Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher

by Ann Cleeves

  Claire finished work at five thirty and she had become much more punctilious about leaving on time since Kath Howe’s death. Emma thought it sweet that she was taking her role as surrogate mother so seriously but sometimes, as now, it was inconvenient. Emma had suggested that Marilyn could come to the Coastguard House straight from school if she wanted the company. That would save Claire having to hurry away. Claire had thanked her but refused. She said Marilyn was going through a difficult time and needed her family.

  Emma shouted up to the playroom where Claire was sitting with the children, watching cartoons.

  ‘I’m going out for a walk. I just need some fresh air. I’ll be back before you have to leave.’

  She waited for a reply. None came, and she read in the silence criticism.

  She put on a thick coat but outside it was surprisingly warm. The wind was south-westerly and later it would probably rain. At the jetty she sat in the last of the sun watching the tide ebb from the cut.

  Stephen Ramsay, too, had felt the need for fresh air. Apart from his discussion with Mark Taverner in the park he had spent the day in his office. The drive to the Headland in the late afternoon sunshine made him feel like a boy sagging off school. He left his car at the club and walked up the peninsula, avoiding Cotter’s Row, following the coast to the highest point where the cliffs fell in rocky steps to the sea. From there he had an uninterrupted view to the railway line and beyond. He saw Kim Houghton’s little girl playing with her doll’s pram in the street and Emma Coulthard leave the Coastguard House for her walk to the jetty. And they could have seen him if they’d turned to look.

  So how, in such a small area, had Kathleen Howe disappeared without trace? The visibility had been bad on the day of the murder but surely not so dreadful that an attacker would have taken the risk of stabbing her in daylight. From his vantage point at the top of the Headland he saw clearly for the first time that there was nowhere to hide.

  What did that mean? That she had been killed after dark? The pathologist’s evidence was still inconclusive on time of death – it was possible perhaps, as Bernard had said, that she had been collecting lichens for dyeing. Then where had she spent the day? He knew she had taken off without warning once before, when Marilyn had arrived at his house asking for help. Perhaps Kathleen Howe had met her killer as she walked back to the Headland in the evening. She would have passed the jetty. Had she been killed there, close to where her body had been found?

  It would depend on the tide. If the cut had been nearly empty as it was now there would hardly have been sufficient water to cover the body, certainly not enough to carry it away and sweep it back in on the following day’s high water. The scene of crimes officer had commented at the time. He had been a fool not to give her report more attention.

  When Emma returned to the Coastguard House Claire was waiting sulkily in the kitchen, already dressed in her coat and her outdoor shoes. Emma looked pointedly at the kitchen clock which said five twenty.

  ‘I don’t think it’s quite time for you to go,’ she said in the snooty, stuck-up voice which Claire hadn’t heard for a while. Recently Emma had been much more apologetic and obliging. ‘But as you’re ready, I suppose you might as well.’

  ‘Right,’ Claire said. ‘ Thank you.’ Inside she was fuming but it was all she could think of to say on the spur of the moment.

  Out of the house her resentment grew. She let it simmer. It was just what she needed.

  The cow, she thought. What right did Emma Coulthard have to speak to her like that? Any decent employer would have made sure she got home safely. It was dark, wasn’t it? Nearly dark, anyway. And as far as Emma bloody Coulthard knew there was a murderer on the Headland waiting to strike again. She spoke out loud to herself. ‘It’s about time you told someone.’ She’d only kept quiet out of loyalty and loyalty should work both ways, shouldn’t it?

  At Cotter’s Row she paused for a moment outside number two. The house was dark, the curtains undrawn. Marilyn must be home from school by now but she’d be in the back bedroom doing her homework. Bernie would still be on his way from work. Kath had always fretted about Bernie on his bike when it was windy, and she felt a moment of sympathetic concern. Then she walked on down the street and knocked on the door of number six.

