by Cleeves, Ann
“Well,” Ramsay said, “ if he was home by eleven, he can’t have murdered Mrs. Parry. She was still in the Castle then. She definitely left Henshaw’s and went straight to the pub. The barmaid said she was upset, but Henshaw won’t admit that there was any unpleasantness. Perhaps you could make some enquiries in the village. Find out all you can about him. He drives a Rover. See if anyone saw it late Saturday night.”
“Are you coming to Brinkbonnie?”
“Later. I’ve an appointment with the council’s planning officer. I want to find out about these houses.”
Despite Hunter’s scepticism he was convinced that Henshaw’s development had in some way triggered the series of events that had resulted in Alice Parry’s death. Henshaw’s version of the confrontation with Alice Parry was false. Something had happened to distress her, and almost immediately after she had died. The man’s lying must be significant.
The council offices were in a shabby building that always reminded Ramsay of a large working-men’s club. The planning officer was a small, solid man with a thin grey moustache. He had Henshaw’s plans laid out on his desk.
“I don’t understand the planning procedure,” Ramsay said. “ It might be relevant in this case. Perhaps you could explain.”
“Mr. Henshaw made his original application for Brinkbonnie late last summer,” the officer said. He had a brisk, clipped voice and spoke with the formality of a man used to local politics. “Previously the land had been of marginal agricultural use—occasionally leased to a local farmer for grazing cattle. After being purchased by Mr. Henshaw, I believe that arrangement stopped. The council felt that the plans were inappropriate for a village of Brinkbonnie’s size and refused permission to build.”
“Was there a lot of publicity at that time?”
“Not a great deal. We put a notice in the local paper and received several objections, but no-one seriously believed the development would be approved.”
“Would a smaller scheme have been more favourably received?”
“I can’t speak for the council, of course, but yes, I would have thought so.”
“What happened then?”
“The developer, Mr. Henshaw, appealed to the Department of the Environment’s inspector. The case was heard at the beginning of February.”
“And the result of the appeal came through last week?”
“Yes. I received the inspector’s report on Monday.”
“And he found in Mr. Henshaw’s favour?”
The planning officer sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. The inspector does seem to be taking a less restrictive view of planning rules now. And there is a move to release less valuable agricultural land for building.”
“So what was the point of the Brinkbonnie residents holding their protest meeting on Saturday afternoon? Surely the planning procedure had been exhausted.”
“No,” the planning officer said sadly. “ Not quite. There really is very little likelihood that the inspector’s decision could be overturned at this point, but there is a faint possibility. I don’t think the council would want to take the action any further because of the cost, but if there was sufficient public pressure, I suppose they might feel they had to make the gesture. I’d advise them against it, but they don’t always take my advice.”
“And what action could the council take?”
“They could appeal to the high court.”
“And could Henshaw proceed with the building while the appeal was being heard?”
“Oh, no!” The officer seemed almost offended at the notion. “ It would mean another delay.”
“What would it take to persuade the council to appeal to the high court?” Ramsay asked.
The officer shrugged. “A widespread press campaign. A number of well-attended meetings, a petition, noise, demonstrations.” He gave a little smile. “ There are county council elections in May,” he said. “I think the councillors would be prepared to listen.”
“How long have the villagers got to persuade the council to appeal?”
“A month,” the officer said. “ They have until the end of the month.”
“I don’t understand,” Ramsay said, “why there wasn’t more fuss when the plans were originally proposed.”
“Well I believe there was some confusion in the community about the exact nature of the development. And, of course, there are people who don’t bother to read the planning notices in the local paper.”
“Is Henshaw involved in other developments in the county?”
“Oh, yes,” the officer said. “There have been half a dozen applications in the past two years.”
“Have most of them been successful?”
“Yes,” the officer said. “ I believe five out of six were allowed. The most recently completed was at Wytham.”
“Henshaw built those, did he?”
Ramsay drove through Wytham on his way from Heppleburn to Otterbridge and had seen the buildings grow. The estate was surrounded by a stone wall with pillars, which made him think of a decorative prison. Each house had a mock-Victorian conservatory. They had seemed to him ridiculously expensive, but all had been sold.
“Is that sort of success rate usual?” he asked.
The officer paused. “ There may have been a couple of surprising decisions,” he said, “but Henshaw is very clever, you know. His developments are relatively small and not designed to upset existing communities, so it’s hard for objectors to get the level of support they need.”
“You never suspected corruption?” Ramsay asked. “ Henshaw doesn’t have any special friends on the planning committee?”
“Oh, no,” the officer said. “ There’s never been any question of that sort of dishonesty.”
But Ramsay would have believed anything of Henshaw, and the planning officer was a loyal civil servant. He would hardly pass on rumours of fraud. Ramsay needed other, less partial information.
The council offices were stuffy, overheated, with waves of warm air from the open doors into the corridor where Ramsay was walking, and he reached the street with relief. Outside it was still cold and grey. There had been an inch of snow overnight and in the market square people stood in groups and talked about the weather. He collected his car from the police station, then was stuck for twenty minutes in crawling traffic.
