Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

‘Look at them,’ he would say. ‘Dressed up like a cartload of monkeys. So much for the dignity of the working man.’

There would be children in fancy dress, and the sword-dance team, and the lorries carrying floats, elaborate tableaux celebrating local charities and businesses. As a child the floats had fascinated him. What it must be like, he had thought, to ride up there above the crowd, waving! But when, one year, Annie had arranged for him to dress up and be on the church float with her he had refused, horrified at the suggestion. The line of traffic started to move slowly and he drove on.

He had never seen the town so busy. Perhaps the heat of the evening made it impossible for people to stay indoors. They jostled in a stream along the pavement, spilling occasionally into the street so Ramsay was forced to stop again.

There were family parties, the children made nervous and fretful by the crowd, groups of teenage boys, high-spirited and loud, clutching cans of lager, and groups of young women, giggling in fancy dress. The pubs were all full and customers were forced on to the pavements with their drinks. It was an explosive mix, Ramsay thought: the hot evening, the alcohol, the gangs of young men all set on showing off. He was glad he did not have the responsibility of policing it. As he was forced to stop again to allow a pack of cub scouts to cross the road in an orderly crocodile, he thought he saw Joss Corkhill coming out of an off licence with a bottle in his hand, but when the traffic moved again he had disappeared.

At last he was clear of the town and he drove quickly along the by-pass towards the Ridgeway, knowing that he was a fool to hurry because Hilary Masters would have given up waiting by now. But when he got to Hardy Street her car was still there, parked outside the house, and through the window he could see the two women sitting together on the sofa. Hilary Masters was turned towards him and when she saw him she smiled. It was a smile of welcome and relief, and suddenly he was a young man again, plucking up the courage to ask a girl to go out with him, thinking: Perhaps with this one I’ve a chance of pulling it off. Perhaps this one fancies me. Hilary Masters stood up and came into the hall to open the door to him.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ he said. ‘I hope I haven’t caused you any inconvenience.’

He could hear the words as they were spoken, as distant and formal as Hilary had been on their first meeting. He wished he could start again.

‘That’s all right,’ she said. She smiled again and looked very tired. ‘Really. I would have waited anyway. I don’t think Theresa’s in any state to be left alone. The doctor gave her something to calm her but it seems just to have made her confused. I’m not sure you’ll get any sense out of her tonight.’ She stood close to him and spoke softly, looking through the door towards Theresa.

‘Did she tell you anything?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not very much. Clive left the house before we did this afternoon. She didn’t see him again. She thought he was going to work.’ She paused. ‘Where’s Joss? Theresa will want to know. She’s been asking for him.’

‘We let him go,’ he said. ‘He couldn’t have killed Clive and I don’t think he met Dorothea yesterday afternoon.’

She seemed worried by the news and he wondered if she had some inside knowledge. Perhaps Theresa had confided in her and she felt unable to pass on the information.

‘He hasn’t been here,’ she said.

‘I don’t think he will come back,’ he said. ‘He was talking about leaving.’

‘Poor Theresa. It was bound to happen some time, but he might have waited.’

She turned back to the room where Theresa sat, quite still, and waited for him to follow her.

The room was stiflingly hot and airless. He looked at the poster of mountains and sea and thought that if he were Joss Corkhill he would run away too. Unable to breathe he opened a window. The estate was silent, empty. Usually at this time on a sunny evening it would have been at its most lively with children on bikes, adults on their way out, but even the ice-cream vans had deserted the place for the centre of town. The Ridgeway Community Association was entering its first float and though no one thought it had a chance of winning they all wanted to be there to cheer it on. He turned back to the room.

Theresa Stringer stared at him, bewildered. He was not even sure if she remembered who he was.

‘I’m sorry about Clive,’ he said.

She shook her head as if she were unable to take it in.

‘You took Joss away,’ she said. ‘What have you done with him?’

Would it be kinder, Ramsay thought, to lie, to tell her that Joss was still in custody? He could not do it.

‘We let him go,’ Ramsay said. ‘We haven’t charged him.’

‘Oh,’ she said and he thought she was relieved though it was hard to tell. ‘I expect he’s at the fair then. Or the pub. He’ll be back later, when they throw him out.’

And she gave a little smile, as if that had been an attempt at a joke.

‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps.’ He looked at Hilary Masters, hoping that she might explain that Corkhill was unlikely to return, but she seemed preoccupied and he thought again she might be keeping something from him. He was afraid of being, in her eyes, the heavy-handed policeman and he did not pry.

‘Where’s my baby?’ Theresa cried suddenly, like a child waking up in the middle of a nightmare. ‘I want my baby.’

Hilary Masters sat beside her again on the sofa and took her hand.

‘Ssh,’ she said. ‘Ssh. Beverley’s quite safe. You know that. She’s with her foster mother. I’ll take you to see her tomorrow.’

Her voice was low, caressing. Ramsay was very moved.

‘No!’ Theresa cried. ‘No!’ But the outburst passed and quite suddenly she returned to her state of blank incomprehension.

‘Tell me about Clive,’ Ramsay said gently. ‘Do you know who killed him?’

She stared at him, obviously terrified. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she whispered. ‘ You ask Joss. He’ll tell you how I don’t know anything.’

‘Do you think Joss killed Clive?’ he asked. Her reaction surprised him. He had expected grief, confusion, but not this fear.

‘I don’t know anything,’ she repeated, clinging to Hilary’s arm for support.

‘It’s no good,’ Hilary said. ‘I really don’t think she can help you.’ The women stared at him together, so he felt cruel, heartless in persisting.

‘I’d like to see Clive’s bedroom,’ he said, knowing he was only putting off the unpleasant task until later: he would have to talk to Theresa that night. However confused she was there were still questions which had to be answered. Surely Hilary would understand that. He hoped he might find in Clive’s room something which would provide a focus for the questions, something to start them off. Besides it would give him a break from this stuffy room and the accusing eyes of the women.

Hilary turned to Theresa. ‘ Is that all right?’ she said. ‘You don’t mind?’

Theresa shook her head and he left the room and climbed the stairs. Clive’s bedroom was small, square and surprisingly tidy. It was at the back of the house. The bed was made and the faded greyish sheet was folded back over a threadbare blanket made of different coloured knitted squares. Built into an alcove there was a wardrobe which obviously came as a standard fitting to the council house, and a kitchen chair beside the bed but no other furniture. Ramsay opened the wardrobe door. Most of the clothes were piled on shelves at the bottom. He took the garments out one at a time. Occasionally he came across something new which had obviously been a present from Dorothea – there was a brown T-shirt with an Oxfam logo and a bright hand-knitted sweater – but the rest had the limp, shapeless look of old jumble.