Murder in My Backyard

by Cleeves, Ann

  In the police house Hunter was almost asleep. His chair was tilted backwards and his feet were on the desk. When Ramsay came into the room, he sat up slowly and stretched.

  “Well?” he said. “How did you get on?”

  “Henshaw is having an affair with Celia Grey at the farm,” Ramsay said. “He was there on Saturday night, so he couldn’t have killed Alice Parry. He might have murdered Charlie Elliot, but I can’t see what motive he would have had.”

  Hunter knew better than to gloat. “At least we’ve eliminated Henshaw from our enquiries then,” he said. “ That’s a positive move.”

  “Yes,” Ramsay said. He did not feel positive. “I suppose so.”

  “Someone came to talk to you while you were out,” Hunter said. “He wouldn’t speak to me. Tom Kerr. From the garage.” He looked at the desk where he had scribbled notes on an envelope. “He said he’ll be in all evening. On his own. The rest of the family will be out. He seemed to think that was important.”

  Ramsay listened absent-mindedly. Now that Robson’s theory of local activists having been put under pressure by Henshaw seemed impossible, he was not sure what useful information Tom Kerr could have.

  “He seemed very keen to talk to you,” Hunter said. “A bit tense and strung-up.”

  “All right,” Ramsay said. “I’ll go and see him now. Is there anything from the Incident Room?”

  “Yes,” Hunter said. “Some bright P.C. thought he saw Mary Raven’s Mini outside the old Cottage Hospital in Otterbridge. God knows what she was doing there.”

  “Well, you won’t know,” Ramsay said, “ unless you ask. Go to the hospital and find out. Max Laidlaw is a doctor. Perhaps he’s hiding out there. I’ll meet you in the Incident Room later.”

  At first Ramsay thought that the house behind the garage was empty. Although it was nearly dark, there were no lights on and everything was quiet. When the sun went down, the temperature had suddenly dropped and he waited impatiently on the doorstep to be let in. At last he heard footsteps on the other side of the door and then Tom Kerr opened it and waited silently for Ramsay to follow him into the house.

  He must have been sitting, Ramsay thought, just by the light of the fire, but now he switched on a small lamp that revealed the tension in his face. His cheeks were drawn and behind his glasses his eyelids seemed grey and heavy.

  “Inspector,” he said. “It was good of you to come. Sit by the fire. You’ll be cold.”

  Ramsay sat and waited for an explanation, but the words when they came still surprised him.

  “Inspector,” Kerr said. “My conscience has been troubling me. There’s something you should know …”

  Ramsay said nothing but waited for the man to speak again.

  Kerr stared into the fire. “ I have a temper,” he said. “A terrible temper. Since I was a child it’s got me into trouble.”

  Still Ramsay remained silent. The man needed to talk. Interruption would only distract him.

  “Even when Charlie and Maggie were children I found it hard to like him,” Tom Kerr said. “I was not sorry when Maggie broke off that first engagement. I found Charlie moody, unstable. I thought such an attachment was unnatural at that age. They shouldn’t have been taking things so seriously.”

  He paused, apparently in deep thought, perhaps remembering his daughter when she was a girl.

  “It wasn’t any easier when he left the army and came back. I told myself that Margaret was partly responsible and the the boy had been genuinely misled about the way she felt, but it was hard to find any sympathy for him. Perhaps that’s why I took him on in the garage. I thought that if I could not find any charity for him in my heart, I could at least go some way to meet his practical needs. It was a mistake, a form of pride. I suppose I wanted the village to see that I was not lacking in duty. Even though he was a reasonable worker, he annoyed me. I dreaded going to work. Then things came to a head and there was a fight in the street. I lost my temper. If I’d had the chance, I would have killed him.”

  “Mr. Kerr,” Ramsay said. “ Is this why you wanted to talk to me? To tell me about the fight? I had already heard about it. It really shouldn’t cause you any anxiety. There’s no question that the police would prosecute after all this time.” He felt a sense of anticlimax.

