“Susan, at the Get Ahead hair salon. Did you forget?”
“Er . . . Susan.” She paused, embarrassed, not knowing what to say.
“Am I speaking to Rita Ruttle?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“You said you’d be here at seven to do the evening shift for Emma. Don’t you remember?”
No, she hadn’t remembered. So much had happened since that innocent little interview with Mrs Mulvey that its relevance in the scheme of things had taken flight. And now the last thing she wanted to do was stand in that salon at the mercy of the locals. At the mercy of him. He’d known she was in there that day. Had put the note on her windscreen while she was in there.
“I’m so sorry,” she began. “It’s just th-that I’ve . . . er . . . I’ve come down with a stomach bug. I . . . I meant to ring you but it went completely out of my head.”
“What?”
“Yes, sorry—”
“But—”
She hung up, hating herself for being so cowardly, but relieved she’d got it over with.
Maybe it would be best to simply pack her things now and leave.
Bram Hilditch already had her rent money, so she’d not be doing a runner. She could write him a note, leave with her good name intact.
I’m sorry, Mr Hilditch, but due to unforeseen circumstances I’ve had to leave earlier than expected.
Isn’t that what departing notes usually said? “Unforeseen circumstances”. It was a phrase that covered quite a lot.
Where to go? Larne seemed the only option. Harry wasn’t back yet. Grace Thorne had assured her she’d let her know as soon as he showed up. Construction jobs in England could last months, so he wouldn’t even know she’d been away. At the end of the day, which was worse? Negotiating a war zone whose terrain you knew well, with an enemy whose moves you could sometimes predict and so outmanoeuvre, or continue stumbling round in a no man’s land, not knowing where the next faceless foe would spring from—?
Her brooding stalled at the sound of a vehicle drawing up.
The police?
“Dear God, no! Let it not be them!”
She slid on to her knees, crouching down at the side of the bed. Curled into a ball on the floor, trying to disappear.
If it is the police I’ll have to face them. The light’s on downstairs. My car’s parked outside. Signs that I’m at home.
All of a sudden: the chatter of male voices punctuated by an electronic squawking.
She held her breath. Squeezed her arms more tightly about her.
Maybe . . . maybe it’s the ambulance. Maybe they’re bringing Mrs Gilhooley home. Yes, paramedics also use two-way radios. That’s it . . . the ambulance bringing Mrs Gilhooley home from the hospital.
The gate latch lifted.
The squawking grew louder.
All at once, a brusque rapping on the door.
Her door.
She dared not move. Legs like granite. Heart thudding so loudly she felt sure they could hear it; the strangers on the doorstep.
She’d have to answer it. Because if she didn’t they’d know she’d something to hide. The next day they’d be back for certain, suspicions aroused. For sure!
She took a deep breath. Uncurled herself, crept out of the room on all fours to the head of the stairs.
Through the frosted glass of the door she could make out two figures. Even in the distortion their uniformed silhouettes were unmistakable, the blue glare of electronic gadgets glimmering in breast pockets.
Yes, they had arrived.
The police.
She’d have to face them.
There was no way out.
She gathered herself. Stood up and – to steady her nerves and buy herself more time – slowly descended the stairs, counting each step as she went.
She pulled the door open mid-rap.
Two men of average build wearing the regulation dark green garb of the Royal Ulster Constabulary stood facing her.
“Sorry, officers. I was taking a nap.”
She did not know why she said that. They looked so forbidding that some explanation for her tardiness in answering their call seemed necessary.
“Evening, miss,” the older man said. “Sorry we disturbed you then. Just need to ask a few questions about your neighbour, Maud Gilhooley . . . just routine. D’you mind if we come in?”
“No . . . no, not at all. Please. It’s through here.”
She led them into the lounge, channelling her calmest persona.
Look them in the eye when you’re answering their questions. Don’t waver. You were asleep. You saw nothing. You heard nothing.
They waded into the lounge, bringing the cold air of evening with them, and doffed their peaked caps in unison.
