by Ann Cleeves
He hadn’t intended to. ‘Of course.’
She poured him some wine, fetched a bowl of leftover salad and a lump of Stilton from the fridge.
‘You went to Sheena Taverner’s funeral, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘So that’s why you’re here!’ It was said with resignation, even humour, not resentment. She was determined not to make demands on him. It helped that she was an actress.
‘No.’ But his acting skills were non-existent.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Did you recognize most of the mourners?’
‘Hardly any of them. The ones I’d come across through Northern Arts. Other writers who’d done stuff for me in Hallowgate. That was all. I suppose the rest were relatives, friends of Mark’s from the high school.’
‘Anyone called Paul?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that I remember.’
He drank the wine, spread butter thickly on French bread, cut a lump of cheese.
‘Were there any rumours about Sheena?’
‘What sort of rumours?’
‘About a lover.’
She smiled. ‘Never.’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Well, Sheena. If you’d met her you’d understand. Nothing mattered to her but her writing. There wouldn’t have been time for another man.’
She poured more wine into her own glass.
‘And Mark?’ Ramsay asked. ‘What about him?’
‘Oh, I could understand if he’d had an affair,’ Prue said. ‘I’m not saying that he did have, but I wouldn’t have blamed him.’
‘You told me once that he doted on her.’
‘He did, but he didn’t get much from the marriage. He was an admirer. That was his only role. There wasn’t any warmth there. If another woman showed him affection I can imagine him falling for it. Head over heels. He’d be desperately guilt-ridden, of course. But it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mrs Patricia Howe lived in a gloomy 1930s villa in a street close to the massive office where Bernard worked. The houses were generally small, squashed-together semis. There were shared drives and makeshift garages in back gardens. It was a street of elderly people and first-time buyers.
Mrs Howe’s was the only detached house. It was double-fronted, set back from the road. It had its own garage, rather grand, with a crenellated wall above green wooden doors. The garden had been tidied at some time in the autumn but had received little care since. The paint on the bay window frames had peeled away to the bare wood.
The door was opened by a short muscular woman in a green overall. Her hair was tightly permed, chestnut, a colour which had come, unevenly, from a bottle.
‘Mrs Howe?’ She was just old enough to be Bernard’s mother, though she was not at all what he had been expecting. He could see behind her into a hall lined with dark, stained-wood panels. There was a musty smell of unaired rooms.
‘Is she expecting you?’ The woman seemed surprised.
‘No.’
‘She doesn’t talk to salesmen.’
‘I’m not a salesman.’ He was about to explain who he was, when she added, ‘Or politicians.’
There was a pile of canvassing material on the hall table for a by-election. Prue would be amused that he had been mistaken for a candidate.
‘I’m a police officer. A detective.’
‘Oh.’ She opened the door a little wider. ‘ I suppose you’ve got proof.’
‘Of course.’
He held out his warrant card. She took it and studied it carefully.
‘You didn’t mind,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to be careful these days.’
‘Very sensible.’ He could see that she was a very sensible woman. ‘And you are?’
‘Olive. Olive Thomson. Mrs Howe’s home help.’
‘I need to talk to her, ask her a few questions. Will that be possible?’
‘She’s not gaga if that’s what you mean. Not lost the use of her limbs either. I’m not from Social Services. She pays me to do her housework, has done for years. She thinks it’s beneath her dignity to clean the lav.’
‘So I could rely on what she told me?’
‘Oh aye. She’s not one of my easiest ladies but she’s got all her marbles.’ She looked into a gilt-framed mirror on the wall, fluffed her hair, turned back to him. ‘ That’s probably why she stirs up trouble. Just for the excitement. I don’t rise to the bait. I know her too well. If she tries to offend you take no notice.’
‘Right,’ Ramsay said. ‘ I’ll remember that.’
Olive reached behind her back to untie her apron. ‘I was on my way out but I’ll show you through first. She likes things done properly. You’ll have to speak up. She’s deaf and too proud to use a hearing aid.’
