A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

by Cleeves, Ann

  There would be children in fancy dress, and the sword-dance team, and the lorries carrying floats, elaborate tableaux celebrating local charities and businesses. As a child the floats had fascinated him. What it must be like, he had thought, to ride up there above the crowd, waving! But when, one year, Annie had arranged for him to dress up and be on the church float with her he had refused, horrified at the suggestion. The line of traffic started to move slowly and he drove on.

  He had never seen the town so busy. Perhaps the heat of the evening made it impossible for people to stay indoors. They jostled in a stream along the pavement, spilling occasionally into the street so Ramsay was forced to stop again.

  There were family parties, the children made nervous and fretful by the crowd, groups of teenage boys, high-spirited and loud, clutching cans of lager, and groups of young women, giggling in fancy dress. The pubs were all full and customers were forced on to the pavements with their drinks. It was an explosive mix, Ramsay thought: the hot evening, the alcohol, the gangs of young men all set on showing off. He was glad he did not have the responsibility of policing it. As he was forced to stop again to allow a pack of cub scouts to cross the road in an orderly crocodile, he thought he saw Joss Corkhill coming out of an off licence with a bottle in his hand, but when the traffic moved again he had disappeared.

  At last he was clear of the town and he drove quickly along the by-pass towards the Ridgeway, knowing that he was a fool to hurry because Hilary Masters would have given up waiting by now. But when he got to Hardy Street her car was still there, parked outside the house, and through the window he could see the two women sitting together on the sofa. Hilary Masters was turned towards him and when she saw him she smiled. It was a smile of welcome and relief, and suddenly he was a young man again, plucking up the courage to ask a girl to go out with him, thinking: Perhaps with this one I’ve a chance of pulling it off. Perhaps this one fancies me. Hilary Masters stood up and came into the hall to open the door to him.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ he said. ‘I hope I haven’t caused you any inconvenience.’

  He could hear the words as they were spoken, as distant and formal as Hilary had been on their first meeting. He wished he could start again.

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said. She smiled again and looked very tired. ‘Really. I would have waited anyway. I don’t think Theresa’s in any state to be left alone. The doctor gave her something to calm her but it seems just to have made her confused. I’m not sure you’ll get any sense out of her tonight.’ She stood close to him and spoke softly, looking through the door towards Theresa.

  ‘Did she tell you anything?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Not very much. Clive left the house before we did this afternoon. She didn’t see him again. She thought he was going to work.’ She paused. ‘Where’s Joss? Theresa will want to know. She’s been asking for him.’

  ‘We let him go,’ he said. ‘He couldn’t have killed Clive and I don’t think he met Dorothea yesterday afternoon.’

  She seemed worried by the news and he wondered if she had some inside knowledge. Perhaps Theresa had confided in her and she felt unable to pass on the information.

  ‘He hasn’t been here,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think he will come back,’ he said. ‘He was talking about leaving.’

  ‘Poor Theresa. It was bound to happen some time, but he might have waited.’

  She turned back to the room where Theresa sat, quite still, and waited for him to follow her.

  The room was stiflingly hot and airless. He looked at the poster of mountains and sea and thought that if he were Joss Corkhill he would run away too. Unable to breathe he opened a window. The estate was silent, empty. Usually at this time on a sunny evening it would have been at its most lively with children on bikes, adults on their way out, but even the ice-cream vans had deserted the place for the centre of town. The Ridgeway Community Association was entering its first float and though no one thought it had a chance of winning they all wanted to be there to cheer it on. He turned back to the room.

  Theresa Stringer stared at him, bewildered. He was not even sure if she remembered who he was.

  ‘I’m sorry about Clive,’ he said.

  She shook her head as if she were unable to take it in.

  ‘You took Joss away,’ she said. ‘What have you done with him?’

  Would it be kinder, Ramsay thought, to lie, to tell her that Joss was still in custody? He could not do it.

