Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

Theresa crouched on the sofa, her knees by her chin, her red and black dress stretched over them.

‘Joss was pissed,’ she said. ‘It was before the fair came and he was fed up, bored. He couldn’t get work. We had a row.’

‘What about?’ Hilary asked.

‘I can’t remember exactly how it started,’ Theresa said. ‘ It doesn’t matter now.’

Ramsay thought she would be a fighter and imagined the pair of them, the drunken man and the tiny woman, hurling insults from one room to another, throwing things, waking the baby, confusing Clive. Probably they both enjoyed the drama of it. A good row would clear the air, get rid of some of Corkhill’s frustration. Only the children would be terrified.

‘When was this?’ he asked.

‘About a fortnight ago. It was in the evening. Joss had had a win on the horses and had been drinking all day. I’d been here with Beverley. It didn’t seem right that he’d been out enjoying himself. I wouldn’t have minded a change.’

‘Where were the children when this was happening?’

‘Clive was in his bedroom, reading comics. I was getting Bev ready for bed. When I heard Joss come in I sent her upstairs.’

‘Did you often row when Joss had been drinking?’

‘No,’ she said, desperate for him to understand. ‘ He’s not violent, not really. Usually we have a laugh. Or he goes to sleep.’

‘But that night he picked a fight.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, then added honestly: ‘I expect I picked the fight. Because I’d been in all day with the bairn.’

‘If you and Mr Corkhill were arguing here and the children were upstairs how did Beverley come to be hurt?’

‘She must have been frightened by the noise. By that time Joss was throwing things around. We were in the kitchen. We didn’t hear her come downstairs. She just appeared at the door. Then she ran between us and held on to me, crying. Joss wanted to move her out of the way, to get at me. He didn’t mean to hurt her.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He picked her up and threw her to one side. She hit her head and cheek on the oven and her ribs on the floor.’

Throughout the exchange Hilary had been watching Theresa anxiously, like some defence solicitor, Ramsay thought, who is frightened a client will incriminate herself. Did she know more about Theresa’s relationship with Dorothea than she was letting on? With the last admission she seemed almost relieved. Perhaps she felt that now her decision to take Beverley into care had been justified.

‘You do see,’ Hilary said, ‘that it makes no difference whether Joss meant to hurt her or not. He might have killed her.’

‘I know,’ Theresa said. ‘That’s what Dorothea told me.’

‘Did she give you any idea what you should do next?’ Ramsay asked quietly.

‘She said I couldn’t go with Joss to work on the fair.’ Theresa spoke reluctantly. Ramsay could tell that she was still attracted by the romance of the idea. ‘She said that was impossible if I wanted to have Beverley back.’

‘We’d all told you that,’ Hilary said with some irritation. ‘You didn’t believe us!’

‘She said I had to tell Joss that I wouldn’t go with him as soon as I saw him. If I left it I would find it harder. If he loved me enough he would stay. If he didn’t I was strong enough to carry on by myself. She would be there to help me.’

She turned to them, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘But she won’t. Not now.’

‘Did you do as Mrs Cassidy suggested and talk to Mr Corkhill as soon as he got home yesterday afternoon?’ Ramsay asked.

‘Oh yes!’ she said. ‘I thought I was so brave, I told him all right.’

‘What happened?’

‘There was a scene,’ she said. ‘He was furious. No interfering old bat was going to tell him what to do. He was going to leave with the fair when it goes at the weekend. It was up to me to decide whether or not I wanted to go with him. He’d give me until tonight to decide.’

‘So he was very angry?’ Ramsay said. ‘Was he violent?’

‘Not with me,’ she said. ‘He blamed Mrs Cassidy.’ Ramsay thought she was going to say more, but she must have realised the implication of the question and her voice trailed off.

Outside a small girl with tangled hair pedalled furiously down the pavement on a tricycle. They watched her hoist on a handlebar to turn a corner.

‘I’m surprised that Mrs Cassidy didn’t stay and talk to Mr Corkhill with you,’ Ramsay said slowly. ‘It seems unlike her that she would expect you to face him alone.’

‘She wanted to visit an old lady,’ Theresa said defensively. ‘Someone with cancer. She offered to stay but I told her to go. I was afraid of what Joss might do…’

Again she stopped, frightened.

‘What were you afraid of?’ Ramsay asked. ‘What did you think he might do?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Not what you think. Joss couldn’t have killed her. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ But there was uncertainty in her voice. Ramsay would have liked to reassure her, but he was beginning to feel excitement at nearing a conclusion to the case.

‘So Mrs Cassidy went and left you here to wait for Joss,’ he said. ‘What time was that?’

She shook her head. There was no clock in the house. She had nothing to be on time for.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘One o’clock. Half past.’

Ramsay hesitated. It still seemed uncharacteristic that Dorothea Cassidy would leave a woman who had just lost her daughter to face a potentially violent man alone. With a sudden inspiration he said:

‘She arranged to come back later, didn’t she? After she had visited the old lady in Armstrong House?’

Theresa nodded reluctantly. This is it, Ramsay thought. This is the end of it. Dorothea came back to the Ridgeway and Joss was waiting for her, still drunk, his pride hurt, wanting an argument. Dorothea had stood up to him because she was, as Theresa said, frightened of nothing. And he had strangled her, frustrated and furious because she had wrecked his dream of taking Theresa travelling.

‘What time did Mrs Cassidy come back?’ he said gently. He felt sorry for Theresa. He thought she was about to lose everything.

Theresa looked towards Hilary Masters as if only a woman could help her, but Hilary stood up suddenly and moved to the window, looking out.

‘Tea time,’ she said. ‘About half past four. The children’s programmes had started on the telly.’

‘Was there another row?’ Ramsay asked. ‘Between her and Mr Corkhill?’

‘No. How could there be? Joss wasn’t here. He stormed out earlier. I thought I would never see him again.’

‘But you did see him again? He did come home last night?’

She nodded.

‘What time did he come home?’

‘I don’t know. Very late. I’d fallen asleep in front of the television.’

‘How did he seem? Was he still angry?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Pissed, sentimental. You know how they get.’

‘Did he tell you where he’d been last night?’

‘To work,’ she said. ‘ To the fair. Then to the pub with his mates.’

‘Did he mention Mrs Cassidy?’ Ramsay asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘ It was as if he’d forgotten about her. Or as if it didn’t matter any more.’

Ramsay looked across at Hilary Masters. She had regained her pose of cool detachment. She turned back into the room, unmoved it seemed by Theresa’s distress. He supposed it was the only way she could survive the demands of her job. Dorothea had remained human, accessible, involved – and she was dead.

‘If you don’t mind we’ll wait until Mr Corkhill comes home,’ Ramsay said. ‘Then we’ll take him down to the station to ask him some questions. And I’d like some scientists to look at your house. It won’t cause you any inconvenience.’