  “No!” Tom Kerr cried. “I’m trying to explain. That’s how it all started. But the real wickedness came later.”

  “I think,” Ramsay said, “you should tell me all about it.”

  The man started speaking, bending towards Ramsay across the fire in an attempt to explain his actions, pleading indirectly for understanding. When Ramsay stood up half an hour later to drive into Otterbridge, he thought he knew why Alice Parry had been murdered. He left Tom Kerr still sitting by the fire. The confession seemed to have brought him little relief and Ramsay was not sure if it was wise to leave him alone.

  “You can go,” Kerr said. “Olive will be back soon. I’ll talk to her then.”

  In the car Ramsay spoke to Otterbridge control on the radio. “If you see Mary Raven, I want her stopped and brought in for questioning,” he said, almost shouting in his jubiliation. “Find her for me now.”

  Hunter thought that the visit to the old Cottage Hospital would be a waste of time. There must be dozens of orange Minis in Otterbridge, he thought. The policeman on the beat must have made a mistake. Why would Mary Raven want to go there? The place had been changed to specialise in the care of geriatrics about ten years previously when a big, new district hospital had been built just outside the town. He had been there once before to visit an elderly aunt who was dying and he had hoped never to step inside the place again.

  He found it easy enough to find out who Mary had been talking to. The arrival of a reporter in the unit had caused something of a stir among the people who could find little to change the routine of their days. Those who were well enough to communicate were still talking about it as they sat in their beds to eat the evening meal. There was the smell of vegetables and milk pudding.

  They brought the old lady to him in a wheelchair and he sat in the sweltering day room with its dying potted plants and ancient magazines and listened while she repeated her story. Outside it was dark and eventually the woman slipped into sleep, almost in midsentence. A brisk and cheerful nursing sister who had heard it all before filled in the gaps. It made little sense to Hunter, but he had the intelligence to realise how it might be important. When he emerged from the hospital into the quiet, tree-lined street, he thought that Ramsay would be pleased.

  He and Ramsay arrived at the police station at the same time, both excited, both wanting to share their discoveries, so they had to sit in the office and make time to listen before they could make sense of it all.

  “It works,” Ramsay said, and thought that Jack Robson had almost been right.

  Then they heard that a call had been received from Mary Raven’s landlady saying that the reporter had returned to her flat.

  “Send someone to bring her in,” Ramsay said, and then they had to wait. Despite the friction that had been there between them during the course of the investigation, they seemed very close as they shared the anticipation.

  The constable sent to fetch Mary Raven came onto the radio in the Incident Room.

  “The lights are on,” the constable said, “but I can’t get any reply.”

  “Get in!” Ramsay shouted. “ Get hold of the landlady and get in. I’ll be there.”

  So he and Hunter drove to Mary’s flat. Hunter was driving, overtaking cars on the main street, jumping traffic lights, enjoying himself. When they arrived at the flat, there was a group of people on the pavement staring inside. The landlady had been found in the local pub and had brought all her friends with her. Some still held glasses. Ramsay tried to send them all home, but the big car with its screeching brakes and Hunter posing like a detective from Miami Vice only increased their curiosity and excitement.

  The sight of the crowd troubled Ramsay. He was worried
about what he might find inside. The last thing he needed was another tragedy. But the constable who was holding his ground by the front door of the flat shook his head.

  “Sorry,” he said. “ I can’t have got here in time. She’s not here. She must have left in a hurry, though.”

