Telling Tales by Ann Cleeves

Mantel’s daughter had only laughed. It had been at the same lunch, the only time Mantel had stepped foot inside the house on the Point as far as he knew. Peg had made a pot of tea after the meal, and he’d drunk it as he always did, only perhaps he was even noisier because he had been drinking before they arrived to give himself a bit of courage. There’d been a silence, the look of disgust on Jeanie’s face, then Abigail Mantel had thrown back her head and laughed. Somehow that had broken the ice and they’d all joined in; even Jeanie had eventually managed a thin smile.
    The prison governor had come to tell him about the suicide. It had been about this time of day, maybe a little later. Michael had opened the door to fetch in the milk and he’d been standing there, a tall grey man in a suit and a black overcoat. He must have been planning in his mind what he intended to say, because his lips had been moving. The sight of Michael, still in his dressing gown, had surprised him. He’d recovered himself quickly though. You had to think on your feet if you were a prison governor.
    “Mr. Long,” he’d said. “I’m from Spinney Fen…”
    Michael had interrupted. “You’re wasting your time. I told the other one. I can’t have her here.”
    “Jeanie’s dead, Mr. Long. I think you’d best let me in.”
    And he’d sat in the small front room for more than an hour telling Michael what had happened. How an officer had come to unlock Jeanie for the morning and had found her. How she’d already been dead for a long time, probably soon after lock-up the night before. How there’d been nothing anybody could do. “We’re all dreadfully sorry, Mr. Long.” Sounding as if he meant it. The bombshell had been dropped when he’d been about to leave. “It’s possible that Jeanie was innocent, Mr. Long. I understand the police intend to reopen the Abigail Mantel case. Jeanie hadn’t been informed. There was nothing official, you understand. Nothing we could do at this point. But I thought you should know.” He’d paused in the hall. “Would you like to see your daughter, Mr. Long? I can arrange that if you’d like it:
    For a moment Michael had been tempted. Then he’d thought, I don’t have the right. I wouldn’t see her when she was alive. What right do I have to intrude on her now?
    He’d shaken his head without speaking.
    The man had walked out of the front door, stooping as he went, because he was so tall that he was afraid of hitting his head on the lintel. Michael had watched him go to his car, which was bright red and rather sporty, and had decided that he could kill himself too. There’d been one indulgent day when he’d fantasized how best to go about it hanging like Jeanie herself, or pills, or drowning. He’d fancied drowning. This time of year when the water was cold it didn’t take long to lose consciousness and there was something fitting about a boatman sliding to rest under the waves. He hadn’t done it, of course. He’d seen it as cheating. He’d stay around long enough for Abigail Mantel’s killer to be brought to justice. He owed Jeanie that much.
    Michael went to the bathroom and washed and shaved. The last few days he hadn’t bothered, except yesterday just before church, but if he were going to stay alive he supposed he’d have to do it properly. Play by the rules to the end. For the same reason he put some bread under the grill for breakfast and forced himself to eat it.
    He was drying up the plate and the cup when the doorbell rang. It was just after eight thirty. It wasn’t the day for the woman who came once a week to clean for him, so he ignored it. It would be the press again, some reporter offering a fortune for a picture of Jeanie, promising to tell his side of the story. The bell continued, a sharp continuous ring, as if someone was leaning against the button. He went into the hall. Through the frosted glass of the front door he saw a shape, a bulky shadow.
    “Go