  ‘We let him go,’ Ramsay said. ‘We haven’t charged him.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and he thought she was relieved though it was hard to tell. ‘I expect he’s at the fair then. Or the pub. He’ll be back later, when they throw him out.’

  And she gave a little smile, as if that had been an attempt at a joke.

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps.’ He looked at Hilary Masters, hoping that she might explain that Corkhill was unlikely to return, but she seemed preoccupied and he thought again she might be keeping something from him. He was afraid of being, in her eyes, the heavy-handed policeman and he did not pry.

  ‘Where’s my baby?’ Theresa cried suddenly, like a child waking up in the middle of a nightmare. ‘I want my baby.’

  Hilary Masters sat beside her again on the sofa and took her hand.

  ‘Ssh,’ she said. ‘Ssh. Beverley’s quite safe. You know that. She’s with her foster mother. I’ll take you to see her tomorrow.’

  Her voice was low, caressing. Ramsay was very moved.

  ‘No!’ Theresa cried. ‘No!’ But the outburst passed and quite suddenly she returned to her state of blank incomprehension.

  ‘Tell me about Clive,’ Ramsay said gently. ‘Do you know who killed him?’

  She stared at him, obviously terrified. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she whispered. ‘ You ask Joss. He’ll tell you how I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Do you think Joss killed Clive?’ he asked. Her reaction surprised him. He had expected grief, confusion, but not this fear.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ she repeated, clinging to Hilary’s arm for support.

  ‘It’s no good,’ Hilary said. ‘I really don’t think she can help you.’ The women stared at him together, so he felt cruel, heartless in persisting.

  ‘I’d like to see Clive’s bedroom,’ he said, knowing he was only putting off the unpleasant task until later: he would have to talk to Theresa that night. However confused she was there were still questions which had to be answered. Surely Hilary would understand that. He hoped he might find in Clive’s room something which would provide a focus for the questions, something to start them off. Besides it would give him a break from this stuffy room and the accusing eyes of the women.

  Hilary turned to Theresa. ‘ Is that all right?’ she said. ‘You don’t mind?’

  Theresa shook her head and he left the room and climbed the stairs. Clive’s bedroom was small, square and surprisingly tidy. It was at the back of the house. The bed was made and the faded greyish sheet was folded back over a threadbare blanket made of different coloured knitted squares. Built into an alcove there was a wardrobe which obviously came as a standard fitting to the council house, and a kitchen chair beside the bed but no other furniture. Ramsay opened the wardrobe door. Most of the clothes were piled on shelves at the bottom. He took the garments out one at a time. Occasionally he came across something new which had obviously been a present from Dorothea – there was a brown T-shirt with an Oxfam logo and a bright hand-knitted sweater – but the rest had the limp, shapeless look of old jumble.

  Inside the wardrobe door was stuck a photograph of Dorothea and Clive together, standing formally outside the vicarage. Clive was upright and proud and grinning broadly. Was it tact, Ramsay wondered, which had caused him to hide the photo away? Did he think his mother would be hurt by his affection for the vicar’s wife?

  Ramsay looked under the bed and found a pile of comics and a lot of dust. On the chair by the bed was
a plastic mug of water and Clive’s watch. That too, Ramsay remembered, had been a present from Dorothea. Clive had been wearing it the day before when he waited for her to come out of Mrs Bowman’s flat in Armstrong House. I never asked the old lady about that, he thought. I never followed up the discrepancies in their stories. He could not see why it would be important but the thought of the watch troubled him, niggled throughout the rest of his conversation with Theresa. Before going downstairs he paused and looked out of the boy’s window and wished again that he could be in Heppleburn.

  In the living room it seemed that the women had hardly moved. He found that he had no patience with either of them.

  ‘Coffee!’ he said briskly. ‘ I think we could all do with some coffee. Perhaps you could make some for us, Miss Masters?’

  The social worker looked surprised but she went into the kitchen. Theresa watched her go with terror.