  Ramsay made a quick search of the bedroom and kitchen before he saw the note in the typewriter. Then he ordered Hunter into the car and they drove away without explaining to the police constable or the watchers, leaving the doors wide open and the landlady complaining about her interrupted evening.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was already eight o’clock when Mary began the drive down the lane from Brinkbonnie village. It led behind the sand dunes to the Wildlife Trust carpark at the north of the bay where she and Max had parked on the night of their first meeting. She had been held up by an accident on the road outside Otterbridge where the young policeman in charge of controlling the traffic had seemed out of his depth, and she sped through Brinkbonnie, noticing nothing unusual there. The sky was clear and there was a moon. From the lane she saw the Tower and the mass of woodland behind it and the high moors spread beyond. Nearer the track was a pool and flat, grassy fields. She came to the hut where in summer the Wildlife Trust warden stood to collect money for the carpark. She could not see Max’s car but knew it was there. The carpark went on for half a mile, broken into sections by the dunes and the thickets of blackthorn and bramble. He would have parked farther along, she thought, and for a moment she was worried why he thought such secrecy necessary. There was also a feeling of satisfaction that when he was in trouble he had come to her. She drove the Mini only a short distance from the carpark’s entrance and left it in full view, so that if by any chance Max had not yet arrived he would know she was there.

  These things—the Mini parked at the entrance to the links, the accident on the Otterbridge Road, which made her late—were to contribute to the outcome of the case.

  When she got out of the car, she shivered. She was wearing trousers and a sweater, but there was already a frost in the air and she had been expecting perhaps the same warmth of the night of the Wildlife Trust barbecue. She was very tired and the evening had a dreamlike quality. She was lightheaded and imagined that here, in the same place, she and Max could regain the romantic intensity that had begun the affair. She was already anticipating the elation that followed any contact with Max.

  If he’s here, she thought, he’ll be waiting on the shore, at the edge of the water, where I waited for him the last time. She began to climb through the soft sand of the dunes to reach the beach. The silence was impressive. The tide must have been out because there was no sound of water. Uusually at Brinkbonnie, even on the quietest days, there were dogs barking, gulls crying, the noise of a tractor in a distant field. Now there was only the sound of her own breathing and the sand shifting under her feet as she walked. Occasionally she put out her hand to steady herself. The sand was cold and the grains were sharp as ice.

  When she reached the highest dune in the system she climbed it and stood there, her arms raised above her head so that her silhouette would stand out against the skyline and wherever Max was he would see her and come to find her. She would have called out to him, shouted over the empty folds of sand, but the silence was daunting and she did not have the courage to break it. From there, for the first time, she saw the sea, the soft, seven-mile waves breaking noiselessly. She had thought he might be waiting on the hard sand by the edge of the tide where she had waited the first time. It would be such a romantic thing to do. She imagined him looking up at her with the same challenge as she had given him. But as far as she could see the beach was empty, broken only by the square chunks of concrete that had been set on the beach in the last war, separating the dunes from the flat sand, to stop enemy tanks from driving inland.

  She sat down, holding her knees, grateful after the frenzy of the previous two days for the space and quiet. Suddenly, farther below and behind her, she heard the noise of shifting sand that had marked her own progress.

  “Max!” she called. She wanted to see him very much. “ Is that you, Max?” But there was no reply and she thought she must have caused the sand to slide when she sat down. Or perhaps a small animal had made its home there and been disturbed. Even then she was not frightened. She did not know that there was anything to be afraid of, except the possibility that Max had deserted her again. The fear came later.

  She stood up and ran down the sand hill to the beach, stopping short this time of the incoming tide. It was too cold for bare feet and she was wearing leather boots that would be damaged by the water. She walked along the tide line where wood and straw, pieces of glass and seacoal, had been washed up with the pebbles and shells. Occasionally she crouched to pick up a smooth stone or a piece of patterned pottery, but she kept her eyes on the dunes, hoping eventually to see Max’s silhouette against the horizon coming to meet her.

  After half an hour she told herself he would not be coming. This is ridiculous, she thought, a repeat of that farce in the churchyard. Why do I allow myself to be humiliated by him? I’ve more important things to do tonight. But still, in a way, she was grateful to him, because he had brought her out into the fresh air and when she returned home she would be ready to write the story with a clear head. She turned and began to walk south along the beach, back towards the car.

