Chapter Ten
MATTHEW VENN HAD WATCHED JEN AND Ross wander away from Tide House and up the lane towards the farm.
After making sure the debris from the lunch was cleared away and chatting to the senior CSI, he went to sit in his car.
He needed to be on his own to think and to phone back to the station.
He’d parked in the shade of a large oak, but even with the windows down, it was still so hot that he was struggling to breathe.
When Ross and Jen returned from the Brennans’ place, he’d head back to Barnstaple.
He didn’t think there was much else he could do here, and perhaps irrationally he felt that he was only in the way, that the rest of the team would prefer to be left to it without him.
He was given to these moments of awkwardness, the sense that he was a perpetual outsider, an unhelpful presence.
Since he’d met Jonathan, those moments occurred less frequently, but they still came back to bite him when he was least expecting them.
He phoned Vicki Robb, who was supervising the ops room, and asked her to check out the backgrounds of Tessa and Bob Brennan and the couple running the Fisherman’s Arms.
‘Tessa grew up in the North East. There might be a connection with Hannah Armstrong’s family, though it’s highly unlikely.
Jen suspected that Jim Hooper, the landlord of the Fisherman’s, might have had a history with the police.
And can you chase up Hannah’s mobile provider? That’s a matter of urgency.’
Then, leaning back in the seat, he shut his eyes, and began to think through the investigation. Anyone walking past would assume that he was asleep.
It was the lack of motive that troubled him most, and the timeline.
Sal Pengelly was always adamant that it was impossible to pinpoint an accurate time of death, so Matthew couldn’t know which of the young women had been murdered first. And that was important.
He found it hard to believe that a random psychotic killer might have found his way to Tide House early on a Monday morning and killed the girls for fun.
So, which of them had been the intended target? Surely it couldn’t be both?
He was still sitting there, lost in his thoughts and preoccupations, when he heard his colleagues’ voices approaching. No sign of them yet, because of the curve in the lane. He got out of the car, not wanting to be caught apparently slacking, and walked towards the sound.
Jen and Ross were deep in conversation. Not an argument.
No raised voices. But a disagreement about an apparent connection between the Kinzalows, the American couple glamping at Millscombe, and the Armstrong family.
When Matthew came across them, they’d stopped walking and were standing facing each other in the middle of track.
‘I’m just saying that it’s a big coincidence,’ Jen said.
‘How did they land up here, in the middle of nowhere? He’s a political journalist writing a book and he turns up on the doorstep of one of our up-and-coming politicians.
Who he’s met before. They could still be staying in a swanky hotel in Torr, not roughing it in a farmer’s field. ’
‘Maybe he was interested in meeting Armstrong again.’ Uncharacteristically, Ross didn’t want a battle.
‘He might have been after some kind of interview or background for his book, and he hoped to get close to him informally. But I can’t see how that would make the man kill two young women who were complete strangers to him. ’
They’d seen Matthew now and turned towards him, both wanting his support for their point of view.
‘So, Geoff Kinzalow had met Armstrong previously?’ Venn thought he needed more details before coming to a judgement.
‘He worked in London,’ Jen said, ‘and interviewed him there. They must have been in the UK for a while because their kids went to secondary school here. The wife, Karen, told us about it. Geoff seemed less pleased that she’d told us about the connection. They still have a base in the city.’
‘It could be a coincidence.’ Matthew thought they did happen.
Occasionally. ‘But Kinzalow is definitely worth checking out. I’m heading back to Barnstaple now.
The superintendent wants a report.’ He didn’t add that he’d tell the man to speak to the chief for an update.
Oldham was a tricky man to handle. Close to retirement.
A social drinker, verging on alcohol dependence.
Ross was a protégé, so Venn was always careful when speaking of his superior, but if he’d still had a faith, he’d have prayed every night that the man would retire soon.
‘I’ve already been in touch with Vicki. I’ll ask her to dig out what she can on the Americans. ’
That seemed to please them both, and he continued: ‘Are you both okay to stay here? Arrange a rota with uniforms to cover overnight. And check in with the CSIs and Dr Pengelly before you leave. Let me know if there’s anything interesting.’
‘Sure,’ Jen said.
