by Cleeves, Ann
Hannah looked apologetically at Patty. ‘ He was frightened,’ she said. ‘He didn’t mean to hit Mr Robson so hard. Then he was terrified in case he had killed him.’
‘But he didn’t stop,’ Patty said, ‘to see if my father needed help.’
‘No,’ said Hannah. ‘But he heard someone else outside and realized your father wouldn’t be left alone.’
‘Did he see who that was?’ Patty asked.
‘I think he might have done.’ Hannah thought, an intense effort to remember exactly. ‘ Yes, he must have done. He said he looked out of the window, realized your father would be in safe hands and ran away, climbing out through the kitchen again. Of course he felt dreadful about what happened and was still afraid that he might have killed Mr Robson until Sunday morning when we heard he’d just had a nasty bump on the head. That’s why he was so upset on Saturday night.’
‘Did he tell you,’ Patty asked, ‘who else he saw? Who was in the school house that night?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hannah. ‘Is it important?’
Patty did not answer directly.
‘He didn’t rig up a dummy, dressed as a witch, to frighten my father away?’
‘Of course not. There was no need. Your father was unconscious.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘What is all this about?’
‘My father was looking into Harold Medburn’s death,’ Patty said. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but Kitty Medburn was an old friend of his and he was convinced that she was innocent. He’d been asking a lot of awkward questions in the village – Paul wasn’t the only person threatened by blackmail. When he regained consciousness there was a dummy dressed as a witch hanging from the kitchen ceiling and a message telling him to mind his own business. It was an attempt, you see, to frighten him off. I think Dad was followed from the bonfire by Harold Medburn’s murderer. Don’t you see, if Paul saw whoever it was, that might explain why he had to die.’
‘Yes,’ Hannah said. ‘I see.’ She stood up. She was wearing stretch jeans and a long loose pullover. There was no trace of the smart controlled businesswoman. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘Did your father send you?’
‘No,’ Patty said. ‘The policeman, Ramsay, thought you might need a friend.’
‘Did he tell you what questions to ask?’
‘Not exactly.’ Patty was impressed by Hannah’s intelligence and thought she deserved honesty. ‘He thought you might find it easier to talk to me. He’s determined to find out who killed your husband. He’s prepared to use unorthodox means.’
‘Good!’ For the first time in the conversation Hannah seemed to find a sort of peace. ‘Well, perhaps he was right. I do find it easier to talk to you. Do you need to ask me any more questions?’
‘What happened on Sunday morning?’
‘We all had a long, late breakfast together,’ Hannah said. ‘It was lovely. Like a new beginning. All the pretence was gone. We were talking about the future. Paul said he was longing to go back to work. We decided to go into the possibility of employing a nanny. Then I went to the paper shop to see if there was any news of Mr Robson. That’s when I heard he was okay and staying with you.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual on the way out?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘The police asked me that, I think there may have been a car parked in the lane, but I can’t remember anything about it, not even the colour. I hadn’t put in my contact lenses and I wasn’t wearing specs, so I was nearly blind.’
‘When did Paul go out?’
‘At about mid-day. We’d decided to eat in the evening. He said he wanted some exercise. I could understand that. It had been a traumatic evening.’
‘You don’t think he had arranged to meet someone?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sure not.’ She drew on the cigarette. ‘He could have made a telephone call while I was at the paper shop, but he would have told me. I explained. We had decided there would be no more pretence. Besides, he was a hopeless liar. I would have known; I’m sure it was a spur of the moment decision.’
‘I see.’ Patty hesitated. She felt awkward. ‘Paul was a nurse, wasn’t he, before he stopped working?’
‘Yes,’ Hannah said. ‘ He was a psychiatric nurse. He worked in a special unit for alcoholics.’
‘Does he still have friends there?’
‘A few. Why? Is it important?’
‘Harold Medburn was doped with a drug called Heminevrin before he was murdered. I’m trying to find out who would have had access to it.’
