by Ann Cleeves
‘What have you got for me, then?’ he asked the pathologist.
‘Hey, man. Give me a chance. What do you want? Miracles?’
‘Cause of death would do for a start.’
‘She was strangled,’ the pathologist said. ‘Not with a rope or wire. Something thicker. A scarf maybe.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Hard to tell at this stage. Got to allow for the cold. It’s bloody freezing. Yesterday evening probably.’
‘Can’t you be more specific?’
‘Not yet.’ He stood up and grinned. ‘Find out when she last ate and I might be able to help you later today.’
On his way back to the Woods’ house, at the garden gate, Ramsay met Hunter. The sergeant was defensive.
‘I tried to get hold of her,’ he said. ‘I found out she was at court all day, but when I phoned there she’d already left. The usher chased after her and gave her the message to get in touch. I phoned him back to check that he’d got hold of her and he said she was going straight home. She hadn’t contacted the station when I left so I called here on the way to Otterbridge. There was no reply. I can’t see that I could have done any more.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said. There was nothing more that Hunter could have done. ‘What time were you here?’
‘About nine, I suppose. We left together, didn’t we?’
‘You didn’t see anything unusual?’
‘No. There was a light on at the back of the house but I thought it might be a normal security measure to leave a light on when the family was out.’
‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I see.’
‘What do you want me to do now?’ Hunter asked.
‘Keep people off the hill and out of the dene until we’ve done a search. I suppose you can organize that.’
He walked back to the house thinking he had been unfair to Hunter, too abrupt. In the kitchen he found the jogger, still staring out of the window, still clutching a mug of tea which was obviously cold. When he saw Ramsay he turned with a start.
‘Can I go now?’ he said. ‘ I’ve classes to take this morning. It won’t be easy for them to cover for me.’
‘Just a few questions,’ Ramsay said. ‘What made you come to this house? Did you recognize her?’
‘No. I didn’t even stop to look at her closely. When I touched her hand it was freezing. She was obviously dead. This was the closest place.’
‘You came in through the back gate?’
The man nodded.
‘Was it open?’
‘Yes. Slightly open. I was surprised. You expect people in houses like this to worry about security.’
‘Was there a light on in the kitchen?’
‘No, the house was quite dark.’
When Ramsay had begun talking to the teacher, Wood had made his excuses and left the kitchen. Ramsay found him in a cold living room, slumped in a chair, his eyes shut, his face grey.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Ramsay said. ‘But I do have to ask some questions.’
Wood sat up and hunched forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ of course.’
‘What time did you get home last night?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. About midnight.’ He looked apologetically at Ramsay. ‘I’m afraid I’d had a skinful.’
‘But you must have noticed that Mrs Wood wasn’t here.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course I’d noticed. But it wasn’t unusual. We lived very independent lives. I thought she was out at some council function or charity do.’
‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I see.’ Evan Powell would never have understood that sort of marriage but it made sense to him. He had never known where Diana was.
‘She had been home,’ he said, ‘after finishing at court?’
‘Was she at court yesterday?’ Wood was faintly curious, unsurprised. ‘Yes, she had been home. I realize that now. Her car’s in the garage.’
‘Were there any lights on in the house when you got home?’
Wood hunched further forward, concentrating.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The kitchen light. I turned it off before I went to bed. I suppose it should have struck me as odd, but I was in no state to think clearly about anything.’
‘You can’t remember what plans your wife might have had for the evening?’
‘No,’ Wood said. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Was there any reason for her leaving the house on foot?’
Wood sat up and shook his head slowly as if he had been a fool. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. The dog.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said.
‘Whichever of us was first home in the evening let the dog out for a run on the hill. Amelia was more thorough about it than me. She actually took him for a walk. I’m afraid I just let him out on to the common and called him back five minutes later. After that we’d lock the back gate for the night. The dog was still outside this morning. He must have found his own way home.’
‘I see. Would your wife take the dog out as soon as she got home from court?’
‘No. She’d shower first. She always said the courtroom stank. Change into something more comfortable, a cup of tea, then take the dog for a run.’
‘So how long would all that take?’
‘I don’t know. Three-quarters of an hour, perhaps.’
‘Thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘We should be able to estimate the time of death very precisely with that information.’
‘So you think she was killed then? When she took the dog out on to the hill?’
‘Probably,’ Ramsay said. He was lost in thought. ‘ I think so. Yes.’
They sat in silence.
‘Was he some sort of madman, then?’ Wood demanded at last. ‘First that girl at the Grace Darling Centre, then Amelia. What would they call him in America? A serial killer. Was he one of those?’
Ramsay gave the proposition serious consideration. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Really, I don’t think so. The murders weren’t random. It can hardly be a coincidence that Mrs Wood was at a meeting at the Grace Darling on the night that Gabriella’s body was found there.’
‘So you think she might have seen something. She was killed to keep her quiet.’
‘It’s a possibility, though there are obvious problems with the theory. If she’d seen something obviously suspicious why didn’t she get in touch with us immediately? She was a magistrate, concerned, responsible.’
