The Darkest Evening

surer of her facts before she confronted Mark with rumours that he had another woman, and now she was here, so close to the big house, she couldn’t face Harriet and Juliet, the politeness, the stabbing, elegant words that said so little. She’d done what she wanted and had a clearer sense of the geography. She was sure that Lorna had taken the track past the cottages towards the big house. Besides, Vera thought, her role was back at the station, monitoring the investigation as it developed. Here, there was scarcely even any mobile signal. She was effectively out of touch. She’d made up her mind to return to the Land Rover when Dorothy came out through the kitchen door, carrying a laundry basket full of bedding on her hip.
‘Hello! I’m afraid the family is out. Harriet insisted on church in the village and then they’ve been invited to friends for lunch.’ A pause. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine they’re very popular at the moment. Everyone’s desperate for news.’
‘Ah, well, I’ll head back then. I’ve left my vehicle on the road.’
‘There’s coffee made if you fancy some. I’ll just stick this in the machine.’
So, Vera found herself back in the Brockburn kitchen, drinking good coffee and eating home-made shortbread, not part of the family, but a hired help, brought in to clear up the mess. Because that was surely what Harriet wanted: for the drama to be over and the killer to be a stranger.
Dorothy poured coffee and sat at the table with her.
‘Did you ever meet Juliet’s father, Crispin?’ Vera had only seen the man fleetingly, had an image of a straight back walking away from her, a spaniel at his heels. He’d been Hector’s nephew, but not very much younger than her father. Hector must have been an afterthought. Or a mistake.
‘Oh, yes, he was still alive when Juliet and I were at school together.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘He was very much the gentleman, courteous and pleasant. My parents were professional people, both lawyers. Very successful in their field, wealthy, but really, city people. This world of shooting parties and country sports seemed very alien and old-fashioned to me. It was like walking into the pages of Brideshead Revisited.’
Vera took another slice of shortbread without quite realizing what she was doing. ‘I’d heard rumours that Crispin was a bit of a ladies’ man. Did he ever try it on with you?’
Dorothy threw back her head and laughed. ‘No! But then he wouldn’t. I was a gawky schoolgirl, all feet and teeth. I can see how women would have found him attractive, though. He had a way of making one feel special.’
Vera was trying to frame a tactful question about Mark, but the woman was already on her feet. ‘Do you want to wait for them? They might be a while.’
Vera shook her head. ‘No, but I’ll be back. I’ll keep coming back until all this is over.’

Chapter Fifteen
JOE HAD PHONED THE BLACKSTOCKS IN advance and they were waiting for him. They lived just off Front Street, in a large 1930s corner semi, with stained glass in the porch and mellow red brick. An estate agent would have described it as having ‘original features’. Meaning a tiled fireplace and Bakelite door handles. Joe suspected that there’d be a shiny kitchen and central heating and they’d definitely have been more recently installed. As soon as he got out of his car, Joe saw Sophie standing in the bay window, a baby in her arms. When he rang the bell, she didn’t move, and a dark-haired man he’d seen at Brockburn on the night of the murder answered.
‘You’re the detective.’
‘Joe Ashworth.’ He held out his hand.
‘I don’t know what this is about.’ Blackstock was thickset. The accent was local. ‘We’ve already given our statements.’
‘You both knew the murdered woman,’ Joe said mildly. ‘You might be able to help. We didn’t want to keep you at Brockburn when you had a baby to come back to. It seemed kinder to speak to you at home.’
‘That was very kind.’ Sophie had moved into the hall to stand behind her husband. ‘Come on through. We can talk in the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee.’
Holly had described her as anxious and tense, but here in her own home, she seemed relaxed, in charge of the situation. It was the husband who was reluctant, almost truculent. The kitchen had been extended. At one end of the room there was a long dining table and chairs and the men sat there. It felt very formal, as if they were at a meeting for work. Sophie put the baby into a wicker crib and set off an elaborate coffee machine. Joe would have preferred tea, but didn’t say so. The kitchen looked like something people would drool over in a women’s magazine. There was no shortage of money here.
‘You both met Lorna at Halstead House, the hospital where she was being treated for an eating disorder?’
‘I didn’t know her, though,’ Paul Blackstock said quickly. ‘I mean, not really. Not to talk to. I was there to visit my brother.’
‘Did he speak about Lorna?’
‘Sometimes,’ Sophie said. ‘They seemed friendly. In a situation like that, people get close very quickly. All the relationships are intense.’
‘Was it a romantic relationship?’
‘No!’ This time Paul answered. ‘No, I don’t think so. They were friends. Close friends.’
‘Did they keep in touch with each other when they left hospital?’
This time there was no immediate answer. ‘I don’t know,’ Paul said at last. ‘Nat had been allowed home. I thought that was it – he was cured. I didn’t understand the illness properly. I’d moved on. I’d taken over the family business – we run a haulage company – and I’d started seeing Sophie. All the time Nat was in hospital it was as if my life was on hold, ruled by him, the visits, the worry. Then he came home to live with my parents again and I thought everything