Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page A

in it. She shouldn’t torment him. There was a light in St Bartholomew’s Church and for a moment she was tempted to go inside and ask for the Father Gruskin mentioned by Kate Dewar. But she was starving and could never work properly when she was hungry.
    It was so cold that she was gasping for breath and, talking to Holly on her mobile, she could see spurts of vapour coming from her nose and mouth; caught in the street light, it almost looked as if the steam had been turned to ice.
    ‘Where are you, Hol?’
    ‘Liaising with CSI, Ma’am, just as you told me.’ Classic Holly, tart and chippy at the same time.
    ‘Can you make it over to Mardle? Joe’s gone back to the bosom of his family and I could do with a hand. I’ll be in the fish shop close to the harbour. Shall I order anything for you?’
    ‘No thanks, Ma’am, I’ve eaten.’ And she would have done. A Tupperware box full of salad leaves and an apple. No saturated fat for health-conscious Holly. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
    Vera walked on down the street, drawn by the smell of frying fish. A woman, big and blowsy in laddered tights and a short skirt, stumbled out of the pub. Vera thought she’d catch her death. From inside someone shouted at the woman, the words indecipherable, but the tone abusive and faintly amused. Vera felt a stab of sympathy for her. Underfoot the freezing snow squeaked.
    In the Mardle Fisheries Vera took a seat at a table – more than half the space was set out as a restaurant. It felt good to walk past the queue at the takeaway counter, to have a waitress approach her immediately for her order. Vera wondered if class was so ingrained in England that even here in a Mardle fish shop she was tainted by it, if feeling slightly superior was a natural – if guilty – pleasure. Inside it was warm, condensation running down the windows, a television with some daft chat show on in the background. The waitress came with a tray. Tea in a pot, bread and butter on a china plate, the batter crisply thin and the haddock soft.
Oh yes
, Vera thought,
this is class!
    Holly arrived just as Vera had finished the meal. She was skinny and stylish, even now, dressed for the weather. Was it possible to get a designer parka? If so, Holly was wearing one. She sat opposite her boss, wiped the table in front of her with a paper napkin.
    ‘Have they finished at the crime scene?’
    ‘They’ve taken the body to the mortuary.’ Holly had a southern, educated voice. Not her fault. ‘And the train back to a shed in Heaton. Billy Wainwright says it’s a nightmare. So many traces and footwear prints. They’ll be in there for a few days yet. Maybe longer. But at least the Metro line’s clear. They’ll reopen it later this evening if there’s no more snow.’
    ‘She’s an interesting woman, our victim.’ Vera leaned back in her seat. ‘Married a Polish guy straight out of school. Divorced a couple of years later and since then seems to have lived alone. Given to religion and good works, apparently. Stayed rent-free in a guest house just up the road here, in return for helping out in the place, but it seems to me she’s more like one of the family. The landlady is Kate Dewar, a widow with two teenage kids and a new bloke who doesn’t live in.’
    ‘Not a natural victim then.’ Holly had some sort of electronic gadget on the table and was typing into it.
    Vera resisted the urge to ask what was wrong with an ordinary notebook. ‘No.’ The early-evening rush was over and the chip shop was quieter now, the queue had dissipated. Vera got to her feet. ‘Come with me.’
    ‘Where are we off to?’ Holly turned off the device and slid it into her handbag.
    ‘We’re going to see a priest.’
    There was still a light in the church and when they pushed the heavy door it opened, though the building seemed empty inside. It smelled of damp and mould and incense, and the same furniture polish as had been used in Kate Dewar’s house. Vera wondered