Apparently Ruthie used to clean there a couple of times a week.’
‘She did?’
‘Mrs Rowan’s got a thriving business going with barn conversions and holiday lets. Ruthie used to clean up after the visitors had left.’
So. Not such an isolated family. Ruthie went elsewhere twice a week.
Joanna turned to Mike. ‘I think we’d better see this Mrs Rowan ourselves. She obviously knew our missing person very well.’ She spoke again to PC Timmis. ‘Did you have a good look around?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘There was no sign of Ruthie and Mrs Rowan said she hadn’t seen her for nearly a month.’
Joanna drew in a deep breath. There was something in Timmis’ statement that disturbed her. She smiled at him. ‘Well done, Timmis. Now tell me. What did Mrs Rowan think of Ruth Summers?’
‘She seemed fond of her. She just said what a nice, quiet person she was, reliable, kept house for her father and brother. She did say Aaron and Jack couldn’t have managed without her.’
Joanna felt she must check on the most significant fact. ‘But she hadn’t seen her for about a month?’
‘No.’
‘And the last time she actually did see her?’
‘She’d popped up to Hardacre to give Ruthie her week’s wages, said she’d been short of change. She said Ruthie seemed perfectly normal, herding the cows in and singing.’ Timmis gave a sheepish grin. ‘Mrs Rowan said Ruthie had a “sweet” voice. She said she was always singing.’
Again the words conjured up a pretty, idealized, almost Victorian picture, a milkmaid, collecting eggs in a basket, herding cows, singing. Guarding her brother, protecting her dying father, singing. Aiming a shotgun at them, squeezing the trigger. Still singing? That thin, sensitive face, the deep, dark eyes that had stared out of the photograph. Life had been a struggle for Ruthie Summers. How old had she been? Judging from the photograph late twenties. Had she known her father was dying? Yes, Joanna thought so. She would have seen that he was slowly starving to death as the cancer stole his nutrients. Joanna struggled to shake herself free of the conviction. This girl was not a singing killer. Whoever had called at the front door that morning, stood in the bright, hot porch and raised that heavy gun to their shoulder to murder first the old man then the younger, it had not been Ruthie. It had not been she who had watched Jack collapse against the wall, watch him slowly bleed to death before calmly putting the gun down and walking away from Hardacre, leaving the Landrover still standing in the drive.
Or had she?
Timmis continued. ‘She hadn’t come to work since then. She’d rung in sick. At least, her father rang.’ Timmis hesitated before saying the next sentence. ‘I got the impression Mrs Rowan was none too pleased at Ruthie’s bunking off.’ He grinned self-consciously. ‘It’s the height of the season.’
‘Yes,’ Joanna said. But her mind was speeding through the facts. Guilty or innocent where the hell was Ruthie? And tagged on to the tails was a more personal question. Why was she more intrigued over the fate of the farmer’s daughter than finding the real killer?
The answer came back clearly, shining bright. Because to solve one part of the puzzle would lead to the solution of the other. And ...
‘Mike,’ she said, ‘do you realize no one’s actually seen Ruthie Summers for about a month?’
Mike thought for a moment. ‘It could be chance.’
‘It could be,’ she said slowly.
‘We’ve searched the house and grounds thoroughly.’
‘We should search again.’
‘What do you think you’re going to find?’
‘Something,’ she said confidently. ‘Something.’
She glanced around the room at the tense faces. They needed a breakthrough, something to pull them along and convince them they would succeed in finding the killer. She addressed them. ‘Did anyone you interviewed seem to hold a grudge against the family?’
A sea of blank faces. No one had.
She tried another avenue. ‘Did anyone mention a place where Ruth Summers might have gone?’
Again nothing.
‘Have any other farmers had animals go missing?’
Blank faces and shaking heads.
‘So, we’re left with this.’ She held up the posters she had had printed. ‘We must find this girl. We need to find out exactly when she went missing. Date and, if possible, time. We’ll keep interviewing neighbours but I want you to focus your questioning on Ruthie Summers’ disappearance.’
