by Cleeves, Ann
They walked together on to the roughly paved patio. ‘It’ll be too much for me,’ he said. ‘ I suppose I’ll have to get someone in. If I decide to stay here.’
In his mind he was already moving on, making plans for the future.
‘Can I offer you something?’ he asked. ‘Tea? A glass of wine?’
Ramsay shook his head.
‘Shall we go in then?’ It was his university voice, brisk and authoritative. His domestic helplessness was set aside. ‘ I expect you’ve more questions to ask.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
He took Ramsay into a small study and sat behind the desk. It was not an attempt to intimidate but he was making a point. I’m an intelligent man, he was saying, with a position in society. I don’t suppose you deal with people like me very often.
‘We think we may have come across a link between your wife and Ernest Bowles,’ Ramsay said. ‘ It’s not an obvious link and of course we’re keeping an open mind about its importance.’
He handled his dislike of Charles McDougal by being bland and polite, qualities which had irritated his wife Diana into divorce. He set the appointment card, wrapped in a clear plastic envelope, on the desk.
‘We found this among your wife’s possessions at college,’ he said. ‘Did you know that your wife had consulted an acupuncturist?’
‘No,’ Charles said. He picked up the card and studied it.
‘Mr Abbot practises in Mittingford,’ Ramsay said. ‘ He’s an acquaintance of Mr Bowles’s tenants. It’s a tenuous link but of course we’ll have to follow it up.’
‘Did she keep this appointment?’ Charles demanded.
‘We don’t know yet,’ Ramsay replied smoothly.
‘She can’t have done,’ he said with certainty. ‘ She would have said. We didn’t have secrets.’
Except postgraduate students called Heather, Ramsay thought. Charles must have been following the same train of thought because he blushed slightly.
‘Had your wife been ill?’ Ramsay asked. It had occurred to him that people often turned to alternative therapies when conventional medicine failed.
‘Val, ill!’ Charles gave a sharp laugh. ‘She was as strong as a horse. I was the one that suffered. Terrible migraines.’
‘Perhaps then she consulted the acupuncturist on your behalf,’ Ramsay said.
‘She would have said,’ Charles answered uncertainly. ‘Surely she would have told me.’ He liked the idea though. He liked the idea that he was at the centre of her thoughts and she’d gone all the way to Mittingford to help him.
‘Well,’ Ramsay said. ‘ We’ll talk to Mr Abbot. He’ll remember her or at least have some record of the consultation.’
‘Yes.’ Charles half got up as though he expected the interview to be over, but when Ramsay did not move he fell back into his chair. ‘James might know,’ he said. ‘He was very close to his mother.’
‘The tenants of the murdered man at Laverock Farm had once been New Age travellers,’ Ramsay said. ‘Their names are Lily Jackman and Sean Slater. Your wife never mentioned them?’
Charles shook his head. ‘James hung around with a group of hippies last summer,’ he said. ‘Went to the festivals. For the music first but he got into the New Age thing for a while. Read some books. Went to lectures about discovering himself and saving the planet. It was a phase. I knew it would pass. It’s A Levels now and a place at Oxford if he’s lucky.’
‘Did he bring any of his New Age friends home?’
‘Only one. A girl a bit older than him. Pretty. I can’t remember her name.’
‘And he never talked about the Abbots?’
‘I don’t think so, but you must understand, Inspector, that I’m a busy man. Work’s important to me. I tried to make time for the boys but I have to admit I never always listened to them as much as I should. There was always something else demanding my attention.’
Yes, Ramsay thought. A student half your age.
There was a silence and again Charles seemed to think that the interview was over. Ramsay decided not to let him off the hook.
‘Why would your wife keep a visit to an acupuncturist secret from you?’ he asked. ‘ Was she frightened of you?’
‘No,’ Charles said. ‘Of course not. But she’d know I’d not approve. She was rather a weak woman, Inspector. She’d do anything to avoid unpleasantness.’
‘Why would you disapprove so strongly of alternative therapies?’
