by Ann Cleeves
God, Sally thought, it was enough to put you off marriage for life. Her boyfriend was slim and fit but perhaps Bernie Howe had once been like that.
Ramsay stood in front of the shed. It was red brick, like the house. There was one small window, which was so covered in coal dust and cobwebs that it was impossible to see in. He tried to pull the padlock open but it was locked.
‘Where’s the key?’
‘In the kitchen,’ Marilyn said. ‘But there’s nothing inside. Claire bought the padlock. She’s trying to persuade Dad to keep his bike in there but he never remembers.’
‘All the same,’ Ramsay said. ‘I think we’ll check.’
‘OK.’
He watched her return to the kitchen and take a key from a shelf just inside the back door. Like the padlock it was shiny and solid.
The key turned smoothly but the paving stones in the yard were so uneven that at first he could only pull the door open a fraction.
‘There’s a knack,’ Marilyn said. ‘You have to lift it.’ She stepped forward. ‘I’ll do it if you like.’
‘No,’ Ramsay replied quickly. ‘That’s all right.’
Because even with the door open just a few inches, the late afternoon sun slanting over the back wall into the yard lit up a patch of the concrete floor. The floor wasn’t dusty, which is what he would have expected, but there was a dark stain as if oil had been spilled there. Ramsay hoped that it was oil.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ramsay hesitated. He heard gull cries, the distant sound of a train. Inside the house Claire must have switched on the television because there was a short blast of music followed by excited speech. From the shed, silence. He turned back to Marilyn.
‘I’ll tell you what you could do,’ he said. ‘Put the kettle on. I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘All right.’
She returned to the house. Ramsay shut the kitchen door firmly behind her and gave the shed his full attention. He gripped the door close to the hook through which the padlock had been fastened and lifted it, pulling it towards him at the same time. Sunlight flooded in. Now the stain on the floor, rusty coloured, looked more like blood than oil. The corners were still in shadow.
The shed was split into two compartments. One, presumably, had housed the privy. In the other coal was stored. The spaces were separated by a chest-high brick wall and looked like animal stalls. There were no tools – Bernard Howe obviously had no interest in DIY – except a small trowel which had been newly purchased, Ramsay thought, to plant up the tub in the yard. A defunct vacuum cleaner lay on its side. In one corner was a pile of threadbare clothes destined for a charity shop. A plastic sack with AGE CONCERN written on it had been folded over the partition wall. And on top of the pile of clothes lay a small child. His head was thrown back uncomfortably. His arms, palms upwards, were outstretched.
The boy was alive but sleeping. His face was dirty and stained with tears. He opened his eyes and began to whimper.
Sally crouched beside him, making reassuring noises, but she seemed afraid to touch him and it was Ramsay in the end who picked him up. He was still half asleep and he didn’t struggle. He’d wet his pants and Ramsay felt the damp seep through David’s quilted trousers and on to his shirt. He was holding the boy so close that he could feel his heart beating.
‘Give Grace a call,’ he said. ‘Tell her to put the Coulthards out of their misery. But tell her not to give any details. Just that he’s alive and well. She can come and fetch him. I don’t want the Coulthard’s turning up on the doorstep. We’ll have discretion all round. I want no lynch mobs here.’
‘How did Claire hope to get away with it?’ Sally demanded. ‘She didn’t even stop us coming out here to look.’
‘I don’t think there was any intention of getting away with it. It was a gesture.’
If it was Claire, he thought, still unsettled by the coincidence of Mark Taverner’s failure to keep his appointment with Emma. Remembering the padlock key lying on a shelf close to the kitchen door which was always kept open. So obvious. Brass like the padlock and shiny. Hunter would tell him that he was making things too complicated and that for once in his life he should accept that the obvious answer was probably the true one.
‘I know she was daft about babies. But did she really think she could keep him here, like some sort of doll?’