‘But get home at a reasonable time. We’ll meet up early tomorrow.’ The three of them walked together back towards Tide House. Matthew got into his car and drove carefully down the lane with a feeling both of relief and a dereliction of duty.
In the police station, Oldham was waiting for him, lurking next to Vicki’s desk. He smelled of mouthwash with an undertone of alcohol and sweat. Matthew hoped he hadn’t started drinking this early but that he’d been on the piss the night before.
‘What’s going on at the coast then?’
Matthew thought of all the urgent things he could have been doing but laid out the facts as patiently as he could.
‘Appleyard says you’re to be in charge.’ Oldham’s words came out as a sneer, but there was also an edge of resentment.
‘I was first on the scene and he wants a small core team.’ Matthew wondered why he felt the need to placate Oldham, why despite all the superintendent’s faults, he still wanted the man’s approval.
‘Aye, well.’ The northern accent was always more prominent when there was any confrontation. ‘Keep me in the loop. I’m still your boss.’ He heaved himself off the desk where he’d been perched and stamped away.
In his own office, Matthew phoned the Chief Constable.
‘So,’ Appleyard said, ‘there’s no indication that this might be political or terror-related?’
‘Not so far. Has special branch picked up any intelligence?’
‘Nothing. And no group’s claimed responsibility.’
‘The American journalist camping out at the farm has been writing a book that features Armstrong,’ Venn said, ‘but I can’t see any motive, even if a holiday in Devon was planned in the hope of a scoop.
Jim Hooper, the pub landlord, is hostile to rich city families buying up properties in the area.
But so are a lot of people, even Bob Brennan whose wife is an incomer.
Until we have any further information, I think I’ll have to treat this as personal. ’
‘Let’s keep an open mind, shall we? What else have we got?’
‘Vicki Robb has been doing the routine stuff. The only individual involved so far with any sort of record is Jim Hooper, but there’s nothing since he was a juvenile. There’s still no sign of Hannah Armstrong’s phone and it hasn’t been used since the night before she died.’
There was a moment’s silence at the end of the line. Matthew supposed that Appleyard had been expecting more, but when he spoke, there was no criticism, only a warning.
‘News will have got out now. Expect a swarm of national press in the morning. They’re like bloody locusts. Let me know if you need more manpower to keep the scene secure.’
Venn was still thinking about logistics as he drove out of the town, making his way home.
By the time he got to the long, low white house close to Crow Point, his husband was already there.
He was sitting outside in the shade with a glass of white wine in his hand.
Matthew had crossed paths with a few vehicles on the short toll road into the dunes.
The drivers would be leaving the shore after dog-walking or sunbathing.
But there hadn’t been many – this wasn’t a place easily found by tourists – and now the garden was quiet.
Jonathan waved absent-mindedly and smiled through the open kitchen door, then lifted his glass, inviting Matthew to join him.
‘Let me shower first.’ Matthew could already feel the tension of the day easing. Under the water it was washed clean. He pictured the stress as a pool at his feet, ebbing away.
In the bedroom he hesitated. Jonathan had bought him shorts, a kind of joke because his husband wouldn’t be seen in anything that informal. Now Matthew put them on with a polo shirt, looked down at the white, bony legs and almost changed his mind.
He took the bottle of wine from the fridge, poured himself a glass and went out to top up Jonathan’s.
He waited for some sort of joke about the bare legs and bare feet, but there was nothing, so he returned the bottle, took one of the white wooden seats on the terrace and waited.
Jonathan must be preoccupied. It would be some crisis at the Woodyard, the community arts centre that he managed.
He’d talk when he was ready. He wasn’t a man to keep troubles hidden away, bottled up.
In the meantime, Matthew had preoccupations of his own: two young women bludgeoned to death, with no apparent motive and an uncertain timeline.
They sat for a few minutes in silence.
At last Jonathan spoke. ‘I think I’ve tracked down my mother. My birth mother.’
Matthew had always known that his husband was adopted.
There’d been no secret about his upbringing, about his sense of growing up in the wrong place.
Perhaps that unease about identity, the emotional dislocation from family, had brought them together.
Jonathan’s adopted parents were hardworking hill farmers.
