Healers (23 page)

“Track them all down,” he said. “The Abbots, Magda Pocock. I’ve no idea where she’s been all day. And someone had better see what Sean Slater’s been up to. We know he’s clear of the Bowles murder and he’s unlikely to be involved here because he’s got no transport, but we can’t rule him out. The sooner it’s done, the better.”

Hunter nodded gloomily and walked away.

But later, when the information was put together, it seemed that none of them had a satisfactory alibi. Except Lily, of course, who’d been seen by Hunter.

Mrs. Abbot was jumpy and tense. She admitted, in a voice so low that he could hardly hear, that she had gone into Otterbridge intending to see James McDougal.

“What happened?” Hunter demanded.

“When I got to the house no one was in. I waited for quite a long time, thinking he might be on his way back from school, held up, you know, but at five o’clock I gave up and drove home.”

“You sat outside the house for more than an hour?” Hunter was sceptical.

“I suppose I did,” she said. “Actually I quite enjoyed it. The peace, you know. There’s not a lot of that here.”

Daniel Abbot said he had spent the afternoon in a private home for the elderly in Otterbridge. It was run by an enlightened matron who believed that complementary medicine had a place in work with old people. It was a regular commitment. He went once a month.

He was very happy to give Hunter the name of the nursing home, but was vague about the time he had left. Late afternoon, he said. He couldn’t be more specific. He hadn’t noticed the time. He’d finished treating his patients at about three, but he liked to stay on to chat to the residents. The old dears didn’t see many new faces; some had no visitors at all. When pushed by Hunter he said he thought it was at least five when he left. The residents had been given tea. He was sure of that.

But when his story was checked with the matron of the nursing home she said that none of her staff had noticed Daniel after three-thirty. He could have been there, of course. It was a big building and he visited so often that he was almost part of the furniture, but no one could honestly remember seeing him.

Magda Pocock appeared to have disappeared into thin air. She was not in her flat and her car was missing. She had not been seen since early afternoon.

Ramsay decided to see Sean Slater himself. Hunter volunteered to visit Laverock Farm but Ramsay told him to take a break. It had been quite a day.

He found himself unusually moved by the death of the boy. He rarely knew the victims of the crimes he investigated. He could remember James alive, imagine the conversation they had had in his bedroom, and that made a difference.

Lily was sitting on the kitchen step of the farm, her hands cupped around a mug of tea. She greeted him with amusement. “I haven’t been able to get away from your lot today. What have I done now?”

“There’s been another murder,” he said.

She looked at him sharply. “Who?” There were no hysterics. She did not pretend to be shocked.

“James. James McDougal.”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not James.” She stood up and clutched her arms around her body as if she were cold.

“Where’s Sean?” he asked.

“He’s in the garden,” she said. “He’s been there all day. I’ll show you.”

Sean had taken off his shirt and his shoulders were pink from the sun. Lily led Ramsay through the gate in the wall so at first he only saw her.

“I was going to call it a day,” he said. “I’ll be in now.” There was a square of brown earth and a pile of weed and bramble. “Not much to show for a day’s work, is it? I’ll tell you one thing, I’m bloody unfit.”

Then he saw Ramsay and put his hand above his eyes because he was looking directly into the setting sun. “Inspector. How can I help you?”

“James McDougal’s been murdered,” Lily said.

He thrust his spade in the earth and walked over to her. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair while she cried on his shoulder.

Chapter Twenty-seven

In the morning Ramsay gathered his team together in the incident room. They looked washed out and lethargic. James’s death was like a personal insult. They knew that they’d been out-witted. They had no answers. The sun was shining again. There were no blinds at the windows and they squinted awkwardly against the light, waiting for the inspector to speak, not expecting too much.

Ramsay knew he should provide positive leadership. He had seen it done. A charismatic officer could pull together a team in minutes, make them believe in themselves again, send them away with renewed enthusiasm. But that had never been his style. He wasn’t up to it.