‘But Paul couldn’t have murdered Harold Medburn!’
‘I have to ask,’ Patty said, ‘if you want to find out the truth. Are you sure you really want to know?’
‘Yes.’ Hannah looked at her intensely, her dark eyes magnified by the strong glasses. ‘You will do your best, won’t you? Whatever you find out.’
‘Of course,’ Patty said. It was a similar responsibility to her commitment to Ramsay.
She looked at her watch. It was time to fetch the children. As she left the old mill she walked past the window. Hannah was back in the rocking chair, her arms around her knees, staring out towards the road.
It seemed to Patty that Ramsay spent all his time that week in the village. Wherever she went in Heppleburn she saw his car, his distinctive back at doorsteps or disappearing round corners. Everyone was talking about him. In the playground she stood apart and listened to the mothers talking, because Ramsay had said she was good at listening. He’s bewitched me, she thought, in the same way as Kitty Medburn bewitched my father. They speculated about Ramsay’s background and marital status and through listening to them she gathered that he was trying to find out who had taken the witch’s costume from the pram on the night of the bonfire. He or his men must have spoken to everyone who was on the recreation ground that night. Rumour had it that these investigations had so far proved unsuccessful. Many people admitted to having seen the confrontation between Matthew Carpenter and the boys, but then there had been so many distractions – the excitement of the fire and the noise and colour of the fireworks – that the costume was forgotten. The pram had been pushed into the shadow and no one saw it again until the boys fetched it to take it home. They realized that the costume was missing, but thought it had been confiscated by Matthew Carpenter. Despite his persistence Ramsay seemed to have got no further.
That Tuesday afternoon the policeman was back at the school. His car was parked in the playground and Patty could see his dark head through the staff room window. She waited a long time for him to emerge. She wanted to share the information given to her by Hannah. She thought he would be pleased. But there was no sign of the inspector leaving the school. All the other parents and children disappeared, but Matthew Carpenter, Irene Hunt and Stephen Ramsay remained inside. Eventually Andrew and Jennifer became so cold and fractious that she left without talking to him. It would be impossible to have a serious discussion with the children in that mood.
On the way home she called at her father’s house. She was worried about his continued depression, but she felt too that she needed his support. She had some vague hope that he would have come to terms with Kitty’s death and she would be able to share with him Hannah’s information. The hope was not realized. When Jack Robson came to the door he was clean and tidily dressed. He was polite, thanked her for calling and said he was fine, but he did not invite them in and made it clear that he wanted them to go. Nothing she could say would console him.
Jack stood at his window and watched them go with relief. He could not bear his daughter’s pity. He walked back to the mantelshelf and took down the note which Kitty Medburn had written before hanging herself from a curtain rail in the shower room at the remand centre.
He knew the words by heart but read them again.
‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ it said. ‘I could never live up to your dreams.’
Chapter Ten
Ramsay was haunted by a growing desperation and isolation. His colleagues seemed to have dis
tanced themselves from him. He, after all, had taken the decision to arrest Kitty Medburn and there would be an inquiry into her suicide. And now, instead of covering his back, of following police procedure to the letter, he had begun to work in a way that was even more idiosyncratic and unorthodox. Those who were concerned about their own careers made their disapproval of his methods clear. It was a bad thing to be associated with failure.
In the police station at Otterbridge, in the canteen and corridors people whispered and waited for his downfall. Hunter seemed to grow in influence and stature.
Ramsay knew that others considered him a failure but was too proud, too clear-sighted about past achievements to accept their judgement. It was all added pressure though at a time in an inquiry which was always most difficult. He knew that a positive result was possible, but could not even guess who the murderer was. More than usual he felt that this case was a battle for survival. He was convinced that the answer lay in Heppleburn and was always drawn back to the school. He had become fascinated, almost obsessed, with the personality of the headmaster. There, with wilful and inconsistent autocracy, Harold Medburn had ruled. There he had been murdered. Although he had no evidence Ramsay felt that the death of Paul Wilcox was almost an irrelevance. Wilcox was a weak and ineffective man who would have no natural enemies. Unless it was the work of a lunatic, his death was an attempt by the murderer to cover his tracks. Ramsay thought that the murderer too was becoming desperate.
