by Ann Cleeves
‘Tell me about Mrs Howe,’ he said. ‘Did you have any dealings with her?’
‘What do you mean, dealings?’ The reply was sharp. It was as if he had suggested something improper. And he thought, for the first time, that he heard anxiety in her tone, perhaps panic.
‘I employed her once,’ Emma said reluctantly. He had the very strong impression that she would have preferred to keep this to herself but realized it was impossible. ‘It was just after Christmas. The house was a tip and I was expecting Brian’s family to stay for New Year. He was rushed off his feet at work. Never here.’ She smiled. ‘Not that he’d do much if he was. Claire has her hands full with the kids. I can’t expect her to do much cleaning.’
‘So you employed Kath Howe as a cleaner?’
She nodded. ‘For a two-day blitz. To do the house from top to bottom. I asked Claire if she knew anyone who’d want the work and she suggested Kath.’
‘Was she satisfactory?’
‘Not really.’
‘What was the problem?’
Emma gave a brief smile. ‘I don’t think her heart was in the job.’
He waited.
‘She considered cleaning was beneath her. And she definitely didn’t like being told what to do.’
‘Why did she take the job then?’
‘I suppose she needed the money. Teenagers don’t come cheap, do they?’
‘Probably not.’ But he didn’t see Marilyn as the demanding sort. He couldn’t imagine her wheedling for smart clothes or nights out with her friends. There were violin lessons, though. They didn’t come free these days even if they were arranged through school. Exam fees. The instrument itself.
‘You weren’t tempted to employ her again then? Not even before this recent party?’
‘No, even if she’d been any good. Brian wouldn’t have approved. He thinks I sit around all day drinking coffee.’ She paused. ‘He never knew I took her on that first time.’
‘What was she like?’ he asked. ‘As a woman, I mean, not just as a worker.’
The question surprised her, but he could tell she was interested by it.
‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘She wasn’t very chatty. That’s one thing at least she and Claire have in common. I mean, even then I thought she was Claire’s mother. I didn’t realize they were sisters.’
‘But you must have formed some impression?’ It seemed she was just giving herself time to collect her thoughts. She would reply in the end.
‘I used to work as a personnel officer,’ she said. ‘ I’d assess candidates’ suitability for employment every day.’
‘So, what did you make of Kath Howe?’
‘Let’s say I wouldn’t have given her a permanent job.’
‘Why?’
‘She’d never have made a team player. Too sure of herself. Arrogant almost. She was bright enough and in areas of dispute she’d probably be right but she’d offend all her colleagues by telling them so. A loner.’ She looked up at him. ‘Look, this probably isn’t fair. A first impression. I hardly knew the woman…’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s useful all the same. You say she was bright. Wasn’t she frustrated staying at home, not working?’
‘I can hardly comment on that, can I? It’s what I’ve chosen to do.’ Her words were reassured, calm. ‘I don’t regret it.’
‘Your situation isn’t quite the same. Your children are younger.’
She chose her words carefully. ‘I think Mrs Howe would have found it difficult to adjust to employment, for all the reasons I’ve explained. Perhaps she was glad of an excuse to stay at home. She could potter round the house. She had interests. And she could tell herself she was making a sacrifice for her daughter’s sake. I had the impression she was an ambitious woman, but for her daughter, not herself.’
It was probably an accurate impression, but Ramsay thought it of some significance that despite her previous career Emma Coulthard could come up with such a considered judgement of a woman she hardly knew.
He set down his coffee mug, stood up.
‘Was Claire happy living with Mr and Mrs Howe?’
‘I suppose so, I don’t expect she’d have told me if she were miserable. Claire’s a very private person.’
‘You never suggested that she live here?’
‘No. That never arose. We chose Claire as nanny because she lived locally.’
‘When did you last see Mrs Howe?’
‘I don’t know. Weeks ago probably. And then not to speak to. She was with Marilyn on the Heppleburn Road. Walking.’
