Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

Theresa Stringer left the table and walked down the hall to meet them. She was tiny, as slight and slim as a ten-year-old. She wore a T-shirt dress in red and black Dennis-the-Menace stripes. Her hair was dark and short and she wore bright red plastic earrings. There was something of the hyperactive child about her. She seemed restless, perpetually on the move. But she was not stupid. That was clear to Ramsay from the start and her bright intelligence surprised him. He had expected her to be more of a victim. She regarded Hilary aggressively.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘ I thought Mr Peacock was coming today.’ Then: ‘What have you done with my Beverley? I thought you were my friend. How could you let them take her away?’

‘Beverley’s fine,’ Hilary said gently. ‘I phoned the foster parents before I came out. They say she had a good night’s sleep and she’s settling in well. They’re taking her to the beach later today.’

‘It’s not fair,’ Theresa said. ‘ I can’t afford things like that for the bairn.’

‘She can be home on Monday,’ Hilary Masters said, ‘ if you give up that crazy idea of going away with Joss.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Theresa cried. ‘ I love him.’

There was an intimacy between the women which was more like friendship than the professional relationship between social worker and client. They had nothing superficial in common but they spoke to each other honestly, as equals. Again Ramsay was surprised. He felt he had misjudged Hilary completely.

‘Do you?’ Hilary said. ‘It would never work.’

‘How do you know?’ Theresa demanded. ‘You don’t even know him. You won’t give it a chance.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hilary said. ‘ We have to talk to you. Can’t we come in?’

Theresa shrugged and moved away from the door to let them into a living room. There was a square of carpet in the middle of the floor, a sofa and a television, but no other furniture. Despite that the room had a cluttered and claustrophobic feel. There were magazines on the floor, toys in a blue plastic washing basket in the corner. On one wall was a replica poster for Barnum’s Circus, on another an Irish Tourist Board print of mountains and sea. In a small, round glass bowl on the mantelshelf three goldfish swam listlessly.

‘Joss brought those back for Beverley from the fair,’ Theresa said. ‘She loved them.’ She pointed suspiciously at Ramsay. ‘Who’s he?’

‘This is Inspector Ramsay,’ Hilary said. ‘He wants to ask you some questions.’

‘Why?’ Theresa demanded, suddenly frightened. ‘I told you, Joss didn’t touch her, I was here all the time.’

‘This isn’t about Joss,’ Hilary said quickly. ‘ Not now. The inspector’s here to talk to you about Mrs Cassidy.’

‘What’s Dorothea been up to?’ Theresa said. ‘Been arrested, has she, for not paying her poll tax? She said it was unfair and she wasn’t going to pay.’

‘Didn’t Clive tell you?’ Hilary said, shocked. ‘Mrs Cassidy’s dead.’

‘No,’ Theresa said, shaking her head slowly. ‘He didn’t say a thing.’

‘Mrs Cassidy was found murdered early this morning in Prior’s Park,’ Ramsay said formally. ‘We’re making inquiries about her movements yesterday. I understand that she was here?’

But Theresa was unable to reply. She flung herself on to the sofa and began to cry. Ramsay watched the thin blades of her shoulders move under the cotton dress. Hilary went over to the sofa and began to stroke her hair away from her face, until she sat up abruptly.

‘Who killed her?’ she asked. ‘Who was it?’

‘We don’t know,’ Ramsay said. ‘Not yet. That’s why I’m here. Are you well enough to answer some questions?’

Theresa nodded.

‘Was she here yesterday afternoon?’

‘It was about dinnertime,’ she said.

‘Why did Mrs Cassidy come to see you?’

‘She promised she would,’ Theresa replied quickly. ‘She said as soon as the case conference was over she’d come and tell me what had happened.’ She looked angrily at Hilary. ‘Mrs Cassidy was on my side. She didn’t want Beverley taken away.’

‘Theresa!’ Hilary said quietly. ‘I’m on your side. You know that.’

Ramsay ignored the interruption and continued: ‘Why did Mrs Cassidy come and not your social worker?’

‘Mr Peacock, the social worker, came with her,’ Theresa said. ‘In his own car but at the same time. He came to collect Beverley.’ She paused and Ramsay expected another outburst of tears but surprisingly she smiled. ‘He didn’t like coming here on his own,’ she said mischievously. ‘He was frightened of Joss when he’d been drinking. Mrs Cassidy wasn’t frightened of anything.’

‘So Mr Peacock came to take Beverley to the foster parents and Mrs Cassidy stayed here to talk to you?’

Theresa nodded.

‘What did you talk about?’

Theresa looked to Hilary Masters for reassurance and then answered with jerky bursts of speech.

‘She wanted to know about everything,’ she said. ‘Mrs Cassidy was that kind of woman. All questions. When she first came here to see Clive, I thought she was one of those nosy do-gooders. What does she want to come up here for? I thought. Why mix with the likes of us? She’s not even paid for it. But she was canny. She wasn’t how I expected.’ She paused but Ramsay said nothing. He hoped to recreate his image of Dorothea from these incoherent ramblings.

There were footsteps on the pavement outside and Theresa jumped up and looked out.

‘Are you expecting Joss?’ Hilary asked. ‘Where is he?’

‘On the Abbey Meadow,’ Theresa said defiantly. ‘ Working on the fair. He’ll come home this afternoon then go back to work with his mate this evening. It’s the last night. They’ll be busy.’

‘Will he come home?’ Hilary asked quietly. ‘Or will he go to the pub? Drink all his wages.’

‘He’ll come home!’ Theresa said. ‘He promised.’

But the footsteps outside the house seemed to have unsettled her and though she returned to the sofa her attention was elsewhere. There was a silence, then the sound of a baby crying through the thin walls from next door.

‘You were talking to me about Mrs Cassidy,’ Ramsay prompted. ‘She asked lots of questions. Was she an easy person to talk to?’

With some effort Theresa directed her attention away from the window and back to him.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I didn’t like her coming at first. I knew she was a vicar’s wife. I told her at the beginning: “You might persuade our Clive to come to your church but you’ll not get me inside.”’

‘What did she say to that?’

‘She laughed. There was nothing you could say to offend her. She said there were more important things than going to church.’

‘Tell me about yesterday,’ Ramsay persisted. ‘What exactly did you talk about then? When Mr Peacock left you alone.’

Suddenly Theresa went mysterious. It was none of Ramsay’s business what they talked about, she said. It had nothing to do with him.

‘But you must have talked about Joss. She must have wanted to know what happened between Joss and Beverley.’

‘She believed me!’ Theresa said defensively. ‘She believed it was an accident.’

‘Theresa,’ Hilary Masters said, ‘did you tell Mrs Cassidy how Beverley got those bruises?’

‘Yes!’ Theresa shouted defiantly. ‘ I told her everything. You couldn’t lie to her.’

‘Why didn’t you tell Mr Peacock before the case conference? Or me?’

Theresa shrugged. ‘Mr Peacock doesn’t like Joss,’ she said. ‘He’d always believe the worse of him.’

Ramsay interrupted quietly. ‘What did happen, Miss Stringer? You do realise that you’ll have to tell us.’