by Ann Cleeves
He paused, then continued as if the idea had just come to him. ‘Or perhaps she did ask you to leave, but not then. She waited until she was sure you were settled at the Coastguard House, and you had somewhere suitable to go. She would take her responsibility for you very seriously. I have the impression of a very principled woman. Is that why she didn’t throw you out immediately? I wonder if that’s what provoked her death. She couldn’t go along with the pretence any longer. She wanted you out.’
‘Kath never asked me to leave,’ Claire said grandly. ‘She knew that if I went, Bernard would come too.’
‘I wonder if you really believe that.’ Ramsay was apologetic. ‘It seems to me that Bernard is a man who likes his comfort. His routine. Kath might not have been a brilliant homemaker but she shopped and cooked and washed for him. She let him play with his magic tricks and his ventriloquist’s doll. She really didn’t make any demands. If he’d left the family he would still have been financially responsible for Marilyn and for Kath. There’d be your wages of course, but there wouldn’t have been much money for a decent home of your own. I’m not sure if Bernard would have enjoyed slumming it in a flat or a bedsit. Even with you. It’s not what he’s used to and he’s not a man, I’d say, who likes change.’
Claire said nothing and Ramsay went on. ‘ But let’s assume that you’re right. Let’s assume that Kath wouldn’t have thrown you out because she couldn’t risk his leaving too. That would make sense. Above all she wanted to make a stable home for Marilyn. Bernard would be a part of that. That alone would explain why she was prepared to tolerate the position …’
‘Quite,’ Claire said.
‘But I can envisage certain circumstances which she would never be prepared to tolerate.’
He looked at her as if expecting a response.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t think, for example, she would put up with your living here if you were pregnant. You’re not pregnant, are you?’
‘No!’
‘Because if you were, Kath would find it impossible to pretend to herself that Bernard was just being kind to you, as substitute father. She would have to admit that the relationship was – how did you put it – a love between adults. And a new baby would be competition for Marilyn. It really wouldn’t work, would it?’
‘I’m not pregnant!’ The words came out as a scream.
‘No,’ Ramsay said. He was quiet and sympathetic. More like a doctor than a policeman, thought Sally, who was watching spellbound, all thought of the earlier criticism of her boss forgotten. ‘No, you’re not pregnant. But you’d like to be, Claire, wouldn’t you?’
Sally thought the girl was going to scream at him again, but she nodded silently. Sally wanted to go up to her and put her arm around her and tell her not to let Bernard bug her, because all men were bastards. Except Ramsay, who was a bloody genius. But Ramsay was going on, ignoring Claire’s obvious distress.
‘I’ve seen you with the Coulthard children,’ he said. ‘ But I suppose it’s not the same if they’re not your own.’
‘Bernard always said he didn’t want any more children.’ She gave a little smile. ‘He said it was the mess and the clutter he hated. Nappies in buckets. Spilled food all over the floor. But that was because Kath wasn’t very good at it. It doesn’t have to be like that.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘And that was probably an excuse. He knew Kath wouldn’t like it. He was afraid of her.’
‘Did you think you’d talk him into it? There’s plenty of time, after all. You’re very young.’
‘I wasn’t sure.’ She looked up bleakly. ‘He can be stubborn when he wants to be. And he’s not so young.’
‘But you thought that with Kath out of the way there’d be more chance he’d change his mind?’
She nodded enthusiastically and they realized again that she was hardly more than a child herself. ‘I thought he’d see how well I’m running the house. How cosy and cheerful everything is. And he’d see that if I can manage to hold everything together when I’m working, a baby wouldn’t need to get in the way.’
‘He didn’t see it like that though, did he, Claire? Bernard wants you all to himself. He doesn’t understand how important it is to you to have children. How can he?’