Medburn had been different, Ramsay thought as he parked his car in the playground, avoiding a crocodile of children returning from a nature walk. Medburn had been larger than life, a worthy victim of murder. At times, when he was almost faint with sleeplessness, he could imagine the headmaster taunting and teasing him. He knew that to be ridiculous, but the personality of the victim, his own pride and his guilt at Kitty’s suicide made this case special. He was determined to get a result.
Ramsay knew that his visits to the school had begun to irritate the staff, and as he approached the building he thought he could already sense their hostility. Jack Robson was seldom there now. Since Kitty’s death he seemed only to go to the school early in the morning and last thing at night. Occasionally Ramsay did meet him and then he was withdrawn and resentful.
There had been changes in the school. The vicar’s wife had come in as supply teacher to take Miss Hunt’s class while she was acting head teacher and the secretary, an elderly lady, had resigned with accusations and floods of tears. She had seemed to think that death, like the measles, was contagious and she could not stay there without being affected. Perhaps she was right, thought Ramsay, remembering Kitty Medburn and Paul Wilcox.
Ramsay went into the school and along the corridor to Matthew Carpenter’s room. He knew his way round now. He knocked at the door and the teacher came into the corridor to speak to him. As if I’m infectious too, Ramsay thought, and the children might catch something from me. Inside the children were painting.
‘Yes Inspector,’ Matthew said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Just a few more questions.’ In interview the young man had always been pleasant and polite. He had already answered Ramsay’s questions about the bonfire, the children’s attempts to dress the guy as a witch. But now Ramsay wanted to ask about the rumours that Matthew had been threatened by Medburn with dismissal. He wondered if Carpenter would be so eager to discuss that.
‘Could you wait for five minutes?’ Matthew asked. ‘The children will be going home then and we can talk in peace.’
Ramsay nodded and prowled along the corridor, as if by being in the building, by walking as the headmaster had done, he would receive some inspiration about who had hated the man so much to kill him and then to dress him up in such a grotesque and undignified way. He felt he had wasted time. He had believed so strongly that Kitty had killed her husband that he had not taken sufficient notice of the other people involved while they were still shocked by Medburn’s death and might have given something away. The fingerprint and forensic tests had not helped. All the fingerprints in the school belonged to people who had a reason to be there and that only reinforced his theory that the murderer was connected with the school.
A bell rang and the children pushed into the corridor, then ran into the playground. In Matthew’s classroom the two men sat on children’s desks. Ramsay began his questions gently, retracing old ground about the bonfire, asking for the names and addresses of the children who were there. Then he began to inquire about Matthew’s relationship with Medburn.
‘You didn’t get on with Mr Medburn, did you?’ Ramsay asked.
‘We had different ideas about teaching.’
‘But he was a headmaster and you had just qualified so he was in a position to impose his ideas on you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Isn’t it true that he didn’t think much of you as a teacher?’
‘I don’t know,’ Matthew had begun to stammer but he remained polite, quiet. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t as strong on discipline as he would have liked.’
‘I’ve heard that he was going to get you the sack.’
‘I don’t know where you could have heard that.’ Matthew’s voice was louder and he was starting to lose control. ‘You shouldn’t listen to the parents’ gossip.’
‘But you’ve been happier here since Mr Medburn died?’
‘Yes. If you’ve been talking in the village you’ll know that I’m happier now. So are all the children.’
Without a pause Ramsay changed the subject of his questions.
‘Were you drunk on the night of the Hallowe’en party?’
‘Yes!’ Matthew was almost shouting. ‘I’ve admitted that before.’
‘Why did you get drunk?’
