Murder in My Backyard

by Cleeves, Ann

  “I don’t know what to do,” Tom Kerr said. “ I’ve been foolish. I’m in terrible trouble and I don’t know what to do to put it right.”

  “Tell me,” she said. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “This is my business. No-one else must get involved. I’ll have to sort it out for myself.”

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it?” she cried. “It’s something to do with Charlie. What have you done?”

  He turned to face her and the warm light from the stained glass reflected on his spectacles so that she could not see his eyes.

  “You’ll have to leave it to me,” he said. “ Now go away. I want to be on my own to think.”

  She left him, trying to tell herself that he was a stubborn man with too many principles. His imagined crimes would be trivial compared with the things she could dream up. But she remembered his terrifying and merciless temper and her anxiety grew.

  When Ramsay arrived in Brinkbonnie at midday, he went to the garage first. If Henshaw were blackmailing or threatening one of the leaders of the village, Ramsay thought, Tom Kerr would know. He seemed to have assumed responsibility for the place’s moral welfare. The workshop was unlocked and Ramsay went inside, but it was empty, and when he knocked at the door of the house, there was no reply. He walked on past the row of cottages and crossed the road towards the pub. In the Tower field the surveyors were back, sitting close to the hedge to eat their sandwiches so that they could not be easily seen from the street.

  In the Castle Hotel Maggie Kerr was behind the bar and the same old men sat staring at their beer and the dominoes board. There Ramsay made himself popular. He bought them all drinks and sat down with them and encouraged them to gossip. There must be scandal in a village like this, he said. There must be secrets, skeletons in cupboards. The old men chuckled and said he was right. “Man, you could write a book about the things that go on in this village.” But their scandals had happened years before. They talked about the American soldiers based in Otterbridge and children born out of wedlock during the war. They talked of family fueds and grievances stored for twenty years. None of it helped Ramsay at all, and he was about to leave when they started talking about Robert and Celia Grey. Again they began their story many years before. It had all started with the old lady, they said, Celia’s mother. She was the cause of all their problems, sitting in the corner of the kitchen like a poisonous old spider, giving out her orders. No wonder Celia went a bit wild when the old cow died.

  “Wild?” Ramsay said. “ I wouldn’t call Celia Grey wild.”

  “No,” they said. “Well, strong-willed then. She knows what she wants and nothing will stop her getting it.”

  “Tell me about it,” Ramsay said, buying more drinks, hoping for details.

  The old men accepted the drinks but became coy when he pressed them to be more specific about the Greys’ problems. They were happier talking about the past.

  Ramsay became impatient and left the pub for the post office. Under the watchful eye of Elliot’s sister, he talked to the postmaster.

  “Mr. Elliot,” he said carefully. “ When you first got involved with the Save Brinkbonnie campaign, did Henshaw ever approach you with money to stop your objections?”

  Elliot looked up at him in wonder. “No,” he said. “ Even Henshaw knows me well enough to realise I’d not be taken in by anything like that.”

  That was true, Ramsay thought. Fred Elliot was the last person Henshaw would approach to sabotage the Campaign. He was too obviously incorruptible.

  “What about Charlie?” Ramsay asked. “ Did Henshaw put any pressure on Charlie?”

  But at the name of his son Fred Elliot went to pieces. He began to cry and his sister stood between them, holding her apron wide as if she were protecting a child from a dangerous animal. She made strange shooing noises.

  “Go away,” she said. “Can’t you see he’s no use to you? Leave him to grieve in peace.”

  So Ramsay went back onto the street to continue his search for information.

  In the churchyard preparations were beginning for Alice Parry’s funeral. An old man leaned on a spade, pressing it against the turf as if testing to see how hard a job he would have in digging the grave. He seemed daunted by the task because he laid the spade on the grass and began to walk away towards the back of the church.

  “Excuse me!” Ramsay shouted, and the old man turned slowly to stare at him. “ Have you seen Mr. Kerr?”

  The gravedigger looked at him, giving no sign that he had heard the question.

  “You must know Mr. Kerr,” Ramsay said. “ He’s the choirmaster.”

  “No,” the old man said. “I’ve not seen him today.” He walked off.

  On the church porch, emerging at last to go back to the garage to work, Tom Kerr heard the exchange. He leaned against the closed door and waited until he heard the policeman move on before he scuttled home across the green, but he knew it would be impossible to hide from Ramsay for ever.

  Ramsay moved up the Otterbridge Road towards the Henshaws’ bungalow. It was likely, he thought, that Colin Henshaw would be out during the day. Perhaps Rosemary Henshaw would speak to him more freely if he saw her alone. He turned into the drive and was relieved to see that the garage was empty. The Renault was parked on the gravel, but Henshaw’s Rover had gone.

  Rosemary Henshaw looked more comfortable, more approachable than when Ramsay had last seen her. She still wore makeup, but she was not so shiny or impenetrable as she had been that Sunday night. She was dressed in a pale green jogging suit that was stretched across her stomach. Ramsay thought he had disturbed her in the middle of her lunch. When she opened the door, she was brushing crumbs from the front of her sweatshirt.