  She knew that Kim was in because she could hear the television. When Kim opened the door she kept her eyes on the screen. Neighbours. Kim knew it was for kids really but she’d become addicted. She couldn’t bear to miss an episode. She always arranged to give Kirsty her tea when Neighbours was on. She loved her food and it was the only time you could be sure she wouldn’t make a noise. Through the half-open door Claire could see the little girl sitting on a stool up to the breakfast bar, eating fish fingers and chips.

  ‘Claire!’ Kim sounded very friendly. ‘How are you? Hey, I’ve missed having you around.’

  What she meant, Claire thought, was that she missed having a regular babysitter. It was hard to ask favours of someone who’d just lost her sister.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Claire said in a wan, little girl’s voice. Grief-stricken but trying to be brave.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ From the corner of her eye Kim watched a handsome Australian hunk take a bronzed teenage girl into his arms.

  ‘Well, I wondered if you fancied going out tonight. If you’d like me to sit. I haven’t wanted to leave Bernie and Marilyn before but I could really do with a change of scene. It’s not much fun in that house. Well, you’ll understand.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kim was all sympathy but she could hardly contain a smile. For the first time Claire had her full attention. ‘What time?’

  ‘Give me an hour to give Bernie and Marilyn their tea and clear up. Say seven. That all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Kim said. ‘That would be fine.’ She was already planning what she would wear.

  ‘Look, would you mind if I used your phone? Only a local call. I don’t like to ask but I don’t fancy walking down to the phone box with this maniac about.’

  Kim could hardly refuse after that.

  ‘I’ll do it upstairs then, shall I? So So I’ll not disturb your programme.’

  Before Kim could answer she was in the house and up the stairs. She knew where to find Kim’s bedroom, had heard the Cotter’s Row gossip about what went on there. And they didn’t know the half of it! It had flouncy curtains and a frilly valance, much more to Claire’s taste than the stuff in the Coastguard House. The carpet was deep pink. The phone was by the bed and she sat there, leaning back against the pillows and the padded head-board, sticking her feet out to the side so the mud on her shoes wouldn’t stain the quilt.

  First she dialled directory enquiries to get the number of Otterbridge Police Station: 999 seemed a bit over the top. When she was connected she asked for the murder incident room. Ramsay wasn’t there so she spoke to DS Hunter. She knew who he was. He’d been asking all the questions in Cotter’s Row. He was the good-looking one with the dark hair and the tan.

  ‘This is Claire Irvine,’ she said. ‘ Kath Howe’s sister. I need to talk to you. I’ll be at six Cotter’s Row tonight at eight o’clock. You’ve got that, have you? Number six not number two. I don’t want Bernie or Marilyn bothered.’

  Hunter tried to get her to tell him what it was all about. She could tell he was excited. But she wouldn’t. Let him wait.

  Downstairs she heard the Neighbours theme so she slid off the bed.

  ‘Got a boyfriend at last, have you?’ Kim Houghton asked kindly. ‘Lovey-dovey phone calls now, is it?’

  Claire smiled politely but she did not answer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The phone call from Claire Irvine brought the team to life. When Ramsay returned from the Headland he was already fired up. He’d called in at the Coastguard Headquarters in Tynemouth and talked to the man in charge, a confident West Countryman called Morton who seemed glad of the distraction from routine. In the control room the telephone rang continually. Ramsay gathered th
at members of the public were asking for high-water times to check a safe crossing to Holy Island or to plan a fishing trip to the Farnes. He wished he’d had as much sense when Kath Howe’s body was first found.

  ‘I read about the murder,’ Morton said. ‘Thought you’d have been in touch before.’ Rubbing salt into the wound.

  ‘We weren’t sure where she was dumped.’ Ramsay knew he sounded defensive. ‘ But the day of the incident, what time was high water?’

  ‘At the Headland?’

  Ramsay nodded. Morton consulted a chart.

  ‘Seven twenty-nine in the morning. Just after eight in the evening. Twenty eleven to be precise.’

  ‘Would the cut be full much before that?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t a particularly high tide. Say an hour either side.’