Patricia Howe was sitting in a high-backed chair by a French window. She was reading a large-print library book. In the armchair beside her was sprawled an enormous, long-haired tabby cat. It was clear that she had not heard his knock on the door or the conversation with the home help and he stood for a moment watching her read. She was a large woman, with a fleshy chin and wispy white hair pinned back from her face with a tortoiseshell comb. The resemblance to Bernard was obvious. She was heavily made-up and a fine dusting of face powder had fallen on to her grey blouse.
‘Mrs Howe, pet, there’s someone to see you.’
She turned, saw him then for the first time, then demanded sharply, ‘Who is this?’ Her voice was hoarse and rasping.
‘It’s a detective,’ Olive said. ‘Mr Ramsay. I’ve checked his card.’
‘What do you want?’
Without taking her eyes off Ramsay’s face the old woman flapped her hand at Olive to send her away. Olive went.
‘I said, what do you want?’
‘A few questions. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘It’s about Kathleen, I suppose. I’m surprised you’ve not been before.’
‘Why’s that, Mrs Howe?’
‘Well, I knew her, didn’t I? As well as anyone. She lived in my house for long enough.’ There was a careful emphasis on the word ‘my’. ‘ Oh yes, I knew her.’
‘You didn’t like her?’
‘I didn’t kill her if that’s what you mean.’
It was supposed to be a joke. She stretched thin lips around uneven, discoloured teeth and cackled. The cackle turned into a violent, racking cough.
‘But you didn’t like her?’
‘No.’ The lips clamped shut.
‘Why not?’ He tried to speak gently but she did not hear.
‘What’s that?’
‘Why didn’t you like her?’
‘She didn’t look after him properly. Men need looking after.’
‘Did he look after her?’ He regretted the question as soon as it was asked, realized that it was Prue speaking.
‘Of course he did. He brought in the money that kept her.’ For the first time she set aside her library book, let it fall with a crash on to the floor. The cat raised its head, then settled back to sleep. ‘Are you married, Mr Ramsay?’
‘Divorced.’
‘I was always telling Bernard that he should divorce Kathleen. He knew there was a place for him here if he wanted one.’
So, Ramsay thought, if he wanted rid of her he didn’t have to kill her. Not on your account. That’s what you’re trying to tell me.
‘They lived here together, you know, when they married.’
‘Bernard told me that.’
‘Did he?’ It seemed to please her. ‘ They should never have moved.’
‘I thought you didn’t get on with her.’
She shrugged her shoulders heavily, the gesture of a gracious grande dame.
‘Oh, I didn’t mind her funny ways.’
‘What funny ways?’
She sniffed. ‘She had views on everything. Opinions.’
‘Shouldn’t a woman have opinions?’
‘No.’
&nbs
p; Except you, he thought. You wouldn’t be without them.
‘Did you enjoy having a child in the house?’ he asked. He couldn’t imagine Mrs Howe as doting grandmother, with a pocketful of sweeties, offering to babysit.
‘She wasn’t any trouble,’ Mrs Howe said. ‘It’s a big house.’
‘Was Kathleen a good mother?’
‘I suppose she was. I never interfered.’
Ramsay found that hard to believe. He said nothing. Mrs Howe continued.
‘I thought Kathleen was too serious. Too pushy. She was determined to turn Marilyn into a blue stocking. She was a pretty little thing. All that white hair. She should have had more fun.’
They sat without speaking. A grandfather clock ticked in the hall. Mrs Howe’s stomach rumbled and she belched gently into her handkerchief. The room was heated by large painted radiators and an open fire and was very warm. Ramsay felt drowsy and he wondered if Mrs Howe was falling asleep. Translucent pink lids covered her eyes.
‘Bernard and I always had fun,’ she said. ‘He never met his father, you know. There was only ever Bernard and I.’