There was a pause and then Wood answered slowly. ‘She was all those things, Inspector. But she was also a woman who enjoyed power. If she had come across information which she could put to her advantage she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.’
Ramsay was surprised by his honesty and detachment. Bereavement usually made people sentimental. Wood sensed the surprise.
‘We had a successful marriage, Inspector. We understood each other’s needs. There was respect and admiration. But not what you could call romantic love and that’s what clouds one’s judgement.’
‘Did you discuss the Gabriella Paston murder yesterday evening?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Only briefly. Amelia didn’t know about it when she came in. I’d seen a short report on the local news and passed on the details. I knew she’d be interested because of her connection with the Centre.’
‘Had she ever met the girl?’
‘I don’t think so. She would have told me last night if she’d known her personally.’
‘Do you know what she was doing at the Arts Centre yesterday?’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I haven’t a clue. As I’ve explained, we led very separate lives.’
‘She’d arranged a meeting with a Mr Lynch, the director,’ Ramsay persisted. ‘She didn’t mention it? The name doesn’t mean anything to you?’
‘Oh, yes, I recognize the name. I’ve had business dealings with Lynch but Amelia wasn’t connected in any way.’
‘Could you tell me what sort of business dealings?’
‘He bought a
flat from me.’ Wood stood up and stretched. The colour had returned to his face. The shock and the hangover were beginning to wear off. ‘In Chandler’s Court just off Hallowgate Fish Quay. I’m an architect and my firm bought the building and converted it. It was rather a successful venture for us and we hope to do more of it in the future.’
‘Was there anything unusual about your negotiations with Mr Lynch?’
‘Not really. At first he haggled about the price. He tried to bring Amelia into it, said that he’d taken a massive drop in salary to come to work at the Grace Darling and he thought I should make a gesture by reducing the asking price.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That his dealing with Amelia was quite separate from his business with me and that if he didn’t want the flat there were lots of people who did.’
‘And he managed to find the asking price?’
Wood shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘When did he move into Chandler’s Court?’
‘Two and a half years ago.’
‘Where was he living before that?’
‘I don’t think I ever knew. He’d been renting somewhere since he moved up from London but I sent all the correspondence about the sale to the Arts Centre.’ The architect returned to his chair.
They sat for a moment in silence. Outside there was the sound of cars pulling up in the street, doors banging, voices, as the team who would search the hill were directed through the garden to the back gate.
‘Have you ever been to the Holly Tree restaurant?’ Ramsay asked.
Wood was surprised by the question but answered easily. ‘Yes. It’s a convenient place to entertain. I often take business clients there and Amelia and I went quite regularly, perhaps once a month, for dinner or Sunday lunch.’
‘Is it possible, do you think, that Mrs Wood booked a table there on Monday lunch time?’
It seemed unlikely, Ramsay thought, though the question had to be asked. Why would Amelia want to buy Gabriella Paston an expensive lunch? And why not use her own name? As a regular customer it would guarantee her a better table. It could not be because she wanted to keep the trip to the restaurant a secret—she would be recognized as soon as she arrived.
‘Quite possible,’ Wood said. ‘ She went there sometimes with her friends.’
‘She didn’t mention it to you?’
‘No. But she wouldn’t have done. She would have written it in her appointments diary though. Everything went in there. I’ll find it for you.’
He stood up and left the room, glad it seemed of the excuse for movement. As Ramsay waited for his return a minibus pulled up in the street, and a pile of men in navy anoraks trampled over the gravel and across the grass to the back of the house. Wood came back almost immediately with a thick desk diary which Ramsay opened at November 30th. A string of appointments was listed in small neat handwriting. Amelia’s day had started with a Cancer Research coffee morning, there was a meeting of the planning subcommittee at 2.00, tea with D.Y at four and a meeting of the governors of Hallowgate Sixth-Form College at 6.30.
‘D.Y?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Deidre Yeoman. Another Tory councillor. They met occasionally for moral support and to discuss strategy.’
Ramsay considered the appointments. They would check of course if Amelia had kept them all. She must have gone straight to the Grace Darling after the governor’s meeting. It was just possible that she could have fitted in an early lunch at the Holly Tree and still be at the council meeting at two but unlikely surely that she would have made the arrangement. The mysterious Abigail Keene who had booked the table must be someone altogether different.
His thoughts were interrupted by Hunter, who tapped on the door and stood just inside the room, scarcely able to suppress his excitement.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said, obviously not sorry at all. ‘ If I could have a word.’
Ramsay followed him into the hall and shut the door.
‘We’ve found something,’ Hunter said. ‘Something really interesting.’ He paused for dramatic effect and then continued. ‘A sports bag. The sort all the kids use to carry their gear in, full of books and files. It belonged to Gabriella Paston.’
‘So,’ Ramsay said. ‘She did come to Martin’s Dene on the day of her death. Where exactly did you find it?’