Chapter Nine
Hunter, would have been happy to stay at number six Cotter’s Row all day. All night if it came to that. And he didn’t think Kim Houghton would object. She seemed a sociable sort of girl.
He’d knocked on the door of number six expecting another old granny with time on her hands but nothing useful to say. Instead there was Kim, wearing a little lacy top stretched to ripping point by a Wonderbra and jeans so tight it would take an hour to pull them off. If the situation ever arose, which it already had in Hunter’s imagination. She turned to let him in and he saw she was wearing a silver chain round her ankle. He’d tried to persuade successive girlfriends to wear an anklet but they’d all refused. They’d said it would make them feel dirty.
The ground floor had been knocked through to make one room and Hunter thought that someone had made a good job of it. The kitchen units were oak and there was nothing cheap or tacky about the furniture. So she was probably married, he decided with only a little regret, to someone who brought in a decent wage. There’d be a steady boyfriend at least.
‘Do you live on your own?’ he asked, speaking loudly because she’d offered him coffee and she was in the kitchen at the other end of the long narrow room. The kettle was humming. ‘Or is your old man at work?’
‘Na!’ she cried. ‘I’m not married. Not any more.’
She walked back to him across the shag pile carpet, carefully carrying a mug in each hand, her bum swaying. She’d kicked off her shoes in the kitchen. She sat on a deep easy chair with her feet tucked under her. She hadn’t asked what he was doing there. He’d introduced himself and she’d invited him in. Sociable.
He looked pointedly around the room. His eyes took in the television and the videos, and lingered over the marble fire surround which he’d been pricing out himself at the Northern Gas showroom over the weekend.
‘You work, then,’ he said. You didn’t live in this sort of style on the Social.
She looked at him over her coffee mug, teasing, ‘Oh, you know. Bits and pieces where I can. Nothing regular. I can’t, can I? Not with a little girl to take care of.’
‘You’ve got a daughter?’ That surprised him. There was nothing to show there was a child in the house. No toys or picture books. No mess. Then he saw a silver-framed photo on the mantelshelf. A blond-haired little girl in a pink sweater, with silver rings in her ears and a silver chain round her neck.
‘Kirsty.’ Kim explained. ‘ She’s at playgroup.’
Hunter thought perhaps the child explained the way she lived. The Child Support Agency had got its claws into a wealthy father. He wondered briefly what bits and pieces of work Kim Houghton had had a go at, but decided it was probably best not to dwell on it. He needed to concentrate.
Kim set her coffee mug on the glass-topped table. ‘ I suppose you’re here about Kathleen. Mrs Howe.’
‘You knew her?’
She shrugged. ‘ Saw her about. We never spoke. She thought she was too good for me.’
‘What’s the story, then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell me about the Howes. What do people say about them?’
‘That they keep themselves to themselves. That’s what the charitable ones say.’
‘And the others?’
‘That they’re stuck-up gits.’
‘And you?’ He leant forward confidentially. ‘ What do you think?’
/> ‘They’re not normal, are they?’ The answer was flip. She didn’t really care one way or the other. This was a bit of drama, a bit of fun. There’d been reporters knocking on the door and now this detective. Very tasty. She’d always kept her distance from the law but if anyone could make her change the practice of a lifetime…
‘In what way not normal?’ His tone was more serious and she struggled to explain.
‘They don’t drive, don’t drink, don’t have a telly. They never go out except to walk. That’s not normal, is it?’ For the first, time she was on the defensive.
‘Are they religious?’
She looked blank.
‘Do they belong to one of those sects? Jehovah’s Witness or something?’ It was the only explanation he could come up with for the aberrant lifestyle.
‘I don’t think so.’ She rushed a little giggle. ‘ They haven’t tried to convert me.’
‘How long have they lived on the Headland?’
‘Just over five years. They moved in about the same time as Ray and me.’
‘Any family connections on the Headland?’
She shook her head.
‘So why move here?’