‘Because they have no basis in reason. A placebo effect, perhaps, on those who need attention and sympathy…’
And who could blame your wife, Ramsay thought, for wanting those?
‘Thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ Bullshit, said Diana in his head. ‘I wonder if I might talk to your son?’
‘James? I don’t see why not. His room’s at the top of the stairs.’
A different father would have made more effort to protect his son, insisted perhaps on being in on the interview, but Charles just seemed pleased that his own ordeal was over.
The boy was lying on his bed listening to music, something folky and Celtic which meant nothing to Ramsay but which reminded him of the fiddlers in the Morpeth pub where he had taken Prue. That seemed a long time ago. Ramsay knocked at the door which was slightly ajar. The boy got up, switched off the music, pushed some books from a swivel chair so Ramsay could sit down. He did not seem surprised to see the policeman. Ramsay thought he had been expecting, even anticipating, the visit.
‘Do you want coffee?’ he asked. ‘ Or did Dad offer you some downstairs?’
‘Coffee would be splendid.’
‘Only Nescaff,’ James said, spooning granules into a mug. The kettle, plugged into a point by the desk, was already full.
When I was your age, Ramsay thought, I didn’t know there was any other sort.
‘I suppose you want to talk about Mum,’ James said.
‘If it wouldn’t be too upsetting.’
‘No,’ James said. ‘I want to talk about her. No one else seems to. Friends and everyone have been sympathetic but they don’t like to mention her name. That’s not fair, is it? It’s as if she never existed.’
His control was slipping and he turned away.
‘And your father?’
‘Oh,’ James said dismissively, ‘Dad and I never talk about anything important.’
The kettle boiled and he made the coffee. Ramsay looked around the room. It seemed a typical teenage pit. A rucksack, with clothes spilling out from the top, stood in one corner. The walls were painted black and covered with posters. ‘ Stop the Bloody Whaling’ said one. Another, showing a bulldozer flattening a clump of primroses, read, ‘ I was at Twyford Down.’
‘Twyford Down?’ Ramsay asked.
‘It’s in Hampshire. The Government want to build a motorway across it.’
‘And were you there?’
‘For a week at the beginning of the summer. There was a sort of protest camp. I went with my girlfriend.’
‘What’s your girlfriend’s name?’
James answered automatically, too stunned apparently to wonder what the questions were about.
‘Faye. But she’s not my girlfriend any more. She’s not anyone’s girlfriend.’
Ramsay did not follow that up. He had wondered, when Charles said James had brought an older girl to the house if it might have been Lily, but now he lost interest.
‘We think there might be a link between your mother’s death and a farmer called Ernest Bowles who was killed near Mittingford last Saturday,’ Ramsay said carefully. ‘ Do you know if Mr Bowles was a friend of your mother’s?’
‘She never mentioned him.’
‘And she would have done, wouldn’t she?’ Ramsay said. ‘ If she were seeing another man she would have told you. You were very close.’
‘Yes. We were very close. And there was no one else. She still felt some kind of misguided loyalty to my father.’
‘But she did go to M
ittingford, didn’t she? She consulted an acupuncturist, Daniel Abbot at the Old Chapel. You must have known about that.’
‘Of course. I suggested that she went there.’
‘You know Mr Abbot?’
‘Not personally. But I’d heard of him, through Faye. And she dragged us along to one of his lectures.’
‘Why did you suggest that your mother go to see Mr Abbot?’
‘Because I hoped he would help her. She’d been really uptight for months. Dad was always putting her down, belittling her, you know, even in front of other people. He said she only taught dummies. Anyone could do that. Then he started seeing this woman at college … That only seemed to make him worse. More arrogant, more full of himself, you know.’ He paused, drank the last of his coffee. ‘Mum started getting panic attacks. Rushing in her ears, palpitations. She thought she was dying. She went to her GP who wanted to put her on tranquillizers. I said “ No way” and suggested she went to the Old Chapel.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last summer. When I came back from Twyford she was really bad. She’d just broken up from college and she was always worse in the holidays.’