Sally had worked herself into a rage. Just because she didn’t fancy motherhood herself didn’t mean she couldn’t get upset when kids were ill treated. The thought of the kid locked in the dark shed, scared out of his wits, made her want to vomit.
The kitchen door had a glass panel and through it Ramsay could see that the room was empty. The kettle had switched itself off but there was no sign of Marilyn. He supposed she’d wandered through to chat to Claire and had her attention caught by something on the television. Unless she’d been watching from the kitchen, had seen them retrieve the little boy and had gone to warn Claire.
‘Go in,’ he said sharply to Sally. ‘Don’t tell them anything. Just make sure neither of them do a runner.’
Then he stood in the yard, still holding the silent three-year-old, waiting for Grace to arrive to take him away. He hoped the high walls would protect him from the prying eyes of neighbours. He supposed, considering it for the first time, that Prue would think herself too old to have another child.
Grace turned up in the back alley, driving Emma’s car with the baby seat in the back. David allowed himself to be strapped in without any fuss.
‘You’ll arrange for medical checks,’ Ramsay said.
‘The GP’s a friend of the family. He’s already on his way.’ She leant back against the car. ‘What do I tell the family?’
‘Nothing. Say you don’t know how he came to be found.’
‘That’s true enough, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know much myself yet. Tell them I’ll be up later this evening. I’ll talk to them then.’
She drove away. After the disruption of the search in the Row, Ramsay had expected the car to draw attention. A nosy neighbour in an upstairs window seeing the child would be enough to start a crowd. But the street was unnaturally quiet. Then he realized there was a Cup game. A five o’clock start to suit the television. The first time Newcastle had reached the semi-finals for years. They’d all be in their front rooms, draped in their black and white scarves.
In the back room the women were sitting in silence. Marilyn was reading a book. Lord of the Flies.
‘I’m sorry about the tea,’ she said. ‘ I started reading when the kettle was boiling. And I got engrossed. I’m doing if for my GCSE wider reading course.’
Absent-minded, he thought. Like her father.
‘When do you expect Bernard home?’ he asked.
‘Marilyn looked up from her book to the clock which stood on the mantelpiece. ‘Any time now.’
Claire stirred. ‘Have you finished? Are you going to leave us in peace? I’ve a meal to cook.’
‘I thought you’d like to know,’ Ramsay said. ‘David Coulthard’s been found.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Oh, brilliant.’ But her attention was held by the television. ‘I thought I’d go down in the records as the nanny from hell.’
She didn’t ask where he’d been discovered. ‘I suppose he did wander away, get hidden somewhere?’
‘Something like that,’ Ramsay said. Then: ‘I wonder if you’d both mind going to the station with Sally to make a statement. For our records. To clear the matter up. I’ll be along later.’
‘Now?’ Claire said. ‘ Bernie’ll be in any minute wanting his tea.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind. We’ll drop you back later.’
He could see that Sally was working up a head of steam, imagined her exploding with, ‘What sort of games do you think you’re playing, lady? I suppose you want us to believe that the kid shut himself in your shed.’
‘If I could jus
t have a word, Constable, please.’
Shocked by the formality she followed him into the hall. There he said, ‘Take her through her statement again. Don’t give anything away. Hang on to her until I get back. And while you’re there get someone to trace the taxi driver who dropped Bernie Howe in Gosforth. I want the exact time he was picked up. And find out where Mark Taverner’s hiding.
‘What about the girl?’
‘Take a statement from her too. I don’t want her here on her own when her dad gets back.’
When they had all gone and he had the place to himself he went to the kitchen, switched the kettle back on and made himself a mug of instant coffee. Newcastle must just have scored because through the wall he heard a concerto of yells and cheers. He took his mug into the back yard and knelt to look at the stain on the shed floor. He was quite certain it was blood. But it was not, as he had feared, the child’s blood. David had not received even a scratch. Ramsay knew the rules. If he suspected that this was a scene of crime he should seal it off, call in the experts, make every effort to reduce contamination of the forensic evidence.