She caught sight of a familiar shock of brown hair. ‘McBrine, cleaned your shoes yet?’ He grinned. ‘I have but there’s still a damned awful stink. Rotten eggs,’ he said. ‘I can still smell them.’
‘That’s not the eggs,’ one of his mates quipped and she could sense the briefing was in danger of descending into gutter humour. But the mention of eggs made her thoughtful.
‘We’ve been promised the final report on the gun tomorrow. That might give us something. Kitty ...’ she addressed a leggy young blonde police cadet, ‘did you get anything from the bank?’
‘Negative, I’m afraid.’ She gave a rueful grin. ‘Nothing’s been taken out of their account for ten days.’
‘And then how much?’
‘Just twenty pounds.’
‘And before that?’
‘Two weeks. Another twenty pounds.’
‘And the balance?’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Any savings?’
‘The bank manager didn’t think so.’
She turned slowly to face Mike. ‘Now I’m even more convinced. Ruthie Summers is dead.’
Chapter Seven
10 p.m.
By the time she and Mike had logged all the information on the computer and run through the collected statements the rest of the day was gone. She borrowed one of the squad cars to drive out to the Mermaid but was still late reaching the pub and Matthew had already finished his meal. The barmaid brought out a plate of dried up minted lamb casserole and new potatoes and she wolfed it down hungrily.
He was watching her eat with amusement, saying little until she finally cleared the plate.
‘How goes it?’
‘It’s early days yet.’ She felt unaccountably defensive. And yet it was barely thirty-six hours since the murders. Not even the brightest optimist would expect a twenty-four hour arrest where there was no obvious suspect. But underneath she knew what was needling her.
‘I think apart from Ruthie being missing,’ she said, ‘the biggest puzzle is the motive. I just can’t think of one. I mean why would someone murder a couple of farmers who by all accounts kept themselves to themselves, never harmed anyone and never went anywhere except to the market once a week to swap country tales, buy and sell a couple of cows and flog hens’ eggs?’
Matthew swallowed a smile. ‘No leads?’
‘Nothing much. Nothing of significance anyway. The girl was just a farmer’s daughter. She worked around the farm and kept house for her father and brother.’ Then she remembered Ruthie Summers’ part time job. ‘Though she did clean for a neighbour’s holiday lets a couple of times a week. Maybe there’s something there.’ But even to her it sounded unconvincing.
‘So the missing daughter?’
‘Hasn’t turned up. I don’t have a clue where she is.’ Matthew said nothing and this irritated her further. ‘It doesn’t mean to say ...’
He covered her hand with his own. ‘I wasn’t saying anything, Jo. This is a police case. Nothing personal.’
She laughed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. And I’m talking about work again.’
‘Yes you are.’ But he spoke with humour and she could tell something had pleased him today.
‘Matthew?’
He sat back, smiling, his green eyes bright and merry before tossing the details of a house across the table. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began, ‘about our dilemma as far as buying a house is concerned.’
‘A
nd?’
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe isolation isn’t such a good idea. With these murders and things.’
He took a long swig of beer. ‘Do you know the village of Waterfall?’
She did. A beautiful, unspoilt village with straggling stone cottages sitting around a triangular village green and an excellent pub. It was quiet and popular, lived in by farmers and farm workers and a couple of commuters from the Potteries. Interested, she picked up the details and scanned them.
A stone residence, needing renovation, room for improvement, subject to planning conditions. Three bedrooms, bathroom, two receps., a kitchen. And the photograph on the front pleased her, showing a neat, symmetrical house with original stone mullions and a small, manageable front garden. Behind it she could just pick out the spire of Waterfall church. She turned the details over. No price. ‘How much?’
‘£98,000.’
Matthew pulled an envelope from his pocket. The back was smothered with calculations. But the bottom line was clear. If she could sell her cottage in Cheddleton they could afford to buy it with enough money left over for the renovations.