‘I tried to make him understand!’ she cried. ‘I arranged for us to be on our own this evening so we could discuss it, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘What a terrible waste!’ Ramsay said. ‘After you’d made the plans. Bernard will never know what you went through, what courage it must have taken. You knew Kath didn’t go to Otterbridge. You said you needed to talk to her about Bernard and arranged to meet her at the jetty at lunchtime. No one could see you in all the sleet and the rain but still it must have taken some nerve. To stab her, push her into the water. Throw the knife after her then walk back to the house as if nothing had happened. Poor Claire. You killed your sister and it was all for nothing.’
But while he was speaking he knew it couldn’t have happened that way. Because at lunchtime the tide was out and he couldn’t believe a body could lie, unnoticed, on the shore all afternoon.
She looked at him, open-mouthed.
‘Or did it happen later?’ he asked. ‘ You slipped out of the Coastguard House while the party was in full swing and killed her then.’
‘No,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I didn’t kill Kath. How could you think that? I lost my father and my mother. She was the only relation I had left.’
He regarded her gently, with pity.
‘Then it was Bernard,’ he said. ‘Bernard killed her. For you. And that’s why you didn’t tell us about your affair.’
‘No,’ she said again, more firmly. She had quite regained her composure. ‘Neither of us killed her. And there’s no way that you’ll be able to prove that we did.’
Without asking his permission she stood up and walked out. The exam was over.
Ramsay had come in his own car, which he had parked in the alley at the back of the houses to avoid the impression of a police raid. Bernard showed him out through the kitchen door into the yard. The others had left already. Ramsay switched on his torch to light his way through the debris. There was an old tin bath with a pile of clothes pegs lying in the bottom, a wheelie bin and a ceramic tub which looked as if it had been newly planted with seedlings. Perhaps Claire was trying to extend her civilizing influence to the yard as well as the house.
As the torch beam flashed past the shed which had once been the outside lavatory, he saw that the door was closed with a heavy padlock. What did Bernard own that was of sufficient value to be locked away? His bike, but that was still propped against the wall in the corridor inside. He thought again that he had grounds for a thorough search of the house and the yard, but imagined the effect on the family of a team ripping the place apart and put off the decision again.
A splintered wooden gate led from the yard to the alley beyond. Ramsay stood there for a moment and looked through the uncurtained window into the house. Bernard and Claire stood in the kitchen facing each other. She put her hands on his shoulders. He pulled her awkwardly towards him so her head rested on the pink and lilac sweater. He stroked her hair.
Ramsay was moved by this sentimental gesture, then thought his sergeant would think him a sentimental fool. Although Bernard Howe’s domestic situation obviously fascinated Hunter, he would sneer at it. How could anyone take that relationship seriously? Ramsay imagined that the information was already being passed on to the other members of the team. ‘He had a bloody harem I tell you, the paunchy fat bastard. Two women and one of them young enough to be his daughter.’ He’d try to keep the envy from his voice but he’d probably not manage it.
He felt a voyeur, that by standing there, looking in, he was sharing Hunter’s salacious interest in the family. He unhooked the latch and moved into the alley. From his car he could see up the Headland to the Coastguard House, lit by a security light, gleaming white through the greyness and the drizzle. A beacon,
he thought. Metaphorically at least. What most of the families in Cotter’s Row aspired to. A BMW in the garage. A machine to wash dishes. A nanny to mind the children. Comfort and security. Wasn’t that why so many people played the lottery every week?
He had climbed into the car and begun the slow drive down the narrow alley when it came to him that the situations between the Coulthards at the top of the hill and the Howes at the bottom might be very similar. Bernard had managed his compliant ménage à trois without disturbance or conscience. Why should Emma Coulthard not be doing the same thing? He had assumed that if she were sleeping with Mark Taverner she would want to keep the fact secret from her husband. But the two men were friends. Friends who shared everything. Perhaps they were sharing Emma too.
Chapter Thirty
It was Friday night. At the club Les had hired a stripper and for once the place was full. There were cars parked all along the jetty. When Emma left the house to fetch a bucket of logs she could hear the music, a thumping insistent bass.