  Kath Howe had still been alive at eight thirty in the morning. If she’d been tipped into the cut during the day the sea would have been out and she’d have lain there, visible, on the rocks. There had been men drinking in the club all afternoon, kids playing, dog walkers. Even in the rain someone would have seen her. And just before dark Marilyn and her father had been searching. They’d have looked in the cut, worried that she might have fallen. So if she’d been thrown off the jetty it would have been after dark. The eight eleven high tide would have taken her out to sea.

  ‘What about the currents round there? Would she have been washed back to where she went in?’

  About that Morton wasn’t prepared to commit himself. All the same Ramsay walked back to his car past Tynemouth Priory feeling more elated. At least the case was moving. They’d been asking questions about the wrong time. They’d need fresh statements from all the witnesses, concentrating on their movements during the evening. And more publicity in an attempt to find someone who had seen Kathleen Howe during the afternoon.

  Then, when he returned to the station, the team were full of the call from Claire Irvine.

  ‘How did she sound?’ Ramsay asked.

  Hunter had left the Incident Room as soon as he learned that Ramsay was back in his office. He was hoping to get a bit of credit by being the bearer of good news. Hoping to be in on the action at last.

  ‘Very matter of fact, really. Stubborn. She wasn’t willing to give anything away on the phone. You can hear the tape. She’d make a canny witness.’

  ‘If it comes to that.’

  ‘Aye well.’ Hunter always tended to optimism. He thought much of his boss’s problem was that he was overcautious. Not that Ramsay hadn’t had one or two successes lately. Secretly Hunter thought he was a clever bastard. He wouldn’t admit as much to the lads, though. He told them he was still waiting for a transfer to the city.

  Even Hunter’s optimism had begun to strain before the phone call. It was all taking much longer than they’d expected. He’d chased around with the rest of them at first, dragging in the local lunatics and losers for interview. He was still taking responsibility for tracing Kim Houghton’s boyfriend, the driver of the red Mazda. He’d even appeared on the television appealing for the man to come forward. He’d been interviewed by the pretty blonde lass who did the local news. He’d always fancied her.

  His mam had videoed it and showed it to all her friends.

  ‘Eeh,’ they said. ‘ Your Gordon on the telly. He’d charm the birds out of the trees, that one.’

  But Gordon Hunter’s charm hadn’t been enough to persuade the driver of the red Mazda to come forward. Hunter knew there could be many explanations for this. He had a wife or a permanent girlfriend. He had told his boss he was working at the other end of the country and claimed expenses. He just didn’t want the hassle. Or there might be a more sinister reason for his keeping quiet.

  Hunter had decided that his next move would be to spend Friday and Saturday night in the clubs in Whitley Bay. The bar staff might recognize the description of the man. If he were a regular, one of Kim’s friends might have an address for him.

  Of course if Claire Irvine had real information the jaunt might not turn out to be necessary. Hunter considered that possibility with a little regret. He enjoyed clubbing, had already picked out a pretty little DC to be his partner. He wouldn’t mind an expenses-paid night out.

  Ramsay broke in on his thoughts. ‘Give Sal Wedderburn a shout before you fill me in on this phone call. She’s spent longer with Claire Irvine than anyone. We could use her opinion.’

  Ramsay was grateful for Claire’s intervention because he was coming under pressure to use the media more directly. A weeping daughter and a grief-stricken husband might stir the conscience of a friend or relative shielding the killer. So far he had resisted the pressure. He hated the glamorized voyeurism which resulted from filmed emotional outbursts. Anyway, he didn’t think it would work. Kath Howe’s relatives hadn’t shed many tears for her. They might have been shocked by the manner of her death but they would manage very well without her.

  Hunter came back to the office with Sal Wedderburn. He let her have the only vacant chair and lounged against the filing cabinet, sulking because Ramsay hadn’t thought his opinion sufficient.

  ‘Well?’ Ramsay asked. ‘How should we play it?’

  ‘I don’t think we should go mob-handed,’ Sally cut in before Hunter had a chance to open his mouth. ‘If she’s decided to speak after all this time we wouldn’t want to put her off. So I’d say play it casual, understated. As if responding to her call is just part of the general routine.’