Matthew could barely contain his excitement. ‘I know you’re busy, Jo, but please take a look at it. I think you’ll like it. And I would like to be settled in a house together before the autumn. I hate the long nights.’ He hesitated. ‘Alone.’
She watched him over the rim of his wine glass. His eyes were still on her, warm, but faintly questioning. ‘I’ll try to go some time tomorrow,’ she promised. ‘But it might be late.’ She pocketed the details and picked up his glass. ‘Another drink?’
‘No – I’ll have a coffee.’
Standing at the bar she glanced back at him, sitting down, his honey blond hair dropping over his face as he sat, studying the calculations on the back of the envelope. She felt a pang of affection for him, longed to put her arms around him, bury her head against his chest.
She brought two cups of coffee back to the table and sat down opposite him, reaching across the table for his hand.
‘Stay with me tonight, Matthew,’ she said.
He took a deep breath and she knew he had something else he wanted to say.
She waited.
He took another gulp of air.
‘Spill the beans,’ she said. ‘What else is there?’
It came out in a rush then. ‘Jane’s going to stay with an old friend for a couple of weeks.’
Her heart sank.
Matthew gave a brave smile. ‘Sort of a holiday.’ She could guess the rest. ‘She doesn’t want to take Eloise.’ His smile was a painful twist. ‘Cramp her style.’ And then the words came tumbling out. ‘I mean the weather’s good and Eloise has got lots of friends round here at the riding school. I’ve already rung them up and she can go up there most days and help with the horses. I can take a bit of time off, be with her a bit.’
She was trying to tell herself it was silly to be jealous of a twelve-year-old child, of his daughter. But it didn’t work. Joanna sat, still and awkward and said the wrong thing. ‘It isn’t fair of Jane to dump her on you.’
‘It isn’t like that.’ He was angry. ‘I’m glad to have her. She’s my daughter, the only child I have – so far.’
The last two words were spoken with a harsh tone and she knew these issues would always come between them, Eloise, Matthew’s love of children, his desire to have more – and her determination never to be a mother.
‘Jane has her for most of the time,’ Matthew said reasonably. ‘I do very little for her.’
‘You pay her keep and school fees.’
‘Naturally.’ The harshness had turned to frank hostility. Superstitiously she fingered the house details in her pocket.
‘Please, Joanna. Please try and get on with her.’
‘It’s a two way thing,’ she said petulantly.
Matthew’s hand shook slightly as he rested the coffee cup back on the saucer. ‘She’s twelve years old, Joanna,’ he said reasonably. ‘You’re years older than she is. And she is my own flesh and blood. I love her and she’s gone through a lot.’
‘Because of me.’
Matthew sighed. ‘Don’t – be – difficult,’ he said. ‘Please.’
So now she had her answer. Eloise would always be present.
‘If we had kids of our own ...’
She banged her coffee cup back down on the saucer. ‘Not that again. How many times do I have to tell you? I – don’t – want – children. I have no intention of giving up a promising career just to be stuck with some squalling little brats. I like my work. I like my life. And my job isn’t nine to five. It simply doesn’t leave time for bathing babies, changing nappies and shoving bottles down their throats in the middle of the night.’
‘But it isn’t always like that.’
She was angry now. ‘Matthew – you left your wife because you wanted to. Because, you said, you loved me. I never ever put any pressure on you. I never rang you or contacted you. This has been largely what you wanted. I was content. And I’ve made it quite clear, from the start, that whatever my commitment to you I don’t want children. If what you wanted was an earth mother who could present you with a quiverful of sprogs you will have to form a relationship with someone else – or go back to Jane.’ The words almost stuck in her throat. And suddenly Matthew looked older, much older. A thirty-something man with a wife and child already. Less boyish and more responsible. He passed his hand across his forehead and she had an ugly feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had gone too far this time. He was regretting leaving Jane.
She stood up. ‘I’m going home.’
Politely he stood up too.