  “Yes?” she said. Then: “ You’re the policeman, aren’t you. You were here the other night.”

  Ramsay smiled at her. “You were kind enough to tell me to drop in if I thought you could help,” he said.

  Hunter isn’t the only one who can turn on the charm, he thought. But Hunter’s so much better at it than I am.

  “Of course,” she said. She seemed pleased to have the company. “Come into the kitchen. I was just having a sandwich. Perhaps you’d like something.”

  “You’re not expecting your husband?” Ramsay said.

  She giggled as if the questions were a proposition. “He’s always busy,” she said. “He’s working on different developments all over the country. I never know where he’s working, but he lets me know if he’s going to be back early and he’s said nothing today.”

  She took him through the house, which was as glossy and dust-free as her face, to the kitchen, which seemed full of electrical gadgets. There was a portable television on a work top and an earnest young woman with a shrill Scottish accent gave consumer advice. Rosemary Henshaw switched it off.

  “What would you like to eat?” she asked. “ I could pop something from the freezer into the microwave. It wouldn’t take a minute. Or a sandwich. I could do you a sandwich.”

  Ramsay said that a sandwich would be very nice. She sliced a stottie deftly and began to fill it with ham and tomato.

  “What time did your husband go out this morning?” Ramsay asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, giggling again. “ He was gone when I got up. I’m dreadful in the mornings. He sees himself out.”

  “What about Tuesday morning?” Ramsay asked. “ Did he go out early then?”

  “Why?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “What’s this all about?”

  Ramsay answered the question though he knew she must already know why he was asking. She was no fool.

  “Charlie Elliot was murdered on Tuesday morning, very early,” Ramsay said. “ You must have heard that.”

  “I heard he was dead,” she said. “I didn’t ask for any details. I don’t want to know.”

  “He was stabbed,” Ramsay said. “Just like Alice Parry.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” she cried.
“ Everyone said he killed the old lady.”

  “Well,” Ramsay said. “ Now he’s dead.”

  There was a silence and then she turned to him.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. “I don’t understand what it has to do with us.”

  “It’s to do with everybody,” he said, suddenly angry. “Everyone in Brinkbonnie. Alice Parry and Charlie Elliot lived here. Elliot’s body was found in the small stone barn on the hill behind your house. The land is owned by your neighbours, the Greys. You all have an interest in getting the thing resolved.”

  “Yes,” she said, though he could not tell if she understood. “ Yes, I see that.”

  “So,” he said gently. “ Will you tell me where your husband was on Tuesday morning?” He watched her face, saw her prepare to lie then change her mind.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He did go out very early. I heard him go and it was still dark. I presumed it was work.”

  “Did you ask him why he left so early?”

  “No,” she said. She gave no explanation for the lack of communication between them. “No.”

  “And what about Saturday night?” Ramsay asked softly. “ He did go out, didn’t he, after Alice Parry left your house?”

  “Yes,” she said, and began to cry. Tears were her usual weapon against confrontation. “ I don’t know where he was. He won’t tell me.”

  “What happened when Mrs. Parry was here on Saturday night?” Ramsay asked. She was so distraught that he hoped she would answer without thinking, under the spell of his sympathy. “It wasn’t a cosy little chat after all, was it?”

  But if he expected her to be honest, he was disappointed. She looked up sharply and he knew she was preparing to lie.

  “It was!” she said. She seemed terrified. “It happened just like Colin told you.”

  “There’s no reason to be frightened, you know,” he said. “ We can give you all the protection you need.”

  “No!” she cried. “I don’t need protection from Colin. He’s my husband. You’re mad.”

  She was almost hysterical and seemed not to care that he did not believe her. He sat in silence, hoping that she might grow calmer and volunteer to change her story, but she got up and fetched a packet of cigarettes from her handbag.

  She lit one, her hands shaking. Eventually she did regain her composure, but her story did not change.

  “You must understand,” she said at last, “ that Colin and Mrs. Parry got on very well that evening. She was angry when she arrived, but by the time she left, things had been sorted out between them.”

  “How had things been sorted out?” Ramsay asked. “What did your husband say to Mrs. Parry to make her change her mind?”

  “Nothing,” she said awkwardly, but she would not meet his eyes. “There was nothing to tell. She realised, I suppose, that the battle had been lost. There was nothing she could do to make him change his mind.”

  There was a silence. Through the kitchen window Ramsay saw the elderly gardener push a barrow of dead leaves over the patio towards the compost heap.

  “I’m sorry to have upset you,” Ramsay said. “ It’s been a difficult time for everyone. Could you answer a few more questions?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s about your husband’s business,” Ramsay said. “I’m a layman and there are some points in the planning procedure that I don’t quite understand. Quite often the local council rejects his plans, but Mr. Henshaw always seems to win an appeal. Can you explain how he does that?”

  She looked at him suspiciously, thinking that the question had some deeper significance.

  “He’s clever,” she said. “ He knows what the planning inspector will accept.” Then she smiled. “ Besides, he’s a lot of important contacts.”

  “Yes,” Ramsay said. “I’m sure he has. I wanted to ask you about that. Did he ever discuss his contacts with you? In Brinkbonnie, for example, did he have someone to help him here?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t help you,” she said quickly.

