by Ann Cleeves
Only then did Kim, laughing so much that she was red in the face and tears were running down her cheeks, come forward to put him out of his misery.
‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ the playleader said. ‘ We’re nearly finished.’
So then he had to stand inside the hall until the games were over. The children pointed and sniggered at him, encouraged in their taunts by Kim Houghton who called out to him, ‘We’re doing. “The Farmer’s in his Den” now, Sergeant. Do you fancy being the farmer? Or would you rather be the bone?’
She showed no inclination to drop out of her place in the circle to talk to him.
At last the games were over and the parents were let in to collect their children. Emma Coulthard must have recognized him but she gave no sign. Kim called over to her. ‘I don’t need a lift home thanks, Mrs Coulthard. I’ve made other arrangements.’ Then she gave him a wink so obvious that he knew she’d only done it to embarrass him.
‘I’ve a few more questions,’ he said, once the hall was quiet.
‘There,’ she said, ‘and I thought you’d come to ask me out for lunch.’
‘We could talk over lunch if you want to.’ If Ramsay interviewed witnesses on expenses, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t, too.
‘Na!’ she said. ‘Look at me. I’m hardly dressed for it. Anyway, I’ve got Kirsty.’
‘Oh.’ He felt put out. It wasn’t often he was turned down.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy fish and chips?’ she said. ‘A walk on the beach?’
‘Why not?’ Though he’d never been one much for the great outdoors, and the little house in Cotter’s Row would have been much more cosy. He hoped that salt water wouldn’t ruin his shoes.
They bought fish and chips in Heppleburn and ate them walking along the long sweep of sand which ran north from the Headland. Kirsty ran ahead, jumping from sand hills, poking with a stick among the debris washed up by the tide. She didn’t seem to be a child who needed much attention.
Kim ate hungrily. When she finished, she licked the grease from her fingers and sent Kirsty off with the paper to find a bin.
‘More questions, you said.’
‘Aye.’
‘You’ve still not found the bloke who was with me that night?’
‘He’s not come forward.’
‘Well, I’ve told you all I can remember. There’s nothing more I can do.’ She spoke crossly as if she expected contradiction and walked ahead of him.
The beach was almost empty. In the distance an old man was throwing a piece of driftwood for his dog. It was very still, very clear and the power station at the north of the bay seemed close enough to touch. Hunter felt exposed and silly. Apart from his holidays in the sun he hadn’t been near a beach since he was a kid. He hurried after her.
‘I need to ask about other friends, other blokes you’ve taken back to the house.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you’re not telling me he was the first.’
She stopped suddenly. Hunter stopped too and felt the soft sand squelch under his expensive leather soles. She was furious.
‘What are you calling me, then? You’re as bad as the old grannies in the Row.’
‘No,’ he said, panicking slightly. ‘No You don’t understand! What I’m saying is you’re an attractive woman. I can’t believe the chap in the red car was the first…’ He paused, tried to find the right word, ‘… admirer you’ve had since you were divorced.’
She was slightly mollified.
‘No, well. People jump to conclusions. Just because I’m friendly, like.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
It occurred to him that he’d learnt a few things through working with Stephen Ramsay, though he’d never let on. Finesse. That was the word. In the past he’d have gone at this witness like a bull at a gate, and got nowhere. Now he’d have her eating out of his hand.
They walked for a few minutes in a companionable silence.
‘The thing is,’ he said at last, ‘you’re the only one on the Headland who seems to have anything like a social life. Except the Coulthards, of course, and we’re speaking to them too. Whoever killed Mrs Howe knew the place. They knew where it was safe to dump the body, for example. You do see that we have to ask about any visitors you might have had. It’s nothing personal.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘ I can see that.’
‘So if you could give us a list of any people who came to your house. Men or women. Say in the month before Mrs Howe was murdered.’
She looked worried again.
‘You wouldn’t hassle them, would you? Call at their homes?’
The old Hunter would have asked if she was worried that would be bad for business, but tactfully he kept quiet.
‘They’re friends, you know,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want them to get into any bother.’
‘We’ll be discreet. I guarantee it. I’ll see to it myself.’
‘Oh aye,’ she said, laughing. ‘ Discretion’s your middle name. I can tell that. Coming to the playgroup and scaring us all out of our wits.’
All the same she sat with him in the shelter of a sand dune while he took out his notebook and she reeled off about a dozen names. She had details of some. She could give their occupations, their addresses. She even knew the names of their children. She didn’t seem to resent their other, respectable lives. For others, like the man in the Mazda, she just had first names and brief descriptions.
Mark Taverner’s name was not on the list.
‘And this is all?’ Hunter asked. She had trotted out the names so glibly that he did not believe it was exhaustive.
‘Yes!’ She was close to being offended again.
‘You don’t know a chap called Mark? Mark Taverner.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s a teacher at the high school.’
‘Well there you are, then. I never go out with teachers. I can’t stand bossy men.’
‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ he asked casually. If he was likely to bump into her in Whitley he wanted some warning, though if she were there, perhaps she’d be able to point out this Paul to him.
‘Na,’ she said. ‘A quiet night in.’