‘Alone,’ she said and left the pub.
Chapter Eight
Thursday, July 9th, 8 a.m.
She didn’t know what made her drive straight past Hardacre towards the wood where Owl Hole stood. It was an instinct that drove her to see Titus Mothershaw again – alone – that morning. She had left a message for Mike to say she would see him at nine, in the Incident Room. She had an hour.
Titus opened the door wearing a grey towelling wrap-over that stopped just short of his boney knees. His hair was tousled and he looked sleepy, but his grin was welcoming.
‘Well this is a surprise, Inspector. Nice and early for a social visit.’ He gave a huge yawn and looked past her, along the winding path through the woods. ‘No sidekick today?’
She shook her head.
‘Then coffee, I think, to celebrate.’
But his easy manner, far from making her relaxed, made her all the more nervous so she began with an apology. ‘I’m sorry to call so early but we’ve got a double murder case on and we have to work long hours.’
His eyes were warm. ‘Well I hope you get the time back.’
‘That or get paid overtime.’
She followed him into the strange, unreal room. How would she describe it? Clinical? Futuristic? Unique? Interesting.
Mothershaw stood in the centre of the room. ‘So what brings you here – again?’
She decided to be as frank as she dared, in the hope that it might draw out an answer. ‘I’m desperate to find Ruthie.’
He was adjusting the silvered branch in the corner of the room, his back to her but she clearly saw his shoulders stiffen. And his answering voice was low and strained.
‘What makes you think I can help you find her?’
She watched the small, child’s hands adjusting the branch and decided not to mention the passport booth photograph. She must keep a card up her sleeve, retain the ability to surprise him.
‘She was an attractive young woman.’
Mothershaw said nothing. Not an agreement then, but no disagreement either.
‘And she did live only a couple of hundred yards along the lane.’ She tried a long shot. ‘Did you buy your eggs from her?’
He turned around, laughing. Showing white teeth, a look of genuine merriment. ‘Now what sort of a question is that?’
His reaction put her at a disadvantage and he knew it. He grinned again, confidently glanced down at his bare legs. ‘I think I’d better go and put some proper clothes on.’
She deliberately didn’t watch as he ran lightly up the winding steps and disappeared into one of the upstairs rooms. There was the sound of running water, the toilet being flushed, footsteps overhead and he reappeared in pale blue cotton trousers, loose fitting, pulled in at the waist with a thick, ethnic leather belt and a lemon silk shirt, short-sleeved, showing slim arms touched with the palest of tans. His feet were bare. She had to remind herself that this man was a suspect in a double murder investigation. He was not a social acquaintance.
She settled back on the white leather sofa, cool against her legs, even in this heat. Mothershaw disappeared into the kitchen and returned balancing two mugs of steaming coffee on a tray. He fished out a pink cork mat from a tiny drawer in the glass coffee table and set her mug down on the polished surface. All his movements were elegant, neat, controlled and graceful. He could have been a classical ballet dancer or an actor.
Joanna took a great gulp of the coffee. The flavour was just right. Strong but not bitter, milky but not creamy. She watched him over the rim of the mug and made a bet to herself that Mothershaw was a decent cook too.
‘Tell me a bit about your work, Mr Mothershaw,’ she began.
He raised his eyebrows. Whatever he had expected from her line of questioning it had not been this.
‘No one calls me Mr Mothershaw,’ he said. ‘My name is Titus.’ He chuckled. ‘Like it or hate it it is my name.’
To point out the incongruity of a senior investigating detective putting herself in this position, firstly to visit a suspect alone and secondly to use his Christian name on friendly terms, would have seemed unnecessarily stiff and awkward. Joanna said nothing.
It was left to Mothershaw to break the silence. ‘Why do you want to know about my work? I would have thought it would have born no relevance whatsoever to your investigation.’
Joanna watched him steadily. ‘We never know what’s relevant until the case is wound up.’
Mothershaw blinked. ‘You can’t mean you suspect me of ...?’
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