by Cleeves, Ann
‘What did you do then?’
‘I panicked. I ran out into the street. I wanted to get right away from the body while I worked out what to do. If I’d run into a policeman I’d have told him everything. But instead I ran into Clive Stringer. He’d been to the fair, spent all his money and was hanging around on the corner of Newgate and Front Street, hoping, I think, for trouble.’
‘You got him to move the body for you?’
She nodded. ‘I told him that Theresa had killed Dorothea, because she had wanted to stop her going away with Joss Corkhill.’
So he had been asked to choose, Ramsay thought, between Dorothea and his mother, and he had chosen, then at least, to protect Theresa.
‘Was it hard to persuade him?’ he asked.
‘Not very hard. He was quite excited, you know, at the prospect of driving the car.’
‘Did you tell him where to put the body?’
She shook her head. ‘I told him to put it somewhere quiet, where it wouldn’t be found until morning.’
‘And presumably it was his idea to park the car in Walter Tanner’s drive?’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t know anything about that until today. Apparently the old man didn’t like him. It was Clive’s way of paying him back.’
‘Did you go with Clive to the park?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I just wanted him to get rid of Dorothea. I suppose I wanted to pretend that I wasn’t involved. I took Dorothea’s diary and handbag – I thought she might have made some record of her conversation with Theresa – then I left Clive to it. He must have driven to the little entrance of the park and carried her from there to the path by the river. He was quite remarkably strong. Then presumably he put the car on Tanner’s drive.’
‘He must have driven around a bit first,’ Ramsay said. ‘He didn’t go down Armstrong Street until later.’
‘He was always into cars,’ she said. ‘It must have been a temptation to go joy-riding.’
‘Why did you kill him?’ Ramsay asked.
‘He was nervous, stupid. I thought in the end he would tell someone. He was already feeling guilty. He loved Dorothea.’
‘You had a spare key to Tanner’s house,’ Ramsay said, ‘because the home-help service is organised from your office and Walter’s mother had a home-help. What happened to all the old keys? Were they labelled and left for collection?’
She nodded. ‘In the general office. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss. I thought if Clive were found in Tanner’s house you’d be bound to suspect the old man.’
‘How did you know Tanner wouldn’t come in and surprise you?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I took the risk. By then I was past caring. When I’d dropped you off at the police station I drove towards Armstrong House. Clive had said he was on his way to work. I picked him up and offered him a lift.’
‘How did you get him into Tanner’s house?’
‘I told him to come with me,’ she said. ‘And he came. He was used to doing as he was told, and he was used to not understanding what was going on.’
‘Clive Stringer’s death was premeditated,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose it was.’
There was a silence.
‘You took off his watch when you cut his wrists, and you put it back in his room, didn’t you, when you went to look after Theresa? It was a mistake. I didn’t remember until later that Clive never took off the watch because it was a present from Dorothea. It was obvious then that either you or Theresa had killed him – how else could the watch have been returned to his room? And I didn’t think it would be Theresa.’
‘She tried to kill me at the fair,’ Hilary said.
‘Are you surprised?’ he cried. ‘You killed her son.’
For the first time the pretence that they were equals on some impersonal quest for facts was broken. She stared at him.
‘I did it for her,’ she said. ‘I did it to protect her.’
He wanted to contradict her, to tell her that she was deluding herself and that it had been her own reputation and safety she was concerned about, but he thought better of it. If she were to survive the court case and the prison sentence she would need to believe that her motives, at least, were unselfish. He returned to the facts.
‘When did Theresa realise?’ he said.
‘When we got to the fair. She’d been too drugged before then to think clearly. She wanted to look for Joss, but when we got there she seemed distracted. There were two kids messing about on the Big Wheel. It must have given her the idea. She asked if we could have a ride. She seemed so keen that I agreed. Then she tried to push me out.’
‘We would have arrested you anyway. Even if she hadn’t caused the scene.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see that now.’
She seemed suddenly very tired. She lay her head on her arms like a child at its desk. He stood up quietly and walked out.