  ‘I think,’ Ramsay said slowly, ‘she’s too bright to be taken in by that sort of approach. She didn’t phone us just to give information. Not entirely. She phoned because she wants someone to make a fuss of her. That’s how I see it.’

  ‘You think she’s after the attention? And that’s all?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But the attention might be the pay off. She’d need a pay off. She’s not a woman who’d give anything away for nothing.’

  ‘How often have you met her?’ Hunter was incredulous. He’d known psychiatrists who wouldn’t commit themselves to a statement like that after seeing a patient for years.

  ‘Once,’ Ramsay said calmly. ‘Only once. But that was the impression I got. And her history bears it out, doesn’t it? I’ve spoken to a social worker, Jean Douglas, who supervised Claire’s family after her mother died.’

  He shuffled through papers on his desk and pulled out a sheet of handwritten notes. He read from them.

  ‘Claire was a late baby. Kathleen was seventeen when she was born. The mother died in a road traffic accident when the girl was two. At about the same time Kathleen left home to marry Bernie. So then there was just Claire and her dad. Social Services monitored the situation but there were never any suspicions that Claire was neglected, no cause for concern at all except for some bed-wetting and nightmares which went on a bit longer than normal. According to everyone she was a very mature little girl, very close to her dad. Not that he spoilt her. If anything she looked after him.’

  Sally interrupted. ‘But Kath would have helped, wouldn’t she, sir? It’s not as if she and Bernie lived a million miles away. She would have taken some responsibility for bringing up her sister.’

  ‘Apparently not. Mrs Douglas wasn’t very complimentary about Kath Howe. When Claire was fifteen the father had a heart attack at work and died. Social Services approached the Howes to discuss Claire’s future. It was Bernie who offered her a home. Mrs Douglas definitely had the impression that Kathleen wasn’t too keen, but felt that living with relatives was better than foster care with strangers.’

  ‘Did she visit the Howes while Claire was living there?’

  ‘Once. Claire seemed settled, said she was happy. But according to Mrs Douglas she wasn’t the sort to complain. She sensed some antagonism between Kath and her sister, and asked Claire about it. Claire said it was nothing and she could look after herself.’

  ‘Antagonism as in anger?’ Sal asked. ‘As in murder?’

  Ramsay smiled. ‘Sibling rivalry pushed to extremes? I should h
ave thought that was a little far-fetched.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Hunter said. ‘Claire can’t be the murderer. She was at the Coastguard House all day. Unless you think she stabbed Kath Howe in her half-hour lunch break. With Bernie sitting in the room upstairs.’

  ‘Ah,’ Ramsay said. ‘I’ve had a thought about that.’ He explained about his visit to the Coastguard headquarters, his theory that Mrs Howe might have died in the evening. Then he returned to his notes, determined to make his point.

  ‘Even if the Howes tried to do their best for Claire, to make her feel at home, it wouldn’t have been easy for her. Kath was devoted to her daughter and Bernie seems to have been wrapped up in himself and his magic. I can’t imagine either of them giving much time to the girl. That’s what I meant when I said she might welcome our attention.’

  Hunter wasn’t convinced. It sounded very plausible but he’d always been suspicious of social workers.

  ‘So what do you suggest? How should we handle it?’

  ‘I think you and I should go to talk to her. I’m sorry, Sal. I know you’d like to be involved, but so far as we know she hasn’t got a boyfriend, has never had one, and I think she’d be flattered by the attention of two men. Even two men like us. I think we might work it best.’

  Hunter grinned. He thought that occasionally his boss showed considerable insight. And if that sounded like a sodding social worker’s report too, he didn’t care.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Claire had already brought small but significant changes to life at two Cotter’s Row.

  She’d cleared away some of Kath’s things. Not the personal stuff like clothes. Bernie could see to that. But she’d got rid of the monstrous spinning wheel from the front room. At first Bernie has been reluctant to let it go.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it a bit soon?’

  ‘You don’t want to keep it?’

  ‘No,’ he said uncertainly, then, without any hesitation, ‘No, you do what you think best.’