They’d loved their son, but they’d not understood his wild imagination, his passion for art and music.
They had closed minds. Like Matthew, Jonathan had left home in his late teens.
He returned for duty visits and admired his parents’ resilience, but they didn’t have much in common, and they’d made little effort to understand his world.
He’d first talked about finding his birth parents the year before.
The idea had made Matthew anxious. He’d worried that this relationship, which was beyond anything he’d thought possible when he was younger, would change and fracture if somebody new was brought into the mix.
Besides, he’d told himself, wasn’t he enough for Jonathan?
The man had his work and his friends, and he had Matthew. What else could he need?
Then he’d told himself that of course Jonathan would be curious about his birth parents. His husband would want to know where he’d come from, the backstory of his life. How selfish of Matthew to resent any new family! So, he’d made every effort to be encouraging and supportive.
Now, it seemed, Jonathan had continued the process of finding his mother without discussing the matter with Matthew. The man, whom Matthew had believed was transparent, open about everything, had kept secrets after all.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ Matthew kept his voice even. He had no right to throw about recrimination. This was Jonathan’s business. And as a detective he knew that open questions elicited more useful answers.
‘I went to Plymouth Central Library to access the General Register Office. They’re one of the places in the country that hold records of birth certificates. It’s all on microfiche.’
‘When was that?’ Again, Matthew kept the question easy, conversational.
‘Ages ago. Just after Christmas.’
But you didn’t tell me! The shriek, demanding and shrill, remained in Matthew’s head. He knew he was being unreasonable. Again, he told himself that this was Jonathan’s business. His shit.
‘I was there anyway.’ Jonathan’s voice was apologetic. He guessed that Matthew must be feeling shut out, excluded. ‘That accessible arts conference I went to in Plymouth.’
Venn remained silent.
‘I found my birth certificate number there and then I was able to put my name on the adoption contact register.’ Jonathan looked up at his husband. ‘I was always Jonathan. My Exmoor parents kept my name.’
‘I’m pleased,’ Matthew said. Which was an understatement. He couldn’t imagine Jonathan being called by any other name. It had a rhythm, and it was warm and welcoming. It defined the man.
‘My mother was registered too. I suppose that meant she wanted to find me. I emailed her last week. Today, she emailed me back.’
‘Have you arranged to meet her? Is she local?’
‘She’s Cornish. North Cornish. Local enough.
’ Jonathan looked across the table at Matthew.
The sun was low in the sky now. If they were standing on the beach, there’d be a golden path across the sea from the shore to the horizon.
‘I’ve said I’d go to meet her. Better that than have her here, I thought.
Besides, I’m curious about where she lives.
How she lives.’ He paused. ‘I was hoping you’d come with me. ’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Matthew was hit by a sense of relief, for a moment at least. He was to be included in this venture.
Jonathan didn’t see his search for his mother as some sort of escape from the marriage.
A new adventure. Or, if it was, it would be an adventure in which Matthew would be allowed to participate.
He could support his husband as he’d been supported ever since they first met.
He reached out and took Jonathan’s hand. ‘When are you planning to go?’
‘I’ve arranged to visit this weekend. No point hanging around. I thought we could find a little hotel. Stay over. A treat even if everything goes tits up.’ He drained the wine in his glass. ‘What if I don’t like her?’ Matthew could hear the desperation in his voice. ‘What if she doesn’t like me?’
‘She’ll like you.’ About this at least Matthew was certain.
Everyone liked Jonathan. There was a moment’s silence.
‘I’m not sure that I’ll be able to come then, though.
Not that soon. I’m working this case. The double murder in Millscombe.
You will have heard all about it.’ Because already the murders were all over the local news.
‘You’re not indispensable,’ Jonathan said. ‘By that time, you’ll need a day off. And you’ll have sorted it by then. A place like Millscombe, it’d be hard to keep anything secret.’
‘Sure.’ But Matthew was seldom sure about anything, and it occurred to him, with a sudden stab of guilt, that he’d rather be working a murder case than watching an emotional reunion between Jonathan and his birth mother.
That he was probably the most selfish man in the world because he wanted Jonathan all to himself.