He looked out at them. They sprawled across desks or in chairs tilted back against the wall. Hunter was perched on a windowsill with his feet on a filing cabinet and stared out towards the children’s playground. In the last few days there had been none of the sarcasm, the deliberate attempts to undermine Ramsay’s authority, which usually marked their relationship. Ramsay supposed he should be grateful but Hunter’s disengagement from the enquiry was beginning to worry him. It was another problem which would have to be sorted out by the end of the day.

He stood to speak. Sally Wedderburn flashed him a smile, not of encouragement but of pity.

He began by giving them the details of James’s death in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.

“The boy was strangled between four-thirty and five. At four o’clock he was seen by a school crossing patrol in the road leading to the cemetery. Neither his father nor his school friends knew that he was planning to visit the cemetery that day, so we must assume that neither did his murderer. The implications of that are obvious …”

He paused and looked into blank, gum-chewing faces. The room was wreathed in cigarette smoke and dust. There was no response so he continued.

“James must have been followed from his house. Either on foot or by car. The kids were just coming out of Otterbridge Primary School. Parents were waiting for them. That means there were lots of witnesses. It gives us something to work on. Sally, I want you outside the school at home time today. Talk to the mums. Take a photo of James. Was there a car travelling particularly slowly? A pedestrian nobody recognized?”

She nodded.

“James was strangled several metres from where he was found. He’d been sitting on a bench. The ground was dusty and the footprints of his trainers were quite distinctive. Then he was dragged to Faye Cooper’s grave and left to lie there. Any ideas why?”

There was a silence. A hand was raised at the back of the room. It was Newell, an ex-public schoolboy and graduate entrant whom no one could quite take to. He had an Army haircut and a Home Counties accent. The general opinion was that he was a pompous prat. It didn’t help that he came from the south and knew nothing about football. Ramsay felt some sympathy for Newell but knew that to intervene would only make matters worse.

“To make a point, sir.”

“What sort of a point?”

“Well, sir, if the murders are motivated by revenge for Faye’s death there would be more satisfaction in making a show of it. There’s always an element of ritual in revenge, isn’t there?”

He might be an arrogant young sod, Ramsay thought, but he was brighter than most of them.

“That’s certainly possible,” he said. “Any other explanations for moving the body?”

“Someone’s trying to piss us about.” It was Hunter, contemptuous. “Like that anonymous letter. All the evidence is that the girl’s death was accidental. It’s an attempt to distract us and waste our time.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“To lead us up the bloody garden path.”

“I think it might have been to divert us from the real motive,” Ramsay said. “But we can’t ignore Faye. Even if the letter and the moving of James’s body is some sort of elaborate game, it’s significant. The murderer must have known her, known that there was some uncertainty about her drowning, so we’d waste time investigating it.”

“Are you saying that the murderer was at Juniper Hall?” Hunter said abruptly.

“Either that or he was close to someone who was there. It narrows the field, doesn’t it?” He paused, turned back to Hunter. “Didn’t you say you had more information on Faye Cooper?”

“It’s not much,” Hunter said reluctantly. “A hint, that’s all. Lily Jackman suggested that I talk to young Rebecca, the lass who does the clerical work in the Alternative Therapy Centre. I thought I’d catch her at dinner time. Apparently she usually goes home …”

Ramsay nodded his agreement.

“We need the Abbots’ alibis checked again. Properly checked. Talk to the McDougals’ neighbours. Was Mrs. Abbot’s car really there as long as she claims? And what about another strange car? If James was followed to the cemetery the murderer must have been hanging around somewhere. It was a fine day. People will have been in their gardens. It’s an area full of retired people and housewives There will have been folks about.”

He sensed that the mood in the room was changing slightly. It wasn’t quite optimistic. But they started to realize there might be a way forward.

“I’ll talk to Magda Pocock,” Ramsay said. He knew Magda was important. He saw her as a big spider who had attracted them all into her web. Trapped them and controlled them.

“Above all we need publicity,” he said. “The murderer didn’t get to Laverock Farm and the McDougal house on a magic carpet. Someone must have seen him, seen his vehicle. We’ll prepare a request for information and try and get it on the television tonight.”

