Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t stand this. I’ll have to go.’ He blinked and his eyelashes showed very fair against his pink skin. He turned stiffly and walked across the lawn.

The vicar looked up from his empty glass. ‘Patrick?’ he said in confusion and surprise. ‘ What is this about?’

But by then the boy had gone and gave no sign that he had heard.

Poor dear, Dolly thought. He’s going to cry and he’s too proud to let us see. The Major, who had seen many young soldiers before him on disciplinary charges, thought he detected something else. Shame perhaps. Or guilt.

They watched until Patrick disappeared to the back of the house where the cars were parked, then they heard the sound of the engine as he drove too quickly towards the road and the squeal of brakes as he stopped at the end of the drive to let a tractor pass in the lane.

Dear God, the Major thought. If he’s not careful he’ll kill himself. Reckless young fool. Automatically he completed the process of opening the bottle and poured wine into Edward Cassidy’s glass.

Edward Cassidy seemed not to notice and stared after his son with horror. He was suddenly taken up with the arrangements for his own return to Otterbridge.

‘Oh dear,’ he said wretchedly. ‘Patrick’s taken the car. Now how will I get home?’

He fidgeted and worried like a confused old person at a day centre who believes he has been deserted.

‘Of course we’ll take you back,’ Dolly said. ‘Or if you prefer you can spend the night here.’ She found his selfish preoccupation with what was to become of him a little embarrassing. It was unlike him. Usually he had impeccable manners.

No, no, he said. There were so many things to do. He knew he was being a nuisance but he would really rather be at home. Patrick after all would go back to the vicarage. They should be together. Perhaps if it wasn’t too much trouble they could go now. He stood up, his glass still in his hand, and waited for them to arrange it.

‘Of course,’ Dolly said and by now there were tears in her eyes. He was usually so confident, so able to put on a good show. ‘We’ll come with you and wait at the vicarage until Patrick gets home.’

Then he turned on them and shouted, his voice querulous and pitiful.

‘No!’ he cried. ‘You don’t understand. I have to be on my own.’

When he saw how offended and hurt they were there was a brief show of the old charm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘ You must forgive me. I’m really not myself today.’

He drank the remainder of the wine and allowed Dolly to take his arm and lead him back towards the house.

They had a big BMW and sat him in the back of it, treating him still like an invalid. If it had not been so hot Dolly would have tucked a rug around his knees. The Major drove slowly, avoiding the pot-holes in the lane, and in Otterbridge they were held up by two men on stilts who paraded down the centre of Front Street. All the same when they arrived at the vicarage the church clock showed only two o’clock. Later, when the police asked questions about the time, Dolly was tempted to lie, but the Major told her that liars were always caught out and anyway it was impossible to believe that Patrick or Edward could have murdered that half-wit from Armstrong House. What motive could there be? The police asked too if Patrick was already back at the vicarage by the time they returned with the priest. Again, reluctantly, they told the truth. No, they said, there was no sign of Patrick’s car when they saw Edward into the vicarage and sat him in the study, surrounded by his photographs of Dorothea.

Imogen Buchan finished her shift at the hospital at two o’clock. She changed quickly out of her uniform in the cloakroom then hurried away, past the smudged posters of Dorothea Cassidy, to the staff car park to collect her Metro. There were other nurses on her ward who had finished shift at the same time and they lingered in the cloakroom, sharing gossip, planning some social event to which Imogen had not been invited. They took little notice when Imogen hurried away. One of them put a finger under her nose to express snootiness, then they all giggled and returned to their conversation. They acknowledged that Imogen was a brilliant nurse but she had never fitted in. If they had been closer friends they would have known that Patrick Cassidy was Imogen’s boyfriend. Someone might have recognised the connection with the murdered woman on the poster and told the police. But Imogen had always kept her private life to herself.

When she had decided on nursing as a career her parents were, at the same time, disappointed and relieved. They would definitely have preferred her to go to university, but though they would never admit it to Imogen they realised she was unlikely to get high enough A-level grades for a good university place. Her parents were both English teachers at the High School and had inside knowledge. Imogen’s teachers said that she worked very hard but she didn’t have Miranda’s intellectual edge. Miranda was her sister, two years older, and already at Oxford.

So Mr and Mrs Buchan greeted Imogen’s tentative suggestion that she should go in for nurse-training with enthusiasm. She obviously had a vocation , they said. Of course they would respect her decision. And that was the line they took with friends. They thought Imogen was so brave not to opt automatically for university, they told the stream of dinner-party guests who came to the house that summer. They knew she had a lot to give. Imogen, who hated the gatherings where the talk was of novels she had never read and of the philistine horrors of the National Curriculum, would blush awkwardly and turn away.

Now Imogen was twenty-two and qualified, quite competent to take charge of a ward. More competent, her colleagues often agreed, than some sisters they could mention. She found in nursing something at which she could excel. At last she had her own field of interest and her parents could stop comparing her unfavourably with Miranda. Imogen had such a sense of responsibility! they said. Such dedication!

Despite this, Imogen was vaguely conscious that during her training there had been an element of competition with her sister, all the more humiliating because Miranda was unaware of it and spent her time at university in a sleepless round of parties and political activity. Imogen had been so determined to succeed that before she was qualified her social life had been non-existent. Her time off was spent at home, writing up her patient studies, preparing the next essay. With the other students she was shy, embarrassed. In those three years she had never had a real boyfriend, and their casual talk of affairs and separations made her feel inadequate. They put her quietness down to snobbishness; she sensed their hostility and grew even more reserved.

Yet on the ward, especially with the elderly or the very ill, she blossomed. The patients seemed unintimidated by her, more comfortable when she was there. The other students came to resent her skill. When they had all qualified there was less pressure to do well and she had more confidence. She would have welcomed then the opportunity to go out with them, but they had stopped asking.

She had met Patrick through her parents at one of their dreadful dinner parties the autumn after she qualified. He was just about to start at the university. Ann Buchan had joined a support group set up by Dorothea to provide funds for the orphanage where she had worked in Africa and an improbable friendship had developed. In Imogen’s view the women had nothing in common. Her mother had a middle-class tolerance to every point of view, except conventional Christianity, which she dismissed quite categorically as superstition. Yet she seemed to admire Dorothea immensely and the Cassidys became regulars at the house. On this occasion Patrick had been invited too, probably, Imogen suspected, to provide company for her, as if she were a child and unable to follow the adult conversation. Miranda had disappeared early back to Oxford, claiming that Northumberland bored her.