‘Same reason as me and Ray I expect. Because the houses were dirt cheap. Ray’s a builder and he knew he could do the place up. The Howes speak posh but I don’t think there’s much money there. Bernard works on the computers at the Ministry but it’s all agency staff now and they pay peanuts.’
‘How do you know?’
She shrugged again. ‘People talk. You know how it is.’
‘I wonder what they say about you?’
She answered immediately, but without rancour. ‘They say I’m a dirty slut because I threw out Ray and I’m bringing up the bairn on my own. And because I like a night out with my friends once in a while. A few drinks and a laugh and a bit of a dance down Whitley on a Friday night.’
‘How do you manage that with a kid to look after? Does your mam live close by?’
‘Na, and she wouldn’t be keen if she did. She still likes a night out herself. She thinks she’s too young to be a gran.’
‘So who minds the bairn?’
‘Claire. She’ll always sit if she’s free. Glad to get out of that house, I expect.’
‘Claire?’
She looked at him as if he was stupid. ‘Claire Irvine. Kath Howe’s sister. They took her in when her parents died. She works as a nanny up at the Coastguard House, but they don’t need her much in the evenings. Like I say, I think she’s glad to get out – can you imagine being shut up with those weirdos and no telly? But she owes me a favour anyway. It was me that got her the job.’
‘How was that?’ Hunter thought this was probably irrelevant but the boss had ordered gossip and he was following instructions. Besides, it was more pleasant here than in some of the houses he’d visited, with their smells of old age, talcum powder and cat pee. He thought again he’d be happy to stay here all day.
‘I take Kirsty to the playgroup in. Heppleburn. There’s no nursery round here. Mrs Coulthard from the Coastguard House sends her oldest boy there too. Sometimes she gives me a lift home. She was talking about getting a nanny and I mentioned that Claire had done the course and was looking for a job.’
‘Very convenient.’
‘Yeah, though you wouldn’t think she’d need a nanny, would you? It’s not as if she works. Some people have got more money than sense.’ There was a silence. She twisted a bangle on her wrist. ‘Is it true what they’re saying?’
‘Depends what they’re saying.’
‘That Kath Howe was murdered. It wasn’t an accident.’
‘She was stabbed.’ Hunter said. He drained the last of his coffee noisily. He wouldn’t have minded another cup, wouldn’t have minded anyway another glimpse of her bum as she bent over the sink to fill the kettle.
‘Jesus!’ She seemed honestly shocked. ‘I thought it was just talk.’ There was a pause. ‘Was she mucked about first? You know what I mean.’
‘There was no indication of sexual assault.’
‘Oh.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Hunter asked. She was still so dazed that he had to repeat the question.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Did you see her on Saturday?’
‘Saturday? No, I don’t think so.’
‘Where were you that day?’
‘Here for most of the time.’
‘Didn’t you go out at all?’
‘Not in the morning. Unless you call standing on the doorstep going out. I’d been down Whitley on Friday night and a friend stayed over. I went out to wave him off. I didn’t see anyone then. Except the bitch across the road who had her nose pressed to the bedroom window.’
‘I’ll need the name and address of your friend.’
There was a moment of uncertainty then she said, with an attempt at the old flippancy, ‘You’ll be lucky.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean we weren’t on those sort of terms.’
‘You only met him that night?’
‘Na, I’d bumped into him a couple of times. He’d been back here once before.’
‘You must have a name for him then.’
‘He called himself Paul.’
‘You don’t think that was his real name?’
She shrugged. ‘Could have been. But he’s married, and he wasn’t giving much away.’
‘And where did “Paul” live?’ Hunter recognized no contradiction in his previous fantasies about Kim Houghton and the disapproval of her behaviour which expressed itself in sarcasm.
She seemed not to notice. ‘Newcastle.’
‘You can’t be more specific?’
She shook her head.
‘What about a phone number?’
It wasn’t that sort of thing. Just a bit of fun. At least it was supposed to be.
‘What do you mean?’
She had been smoking a cigarette and stabbed it out fiercely in a glass ashtray.