  ‘Theresa,’ he said. He tried to sound kind but realised that the effect was patronising. Fatherly concern did not suit him. ‘I’m sorry to intrude like this but I need to ask you some more questions …’

  She nodded.

  ‘You didn’t tell me what Dorothea talked about when she came here late yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘ It would be helpful if we knew what her plans for the rest of the evening were. Has anything come back to you?’

  She was more alert now, and very tense. ‘It was nothing important. She just came to see how I was feeling.’

  ‘Tell me about Clive, then,’ he said, keeping his voice calm. ‘When he left here today where did you think he was going?’

  ‘Back to work,’ she said. ‘You were here, weren’t you? You heard what he said.’

  ‘Was it usual for him to come home for his lunch? It’s a long way.’

  ‘It depended what he felt like,’ she said. ‘They weren’t paying him.’

  ‘But he was there to do Community Service,’ Ramsay said. ‘He wouldn’t have been allowed just to wander about.’

  Hilary Masters came in then, carrying mugs of coffee, holding them awkwardly by the handles, all in one hand.

  ‘It wasn’t really Community Service,’ she said. ‘Not in the legal sense. He was a juvenile. He was placed on a supervision order and the arrangement to work at the old people’s home was made informally between Dorothea and the warden.’

  ‘So he never worked set hours?’ Ramsay asked.

  ‘He was supposed to,’ she said, ‘but it was hard to keep him to a timetable. He was easily distracted.’

  Ramsay remembered that the same thing had been said about Dorothea. He wondered if the boy’s inability to stick to anything had been a factor in his death. Had his attention been caught by something the murderer wanted kept secret? Had he, in his vacant, bumbling, innocent way, become involved in Dorothea’s murder?

  ‘He might have gone to the fair,’ Theresa said suddenly. ‘He always liked the fair.’

  Ramsay put the mug to his mouth but found the liquid inside almost undrinkable. Hilary had put milk in it and he wondered if she would ever know him well enough to realise that he always drank it black.

  This is ludicrous, he thought. I’m so tired. I can’t think straight. Outside in the street there was the sound of a car horn being hit over and over again, laughter, a radio played far too loud. Someone had started their celebrations before reaching the town.

  ‘Did Clive tell you anything?’ he said. ‘Anything which might help us find out who killed him?’

  Theresa shook her head and looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup, like a stupid, frightened animal.

  ‘He never talked to me,’ she said sadly. ‘Not once Mrs Cassidy started visiting.’ She paused. ‘I expect it was my fault too. Things were different after Joss came to stay.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies? Anyone who disliked him enough to kill him?’

  Theresa set the coffee cup on the floor at her feet.

  ‘Only that man at the church,’ she said deliberately.

  ‘You mean Walter Tanner?’ Ramsay said. ‘The church warden who didn’t want Clive to take part in the service?’

  ‘No, not him. I mean the vicar, Dorothea’s husband. He hated Clive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded. ‘ How do you know?’

  But by now the exchange seemed to have exhausted her. She lay back on the sofa with her eyes closed. Perhaps the sedation given by the doctor was just starting to take effect, perhaps it was a way of avoiding more questions. Ramsay felt the urge to shake her. What right had she to escape into a drugged sleep? he thought. But he said nothing, aware that any attempt to disturb Theresa now would be interpreted by Hilary as callous brutality. He stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hilary said. ‘ I told you she wouldn’t be much help. It’s all been too much for her to cope with.’

  ‘What will you do with her now?’

  ‘Wait till she wakes then take her home with me. I don’t think she should be left alone and I don’t like the idea of staying here.’

  She paused. This is it, he thought. She’s giving me the chance to find out where she lives. But he was as nervous as a boy and could not ask for the address. He could always find out later.

  ‘Perhaps if Theresa feels like it we’ll stop to watch the carnival,’ Hilary continued. ‘ She’s like a child. She’d enjoy it. It may stop her brooding for a while.’