“Won’t you sit down,” she said.
“No, thank you all the same.” The taller one had spoken again. He was the more important of the two. The cap had given him gravitas. Without it he looked less menacing: late fifties; gaunt face, thinning hair, weary eyes simply longing for the armchair of retirement.
“I’m Sergeant Taylor and this here’s Constable Barry.”
Barry, early thirties, nondescript, flicked his eyes over her and nodded.
He took out a notepad.
Taylor began. “You’re new to these parts, Miss . . . eh?”
“Ruttle . . . Rita. Yes, I am.”
“And you came from—”
“Larne.”
“Larne, right . . . nice wee spot. Needed a change, did you?”
“Something like that.”
“Any form of ID?”
She found her driving licence and handed it to him. He glanced at it and passed it to Barry.
“Married, are you?”
“No.”
Taylor stared at her. “Says ‘Mrs’ on your licence here, miss.”
What an oversight! But she’d never had to produce the licence for anyone since taking flight. Not even for Bram Hilditch.
How bloody stupid of yeh! she heard Harry say.
“Sorry . . . separated now,” she said. “Is . . . is she going to be all right? Maud . . . I mean Mrs Gilhooley.”
Barry looked up from his note-taking.
“We hope so, Miss Ruttle,” Taylor said, putting his cap down carefully on the table.
She felt her knees go weak. “Yes . . . what . . . what a shame! Such a . . . sweet lady. I’ll . . . I’ll just sit, if you don’t mind.”
She took her usual chair, resting her hands on the table. Thought they would sit down too, but to her dismay they remained standing, making her feel even more vulnerable.
“When did you last see her?” Taylor continued. “Your neighbour.”
“Around half past three . . . she was going to the shops and very kindly asked if I needed anything.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I lay down because I—”
“You do a lot of that, do you?”
“Sorry?”
“Well, you were lyin’ down just now at . . . ” He checked his watch. “A quarter by seven.”
“Sometimes . . . sometimes if I’ve had a bad night, yes. But this afternoon I had a migraine attack and the only remedy is to take medication, which unfortunately makes me very drowsy . . . s-so it’s best to sleep.”
“Hmph . . . so you saw off Mrs Gilhooley at half three then you took to your bed. Is that right?”
She was vexed by his tone. But she must remain calm! After all, only a budgie had died. It was hardly a hanging offence. And hadn’t this pair more serious crimes to involve themselves with, given the political climate?
“Miss Ruttle . . . ?”
“Yes, that’s right. I didn’t see anything or hear anything out of the ordinary. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Maybe I’ll have this wee seat after all,” Taylor said, taking the chair opposite her. He threw a look at Barry, who remained grim-faced, pen poised over notebook.
The joints of the chair creaked
as he canted forward, fixing her with his watery eyes, which now at close range looked inflamed and cruel.
“You see, that’s very odd, Miss Ruttle, ’cos we have it on good authority – me and the constable here – that you were seen at Maud Gilhooley’s back-door.”
Her throat constricted. She knew immediately that the Glacken woman was their informant. That spiteful, vengeful harridan was trying to frame her.
“Yes, well, I forgot to mention . . . I went out the back to get some fresh air . . . hoping it would help my headache and . . . I . . . I noticed . . . happened to notice that Maud had forgotten to shut her door. Naturally I did the neighbourly thing and shut it, in case . . . ”
“In case what, Miss Ruttle?”
“Well, in case she was robbed of course.”
“Which she was.”
“Erm . . . sadly, yes . . . ”
Taylor continued his unblinking regard, forcing her to add, “I didn’t have a key to lock it for her. She never gave me one, alas.”
“And you didn’t think to mention that important detail before now? Being in Mrs Gilhooley’s house, like you say.”
“But I wasn’t in her house. I just shut her door. That’s all.”
He’s playing with me, she thought. Trying to get me to admit to something I didn’t do, so he can tick a box in his COMPLETED file.