Kim Houghton could hear the music even inside the house. It taunted her. A night at the club wasn’t her idea of a thrilling evening, but it was better than staying in on her own. She’d asked Claire if she’d like to babysit but Claire had refused. Which was pretty snotty of her, considering the fiasco which had happened during the week. Kim had almost said to her, ‘Hey lady, I think you owe me an evening. At the very least. How do you think I felt being dragged out of the club by two police officers? In front of all those people?’
But Kim hadn’t said that. You could never tell how Claire would react and if she’d decided to take offence, Kim could have lost a regular sitter. And a cheap one.
She was tempted to wait until Kirsty was asleep and go out anyway. Kirsty hardly ever woke up once you put her to bed and even if she did she was a sensible kid. She wouldn’t do anything silly or make a fuss. The club was only just down the road, so she could pop back every hour or two to check everything was OK. Once she got there she was bound to meet someone she knew. Some bloke who’d buy her a few drinks for the pleasure of her company.
Then she thought she’d better not risk it in case the cops were still lurking on the Headland.
There wasn’t any police presence on the Headland that night. Ramsay had sent the team home.
‘We could all do with some time away from the case,’ he’d said. ‘Put it in perspective. Come back with some fresh ideas.’
Hunter thought it wasn’t perspective they needed but proof. Evidence. He was quite clear in his own mind that Bernie Howe and Claire Irvine had worked together to kill Kath Howe, had plotted it in advance. He understood Ramsay’s caution. Blow your nose at the wrong time and the CPS would refuse to take a case, but that didn’t mean the pair weren’t guilty.
He left his car at home and walked to his local. His mam was still out with the girls from her work. Fridays they stopped for a pizza and a few glasses of Spanish wine on their way home. She’d be back later to cook his supper.
The lads were in the back bar where they always sat. When he’d joined the police he’d lost most of his mates from school and the regulars at the Hastings Arms were the nearest he had now. They were watching Sky Sport on a giant television – Newcastle United had a vital Cup match on the following day and the talk was all about that. Hunter wasn’t sorry they didn’t ask about the case. There wasn’t much to boast about, after all. There were six of them crowded round a small table and they each bought a round of drinks.
He left the pub well before closing time and walked home, staggering a bit on the step up to the front door. His mother had his meal ready for him and he ate it from a tray in front of the television. There was no pudding, though. He thought she could have run to a pudding, especially as he hadn’t been home for his tea for weeks.
She had taken the tray away and he was lying back in the chair, watching the television through half-closed eyes when his mobile phone rang.
‘Yes?’ Automatically, still looking at the scantily dressed women who hosted the new Channel 4 chat show.
‘It’s Steve. From the Manhattan Skyline.’ He heard music, shouting, laughter and he had to strain to catch the words.
‘Yes?’
‘That man you were after. Paul. He’s in again.’
Before Hunter could answer the phone went dead. He didn’t stop to think. Certainly not that he was probably way over the limit and shouldn’t be driving. He grabbed his jacket and shouted through to his mother in the kitchen, ‘I’m off out, Mam. Work.’
She came into the hall, drying her hands on a tea towel he’d brought her back from Limassol.
‘All right, pet.’
‘I’ll be late back so don’t wait up.’
‘I won’t, then. Mind you take care now.’ But she said it easily. She knew Gordon had always been able to look after himself.
He arrived at Whitley Bay without realizing quite how he’d got there, only knowing from the time on his watch that he’d driven too fast.
The seafront was full of people and noise. A line of teenage girls staggered in a conga across the road in front of his car, cocking their legs like a row of incontinent puppies, moving to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. A plump boy was throwing up in the gutter.