She stood up and called in Kirsty. Hunter took them home, dropping them at the level crossing so the old ladies in Cotter’s Row would have nothing to talk about. For the rest of the day he found dribbles of sand in his clothing: in his trouser turn-ups, in his jacket pockets. Even in the seams of his underpants when he went for a piss.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It reminded Gordon Hunter of being a boy again. Friday night and out on the prowl in Whitley. In those days, though, he’d have had a couple of mates with him for moral support and to take a turn in the fight at the bar.
When it got dark the temperature plummeted. The cars parked in the streets leading away from the seafront glistened with frost and as he breathed in, the cold stung his throat and his nostrils. There was a thin, sharp moon, upended like a smile.
The streets were heaving with people dressed for the dance floor. The lasses wore skimpy little-girl frocks in pastel colours and when they were caught in car headlights you could see their lacy panties and their underwired bras. Though they shivered and hugged themselves that seemed to be more through excitement than a response to the arctic conditions. When he’d been young he’d never felt the cold either. He’d never taken a jacket to Whitley for fear it would get pinched or that he’d get so pissed he’d put it down and forget it. Or one of his mates would throw up all over it in the taxi home.
He walked along the seafront trying to get a feel for the place again. It had been a while since he’d been there and the pubs and clubs seemed to change hands almost monthly. Then their characters altered with the management. Kim Houghton had said she’d met Paul in the Manhattan Skyline. In his youth that had been a place for under-age drinkers, a bar where a thirteen-year-old girl with enough make up and bravado co
uld get a vodka and tonic if the police weren’t in and she had an older lad with her. Now it obviously catered for an older market.
It stood on a corner. Once the façade had been painted pink but the salt wind had blasted most of the colour away. A barrel-chested bouncer in a gleaming white shirt, only just held together by straining buttons stood outside the door and a sign said: OVER 21S ONLY. He didn’t have to turn anyone away. The high school kids walked straight past. They wouldn’t have been seen dead in there. When Hunter pushed through the swing door he could see why.
The music was loud but not ear-shattering and Abba’s greatest hits seemed to be on a continual loop. The Manhattan’s decor must have been devised originally to go with the name. There were high, tubular steel stools by the bar and a neon cocktail glass, tipped on one side, flashed on one wall. The effect had been spoilt by an attempt to turn the rest of the room into a Mediterranean taverna. A fishing net hung from the ceiling and there was a scattering of rustic tables and chairs. Most of the space was left clear to fit in as many drinkers as possible.
Hunter did not notice the clash in design styles. He slouched at the bar and asked for a bottle of Holsten, then swivelled to take in the other customers, who were lit intermittently by the flashing cocktail glass and strobe lights over the dance floor.
There were a few couples in early middle age trying to recapture their youth and some single men intent on serious drinking standing beside him at the bar. None of them fitted the description of the Mazda driver. The rest of the customers were women. One large party had pulled most of the chairs into a tight circle. An elderly woman seemed to be in charge of bags and coats. The others – aged from sixteen to sixty – got up from time to time to dance. For some this seemed a new experience. They were already very drunk. A works do, Hunter decided. They’d been at the Lambrusco surreptitiously all afternoon, into the bogs to change, then out on the town. Noticing that a tall, dark woman was the butt of all the jokes, he thought it was probably a hen party. When she was too paralytic to stand they’d wrap her in toilet paper and push her up the street in a pram.
He didn’t see the hen party as regulars. When Abba reached the end of ‘Super Trooper’ again, and the dancers collapsed giggling, he wandered across the dance floor and pulled up a chair on the outside of the circle. They giggled some more, but pretended not to see him.
‘Ladies,’ he said, ‘ I wonder if you can help me.’
They couldn’t help him though they would have liked to. They worked in Otterbridge Town Hall collecting the council tax. They’d hired a mini bus to bring them to Whitley so they could give Maggie a good party before she lost her freedom. It was the first time most of them had been out socially for ages apart from the pictures or the pub. They did have an office trip out just before Christmas but that was always to Newcastle, for a Chinese banquet in Stowell Street. The music started again and Maggie was pulled to her feet. Hunter returned to the bar.
There were three bar staff, all men. They wore white shirts, bow ties and matching waistcoats. They were busy. Not rushed off their feet, that would come later, but too busy to stop work while they talked.
Hunter identified himself. They weren’t impressed.
‘I’m looking for a chap who was in here Friday night, three weeks ago.’ Hunter leant across the bar and shouted so they could all hear him.
‘What’s he supposed to have done, like?’
‘Nothing. But he might be a witness to that murder on the Headland.’
That got their attention.
‘He says his name’s Paul. He could be a regular. Hanging out on his own looking for company.’
‘Aye well. There are plenty of those. But late on a Friday night I could serve my sister and not notice. They shout the order, you pull the pint, you take their money. You look at their hands not their faces.’
‘He left the place with Kim Houghton. Do you know her?’
‘Kim the blonde?’
Hunter nodded. ‘You looked at her face then?’
The barman allowed himself a smile. ‘ We all need a treat once in a while, don’t we?’
‘Are any of her friends in?’