‘We found an appointment card among her things for July 20th. Would that have been her first visit to Mr Abbot?’
‘Yeah, I think so. I’m not sure if she actually saw him again but she got involved with other activities at the Old Chapel. That’s where she was on Sunday afternoon.’
‘Was she?’ It was more than Ramsay had hoped for. ‘Thank you, that’s very helpful.’
He paused. ‘We know that your mother went away for a weekend last autumn, but we can’t trace where she was staying. Might she have been with friends from the Old Chapel?’
James took a long time to answer. He turned away and his eyes filled with tears.
‘She was at a weekend retreat at a place called Juniper Hall in Cumbria. It was organized by the people from the Old Chapel…’ He paused and Ramsay thought he was going on to say more, but he fell silent, absorbed it seemed by memories of his own.
‘Just one last question,’ Ramsay asked gently. ‘Do the names Lily Jackman and Sean Slater mean anything to you?’
James shook his head and Ramsay was not quite sure whether the gesture meant an answer ‘no’ or simply that he could not face any more questions.
On the way back to Mittingford Ramsay called in at Prue Bennett’s house. She lived in Otterbridge, not far from the McDougals. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d known Val. He thought that they would have got on. But when he pulled up outside there were no lights at the windows and though he rang the front doorbell over and over again there was no reply.
Chapter Twelve
Ramsay took Hunter with him to interview Daniel Abbot and wondered if he would regret the decision. Jokes about pins and needles he could do without. Access to the Alternative Therapy Centre was by some narrow stone stairs, which must once have led to the chapel’s gallery and then there was a large, pleasant space, very light, with a polished wooden floor and comfortable chairs. The practitioners’ treatment rooms led off. Behind a desk sat a young and pretty receptionist, barely, it seemed to Ramsay, out of school.
‘We’d like to see Mr Abbot,’ he said.
‘Have you got an appointment?’ She seemed newly scrubbed, glowing with health and enthusiasm. She made Ramsay feel old.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re from Northumbria police. It’s rather important.’
‘I’ll just see if he’s free.’ She pressed a button on the telephone and spoke into the receiver. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, he’ll be out in a minute.’
They sat on the comfortable seats. There was a low coffee table scattered with magazines and leaflets extolling the virtues of aromatherapy and osteopathy. Ramsay picked up a magazine and began to read an article on ‘ Healing the Inner Child’. One of the doors opened and Abbot came out.
He was not what Hunter had been expecting. He was big for one thing, strong and fit. He looked as if he ran five miles before breakfast and lifted weights. Hunter admired physical strength. Sticking pins into people was a funny kind of job but having seen the man he wasn’t inclined to dismiss acupuncture out of hand.
‘Inspector,’ Abbot said, ‘how can I help you? I’ve already given a statement to your constable.’
‘There’s been a development,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps we could talk in private?’
‘Of course, come into my room. It’s a bit cramped but we won’t be overheard there. Rebecca, perhaps you could make us some tea. Rebecca’s just started with us. She’s already a great asset.’
The girl blushed, gave a nervous smile and disappeared.
‘I’ll ask the questions,’ Ramsay had said to Hunter as they’d climbed the stone stairs to the Centre.
‘Afraid I’ll put my foot in it,’ Hunter had muttered, and he almost did put his foot in it. The girl came in with a tray. There was a teapot and three wide cups. No milk, no sugar and when the tea was poured from the pot it was transparent, yellowish. The colour of a urine sample, Hunter thought. And smelling of flowers and tasting of shite.
‘What the hell is this?’ he almost exclaimed, but stopped himself in time.
‘Thank you, Rebecca,’ Abbot said. Smiling. She blushed again and left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. She had been well trained.
The room was square and functional. There was a high treatment table covered in a white sheet, a sink. Abbot sat behind his desk and Hunter and Ramsay took the moulded plastic seats which could have come from any hospital waiting room.