But if this was the scene of the crime he believed, it had happened weeks ago and contamination would have already occurred. And he was curious.
He started with the shed. In the compartment half filled with coal there was a tin bucket and a shovel. He moved the coal from one corner to another until he was satisfied that nothing had been hidden beneath it. He rummaged through the pile of discarded clothes. There was nothing but a short piece of bamboo which had fallen from the kite David had been flying. He must have held on to it while he was carried away.
Ramsay remembered what Emma had said: ‘His speech is very poor for his age. They say there’s nothing really wrong. Boys are often slow developers. But he gets frustrated when he can’t communicate.’
It seemed unlikely then that David would be able to tell them who had abducted him. They would have to work that out for themselves.
Ramsay returned to the yard. His back ached. The shed wasn’t quite high enough for him to stand upright. He noticed that since his last visit the plants in the ceramic tub had come into flower. There were early polyanths, yellow and deep scarlet.
On impulse he took the bamboo cane and poked it into the loosely packed compost and soil in the tub, prodding carefully through the roots, trying not to disturb the flowers. Then, when he was sure something was hidden there, he fetched the trowel from the shed and lifted out each polyanthus separately and set it on the yard. He took a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket and pulled them on, then fished in the tub with his hands. Despite his care, loose soil spilled on to the paving stones.
He reached into the tub like a child in a lucky dip and pulled out a kitchen knife. An ordinary bread knife with a plastic handle and a serrated blade. The knife that had killed Kathleen Howe. He replanted the polyanthus and went back to the house to await the arrival of Bernard.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When Ramsay got back to the police station he saw Marilyn sitting in the waiting room. She was reading a magazine which must have been left by another visitor. It was full of glossy pictures of filmstars, articles on fashion and shopping and ‘How to Keep Your Man’. She seemed engrossed. She looked very tired. Her face was the same colour as her white hair.
‘They’ve finished with me,’ she said.
‘I’ll get someone to take you to your gran’s,’ he said. ‘Your dad’s there.’
‘What about Claire?’ She didn’t ask what Bernie was doing at his mother’s. Ramsay didn’t explain. Bernie could tell her what was happening in Cotter’s Row, about the scene of crime officer in the back yard, the constable at the front door fending off the neighbours and the press.
‘Don’t worry about Claire. I’ll bring her over later.’
‘How’s the little boy?’
‘He’s fine.’ He had spoken briefly to Grace. She’d told him that the Coulthards weren’t demanding explanations at this stage. They were just relieved that the ordeal of waiting was over. He knew he would have to visit the Coastguard House – he was starting to suspect how much Emma Coulthard had deceived him – but he could allow them time with their son before he intruded.
In the Interview Room he found Claire with Sally Wedderburn and Newell, another member of his team. He gave his name for the tape and sent Newell away, then sat impassively and let Sally get on with her questions.
‘Why did you do it, Claire?’ Sally asked wearily. It wasn’t the first time the question had been asked.
‘Why did I do what?’ Claire wasn’t intimidated by the surroundings or the questions. She certainly wasn’t intimidated by Sally Wedderburn. In her stolid, solitary way she almost seemed to be enjoying herself, to be enjoying at least Sally’s discomfort because the interview wasn’t progressing as she’d hoped.
‘Why did you bring David Coulthard down the hill and lock him in your shed?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So how did he get there?’
‘You tell me. You’re the police officer.’
Ramsay could sense that Sally was on the verge of losing her temper but he didn’t intervene. She’d come across more irritating suspects than Claire Irvine in her career and he wouldn’t always be there to bail her out. She took a deep breath.
‘You’re not suggesting that a three-year-old locked himself in your shed?’
‘Why not? He could have. As a sort of game. Hide and seek. I’ve told you he was that sort of kid.’
‘And locked the padlock from outside?’
‘Well, someone else could have done that, couldn’t they? Not realizing he was there.’
‘What sort of someone else are we talking about here, Claire? You don’t exactly get a stream of visitors through your back yard, do you? Or have I missed something?’