When Patrick Cassidy and Imogen returned to the vicarage, Edward was already there. They could see him in the bright, harsh light of the study through the uncurtained window, and hesitated on the gravel drive before going in to face him. For the first time it was cool and quiet. There was a breeze from the river. They had walked down the drive in silence, but now Patrick whispered: ‘I’m sorry about tonight. I don’t know what came over me.’
She did not know what to say. She was so tired, so light-headed, that she felt nothing, not even relief that he seemed to be himself again. She took his hand and they went into the house. Edward must have heard the kitchen door being opened and he rushed to meet them.
‘Patrick!’ he said. ‘ Thank God. Imogen, my dear child, you must phone your parents. They’re worried sick. They’ve even been to the police. Sit down. You both look exhausted. Have you left the car in town? How sensible! We’ll fetch it tomorrow. Let me make some tea.’
He bustled about, his pleasure at seeing them shining through his grief. The phone rang.
‘I expect that will be your parents to see if there’s any news,’ he said. Then, as Imogen stood up to answer it, ‘ No, no, you stay there. You look worn out. You mustn’t move.
I’ll tell them you can stay the night in the spare room and you can go home tomorrow.’
He hurried from the room. The kettle began to hum. Imogen stood up, rinsed old tea bags from the pot, found new ones in a rusty tin caddy. After the evening of frantic activity Patrick was drained, but calmer, almost relaxed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I was so angry. I needed to do something. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’
Before she could reply Edward Cassidy came in. He was serious, rather dignified.
‘That was Ramsay,’ he said. ‘The detective inspector. They’ve caught Dorothea’s murderer. He wanted to tell me, he said, before I heard through the press. Apparently it was a social worker, some woman Dorothea had worked quite closely with. He didn’t give me many details but she’s admitted everything. It’s a relief, isn’t it, it’s over?’
Imogen looked at Patrick. He showed no reaction, seemed to feel no need for apology. You thought it might be me, she wanted to say. That’s what all that was about tonight. You wanted to see if you could make me confess. But she said nothing. There had been enough drama for one day.
‘I think I’ll phone my parents,’ she said, ‘ask them to come and fetch me. I’d rather be at home.’
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ Patrick asked, but she did not answer. She needed time to think.
When Hunter and Ramsay left the police station it was beginning to get light. They could see the silhouette of the abbey ruins against the grey sky. A lorry towing a large caravan rumbled out of the fairground and many of the rides had already been demolished. They must have worked all night at it. The men did not speak. Ramsay had shown Hunter a copy of Hilary Masters’s statement but there was none of the jubilation that usually followed an arrest.
Poor bastard, Hunter thought. He really fancied her. He rea
lly fancied the Snow Queen.
In the car park they hesitated awkwardly, each standing by his car, unwilling to move away first.
‘Look,’ Hunter said suddenly, ‘why don’t you come back with me? Have some breakfast. My mam’s a great cook.’
He did not for one moment think Ramsay would accept. They had nothing in common and had been rivals since Hunter had joined the team. Ramsay was too stuck up, he thought. He was used to grander things. But the inspector smiled.
‘Thank you,’ he said, knowing that Hunter had only asked because he felt sorry for him, but grateful all the same. He was not ready yet to face the empty cottage in Heppleburn. ‘If it wouldn’t put your mother out too much I’d like that very much.’
Copyright
First published in 1992 by Macmillan
This edition published 2013 by Bello
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello
ISBN 978-1-4472-5030-2 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-5029-6 POD
Copyright © Ann Cleeves, 1992
The right of Ann Cleeves to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of the material
reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher
will be pleased to make restitution at the earliest opportunity.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication ( or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise),
without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does
any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to
criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The Macmillan Group has no responsibility for the information provided by
any author websites whose address you obtain from this book (‘author websites’).
The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute
an endorsement by or association with us of such sites or the content,
products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.
This book remains true to the original in every way. Some aspects may appear
out-of-date to modern-day readers. Bello makes no apology for this, as to retrospectively
change any content would be anachronistic and undermine the authenticity of the original.
Bello has no responsibility for the content of the material in this book. The opinions
expressed are those of the author and do not constitute an endorsement by,
or association with, us of the characterization and content.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books
and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and
news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters
so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.