The man scanned the faces lit by the coloured lights to show willing but he knew they wouldn’t be there.
‘Na,’ he said. ‘If they do come in it won’t be until later. They have a few drinks somewhere cheaper before they come here.’
‘Give me a shout, then, if you see them.’
He bought another bottle of lager and settled on his bar stool to survey the dance floor. Of the hen party only the bride-to-be was worth watching. She had straight black hair and white skin made smooth by make-up. When the light caught her full on the face she had the hint of a moustache but from the back you couldn’t fault her.
The two women turned up at eleven, just as Hunter had decided he’d had enough. The music had turned smoochy. Burt Bacharach instead of Abba. The hen party had moved on and the place was filling up with couples. If you pulled a woman in one of the noisier pubs you brought her here to impress her and loosen her up. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he should find a club more to his taste to continue his search, or if he should go home. He was hungry and if his mother was still up she’d fix him something – bacon and eggs, a plate of chips. He still lived in the council house where he’d been brought up. He’d never felt the need to move out. It wasn’t as if she cramped his style. If he had a lass staying Mam would just bring up two cups of tea to his room in the morning.
The women stood by the bar, sharing a joke with one of the barmen. They might have been a bit tipsy – their faces were flushed and they were enjoying themselves – but they were quite in control. Hunter watched them with appreciation. The one with the perm must be at least as old as him, but they were both fit. Weekly aerobics and an occasional workout at the gym would have seen to that. He didn’t see them as joggers. That wouldn’t be sociable enough for them. They’d want a chat and a laugh to see them through the pain barrier.
The barman saw him looking and gave him a thumb’s up sign. Hunter moved in.
‘Can I buy you a drink, girls?’
‘We’re all right thanks.’
They turned back to their conversation. Both wore wedding rings.
‘You’re friends of Kim’s, aren’t you?’
‘So?’ They were immediately suspicious.
‘I just wanted a chat.’
The woman with the perm put an elbow on the bar and leant towards him.
‘Why don’t you just piss off?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not what you think. My name’s Gordon Hunter. I’m a detective with Northumbria Police.’ The music swelled: ‘Do You Know the Way to San José’. He wasn’t even sure they’d heard him. ‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a curry?’
They sat in the Taj Mahal, drinking lager. Hunter ordered a vindaloo. They picked at chicken tikka masalas. The blonde with the perm was called Shirley, the younger one was Christine. Their husbands were in business together. Fitted kitchens. That was how they’d met Ray and Kim. Ray had asked them to build a kitchen in a house he was doing up.
Shirley was apologetic. ‘Sorry about earlier. Blokes sometimes get the wrong idea, especially when they’ve seen us with Kim. She’s single, isn’t she? It’s different for her. We’re just out for a bit of fun. Friday nights we take it in turns. One week the lads go out for a few beers and a meal. The next they stay in to sit with the kids and it’s our turn.’ She smiled. ‘We’re happily married women.’
‘Not like Kim.’
‘Well, let’s put it this way. You’d never have got Kim’s Ray to stay in and mind his little girl.’
‘Were you in the Manhattan with Kim three weeks ago?’
They thought about it.
‘No,’ Christine said. ‘That would have been the boys’ night out.’
‘But if you were regulars in the Manhattan you might have met the man we’re trying to trace. His first name’s P
aul. He’s in his early thirties, dark, drives a red Mazda.’
They looked at each other. They’d taken to Hunter and they wanted to help.
‘There was that guy who was in a while ago, talking about the funeral.’ Christine looked to her friend for confirmation. ‘Wasn’t he called Paul?’
‘I believe he was. And Kim certainly took a shine to him.’
‘What funeral?’ Hunter asked.
‘I don’t know any details. He was plastered. Said he’d been to a funeral that day. Someone special.’
‘When was this?’
‘A while ago.’ She paused. ‘ It must have been September. It was the week after we’d come back from Tenerife and we got a special deal because the schools had gone back.’
‘And you say Kim was with you then?’
‘That’s right. She didn’t go off with him though. He could hardly stand. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone in the house who might be sick on the carpet.’
‘Have you met him in the Manhattan since?’
‘I have. Once. He seemed really canny. Friendly, you know, asking all about our families, how old the kids were. I had the impression he had some of his own. Kim might have been there that time too.’
‘Did he tell you his second name? Give any clue about where he lives or works?’
The women shook their heads. They said he hadn’t talked much about himself, hadn’t had the chance probably with the three of them carrying on. No one could get a word in when they got together.
Chapter Twenty-Three
While Hunter was preparing for a night in Whitley, Claire Irvine was in Cotter’s Row, wondering about driving lessons. It was too late for Bernard to take the plunge. She could see that. He’d never get to grips with driving a car. But someone in the family should be mobile, and she didn’t mind having a go. She certainly didn’t plan to work for the Coulthards for ever and even if she wanted to, that wouldn’t be possible. Soon Owen would start school and Emma might think she could manage the two youngest by herself. Then Claire would be looking for work. Most women wanted a woman who could drive – some even provided a car for running the kiddies around. And if ever she had a child herself it would be nice to be independent.