Hunter paused again, like a child wanting to savour a moment of triumph. ‘ Well,’ he said. ‘That’s the most interesting thing of all. We found it here. In this garden. In the middle of the shrubbery next to the wall. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’
Chapter Eleven
At midday Ramsay left St Martin’s Close and drove back to Hallowgate to report to the chief superintendent. The Close was filled with police vehicles and he made a mental note that when the case was over he should write to all the residents to thank them for their forbearance.
In his office the superintendent listened carefully to what Ramsay had to tell him. On the wall above his head was a watercolour of St Mary’s Island which he had painted himself. From the window was a view of the mouth of the river.
‘Not a coincidence then,’ he said, ‘if the girl’s things were found in the Woods’ garden.’
‘Definitely not a coincidence,’ Ramsay said, ‘ but nothing to connect the women yet either, except the Grace Darling Centre.’
‘You think Gabriella Paston was murdered in Martin’s Dene too?’
‘That seems the most obvious explanation. She’d told her friends she was going there. Her bag was found at the end of the garden. It could have been thrown over the wall from the common.’ Ramsay paused. ‘I think the focus of the investigation will have to shift to Martin’s Dene,’ he said. ‘ We’ll need to make that point clearly at the press conference. Presumably Gabby Paston got there by public transport. Someone must have seen her. And she was quite a striking figure. We’ll need a house-to-house in the village. I’m having photos printed now. ‘ Then we’ll need everyone who was out on the hill yesterday evening to come forward.’
‘Any other lines of enquiry?’
‘Someone was paying regularly into the girl’s building society account. It could have been her family of course. I’ll check that. If not it would be interesting to know who was giving her the money.’
‘You think it could have been payment for services rendered?’
Ramsay shrugged. ‘It’s possible. She was an attractive girl. And she seems not to have sustained any lasting relationships with lads of her own age. She’d not be the first drama student to sleep her way through college.’
‘Where does Mrs Wood come into it?’
‘At this stage,’ Ramsay said, ‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘You don’t see Dennis Wood as Miss Paston’s mysterious benefactor?’
‘It’s a neat explanation,’ Ramsay said. ‘But no. I don’t think Dennis Wood’s a murderer.’
There was a moment’s silence while the superintendent leaned forward, his arms on his desk.
‘I’d be grateful to get this cleared up quickly,’ he said, awkwardly.
‘Of course.’ Ramsay was surprised. He had not expected to be put under pressure.
‘There should be no difference in our response to a teenage lad stabbed to death in a pub brawl on the Starling Farm estate as to a magistrate strangled in Martin’s Dene.’ The superintendent was speaking almost to himself but looked up to check that Ramsay understood what he was saying. ‘ Morally there’s no difference at all. But practically…’ He smiled wryly. ‘ Practically there’s all the difference in the world. The respectable citizens of Martin’s Dene will be affronted by an outrage on their doorstep. They’ll take it personally. When you spend that much on a house you expect to be insulated from the nasty realities of the outside world. I get enough flak about dog mess on the pavement. They’ll write to their MPs, to the members of the police committee, to me. They’ll make my life hell.’ He smiled again, more gently. ‘I was hoping for a peaceful year before I retire
. As I said, I’d be grateful.’
‘I’ll have a try,’ Ramsay said, but his voice gave little room for hope.
From his cold, depressing office in Hallowgate police station Ramsay phoned the Grace Darling Arts Centre. The call was answered by Joe Fenwick on the reception desk. It was a small piece of luck but made Ramsay feel optimistic for the first time that day.
‘Ellen Paston,’ he asked. ‘Is she working today?’
‘Aye. She got in half an hour ago.’
‘That’s fine then. You’ll not tell anyone I was asking.’
‘Me!’ Joe Fenwick laughed. ‘Man, I’ll not tell a soul.’
Ramsay sent a car to bring Ellen Paston to the police station. It was a gamble, of course. She might just refuse to come. He had been tempted to go to the Grace Darling to talk to her there, tempted too by the prospect of seeing Prue Bennett again. But in the end he had decided to bring her into the police station. Away from her own home ground, her mother and her work, she might be more prepared to talk. And he thought that she would come. Curiosity would bring her along.
He had hoped to find somewhere more pleasant to interview her, thinking she might be persuaded to relax her guard in less formal surroundings, but no other room was available and he saw her in his office. He phoned for a WPC to bring them tea, hoping to make Ellen Paston feel important, special. She spent her life waiting on others, dominated by her mother, patronized by the customers at the Grace Darling. He felt she would be susceptible to flattery.
‘I believe you’ll be able to help me,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to tell me about your meetings with Gabriella.’
She looked up at him but said nothing. A policewoman knocked at the door, then came in with a tea tray which she set on the table. She took a chair to the corner of the room where she sat, apparently lost in thoughts of her own throughout the interview. Ramsay poured tea, offered biscuits.
‘You did meet Gabriella quite regularly,’ he said gently. ‘She kept a record of your appointments in her diary.’ He held his breath, hoping that he was right and that the E of the diary was Ellen Paston.