Ramsay drank the herb tea as if he was enjoying it, and apologized for causing any inconvenience.
‘I’ve already told your constable,’ Daniel said again with a trace of impatience, ‘Lily and Sean were definitely with us on Sunday.’
‘Perhaps you could go over it again.’
‘This is rather tiresome, Inspector.’
‘And very important.’
‘They came for lunch. They often come for lunch on Sunday. They arrived at about eleven, had a shower and a coffee. We ate at one o’clock and then they left.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘Lily came here, to the Old Chapel. I presume Sean went straight back to Laverock Farm. He seemed even more spaced out than usual and I didn’t ask. To be honest I thought I’d done my duty by feeding them and I was glad to be rid of him.’
‘Why did Lily come to the Old Chapel? To work?’
‘No. She’s a member of Magda’s Insight Group. They meet here once a month.’
That must have been the group which Val had attended, Ramsay thought. Another connection.
‘Magda?’ he asked.
‘Magda Pocock, my mother-in-law. She’s a rebirther. Rather famous actually.’
‘And is Mrs Pocock here today?’
‘No. She was speaking at a conference in Nottingham yesterday. She decided to stay overnight. We’re expecting her back at lunchtime.’
‘Lily and Sean,’ Ramsay said quietly, ‘ how did they seem on Sunday?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In your work you must be skilled at picking up emotional responses. The holistic approach. Isn’t that what it’s called? I wondered what emotional state Lily and Sean were in when you saw them on Sunday lunchtime.’
Abbot seemed taken aback. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I see…’ His professionalism reasserted itself. ‘They were a little tense but that’s quite normal I’m afraid. I don’t see that relationship as a permanent one. It’s become rather destructive, especially for Lily.’
‘You think she’ll leave him?’ Hunter asked.
‘Eventually, yes,’ Abbot said. ‘At the moment she feels sorry for him. She knows he’s dependent on her and she’s reluctant to break the tie.’
Hunter felt suddenly and unaccountably more cheerful. All the same he wished Ramsay would move on. Why didn’t he ask about Val McDougal? Ramsay’s trouble was that he was afraid of confrontation.
Hunter always favoured the direct approach.
‘Where did you first meet Lily and Sean?’
‘My wife met them here, in the café downstairs. She brought them home for a meal. She’s given to collecting strays.’ He must have realized that the words sounded bitter because he added with a forced smile, ‘I’m always telling her she’s too soft-hearted.’
‘And they’d just turned up in Mittingford?’
‘Yes, I suppose they must have done. Win would be able to tell you more about them. I think they were part of a convoy of travellers who’d pulled up on some common land on the edge of town. They came here to buy food, keep warm. Win took pity on them.’ There was a critical edge to his voice. ‘When the rest of the convoy moved on they stayed. I could have done without it actually. Because Win had befriended them people thought they were something to do with us, that we’d encouraged them to stay. It caused a lot of bad feeling locally, just as we were establishing a good reputation here. The farmers in the area didn’t like having them camping and called the police. They were dossing in a clapped out old van which wasn’t roadworthy and didn’t have any tax so they couldn’t move on. Things were starting to get really ugly when Win thought of the caravan at Laverock Farm.’
‘Mr Bowles was a friend of yours?’
‘Oh no, hardly.’ He gave a brief smile at the suggestion. Snobby bastard, Hunter thought. ‘Cissie Bowles, his mother, was my patient. I was treating her for arthritis. She came here to the Centre first but by the end she was almost bedridden and I went to the farm. That was how we knew about the caravan.’
‘It didn’t work then, did it?’ Hunter couldn’t help himself. He had behaved for long enough.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The acupuncture. It didn’t work if she ended up having to take to her bed.’
‘It slowed the progress of the disease and helped relieve the pain.’ Abbot spoke slowly as if Hunter were stupid. ‘ We don’t claim to work miracles.’
‘I’d like to ask about another patient,’ Ramsay said.