  “You’ll have to talk to Colin. I don’t know anything about his business. I told that reporter the same.”

  “Oh,” Ramsay said. “ Has Mary Raven been bothering you again?”

  “Yes,” Rosemary Henshaw said, glad of the change of subject. “Nosy little madam. She was here today calling for Colin. I told her he didn’t want to talk to her. She said it would be good publicity for his business. I told her he was doing well enough. He didn’t need her sort of publicity.”

  “When was she here?” Ramsay asked.

  “Not very long ago,” she said. “Just before I started my lunch. I’m surprised you didn’t see her on the road.”

  She stood up and began to fuss with coffee, searching in a tin for biscuits. But Ramsay did not want to prolong the interview. He had learned enough.

  “Will you tell Mr. Henshaw that I’ll be in the police house in the village until this evening,” he said as he left. “There might be something he wants to tell me.”

  Then he went out, striding down the drive and the Otterbridge Road through Brinkbonnie, walking in the middle of the street so that the people hiding behind their net curtains would not miss him. He wanted everyone to see him make his way to the police house. He was convinced that someone in the village had information for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In the police house Hunter was coordinating the search for Max Laidlaw.

  “We should find Mary Raven,” Ramsay said. “ I’m sure he was having an affair with her. She’ll lead you to him. She’s been in Brinkbonnie today.”

  “What has she been doing here?” Hunter was hardly interested. That bloody woman, he thought. Ramsay’s obsessed with her.

  “She wants to speak to Henshaw. Something to do with a story.”

  “Bloody reporters,” Hunter said.

  “I want you to go to Wytham,” Ramsay said, “to talk to a woman there.” He was torn. He would have liked to go to Wytham himself to see the woman Robson had suggested. He was still committed to the theory that Henshaw was a blackmailer. But it was more important, he thought, to stay in Brinkbonnie, to be accessible if one of the community leaders there wanted to speak to him. He explained Robson’s idea to Hunter and was aware immediately of the sergeant’s scepticism.

  “Talk to her,” he said. “Be discreet. Just ask how she planned the campaign against Henshaw and why it came to nothing in the end. Find out if she was really active all the way through. You might need to talk to other people in the place, too. If she makes some excuse for having dropped out of the fight, press her. Be sympathetic. Give her the chance to tell you. Ask if Henshaw made any contact with her.”

  Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Hunter thought, but he said nothing. He was glad of the excuse to get out of Brinkbonnie. He hated the lack of activity and the constant wind. A few new houses would be an improvement, he thought. They might even liven the place up.

  He found Jane Massie’s house very easily. It was, as Jack Robson had said, close to the new housing estate on the opposite side of the main road, backing onto open countryside. As he parked, Hunter looked at the development with some envy. If he won the pools, he thought, he wouldn’t mind living in a place like that. Somewhere with a bit of class and style. In contrast, the Massies’ house was not to his taste. It was built of grey stone, square and solid. The window frames needed a lick of paint.

  When Hunter knocked at the door, there was no reply, and he found Jane Massie in the long back garden feeding hens. She was a short woman, rather overweight, probably in her early thirties. He was surprised. From Ramsay’s description, he had expected someone older. She was wearing a calf-length dress in a patterned corduroy and the sort of shoes with buckles he had only seen on children. He dismissed her in his mind as an aging hippie, but all the same he found her attractive. Her face was young and very pretty. When she saw him, she hitched up her skirt and climbed out of the hen run to meet him. Two small boys in dungarees ap
peared from the hen house and clambered after her.

  She did not seem shocked to see a stranger wandering through the back garden. She seemed, to Hunter, to have great self-confidence. He knew few women like her and was nervous.

  “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?” She came, as he had expected, from the south.

  The boys hid behind her.

  “Mrs. Massie,” he said, “I’m Sergeant Hunter from the Northumbria police. Could I have a few words with you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “What’s wrong? There’s not been an accident?”

  “No,” he said. “ It’s nothing like that.”

  She took him into the house through a back door into a kitchen that smelled of lentils and garlic. She rinsed her hands under the tap.

  “I’m sorry I panicked,” she said. “My husband’s away on business. I hate the thought of him driving down the A1. You hear of so many accidents. Would you like some tea? We don’t drink coffee, I’m afraid.”

  He nodded.

  “How can I help you?” she asked. In the garden the boys were splashing each other from muddy puddles, but she made no attempt to stop them. He thought his mother would have skinned him alive if he’d dirtied his clothes like that.

  “We’re conducting an investigation into certain planning irregularities that might have taken place when the estate over the road was built,” he said. “ I understand you were involved in opposing the development.”

  “I certainly was,” she said. “It’s a dreadful eyesore. It’s about time someone put a stop to Henshaw. It’s too late for us, but it might stop some other village from being ruined.”

  “Were you aware while you were running the campaign that some of Henshaw’s tactics might be dishonest?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “ Not exactly. Everything seemed to be going as we had expected until the builder appealed to the Department of the Environment inspector. It was a terrible surprise then when Henshaw won.”

  “Were you involved in the campaign all the way through?”