  When the man appeared in front of her, she could not imagine, at first, where he had come from. It was as if he had appeared by magic from the sand.

  “Max,” she cried. “Max. How did you get here? I didn’t see you.” And she began to run towards him, tears streaming down her face.

  It was only when she saw the blade of the wide, triangular kitchen knife, shining in the moonlight, that she began to feel afraid. It was that and his failure to answer, his stillness and silence. She realised then that he had been waiting for her crouched behind one of the blocks of concrete. He had known all the time where she was. He had seen her on the high dune, watched her walk along the tide line, and waited patiently for her return. She screamed and began to run away from him. She knew instinctively that she would have no chance against him on the flat sand. He was stronger than she and much faster. Her only hope was to get back to the car.

  She began to scramble up the dunes on all fours, pulling with her hands and kicking with her feet. He seemed surprised by her sudden movement and could not use both hands because he was still holding the knife, blade outstretched. But he seemed to have power in his legs to compensate, and when she slipped, gulping for air, exhausted, he almost caught her. She kicked back with one foot, sending a shower of fine sand over his face and into his eyes. He swore and lunged forward with the knife towards her, but he could not see and missed her. She ran on. She could not hear him behind her. She slowed down for a moment and listened, but there was no sound of movement. He must have followed a different path, she thought. He would hope to trick her by getting ahead of her and cutting her off from the car. She stood quite still and listened again, but there was silence.

  She was more frightened then than she had been when he was right behind her, tearing at her trouser leg with his knife. From the dune where she stood, catching her breath, she could see her car, ordinary and familiar on the grass. It seemed such a short distance away. She supposed she should creep towards it, keeping below the skyline, playing the same game as he was, so he would not know where she was either. But suddenly panic took over and she ran towards the orange car at fulltilt. She might even have started screaming again. She wanted only to be away from the place and the man who was following her. She thought when she reached the short, cropped grass of the carpark that the nightmare was over. There was nothing then between her and safety. It was only when she was nearly at the car, with several yards to go, already feeling in her pocket for her keys, that a man stepped out of the shadow of the Mini. He caught her in his arms and her screams echoed over the quiet and empty landscape.

  On the way to B
rinkbonnie Ramsay said nothing. After the shared elation of the Incident Room he seemed to close in on himself and shut Hunter off. He was deep in concentrated thought and Hunter sensed a lack of confidence.

  He’s losing his nerve, Hunter thought. He’s not up to the job. That was the trouble with these small-town men. So little happened in the rural divisions that when there was some action they didn’t have a clue how to do the thing properly. Perhaps it was time to put in for a transfer to Newcastle Central before he turned into one of them.

  Just outside Brinkbonnie they were given the information that a young policeman had seen Mary’s car at an accident on the Otterbridge Road, and they knew they were going in the right direction. Hunter cheered under his breath, but Ramsay would not allow himself to be optimistic. On the edge of the village he made Hunter slow down. He did not want the people there frightened by speeding cars and sirens. On the lane they went faster again and saw the Mini immediately, parked just beyond the carpark attendant’s hut.

  “No sign of Laidlaw,” Hunter said. Ramsay’s silence was irritating him. What was the matter with the man? The thing was nearly over. Still Ramsay said nothing.

  “Shall I drive on up the track and look for his car?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” Ramsay said. “Drive on. But if we don’t find it soon, park. We must find the woman. That’s the important thing.”

  The track was dry and rutted and Hunter was driving slowly. There was no sign of a car and he could sense his superior’s tension and impatience.

  “This is impossible,” Ramsay said irritably. “The car could be anywhere behind those bushes. We’ll need to look on foot.”

  Hunter drove on, unsure of what the inspector wanted him to do.

  “Stop,” Ramsay said suddenly. “Stop here. Something’s wrong. We must find Mary Raven.” He felt that they had been deceived.