They began to file out of the room. Not enthusiastically. But at least with a sense of purpose.

Rebecca Booth clip-clopped up the hill in a pair of platform sandals which she’d bought with last week’s wages. Hunter, sitting in a car outside her parents’ house, watched her. When he was young he’d made stilts from cans and pieces of string, and he thought she looked as if she were balancing on those. Otherwise she was smartly dressed in a sleeveless black pinafore dress and a white blouse. It could have been a school uniform. She looked that young.

The house was a small detached bungalow with big plate-glass windows and wood cladding on the gable, which had been built in the sixties. There was a steep terraced garden with little stone walls separating immaculate lawns. She let herself into the bungalow, opening the door with a key. Hunter hoped that meant both her parents were out. If he knew anything about young girls she’d say nothing in front of them.

He rang the bell. She opened it nervously, just a crack. She’d been well brought up. Told not to talk to strangers.

“Oh,” she said, relieved. “It’s you. You’re the policeman.”

She opened the door wide to let him in and he saw that she was barefoot and there were plasters on her heels.

“Are your mum and dad in?” he asked.

“No. Dad’s working. He’s the postmaster.” She was proud. “Mum’s a community nurse. She usually works evenings but she’s gone into Newcastle shopping. For my sister’s wedding.” She blushed. “You don’t want to hear all this …”

“Do you always come home for your dinner?” he asked. It wasn’t far. A ten-minute walk up the hill but this was her first job, you’d think she’d want a bit of independence.

“Yes,” she said. “Mum gets a bit lonely on her own all day …” It sounded lame, like an excuse.

“Is that the only reason?” he asked.

He’d followed her into the kitchen. Her mother had left her a tray. A plate of sandwiches covered with cling film a packet of crisps, a slice of homemade cake.

She blushed again and did not answer. “Do you mind if I get on with this? I don’t have long …” She made him a mug of instant coffee, offered him a sandwich, hoped perhaps that he’d forgotten the question.

“Well?” he said, quite gently. “Is that the only reason?”

She shook her head and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t like it at the Centre when there are no patients,” she said. “It’s nice to get away.”

“Why don’t you like it? They all seem very pleasant.”

“Mrs. Pocock’s all right,” she said. “She’s kind. But she’s not always there.”

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“It’s Mr. Abbot,” she said, in a rush. “At first I thought he was just being friendly, making me feel welcome. You know.”

“But it wasn’t just that?”

She shook her head. “It’s the way he looks at me,” she said. “And he always tries to be on his own with me.” She turned away. “He touches me. Wandering hands, you know.”

The phrase was strangely prim and he was moved. “Couldn’t you tell anyone?” Hunter said. “That’s sexual harassment.” Listen to me, he thought. I never believed anyone’d catch me saying that. “Couldn’t you tell Mrs. Pocock?”

“I was frightened I’d lose my job,” she said. “I was so pleased to get it.” She hesitated. She was desperate to explain. “My sister’s training to be a nurse,” she said. “She was always brighter than me. Took A Levels. I was never much good at school. Mum and Dad wanted me to stay on into the sixth form. I did the first year but I couldn’t face exams. I’ve never stood up for myself much, but I stuck out for getting a job. In the end they said if I found one I could leave. When I got taken on at the Old Chapel at Easter I was over the moon. I was determined to make a go of it.”

“What about your parents?” Hunter said. “Couldn’t you explain to them?”

“It would have been like admitting I was wrong,” she said. “It’s not that they’d be horrid about it. They’re dead nice. But that’s part of the problem. I’d feel that I was letting them down.”

“Of course,” Hunter said.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

“You did talk to someone about this, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“Lily,” she said. “The girl who works in the health food shop. I met her in the cafe and she asked me how I was getting on, if I was enjoying it. She seemed almost to have guessed that there was a problem so it was easier to tell her.”

“And what did Lily say?”

“That I should tell someone. She asked if I wanted her to tell Mrs. Pocock. I made her promise not to. What would Mrs. Pocock think? Mrs. Abbot’s her daughter.” She hesitated. “She might think I’d been leading him on.”