  ‘You’re very patient with her,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘ It’s my job. Besides, I explained. Theresa’s always been special, my first client. She trusts me. It’s a responsibility.’

  And how can I compete with that? he thought. He saw clearly for the first time how frustrating it must have been for Diana, his ex-wife, competing for his attention against the responsibilities of his job.

  They stood awkwardly on the doorstep. A mongrel ran along the pavement and cocked a leg by the wheel of his car.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘When this is all over perhaps I could cook you a meal. Show you that not all social workers live on lentils.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ I’d like that.’ He realised that he was beaming.

  When? he wanted to ask. When can I come? Instead he wrote his home telephone number on a scrap of paper and shyly handed it to her.

  In the car he talked to Hunter on the radio and learned that Imogen Buchan had been reported missing, but he was thinking of Hilary Masters.

  ‘The boy hasn’t gone back to the vicarage either,’ Hunter said. ‘Do you think they’ve done a runner?’

  Ramsay was indecisive. ‘I don’t know, I’ll leave it to you. They might be at the carnival like everyone else.’ Yet he thought there was a desperation about the murders which might indicate the intensity of youth. ‘Put out a general alert,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to find them.’ Then, again: ‘ I’ll leave all the arrangements to you.’

  He had become preoccupied by the difference in the accounts of Dorothea’s return to Armstrong House. Clive had been the only witness to suggest that Dorothea and Emily Bowman had spent a long time together and now he was dead. It might be coincidence but with Clive’s murder it was now crucial to speak to the old lady and sort the matter out. He pulled away from the kerb, aware that Hilary Masters, standing by the window in Theresa’s front room, was watching him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was nine o’clock and the sun was low in the sky, orange, diffused on the edges by thin cloud. At last Emily Bowman’s room was in shadow. She felt comfortable for the first time that day. She sat in the same chair by the window and tried, as she had every evening for the past two weeks, to compose a letter to leave behind after her suicide. All around her the building was quiet. Most of the other residents had gathered in the rooms overlooking the main street to watch the parade. At teatime Annie Ramsay had turned up with scones you could break a tooth on and had tried to persuade her to go too.

  ‘Come on, pet,’ she had said. ‘We’ve all had a shock but there’s no point brooding. H’away now, we’d like your
company.’

  Would they still want my company, Emily Bowman thought, if they knew what I’d done?

  She had eaten a scone to please her visitor and then claimed fatigue. Annie had scampered away to get ready. Reggie Younger had invited her into his flat, she said. She’d always had a soft spot for Reggie and you had a good view from there. Especially from the bedroom.

  Emily Bowman had been aware of the parade passing along the busy street but had taken little notice. Still the right words for her letter would not come. She wanted to justify the decision, persuade the reader, for she had been unable to persuade Dorothea, that she was doing the right thing. And, she thought, though the letter would probably be found by the warden or by Annie Ramsay, it was to Dorothea that she would be writing it. She wanted to make it clear that she was not a coward. It was not the pain which frightened her. It was the inconclusive tedium. To spend the rest of one’s days waiting, aimless, seemed wickedly inefficient. Her only sense in all the waiting – for the ambulance, in the hospital corridor – was that she was in the way.

  She watched Ramsay park his car in Armstrong Street. She recognised him from the weekly consultations. The parade had moved on and the streets were deserted. She wondered for a moment if Annie would welcome the visit. She had planned, Emily knew, to spend all evening with Reggie Younger. When Ramsay knocked at her door she did not ask him in, but directed him down the corridor to where he might find his aunt.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  He stood in the doorway, grave, still, and she was reminded for a moment of a young priest she had known when she was a girl and whom she had dreamed, for a while, of marrying. The memory of the old excitement surprised her. She had never felt that way about her husband.

  ‘Well,’ she said, hiding her confusion with brusqueness, ‘you’d better come in.’

  He sat opposite her, and in the shadow she could hardly make out the expression on his face.

  ‘Mrs Bowman,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to find out why you have lied to the police.’