‘It could have been Marilyn. Or Bernie.’
It could have been Bernie, Ramsay thought. His taxi didn’t collect him until after David Coulthard went missing. He said, ‘ We’ve talked to Marilyn and Bernie. Neither of them touched the padlock this afternoon.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me. What would be the point?’
And that had been troubling Stephen Ramsay all afternoon. He couldn’t work out what was the point of the abduction. And where it fitted in with Kath Howe’s murder. If it did.
‘Perhaps you didn’t mean any harm,’ Sally said. ‘Perhaps you just wanted to teach David a lesson, a bit of discipline, while Mrs Coulthard was out of the way and couldn’t interfere. Because he’s a naughty boy, isn’t he? Not just lively, but naughty. And Mrs Coulthard won’t have it, will she? She talks about his frustration but that’s just an excuse. She doesn’t have to cope with his tantrums day after day.’
Ramsay sat forward, impressed. This was more the sort of performance he’d been expecting from Sally. She continued, ‘Perhaps this afternoon was the final straw. He was excited, let out on the Headland, suddenly with enough space to run around. I bet he went wild. So you thought you’d have to put your foot down. You’d see it as your duty almost, part of your job to teach him some respect. You told him if he didn’t behave you’d shut him up in the dark. But he didn’t behave, did he? So you had to carry out your threat. You’ll have been told that at college. Don’t make threats you’re not prepared to carry out. You didn’t mean to leave him there though, did you? Not all afternoon. Just while you took Helen up to the Coastguard House to change her nappy. You knew he’d be safe in there.’
Claire sat very still. She stared ahead of her and said, nothing. Encouraged, Sally went on, ‘Then Mrs Coulthard spoiled it by coming home early. You couldn’t tell her you’d locked David in a coal hole as a punishment. She wouldn’t have been very impressed by that. My impression is that she doesn’t have time for old-fashioned discipline. I don’t suppose she even lets you smack them. So on the spur of the moment you made up a story about him disappearing. After all these child abductions she believed it. And worried herself sick all afternoon
.’
Claire began to clap her hands, very slowly.
‘Very good,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, very good. I almost believed it myself.’
‘Do you admit that’s what happened?’
‘Of course not.’ Claire was dismissive. ‘I love kids. I’ve been properly trained. I wouldn’t treat any child like that. Besides, Miss Clever Clogs, when Mrs Coulthard got in she sent me out down the Headland to look for David. If it happened like you said, why didn’t I just let him out of the shed and pretend I’d found him wandering? He couldn’t tell her any different. He can’t talk. Anyway, what were the other kids doing while all this was going on?’ She paused, then shot a knowing look at Sally. ‘Your dad lock you in the coal shed when you’d been bad, did he? That’d explain a lot.’
Suddenly and shockingly Sally blushed.
‘Could we go back to the padlock, Claire,’ Ramsay said gently, as if he were musing to himself. ‘ You do admit that you bought that?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t like Bernie’s bike in the hall. It left mud on the carpet. So we thought we might persuade him to leave it outside if we had somewhere secure.’
‘But this afternoon his bike wasn’t in the shed.’
‘No. He must have forgotten when he got in last night.’
‘You didn’t remind him?’
‘Na! He’d had enough nagging from Kath.’ She must have thought that sounded callous because she added limply, ‘You know what I mean.’
‘But when I came to talk to you a couple of nights ago his bike was in the hall then too.’
‘So? It’s going to take him a while to get used to it.’
‘There’s a stain on the shed floor,’ Ramsay said. She didn’t answer. ‘At first I thought it was oil from Bernie’s bike, but now it seems Bernie doesn’t keep his bike there very often. For some reason he seems to have taken a real dislike to the shed.’ He paused, but still she didn’t speak. ‘So I took a closer look at the stain and it looks much more to me like blood. We think it might be Kath’s blood. We’ll be able to tell. There are tests now. You know what that means, don’t you, Claire?’