When at last he was out of the town, he drove first not to Brinkbonnie but to Heppleburn. When he had worked on an enquiry in Heppleburn he had met Jack Robson, a county councillor, and it occurred to him now that Jack might be willing to help with information about Henshaw. Jack would have no affection for land speculators and Ramsay was convinced of his integrity.
Robson lived in a small estate in 1930s council houses. The move to smokeless fuel had not yet reached the village and clouds of smoke hung over the chimneys. There were neat paths through the snow cleared from the pavements to the front doors. Two elderly women in long coats and furry ankle boots gossiped on the corner. As he drove past they looked at him, wondering who he was. Whenever he came to this estate Ramsay had the impression of going back in time. It was preserved in an atmosphere of fifties’ boredom and decency.
Through the living-room window of Robson’s house Ramsay saw the old man sitting by the fire. He was eating an early lunch. His feet were straight ahead of him on the hearth; there was a book on his knee and a plate of bread and cheese on the arm of the chair.
When Robson opened the door to the policeman, he was brushing crumbs of bread from the front of his jersey.
“Inspector Ramsay!” he said. He seemed more pleased to see the policeman than he ever had in the earlier investigation. “Why, man, it’s good to see you. Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on. Or perhaps you’d rather have a beer.”
Ramsay was touched by the welcome. It was not that Robson was lonely and needed visitors whoever they were. He was a busy man.
“Sit here,” he said. “ By the fire.”
Ramsay allowed himself to be brought tea. He refused the of
fer of food.
“Now,” Robson said. “ What can I do for you? You’re not just here to say hello. Do you need any help with moving into the cottage?”
“No,” Ramsay said. “It’s not that. I’m here for information. Does the name Colin Henshaw mean anything to you?”
Robson looked at him carefully. “Aye,” he said. “ You know he owns that land behind you?”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “ So I understand. But it’s not about that. Not directly. He lives in Brinkbonnie.”
“That’s where Alice Parry lived,” Robson said. “You’re working on that case?”
Ramsay nodded.
“I knew her,” Robson said. “Through the council, you know. She was a great one for charity projects. I liked her.”
“She sold some land to Henshaw,” Ramsay said, “on the understanding that it would be used for cheap starter homes for local people. When the plans were drawn up, she discovered that he meant to build bigger, more expensive houses there.”
“That sounds the sort of trick Henshaw would play,” Robson said.
“Alice Parry was leading the campaign against the development,” Ramsay said. “There was a protest meeting in the village on Saturday afternoon and on Saturday night she was killed.”
“Henshaw’s a powerful man,” Robson said doubtfully. “He can get his own way without violence. At least he can these days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Robson said. “ You’ll have checked his record. I don’t know whether he was ever convicted, but when he first started out he had a bit of a reputation as a hard man.”
“No,” Ramsay said. “He was never convicted.”
“He must have been a clever bugger even then,” Robson said.
“As he’s not got a record,” Ramsay said, “ you’ll have to tell me what he got up to.”
“He always liked a fight,” Robson said. “So I understand. I never knew him then. He was still operating out of Newcastle. The story goes that he hired himself out to local businessmen who wanted to collect debts without the trouble of going through the courts. He was a big man. If he turned up on your doorstep, you’d soon pay up.”
“How did he start up in legitimate business?”
“He bought in to an existing building firm,” Robson said. “ George Saunders and he were partners for a while, but Henshaw was soon running the business single-handed. Saunders was too much of a gentleman to survive against him.”
“You say Henshaw’s a powerful man,” Ramsay said. “Has he any influence over the planning committee? I understand he has an unusual success rate with his applications.”
Robson did not answer immediately. He chose his words carefully. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wouldn’t have said so. I wouldn’t put it past most of them, and it is surprising how he’s managed to push his plans through the system, but in most of the cases the plans were rejected by the council and only approved on appeal by the inspector.”
“I suppose,” Ramsay said, “that the Department of the Environment inspector is incorruptible.”
“I don’t know about that,” Robson said, “but I wouldn’t have thought Henshaw would have had any influence there.”
There was a silence.
“So how does he do it?” Ramsay asked, frustrated. “ Is he just lucky?”
“Henshaw’s always made his own luck,” Robson said.
“I doubt whether he’s changed now. Do you want me to find out for you? I’ll talk to a few people. See what I can come up with. I’ll get in touch.”
Again Ramsay was touched by Robson’s eagerness to help.
“Yes,” he said. “ Do that.”
But he left with no hope that the conversation with Robson had achieved anything.
Chapter Nine
In Brinkbonnie Ramsay drove past the police house, with the communications van parked outside, stopped on the green, and then walked to the post office. Outside of Tom Kerr’s garage there were half a dozen old and rather scruffy cars with hand-painted signs advertising them for sale, but the workshop was empty. From the street Ramsay could hear the waves on the beach beyond the row of cottages. It was almost high tide. He pushed at the post office door before he saw the sign in the window saying it was closed for lunch. He stood on the pavement for a moment rattling at the door, but no-one came to open it.