“You didn’t enter her house then?”
“No.”
He threw another glance at his colleague, who shrugged and sighed.
“Look, I’ve got nothing to hide. I really don’t know what you’re suggesting, officer. I could never hurt a fly, let alone a bird. How could you even think I’d do such a thing?”
“Right, then. In light of what you’ve just stated . . . that you’ve got nothing to hide. In light of that statement, Miss Ruttle, you’ll have no objection to Constable Barry here having a wee look round upstairs.”
Two sets of eyes held her. She felt as trapped as one of the landlord’s butterflies.
“Well . . . no,” she said, feeling very much invaded. “I’ve . . . I mean that’s . . . that’s all right. Go ahead.”
Taylor nodded at Barry. “Won’t be long, miss,” Barry said, before sprinting up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. She heard him go down the corridor to her bedroom.
Taylor remained seated, drumming his fingers on the table, whistling softly.
“Like it here, do you, Miss . . . er . . . Mrs Ruttle?” He didn’t look her way but scanned the room, his eyes taking in everything, whistling his tuneless tune.
“Yes . . . it’s very pleasant, thank you.”
She thought about folding her arms. Quickly changed her mind. He’d know she was being defensive. Cops were trained in reading the signs. She’d read it in a magazine once. He might be sitting a few feet away pretending not to notice her but she knew he was still tuning into her every move and breath.
She heard Barry slide open the shower door. Shut it again. Then move across to the box- room.
He opened the door. “What the—” An exclamation of surprise.
“Abraham Hilditch owns this place, doesn’t he?” Taylor said.
She heard the constable moving about in the box-room. Felt herself tense. He was invading her space and she wanted to race upstairs and order him out. How dare he do that! Why were these two treating her like a criminal? Why?
Because you’re a woman on your own, and they resent that.
“Miss Ruttle?”
She looked up from her lap to see Taylor scrutinizing her.
“Sorry . . . I didn’t hear that.”
“Abraham Hilditch your landlord?”
“Yes . . . yes, he is.” A thought struck her: “Have you visited this house before, Sergeant?”
The drumming fingers stopped.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Just wondered . . . Constable Barry seems to know his way about.”
“You don’t need house plans to negotiate the upstairs of a two-bed semi, Miss Ruttle.”
She didn’t like this man at all. He was a sarcastic bully. Liked making her feel small. Just like Harry.
Suddenly the constable was coming down the stairs again.
Taylor got up.
Barry looked at Taylor. Then turned to her. “That wee room at the top of the stairs. Have you been in there since you got up, miss?”
“No . . . why?”
Barry eyed his boss again. “It’s just that . . . just that it looks like it’s been done over, miss. Not unless . . . not unless it’s always like that.”
“What?”
Taylor drew himself up to his full height. “In that case, Miss Ruttle, you’d be the best judge of that.”
He gestured towards the stairs. “If you’d like to go up ahead of us and we’ll all have a look?”
Nervously, Rita-Mae mounted the stairs, Taylor close on her heels.
Even more nervously, she pushed open the door to the box-room.
She gaped in disbelief, only with difficulty holding herself in check.
The place was a mess: window wide open, the beady-eyed ferret knocked on its side, a chair upturned, vase broken, the rug kicked over, air fresheners and potpourri strewn across the floor.
“Well, Miss Ruttle,” Taylor said over her shoulder, “is this always the way yeh keep this wee room?”
She turned on him defiantly, a thought occurring to her. “Given that I never use this room, Sergeant, I can only assume the wind blew the window open and caused all this.”
Taylor unclasped his hands from behind his back. “If that’s what you want to believe, Miss Ruttle, then who are we to say different?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Are you sure she’s not in?” Bram said, unlatching the gate to number 8, not a little irked.
An employee from the electricity board had called him while he was filing his tax-return – interrupting him at a most inconvenient time – and was insisting he be admitted to read Miss Ruttle’s meter.
“I say, are you sure she’s not in?” he repeated, coming up the garden path.