‘I don’t know. I was lonely, unhappy, homesick. I missed my friends.’
‘Do you lose control when you’re drunk?’
‘Not enough to commit murder.’
And although Matthew was angry and frightened, nothing Ramsay could say would shake him from that. Ramsay was surprised, throughout the interview, to see Irene Hunt looking in from the corridor, watchful and protective, as if she had coached the young man in what he would say and she wanted to ensure that he was word perfect. Her presence encouraged Ramsay in the belief that Carpenter had something to hide. He began to feel happier.
Ramsay had spoken to Miss Hunt earlier in the week and the memory of that interview remained with him in perfect detail. In her bungalow she had struck him as relaxed, human. He had liked her. At school she was quite different. She had seen him in the headmaster’s office and had been as imperious and distant as Medburn himself. She had intimidated Ramsay with her sharp, honest intelligence and her refusal to compromise. And because she was a teacher of such an age and type, he admitted to himself later. As a child he had been terrified of a schoolmistress just like her. He’d had nightmares about her and dreamed she was an ogre.
Miss Hunt had answered his questions readily enough. She admitted to having been blackmailed, but then refused to give Ramsay her daughter’s name and address.
‘I can find it out,’ he said, with a spasm of desperation and spite.
‘I can’t stop you doing that,’ she said, cool and haughty, ‘though I don’t imagine it’s as easy as you think. She changed her name of course when she was adopted and when she married, and she’s moved several times. Even if you find her it’s not important. I’ll know that I’ve not betrayed her.’
Ramsay had set a constable to trace the daughter but without much urgency or hope of success. There had not yet been a result. Miss Hunt had been paying blackmail to Medburn for years. After that time it surely must have become a habit, a minor irritation and hardly a motive for murder. Besides, if she were to be believed she no longer had any reason to pay.
Out in the corridor Miss Hunt caught his eye and walked away. Matthew Carpenter stood up suddenly and began to clean the blackboard. The rubber was dusty and chalk was smeared across the blackboard, despite the young
man’s vigorous, almost frantic, actions. Ramsay watched with a growing joy. Carpenter was frightened. He knew he had to act carefully now. It was vital to show that the teacher had access to Heminevrin. He could not take Carpenter in on suspicion for questioning without that proof. He had done that to Kitty Medburn and his superiors would need evidence before they would allow it to happen again. They were too sensitive to criticism by the press.
‘You live above a chemist’s shop, don’t you?’ he asked.
Matthew looked round quickly and the blackboard rubber banged to the floor.
‘Yes,’ he said as he bent to pick it up.
‘Is there any way into it from your flat?’
‘No. I’ve got a separate entrance.’
‘So there’s no way you could get into the shop if it’s closed?’
‘Oh yes,’ Matthew said. ‘The pharmacist rented the flat to me on the condition that I keep an eye on the shop. It’s been broken into a couple of times and sometimes the burglar alarm goes off by mistake. I’ve got a spare key.’
He seemed unaware that he was making any dramatic revelation and Ramsay’s conviction that he was the murderer was shaken by Carpenter’s frankness. The policeman felt he needed time for reflection. He was too involved in the case. He had spent too much time in the grey terraced streets of the village and the school on the hill. The seaside walk along the promenade with Patty Atkins seemed to have happened a long time ago.
While he was interviewing Matthew Carpenter, Ramsay saw Patty hovering in the playground and the children pulling at her coat, trying to persuade her to go. He thought at first she was waiting for her father, then remembered he had asked her to speak to Hannah Wilcox. He was so convinced that the answer to the murders lay in the school that he was sure she would have little information of value. He was touched, though, by the effort she had made. He remembered the walk along the seafront with pleasure, because it had been a break from the depression of Heppleburn and because she had not criticized him. He was so used to being alone on this case that her company had been comforting. As soon as the interview with Matthew was over he rushed out to see her, but she had gone. He stood in the empty playground in the dusk, feeling he had been deserted.