Outside a hotel, which had once been a respectable place for families to stay, a fight was going on. A cheering crowd had gathered, blocking the way of a bouncer who had ripped off his bow tie, wanting some of the action too. People streamed across the road in front of Hunter’s car to get a better view of the fight. He leant on his horn but they took no notice. Eventually he turned the wheel and pulled the car on to the wide pavement of the Promenade, clipping his wing mirror on one of the ornamental wrought-iron lamp-posts.
He pushed his way into the Manhattan Skyline. Customers were waiting four deep at the bar and he almost produced a riot by elbowing through them until he was facing the man in the patterned waistcoat who’d been working the week before.
‘Is he still here, then?’
The man, concentrating on pulling a glass of beer, seemed not to hear. Hunter thumped his fist on the bar.
‘You phoned about the bloke I was looking for. You said he’d come in.’
The barman set the glass down carefully.
‘Aye. He did.’
‘Well, where is he now then?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He came in, had just one drink, then he went.’ He was still listening to the customers’ shouted orders and stood, balletically poised, reaching a glass to the optic with one hand, taking the cap off a bottle of cider with the other.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Hunter thumped the bar again, almost weeping with frustration.
‘What did you expect me to do? I could hardly lock him in the bog, could I? If you wanted me to make a citizen’s arrest you should have said on the phone. I didn’t need to ring you.’
‘Is there somewhere quieter we can talk?’
‘Are you joking? If I stop now I’ll get the sack.’
‘If you don’t stop now I’ll close this place down. Tell that to your boss.’
There was an exchange with a middle-aged man who sat on a stool at the end of the bar. Steve beckoned Hunter to follow him. They walked down a dusty corridor past the toilets and into a bare, windowless room with a formica table, a sink and a couple of kitchen chairs. On the floor there was a pile of women’s magazines – Hello! and Homes and Gardens – a kettle, some grubby mugs and a catering tin of instant coffee.
‘I’ve got five minutes,’ Steve said. ‘And that comes out of my break.’
‘Get that kettle on. You’ve got as long as it takes.’ Hunter sat on one of the chairs and put his elbows on the table. He had a headache. ‘Where did Paul go when he left here?’
‘I’ve not got a clue. I’m not a mind-reader.’
‘Well, tell me exactly what happened.’
The kettle boiled. Steve made the coffee, tipped in d
amp lumps of powdered milk. He stirred it but there were still dandruff-sized specks of white floating in the greasy liquid. Hunter drank it, not caring.
‘He came in just before I rang you. I didn’t recognize him at first.’
‘When would that be? Three quarters of an hour ago?’
‘Something like that. It wasn’t so busy, anyway. Before the big rush.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘Aye. But he didn’t want to be. He was looking for Kim Houghton. That’s when I realized it was him. He asked if she’d been in.’
‘Had she?’
‘No. I’ve not seen her for a while now. I told him that.’
‘Why did he come here looking for her?’ Hunter was speaking almost to himself. ‘He knows where she lives. Why didn’t he go to her home? Unless he thought we’d be on the Headland, looking out for him.’
‘You’re the detective. But I don’t think he was capable of what you’d call rational thought.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d say he’d had a few. Only one pint in here, but if you ask me he’d been drinking before he arrived. He wasn’t roaring drunk. But a bit on the emotional side. It takes some people that way.’
‘Why? What did he say?’
‘“You don’t understand. You don’t know what it feels like to be lonely.”’ Steve put on a fair imitation of a maudlin drunk. ‘Something like that. He got even more sorry for himself when I told him Kim wasn’t about.’
‘But he didn’t tell you where he was going next?’
The barman shook his head. ‘If he’d been an ordinary customer I’d have been glad to get shot of him. I thought he’d start crying in his beer. I can’t stand the ones who turn suicidal.’
‘Nor me.’
They shared a moment’s silence in contemplation of people who wasted the effect of good beer. Steve seemed to have forgotten his boss’s instructions to be back in five minutes. He lifted his empty mug to offer Hunter another coffee but Hunter was overtaken again by a sense of urgency and shook his head.