The man, loitering on the doorstep, pivoted round and straightened.
“Oh, are you Mr Hilditch? No, she isn’t in. That’s why I rang you.”
Bram didn’t like the look of him. Thirtyish, he reckoned, shifty, unkempt, the type that would be better suited to holding up a bar, or indeed a street-corner, shouting obscenities at passers-by. He peered pointedly at the ID card on his lapel.
“No worries. I’m bona fide, Mr Hilditch. You can ring the boss if you want.”
“SEAMUS RAFFERTY, NIEB. Well, one can’t be too careful these days, Mr Rafferty. The board usually sends Carl to read the meters round here, and he always gives notice well in advance.”
“Carl’s on leave, so you’ve got me. As I said on the phone, Miss . . . ”
He checked his clipboard.
“Ruttle,” Bram provided.
“Yes, Miss Ruttle would’ve got notification in the post. We always send them out a week in advance.”
“Well, she forgot, obviously. Mind you, it’s not like Miss Ruttle to forget such things. She’s an excellent tenant.”
“That’s as may be, but I need to get in.”
He pulled irritably on the last of his cigarette and squinted at him.
“I get paid for three meters an hour and I’ve wasted a good half hour on this doorstep, with two more waiting out in the sticks.”
Bram pushed the doorbell and rapped loudly on the glass.
“Look, I’ve done all that.”
“Done all what?”
“Rung and knocked. D’you think I’ve been standing here all this time admirin’ the paintwork? Just let me in, please.”
“Indeed! Have you checked round the back if her car’s there?”
“Have and it isn’t,” Rafferty said curtly, carelessly flicking away the spent cigarette and checking his watch. “So, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Well, I would mind, a
s a matter of fact. My tenant’s contract states I have to give advance notice if I, or anyone else, wishes to enter the property when she isn’t present. So, I’m transgressing contractual rules to satisfy your impatience.”
Bram saw him tussle with the idea of clocking him one and losing his job, or being mindful that this pompous twit of a landlord might well report him for being rude.
“Look, I won’t tell her if you won’t,” he said, backing down. “I’m running late as it is, so please, Mr Hilditch. She’ll never know. It’s your house after all.”
“I’m quite aware of that, thank you, Mr Rafferty.”
With a sense of resignation, he took a bunch of keys from his pocket and rifled through them. “But being a reasonable man and a very busy one . . . having better things to do than stand here and parley with you, I’m prepared to make an exception on this one occasion . . . and I mean one occasion.”
“Thank you, Mr Hilditch.”
Bram opened the door and admitted him.
Rita-Mae sat in the waiting-room of Killoran surgery, trying to alleviate her anxiety by scanning the pages of a glossy magazine. She hadn’t foreseen this situation when making her escape from Larne – that things would fall apart so quickly and drive her to seek out the local GP as a matter of some urgency.
The unthinkable run of events the previous day – the set-to with the Glackens, the horrible events next door, culminating with that visit from the police and the discovery that the box-room had likewise been done over – meant that she couldn’t even bring herself to go in there again, let alone tidy up the mess.
In such a situation, upping her medication seemed the only answer to deaden the many questions raining down on her.
Who’s behind all this?
The Glackens?
The landlord?
The handyman, Madden?
The stalker?
Is the stalker Madden?
Is the stalker Hilditch?
Is the stalker Harry? Oh God, no! Let it not be Harry. Grace would have warned her. She could depend on Grace for sure. Yes, for sure.
In the waiting-room of Killoran surgery she squeezed her eyes tight against the endless questions. Blinked to wash them away, and tried to concentrate on a feature in the magazine: the recent engagement of Sarah Ferguson to Prince Andrew.
She was conscious that she needed to feign interest in the printed words to steady herself and deflect the attention of the two others in the room: the receptionist, a flinty, matron-type in a starched blouse behind the desk, and an elderly lady sitting across from her, hugging a bag of groceries on her lap.
The Spinster Wife Page 16
