The Moth Catcher by Ann Cleeves Page A

someone working in the Job Centre could be involved in any sort of incident at all.
    Downstairs the war of attrition between the young officer and the single mother was continuing, though it seemed to be reaching a climax. ‘I can’t be doing with all this now, you stupid cow – I need to get the bairn to the health visitor, or they’ll have the social onto me for neglect.’ The mother was screaming at the top of her voice, her face red with anger and embarrassment. Suddenly she stood up and walked out.
    In the room there was no reaction at all, except for a small sigh of relief from the young officer. Joe approached her. ‘Is it always like that?’
    ‘Nah,’ the woman grinned. ‘This is one of the quiet days. And to think I joined up because I thought I could make a difference.’
    He introduced himself and then held out the photograph. ‘Do you recognize this man? He was in yesterday lunchtime.’
    ‘That’s Martin Benton.’ She didn’t have any curiosity at all about why Joe would want to know. ‘He’s just been assessed as fit to work, after a long time on invalidity benefit. We’ve been helping him back to the job market.’
    ‘He had an appointment with you yesterday?’
    ‘Yes, the initial interview, so I could explain the process and the responsibilities of the jobseeker. But when he came in he’d already decided to take the self-employment route.’
    ‘Did he say what work he intended to do?’
    ‘I don’t think so, and really it wasn’t relevant for our purposes. He’d decided not to claim benefit. That was all we needed to know.’
    ‘But you’ll still hold all his details. His address and previous work record.’
    ‘I’m not sure I can give you that information. Data protection.’ The room was quiet now and the sun was streaming through the windows, making it feel very hot.
    ‘Well, I can get a warrant of course, but your supervisor said you’d be able to help.’ Joe nodded towards the door that said
Staff Only.
He thought the people upstairs in the open-plan office had it easy.
    The young woman shrugged, tapped a few keys and hit the print button. ‘I’m leaving anyway,’ she said. ‘So sod it – it’s their responsibility. I’m going back to uni to do a social-work course.’
    ‘This’ll be good practice.’
    ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘That’s what I thought.’
    She held out two printed sheets.
    In the cafe on the square Joe drank milky coffee and read the life history of Martin Benton. The facts, at least. It seemed to Joe that there was little here to bring the man back to life. He’d been forty-eight when he died and he lived in a suburb of Kimmerston. He’d gained eight GCSEs at reasonable grades and three A levels, then got a degree in maths from Northumbria University. He’d done a postgraduate teaching year and had worked in a number of local high schools for fifteen years. There was no explanation for his decision to leave teaching. His most recent employment had been three years before, when he’d worked as an admin officer for a small charity. After that he’d been registered for invalidity benefit until, under the new regime, he’d been assessed as fit for work.
    There were some gaps in Benton’s employment record: a couple between teaching posts, and a longer spell before he began work for the charity. If he’d been a different kind of man, Joe would have suspected criminal activity. Spent spells in prison wouldn’t necessarily have to be declared. His record could be checked, but it seemed unlikely. Qualified maths teachers didn’t usually become petty criminals.
    There were no details of Benton’s family history. Joe found himself hoping that in the house in Laurel Avenue there would be a wife waiting for him – that the grey man hadn’t been a loner. He pictured someone soft and comfortable, with an easy smile, and began to imagine reasons why she might not have reported her husband missing the night before. Then he told himself that such