Ramsay did not ask if the man was dead or if he had deserted them and Mrs Howe didn’t elaborate. Perhaps she had never married.
‘We had such good times, the two of us. Such wonderful times. Before he married Kathleen. We went to the cinema every week, then out to supper. We made an event of it. You could then. I wore gloves and a hat. Oh yes we turned a few heads. He was a good-looking man.’ She opened her eyes and made a theatrical sweep of the arm towards an upright piano which stood against one wall. ‘He played the piano like an angel. And even then he worked magic. He performed for me. He knew how it diverted me.’ She sighed. ‘We were such very good friends.’
‘You must have been disappointed when they moved to Cotter’s Row.’
She shrugged. ‘One must learn, mustn’t one, to let go.’ But her eyes were hard and bitter.
‘It must be a comfort that he visits so regularly.’
She brightened again. ‘Oh yes. Our Thursday evenings are very special times.’
‘What do you talk about on his visits?’
‘Everything. He has no secrets from me. His work, his plans for the future…’
Himself, Ramsay concluded silently. That’s why he comes. Not to keep you company. Certainly not to help with practical chores around the house. Not even because you cook cauliflower cheese for his supper. But for the pleasure of talking about himself.
‘Did he seem concerned or anxious in the weeks before Kathleen’s death?’
‘No. If anything he was happier. More the boy he used to be.’ She grinned horribly again. ‘I thought he’d got himself a mistress. Someone with style. I wouldn’t blame him.’
‘Did he bring Marilyn to see you?’
‘Hardly ever. Once in a blue moon. According to Kathleen I was a subversive influence.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘On my birthday. The end of January.’
‘That was a Thursday too?’
‘Of course. It’s always Thursday.’
‘There must be weeks when he can’t get to see you,’ Ramsay said. ‘When something turns up at work or at Marilyn’s school.’
‘No.’ She said firmly. ‘ He’s a good boy. He always puts his mother first. The last time he missed a Thursday night was more than a year ago and he only stopped at home then because he had flu.’
‘Are you sure of that? He never came on a different day instead?’
She turned her whole body so she was facing him.
‘What are you saying, Mr Ramsay? That I’m senile?’
And he thought that Bernard’s visits were so important to her that she would know.
She shut her eyes and waved her hand impatiently to indicate that he should go. On cue the cat raised itself and hissed. Her eyes remained firmly closed as he left the room.
Outside the weather had changed. A sea fret had moved in from the coast. Although it was only midday it was dark enough for the street lights to have come on. The fine drizzle looked like mist but water trickled in drops from bare branches and gutters.
As Ramsay bent to unlock his car, words of Mrs Howe’s which he had thought to be entirely malicious seeped back into his consciousness. He stood upright, transfixed. His keys clattered on the pavement.
‘Of course,’ he said out loud. ‘Of course.’
He turned back to the house and saw that Mrs Howe had raised herself. She was standing and staring out at him through the window. The cat, cradled in her arms, bared its fangs.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sally Wedderburn stood outside the impressive facade of Otterbridge High School. She’d spent all afternoon in the Shining Stars Nursery and the screaming kids had given her a headache. It had been a waste of time as she’d suspected it would be. No one had seen an overweight middle-aged man on the evening Tom Bingham was abducted. Nor a bicycle. Miss Frost’s recollection of the man waiting outside in the street was vague. Youngish, slimmish. She wasn’t even sure about hair colour. She’d only really seen a silhouette and street lamps gave such a peculiar light.
Sally was at the high school on Ramsay’s instruction. She was waiting for Marilyn. The wind carried flecks of ice and she pulled her coat around her as she paced backwards and forwards along the pavement to stop her feet from freezing. She was too nervous to stand still. After making such a hash of her interview with Emma Coulthard she was grateful that Ramsay was giving her a second chance. She was desperate not to screw up again.
