Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

Ramsay did not know what to say and left the office nervously, surprised that he cared so much what impression Hilary Masters had gained of him.

At the last minute Hilary Masters decided to visit the Stringer family with Ramsay. He decided that she was what Diana would have called a ‘ control freak’. She was afraid that the young social worker who had directly supervised the family would let down her team, that his attitude would reflect badly on her. She preferred to be in command of situations. He could understand the attitude. Diana had called him a control freak too.

‘We’ll go in my car,’ she said, taking charge again. ‘I know where we’re going. It’ll be quicker.’

He said nothing and followed her downstairs, waited while she gave instructions to the receptionist then followed her outside. It was nearly midday and very hot. The car seat burned through the back of his shirt and even with both windows open he began to sweat. Hilary Masters remained cool and frostily pale. She drove well with a minimum of effort. They went down Armstrong Street, past the old people’s flats. Hunter was still knocking at doors and Ramsay was torn for a moment. Perhaps, after all, he should speak to the old lady who had seen Dorothea in the afternoon. But he did not want Hilary Masters to think him indecisive and he said nothing.

His sergeant was continuing that morning’s thankless task of looking for a witness who might have seen Dorothea Cassidy’s car being driven on to Tanner’s drive. Most of the residents seemed elderly, deaf. It was so rowdy during festival week, they all said. They preferred to be in their beds.

He came to a house where he thought the residents must have recently moved in. The grass in the front garden was long and an estate agent’s board had been pulled out and lay against the wall. Through the living-room window he could see evidence of renovation. There was little furniture. The upstairs curtains were still drawn. Hunter rang the bell. There was no reply and he rang it again and banged on the door with his fist. Inside there was a muffled thud and an angry voice demanding to know what the hell was going on. He rang the bell a third time and there were footsteps on the stairs. The door opened.

It was obvious to Hunter that the young man inside had a hangover. He recognised the symptoms. He would have to be treated gently.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘ I’m from Northumbria Police. Perhaps I could come in?’

And the young man, wrapped only in a bathrobe, slow-witted with the drink, could do nothing to stop him.

‘What’s the time?’ he demanded, as Hunter walked straight through to the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea.

‘Eleven o’clock,’ said Hunter.

‘Bloody hell, I’m late for work.’

‘That’s all right,’ Hunter said. ‘You can tell your employer you were helping the police in a murder inquiry. They can phone me if there’s any problem. Do you keep the tea in here?’

‘Murder?’ the young man said. ‘What murder?’

Hunter sat him down and made sure that he was listening properly, then explained about Dorothea Cassidy.

‘Her car was found this morning parked in a drive on the other side of the road. We’re looking for witnesses who might have seen it driven there. Where were you yesterday evening?’

‘In a pub,’ the man said. ‘In several pubs.’ He moaned. ‘I’m a morris man.’ Then, as Hunter seemed not to understand. ‘You know, morris dancing. We were performing as part of the festival.’

‘What time did you get home?’ Hunter regarded the man suspiciously. He looked more like a rugby player than a morris dancer. It seemed a strange activity for a grown man.

The man shook his head painfully. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘ Late. Well after midnight. I walked back.’

‘Was anyone about in the street?’

‘No. I don’t think so. They go to bed very early round here.’ He stood up and poured himself a glass of water. ‘ There was the drunk…’

‘What drunk?’

‘I suppose he was drunk. He nearly knocked me off the pavement when his car veered off the road.’

‘What sort of car was he driving?’

‘It was one of those Morris Thousand estates. My mam and dad had one when I was a kid.’

‘Are you sure the driver was a man?’ Hunter asked.

‘I’m not sure of anything. I was pissed. The car came up the road towards me. The road was clear but it swerved so two of the wheels were on the pavement. I jumped clear and it drove off.’

‘Where did it go then?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t interested. I just wanted to get home to my bed.’ He paused. ‘It might have stopped further down the street, but I can’t remember.’

‘Tell me what the driver looked like,’ Hunter said.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see. There are only a couple of street lamps along here and his headlights dazzled me. It could have been a woman. It could have been anyone.’

It was all he could say. Hunter tried to bully more information out of him but in the end he gave up. No one else in the street had seen or heard anything, so Hunter moved on.

Annie Ramsay had been planning to visit the St Mary’s coffee morning, but after her nephew’s visit she decided she would not go. There would have been some pleasure in explaining that it had been she who had first alerted the police to investigate Dorothea’s disappearance but she was afraid of missing further excitement. Besides, by now the event would almost be over and she would be roped in to clear up.

Although she usually disliked sloppy eating she made a sandwich for an early lunch and ate it from a tray on her knees, sitting in an easy chair pulled up close to the window. From there she could see the main entrance of Armstrong House and she saw Hunter appear suddenly below her. She recognised him – Ramsay had brought him to a couple of the weekly tea parties for moral support. Without finishing her lunch she set the tray on the window-sill and jumped to her feet, afraid that Hunter might find Emily Bowman’s room without her assistance. In the corridor she paused, uncertain whether she should take the lift or the stairs to the ground floor. Usually she took the lift but surely a fit young man like Hunter would want to walk and she was afraid of missing him. She grasped the banister firmly and with determination began the descent to the ground floor.

Half-way down she realised she had made the right decision. She heard light young footsteps and the warden calling up to him:

‘Mrs Bowman is number thirteen. The second on the left.’

She turned a corner and he was there, sprinting up the stairs towards her, so quickly that she was afraid he would pass her before she could catch her breath to speak.

‘Mr Hunter,’ she gasped. ‘It is Mr Hunter?’ He stopped and she held out her hand to him and smiled. ‘You know my nephew,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you recognise me. It’s Annie Ramsay.’

He was balanced on his back leg with his front foot on the next step. He smiled at her. He was good with old ladies. He just had to turn on the charm and they adored him.

‘I’m glad I caught you,’ Annie Ramsay went on. ‘I wanted to warn you about Emily…’ She paused, still wheezing from her hurried flight from her room. ‘She’s very poorly.’ There was another hesitation then she mouthed noiselessly, ‘Cancer. She’s riddled with it.’

In her strategy to be present at the interview it was the most effective thing she could have said. Hunter was terrified by illness. He could face road accidents without squeamishness and once when an ear was severed from a thug’s head in a pub brawl he had picked it up and taken it to the ambulanceman in case it might be reattached. But disease was different. It struck at random, without provocation. It robbed a person of everything Hunter considered important.