‘Went all weepy on me, didn’t he? About how his wife didn’t understand him. About how screwed up she is. Just what I needed. Not.’
‘How did you get here on Friday night? Taxi or his car?’
‘His car.’
‘Which was?’
‘A red Mazda. Very fancy. Very fast.’
‘Number plate?’
‘New. N reg. That’s all I noticed.’
‘And it was parked in the street all night?’
‘That’s right.’
Hunter sat back in his chair and looked at her. ‘Didn’t it bother you? Folks knowing you had a bloke to stay. Going out in the morning to see him off?’
He imagined her standing there in her dressing gown. With nothing on underneath.
‘Stuff them,’ she said. She picked up the packet of cigarettes from the table, knocked one out, lit it. Her hands shook slightly but her voice was steady. ‘ Stuff them. They could do with some excitement in their tired lives.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I don’t know. Too early.’
‘You didn’t see Mrs Howe’s daughter? She walked down to wait for the bus into town.’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘What about later?’
‘I didn’t see anyone. I put on a video for Kirsty and went back to bed.’ She caught his eye and held it. ‘I was knackered, wasn’t I?’
‘Did Claire Irvine babysit for you on Friday night?’
‘Yes.’
‘So she will have met your friend Paul. When you got back.’
‘No. He waited in the car until she’d gone home.’
‘Tactful.’ Again the sarcasm was intended.
‘Yeah!’ she blazed back at him. ‘Tactful. If you must know he was really nice. We had breakfast together, him, me and Kirsty. He made a real fuss of her. He didn’t have to do that.’
‘Did you talk to Claire before you went out?’
‘A bit. While I was getting my thing
s together, waiting for the taxi.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘Same as she always seems. About a hundred and fifty. And it’s not surprising, is it? Wiping kids’ bums all day and staring at the walls in that house all night. I’ve offered to take her out clubbing with me but she’ll not go.’
‘Did she mention Mrs Howe at all?’
Kim shook her head. ‘All she could talk about was the kiddies’ party and how good it would be.’
‘Did your daughter go to that?’ Hunter was surprised.
‘Oh yes! Kirsty and me had a royal invitation. Very honoured too. No one else on the Headland was asked.’
‘What was it like?’ He was intrigued.
‘It was all right. I mean, I only went because I thought Kirsty would like it and she’s friends with Owen at playgroup. But it was OK. Plenty of booze. Decent food. A proper buffet, not just stuff for the kids. And that Bernie Howe was good. I was surprised. You’d never think it to look at him. I mean, he could make it really big. He’s better than blokes I’ve seen on the telly. And though most of the mothers were stuck-up cows, the fellas were friendly enough once they’d had a few drinks. Yeah, it was a good party. Until mad Marilyn came knocking on the door, shouting that her mam was missing.’
Chapter Ten
On his way down the hill from the Coastguard House Ramsay saw Hunter leave Kim Houghton’s house. The sergeant paused for a moment outside number eight, leaning his notepad on the window sill to scribble a few notes, then he knocked at the door. It was opened immediately by a large elderly woman brandishing a mop like an offensive weapon. She seemed nervous about letting him in, stood, blocking the doorway, feet apart, but Hunter must have talked her around because when Ramsay looked again the door was shut and Cotter’s Row was quiet.
The whole Headland was quiet. There were no dog-walkers or pram-pushers. Even the washing lines along the backyards were empty. The only activity was in an area around the jetty. There a group of overalled officers were stooped, searching, but they were too far off for Ramsay to hear voices. The cloud had lifted and there was pale sunshine, a view down the coast as far as St Mary’s Island.
He was tempted for a moment to walk on down to the jetty to ask what had been found. He would have welcomed evidence that Kath Howe had been killed there, her body tipped immediately into the cut to be carried away and brought back on the next tide. It would have been something to work on. But it seemed a dreadful discourtesy to walk down Cotter’s Row without calling on the Howes and at number two he stopped. He stood on the pavement, preparing what he might say, especially to the girl.