An electric bell rang and children began to stream past her, pushing and jostling through the gates. She had to concentrate. It wouldn’t do to miss the girl. She had suggested seeing her during school time – that would have been easier – but Ramsay wouldn’t allow it. He said it wasn’t fair to drag her out of her class. She’d have to explain to her friends what it was about. How could they put her through that?
So Sally stood, watching the children in the identical navy uniforms until the stream turned to a trickle. Still there was no sign of Marilyn Howe. When the staff began to emerge, their arms full of books, she panicked and hurried inside.
The heat of the building dazed her. She was in a wide, wood-lined corridor. Behind a glassed-in reception desk three secretaries were discussing last night’s television programmes. A long brass plaque listed the names of old boys who had been killed in the Second World War. Rows of sporting trophies and faded photographs stood in a display case fixed to the wall. She was wondering if Ramsay’s instructions on discretion related to secretaries too when a middle-aged woman clattered down a flight of stone stairs behind her.
‘Can I help you?’ The teacher was on her way out and paused in mid-step, turning back to ask the question.
Before Sally could answer a crescendo of music came from further along the corridor.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’m waiting for a pupil who’s in the orchestra.’
‘Go through,’ the woman said. ‘Wait in comfort. You might enjoy it. They’re rather good.’
And she was gone. The heavy doors swung together behind her.
The orchestra was rehearsing in a hall which still smelled of the midday meal. There was a stage but the players were sitting in the well of the theatre on moulded-plastic chairs behind a forest of music stands. A sandy-haired flamboyant man in a pink shirt was conducting. Sally was relieved to see Marilyn sitting in the front row, with the other violins. She leant against the back wall of the hall in the shadow. Only then did she recognize Mark Taverner amongst the group. He was playing clarinet, partly hidden by a line of full-grown, acne-covered boys.
When the rehearsal finished Sally stayed where she was. The children seemed in no hurry to leave. They chatted as they put instruments into cases and then they sauntered out. No one noticed her. Marilyn lingered behind to stack the chairs and fold the stands. A couple of girls called polite goodbyes to her, but they didn’t stop to help her. Sally thought Mar
ilyn would always, stay behind to clear up. It would give her an excuse for being alone on her walk to the bus stop.
Mark Taverner and the conductor were talking. Suddenly the conductor looked up at the clock on the wall, shuffled together his music and hurried out. He shouted back to Mark.
‘Sorry to leave you to sort things out here. I’m due in Whitley Bay Playhouse in twenty minutes. Auditions for Cabaret.’
But Mark made no attempts to help Marilyn with the chairs. As soon as the conductor had disappeared he strode after him, in a hurry, without a word.
Sally emerged from the shadow and walked into the main body of the hall. Marilyn was struggling with the last music stand. Sally nodded towards the door through which Taverner had disappeared.
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘Mr Taverner? He’s a pompous git, that’s all. He thinks we should only play serious music. And that he should be conductor.’
Sally was reassured. She’d had the impression that Marilyn was pompous herself, something of a goody-goody. Now it seemed she was like any other teenager, slagging off her teachers.
Marilyn picked up her school bag. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. I could give you a lift home. Better than waiting at the bus stop on a night like this.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Shall we go for a coffee somewhere? Or do you have to get straight back?’
‘They know I had orchestra. They won’t be expecting me until six when the late bus gets in. There’s time for a coffee if you like.’
The only café still open in Otterbridge was a burger place next to the bus station. It was full of teenagers eating chips and drinking Coke, smoking cigarettes. Marilyn had taken off her school tie and blazer before going in. She’d folded them neatly and left them in the car.
‘Won’t you be cold?’ Sally was wearing two jumpers and a coat.
‘I don’t care. No one wears their blazers in town. What if someone I know comes in?’
They sat in a corner as far away from the smokers as they could get, and drank milky coffee from glass cups. Their conversation was punctuated by the rumble of buses beyond the fogged-up window, the screech of brakes.