Fred Elliot’s living accommodation was behind the post office and above it. Ramsay walked through an arch in the terrace of houses into a flagged yard with the sand hills beyond. There was a door from the yard into the house and Ramsay knocked there. It was opened almost immediately by a tense, upright man in his early sixties. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and his hands were wet and soapy.
“Yes?” he said. “The post office is closed. We don’t open at dinnertime. Not until the summer.”
“I’m a policeman,” Ramsay said. “I’ve come about Alice Parry.”
“But someone was here last night,” Elliot said quickly. “I talked to him.”
“I know,” Ramsay said, “ but perhaps I could come in.”
Reluctantly Elliot stood aside and watched anxiously while he stamped snow and sand off his shoes. The door led straight into a kitchen, and the floor was spotlessly clean. There were painted wooden cupboards on the walls and a square table, covered in oilcloth, against one wall. A clotheshorse, held together at the corners with binder twine, was propped in front of a solid-fuel boiler and a pair of navy working overalls steamed. The small window was covered in condensation, so it was impossible to see out.
“I was washing up,” Elliot said, as if there was something to be ashamed of in the activity. “Since my wife died … you know.” He nodded to the chairs pushed under the leaf of the table. “ Sit down,” he told Ramsay. He was still holding the towel and scrubbed at his hands, although by now they were quite dry. From the other room came the sound of a television signature tune.
“Are you on your own?” Ramsay asked.
Elliot hesitated, though the noise of the television in the next room made it obvious that someone else was in the house. “ No,” he said. “ It’s my son, Charlie. He works next door at the garage and comes in for his dinner.”
“Perhaps I could speak to him, too,” Ramsay said.
Elliot looked unhappy. “I don’t know that he’ll want to speak to you,” he said. “He was in late and he’s just started his dinner.”
Ramsay looked at his watch. “That’s all right,” he said easily. “There’s no hurry. I can wait. I’ll have a few words with you first.”
There was a silence.
“You musn’t mind Charlie,” Elliot said. “ He had a bad time in the army. He doesn’t like the police.”
Ramsay said nothing. Elliot stood by the boiler, arms by his side, a veteran at a British Legion parade showing his grief by respect.
“I’ll miss Alice Parry,” he said. “She was a good woman.”
“Was she a friend?” Ramsay asked.
Elliot seemed surprised by the question. “Aye,” he said at last. “I suppose she was. We were different, of course. Her folks had a big estate up on the border and she went away to some smart school in the south, but I think she would have thought me her friend. I hope she would.”
There was another pause, then he continued: “She was very kind to me when my wife died. Charlie wasn’t here then and I was on my own. Mrs. Parry saw to everything. I couldn’t have managed without her. That’s why the business with Henshaw was so upsetting.”
“Did you believe her,” Ramsay asked, “when she said she’d sold the land to be used for a small development of starter homes?”
“Of course,” Elliot said angrily. “ Everyone who knew Mrs. Parry believed her. She was an honest woman.”
“What about your son?” Ramsay asked quietly. “ Did he believe her, too?”
Elliot stared at him. “ Why do you want to know?” he demanded. “What have people been telling you?”
Ramsay shrug
ged. “ That he was angry about the housing development,” he said, “and that he blamed Alice Parry for it.”
Elliot looked tired and confused. “ He hasn’t settled since he left the army,” he muttered. “ I was proud when he joined up, and perhaps it was a mistake. It changed him. Then when he came home there was trouble with a woman.”
“I know,” Ramsay said. “ I’ve spoken to Maggie Kerr.”
Elliot looked up. “Have you?” he said. “ I try to tell myself it wasn’t her fault, but I can’t help thinking she led him on. He came home thinking she would marry him, then she wouldn’t have him. It’s made him a bitter man. It affects everything he does. If he hadn’t blamed Mrs. Parry for upsetting him, it would have been someone else. He’s a good mechanic, but he doesn’t get on with his boss. Tom Kerr’s choirmaster up at the church and he’s well respected, but there’s something hard about him. He’s not as flexible as he might be! Charlie needs careful handling at the moment. He was well trained in the army and thinks he knows best.”
“I’m surprised Mr. Kerr took him on,” Ramsay said, “ in the circumstances.”
“Perhaps he thought he had a responsibility,” Elliot said sharply. “Charlie packed up the army because of that girl.”
“All the same …” Ramsay said.
“I told you,” Fred Elliot said. “Tom Kerr’s a good church man. He will have seen it as his duty. But he’ll never let Charlie forget that he’s done him a favor by taking him on.”
“Is Charlie happy living here?” Ramsay asked.
“He’s happy with nothing at the moment. He thinks he deserves better than living with me. He’d like his own house. I don’t recognise him anymore. He’s not the boy who went away.”
The words poured out in an incoherent stream, released by shock and sadness. He looked towards the door that led into the rest of the house and Ramsay realised he was frightened of his son.
“What’s he like in the house?” Ramsay asked. He spoke gently, but he had the man’s attention. His eyes moved away from the door.
“He’s angry,” Elliot said. “All the time.”
