Telling Tales by Ann Cleeves Page A

away,” he shouted. “Leave me alone. I’ll call the police.”
    The noise of the bell stopped and the letter box flap was pushed open from outside. He saw an open mouth, a throat, moving lips.
    “I am the police, pet, and if you don’t fancy a little jaunt in a jam-sandwich to the police station you’d best let me in.”
    He opened the door. A woman stood on the doorstep. Something about the way she stood there reminded him of Peg, and he changed his attitude and felt well disposed towards her for no other reason than that. Perhaps it was her size which triggered the memory, the thick legs and heavy, comforting bust. But there was something else. The way she smiled, knowing he was a grouchy old git, but miraculously seeming to like him anyway. She walked into the hall.
    “Bit poky in here,” she said.
    He didn’t mind. Not like he minded the probation officer Winter pushing his way in, presuming to know something of what he was feeling. She was the sort of woman who said what she thought as soon as she thought it. There was no putting on a show for the rest of the world.
    “I saw you in church yesterday,” she went on, followed you out. But you seemed a bit upset and I thought it would best wait a day.”
    “Probably just as well.”
    “Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
    He nodded.
    “Must be coffee time then.”
    “I don’t have coffee,” he said. “Will tea do?”
    “It will if it’s strong. I can’t bear weak tea.”
    She was still standing when he came into the lounge with the tray. He’d made tea in a pot, and covered it with a cosy Peg had knitted using up old scraps of wool. There were mugs. He thought she might sneer at a small cup. She was looking at the photographs on a shelf in the alcove next to the gas fire. One of him standing next to the boat that day they’d given him the award, a big grin on his face which had more to do with the ale he’d supped, than with the medal. And another of him and Peg on their wedding day, him as skinny as those Africans they showed on telly whenever there was a famine, her all soft and round with a circle of silk flowers in her hair and roses in her hand.
    “No picture of Jeanie?” the woman asked. “You didn’t sell them to the press?”
    “I wouldn’t have done that!” He was horrified she could think him capable of it.
    “No,” she said calmly. “Of course you wouldn’t. Why no photos then?”
    “I thought she was guilty. All the way through I thought she was guilty.”
    “Only natural. All the evidence pointed that way.”
    “So you think she was guilty too?” He couldn’t tell if it was hope he felt, or dread.
    “Nah.” She paused. “You know she said she’d gone to London, the day Abigail was killed?”
    “Aye. No one saw her.”
    “A witness has come forward. A student who knew her. He swears she was in King’s Cross that day. I’ve talked to the lad. If he’s lying I could get a job modelling nude for the cover of Vogue!
    “It wasn’t just that I thought she killed that schoolgirl.” Michael felt a need to explain. “It was that I blamed her for Peg dying too.”
    “Did Peg think she’d committed the murder?”
    He shook his head. “Not for a minute. She fought all the way through for Jeanie, talked to the press, the police, the lawyers. The effort wore her out.”
    “I don’t suppose your attitude helped, you stubborn bugger.”
    He didn’t have any answer to that so he poured out the tea, swirling the pot first to make sure it was strong enough. She sat heavily on an armchair. He put the mug carefully on the small table in front of her, waited anxiously while she tasted it.
    “Perfect,” she said. “Just as I like it.”
    He took his own place then and waited for her to explain.
    “I’m Vera Stanhope. Inspector. Northumbria police. A case like this they send an outsider in. Fresh eyes. You know. Check they did everything right first time round.”
    “There was a woman in charge before.” It had been