that Daniel, who was a little boy when she last saw Peter, is about to go to university. She seems to be haunted by Daniels. There’s her childhood boyfriend, Daniel Breakspeare, and she had a good friend at university called Dan Golding. Why has Peter, like the other Daniel, chosen to contact her now? It’s the pandemic, she thinks, and the prospect of weeks (months?) with only a laptop and memories for company. She should stop this correspondence now. She knows that she will never visit Peter in Nottingham, no matter how interesting the town is ‘historically’.

She’s about to press ‘shut down’, when another email appears on the screen. The sender is identified only by an anonymous Gmail address and the message is brief.