Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

‘Do you know Mr Tanner?’

Corkhill smiled, aware that his ploy to distract Ramsay had succeeded.

‘I’ve met him a few times,’ he said airily. He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Usually in the bookies on the Ridgeway. He’s a regular there. Always loses. Didn’t you know? Not much of a detective are you? I saw him there today.’

Ramsay wrote a brief note but did not give Corkhill the satisfaction of a direct response.

‘To return to Mrs Cassidy,’ he said. ‘You didn’t like her very much did you, Mr Corkhill? She interfered in your private life and I suspect that you rather resented it.’

‘Not at first,’ Corkhill said. ‘At first I thought she was all right. On our side.’

‘But later you came to resent her?’ Ramsay persisted.

Corkhill was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the pose of flippancy. He needed a drink, and the soft, insinuating questions had begun to irritate him. His uncertainty made him want to lash out.

‘She was an interfering cow!’ he said. ‘Theresa and me had everything arranged. We were going to work together, a team, like the real gypsies. Then Mrs bloody Cassidy stuck her nose in and spoilt it. You don’t know what she was like…’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘Well… perhaps you had better tell me. Did you meet her at Miss Stringer’s house?’

‘There was no way of bloody avoiding it once she took on the lad,’ Corkhill said. ‘I thought she understood me. She’d travelled herself. We talked. Then she found a few bruises on the kid and everything changed. She came to the house, all high and mighty, laying down the law. “I think this is a family problem, don’t you? And you’re part of the family, Mr Corkhill.”’ He spoke in a falsetto parody of a woman’s voice. ‘She was so bloody sure of herself,’ he went on. ‘And so bloody sure that she knew what was best for us all.’

‘It’s a responsibility taking on a woman with two kids,’ Ramsay said. ‘How did you get on with Clive?’

Corkhill shrugged. ‘ He’s all right,’ he said. ‘ Not very bright but then brains don’t run in the family.’

‘What about Beverley?’ Ramsay asked. ‘Is she a backward child?’

‘No,’ Corkhill said grudgingly. ‘She’s got more about her than her brother.’

‘That must have been very difficult,’ Ramsay said. ‘I understand that bright children are often demanding.’

‘Look,’ Corkhill said, confiding, world-weary. ‘ I know what this is all about. I had it all out with that Mrs Cassidy. “Why do you blame everything on me?” I told her. “ How do you know it wasn’t Theresa who knocked the kid around. She lost a baby before after all.”’

‘But it wasn’t Theresa who knocked Beverley around, was it?’ Ramsay said. ‘Theresa told us what happened. And she told Mrs Cassidy yesterday. Mrs Cassidy wanted to talk to you about it. And she persuaded Theresa that she couldn’t go away with you. You wouldn’t like that.’

Corkhill longed for a drink. His attention was wandering and he could think of nothing else. He moved restlessly in his seat. Ramsay noted his discomfort.

‘Now I want to talk about yesterday,’ the inspector said. ‘Perhaps you could give me an account of your movements. You worked on the fair in the morning?’

Corkhill nodded.

‘What time did you get back to Miss Stringer’s house?’

‘Two o’clock. Half past.’ He wanted the interview to be over so he could get out.

‘What did you and Theresa talk about?’

‘Nothing!’ Corkhill said defensively. ‘I wanted some peace before I started work again. What would there be to talk about?’

‘Her daughter had been taken into care,’ Ramsay said. ‘She might have thought that worth a mention.’

The sarcasm was lost on Corkhill.

‘Oh that!’ he said. ‘She was rambling on about that but I told her to shut up.’

‘I thought you had a row. Didn’t Theresa tell you she wasn’t going to come away with you after all?’

This surprised Corkhill. He hadn’t expected Ramsay to have so much detailed information about him.

‘You were angry, weren’t you?’ Ramsay went on. ‘You thought Theresa had let you down. And you blamed Dorothea Cassidy. She came back later to talk to Theresa. Did you wait to have it out with her?’

‘No!’ Corkhill said. ‘I didn’t touch her. I didn’t even see her then. I was bloody angry and I went out to work.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About four o’clock.’

‘What happened then?’ Ramsay asked. ‘ How did you get into town?’

‘I walked. I’ve not got money to spend on bus fares.’

‘Did you stop anywhere on the way?’

Corkhill hesitated. ‘I needed a drink,’ he said. ‘ I stopped at the off licence on the estate.’

‘Did you see Dorothea’s car on its way to the Ridgeway?’

Corkhill shook his head. ‘I was bloody angry,’ he said. ‘ I didn’t see anything.’

‘What time did you get to the fair?’

‘Half past four, quarter to five. And I was there all evening. My mate will tell you.’

‘You didn’t slip away to the pub? For a meal?’

‘It was too busy,’ he said. ‘We had some chips on the site.’

That’s it then, Ramsay thought. It’s impossible for him to have killed Dorothea Cassidy. Even without the news of Clive’s death they would have to let him go. He was preparing to tell Corkhill that the boy was dead when Corkhill volunteered information of his own.

‘She was there last night,’ he said. ‘At the fair. She didn’t come to my ride but I saw her all the same.’

‘Who?’ Ramsay demanded. ‘Who was there?’

‘The vicar’s wife. Mrs Cassidy.’ He spoke as if Ramsay was a fool.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. She was wearing that blue jacket. I’d know her anywhere.’

‘Did you talk to her?’

‘No,’ Corkhill said, reluctantly, as if admitting some lack of courage. ‘ By then I’d calmed down again. It didn’t seem worth making a fuss.’

‘What time did you see her?’

He shrugged. ‘ I don’t know. It wasn’t late. Some time between eight and half past.’

‘Was she on her own?’

‘No,’ Corkhill said. Despite himself he was enjoying the sense of importance the information was giving him. He could tell Ramsay was excited. He paused, tantalising the inspector, smiling.

‘Well?’ Ramsay said. ‘Who was with her?’

‘It was a woman,’ Corkhill said. ‘A pale thing, pretty enough.’

‘What were they doing?’

‘How should I know?’ Corkhill said. ‘I was busy. There was a crowd.’

‘But you must have seen something.’

‘They were walking together, talking. There’s nothing else to say.’

Ramsay was already planning the next stage of the investigation. They would put as many men as he could spare into the fair that night, with photographs of Dorothea. Who was the woman with her? Corkhill’s description had stirred some vague memory. Perhaps Cassidy would know, he thought.

‘Can I go then?’ Corkhill said, suddenly cocky.

‘Not yet,’ Ramsay said. ‘I’m afraid I have some news for you.’ He spoke in exactly the same tone as before. ‘Clive Stringer is dead. He was found murdered this afternoon.’

He watched the man carefully and was convinced it came as a surprise to him.

‘I didn’t know,’ Corkhill said. Then, with a burst of temper, ‘I suppose you want to pin that on me too!’

Ramsay shook his head.

‘Just make a statement,’ he said. ‘ Then you can go. I expect Theresa will be glad of your support at a time like this.’

Corkhill shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m not going back there. She’s too much like bloody trouble. I’m leaving, going back on the road. On my own.’